It might have worked, except that his feet got tangled in the stupid bedclothes, and instead of bouncing back immediately to his feet and making a run for the door, as he had intended, he tripped. That gave the intruders enough time to regain their bearings and close on him. The last thing he remembered was the hiss of a hypo-spray against his neck. After that, it was just darkness, until he had come to even as he was being carried into this room.
Jerem thought about it for a minute, decided he probably was supposed to be afraid, then realized he wasn’t, not really. This was, after all, the height of coolness—to be kidnapped from your room in the middle of the night like the hero of some vid adventure story! Besides, he had to think that pretty soon Eryk Thorn would be hot on these guys’ trail anyway, and that was certain to be a lot of fun once the mercenary caught up with them.
The taunt—Just wait until my dad shows up and kicks your butt—rose to Jerem’s lips, but then he thought maybe that wasn’t such a good idea. After all, Thorn had made Jerem promise not to say anything about him being his father, and Jerem certainly didn’t want to let Eryk Thorn down. There was no way of knowing whether these goons had any idea that Thorn was Jerem’s father, and if they were unaware of the fact, it would be even more satisfying when the mercenary showed up out of the blue and started doing some serious damage.
So he remained silent, staring up at the Stacian with some curiosity. The alien definitely looked irritated about something, but maybe that was just his usual expression.
After a moment the golden-skinned kidnapper snapped, “What the hell are you looking at, kid?”
“You,” Jerem replied truthfully. “See, there’s this show, Moon of Syrinara, with this guy who—”
“Yeah, I’ve seen it,” interrupted the Stacian. “It stinks.”
Jerem opened his mouth to protest, caught the glare out of the alien’s hard copper eyes, and thought better of it. Obviously this guy had no taste in vid series.
“Better,” the alien said. “You—go sit over there. And keep your mouth shut.” He gestured with a huge fist in the direction of the cot, and Jerem scowled but went. After all, it was no use arguing with someone three times your size and armed to the teeth with at least two guns that Jerem could see, as well as a molecular blade in a sheath at his sizable hip.
So Jerem sat down on the cot, which was hard and lumpy and boded ill for any kind of decent sleep if they ended up keeping him here for any length of time. He wrapped his arms around his knees and balled himself up into the section of the cot that was shoved into the corner. From this position he hoped they would think he was defeated and afraid, but instead he shut his eyes and listened furiously.
He’d discovered some time ago that grown-ups tended to ignore a child’s presence if said child wasn’t doing anything to attract their attention. It was in this manner that he’d managed to overhear the complete details of Risa’s sister’s unplanned pregnancy and the lengthy “vacation” on New Chicago that had ensued. Not that Jerem really cared whether or not Magri had gotten herself “in the family way,” as Risa had put it, but you never knew when information might come in handy. And it wasn’t until he’d sneezed unexpectedly during this discourse that his mother discovered he’d been curled up behind the back of the sofa the whole time. She’d gotten that funny expression on her face, the one she got whenever she was trying to be stern but instead wanted to just start laughing instead. Somehow managing to clamp down on the smile, she’d ordered him from the room. He hadn’t gotten punished for that, but he’d also noticed she was a lot more careful in the future to make sure he wasn’t around whenever she was having a sensitive conversation.
The Stacian was asking the older of the two men who had kidnapped Jerem whether there had been any further “trouble.” The guy looked nervous and shifted his weight, but admitted that Eryk Thorn had intervened and shot the two RilSec officers dead.
Yeah, Dad! Jerem thought, but made no outward response.
“What the hell is the connection between those two?” the Stacian demanded, and the two humans looked at each other and shrugged.
“Don’t know for sure,” said the other man, who had a slight singsong accent Jerem didn’t recognize. “I mean, she’s a good-looking bit, that’s for sure, but who ever heard of Thorn giving a damn about that sort of thing?”
“No one,” replied the Stacian grimly. “Something to do with Iradia, I don’t doubt, but my brother didn’t have time to figure it out, and right now I don’t care. If he’s working for her, then he’ll do as she says. And if we make it very clear that if Thorn shows up, the kid dies, then there shouldn’t be a problem.”
Those words, spoken so carelessly, made Jerem swallow. Maybe this wasn’t such an adventure after all...
“Anyway, Chaddick just told me she’s checked into the Rilsport Plaza, so now we have a contact point. We’ll wait until morning—let’s give the woman her beauty sleep, shall we?”
Jerem felt rather than saw the leer that accompanied that statement, but he knew better than to move or look up. But why would his mother have gone to a hotel? You’d think she would have stayed at home and waited to find out what had happened to him. But wait—Jerem supposed maybe it wouldn’t be such a good idea to hang around a house that had a couple of dead police officers in the main salon.
“And then?” the first man who had spoken asked.
“Then we find out how much this kid really is worth.”
XXII
In her dreams Eryk Thorn reached out for her, drawing her close, bringing his mouth against hers. His hands moved down her body, touching her once more, in a way she had only been able to imagine during the last empty years of her life. Miala sighed and relaxed into his encircling arms, reveling in the sensations even if they were only the phantom embraces of a dream...
Suddenly she realized she wasn’t dreaming. Those really were Thorn’s hands on her, his mouth moving against the sensitive places on her body. For a second she froze, wondering if she should make some protest, but then she realized she didn’t want him to stop. For eight long years she’d thought of Eryk Thorn, ached for him, and now she desired nothing else but to become one with him once more. Was it really so wrong to want to leave behind the worry and doubt and fear, if only for a while? This was no betrayal of Jerem. Rather, it was an affirmation that hers and Thorn’s lives had become inextricably entwined.
She clung to the mercenary, feeling the heat of his body in the darkness, and when she finally cried out, Thorn held her until the last wracking shudders had worked their way through her frame. Then he continued to hold her until she fell into a deep, dreamless sleep...
The chime of the comm woke her. Miala sat up in bed, blinking, at first uncertain of where she was. Then the unfamiliar surroundings of the hotel room fell into place around her, and memory came rushing back. Jerem kidnapped. Her home destroyed.
And across the room from her, Eryk Thorn sitting calmly in a chair, sipping at a cup of coffee. His dark eyes met hers for a second, and then he nodded toward the comm unit. “It’s them.”
Panic gripped her stomach. “How do you know?”
“Who else would have this number?”
“Who else?” indeed. No one could possibly know Miala was here in this hotel. She would have to contact Risa soon, because Miala had the feeling that Risa was probably climbing the walls with worry at this point—Risa was listed as Miala’s emergency contact, and someone had to have called her about the fire. But first things first.
With shaky fingers she pushed her hair back behind her ears, then gathered up her discarded nightshirt. She hated the thought of answering the comm in such disarray, but at least her appearance would make it fairly obvious to the kidnappers that she had gone straight from the destruction of her home to the hotel. Then she slid out of bed and went to the comm unit, jabbing the button to accept the incoming call.
The screen stayed dark; obviously they had blocked the visual stream. Miala wished she’d had the p
resence of mind to do the same, but it was too late for that now. Whether by happy accident or design, the chair Thorn occupied was well out of camera range.
“Who is it?” she asked. At least she thought she sounded reasonably calm.
“That’s not important,” the caller replied.
Male, of course, but not noticeably alien. Not that that meant anything. Murgan hadn’t had much of an accent, either, as Miala recalled.
“What do you want?” She wished that she and Thorn had had the time to discuss how best to handle this conversation before the kidnappers called, but after their hurried lovemaking she had passed into the heavy sleep of exhaustion, and probably he had decided it was more important for her to rest and regain her strength than to spend the time speculating on the kidnapper’s demands.
A pause. “I like a woman who knows how to get to the point,” said the kidnapper. “It’s very simple, really. You give us fifteen million units, and you get your boy back.”
Miala tried to school her face into impassivity, but she knew she’d felt her eyes widen for a second before she could catch herself. Fifteen million. If she liquidated everything she had, including her business, and somehow managed to get the insurance to pay up quickly on the house, then she might have enough. Barely. Not that it mattered. She’d give up more if it meant getting her son back.
“I want to talk to him,” she said. “How do I know you even have him?”
A pause. Then, “Speak up, kid.”
“Mom—”
It was Jerem’s voice, and, wonder of wonders, he didn’t sound all that scared. Relief washed over her, cool as the waters down in Rilsport Harbor. “Jerem, are you all right? Where—”
“No questions,” the kidnapper broke in. “He’s alive. That’s all you need to know. Give us the fifteen million, and he stays that way.”
“That’s going to take me some time,” she said, thankful that somehow she’d managed to adopt the cool, precise tones she always employed when nailing down a deal with a prospective client. It would be useless to ask to speak to Jerem again; she could tell the kidnapper wasn’t about to let her son say anything else. “My assets aren’t that liquid.”
“You have two standard days,” came the immediate reply. “Fifteen million in Gaian units. We’ll contact you at this number for further instructions.”
“Fine,” she said. “But I’ll need to speak to my son again before any money changes hands.”
“Agreed.” A pause, and then the caller added, “If you care about your son, you won’t bring the mercenary into this.”
The red light on the comm went out, indicating that the kidnapper had hung up.
Miala turned and looked at Thorn, who gave her the same impassive stare he always did. Don’t bring Thorn into this, she thought. That’s like telling the sun not to rise in the morning.
Then Eryk Thorn asked, “Do you really have it?”
“Yes. Maybe. I think so.”
He raised an eyebrow.
Crossing her arms, she snapped, “It’s not that simple, Thorn. Some is tied up in investments. I can get it out, but I’ll have to pay penalties for early withdrawal. I haven’t had my business appraised lately, but I know it’s worth a good four to five million. I doubt I’d be able to sell it in that amount of time, though—I’ll have to try and take out some sort of loan against it. And I’ll have to contact the insurance company about the house—”
“There’s my money.”
The comment was so unexpected that Miala stopped abruptly, staring at the mercenary in surprise. “What?”
“The funds on New Chicago. My half.”
She had completely forgotten about that. For so long she’d had only her own resources to depend upon that it had never occurred to her Thorn might be willing to pitch in to meet the ransom. “You’d do that?”
“He’s my son, too.”
The simple declaration almost brought tears to her eyes. But she blinked them away. She couldn’t dissolve into a mess now.
Eryk Thorn watched her carefully, and she thought she saw a flicker of approval cross his features.
“Thank you,” she said, after a moment.
“No problem,” he replied. “We’d better get moving. We need to get outfitted, and we need to get over to New Chicago.”
Since the two planets shared the same system, that wasn’t much of a problem. She and Thorn could travel to Nova Angeles’ sister world and back within the space of the same day. But there were still a lot of details to attend to—not the least of which would be contacting Risa and letting her know that Miala had survived the fire which claimed her home.
“I’ll find some way to make this up to you,” Miala ventured, and Thorn gave her one of his quick downturned grins.
“I know you will,” he said. “Besides, just because I’m giving the kidnappers this ransom doesn’t mean I’m going to let them keep it.”
I should have expected that, Miala thought. I should have known Thorn wouldn’t go along with this so easily. Still, the thought of the mercenary bringing his considerable skills to bear on the men who had taken his son brought a smile to her own lips. They were expecting payment, and what they were going to get instead was payback.
“Is that a promise?” she asked.
“Oh, yes,” Thorn replied. There was something in the cool voice that made a shiver run down her spine. “And you know I always keep my promises.”
They were somewhere near the ocean. Jerem was almost sure of it. The men who had kidnapped him made him stay in this boring little room, but he’d grown up within sight and smell of the sea, and the air that blew in whenever they opened the door was moist and cool, smelling of salt and jagos, the giant seaweed that grew off the coast of Rilsport. He’d tried to peer past them to see what was outside, but they’d been quick enough that all he’d been able to catch of glimpse of was a flash of white sunlight and the edge of another building—one that looked to be an improbable combination of orange and blue.
Even that one brief look had set something tickling at the back of his mind, as if he should somehow know where he was. But try as he could, Jerem couldn’t figure it out. And it wasn’t as if he didn’t have plenty of time to sit and think about it. Truth was, sitting and thinking were about all he could do. You’d think these guys would at least have given him a handheld game console or a tablet or something to while away the hours. But no. They seemed to think he shouldn’t do anything except sit on his bed and wait for his mother to pay up.
The worst punishment his mother could give Jerem consisted of forcing him to sit in his room and do nothing while he thought about what he did wrong. This was even worse, except that he was pretty sure he really hadn’t done anything wrong. Maybe there had been one moment back in his room where he could have thrown a chair at his assailants or something, but Jerem had the idea that there wasn’t much he really could have done to prevent them from taking him. Sure, he’d turned out to be Eryk Thorn’s son, but he was still just eight standard years old, after all.
Cameras mounted in two of the corners of the room kept watch on him at all times. After he’d woken up this morning, he’d spent about fifteen minutes making faces into one, just to irritate his captors, but they’d made no response, and the game got dull after a while. It was one thing to twist your face into inventive grimaces to get a rise out of your friends or to upset your mother so she’d snap, “Do you want your face to freeze like that?” It was an entirely different proposition to do it for an uncaring audience.
He’d slept badly the previous night; the cot had proved to be just as lumpy as it looked. Breakfast actually wasn’t too bad—they’d fed him the sort of over-sweetened packaged meal he’d always bugged his mother to buy for him but which she’d always claimed was unhealthy and full of sucrose. Now he felt the sort of edgy energy that always followed an over-consumption of sweet things—the precise reason why his mother avoided feeding him that kind of stuff in the first place.
Since h
e had this big empty room with nothing much in it except that lumpy cot and a pair of equally uncomfortable chairs, Jerem decided this was a good place to practice walking on his hands. He’d seen a Bathshevan dancer do it once on the vid and had been fascinated by the move ever since. In the past he hadn’t been able to stay up on his hands for more than two paces in a row, but he’d vowed he’d master the skill eventually. The only good thing about it was that Mikhal and Alic were even more hopeless than he was.
It had to be all in the balance. His hands and wrists were strong enough from years of climbing trees, walls, and anything else he could think of, but it was tricky getting your mass to redistribute itself so you didn’t over-balance and allow the weight of your legs to topple you over.
Jerem tried a simple handstand, and that worked well enough. Then he reached out with one hand and inched forward. That seemed all right, too, so he shifted his weight to the alternate hand and lurched a few more centimeters ahead. He could feel his legs begin to wobble, so he stayed in that position for a moment until it seemed as if he’d regained equilibrium. Then once more with his right hand—
“What the hell are you doing?”
The sound of his captor’s voice caused Jerem to jerk his head sideways so he could see who was speaking, and that was the end of the experiment. He collapsed in a messy heap but bounced back up to his feet almost immediately. After all, he’d taken worse falls than that every day of his life.
Jerem brushed at the dirty knees of his pajama bottoms and said cheerfully, “Walking on my hands. Do you know how to do it?”
The man scowled at him. He had a sort of rat-like face anyway, with his pointed nose and close-set eyes, and the frown didn’t exactly improve his features. “I’ve got better things to do with my time, kid.”
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