allies and enemies 02 - rogues (4 page)

Sela’s feelings toward Erelah were complicated, at best. It rankled still, the thought of having been used by the girl, a victim of Erelah’s unnatural gift, the Sight. Suggesting any type of vulnerability in Sela was a sin in itself, but woe to he or she that sought to exploit it.

Yet in the same breath, Sela remained impressed by the incredible sacrifice Erelah had made when she used her stryker as a weapon, taking out the Deacon class carrier and turning it into so much floating debris. The move was reckless, causing damage seen—Erelah’s death—and unseen. Jon had become a casualty, left buried beneath hurt and guilt. It had taken a long time to help him resurface and when he did, the person that emerged had lost something unnamed. He was not the same man. Not really.

She could not understand his magical thinking that Erelah lived still, and worried that it denoted some psych-damage that ran deeper than battle burn. The Captain Jonvenlish Veradin she had fallen in love with had always seemed on the verge of action, as if he possessed some terrific secret that he could not wait to share. Erelah’s demise seemed to deplete him of that. Sela feared that quality was lost forever. It did not make her love him any less, but seeing him changed made her feel wronged. It was as if Erelah had stolen something from her too.

All the more reason to leave this place of ghosts and angst-filled wishes.

“Sela Tyron. Volunteer. Commander. Deinde Company. Attached to the
Storm King
. Kephalo Regiment. Addagus Battlegroup.”

The voice that came from the shadows was cool, self-assured. It did not surprise her to see the same Guild-sworn from Ephid’s club step into the orange-tinted sodium light of the dock.

“Who are you? How do you know me?” Sela slowly descended the gangway, barring the entrance to the Cass. Behind her, the hatch remained shut. Jon had not heard. In Ephid’s club, only she had seen this man intervene.

This
felt
like something meant only for her.

A quick glance down the corridor told her the armored attendant was not with him. It was likely she lingered in the shadows nearby, like a protective ghost.

“Fisk. It is my purpose to know things. It is how I serve my masters.” The way he moved suggested military service. Although he used Commonspeak, there was a vague flatness to the vowels she attributed to someone who’d been raised speaking Regimental. His thin pale hands lay folded against the front of his tunic. Implanted tech vined under the skin of his forearms. The gold chain took on a poisonous glint in the chem-lights. Under this refinement nestled danger. She knew it like the song of blood in her body.

“You helped us against Ephid. Why?” Her right hip felt too light without the weight of her A6, tucked away on the Cass.

“Help suggests altruism on my part.” His smile was slim, as if he’d learned how to replicate the expression without understanding the emotions behind it. “A courtesy afforded by the beneficence of Poisoncry Guild. I suggest you make the utmost advantage of it.”

There was an implied attachment to his words. A debt had been exacted today, one that she’d never agreed to, yet still may need to repay under unpleasant terms.

“We are leaving Hadelia.” She angled her body to track his approach.

“Unlikely.” His pale ochre eyes flicked over her shoulder to the hatchway of the Cass, to Jon. “Brojos is hardly the place for a person of your considerable…talents. It makes Obscrum look like a bastion of civility.”

“We’ll manage.” Her hands curled into fists. He’d been listening.

“You? I have little doubt.” Fisk performed a shrug. His tone took on a lilting curl, a mockery of a Eugenes accent. “Captain Veradin is a different story. Brojos is filled with a particular anti-Kindred sentiment that extends to even one of a ruined caste, I’m afraid. Keeping him safe will prove a challenge.”

How can he know so much?
A familiar prickle spread across her skin, like the crawl of insects.

Fisk’s shoulders drew up, chin dipping like a scythe cat tracking a rodent.

Sela shifted her weight, ready to retreat up the ramp. Withdrawal would be smarter than fighting here. “State your purpose.”

Another bloodless smile. “An offer.”

Her scowl would have driven anyone else away. He grinned.

“Join us. Join Poisoncry. We are the logical place for a soldier of your abilities. Serve Poisoncry Guild. Ensure a future for yourself and your…partner.” His eyes went to the Cass again. “Become something…
more.
”

“I’ve already worn a collar,” she scoffed, looking down at his chain. “I’m free now.”

“Free?” It was a sharp laugh. “How well do you enjoy this freedom, Commander? Constantly looking over your shoulder…begging for work and scraps from others like Ephid. Insects you would have crushed in your former life. And now he holds sway over you.”

He knew right where to pick at the scabbed-over wound of her pride. Part of her railed in defiance, recognizing the manipulation for what it was. How dare this stranger try to maneuver her like a strategy piece? He was just like Ephid, only wrapped in different packaging. Where the Trelgin was a grotesquerie of corruption, Fisk was insidious. He was the voice that whispered from the dark shadows when sleep surrendered to worry.

He spoke the truth.

A white-hot fury churned within her. “You should leave before something bad happens.”

“This is not Origin, Tyron. Anywhere in the Reaches you may go, it will always be the same: If you are not Guild, you are no one.”

Her jaw went tight.

He made a clucking noise, a mocking of disappointment. “I can see I won’t persuade you tonight. A word of advice: Remaining in Obscrum is not feasible. Despite my intervention, Ephid will eventually seek you out. Perhaps some time in Brojos will adjust your perspective.”

Fisk made a gesture with his hand. Sela tensed. His bodyguard, the same armored female from the club, disengaged from the shadows of the passage.

“Please
do
consider my offer.”

She drew her chin up. “You know what you can do with your offer.”

From behind her came the familiar groan of the Cassandra’s outer hatch. She turned. Jon’s dark silhouette cut the warm light of the interior. His voice was wide and gentle against the tense air: “Ty, you can’t stay out there forever.”

When she looked back, Fisk and his bodyguard were gone.

PART II

7

Lingering and invasive, the rough hands moved over her body.

Time was playing tricks.

This should be the interior of the medical suite. Maynard was here to do his gloating. But the smells were wrong. No sharp anesthetics. She didn’t feel the familiar pressure of a metal table at her back. A deep, straining ache gnawed at her shoulders and neck. The air was too warm and humid. It reeked of sweat and rust.

Erelah lifted her head. From high overhead, harsh white light stabbed into her skull. She squeezed her eyes shut defensively. The hands tugged at the fasteners of her shipsuit.

“I wouldn’t do that, Spivey. Jin-ji claimed her—”

“Well, Korbyn ain’t here. Is he? Just shut up an’ watch the door.”

Commonspeak. Thick, plodding accents.

Erelah pried open her eyes to be greeted by a heavily tattooed Zenti male’s menacing grin.

“Wakin’ up there, lovely?”

With a gasp, she tried to pull away. Panic blossomed. Her body was hanging, suspended by her bound wrists. Her hands had gone numb, the circulation cut off by the tight bonds.

No. This was not one of the hateful medical labs aboard the
Questic,
nor was it Jon’s ancient Cassandra vessel
.

I should be dead. Why am I not dead?

“Who says Asher always gets the pretty meat?” Spivey licked his lips. His flat yellow gaze studied her. His thick fingers brushed over her cheek.

In reflex, she bit down on his hand.

Spivey squealed, jumping away. “Bitch bit me!”

The taste of his blood was revolting. She spat onto the deck.

He glared. Cradling his hand, he disappeared from her field of vision. Something heavy collided with her side, enough to knock the wind out of her. Erelah gasped. He had kicked her. There was an ensuing ripple of laughter from the occupants of the room’s dim corners. The space echoed: large, like a hangar or a cargo hold.

She sincerely hoped that this was a nightmare. Again, icy panic rushed in. On top of it, something else asserted itself, like a wall:

Feel that fear? It’s fuel. Use it. That pain? The pain is good. It means you’re still alive, still in the fight.

Not me. That voice isn’t mine. The memory isn’t mine.
It belonged to a Regime soldier named Tyron, a woman who very likely would have wished her great personal harm.

Could Tyron be here as well? And Jon?

Remember. Think!

The last thing she remembered was the
Jocosta
. The fiery azure lights of the singularity. A diving plunge into oblivion to take out the
Questic
, to end Defensor Tristic’s relentless pursuit of her, to end Tristic.

I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t be anywhere.

Did I fail?

She got her feet under her to take her weight. It alleviated the pressure in her arms and shoulders. The deck plates transmitted a vibration that suggested powerful engines beneath her bare feet.

My boots
.
Why would anyone take my boots?

Erelah tried to peer into the darkness beyond the white circle of light where huddled shapes shifted and merged.

Six? Perhaps more? All sounded male.

Zenti. The one, Spivey, was a Zenti. Heavy black-and-red clan tattoos etched over his features. They addressed each other as clan members.

Erelah’s panic spiked. It meant only one thing: pirates.

Spivey lunged at her from the huddle of dark shapes. Fury compressed his brute features.

“Spivey! Back off! I said no one touches her! She’s mine!”

The sharp command was given by a deep resonant voice from somewhere behind her. It raised a fragmented memory of that same voice, commanding and insistent, trying to rouse her.

The bright acid smell of ozone and seared wires. Smoke cloying her lungs. The voice barking more orders, the sounds of others nearby. Powerless, she felt her body lifted, haphazard and limp. A broad shoulder dug into her stomach with each plodding step. The pronouncement in Commonspeak: She’ll live. Being flopped on the deck.

The voice belonged to Korbyn. Their
jin-ji
. Captain.

More shouts and hails from the men in the shadows. Their mood seemed celebratory, in a menacing sort of way.

Spivey shrank. “
Jin-ji.
I check on her for you.”

“Right,” came the reply, completely unconvinced. “Don’t ‘member ordering that.”

“Wake now. You see. Got lots of fight in ‘er.” Spivey backed away, tucking his bitten hand behind his back.

“Give me the room, brothers.”

More sniggering and sounds of roughhousing as their shadows dispersed.

The room quieted, then:

“Spivey!”

The Zenti stopped in his tracks for the door. His shoulders shrank together.

“Yes,
jin-ji
?”

“That’s
once
I caught you,” Korbyn warned.

“Right,” Spivey muttered, by way of admission of guilt. Then as an afterthought, “Amends,
jin-ji
.” A door slammed shut.

After that, the only sounds were the purposeful slow thud of Korbyn’s boots on grating and the creak of leather somewhere in the darkness behind her.

“You’re very lucky that I found you.”

He was much closer than she expected him to be, his voice mere inches from her back.

“Something nasty took a swipe at your stryker. Sturdy ship to keep you alive.” His voice circled to her left, just outside of the baleful light that bore down from above.

Jocosta
. Her heart bounced. But she said nothing, spine stiffening. If the vessel were nearby and still intact, then there was a chance to—

“Oh,
escape
, she thinks.”

Korbyn stepped into the light. He was tall and muscular, his shaven head inked with clan markings. Not Zenti. He was Eugenes. Almost handsome, he possessed brutally cunning eyes. He studied her, but not with the same animal want as Spivey.

“You’re not a breeder.” It was a pronouncement, his evaluation. “Too scrawny. Wrong color eyes.”

He leaned into her neck, inhaling. His voice seemed to feign a shared secret, intimating. “Not a tech. Too tall. Wrong smell.”

She did not shrink away. Erelah knew this play from Maynard, her former jailer. Korbyn’s menace was flimsy in comparison to that monster. Somehow, she sensed this
jin-ji
was more concerned with appearances. He was testing her.

“You got a name, girl?”

“What is this?” she rasped in Commonspeak. “What do you want?”

Internally, she cringed at the sound of her own voice. Erelah had never developed much of a knack for the brutish language. It sounded just as it was: a high-born attempting to speak the language of the gutter.

Korbyn laughed.

“Her majesty stoops to use Commonspeak.” He said this in High Eugenes. The pronunciation was awkward, as if rusted from disuse. “Good. Now, does she have a name?”

Erelah bit the inside of her mouth. She had already revealed too much. Her assumption of the lazy intellect generally assigned men of Korbyn’s musculature was misapplied here. He was quite observant and might prove too clever to outwit.

“Maybe we’ll stick to Regimental. Common ground,” he continued, switching languages easily.

Perhaps he thought he had a wealthy lost Kindred in his possession and was already guessing at what her ransom would pay. Oh, was he in for a bitter surprise. There was no grieving great house left to pay for her safe return. The man who had raised her, Helio Veradin, a man she called “Uncle,” was long dead, the last member of a lineage that had once wielded influence. And Jonvenlish was…where?