by C. Gockel
“Yes,” she admitted unwillingly.
“You want to tell us what your neighbor was doing over here in the middle of the night, Ms. Felaris?” put in Officer Rhyse, with an expression dangerously close to a leer.
For one wild second Miala considered admitting to an affair with Quin Lassiter. Perhaps that would put these two hell hounds off the scent. But she had already dragged poor Quin into this deep enough—it wouldn’t be fair to him or to his family to concoct stories that would only cause him more trouble.
“He’s a doctor,” she said smoothly, hoping they hadn’t noticed her pause. “My son was having stomach cramps. Since Dr. Lassiter is a friend of the family, I called him to see if he could come help.”
Again Officer Korr’s mouth tightened. Then he asked, “So what was wrong with your son?”
“Quin said it looked as if he’s starting to develop an allergy to shellfish,” Miala replied, inwardly marveling as the lies seem to leap unbidden to her lips. She only hoped that the inner bullshit generator could keep going like this indefinitely. “The red-eye shells are still in the compactor—do you want to take a look?”
“I don’t think that’s necessary, Ms. Felaris,” said Officer Rhyse hastily. It was fairly obvious that the last thing he wanted to do was start rooting through the contents of her trash compactor.
“That still doesn’t answer our question about this man,” put in Korr, who tapped his tablet with a significant gesture.
“And I told you that I don’t know who he is.” Miala narrowed her eyes at them in what she hoped was an expression of annoyance mixed with curiosity. “So who is he, anyway?”
“A dangerous off-world criminal,” Officer Korr said, watching her carefully as if to gauge her reaction.
Miala allowed her eyes to open wide. “Really? I haven’t seen him—but if someone else spotted him lurking around, maybe he’s still here...out in the backyard, maybe?” Anything to get them out of the house. All she could do was trust that they were buying her big-eyed, frightened act.
The two men looked at one another for a second. Then Korr sighed, as if Miala had forced him to some action he really didn’t want to take. He fixed her with an almost respectful gleam in his dark eyes. “You’re good,” he said. “For an amateur.”
“Excuse me?” The fingernail of doubt turned into a whole set of icy fingers that seemed to settle around her throat.
“But we’re not amateurs,” Korr went on, and with a smooth, easy movement he drew his gun out of its holster, training the muzzle directly on her heart.
Oh, hell, she thought. But she remained silent, holding herself very still as Korr continued to watch her with that half-regretful stare.
“This could have been so much easier if you’d just handed over the money in the first place,” said Officer Rhyse.
Miala glanced over at him and wondered how she could have ever thought his blue eyes were friendly. Right now they looked about as cold as the ice caps that topped Nova Angeles’ poles. She opened her mouth, not really knowing what she should say even as she did so—I don’t know what you’re talking about…you’ve got the wrong person…possibly even I’ll get it for you, just don’t hurt me or my son—but she never had the chance to speak.
Instead, a blast of blue pulse fire flashed past her cheek, missing her by inches just before it caught Rhyse squarely in the chest. His eyes widened for a second—eyes that Miala distantly noted were almost the same color as the pulse that had killed him—and then he slumped over against the arm of the couch.
“Get down, Miala,” came Thorn’s voice, and she slid off the couch and onto the cold tile floor even as Korr did almost the same thing, dropping to the ground as the mercenary advanced into the room. Miala’s and Korr’s eyes met as they stared at each other from under the coffee table, and then she quickly backed away before the officer—if that’s what he really was—could reorient the blaster in her direction. Scuttling crab-like, she moved around the corner of the divan just as Korr up-ended the table, putting a makeshift barrier between Thorn and himself.
Reddish-orange fire erupted from the end of Korr’s gun. Miala couldn’t see where it went, but she heard it hit the far wall of the salon, followed by the acrid smell of burning paint and canvas.
Fifty thousand units down the tube, she thought, even as she kept moving away from the firefight. She felt her foot bump into something and realized it was the side table that stood against the wall nearest to the divan. That seemed as good a place to hide as any, and she knelt there, arms wrapped around her knees, before cautiously lifting her head to see what was happening.
Thorn had dropped to a half-crouch, using the bulk of the divan where she had just been sitting as some protection from Korr’s blaster fire. As she watched, the officer shifted his position slightly and lifted his gun to shoot at Thorn once more, but the shot passed harmlessly over the mercenary’s head, this time catching in the heavy curtains that framed the floor-to-ceiling window on the wall behind him. Red and orange flames began to feed hungrily on the glossy silk.
All Miala could do was watch. She didn’t dare move from her hiding place, even though every instinct in her cried out to run to the comm, to call fire control before the flames spread even further. She thought of Jerem, lying upstairs in his bed, and prayed that he would have the sense to stay put and not come down to investigate the noise. Every ounce of her wanted to go to him, to hold him until this was all over, but she forced herself to stay still, to watch as Thorn traded gunfire with Korr, as new flames caught in other corners of the room, and smoke began to fill the chamber and catch at her throat and lungs.
The mercenary’s expression never changed. He looked as calm as a man choosing which shirt to wear, even as Korr’s blasts ripped past his head. From her vantage point Miala couldn’t see the officer, but even if one of Thorn’s pulses had hit him, it was obvious he was still in good enough shape to continue returning fire.
Then, suddenly, the red pulses from Korr’s blaster ceased.
Thorn didn’t move. Instead, he asked, “Had enough?”
A long silence, filled only with the soft, hungry sound of the flames feeding off the drapes and the expensive artwork on the walls. Miala could only be thankful that she’d decided to keep the tile floors in this salon clean and bare, or no doubt any carpets she might have placed here surely would be on fire as well.
Then Korr finally spoke. His voice sounded hoarse, but whether that was because of some unseen wound or merely the smoke-filled air of the salon, Miala couldn’t be certain. “Time enough.” He coughed. “You’ve lost, Thorn.”
“I’m not the one bleeding on the floor.”
So Thorn had wounded him. Good.
Korr coughed again. “Nice hit, mercenary. But that doesn’t matter.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m not the one you should be worried about. Checked on the boy lately?”
At those words Miala felt as if someone had thrown a bucket of ice water over her head, although the room had grown suffocatingly hot over the past few minutes. Jerem—he had to be talking about Jerem.
Enough of hiding. She pushed herself out from under the table and bolted toward the door, even as Thorn called after her, “Wait—you don’t know who’s up there!”
That didn’t matter. None of it mattered. If someone were there, trying to harm her son, she’d rip them apart with her bare hands.
The stairs seemed twice as high as they usually did. Miala pounded up the steps, terror giving her speed, the breath choking in her throat as smoke drifted out the open door of the salon and rose up the staircase, seeming to follow her like a malevolent spirit.
The door to Jerem’s room stood open. She plunged inside, crying his name, but only silence greeted her. Her son’s bed was mussed, the sheets half-pulled down on to the floor. But he was nowhere to be found—not under the bed, not hiding in the closet. Nowhere.
A movement at the window seemed to mock her. For a long moment
Miala stood and watched the blinds shift as a salt-smelling breeze blew through the open casement. The photoreceptive material of the blinds was torn at one end, as if clutching hands had grasped it in a desperate attempt to keep from being pulled out through the window. At least he had not gone without a fight, this son of hers.
She didn’t know how long she stood there, fighting the tears as the scent of smoke swirled around her.
Then Thorn’s voice. “Gone.” It was not a question.
“They took him through the window.” Her voice sounded strangely flat, without emotion.
The mercenary came to stand next to her, then looked over at the broken blinds and the mussed bed. “We have to get out of here. The fire’s spreading.”
His words didn’t seem to register. She could only stay rooted in place, looking at her son’s empty bed even as her mind screamed at her, He’s gone! They took him! All that time you were hiding, worried about your own miserable skin—
“You can’t help him if you’re dead of smoke inhalation.”
As if to give weight to Thorn’s words, a huge wave of smoke filled the corridor, followed by a sudden rush of skin-crackling heat. From far away, outside the open windows, the night was broken by the sound of approaching sirens.
“Out the window,” Thorn commanded. “Now.” And he grasped her by the arm and pulled her toward the open casement, using as an escape route the same path the kidnappers must have taken. The branches of the tree outside reached almost to the windowsill, and Miala roused herself enough from her misery to focus on crawling out there, inching her way along until she reached the trunk, then began to slowly step from branch to branch until she reached the ground. Thorn followed along behind her, his wound seeming to give him no trouble even during these contortions.
From ground level the true scope of the blaze that had engulfed the house could finally be seen. Orange glowed from almost all of the first-level windows, and smoke billowed out of the window they had just used as an egress.
Miala stood there and watched the destruction of her world. How unfair that the grass underneath her feet should feel so soft, the cool night air so gentle against her cheek, while her house burned and her son was gone.
“Let’s go,” said Thorn, and she let him pull her along, away from the house, away from the curious clump of people who had begun to gather on the walkway that bordered the cul-de-sac where she lived. He kept to the shadows at the edge of the property, and no one seemed to note their passage. Perhaps the men who had stolen Jerem and those who had employed them hadn’t bothered to stay around. After all, they’d gotten what they came for.
Just putting one foot in front of the other required most of her concentration. A few moments—or possibly just a few seconds—later, a fire-control vehicle roared past them, followed by another, and then the squarish blue airtruck of the local medical services branch. After they passed, Miala stopped, and turned to face Eryk Thorn.
“Shouldn’t I have stayed to meet them?” she asked. “Shouldn’t I be calling the police—the real police?”
Thorn lifted an eyebrow. “With two dead bodies dressed in the uniforms of RilSec officers in your living room?”
At least Thorn had taken that small vengeance for their son. But her despair wouldn’t allow her to feel any joy at the thought of the two men’s deaths. Instead she inquired, “But shouldn’t we report Jerem’s kidnapping?”
“Not if you want to see your son alive.”
His words took a moment to penetrate. Then she said, “He’s your son, too.”
In a darkness only partially broken by the streetlight a few yards away, Thorn’s expression was even more unreadable than usual. He met her gaze squarely, and replied, “Right now he’s an asset that needs to be reacquired.”
For a few seconds Miala could only stare back at him, shocked by his coldness. Then she seemed to hear his voice in her mind, the phrase he had uttered only that afternoon. Had it really been just a few hours ago? It felt as if centuries had passed since then. But he had looked at her much as he did now, and said, Connections kill. He couldn’t allow himself to become emotionally involved now. If he did, he risked losing the very edge that was necessary to bring Jerem back to her.
The horrified words that had risen to her lips seemed to evaporate. She had to think he did care at some level, but that concern was the last thing he could indulge right now.
“So what do we do?” Miala asked at length. Suddenly she realized that they were standing on the street in their nightclothes, and barefoot as well. Enough of her neighbors had gone out to watch the fire similarly garbed that perhaps she and Thorn had escaped notice for now, but they couldn’t wander around like this for much longer.
“Get off the street,” he said immediately. “I’d say go back to my ship, but I know it’s being watched. A hotel somewhere, probably.”
Miala wanted to retort that no decent place would take them in looking as they did, but in Rilsport just as everywhere else in the galaxy, money talked. Much of her life had just been swallowed up in flames, but she still had her bank accounts. On Nova Angeles, most smaller transactions were handled through simple thumbprint I.D.—they should be able to walk into any hotel in the city and get a room that way, at least. Most public transport was paid for in a similar fashion.
“Keep heading east,” she said, and began walking. “About five blocks from here is a main street. We should be able to get a taxi there.”
He nodded and kept pace with her. As they moved farther away from her home, Miala could feel the cold beginning to seep up through her bare feet, slowly overtaking her entire body. Perhaps it should have bothered her. Instead, she almost welcomed the numbing sensation. At least when she was numb she didn’t have to feel anything. She didn’t have to think about her son in the hands of kidnappers. She didn’t have to think about the ruin of her home. She didn’t have to think about anything except making sure that her feet kept moving, taking her away from the life she had built over the past eight years.
Thorn said nothing throughout their journey. Only when they reached the main street did he say, “Wait here,” and seat her down on a bench outside a restaurant now shuttered for the night. Then he moved to the curb, watched the traffic move past, and finally raised his hand when a mech-driven jitney approached.
The aircar whooshed to a stop, and Thorn leaned down to ask something of the driver—probably the direction to the closest reputable hotel. Then he straightened and gestured for Miala to join him.
She stood and walked with mechanical steps to the taxi, and settled herself in the back seat. The vehicle smelled of stale breath mints and perspiration, but it was also warm. Thorn climbed in beside her, and the taxi took off.
Only once they were in motion did the mercenary finally turn to give her an appraising look. “You all right?”
She said, “I’ll manage.”
Outside the car’s window the streets of Rilsport streamed past, well-lit, clean, and orderly. It seemed another world from the one that had stolen her son and destroyed her home. Perhaps this was only a nightmare, one from which she would awake to find Jerem still in his room and her home safe around her, with Thorn unwounded and lying next to her in bed. But as much as she’d like to believe that, she knew it was a lie. This was the truth—she was alone, and the home where she had raised her son, seen his first steps, fought with him over sticky counters and spotted beans, was gone forever.
The tears came then finally, flooding down her cheeks as she leaned her head against the battered synth-leather upholstery. It was the only thing she could think to do to ease the enormous aching void within her.
Then she felt him reach out, wrap his arms around her, draw her close to his chest. The rhythm of his heart seemed to offer its own strange comfort, and she let him hold her, even as her tears soaked the loose soot-stained shirt he wore. He said nothing, only reassuring her with his touch, letting her know that, whatever she might think, she wasn’t alone after all.
>
21
Miala had to repress the urge to mutter, Locked myself out, when the desk clerk at the Rilsport Plaza Towers gave a goggle-eyed look at her stained dressing robe and bare feet.
But, as she had thought, her request for one of the top-floor suites was granted once she had placed her thumb against the hotel’s biometric registry and paid for two nights in advance. Eccentricity was obviously allowed when accompanied by a fat credit balance.
“Any baggage?” the desk clerk asked.
“Just him,” she said, with a jerk of her chin toward Thorn, who was watching the exchange with imperturbable dark eyes.
The clerk goggled again, but he handed her the access card to her suite without further comment. She took it and headed toward the bank of elevators at the far end of the lobby, which at this hour was mostly unoccupied except for a sweeper mech off to one side and a bleary-looking man who obviously had spent the better part of the evening in the hotel lounge and who now had propped himself against one of the rock-crystal pillars that held up the brightly painted roof. Possibly he was considering whether it would be better to call a cab or just sleep it off on one of the lobby couches.
Although Miala had never stayed in the Rilsport Plaza, she had attended several conferences here over the years and knew the layout well enough. The suite she had just rented was located in the same tower as the main lobby, so it hadn’t been necessary to cross the courtyard to access the second set of elevators. She stepped in, slid her access card through the slot so the elevator would go all the way to the penthouse level, then gave Thorn a worried look as the doors shut behind them.
“Maybe that wasn’t so smart,” she said, giving voice to the doubt that had plagued her ever since she signed off on the hotel room. “I mean, what if the people who took Jerem and attacked us can figure out where we are from my credit information?”