by Loren Rhoads
Kavanaugh peeled off his face shield and lifted his flask, sucking down the last half of its contents. His boot knocked something over. When he bent down to retrieve it, he found an Imperial-issue electric torch. Damn. Had someone beaten them to this one?
“What’s a human girl doing in here?” Taki asked.
Kavanaugh stopped fiddling with the torch to see his team had converged around the catafalque. He couldn’t make sense of what they were saying. Why would there be a human girl inside a Templar tomb?
“There’s your dancing girl,” Curcovic teased. “Maybe you can wake her with a kiss.”
“’Cept for the dust,” Lim commented.
“Well, yeah, ’cept for the dust, Lim. Damn, man, don’t you have any imagination?”
“What did you have in mind?” Lim asked skeptically.
“Are you sure she’s human?” Kavanaugh asked as he took another drink.
“I think she’s just a kid,” Curcovic added. “No armor. You think she was somebody important’s kid?”
“She’s the best thing I’ve seen on this rock so far,” Taki pointed out.
Kavanaugh was crossing the uneven floor to join them when a low female voice said clearly, “No.”
From that point on, she took down all of Kavanaugh’s men. She could have killed them as if they’d been standing still, but she’d disabled them instead. He suspected that was because they posed no real threat to her.
Cold sweat ran into Kavanaugh’s eyes. He held the flask in his gun hand. He’d have to drop it to draw his weapon.
“We didn’t mean you any harm,” he said gently as he let go of the flask.
She wheeled toward him. “I know you.” Her voice was rusty. “Switch on your light. I want to see your face.”
With his left hand, Kavanaugh pulled his torch out of his pocket. He held it to illuminate the left side of his face.
“No,” she said, her voice desolate. “You only remind me of someone I used to know.” She was moving toward the mouth of the tomb. Kavanaugh shivered at the thought that she might knock the chocks aside and seal them in.
“Where will you go?” he asked desperately. “It’s a rock out there. Barren. You can’t get off-world without our help.”
Somewhere in the darkness, she laughed. The sound wasn’t entirely sane. “You’re grave robbers. You’re going to help me?”
“We’re archaeologists,” Kavanaugh lied. “We work for Gavin Sloane.”
Her response was completely unexpected. “Gavin? Still alive?”
“I’m here, Raena,” Sloane said calmly. He switched on a torch, angled down at his feet. He stood just inside the mouth of the tomb.
“Is it really you?” Raena asked. She made Kavanaugh think of a child, desperate for comfort from the dark.
“It’s really me.” He crossed the room to her, engulfed her in his arms.
Kavanaugh jerked awake as he turned over. Too many years of living on shipboard, sleeping on this narrow mattress, saved him. He caught himself just before he rolled right off his bunk. With adrenaline coursing through his system, Kavanaugh found himself completely awake.
Why had he dreamed that Sloane had come down to the planet? Sloane hadn’t ever seen the tomb, as far as Kavanaugh knew. Sloane hadn’t been one to get his hands dirty, if he could bully someone else into it. He lurked in his base on one of the planet’s tiny moons and let Kavanaugh and his men take the risks to find Raena.
Everything else happened in the dream just as he remembered in real life. In fact, it seemed less like the messy chaos of a real dream and more like he was living the memory again. Kavanaugh fumbled the blanket out from beneath himself and pulled it over his body, but still he shivered.
At the time, he hadn’t known that Sloane’s operation had a goal beyond stealing as many of the Templar artifacts as they could pack into crates. That had only been Sloane’s cover story—and a way of funding the expedition. He never let on to the men doing the actual work, but all along he had been really only looking for Raena.
Once again Kavanaugh counted his blessings. He knew Raena had never done well with enclosed spaces. She might have come out of that tomb like a caged animal and killed them all.
In fact, once he’d realized how things might have gone, Kavanaugh had struggled to forgive Sloane for putting him into that kind of danger. Once upon a time, he had counted Sloane as a friend, almost like a big brother. Probably it had just been luck, but when Kavanaugh had been a kid, Sloane was always nearby when he needed help. Then, after they’d finally rescued Raena—well, after Kavanaugh had rescued her—Sloane paid Kavanaugh a goodly sum to get lost. He might have been able to forgive that, if Sloane hadn’t hurt Ariel so badly on their last ride together.
Kavanaugh punched his pillow into a better shape and flopped over into a new position. He might be more comfortable if he’d just get up long enough to take off his clothes, but he didn’t want to get out from under the blanket.
The dream felt wrong in his head, more nightmarish than actual events—and actual events hadn’t been a joy themselves.
Kavanaugh shrugged and tried to settle himself back to sleep. Obviously, the dream must have been brought on by studying the documentary before he passed out. It was nothing but his conscience taunting him. If he were like Sloane—or Raena, for that matter—events in his life wouldn’t trouble his dreams. He’d be immune.
He curled tighter under the blanket and hoped the chill wouldn’t keep him awake long.
Back then, as her imprisonment dragged on, Raena didn’t really sleep any more. She didn’t think of it as sleep, anyway, more like perpetual rest. She lay on her catafalque with her hands folded across her stomach, her legs crossed at her ankles. Maybe it was meditation or maybe she’d just been alone in the dark for so very long that it was the only way she had left to pass the time. Whatever it was, she lay there, still as stone, listening.
For some time, she had heard something she couldn’t identify: a deep booming that echoed and sang through the mountain at whose heart she lay. At first she thought the sound was an explosion, maybe bombardment from space, but it only happened intermittently, with long silences in between. She had no way to measure the intervals, but eventually they stopped making her jump.
She decided that the sound was the precursor to an earthquake, something so massive that it might break the mountain open and allow her to walk away. Hoping for that day wouldn’t bring it closer; she had hoped for release since the slab closed on her tomb. She had no way to measure how long ago that had been. So instead of hoping, she lay still on her catafalque and waited.
The next boom sounded closer, but distance was difficult to judge inside her cocoon of rock. Perhaps this time it was an earthquake, since the mountain around her actually shuddered. Fine grit drifted down, falling onto her face, but Raena didn’t bother to reach up to brush it away. What difference did it make? It wasn’t as if anyone was going to see her.
She heard a new sound: grinding, as if rock slid against rock. She was so calm that she lay still and waited for the ceiling to fall. If she were luckier than she had been so far, the falling rock would kill her. She thought about what it would be like to be dead. It was hard for her to imagine an afterlife. What she really wanted was to be blotted out. Her luck had been so bad for so long, though, she figured her fate was to be crushed, maybe pinned in place, but not killed. Pain would bring a new kind of waiting.
Then she heard something like men’s voices. Her imagination had to be working overtime. She listened to them banter, silly things men would say to each other when they felt there was no one to overhear. They were clearly so comfortable amongst themselves that they had a patter, a rhythm, that spoke of camaraderie. Longing submerged her and she wished, more than anything, that she had someone to speak to once more.
“Are you sure she’s human?” one of the men asked.
“I think she’s just a kid,” another suggested. “No armor. You think she was somebody important’s
kid?”
“She’s the best thing I’ve seen on this rock so far,” a third pointed out.
Just as she was trying to sort out how many of them there were, a hand brushed across her breast.
That got her attention. This was real, she realized belatedly. There was someone in her tomb … and they were touching her.
She said, “No,” and sat up, straight-arming one of the men away from her. He hit his head on the stone floor and didn’t move again.
Another man backed away, holding a wavering torch beam on her. That allowed her to see a third man fumbling his gun from its holster. She skipped sideways just as the gunslinger cleverly shot his companion. The fallen man’s curses were amusingly creative.
She spun toward the one with the gun, turning a one-handed cartwheel that left her in range to kick the gun from his hand. As it flew from his grip, she twisted around and cracked her fist hard into his chest. The man dropped with satisfying speed.
“We didn’t mean you any harm,” someone else said. His voice seemed somehow familiar. Someone she knew a long time ago … someone from when she was running? A boy’s face rose in her memory.
“I know you.” She grimaced at the rusty sound of her own voice. “Switch on your light. I want to see your face.”
He held the light awkwardly, pointed toward the side of his face with his off hand. Raena slipped sideways, so he couldn’t flash the light her way and blind her.
He was no boy. Warm brown eyes nestled amidst crows-feet above a tousled red-gold beard.
“No,” she said sadly. “You only remind me of someone I used to know.” Raena turned toward the mouth of the tomb, eager to make good the escape for which she had waited so long.
“Where will you go?” the grave robber asked desperately, trying to slow her down. “It’s a rock out there. Barren. You can’t get off-world without our help.”
She laughed—and recognized that the sound wasn’t entirely sane. “You’re grave robbers. You’re going to help me?”
“We’re archaeologists,” the man lied. “We work for Gavin Sloane.”
Her response startled her. As if the whole relationship she’d been imagining between them had been real, she asked, “Gavin? Still alive?”
“I’m here, Raena,” Sloane said calmly. He switched on a torch, angled down at his feet.
“Is it really you?” Raena begged.
“It’s really me.” He crossed the room to her, engulfed her in his arms.
She clung to Sloane as if she were drowning. His beard was scratchy against her cheek. One of his hands cupped her butt and squeezed, which seemed at odds with the pair of kisses that had been all they’d shared in the brief time they’d actually known each other. Perhaps he’d been imagining a relationship with her as well, all the time she’d been imprisoned.
Still, she’d been a slave. She knew how to respond to the arousal of her masters. She owed her rescue to Gavin Sloane and his team of “archaeologists.” She leaned against his body, pressing her hip against his groin with an excitement more calculated than his. She got just the reaction she intended to.
Sloane led her toward the door of the tomb. He handed her a helmet with a full-face screen. “The air is full of grit,” he warned, “bits of Templar stone. It will slice through any exposed skin.”
She slipped the helmet on, accepted the cloak that he gave her as well. She wondered if he would kick the chocks loose as they passed the tomb’s slab, but he didn’t seal his men inside. Nor did he spare time to help with the wounded, she noticed, not even to acknowledge them or say goodbye.
Instead, he escorted Raena to an opulently appointed yacht. Once he had her strapped safely into the copilot’s chair, he lifted the ship from the rock. At the edge of the atmosphere, he turned the yacht back toward the planet. He released a barrage of missiles, destroying the tombs and the men left behind on the planet below.
“Thallian would have used the encampment to connect your rescue to me. He would torture Kavanaugh’s men in an effort to find you. This is kinder,” Sloane explained. “At least this is quick.”
Raena knew the sort of agony the men would face, when Thallian tried to hunt her down. It probably was safer to kill them now. Still, she had liked Kavanaugh. She was sorry he was dead. She turned toward Sloane and shot him with the gun she’d taken from the fallen archaeologists. If Thallian could connect her to Sloane, she needed to get away from him as quickly as possible. She unhooked the crash restraints and dragged Sloane’s body back to the airlock.
She’d always been happier running alone anyway.
Coni was taking a shift in the cockpit while the others slept. The puzzle of piecing together a new identity for Raena was more entertaining than she expected. For once, during her shift, she wasn’t the least bit sleepy.
After they’d hijacked the Veracity from the Thallians, Coni had seen Raena’s Imperial wanted poster and the recording of her trial in its log. It surprised Coni how much more information she could find about the little assassin in the Imperial archives. Following up on the crimes Raena had been accused of opened up all sorts of records. Fascinating reading, if one had the patience to wade through the human-centric propaganda.
The old files inspired the new biography Coni was writing for Raena. She wanted to tie in planets that Raena had actually visited, skills she honestly possessed.
The work felt like compiling an ironclad telenovel. Coni found wry amusement in using the search capabilities of the Veracity’s computers to craft this elegant fiction.
Then again, Mykah had been the one who changed the ship’s name from the Raptor to the Veracity—and he’d encouraged Coni to add another false record of sale atop the Raptor’s already complicated series of falsified registrations. After the Thallians had illegally prevented the Raptor from being melted down as war surplus, they obscured their ownership for fifteen years. The ship’s current crew was only continuing that tradition. Coni loved Mykah enough to make sure the final transaction moving the ship into his possession looked very, very legal. She’d even refinanced a fake loan on the ship, then paid it off in reality with part of the bounty they’d claimed on the Thallians.
All the same, Coni was aware of the difference between the literal truth and the apparent truth. She had never had any aspirations to becoming a journalist, as Mykah had. She hadn’t even really planned to become a hacker. She had only wanted to protect the ship and its crew to the best of her abilities.
Some strange noise raised Coni’s hackles. She reached out one finger to mute the Haru singer she had been listening to.
There it was again: a quiet voice, a note of protest, raised in the sleep of one of her crewmates.
Coni had forgotten she’d turned on the speaker for the monitor in Raena’s cabin. Thank the stars one of her crewmates hadn’t caught her spying. She reached over now and turned on the picture.
Raena was alone in her cabin, of course. Coni couldn’t imagine anyone keeping her company, although she supposed Mykah might have, if asked. No, Raena lay in her bunk, sleeping face down, arms wrapped around her pillow.
The quiescent monitor screen in Raena’s cabin cast bloody red light across her skin. She was bare from nape of neck to the ribs, but weird shadows striped her skin. Was it a tattoo? Coni tried to make out the image, but the video resolution was too grainy for clarification.
Raena whispered again. She stiffened, straightened her legs, and the shift of her body propelled her from the nightmare.
Coni toggled the monitors off. Her surveillance felt intrusive now, too intimate. It was one thing to watch Raena awake and moving about in her gym—and another entirely to spy on her as she awoke from a nightmare.
Why was she doing this, Coni asked herself. Of all the illegal things she did for her shipmates, spying on Raena was by far the one that felt the worst.
Raena opened her eyes on her darkened cabin. Only the power light of her screen glowed, a cheery red light in the shadows. She rolled over, chasing sleep. Of
course, it wouldn’t come back.
That wasn’t how it went, she thought. Gavin hadn’t come down to the tombworld to get her. He’d been waiting in his base on one of the planet’s moons. When she’d shown up there with Kavanaugh and a couple of Gavin’s bodyguards as an escort, Gavin hadn’t recognized her. He accused her of working for Ariel.
With eyes closed, Raena could picture it all again: the ludicrous white fur carpet, the crystal glass from which she’d drunk her first sip of water in twenty years, the pretty girl with the big gun who stood guard for her boss. Gavin had a beard then, like he did in her dream, but he seemed younger in her true memory than he had in the dream just now, even though the drug he’d been addicted to at the time had whittled him down to little more than a skeleton.
Weird. Now that she pondered it, the man she’d identified as Gavin in her dream didn’t really look much like him at all.
Anyway, why was Kavanaugh getting dragged into her dreams? She wondered if he understood how much danger Sloane had put him in. When Kavanaugh opened her tomb, Raena had been just as disoriented as she had been in the dream. She marveled now that she hadn’t simply killed Kavanaugh and his men just for startling her. At the time, it hadn’t seemed necessary.
Thinking about it now, Raena finally appreciated how much she had changed during her imprisonment.
Poor Kavanaugh, she thought. She’d always liked him. He seemed like an honestly good-hearted person, fair and reliable, maybe too kind to survive in the galaxy. At least she’d avenged his death in her dream.
Raena got out of bed to splash some water on her face.
Why was her subconscious bringing up Kavanaugh and her escape from the tomb now?
Yeah, she was sorry that she’d ended things with Kavanaugh with her fist to his head. Tarik didn’t deserve to be left unconscious on the floor of Ariel’s ship. When she was leaving them behind on Kai, Raena had been angry at being spied upon by her supposed friends. She’d been in a hurry to steal the Raptor and get off Kai before Planetary Security caught up to her. She was supposed to meet Mykah and the crew. The clock was ticking.