Blood Will Tell

by Christine Pope

  XV

  She must have dozed off, so Miala had no clear idea of how much time had passed before she heard the barred cell doors open with a sudden whoosh. Instantly she sat upright, heart beating a sharp staccato in her chest. Had they come for her already?

  “Quiet,” came Thorn’s voice.

  Straining her eyes against the darkness, she thought she saw him enter, moving slowly. His form looked oddly misshapen, almost hunch-backed.

  “Off the bench,” he instructed, and she immediately stood, pulling her satchel out of the way as well.

  As soon as she had moved, Thorn stepped forward and then dropped some sort of unwieldy object on the bench.

  “What is that?” she whispered.

  “That,” he replied, his voice also pitched low, “is a ‘friend’ of one of the guards. She’s not a perfect match for height and build, but her hair’s about the same color as yours.”

  Mystified, Miala inquired, “Am I missing something?”

  Thorn seemed to do something with the girl’s limp form—Miala thought he was turning her toward the wall in roughly the same position Miala had just occupied. “Security’s on a four-minute loop. When the cameras track back on this cell, they’ll think you never moved. So let’s get going.”

  He grasped Miala by the arm, and she winced slightly—the guards had left bruises on her bicep. But Thorn appeared not to notice. Or perhaps he just didn’t care.

  Then he pulled her out of the cell and closed the doors once again. To the casual observer, such as a guard watching a remote video feed, it would appear all was normal—at least until someone noticed that Miala’s hapless replacement was missing from her normal haunts.

  Nor was the comatose girl the only casualty of Thorn’s rescue effort, apparently. Once they were a few steps down the hallway, which was only dimly lit by a few fading sconces, Miala saw the guard who had taunted her earlier. At first she thought he stood at attention outside a cell at the end of the hall, and she couldn’t help giving a frightened little gasp. But then she noticed he looked oddly stiff and suddenly realized that the man was either unconscious or dead and had been neatly attached to the bars of the cell with very fine cord.

  “Nice work,” she commented in an undertone.

  Thorn swiveled his dark-swathed head toward her. “I try to cover my tracks.”

  Miala was silent for a few seconds, then said, “Thank you, Thorn.”

  “Thank me later. We’re not out of here yet.”

  The hallway branched into two more corridors. Thorn chose the left one, which appeared to be a service passageway of some sort. At any rate, there were no more cells here, just a series of closed doors, most of which had electronic “lock” buttons glowing red in the darkness.

  Here Thorn paused for a moment. Miala stood quietly and waited as he typed what looked like a series of complicated commands into some sort of device mounted on his forearm.

  “How did you know I would be here?” she asked quietly.

  He didn’t look up. “I didn’t. I heard Murgan was having some sort of security consultant come in. Then I saw it was you.”

  It was impossible to tell from his inflection whether he had been at all surprised to see her—or whether encountering her again after so many years had affected him in the slightest. Well, what had she expected, anyway? For him to fling his arms around her and declare his undying love right there in the passageway?

  “You probably should have done a background check on Murgan before you took the gig,” he went on. “Careless.”

  Scowling, Miala snapped, “Of course I did a check! My assistant looked into Murgan’s history before I left Nova Angeles, and it didn’t show anything out of the ordinary or that he was anything more than Dizhan had said he was—the owner of a shipping company who was expanding into mining here on Iradia.”

  “Believe everything you read?”

  Obviously the intervening years hadn’t made Thorn any less impossible. What really irritated her was that she had been kicking herself over the same issue. Risa had checked out Murgan, however, and as tidy little bits of data on a computer screen, he had seemed perfectly respectable. If someone was bound and determined to cook their files and hide anything unsavory, it would require a lot more effort to dig up that information than the simple investigation Miala always had performed before she took on a contract. Up until now it had never been an issue—but, as was usually the case, this one exception had turned out to be a doozy.

  She wanted to argue with Thorn and knew that it was pointless. So instead she just crossed her arms and glared at him, waiting for him to make the next move.

  Perhaps he smiled behind the layers of dark fabric. Perhaps not. She would never know.

  Instead he gestured upward, as if to indicate the bulk of the compound, located somewhere above their heads. “Funny thing is, Murgan really could use a new security system. Thing hasn’t been replaced since we were here eight years ago. And his guards are a joke. This passage comes out about ten meters in front of the garage, and my ship is on a landing pad about another twenty meters past there. I figure we have a good ten minutes or so before anyone figures out Sleeping Beauty in there isn’t you—”

  From his words Miala guessed that the unfortunate young woman was only unconscious. She hadn’t had the courage to ask Thorn whether the victim was alive or dead. “So—she’ll be all right?”

  “She’ll wake up with a hell of a headache, and possibly questioning her taste in men.” His head cocked to one side. “That’s immaterial. What concerns us is how many hostiles are between us and my ship.”

  “How many?”

  He shrugged. “Between five and eight, if they stick to their usual patterns. No reason not to.”

  “I suppose you’d know all about it.” Miala lifted an eyebrow. “How long have you been here?”

  “About two years, off and on. Just contract work.”

  It was on her lips to make a sharp comment about Thorn not being overly picky when it came to his own employers, but she knew better. After all, the mercenary had worked for Mast and God knows how many other unsavory types with deep pockets over the years. Why he’d felt the need to take on that kind of work when he could have come and claimed his half of Mast’s treasure at any time boggled her. Was working for slimebags like Murgan so much more preferable to seeing her?

  Trust Thorn, she thought, to tick me off so much that I almost forgot he just got me out of Murgan’s jail cell!

  Maybe he got a kick out of working for the dregs of the galaxy. Maybe being at the beck and call of scum such as Murgan held more appeal than having to look her up on Nova Angeles and politely request his half of the treasure. Hell, it had been his idea for her to hang on to it in the first place. At the time she hadn’t argued, but of course she’d hoped, deep down, that he would come back for it one day. Then a year had passed, and another, and his son had gone from infant to toddler to a boy who held in his face and his actions the promise of being almost a carbon copy of his father. And somewhere along the way she’d given up hope of ever seeing Eryk Thorn again. If he never claimed the money, she’d leave it to his son. But never, ever would she touch one unit of it. Not that she’d had any need to.

  If Thorn noticed her hesitation, he gave no sign of it. “The way things are set up, Murgan’s not expecting any trouble from within. He’s got most of his security focused on the perimeter and the gates, not on interior surveillance. This corridor doesn’t have a video feed at all. That’s why we came this way.”

  No wonder Thorn had chosen this particular spot to stop and discuss the situation with her. Miala nodded, then asked, “But what happens if they do see us?”

  “Leave that to me.”

  Meaning hit the deck and ask questions later. Still, one thing hadn’t changed. She couldn’t think of a better person to be with in a tight situation, even if there were times she could have cheerfully throttled him.

  Then he held up a hand in front of his face, as if to
forestall any further questions, and gestured for her to follow him.

  The corridor began to slope upward and Miala moved quietly behind him, wishing she’d worn something a little more practical. Her suit had been chosen to create an impression of authority and style, not for ease of movement, and her boots had only been worn once before and had now begun to rub on the back of her heels. After all, she’d thought she’d be sitting behind a computer terminal, not running around in the bowels of Mast’s compound. Still, it couldn’t be helped now, and she knew better than to ask Thorn to slow down. If her feet started to bother her too much, she’d just kick off the damn boots and go barefoot.

  They emerged from the underground passageway into the open space behind the speeder garage under the warm golden light of Ixtal, the largest of Iradia’s three moons. All seemed still; Miala could sense no movement in their immediate surroundings. She and Thorn might have been alone in the compound as they once had been.

  It was on a night like this, she thought. Once they had stood on the terrace that edged Mast’s tower in the warm moonlight, and they had spoken of the future until Thorn drew her inside, to the chamber where he had made love to her for the first time. Back then she had thought she could never be closer to another living being, and now the mercenary might as well be a complete stranger for all the regard he had shown her.

  But she remained silent as she moved quickly in Thorn’s wake. Perhaps there would be time for recriminations and accusations once they were safely away from here—not that she would probably have the courage to confront him directly about his prolonged absence.

  His object appeared to be the wall of the garage. Once there, he flattened himself against the sun-warmed sandstone, and Miala followed suit. His head moved as he appeared to survey their surroundings.

  He must have judged it to be safe enough, for he crept cautiously around the corner of the building, still hugging the wall. Miala did the same, wincing once when the heel of her boot knocked against a stone that lay half-buried in the sand. The sound seemed thunderous in the silence, but Thorn appeared not to notice.

  Beyond the garage was another open space, and beyond that, half-buried in the sand, lay a series of rough landing pads for those privileged enough to be able to fly directly onto the compound’s grounds. Miala could not see the Fury, but directly in front of them was the oval-shaped bulk of an old York-class freighter. Possibly it blocked the Fury, which was a much smaller vessel.

  “Looks clear,” Thorn murmured. If she hadn’t been standing a scant few centimeters away from him, she wouldn’t have heard him at all.

  “So why are we still standing here?”

  “I don’t like it.” Shifting slightly, he looked back the way they had just come, then turned his head once more toward the landing pads. “Too empty. There should be at least a few guards patrolling this area.”

  Miala wanted to quip, Maybe they’re all on a break, but guessed that sort of comment probably would not be very well-received. Besides, Thorn knew his business, and if it felt wrong, then it probably was wrong.

  No sooner had she formulated that thought than she heard a hated voice from somewhere behind them, back toward the entrance to the underground corridor they had just left.

  “Going somewhere?” asked Murgan.

  She whirled, but Thorn was even faster. He spun around and dropped to one knee, pistol out and trained on the Stacian.

  Murgan, surrounded by what looked like the entire complement of his household guard, stood behind them, gazing over at Miala and Thorn. An unpleasant smile twisted his features.

  He looks even uglier by moonlight, Miala thought irrelevantly, but she stood frozen, waiting to see what Thorn would do.

  “Not a very good idea, mercenary,” continued Murgan. “I have no doubt that you could take me down, but you are grossly outnumbered here.”

  The snout of Thorn’s gun didn’t waver. “Too bad you won’t be around to care.”

  The Stacian lifted his hands, his oily smile only spreading a little further. “And neither would you—or your little friend there.” He focused on Miala for a moment, and his eyes thinned a bit as he scowled at her. “Who could have known that you’d be so soft-hearted as to rescue a lady in distress?”

  “Maybe she just made me a better deal,” rasped Thorn. Still he didn’t move, his black eyes, barely visible behind their wrappings, fixing Murgan with an unwavering stare.

  “Possible, but doubtful.” It might have been just the two of them talking. Both men stared at one another as if Miala and the henchmen didn’t exist. “More likely the two of you were previously acquainted. She is from this slag heap, after all, and you yourself are no stranger to Iradia, Master Thorn.”

  The mercenary made no reply. He only stood there, watching Murgan as if he had all the time in the world. Miala could feel the tension radiating off his body, however; he was strung wire-taut, just waiting for the trigger that would send him into action. She began to wonder how quickly she really could drop to the ground and out of the line of fire.

  “Stalemate, then?” Murgan inquired, his tones almost silky. But Miala saw the almost infinitesimal gesture he made with his left hand—and she knew that if she had seen it, then Thorn must have spotted the movement as well.

  Several things happened at once. The guards flanking the crime lord raised their guns even as the muzzle of Thorn’s weapon exploded with greenish fire. Miala heard a horrible high-pitched scream and realized it must have come from Murgan, but she couldn’t spare the time to make sure because she’d just discovered that she could drop to the ground very quickly indeed, so quickly that she almost knocked the breath out of herself as she hugged the cool sand.

  More screams, and Miala lifted her head just far enough to see Murgan writhing on the ground, possibly mortally wounded but not yet dead. The guards to either side of him dropped as well, laid flat by Thorn’s unerring gunfire. But the rest of the henchmen seemed to have recovered from their shock well enough to start returning fire, and she had no idea how Thorn would ever manage to dodge that many pulse blasts.

  Somehow he did—at least at first. Then a stray shot glanced off his shoulder, and he winced slightly even as Miala gave out a little scream. Her cry was not enough to distract him, apparently, for he pivoted slightly and flattened the guard who had just shot him.

  Suddenly the night—already streaked with pulse fire—lit up with a glare almost as bright as day. A roaring sound filled Miala’s ears, and she raised her hands to her head as a huge gout of pulse fire raced down from the sky, cutting down the henchmen who still stood the way a thresher machine mowed leth-grain at harvest time. For a second she could not understand what had happened—it was as if some god from antiquity had rained down fire and wrath from the heavens. Then the humming sound from overhead resolved itself into the familiar noise of a plasma engine, and she realized what must have just occurred. Somehow Thorn had called his ship to him, and the pulse cannon on board the Fury had done the rest.

  Sure enough, the ship came to ground a few seconds later, crushing a few of the hapless guards beneath its weight. Miala sat up carefully, giving her surroundings a wary glance, but she soon saw there was little need for her caution. The sprawled bodies everywhere showed that the crime lord’s forces had obviously already departed this plane of existence.

  Thorn typed something into the control unit mounted on his forearm, and the hatchway to the Fury opened, revealing a square of pale yellow light.

  “Nice toy you’ve got there,” she said, and then was surprised by how shaky she sounded.

  “It can be useful,” he admitted. He reached a gloved hand down to her, and she pulled herself upright. His head shifted slightly to look downward, and Miala followed his gaze to see that her precipitous fall to the ground had somehow split her narrow skirt to mid-thigh.

  Well, at least he still wants to look, if nothing else, she thought. “I’m fine,” she added. “Thanks for asking.”

  Something that
sounded almost like a chuckle came from inside the fabric wrapped around his face. Then she heard a slight groan off to her left, and Thorn turned away from her, alert, even as he moved to the pile of bodies that had once been Murgan and his henchmen.

  She followed Thorn, and then stood next to him as he looked down at the Stacian’s prone form. The alien’s eyes opened briefly, although they were slitted with pain.

  “Felled by the mighty Thorn,” he gasped, and a trickle of dark blood began to show at the corner of his mouth.

  The dark-robed figure looked down at Murgan. Gazing at the two of them, Miala suddenly thought that Eryk Thorn looked hardly less alien than the Stacian.

  “Not the first,” said the mercenary. Then he raised his gun and shot Murgan directly between the eyes. The greenish pulse fire illuminated the night for a split-second once more, and then the unpleasant smell of charred flesh rose to Miala’s nostrils.

  “And not the last,” Thorn added, then deliberately placed his weapon back in its holster. He extended the same hand to Miala, and she took it, not knowing what else to do. “Let’s get out of here.”

  And he drew her away from the carnage, away from the acrid scent of smoke and death, up the walkway into the Fury. Then the hatch closed behind them, and she was alone with him once more.

  XVI

  “Just you wait until your mother gets home!” snapped Risa, her arms crossed over her chest.

  Jerem’s wary gaze slid from Risa’s frowning face to the equally irritated features of Dr. Chand, the school principal. No help there, either. Not that Jerem had really expected it. He and Dr. Chand were old friends.

  “What were you thinking?” Risa went on. Her toe began an ominous tapping that did not bode well for Jerem. Not that he expected her to actually spank him or anything—but he foresaw a long period of house arrest, probably without access to the entertainment system or anything good. Usually Risa maintained an aspect of placid good nature, but Jerem got the feeling he really had gone too far this time.