allies and enemies 02 - rogues (6 page)

This changes nothing. You must move. Be ready.

The Tyron-voice wedged to the front of her thoughts. Erelah knew it was right, but still she did not obey it. Fear nestled against her ribs. She stared at the chronometer found amid the untidy piles in Korbyn’s quarters. The blue-green glow of the reads ticked away. It was the year that had grabbed her attention.

It was advanced by one year and 303 days.

Nearly two years, Origin standard. I’ve lost nearly two years.

The chrono
could
be wrong. She doubted it. These devices were cast-bonded, set to precision and unhackable. They were usually part of the compsys and integrated into the velo systems to aid in calculating the FP entries. For those reasons, you never wanted to hack a nav-chrono. She was hard pressed to think of why someone would.

The chrono-slip. Using the jdrive had caused this. But how?

The explosion caused by initiating the singularity so close to the engines of the
Questic
must have had some sort of bearing on the formation of the nascent conduit. She had seen data like this once before, with unmanned
Jocosta
test flights. Back in a time when she knew nothing more than working on the jdrive project and encouraging the flirtations of Adan Titus, her protégé.

Before Tristic.

Two years. Jon thinks me dead. All of Origin, for that matter.

Korbyn will be back soon. You have to be ready.

The urge to act was an impulse now. Driving her. Undeniable. The part of Tyron she had absorbed, for better or for worse, had become a voice of self-preservation. She moved to obey it.

Dropping the nav-chrono to the deck, Erelah resumed her search of the dingy quarters, the insistence pounding more forcefully in her head. Her hands shook and her knees were watery. Her throat baked with thirst. A coarse sob threatened to crawl up her throat.

Don’t panic. Panic and you’re lost. Focus. What do you know?

She stopped, standing in the middle of the room over the contents of an upended drawer. She shut her eyes and willed her thoughts to flatten. Now she pictured the section of the ship that Korbyn had just dragged her through.

The corridors were oversized, intended to move automated cargo pallets. The junction box that the Zenti were gathered around had seemed antiquated. Their bloodthirsty glares were more the center of her attention at the time, but it was a transfer station from a larger vessel. Most likely a Specter class that was once a cargo freighter in the service of Fleet. Under her bare feet, she sensed the heavy rumble of the engines and counted cycle times. Although powerful, they strained under a hard burn. They were using sub drives and not velos. It meant they either couldn’t do, or were purposefully avoiding, conduit travel.

There was a muted shout from the hallway. Her eyes snapped open. She crept up to the hatch and pressed her ear against the metal. There were raised voices, shouted curses followed by harsh thuds. A view screen at the door sensed her presence and fluttered on; a sound security measure for a leader of cutthroats.

The screen showed a desaturated view of the corridor beyond. Two Zenti argued. They shoved at each other, faces etched with murderous fury. Erelah stopped watching when a knife came out.

She rested her back on the door. Korbyn, for all his theatrics, might have shared valuable insights into the mood of this crew. Things just “felt” unstable here. They turned on each other, snapping and biting like uneasy animals.

Certainly trying to unlock the door and fleeing to the
Jocosta
was suicidal, or worse. The stryker was in no danger. A sophisticated security matrix protected the compsys. After too many unsuccessful attempts at an override, the compsys would turn to slag and the jdrive would be rendered inert.

She ran fingers over the cracked skin of her lips. Hunger gnawed at her stomach. Even if she did not feel drained, she lacked the physical strength to defend herself like a soldier, although nooks of her brain had collected information on hand-to-hand combat and weapon use from her exposure to Tyron. There had been at least some safety both in Korbyn’s presence under his perceived protection and while locked in his chamber.

How long that safety would extend was uncertain.

A weapon. Something…anything.

You are a weapon.

Again, it whispered in her mind, the quiet unnerving patience of the Tyron-voice. It was self-possessed, full of confidence that would have filled Erelah with awe were she not at war with paralyzing fear.

The Sight is your weapon now.

And so, she waited.

10

Erelah startled awake to the crash of something inches from her head. She sat bolt upright, instantly crabbing back along the floor as best her bound hands would allow. In the dim light cast by the wall units, she noticed what had landed in front of her: her boots.

“Let’s deal.” Korbyn stood in the doorway. His face was unreadable. Those same maroon eyes studied her. If he was angry about the condition of his chamber, it did not show. Perhaps he didn’t notice, didn’t care.

Erelah looked from the boots and then up at him.

Offer the subject a desired resource to earn trust.

He’s manipulating me. This was the play he was making, wasn’t it?

First he had set himself up as the savior standing between her and his men.

Create a sense of dependence in the subject.

Rage boiled in her gut. It did not belong to her, but it was justified nonetheless. It was the Tyron-voice again.

Erelah twisted around and kicked the boots away. They didn’t go very far, considering the effort she put into it.

“Keep them. They’ll look great with your new stryker.”

“Fine.” He offered a feral smile. “How ‘bout I sweeten the deal?”

She cringed as he brought his arm back.

He tossed two more items down on the floor to land near her bare feet. She recognized the slick-coated packaging: e-rations like the ones her brother had aboard the Cassandra. The icon stenciled on them listed them as property of a vessel called the
Arcadian
, probably decades old and lost to memory. Clearly Regime issue.

“You have to be thirsty at least.” The door shut behind him with a solid clang. “You’re not stupid. They’re sealed, safe to eat. ‘Sides…you were out for nearly half a day on my boat. Why would I dose you now?”

She regarded him, then the packets, swallowing against a throat that felt like sandpaper. One bore the Regimental symbol for hydration matrix.

“No?” He shrugged, then reached for the packets.

Erelah snatched it up, ripping it open with her teeth. Wary of any sudden moves from Korbyn, she took a greedy swig and almost immediately gagged at the flat metallic taste. She forced herself to drink more slowly. The package was nearly empty before she came up for air.

“This doesn’t change anything.” She wiped her chin against her shoulder. Her hair fell across her eyes and she tossed her head in a vain effort to move it back. The chunk of hair flopped back down.

He maneuvered closer, his steps cautious. Korbyn raised his hands, palms open, as he crouched down in front of her. More appraisal with those clever maroon eyes. Slowly, he reached his right hand toward her face. She jerked back.

“I’m not going to hurt you.” He reached forward once more. Erelah froze. Quickly, he pushed the fallen hair out of her eyes, tucking it behind her ear. He settled back. “That was bugging the crap out of me.”

Erelah stared at him. Again, she imagined that pity just beneath his hard surface. “Please. Just let me—”

“What do you think I want?” Any perceived softness had disappeared.

“I honestly hope not to know,” she stammered.

Korbyn chuckled.

He really hadn’t made any demands beyond trying to guess her name. As the hours drew on during her time alone in his quarters, her imagination had kicked into high gear, well fed by her fears. It had created a cycle of panic that even the Tyron-voice could not override.

The slim blade rested against the inside of her wrist, just beneath the shackle. Something she’d found in her rummaging. It made a pitiful weapon. Practically a butter knife. She had tried with increasing frustration to use it as a means to pick open the locks on the shackles that bound her wrists, but the angle was too difficult and robbed her of dexterity.

He rested his forearms on his knees. “I’m not a monster, Tilley. I’m in a tight spot here. This is just—”

“Business. Got it.” She seethed. “You want to know about the stryker.”

Erelah glanced at the e-ration packet on the deck between them. She swallowed, turning wide pleading eyes up at him.

“That’s right. This doesn’t have to be like this. You decide how this plays out.”

Place the subject in a perceived position of control over circumstances.

“And if I tell you, what happens to me?” Cautiously, she picked up the e-ration.

“Like I said. That’s up to you.”

Clumsily she pulled at the slick edges of the packet. The symbols stenciled on it threatened that some of those dreadfully bland protein wafers could be found inside.

“Will you let me go?” she pleaded, chewing her lip. There was no way in Nyxa’s name he’d let her go willingly. She knew that much.

Again, she struggled with the packet, making her moves clumsy and slow. It slipped to the deck.

Korbyn gave an exasperated grunt. “Here.”

He grabbed her forearm with his right hand. With his left, he produced the key to the shackles and moved for the lock. The shackles fell free, along with the small blade secreted in her sleeve.

He made a low, rumbling chuckle and plucked the blade up between his thumb and forefinger. It looked like a toy. “You plan on attacking some pastry?”

Now!

She lurched forward, plunging the palm of her hand against the exposed skin of his chest. Long held in check, the Sight pushed out at him. The force came from the black space hollowed out in her skull. The Sight burned through her and into him, greedily tasting and seeking to absorb everything.

Asher’s expression changed to wide-eyed surprise, then panic. He froze.

“Help me get back to the stryker,” she said through clenched teeth.

A giant invisible hand grasped the base of her skull. And
squeezed
.

Erelah gasped at the incredible jolt of pain. The world blasted white, shimmering and painful.

He was fighting her. And winning.

A solid wall had fallen down to protect his thoughts. She was vaguely aware of warmth spreading under her nose. A drawing sensation from her body, as if she were made of air and it was escaping every pore and all going to him.

Asher’s arm shot up, shoving her back. The moment her hand lost contact with his skin, the squeezing sensation disappeared. The pain rolled in her skull like a thunderclap. She flopped onto her side with a groan.

Asher crashed onto his knees. Blood seeped under his nose. “You wanted to be dead. It was a one-way trip,” he gasped.

Blearily she watched him plant a hand on the deck. The veins bulged along his neck. “What was that? What did you do, woman?”

Erelah rolled onto her stomach. She wanted to push up, crawl away from him. But her limbs were lazy animals. She managed a painful sob.

His voice filled with fury, incredulity. “What in Nyxa’s name are you?”

He grabbed her ankle and lurched up, dragging her along the floor. Back in the direction of his bunk.

“No!” She flailed against the floor, hands sliding uselessly across the surface.

He let her leg flop. Then he lurched from view. The deck beneath her pounding head telegraphed his movements. He gathered her wrists up, pulling them behind her. Shackles bit into her skin, tighter than before. There was another more solid click, felt and heard, as she was bound to the leg of his bed.

He stepped back into view, panting. His voice crept up an octave. “What did you just do to me?”

Erelah sobbed under the blanket of pain. It was growing thinner, allowing rational thought to invade in small trickles.

He pushed me out and did something else. He took something away.

It had surprised him.

He backed up, wiping the last of the blood from his lip. “You never meant to be here. You did it to save them.”

Then he shook his head. “What am I
talking
about?”

Korbyn backed out of the room. The heavy door shut, followed by the frantic sounds of the keylock.

What just happened?

11

Asher staggered into the hallway. It was thankfully empty.

He steadied himself against the wall. The pistoning of his heart continued. An incredible fear electrified his spine. It was disproportionate, the wrong size. He’d been caught off guard, but nothing that merited feeling
this
terrified.

What the Sceelah just happened?

His eyes watered. He spat bright pink onto the deck. At some point, he’d bitten his tongue when
whatever-that-was
had happened.

The girl had some type of ability, a power. She had planned to use it on him, but his reaction was obviously something that had surprised her as well.

A flood of images too quick to catalog rushed his brain with no order or narrative. All of them had alien emotions attached.

He frowned into the darkened corridor:
They all belonged to her. They were somehow…hers.

Fear enveloped him and caused his eyes to water. This was
her
fear. Or the remnant of it. It was easing off, like the return of circulation to a hand or a foot that had fallen asleep.

The corridor was the same rusted-out walls and masses of patched conduits. Familiar, but now they took on a sinister cast. Each shadow was full of hidden threat.

That was
her
impression of the ship.