Three Worlds 01 - Seduce Me In Dreams

by Jacquelyn Frank

  “Okay, so that gets us to this building, for better or worse, right?” said Ender.

  “Right,” Lasher continued. “Only we’re going to send just one man into the perimeter, not the whole squad trying to take down all the hostiles. We won’t know the best point until we see the guard dispersal, but I plan to approach and eliminate all hostiles on the eastern side of the structure using silent force.”

  Lasher pulled out a stick and smacked it firmly down on the table, eliciting a whoop from Justice and a round of clapping from Ender. The metal stick was about eight inches long and thin enough to fit up a sleeve, and it had a dual pronged tip that could not only jab into someone but deliver a nasty, nerve-jiggling shock through the person’s entire body, rendering them unconscious. The “juice sticks,” as they were called, had been outlawed in the IM years ago as being inhumane, due to the sometimes permanent scrambling of their victims’ brains. Although it was suspected that the prohibition was more likely because too many soldiers had gotten disarmed of them and received a jolt of their own medicine instead, ending up with valuable training hours suddenly unable to do much more than eat pudding through a straw.

  “After which,” Lasher went on, “I will insert myself through this door—after I introduce a Jeffon gas bomb, that is. It’ll take out anyone not wearing a gas mask, and I’ll use the simultaneous smoke cover to rip off the masks of any of those who might be protected. Justice, Ender—you are my backups.” Lasher turned to Bronse. “Sorry, sir, but I strongly suggest that you back up the backups and leave the driving to us.”

  “Lieutenant, I have absolutely no problem with that. And what about extraction?”

  “We truss up the unconscious Shiasha—just in case he wakes up and just in case he’s not a Shiasha—and we hump him out in a reverse course as fast as our little legs can make it. I expect that an alarm will eventually go out. That’s why I chose the shale outcropping. It will drop us below sight level as we trek back to the ship. The worst part will be the first five miles eastward. We’ll be relatively naked until we reach the shale. There’s cover here—and here—and along here—to help. Not much, but not bad, either.”

  “I have a thought,” Ender spoke up. “Why not set out some sweat and tears on the way to the target structure? We can line up smoke and gas bombs for the entire five-mile track in intermittent bursts—like here and here—and when they follow us, it will slow them down but not us. I can take us around what I set. Nonfatal, sir, but effective.” Ender gave them a wolfish, eager grin. The arms master did love his ordnance.

  “Excellent,” Bronse praised.

  “Other than a few other details and surprises I’ve thought of, that’s the plan,” Lasher concluded. “If we hit any snafus, we rally back and regroup seven miles deeper into the wilderness at this cave and rock formation. Do you copy? Snafu means any segregations of troops that are unplanned, any casualties, and any other general fuckups that are otherwise undesirable. I mean it. No solo actions, no joyrides. We keep tight and together on this. The instant it goes even the littlest bad, we fall back and regroup. Anyone hard of hearing here today?”

  “No, sir,” Ender and Justice assured him.

  “Good. Now let’s talk about surprises and minor details.”

  Kith reached down to stroke his sister’s cheek, his fingers so light that she would barely feel them. That was, actually, the idea. The gesture of comfort was more for his benefit than hers, and he did not want to wake her. When they had finally let him into her cell to see her at the break of light, he had been relieved for all of a minute before he’d gotten close enough to her to realize that the damage they had done had not stopped when the beating had stopped.

  Oh, he had been foolish to think she was too precious a commodity for them to waste on carelessness, but the Banda Nomaads were little better than wilderness barbarians. In their stupidity they had let her wounds fester for an entire day before throwing him in with her in order to tend what they had inflicted. By now she burned with fever and incoherency, her lucid moments filled with tears of regret. Regret for him, of course, and that she was too weak to protect him or be of any use to him. Were she not his sister, he might have felt that as a mighty blow to his ego, but there was no time or energy to spare on such things.

  They gave him reasonably clean water and rags to cleanse her wounds, but it was too late. The crisscrossing weals and ridges had swollen to the point where the original cuts of the whip could hardly be found. Still, Kith did the best he could. Mostly he used the water to cool her fevered body. He shouted demands for topical ointments, for basic antibiotics. They were a crude society in these wild places, but even the crudest of them knew ways to heal.

  But clearly they did not care. Or more likely they believed that it was some form of trickery that the Chosen Ones did not die of fevers and illnesses. And that was true. But had they still been at the temple of their tribe, Ravenna would not be this ill because Ophelia would have been there. Ophelia, their youngest sister, with her delicate little hands that need only touch a person in order to use her psionic power to heal. Then again, if they had been home, Ravenna would never have been treated in such an unspeakable manner.

  But Kith was not even sure of that anymore. Until a couple of months ago, he would have never thought that he or any of the Chosen Ones would be mistreated. When the Nomaads had come for Rave and him, it had all changed. He was tired of trying to figure out why. Kith kept looking for a deeper meaning than that of just power or politics or money, but he could think of none, and he had to accept that he and Rave had simply been sold into slavery on an ill-thought whim. They who were supposed to be revered above all others as children of the gods. And only the gods knew if Ophelia or Devan or Domino had met the same fates. What would they do without Rave to protect, comfort, and guide them, even if they were left to live in peace in the temple? Who would keep Vivienne’s temper in line? Fallon, who had never understood Kith and had tried to shun Rave’s kindnesses—would he feel anything even now that they were gone, or would he remain as impassive and seemingly composed as ever?

  Kith rubbed the bridge of his nose with a long sigh. His eyes smarted with fury and fear for both of his sisters and the others as well. Never had he felt Rave’s burdens of responsibility until this very moment. He had always been so self-involved, buried in his arts and skills, just as many of the Chosen Ones were after they had been brought to the temple to live. He would trade all his studies of art and form, of centering and calming of the soul through the bodily shapes of ancient hand-to-hand-fighting skills, for but a fraction of Ophelia’s healing knowledge. Young and delicate as she was, she knew more about herbology and medicines than even the wisest midwife in the village. She would know how to use the dirt and dust upon the floor to make a healing poultice, if such a thing were possible. If it weren’t possible, Ophelia would find a way to make it possible.

  Kith reached down to re-situate the rough brown blanket covering his sister, making sure that the filthy thing did not touch her back but still kept her legs warm. He held her in his lap, her torso across his thighs as she lay facedown, an attempt to share his warmth with her shivering body. Soon he would have to run the cloth over the raw wounds again to clean them. He bit down on his lips at the thought of it, for even in her fevered state she felt the agony of it because she cried out and screamed as if she were being flayed all over again. She had not made half so much noise of anguish when she had been tortured in the first place. Now, in her delirium, she was betraying how much she had concealed her agony. He knew that she had done so for his benefit, so he would not have to listen to her pain even as he watched it and felt it. Close to her at last, Kith could now see where the Nomaads’ careless zeal had caused welts upon her cheeks and arms as their aim had strayed from the center of her back. He could see that she had bitten clean through her lip in order to force herself to stifle her outcries.

  Kith had been unable to show half as much control and courage, and he felt nothing but
contempt for himself now as he recalled the furious shouts and rage that he had forced her to listen to. That he was an empath was no excuse. He should have found a way to deal with her pain and his. After all his lessons and all his wisdom in meditational arts, he had crumbled at the first test.

  Now he must sit idly by and wait, as Ravenna had waited, for a rescue that would come only by way of faith.

  All Kith could think was that he had best come soon, this warrior of hers.

  And he had best bring some friends.

  Each step Lasher took over the terrain was perfectly silent. He moved low and fast, but he watched through his night vision specs, carefully studying the ground in sweeps for any traps or mines, and leading his crew around any suspected dangers as they followed in his every step.

  Justice followed their point man, laser rifle at the ready hanging from a strap over her shoulder and against her side, freeing up her left hand for passing on silent hand signals when communications traffic was unwise or impossible. Everyone in the crew was covered in black, their gear strapped in tight to their vests, and the many pockets and holsters lashed close to their fit bodies. Their clothing was laced with circuitry that was the latest in laser-resistant technology, meant to defray and shed as much of a laser hit as possible. Unfortunately, it never worked 100 percent and tended to short out after a few hits, but it was a damn sight better than the alternative.

  Behind Justice was Bronse, and Ender brought up the rear. Bronse knew he was being sandwiched for protective purposes, but he hadn’t argued about it—much. Lasher was always on point, and Ender needed to be in the rear to lay his ordnance, so it didn’t leave Bronse many choices. He would have preferred his usual position at Lasher’s back, but he was willing to give up those few crucial steps if it meant increasing the safety of the entire group.

  They were five miles into the first hike, and so far everything was progressing as planned. The wilderness this close to the Grinpar Desert was fairly lacking in wildlife. Fighting hostile terrain sometimes could be the most deadly part of a mission. Although sand hurricanes were less frequent this close to the border, they did exist. The danger lay in the fact that the dips between the sand dunes and the trees and brush of the wilderness obscured the sandline, so forewarning was left to their instruments.

  Justice was playing nav/com officer in Trick’s absence, so the maps they were using were at the ready in her VidPad as she silently tracked their progress. They were following the shale outcropping as planned, so they hardly needed guidance on this leg of the trek. When she finally signaled that it was time to break away and head over the borders, there was a soundless but collective sigh of relief. They were far from being out of danger, though, leaving behind the crucial part of the trek and trading up to deadly. Bronse stepped into sand a short time later, almost feeling an affinity for its shifting familiarity now that he was about two hundred pounds lighter without Trick on his back. As they crossed into desert, Bronse felt his back become exposed as Ender began to seed their path with ordnance.

  The challenge of sand dunes of any color was their visual distortion as they rolled up and down over the miles. Things seemed closer, then farther away. Each dip between dunes could hide an army, and you wouldn’t know it until you were right on top of them. Then again, the dips also helped hide an army—or a four-person wrecking crew, in this case.

  Bronse’s adrenaline, already high, began to spike as Justice signaled that they were close to the target structure. Lying down atop a high dune, they each crawled to a position where they could see the target through their night specs. Justice’s low whistle of awe was not necessary, but it was definitely empathized with.

  “I count ten on the eastern exposure alone, Lash.”

  “My infrared is tracking fifteen free-moving forms in the structure itself. I see no clue of a permanently seated or bound individual at this time,” Lasher added.

  “Can anyone say ‘we’re fucked’?” Justice asked with low heat.

  “No kidding,” Ender said softly. “Forty exterior guards for one supposed Shiasha?”

  “Major overkill,” Bronse agreed. “If this was legit, they would have sent more than one team for the extraction of the target. You all damn well know that the recon team would have noted all of this. And there had to be recon for them to note the locale of the prisoner. Shit!”

  “Hey, Boss, you ever get the feeling that someone wants you dead a couple of times over?” Ender asked.

  “Every damn day,” Bronse responded. “They never expected us to get this far. JuJuren knows I would have called an abort if I saw this setup. This is a backup scenario, just in case we got through the trap on the original mission track.”

  “Makes you wonder what the trap looks like,” Lasher speculated.

  “No, it doesn’t,” Bronse said grimly. “Let’s abort. This is insanity. Rally back to the border and be careful. We’re past due on the original track by now, and they’re going to come looking for us.”

  “Copy.”

  “Copy that.”

  “Copy.”

  The team reversed track, only this time with Ender on point to guide them through his mine lines. Lasher brought up Bronse’s back.

  They had barely gotten a mile and a half away from the threat around the target structure when Ender and Lasher both came to a sudden and tense halt. Alert, Justice and Bronse followed the reaction instantly.

  “Did you see—?”

  “I hear—”

  “Shit!”

  “Sand flays! Scatter!”

  Each of the soldiers reacted with lightning-quick reflexes and bolted in four opposing directions, exactly as they had practiced the scenario hundreds of times in training. A ripple of movement wriggled through the sand where they had been standing a second ago, and suddenly the black grains were bursting upward into the night in a half-dozen sandy explosions. Small black-and-gray-speckled balls seemed to bounce into the air, shedding sand as they gained several feet of sky. Then, with a spin, the balls began to unfurl wings, one pair each, and a frightening whining sound began to fill the air. Moonlight glinted off the wicked wings as the angry-looking creatures hovered for a moment in order to fix targets onto the predators that had disturbed their nest.

  There was no way to detect or avoid a sand flay nest, whether it was night or day, no matter how sensitive your equipment. The flays absorbed the temperature of the sand around them, so they had no heat signature differentials; they moved only when hunting or, unfortunately, when disturbed by the weight and tread of a predator crossing directly over the nest. The movement in the sand and an angry chittering sound were the only warnings that a really attentive person would get, and Lasher and Ender had caught one each.

  Anyone who disturbs a sand flay nest has only one recourse. To run. Very, very fast. No easy trick on the shifting sand. But running was the only choice because the sand flays were too small and quick to shoot down when you were standing right on top of them.

  And their wings, which spanned a good three feet when fully unfurled, were as sharp as razor blades, as the whipping, whining sound of the blades cutting through the air would remind the runners as they were pursued. The sand flay would dive-bomb its targeted enemy fearlessly, using its deadly wings to cut away at the threat until it was either far enough from the nest for forgiveness, or it was dead.

  By scattering, the soldiers split up the threat among them. Or that was how they hoped it would work in theory. As in training, each had a predetermined direction, and Bronse went due north. Justice and Lasher were the lightest of the four of them and made the best runners in desert conditions, so they got excellent distance as he headed west and she headed south. Ender was left with east, toward the wilderness they had been headed for. Once the flays were airborne, they hesitated as they made their choice of direction. Ender and Bronse lost the toss, and each gained an extra flay as the nest split into four directions.

  “Justice!” Bronse cried, the small communications patch o
n his throat engaging at his touch. “Southeast! Don’t run due south!” The trap that was awaiting them along their original insert path was due south. “Everyone! Screw silence. Take these things out any way you can! We’ll deal with the fallout later!”

  Bronse had been in a flay attack twice before. He had seen a flay buzz a soldier and amputate his arm in one sweep. The other time had resulted in a Nomaad’s partial decapitation and another soldier getting gutted. Even a glancing blow from one of those wings could mean nicking an artery and bleeding out within a few pounding heartbeats.

  “Chapel! The fire line!”

  Ender’s warning came two strides before Bronse reached the firing line of the ordnance that Ender had laid out as a trap. Bronse prepared to leap over the trip sensors but then suddenly thought better of it. Taking a deep breath, he purposely triggered the gas and smoke bombs in his path. He ran like hell as sand exploded in smoke and gas clouds. He was wearing goggles, so he did not need to protect his eyes, but he would need to breathe eventually. The clouds, designed to spread fast across the ground, soon overtook him. But he was already unstrapping a gas mask, only as big as his hand, from his vest, and he smacked it on over his mouth and nose. The smoke would hopefully disorient the flays from targeting him, and the gas might make them sick. It depended on whether the flays “breathed” chemicals similarly to most mammals.