Rhis shifted his weight. He was going to dash across the open bridge, right through the ’Sko’s direct fire. Trilby drew a deep breath. “Say when. I’ll cover you.”
“When.”
She sprayed the hatchway with laser fire. Streaks of light blurred by in answer. She couldn’t watch Rhis, couldn’t take her eyes off the hatchway and the edges of red uniforms as they came into view.
But she listened and permitted herself a broad smile when she heard his trademark “bloody fucking hell!” from across the bridge.
He made it.
She pulled back, looked toward navigation, saw only his boots moving behind the skewed panel.
But so did the ’Sko. Laser fire sizzled against it.
She saw Dallon duck behind it, where Jagan’s body still was.
Then a low growl from Mitkanos. He snapped open his pistol’s power chamber and shook his head. The first of their weapons to go dead. And spare charge packs were below, on crew deck.
A ’Sko pistol, its power light green, was wedged against the bottom of the nonfunctioning hatch door. There was no way she could reach it.
The panel tilted. But Mitkanos must have seen the direction of Trilby’s gaze.
“Wait!” he called, rising. He lunged for the ’Sko pistol. Trilby raised her own to cover him, but two forms surged through the doorway, clear body shields in one hand, laser rifles in the other.
She fired at the shields just as Farra did. Their charges splattered, ineffective.
“Yavo!” Farra screamed, reaching for him.
A ’Sko whipped around, his rifle pointed at the Stegzarda major. He fired. Mitkanos jerked backward, blood spurting from his arm, his shoulder. He roared in pain.
The other shielded ’Sko turned as Rhis rose from behind the panel, his pistol firing rapidly with deadly aim. He caught the closest one in the head, and the ’Sko’s body wrenched backward.
Then it was Rhis reeling backward, his pistol flying from his hand. Two more ’Sko had barged in, shielded, firing. A dark stain blossomed in the center of Rhis’s gray shirt. His body twisted as he slammed back against the nav console.
A harsh, keening cry rose in Trilby’s throat, but she clenched her teeth and fired at the ’Sko. Her vision blurred as tears flowed down her cheeks.
No. No. No. She repeated the words, firing faster with every syllable. No. No. Nonono—
Her pistol clicked. Cold. Empty.
Oh, Gods.
There was silence on her right. Farra shook her head, her pistol drained.
Only Dallon kept firing. Then a shielded ’Sko raised a rifle, pointed it at Farra’s head.
“Your. Choice.” The words came out tinny through a translator.
Dallon’s weapon fell silent.
Trilby was breathing hard, her knees aching from kneeling on the hard decking. The narrow barrel of a laser rifle was inches from her face.
“Up. Stand.”
She glared up at the ’Sko. Sallow-skinned. Elongated face. Yellowed eyes. Bright red uniform covering an equally elongated, thin body. The head was bald, save for a thin braid of hair in the middle. It could be male or female. She couldn’t tell.
She didn’t care.
“Fuck. You,” she told it.
“Up. Stand!” The voice whined insistently through the translator. The thin face jerked over one shoulder.
A rifle still pointed at Farra. Now one was against Dallon’s head too.
She steeled herself, turned her head a little further.
Rhis.
Oh, Gods. A sob escaped her lips.
His body sprawled across the nav monitors. The hooded screen of the tachyon sensor had caught under his arm. It was the only thing that kept him from sliding to the chair, to the floor. His shirt was a dark stain, charred over his left pocket from the heat of the laser. His face was pale, his head hanging at an odd angle. His eyes …
… moved slightly. A blink?
She struggled to her feet, pushed away the barrel of the rifle as it was shoved against her shoulder.
“Rhis! Oh, Gods, Rhis!” She groped her way past the captain’s chair, reached the copilot’s station, stumbled.
The barrel of a ’Sko rifle slammed hard against her chest. She gasped for breath, felt her knees buckle. She grasped for the back of the chair.
And saw Rhis’s eyes unfocus, his features go slack. His head dropped forward. Then, in what seemed like an eternity to her, his body slid slowly to the floor.
Something cold trembled violently through her. She dug her fingernails into the palms of her hands. Her arms shook.
The ’Sko grabbed her, wrenching her toward the hatchway. She tore her gaze from Rhis’s crumpled form and saw Farra standing near Mitkanos’s body. Blood pooled around his shoulder.
Trilby unclenched her fist, reached for her. Wordlessly, Farra took her hand.
Dallon was already in the hatchway, blood dripping from a long gash on his forehead, his long hair, now untied, hanging limp from sweat. His dark eyes blazed angrily. He limped toward her.
“Dasjas.” His voice was soft and full of pain. “I am so sorry.”
Tears welled up behind her eyes. She shook her head, unable to speak. She only held Farra’s hand tighter.
The ’Sko shoved her forward. “Now! Go. Move.”
She stepped into the corridor and forced herself not to look back.
27
The cell was small and on a lower deck of the ’Sko mother ship. She could feel the thrumming of the drives through her body as she sat on the floor, knees drawn into her chest. There were no benches, no beds.
It surprised her that the ’Sko had put them together: Dallon, Farra, and herself. She didn’t argue about that. The cell was well lit but cold. She needed the warmth of Dallon’s arm across her shoulder as they huddled together along the wall. His other wrapped around Farra’s waist.
The force field shimmered a sickly orange-red across the front of the cell. ’Sko officers stood on the other side for a long time, talking in Ycskrite. If they were waiting to see what their three prisoners would do or were waiting to hear what was said, well, they’d have a long wait.
By tacit agreement she, Dallon, and Farra had adopted near total silence. Wait, watch, and see.
She wondered if the ’Sko knew who she was and wanted her alive.
She wondered if Rhis knew how much she loved him.
She started trembling again, steeled herself, angry at her reaction. She was senior officer. She couldn’t permit herself to fall apart.
Two of the three ’Sko watching them strode away. Finally the third left, slowly, glancing back a few times before she heard the buzz of a force field activate in the corridor.
The brig was secure.
She turned toward Dallon. The blood on his face was dried hard, crusted, with long strands of his hair caught in it. His dark eyes glittered. She knew he was in pain. His limp had grown worse as the ’Sko forced them through the corridors and into the brig.
“Your leg,” she asked softly. “Broken?”
His grin was strained. “Not completely.”
“Farra?”
“Only some cuts and bruises.” Her voice shook. But she was Stegzarda. Trilby knew she wouldn’t break down.
“Captain?” Dallon’s dark gaze searched her face.
Was it only a trike ago they’d sat in the lounge on Degvar, sipping tea?
“Same. No serious injuries.” Her chest ached, though. She wouldn’t be surprised if the ’Sko had cracked one of her ribs when it shoved the rifle barrel against her chest. “I can use my jacket, bind your leg. But I don’t have anything to make a splint.”
“You’ll freeze in here without a jacket. And my leg’s not an issue unless we have to run a marathon.”
“Perhaps they’ll bring a blanket, something we can use.”
“Don’t count on it” was his terse reply.
But they did, about an hour later. Three blankets. A bucket with water.
&nbs
p; She stood as the force field shimmered back on. “I need a brace. Something to bind his leg. It’s broken.” She faced the ’Sko squarely, her eyes never wavering from its face. She knew she should feel fear. But she felt nothing. Only emptiness.
Rhis was dead.
The ’Sko chattered at her in its language, then reached for a small object clipped to its collar. “Repeat.”
“I need a brace. A leg brace. His leg,” she motioned behind her but still stared directly at the ’Sko, “is broken.”
“Medic?”
“I am trained,” Farra replied.
The ’Sko’s thin face twisted quickly from side to side. “Can relay information. Not more.” It departed.
“Think it will bring something?” Farra spoke softly.
“I didn’t think we’d get the blankets,” Dallon admitted. He wrapped one around Farra’s shoulders before pulling another across his outstretched legs.
Trilby was still standing in the middle of the cell, arms folded tightly across her chest. They want us alive. I don’t know why. But they want us alive. She wondered if they’d found Jagan’s body. Realized this was the ship Garold Grantforth was waiting for. Realized that maybe they’d made a mistake.
Jagan had thought it was. She could still hear his voice on intraship: I swear, Trilby, they’re not supposed to—
Supposed to what? Attack, obviously. So he knew they’d meet up with the ’Sko mother ship. He knew they were involved in a deadly and dangerous game when he’d met her on Saldika. But he thought he’d be spared because of the nav files.
Rhis said he’d offered the ’Sko the nav files. They hadn’t wanted them.
Maybe they were a different faction of the Niyil? Not the ones Jagan said were working with his uncle?
It was painfully clear that Garold Grantforth was working with the ’Sko. Working with the Niyil and the Beffa. But admitting to his agreements with only one. His deals with the Niyil were in secret. And, Trilby guessed, more than likely treasonous.
She turned, saw the crooked outline of Dallon’s leg under the thin blanket. The dark stain of blood smeared on his face. “Close your eyes, Patruzius.” That’s what Rhis had called him.
“Huh?”
“Close your eyes.” She stripped off her jacket, began unzipping her shirt. “I need something to clean the cut on your forehead and I don’t want to get the blankets wet.”
He closed his eyes. She took off her uniform shirt, then pulled her T-shirt over her head.
The same T-shirt Rhis had slid over her body before they went on duty. Eight, ten hours ago? He’d dressed her, lovingly, teasingly, from her socks to her shirt, her jacket. Brushed out her short hair.
She was trembling again. She thrust her arms through her sleeves, yanked the shirt zipper up, then donned her jacket. She wadded her T-shirt into a ball.
“Okay.” She couldn’t say more. She didn’t trust her voice.
The water in the plastic bucket was clear and cold. She soaked part of her T-shirt, then knelt in front of Dallon and pressed it against his forehead.
Farra reached for her hand. “I can do this, Captain. Uncle Yavo”—she swallowed hard—“he made sure I learn medic tech. Stegzarda. We are Stegzarda. There is nothing we cannot do.”
Trilby handed her the wadded shirt.
“Vad. Lean back, tilt your head,” Farra told Dallon in Zafharish. “I need to soak through the blood to see how deep your wound is. Brave boy, ah, Dallon-chevo. Such a brave boy. You’ve done this before, hmm? Promised a candy for being good?”
Trilby heard Dallon’s low chuckle. Farra Rimanava was a wonder. Yavo Mitkanos had treasured her for good reason.
Then the ’Sko was back, a rodlike contraption in its hand. Another guard stood behind it, rifle aimed at Trilby. The first ’Sko keyed off the force field from the panel in the middle of the corridor and tossed the brace into the cell.
“Brace. For. Leg.” It shook its thin face rapidly.
That had to mean, Trilby decided, either yes or no. She refrained from nodding. If she didn’t understand its body language, she doubted it understood hers.
She also refrained from thanking it. She wasn’t in the least bit grateful. Nor would she ever be to a ’Sko. “If it’s not what we need, I’ll let you know.”
She picked it up and brought it to Farra, not bothering to watch the guards leave.
Farra spent a few more minutes sponging Dallon’s face, then inspected the wound. “Not too deep. But at least it’s cleaner now.”
“Thanks, Doc.”
“Hold your thanks, Dallon-chevo. I have to work on that leg of yours next.”
“Need me to take my pants off?” He was grinning at her.
“Regrettably, I must deny myself that pleasure.”
Trilby found a small smile creep across her lips at Farra’s quick retort. She must have teased the shy Lucho mercilessly back on Degvar.
Which was where Farra belonged. On Degvar with Lucho. Uncle Yavo was gone. Farra needed Lucho. And he needed her.
I will get you back there, somehow, Trilby promised her. I will get you back there.
It was cold. And dark. Someone must have turned out the lights. He rolled over, or tried to. Found he couldn’t. Something hard pressed into his back. His chest ached, felt as if it was split in half.
Oh. That’s right. He’d been shot.
Rhis blinked his eyes again, hard. His vision wavered, then cleared. It was still dark, but a red-tinged darkness. Emergency lighting.
His ship. The ’Sko.
Trilby.
He forced his mouth open, unstuck his tongue from the roof of his mouth. Two harsh, breathy syllables emerged. “Tril-by?”
Nothing. Then a groan, low and guttural. From the far side of the bridge.
He dragged his elbow under his side, pushed. Pain seared through him, almost blinding him. “Bloody fucking hell!”
“Tivahr?”
A voice, weakly saying his name. He sifted through memory, tagged it. “Mitkanos?”
“Vad.” A gasping, wheezing breath. “Vad.”
“Hang on.” Stupid thing to say. He had no idea how far apart they were. He had no idea if he could even walk. Or crawl. He moved his head, looked down. Legs still there. Good. What he could see of his chest was a dark stain.
Oh, right. He’d been shot.
He tried rolling over again, found the problem was not so much his uncooperative body as a chair and a goodly portion of the nav console wedging him in. He wriggled slowly down toward the copilot’s seat. Where Trilby had been sitting when—
Trilby. He saw her now, eyes wide with horror, hand reaching toward him, cheeks streaked with tears. And the red-uniformed ’Sko, slamming the hard barrel of the rifle across her chest.
Bastards! He’d promised himself if they even looked at her, they’d die. They’d done a lot more than look.
Yet she’d grabbed the chair, still tried to come toward him.
He was dying. Well, she thought he was dying. The ’Sko, he had to assume, thought he was dead.
Surprise.
It took him a few more minutes to untangle himself from the collapsed console and crawl out from under the copilot’s station. He could hear Mitkanos breathing raggedly. His medistat was still clipped to his belt. If it hadn’t been crushed by his fall, he’d need it.
He crawled over the debris, found the Stegzarda major flat on his back. “Where’re you hit?”
“Chest. Shoulder.”
He felt for the medistat, flipped it open. It hummed on. Good old reliable Imperial technology. “You’ve got a collapsed lung. Collarbone’s shattered. Significant blood loss.”
“This thrills me.”
“It should. You’re not going to die.” There was an emergency med-kit on the bridge. Communications station, he remembered. Convenient.
He leaned back, felt for the wall panel, popped it open. Emergency hand beam. Antibiotic med-broches. Painkillers. Synth-flesh compound. Bone regenerators. Good old
reliable Imperial technology. He dragged what he needed back to Mitkanos.
“Tivahr.”
“Um?” He placed two broches near the man’s neck. Antibiotic and painkiller.
“I saw them shoot you.”
Rhis raised his hand to his chest, touched it gingerly. It ached like hell. In a little while, that damned itching would start. He imagined that what Mitkanos could see in the light of the hand beam looked pretty bad. “They did.”
“Then … it’s true. What you are.”
He slid his hand carefully under Mitkanos’s back. “I need you to sit up slightly. This might hurt a little. I want to get the bone regen strapped on before I look at your lung.”
Mitkanos grunted. Rhis quickly ripped off the remains of the man’s shirt, angled him up. He strapped on the regen, securing it under his armpit. He lowered Mitkanos back down.
Mitkanos gasped shallowly.
“Hurts like a bitch, I bet.”
“You.” Mitkanos raised one arm, pointed at Rhis’s chest. “And you don’t?”
“Not as bad as you, no.” Good old Imperial technology.
Mitkanos nodded, closed his eyes.
Rhis opened the medistat, scanned the damaged lung. There wasn’t much he could do about that right now. He needed to get Mitkanos to sick bay—if his ship still had one. If not, he could probably rig something.
He stood, stepped carefully over to the command console. The computers were dead. He stared out at the blackened viewport and wondered, for the first time, why he saw no starfield.
Was he really, finally, dead and didn’t know it?
He couldn’t be. He needed to tell Trilby how much he loved her. He needed desperately to hear her say she loved him. He needed to hold her, kiss away her tears… .
Two lights suddenly flared through the viewport. Instinctively he ducked down, wrenching the wound in his chest. Shit! Pain constricted his breathing for a moment.
He eased himself up, peered over the top of the console.
Bloody hell. He was in a fighter bay.
Two red-uniformed ’Sko trudged across the wide expanse of floor, dragging a servo-stair behind them.
They must have tractored the ship in. He remembered a mother ship. No, two. One of them had tractored Shadow’s Quest into a fighter bay.
They must still need the nav banks.
Finders Keepers Page 33