Hero let out an ear-splitting yell and ran back to the patio, grinning with terror and delight as his eyes followed the flying grasshopper that had startled him. He bounced on his heels, then ran back into the yard. Tray tuned out the noise, and activated the photo projector on his Virp, perusing the pictures that Danny had glossed over the night before. There was one at the carnival in Kemah, in front of the Ferris wheel. A character actor dressed as a giant bear posed with the family. Tray was a toddler in the picture, and in hysterics, beating the bear with a broken lollipop. Danny had been saying that Tray was more upset about the lollipop than the bear. He’d been cautious with that story, swallowing hard every time he said Steven’s name. It was hard for Danny to speak positively about his stepfather, but he’d kept those pictures.
The next image in the slide show was a video close-up of their mother. Her hair made perfect ringlets around her face, just like Tray’s, and she smiled conspiratorially, sharing something with the videographer. Tray pressed play, eager to hear her voice. What he heard was the sound of a church choir. It was the kind of music that Danny occasionally listened to in the engine room, and that Tray openly mocked him for liking. Tray would have felt differently if he’d known about this video. Their mother was not a soloist, and her voice was indistinguishable from the choir. The clip only ran about ten seconds, and Tray played it over and over, watching his mother sing.
After their mother’s death, Steven had gotten rid of every picture of her. Her image and her voice had been wiped from every record Tray had ever hacked. All that was left of her lived with Danny. There had to be more clips in Danny’s collection. Somewhere, there had to be a recording of his mother’s voice.
“Morrigan!” Danny hollered, bursting through the gate linking the Matthews and Zenzele estates. He carried a white-clad, limp body that had to be Hawk.
“What happened?” Tray asked, shutting down his Virp and rolling off the bench. His hands and knees hit the gritty patio pavers, and he nearly knocked over Hero’s collection of bug jars trying to get up.
“He shocked himself trying to activate Saskia’s Virp,” Danny said. “I’m starting to think he’s the son of Sea’iqa.”
“God of lightning,” Tray said, forcing a chuckle. “Saskia went back to the ship to check on him.”
“Hawk moved into Genova’s shop. Saskia tracked him to Olcott, but Genova didn’t trust her intentions,” Danny said.
“Does everybody hate us now?” Tray complained, wanting to follow the others inside. Hero stood in the middle of the yard, watching with growing terror. “Hero? Come here, son.”
Hero shuffled warily back to the patio and slipped his hand into Tray’s. “He feels wrong.”
“Feels wrong, how?” Tray asked.
Hero shrugged. Tray pursed his lips, wondering if Hero had connected to Hawk somehow because they were both hybrids. His brows knitting in concern, Tray hurried his son into the house, taking him to the sink to wash his hands and buy time to think.
“Lie him on the floor. Get a pillow for his head.” Morrigan ordered the others, her voice floating from the front room, her medicine desk thumping as it opened and supplies fell out.
Hawk lay on the floor, pale but breathing. When he stirred, the lights flickered.
“He has burns on his hands. Some of these are days old,” Morrigan said, breaking open an cleanser that made the room smell like alcohol.
“Oh, for the love of God, Matthews,” Demissie snarled, pushing past Tray and going nose-to-nose with Danny. “Please tell me you haven’t taken over the family business.”
“Dem, I’m just trying to help my friend,” Danny said, wringing his hands, then pacing past Demissie.
“Here? No. I don’t want to die so you can traffic endemics,” Demissie growled. Tray cringed at the derogatory term for hybrids. Was it even derogatory? It was accurate.
“That’s not what’s going on, Demissie,” Tray piped up, looking back at Hero.
“You’d better have an army of those,” Demissie ranted, jabbing at Hawk. “The other bosses have left us alone because they believe we have our choice of endemic abilities. All those years of Oriana flying back and forth, bringing Panoptica from Terrana. The only way to save ourselves is to liquidate your collection.”
“For Zive’s sake, Dem, he’s a human being!” Morrigan argued, crouched helplessly over Hawk’s limp form.
“They all look like human beings. Even Hero,” Demissie argued, addressing the last pointed comment at Tray. “You think I don’t know what he is?”
“You have us all wrong,” Tray said, his heart doing somersaults, his grip on Hero tightening.
“Genova accused me of this, too,” Danny said. He’d gotten hints in conversations, and let things slide because he didn’t want to hear about the past. He couldn’t hold on to ignorance any longer. He needed to know the truth about his mother. “Dem, do you know anything about the Vimbai wars?”
The last time Danny had entered the Zenzele study, it was with Demissie’s father, and once he stepped foot in it again, he felt the tangible difference between the auras of the two men. Jerron Zenzele was a true Vimbai—quiet, powerful, and sinister enough to bring about his will. Demissie was an honest man in fear for his life and family. He was not prepared to take over his father’s secret life, but he knew more about it than Danny did, and Danny didn’t know whether to thank Steven for shielding him from this life, or curse the man for leaving him vulnerable.
“It started like any ‘crat-fad,” Demissie explained, taking a seat behind his father’s desk, barely filling the massive chair. “A shot of endemic essence would give you certain abilities for a few hours. The whole notion of the vision quest, and the Zen at the temples was a way to smooth the journey. The one she had was Panoptica, and seeing the future is apparently not pleasant.”
“By she, do you mean my mother?” Danny asked. “My mother wasn’t Panoptica, but she had access to one?”
“My parents had the Panoptica. Your mother was the one who figured out how to distill the essence from her blood. That was the crux of the Vimbai partnership,” Demissie said. “Then your mother and mine went to Terrana to look for Elysia. They were studying history, they said. My mother captured an endemic of her own. A teleporter. They couldn’t keep her contained, so my mom took enough blood to oxygen starve the brain.” His face turned green at the notion. “And then kept the endemic on life support, using her body as a renewable blood source. Then she harvested the eggs. Her first clinic was a fertility clinic, and for the right price, she’d blend those endemic genes right into you.”
Danny thought he was going to throw up. How could his mother have been involved in something like this? “So are you—are we—do we—”
“As far as I know, we are natural born kids. Not any part of the cloned endemics,” Demissie said, though his voice hitched. “You were born much closer to the clinic days, but I’m assuming you’d know if you had any… gifts.”
“And if this started with our parents, then the other bosses only have access to the short-term enhancements,” Danny reasoned, already questioning everything he knew about Hero and Mikayla.
“If Ketlin’s after your friend, that’s why. You’re lucky Genova didn’t drain him,” Demissie sniffed, his eyes narrowing, his gaze drifting toward the hall. “Sikorsky comes from an Elysian line that must’ve already carried some of this mutation. Coro… he married his endemic slave.”
“Janiya Coro is a hybrid?” Danny asked.
“Straight from the Panoptica hide-out on Terrana. That is the rumor, though no one has ever seen her use her power,” Demissie agreed. “That first year you were at the university, and you went on that expedition to Terrana to learn about Elysia—Steven thought my dad had finally sucked you into the family business. He thought he could keep Tray from the business if he kept you two apart.”
Danny bit his lip, finally understanding the straw that broke his stepfather’s back. He didn’t even know his mother had major
ed in history until the Chancellor told him. That single, pointless decision to follow a passion had destroyed his father’s faith in him.
“You bought that ship and started bringing back refugees, my dad thought you’d started your own slave trade,” Demissie continued. “Then you made that order for the Panoptica sleep drug…”
“Hyproxin,” Danny said. “We did transport a Panoptica once, but she wasn’t a slave. I have brought a few here, but not to be slaves. Dem, I had no idea.”
“Unfortunately, ignorance doesn’t buy safety,” Demissie said, standing and circling around the desk, his eyes resting on a picture of his parents. “My mother left me some information, but it’s been barely enough to keep me and my sister alive. I have three bodyguards left. We’re stretched thin already with Hero and Tray, and now you’re here.”
“You don’t owe me an army, Dem,” Danny said, his knees wobbling as he stood. “I’ll fight my own battles. I’ll take my crew back to the Matthews estate. You just worry about yourself and your sister.”
“Dammit, Danny. Don’t—” He whipped around, frustrated, but not sure how to finish the thought. “Don’t. Not yet. Your friend needs a doctor. Where else would you take him?”
Danny shrugged and rubbed his face. Genova came to mind, but he didn’t want to insult Dem by speaking the thought aloud. “I had this paranoid thought the other week that my mom didn’t die of incurable illness. That Vimbai murdered her.”
Demissie inhaled sharply, his face twitching at the accusation.
“In my head, I have this separate image of Vimbai and our parents, because when they were Vimbai, they acted like this dark, shadowy monster, so…” Danny hoped the explanation made sense. Alex had talked him down, but hearing that his mother was involved in slave trade and recreational hybrid-making, brought it all back. “Just tell me she died of an incurable illness and not… this…”
“I don’t know the answer,” Demissie said, tipping open the door, letting in the noise from the hall.
“I was sick, too, but I didn’t die,” Danny said. “Steven always said it was because she died first.”
“Danny, I was a kid when she died,” Demissie said, shaking his head. “I had no idea what was going on. If my parents did anything to her, intentional or accidental, they never told me. They just instilled in me this mandate to look out for you. And you don’t make it easy.”
Danny crossed his arms, wishing for Chase to come back. “You should let me go, Dem. It’s not getting any easier.”
36
Tray was worried sick about Saskia. The news of her disappearance had somehow hit the ‘save Zara’ pages, and the chants of concerned stalkers floated over the walls of the fortress in the wee hours of the morning. The Enn had dispersed the crowd, and Tray worried they hadn’t bothered to interrogate a single one. Someone had to have seen what happened to her.
A few minutes ago, his lawyer called with news of Mikayla. She’d floated from the Pierce detention facility to one in Clover, and seemed to drift in legal limbo while Tray’s exonerating documents lagged in the system.
“No sir. My wife is innocent,” Tray explained to the court clerk. “If the judge is going home at the end of the day, so should my wife.”
Tray hobbled toward the kitchen, too hungry to listen to the excuses of the young man.
“No, she’s not waiting two hours. She’s innocent,” he said.
“You misunderstand, sir,” the young clerk said. “The judge will be available to take your appointment in two hours.
“I don’t understand why I have to be there at all!” Tray huffed, ripping his Feather from his ear. “Set up the appointment. If that is what it takes, I will be there.”
He cut off the call and tossed his Feather on the counter, fumbling for a piece of fruit to hold him over until he found something sustaining. The plum tasted tart, but he munched, then hopped up on the counter and leaned his head against the cabinets.
Danny had flown to Pierce to visit Alex, but he could be back with the Bobsled in time to ferry Tray to his appointment. It was frustrating, though. He wanted nothing more than to travel by normal means and stay as far from artificial gravity as possible.
“Tray,” Hawk murmured, slouching in a little window seat in the breakfast nook, gnawing on the edge of a thermos. His skin was flushed, his eyes blinking rapidly.
“Hi. Didn’t see you there. Are you hungry?” Tray asked, reaching into the fruit bowl for another plum.
Hawk’s head bobbed, his lips bouncing against the thermos, sloshing whatever was inside. “I’m sorry I shot you.”
Tray frowned, and slid off the countertop, keeping a hand clutched to his side. “Oh. This is your fault.” Tray said sarcastically. Saskia had said the bullet bounced off a wall.
“I’m sorry,” Hawk said, crying into his cup, his body trembling. Tray hobbled over and dragged a chair from the table so he could sit shoulder-to-shoulder with Hawk. He took Hawk’s hand, kissing Hawk’s burn-scarred knuckles. A month ago, he could barely tolerate a hug, but Hero had softened his heart and taught him compassion.
“I forgive you,” Tray said.
Hawk sucked in air, then ripped his hands from Tray’s raking his fingers through his hair. He didn’t believe he was forgiven, and Tray couldn’t blame him.
“Douglas?” Morrigan called, hurrying into the room, stopping when she saw that Hawk and Tray were sharing a moment. “Oh, sorry. His vitals monitor went haywire.”
“Vitals monitor? I thought he was fine,” Tray said, reaching around Hawk for thermos before it got kicked over. “You’re drinking milk?” he asked, making a face when he caught a whiff.
“Morrigan gave it to me,” Hawk said, tapping his head against the window, digging his heels into the floor.
“Why? Is he allergic?” Morrigan asked, pressing her fingers to Hawk’s forehead, then letting them slide to the side of his neck. “Breathe in.”
Hawk choked on a sob.
“It’s fine. I just have this mental list of things he can stomach. I don’t think he’s had animal milk before,” Tray said, rinsing the mug in the sink
“Animal milk?” Hawk repeated, his face contorting in horror. “I need a drink.”
Hawk buried his face in his hands, whimpering softly. Tray poured him a glass of orange juice, and Hawk guzzled it.
“Not dry enough,” Hawk said, giving the cup back to Tray and leaning his head against the window. He tapped his finger against the latch, locking and unlocking it. The simple trick made Morrigan tense, and she dropped out of doctor mode.
“Out in the field, I had a hard time finding anything that didn’t make him sick,” Tray said, sitting at the table, motioning for her to join. “Just protein and berries for weeks. Then this hybrid put him in a coma for three days and scared us to pieces. He hasn’t been sick since.”
“A hybrid magically balanced his gut bacteria?” Morrigan asked, her eyes wide.
“There’s a reason endemics are hunted. A reason our parents did what they did,” Tray said. “I’m glad Genova turned out to be one of the good guys.”
“Yeah, I’ve met her. She’s like me and Dem—inherited a name and a fortune, rejected a legacy,” Morrigan said, sitting at the table, her feet tapping nervously against the tile. “His heart is still racing,” she said, tipping her head toward Hawk. “Douglas, do you feel sick?”
“I drank liquefied animal,” Hawk moaned.
“No. That’s not what milk is,” Tray laughed.
“Do they not have milk where he’s from?” Morrigan asked.
“They don’t have animals at all,” Tray rhapsodized, his eyes closing as he imagined saving Rocan. “Maybe you can help his people.”
“You mean endemics?” she asked, her hands stilling, her eyes watching Hawk’s heart beat through the vital monitor on her Virp.
“No. Rocan—the Dome where he’s from,” Tray explained. “They have low birth rate and high infant mortality. If that’s something we can solve with local
medicine, then I can get him home much sooner.”
“Yeah, a dome-wide epidemic is not something I can solve by scanning the genes of a single resident. Especially if he’s as atypical a specimen there as he is here,” Morrigan frowned, shutting off the projection. Her hands trembled and her jaw clenched. It looked like she was getting sick. “I’d have to take a whole research team to Rocan. What kind of equipment do they have?”
“None,” Tray sighed, looking out the window. Hero’s growing bug collection littered the patio, and the boy sat outside with a sketch pad, drawing pictures of the things he’d caught. Tray yearned to be with him and make their family whole again. “Make a list of what you might need. And who.”
“Tray, is something wrong with me?” Hawk asked, tapping his head against the window.
“Does something feel wrong?” Morrigan asked, switching back to Trade, instinctively reacting as a doctor again.
Hawk looked between the two of them uncertainly. “You’re excluding me.”
“Oh, I didn’t realize we’d switched languages,” Tray said, scratching his head. “I asked if she could help your people. Maybe come to Rocan and study the problem up close.”
“She can’t. You can’t bring a woman back to Rocan,” Hawk said, aghast.
“Excuse me, Douglas Hwan?” Morrigan rebuked, snapping her finger in front of his eyes. “Do you think women can’t be doctors?”
“They’ll take you to Geneculture,” Hawk snapped back. “They’ll breed you for sure. A healthy woman in prime breeding years? They won’t even care about your dark skin. We’re all slaves to breeding, but it’ll be worse for you because you’re untapped—”
“Hawk, we get the point,” Tray interrupted, worried by the steam coming from Morrigan’s ears.
“Maybe you should consider the culture before you blame genetic diseases for the dead babies,” Morrigan fumed, glaring pointedly at Tray then strutting from the kitchen.
The Gray Market: A Space Opera Adventure Series (The New Dawn Book 5) Page 29