Parallel Heat (32 page)

The colonel made a gesture indicating the table, and the two soldiers headed toward him. Instinctively Scott tensed, preparing for another beating or injection, although Hope’s presence promised interrogation, not torture.

‘‘Get him up and at the table,’’ the colonel ordered, and the men unfastened his cuffs and leg chains, wrangling him off the bed roughly.

‘‘Come on, Nank,’’ one of the soldiers muttered under his breath, pulling Scott by the elbow. His legs gave way beneath him. He was too weak to walk—so they dragged him across the harsh floor, scraping his knees.

Hope stared in concern, her clear gray eyes not masking the horror she felt at his treatment. She pushed her thick-lensed glasses up the bridge of her nose, watching, and for a moment it almost seemed she transmitted silent encouragement toward him. He knew she couldn’t see clearly, could only guess at what was happening as he grunted and groaned while the soldiers shoved him down into the empty chair, fastening him there for a moment with their strong hands.

‘‘Are you ready to proceed in English?’’ the colonel began. ‘‘If you want to eat—or have water—the time has come to cooperate, son.’’

He hung his head, gasping. It was the water he craved the most. In quick Refarian, Hope ‘‘translated,’’ adding her own words: ‘‘Do it.’’

It took all his strength just to talk. ‘‘If . . . I . . . do?’’

‘‘We can talk about the
vlksai
,’’ she answered. ‘‘They’ll bring you water.’’

He nodded, struggling to lift his head to meet the colonel’s expectant gaze. Licking his parched lips, he mumbled in English: ‘‘Water.’’

The colonel gestured toward the door, waving, and immediately a uniformed officer entered, slapping four unopened bottles of water in front of Scott. Weakly, he reached for one, but the colonel stopped him. ‘‘Not yet, Dillon. First you talk.’’

He shook his head, begging, ‘‘Water . . . please.’’

Hope turned to the interrogator, expectation in her eyes, but the man didn’t look her way. ‘‘You’ve made this much more difficult than it had to be,’’ he explained in a rational tone. ‘‘I’d like to hear something more from you first.’’

The room spun on its axis; Scott feared he’d pass out, but forced words out. The most important ones if his suspicions were true: ‘‘Antousians . . . coming.’’

The colonel’s gray eyebrows lifted a bit, a smile playing at the corners of his mustached mouth. ‘‘Good, Dillon. Very good.’’ With a methodical gesture the human reached for one of the water bottles, loosened the lid, and then slid it toward him. Scott grabbed it greedily with shaking hands, spilling part of it on the table as he lifted it to his parched lips. Cool, satisfying water slid down his throat as he guzzled the bottle dry. Expectantly, he reached for another bottle, but yet again the colonel stopped him.

‘‘Not until we hear more about the Refarian collusion with the alien race known as the Antousians. We have a lot of ground to cover.’’

 
The Antousians had crossed the Canadian border yet again. Ten times in three days, and Jared now knew that some sort of massive attack was in the making. It was after three A.M., but the latest intel had him down at Base Ten awaiting further word from his security advisor. Sabrina had accompanied him, and waited silently at the large meeting table, ready to talk to him about Marco’s departure once Nevin had finished briefing him.

‘‘We’ve sent up the ready fighters,’’ Nevin explained, standing at parade-rest stance by the table. In Scott’s absence, Nevin was serving double duty as both military and security advisor. Like Scott and Thea, he held a military position as well as his advisory one.

‘‘Sit down, Lieutenant, and show me the overheads.’’

Nevin pulled out a seat beside Jared, settling in it uneasily. The man never liked to sit in Jared’s presence, preferring instead to prowl the room or to stand at respectful attention. He was true old guard, all the way. It had become clear to Jared years ago that Nevin viewed Jared as king, first and foremost, and only reluctantly did he acquiesce to the more casual forms of military respect. If Nevin had his way, Jared would be in the center of the room, high atop a dais in the ancestral throne chair wearing robes of purple and gold.

‘‘My lord, please review the following surveillance images, taken by fighters only a few hours ago.’’ Nevin clicked through photograph after photograph of Antousian stealth fighters, flying in full squadron formation.

After a long period of narration, his chief security advisor turned in his chair to face him. ‘‘Commander, we are preparing a battle plan for your review.’’

Jared studied his trusted lieutenant thoughtfully. Nevin had never let him down when planning maneuvers before. He was well seasoned in warfare, and nearing forty he bore the telltale sign of a Refarian male deep in his maturity—silver hair. He studied Jared through confident, keen black eyes.

‘‘What now?’’ Jared asked, leaning back in his chair. The lighting in the meeting room was low so they could study the overhead projections—photographs taken by fighter jets, maps, and strategy charts.

‘‘We know the targets in this region,’’ Nevin continued stoically, changing the visual projection to an overhead shot of a missile silo, which looked to be a rather unimpressive set of square buildings. Probably sitting in plain sight, appearing like nothing so much as an industrial business.

‘‘As you’re aware sir, Warren maintains one-hundred and fifty Minute Men III missiles and five launch-control centers scattered throughout Wyoming, Nebraska, and Colorado.’’

‘‘They’ve targeted some of these silos before, Lieutenant,’’ Jared reflected aloud, recalling the times he and his fighters had single-handedly deflected such attacks. ‘‘What makes you so sure this time is different? The border crossings?’’

Nevin bent his silver head over a sheaf of papers in front of him, reviewing data as he spoke. ‘‘The Antousians seem to be mounting not a single launch against one of these targets, but preparing for a carpet sweep of sorts—at least based upon their test flights.’’

‘‘Perhaps because they think we can’t stop them en masse.’’

‘‘That’s our guess, sir. They plan to override our defensive efforts—and those of the Air Force.’’

‘‘Interesting that Lieutenant Dillon is currently held at Warren.’’

Nevin nodded. ‘‘Likely why Dillon was taken there—they believe
we
might be targeting the silos.’’

‘‘Not protecting them, as we are.’’ Jared rubbed a hand over his jaw. ‘‘They’ve never successfully distinguished our fighters from the Antousian jets.’’

‘‘Without some sort of summit, Commander, there is no way the human governments will ever understand.’’

‘‘What are you suggesting?’’ He noticed that Sabrina, although positioned on the far side of the table, was completely engaged in the conversation.

Nevin folded both arms over his chest thoughtfully. A quiet man, he had served Jared’s father twenty years ago in his youth. He’d been a military prodigy despite his young age, and he had never—not once—let Jared down. ‘‘If we get Dillon back—or if we don’t, Commander—it’s time to broker a discussion with the US government. Straight to the top, if possible.’’

‘‘How do you intend for us to accomplish that?’’ Jared asked, imagining a scenario where the Air Force would use such a meeting to capture more of his leaders. Perhaps himself. They had no idea what sort of torture or tests the humans might currently be conducting on Scott. He shivered, shaking off the thought.

‘‘It’s time to issue a communiqué. Something intended for the president.’’

The vice president was from Wyoming, still kept a home around Jackson, and they’d often pondered if his close proximity might one day translate to some sort of open meeting. They also knew it was a major reason the military had given them such a tough run for the past years; the security surrounding the vice president’s ongoing presence in the region meant heightened military alerts all the way around.

Jared gave a brisk nod of agreement. ‘‘In the short run?’’

Nevin met his gaze evenly. ‘‘We take out as many of those
vlksai
as we can, Commander. Before they inflict serious damage to Earth.’’

‘‘How many fighters do we need?’’

Nevin didn’t hesitate before answering, ‘‘All that we have, Commander.’’

On the other side of the table Sabrina stirred, and Jared shot a look in her direction. His Madjin had something on her mind. ‘‘Yes, protector?’’ he inquired.

‘‘I believe it’s time to notify the council, my lord. With one of our unit missing, your chief military advisor captured, and the Antousians mounting this kind of attack, they should be brought into this.’’

Jared rumbled low in his throat. ‘‘I have no use for the council, Sabrina. This you already know.’’

‘‘But, my lord, they may wish to send additional battle cruisers. Perhaps if you spoke with them, sought their advice—’’

‘‘The council does not run this military, Sabrina,’’ he snapped angrily. ‘‘I’ve not forgotten their role in separating me from my wife, nor have I forgotten their subterfuge in barring the Circle from my presence.’’

‘‘We can call for the cruisers if necessary,’’ Nevin advised, ‘‘but we don’t have to go through the elders.’’

‘‘Leaving the council out will only complicate political matters for you in the long run, my lord,’’ Sabrina pressed.

‘‘Then I will deal with it in the long run.’’

 
Strange, Scott thought, but the colonel had left him alone with Hope again. He didn’t understand the strategy, but after a lifetime in the military knew it was all part of somebody’s plan. The colonel had never pressed him to speak more English after getting him to talk briefly about the Antousians. Maybe they thought alternating his harsh grilling with Hope’s gentler discussion in Refarian would get him to cave. He didn’t even care anymore: The only important thing was he was alone with Hope Harper, a presence he craved on his most basic level. He didn’t question his need for her, didn’t try to understand it: After so many days in containment, the elemental comfort he experienced simply sitting across from her was enough.

‘‘We have another of your people,’’ she said at last, speaking in easy Refarian.

His dazed state seemed to lift a bit. ‘‘Who?’’

‘‘It doesn’t matter, but we do. They’re bringing him in now—they will keep you in separate cells, but will probably try playing you off one another.’’

‘‘Like they’re using you to play me?’’

She smiled, but said nothing.

‘‘They
are
using you—right?’’

‘‘S’Skautsa, you’re a military officer. You know how these things work.’’

‘‘I feel a connection with you,’’ he announced boldly. ‘‘I think you feel it too.’’

Her half-focused gaze shifted slightly, her eyes lowering. She removed her glasses with a deliberate gesture, setting them on the table between them. ‘‘It’s almost three thirty in the morning. I’m tired and want to go to bed. Let’s stay on track here.’’

‘‘What did they send you in here to accomplish, Hope?’’ he pressed, taking a slow sip of water. They’d given him an unlimited amount and he wasn’t going to waste the opportunity.

‘‘To tell you about the capture of another of your men.’’

‘‘Why else?’’

She hesitated, visibly distressed. She worked for the FBI, but she was no agent, he knew that much. Her thoughts were too transparent; she didn’t wear an armor of cynical protection like his interrogators did.

‘‘When your buddy comes in here, they will start pitting you against one another—so you’d better start telling the truth, S’Skautsa.’’

‘‘It is the truth. You know that it is, I sense it.’’

‘‘You should probably start talking—really talking—to them in English as a sign of cooperation.’’ She’d nailed it; he’d given only small tokens in their language, still holding back out of a need for self-protection.

He gave a nod. ‘‘You’ll be off the case then.’’

‘‘Probably.’’

‘‘I trust you.’’

‘‘I’m working for them—you remarked on that yourself.’’

‘‘You don’t like the way they’ve handled this.’’

Without altering her expression or tone—without even flexing a muscle she told him, ‘‘I want to believe you, S’Skautsa—and I don’t like how they’re treating you. Denying you food and water, acting as if you have no rights. That’s not how humans are supposed to do things. You should know that.’’

‘‘Then help me, Hope. I’m begging you. If what I suspect about the Antousians is true, this attack they’re mounting is major. I need to be with my people, I’m their—’’

He’d almost revealed his stature within Jared’s rebel forces, but stopped himself.

‘‘You’re their . . . what?’’ she prompted. For a moment he entertained the idea that Hope was nothing but a trap: her seeming innocence; her semiblindness; her beauty—a combination that was his particular weakness, with her light-colored eyes and long blond hair. Maybe the humans were setting him up totally.

He shook his head, leaning back in his chair. He’d have to gaze her in order to feel her out. Every other time he’d soul-gazed her, she’d come up clean: She was exactly what she presented herself to be.

‘‘What did these Antousians, the
vlksai
, do to your people?’’ she asked, changing her tack. Scott felt an answering avalanche of guilt. She had no idea that his race was the very ones hell-bent on destroying her world. Biologically speaking, that was. The heart that beat within his chest was Refarian, through and through. So he was telling the truth.

‘‘Genocide.’’ He said nothing more, waiting for her reaction.

‘‘Your DNA is totally human—that’s what we can’t figure out.
Are
you human?’’

He laughed bitterly. He held little love for her species, and it was the greatest irony about his genetic makeup. ‘‘I’m a descendent of your people,’’ he admitted cryptically, unwilling to spell out the facts for her just yet. ‘‘The Antousians are murderers—they’ve killed millions of my people. They’ve killed many of yours, too, only your governments don’t realize it.’’