The Warlord's Daughter (8 page)

Hadley lifted a brow at the longing and awe that crept into the admiral’s voice and eyes. “I didn’t expect you to be such a lover of fables, sir. Isn’t treasure part of the legend, too?”

He nodded. “I was an ancient history major at the academy. Not many know it. A fable the lost scripture may be, and the treasure that surrounds it, but to entertain the promise of such a discovery, to dream of it…it is what our weary, war-ravaged people need. To know
the goddesses existed…that they
were real.
That true goodness exists, Hadley.” A faraway look softened his gaze. Then he blinked back to the briefing room. “Or that goodness once existed, at any rate. Gods know we could use some now. Now, Captain Keyren, no more sidetracking me with fables and legends of yore.”

Her? She grinned. “No, sir.”

He activated the holo. “Display image for Mission Origins.” A misty sphere glowed on the holo, mostly water and with several good-sized, life-sustaining continents. “Ara Ana,” he said. “Your destination.”

“Ara Ana? That’s the birthplace of the goddesses. It’s a myth. It doesn’t exist.”

“That’s what you’ve been told. We all have. But what if it’s real?”

Hadley clasped her shaking hands behind her back. On the heels of her surprise and wonder came the uneasy knowledge that Bolivarr knew of this, too—an ancient artifact from possibly pre-Schism days. Bolivarr was Drakken. A wraith. How would he come into possession of such knowledge—and why? Had he discovered the information accidentally, or on purpose? How many other people knew that the birthplace of the goddesses and possibly the lost scripture might actually exist—to be plundered or revered, depending on the discoverer?

“You are correct, however, Captain. We don’t know the name of the planet or even what’s there. But why not launch an expedition with great fanfare—keeping your actual destination secret, of course—and give the people a bit of hope? It will serve as a diversion from all the reports coming in from the Borderlands lately.”

Yes, the evidence of massacres and skullings, whole
cities wiped out, starvation and sickness, poor little Drakken children who looked old at eight—they were old, after what they’d endured—and now of two, honest-to-goddess monsters on the loose who’d see to the continuation of those atrocities.

Mawndarr, she thought, and the warlord’s daughter.

“Yes, sir, we could use such news, sir.” Suddenly her mundane archaeological field trip took on meaning.

“Our presumptive Ara Ana lies at the fringes of the Uncharted Territories,” he continued.

Hadley stood straighter with interest. The Uncharted Territories—the UT—lay beyond the Borderlands. It was a region of space at the rim of the galaxy that was so remote that it remained virtually unexplored, mostly due to war and the inability to use enemy-controlled wormholes. It had been a lost region of space for thousands of years, a region now on the verge of discovery. It would take weeks of traversing through wormholes in space to get there.

And she’d be tasked with keeping teens out of trouble for the duration. Goddess help her. So much for “meaning.” She’d be lucky if she kept her captain stripes after this.

Zaafran read her expression. “Perhaps it’s not the mission you envisioned, Captain. I know you young captains, champing at the bit for action, pirates and the like—but I don’t have a single other ship to spare. But, by the gods, I’m damn curious about the site. I envy you. I’d go myself if I didn’t have the Triad to run.”

“You’re just saying that to make me feel better, sir.”

“Maybe I am.” He smiled. “Enjoy. When you return, we’ll see about something a little more challenging.”

“Yes, sir.” When she proved herself, he meant. Her focus returned to the five dots. Bolivarr’s dots.

“It’s something from my life before.”

“Something bad?”

“Something I’m supposed to know.”

Hadley squared her shoulders. “A request, sir. I’d like to add Battle-Lieutenant Bolivarr to my crew.”

His brow rose.

That brow lift said it all. Bolivarr was a model officer. Yet ever since Hadley had been promoted to captain, she had sensed that her relationship with Bolivarr was frowned upon. Subtly. Like Zaafran’s eyebrow lift. No one ever came out and told her not to see him, but she feared that any day now she’d be forced to end the relationship, especially if Bolivarr’s memory returned and revealed he’d committed war crimes. It was close-minded and unfair, but she’d have little choice if she were ordered to give up Bolivarr in order to keep her command.

“The amnesiac wraith?”

“The former wraith, sir,” she corrected as tactfully as she could. “He’s been seeing the same pattern in his dreams and thoughts. There’s a good chance if he comes along on this mission, it will open up his past. He’d be of great help, sir. He’s a history buff like yourself, sir. In fact, the Drakken people as a whole are known for being enthusiastic collectors of antiquities.”

“Particularly of antiquities that belonged to us,” Zaafran commented dryly, shifting his attention to a bank of tall, curved windows that looked out at the massive sweep of the Ring. Hadley remembered quite acutely how disorienting that view was the first time she ever
glimpsed it. “So you think his memories may provide more information essential to this mission,” he said.

“Perhaps even the lost scripture.”

“In Drakken hands. Burn the thought.” He paced a few steps and stopped. “The world the goddesses left behind is behind the border—what once was the border. Bolivarr could very well know what we don’t.” He paced a few more steps, halting again. “It might make sense to add him to the crew roster.”

Hadley squeezed her hands hidden behind her back.
Please.

“You will be far from civilization, Captain, as you know, and he suffers seizures. He may be a liability more than he is an aid to this mission.”

“Medication’s controlling the seizures, sir. It’s been weeks since he had any. We’ll have a physician onboard. I’ll ensure he’s thoroughly briefed by Bolivarr’s medical staff. I know the position of chief of security has not been filled as yet. Bolivarr is eminently qualified for the position.” Probably overqualified. “He ran security on his last ship before the
Unity.
”

“That was a pirate ship.”

“Then who better to assist in avoiding pirates during our transit than a former pirate himself, sir? Bolivarr will be an asset to the operation. Certainly, with cadets onboard, I’ll want the safest ship possible—and so will their parents. And if we come upon treasure, having worked with pirates, Bolivarr understands the security measures needed for its safe collection.”

“It is obvious you’ve given this much thought.”

“Yes, sir.” Actually, it was all off the top of her head. Good thing she could think on her feet. Or in her boots,
as Admiral Bandar used to say. “I think there’s more to be gained by having Bolivarr assigned to my crew than leaving him behind. I know my request is highly irregular, but I didn’t get this far by thinking inside the box.”

The prime-admiral’s eyes sparkled. “No, Captain, you did not.” He rubbed the length of his index finger across the bottom of his chin as he considered her proposal. Then he dropped his hand. Sighed. “If his doctors say he can go, I’ll add him to the crew.”

Goddess, yes.
“Thank you, sir. Thank you.” Hadley remembered her decorum and came to attention. “I hope you find the person who needs that information on Mawndarr’s escape.”

He nodded in weary thanks. “So do I, Captain.”

Even as she saluted again, he’d activated his PCD. She whirled on a heel and marched out of the office. Her darling Bo had long hoped for a way to unlock his past. Mission: Origins, aptly named, could very well be it.

I
N THE MORNING
, Wren had to leave the cool, shaded safety of the sleeping tent. No one was allowed to stay inside during daytime. The crowded tents were sanitized then. Soon after being roused from her cot, she was forced back outside into the heat and noise with the other stragglers. “Be back at dusk for curfew.”

Another day out in the open loomed. She had to get rid of her glasses. She was too obvious in her current appearance. A bad haircut, yes, and old clothes, but the glasses were a dead giveaway for anyone knowing what to look for. Now was the perfect time to get her eyes repaired. The medical tent would provide shelter and safety until curfew.

“No more appointments are available,” the tech there said, running Wren’s data square. “Come back later.”

“May I stay here and wait?”

He shook his head. “Against the rules.”

She turned back into the streets. The air was stifling, the dust choking. There were thousands of people around her but she’d never felt more isolated. Her energy began to flag. And her spirits. She gave her glasses a push with the tip of her finger and forced her feet to keep moving.

The breeze and Wren’s boots churned up fine dust.
It burned her nose and eyes. A scan of the crowd revealed only disinterested faces. Yet, the sense that she was being watched or followed nagged at her. She was trapped in this camp. Everyone who glanced at her became suspect. They became her hunters.

Every moment she was stuck out in the open increased her risk. She’d never realized how draining fear was.

Never mind her. This was what it had been like for her father’s subjects, namely the believers, every day of their lives.

At the docks, pilots and others made sport of mocking the refugees. Their defeated enemy was being paraded before them as they gloated. Shame thickened her throat. It embarrassed her to see her fellow Drakken this way. Their appearance and condition contrasted so sharply with the obviously much better off Coalition.
Look at us.
This was what happened when making weapons of mass destruction took precedence over society.

She’d seen nothing like these people on Barokk, of course. She realized that her father’s aim had been for her never to see the way real Drakken lived—and especially not the damning evidence of his reign of terror. If her life had turned out the way it was supposed to, she never would have known of it. She would have gone straight from Barokk to a battlelord’s household, never realizing anything else existed. Sabra had further assured her ignorance by keeping so many secrets over the years, keeping her horribly innocent of…everything. The woman had done it to protect her. Out of love, but it was wrong. Wren had a new life now. She vowed never to be kept in the dark again. And never, ever in anyone else’s control.

The pendant pressed to her skin, a constant reminder
of that last, terrible day on Barokk. The things she’d learned and not understood whirled in her mind all day and all night. Ilkka had been about to reveal a secret about Lady Seela, her mother, a secret so harmful that Sabra wouldn’t let her do it. Was her mother as vicious as her father, and Sabra meant to protect her from the knowledge? She’d always spoken of her mother in loving, reverent tones. More lies, lies and secrets. No matter the reason why they were perpetuated, Wren resented it.

She’d have the final word. She’d find that treasure her family had apparently accumulated and donate it anonymously to the people who cared for war victims. Every last coin, every priceless jewel. She wanted none of it. She couldn’t rid herself of her family’s genes, but she could unload their wealth and, in that small way, try to atone for what they’d done.

To do that, she had to get out of the camp. She held fast to that goal, her first outside the basic need to survive. Her first made as an independent woman.

As she made her way through the streets, a genuine sense of excitement rippled through the camp. “Have you heard?” people were saying to each other. “The warlord has another child. A girl child.”

Fates. Wren kept her shoulders hunched and her face down.

“They’re offering a bounty for her arrest.”

A bounty. As if the motivation to find her wasn’t enough. Double fates.

“How much?” someone asked, craning their neck to see.

“Fifty million queen’s credits.”

A roar went up. “Fifty
million?
”

“A fortune.”

“A man would never have to work again in his life with that kind of money in his pocket.”

“Or a woman.” The females in the crowd laughed and cheered.

Bounty
and
millions
rang in Wren’s ears no matter where she turned. People were plotting and planning how they’d spend their share of the reward, never imagining the very woman they sought was in their midst. Refugees and guards alike searched each other’s faces, wondering if this girl was the one, or that one.

The crowd clustered around the data-generated likeness displayed on the screen reserved for camp news, warnings of infractions and the like. Normally gatherings of any size were forbidden. The Triad was willing to bend the rules to make sure she was found. No wonder she’d been able to slip past without detection. They were using a sketch based on her parents: “Highly attractive,” read the notes, “tall, blond, hazel eyes. Or possibly green…”

All her life she’d bemoaned the fact she hadn’t inherited her parents’ looks. Now she couldn’t be more relieved. How long before someone figured it out? The bounty had turned everyone into a potential captor, from the refugees to the guards.

T
HE
T
RIAD WAS OVERWHELMED
by the influx of refugees all through the Borderlands. Refugee ships were being rerouted so often it was difficult if not impossible to know when one would dock. The galaxy it seemed was in disarray even now, months after the surrender. To
Aral all that mattered was data showing the vessel that picked up the citizens of Barokk had already arrived, beating him here. He had the location of her sleeping quarters after narrowing down by age and description what false identity she was using: Wren Senderin. As a presumptive law enforcement agent he was privy to the data. Due to the camp’s rules of emptying the sleeping tents during daylight, Awrenkka was now one of thousands milling in the streets of the camp. He’d wait for her. While he waited, he’d search.

No one raised an eyebrow at his activities and inquiries. It was, so far, nothing unusual. Criminals poured into Zorabeta and the other camps with regular Drakken. The Triad wanted them winnowed out as best as their strained resources permitted. Little did they know that a former battlelord was about to do them all a favor by taking the warlord’s daughter off their hands.

He and Kaz walked along the docks. A group of traders loitered nearby with those he was certain were off-duty soldiers. Sharing drinks, they made a sport of Drakken-watching, snickering about the backwardness of the refugees.

“Each new load gets worse and worse,” one observed to more half-drunken laughter.

“Their women wear tattoos, too.”

“And they pierce body parts you don’t want to know about.”

Never was the gulf between the two civilizations more apparent than in this camp. The differences didn’t stop at skin and jewelry. Hair was another visible reminder of the gulf between their peoples. Drakken hair was most often worn beaded, braided, or knotted,
or some combination of all three. Most high-ranking military officers favored a more conservative style, however. Kaz wore her hair the same way she always had: short. He’d insisted on her removing most of her jewelry, however. Dutifully she’d complied, leaving only the two small ruby-red diamonds, one in each earlobe, that had been a gift from Bolivarr.

Aral dragged a hand over his own hair. Cut short, it was freepin’ hard to get used to. Every day of his adult life he’d combed his hair into a neat ponytail tied at the base of his neck out of habit and sensibility more than style. Practically living in an Imperial Navy uniform, he’d had no need to give a thought to fashion. He’d had far more important things on his mind. By keeping to a life aboard ship, he’d bypassed, or, rather, avoided, time on his planetside estate and the frivolous social whirl that came with it. Only when visiting the warlord did he have to play that game. The palace parties, the drugs, the rich food and drink, the women, the tournaments, it was all what he’d like to forget.

Yet, with meeting Awrenkka imminent, he couldn’t help wondering what she’d think
of him.
Would she find him pleasant to the eye, or frightening?

Did he care?

It blasted well felt like it.

“You had better not meet her wearing that face,” Kaz cautioned in a private tone. “You’ll frighten the girl.”

“She’s not a girl. She’s a mere two years younger than you. Four younger than I am. We are not girls and boys by any means.”

Kaz shrugged blithely, but he sensed she did so to hide her hurt at his sharp words. They rarely quarreled.
Not since the dark months after Bolivarr’s death when neither much slept due to their efforts to find him. It was almost a relief declaring him dead a few years later, though no less painful.

He shook his head, feeling fatigue dragging him down, and causing him to act intolerably to his friend and valued officer. “Kaz, sorry. I need sleep.”

“Nightmares?”

“And what little sleep I did get was interrupted by that blasted PCD.”

“What did Z want?”

“I didn’t answer.”

“Was that wise?” she queried carefully as a good second ought.

His quick, soft laugh sounded weary, even to his own ears. “Probably not.” He sighed. “Kaz, he wants me to help capture Awrenkka. What else could it be? Everyone else of importance is dead.” The name Karbon was left unspoken. “Whatever new information he cares to share can wait. I’ll contact him before we leave for good. He’ll thank me for my service and that will be that.” He peered into the glare of the harsh sunlight that was as bright as two suns. It felt like acid poured on his raw nerves. “I can’t be like this around her,” he confided. “She won’t understand. I’ll try to sleep with some of those new meds later.”

“Later?
She’ll
be with you later. It’s your wedding night. Sleep with her, not your meds.”

“It won’t be that way with us so quickly.”

One inky, perfectly formed brow lifted. “Where there’s attraction, there’s desire. Where there’s smoke, there’s fire—”

“Kaz, it’s bad enough I don’t know the first thing about
the care and feeding of a wife. I won’t compound things by forcing myself on her like a common barbarian.”

“Don’t let too much time pass—waiting, being cautious, thinking you’ll know when the time is right. You won’t. Each day together is a gift that you may never have again. There’s no warning when it happens, Aral. You know that.”

He thought of her and his brother. “When one doesn’t move on with life, isn’t that waiting, as well? Being cautious?”

Her mouth tightened as she flicked a speck of dust off her simple, dark flight outfit that she’d somehow managed to keep immaculate despite the wretched conditions. “Point taken.” Then she squared her shoulders. “I should not have brought up such a personal subject while on duty.”

“You seemed fine until it got too personal
for you.
”

“My apologies for not being more professional.”

“Professional? Bah. We were friends long before we were shipmates, Kaz. In fact, the very first time you boarded a ship of mine it was through illegal means. You stowed away to be with Bolivarr.”

He was glad to hear her husky laugh. “You knew about it. You sanctioned it. So technically, it was not stowing away.”

“Technically—
selfishly
—I needed the extra hand onboard. I looked the other way.”

“Hardly. Late-night sech matches over bottles of whiskey don’t exactly equal looking the other way.” She laughed softly, her eyes sparkling. “Such good days those were. All three of us were partners-in-crime, not only your brother and I. Don’t rewrite history.” Though
he knew if she had the power, Kaz would write Bolivarr back into their lives. They all would.

Her smile faded to a pensive gaze and she turned her focus back to the streets. “Perhaps it’s time we did close the book on the past, Aral. We’ll write new books. Today you’ll begin your first chapter.”

“Look at them—look!” Untiring of the parade of bedraggled Drakken, the group gathered nearby grew louder and rowdier. Now they were ridiculing some of the Drakken wounded in countless attacks, injuries old and new. The Coalition hadn’t been spared such wounds, but unlike common Drakken they’d had access to the medical care to mitigate damages and repair them.

“That one’s missing an arm,” one of them observed. “Did he leave it at home?”

“Ignorant oafs,” Kaz snarled. “Put them in the Empire under the warlord’s rule and see how long they’d last.”

They were lucky they’d never had to know what such a life was like. Aral wouldn’t wish that on anyone. Life under the warlord’s thumb was something no human should have to suffer. Yet, they had for thousands of years, the last warlord arguably the worst of the lot. That his people were adapting to new circumstances with tentative hope said more for the Horde than the Coalition that defeated them.

“Shut the flarg up, Oreksen,” one of the traders admonished the group who was making fun of the war wounded. He stood in the shade of his ship,
Borrowed Time,
when the men switched from poking fun at tattoos and dress to injuries. The ship’s name was somehow familiar, but then Aral’s mind held on to many more
details than he should, details he often wished he could forget. “That’s just plain disrespectful,” the trader said.

“Touchy today, Vantos?”

“Yeah, I’m touchy.”

Aral asked a nearby trader, “Who is that man?”

“Vartekeir Vantos. The guy’s a legend, the longest lived runner we ever had.”

Ah. So that’s why he was familiar. Aral spent a lot of time shoring up the blockade. He was supposed to keep runners from getting through to supply forces on the other side. “Supposed to” being the key words. As “M” he’d done little he was supposed to for the empire. He’d been too busy ensuring its defeat. Over the years, many of the Coalition vessels had become familiar to him.
Borrowed Time
was one of a few that kept showing up in his sights. Lucky for Vantos, it appeared. He’d survived the war.