Alien Hostage

by Tracy St. John

  Was she foolish for thinking she knew where the hair came from? That it could have come from a member of a family known for a particular mutation that made its members gray-haired from birth?

  Several generations back a princess had been born, the first of the royal line to carry the mutation. Her children had also been steel-haired, as were their children. And so on down the line until three living members of the Imperial Family demonstrated that particular trait: Imperial Father Yuder, Emperor Clajak, and Princess Noelle.

  Yuder and Clajak were on Kalquor searching for Noelle, who had been supposedly stolen away by the Basma. Narpok knew them all. Even the princess … though no one realized she’d been aware of the child as she drifted in her safe non-feeling world of catatonia.

  Noelle had been the first person Narpok had become aware of as her traumatized spirit began to return to the real world. In fact, it had been the piping laughter, the sweet trill of a child’s innocent joy that drew the young woman from the mists of mindless escape. As time went on and Narpok had become more and more cognizant of her surroundings, she watched the little girl play on the floor of her room. She’d watched her grow from an infant just beginning to crawl to a little girl always ready to love and be loved.

  In those moments of clarity, held like a sweet secret for Narpok to replay over and over in her head, she’d observed the child. She’d thought how Noelle could have been hers as part of Clan Clajak had she been fertile and Jessica McInness not usurped her claim. And then one day Jessica had come to her room all alone, had broken down over the loss of that child to the Basma. The empress had come to know the emptiness that had made the Kalquorian woman’s enjoyment of Noelle so very bittersweet.

  The Basma had struck a crippling blow. Narpok knew Jessica carried on despite her devastation, but her spirit was on the verge of being broken. The rebellion had not fired a blaster on her, had not put a blade into her heart, but it was on the verge of killing the Earther empress just the same.

  When Sitrel had appeared out of nowhere to approach Narpok in the hospital’s garden, when he’d uttered the words, ‘Kalquor needs its rightful empress’, she’d known the time had come for her to rise. The rebellion was calling to her, to make her mark despite what others had done to take her destiny away. Meeting with Maf had assured her he could bring her closer to that goal.

  Now she held something in her hand that she hoped was proof that she’d stumbled upon her dearest wish. But discovering a strand of Noelle’s hair in Clan Falinset’s home made little sense. Unless Maf did not know his son was closer to the Basma than he’d been led to believe?

  Maf had said he’d met the would-be savior of Kalquor, so Falinset himself could not be the Basma, which had been Narpok’s initial suspicion. Neither he nor his clanmates had seemed brutal enough to hold a child prisoner.

  Or were they? The area where Narpok had sat reeked of a woman’s scent. The kind of scent that suggested intimacies. Was the empress’ kidnapped cousin also somewhere in the home, being held prisoner and raped by the men keeping her? Sitrel had spoken of an exchange of some sort. Was he to pick up the princess and her cousin? But if Sitrel knew Tasha and Noelle were there, then Maf knew, and that blew apart the theory that Clan Falinset were in the Basma’s secret employ…

  None of the scenarios Narpok could concoct made any sense. It was most likely that the hair in her hand belonged to some past elderly visitor to Falinset’s home. Still, something big was going on here. Too many odd things were going on in this isolated patch of Lobam. The soldier Ket and all his guards, wearing uniforms of Kalquor’s ground troops but no insignia … Sitrel’s allusion of her being part of an exchange … the smell of a woman so strong it was as if she’d just stepped out of the room, and yet there was no sign of her.

  “Is it you?” Narpok whispered to the hair. “Are you little Princess Noelle?”

  She needed to know more before continuing to play along with everyone’s expectations of her. She had to discover the right person to speak to, the one who would lead her to the Basma. Otherwise, this was a complete waste of valuable time. She may as well still be senseless in her hospital room.

  She considered her options. For the moment, her best connections to the Basma were Maf and Sitrel. Her secretive cousin would never give up anything, at least not willingly. She’d have loved to search his things, but he was in the house with her. He was probably relaxing in the guest suite with all his belongings that might contain some clue for Narpok.

  Maybe he was asleep. If she was careful, she could snoop around the house. Maf came here regularly, or so he’d said. Hadn’t Sitrel mentioned he’d visited a week or two ago?

  Narpok stood up. Her skirt swished, and she frowned. She gathered it in folds in her fists and took a few experimental steps, going to the door. Her movements were silent, and she grinned to know she hadn’t lost that ability. As a daughter of the cunning and ultimately criminally underhanded Councilman Pwaldur, she’d learned a thing or two about spying on others.

  She turned her lights all the way down, plunging the room into darkness. She whispered to the door to open only a little, and it obliged by slipping sideways to the width of a couple of inches. Dim light filtered in, along with Sitrel’s distant voice.

  Narpok’s eyes narrowed. Nobek Ket and his pet brutes had left after accompanying her and her cousin to the house. There was supposedly no one else there. Who was Sitrel talking to?

  There was only one way to find out. Narpok ordered the door to open wider.

  She made sure her skirts were gathered securely and stepped out into the wide marbled hall. To her left, light beamed from a doorway that she thought led into a large study. Sitrel’s voice came in fits and starts, as if holding a one-sided conversation.

  He’s on the com, Narpok told herself. Breathing as quietly as she could, she padded silently in bare feet down the grand hall towards the light and her cousin’s voice. When she was a foot away from the doorway, she stopped to listen.

  A soft thud-thud-thud told her Sitrel paced the thickly carpeted floor in the study. His voice was pitched high, a note of apology in his easily heard dialogue. “My leader, I am sorry but she refused to stay with them. However, Falinset indicated he was willing to make the trade.” He paused. “No, not immediately. He hinted very strongly. No, he didn’t say he would clan her, but—”

  He had the volume low or was listening through an earpiece, because Narpok didn’t hear the response that cut him off. There was only the sound of a few more footsteps. They stopped and a moment later she heard the clinking of glass against glass and the sound of liquid pouring. Sitrel was making himself a drink, she surmised.

  His voice came again, the tone slightly peevish. “I warned you she’s hopelessly spoiled. I don’t think she made a very good impression with her snide comments about their house. She might go as far as demand they build her a new home before she’ll consent to clanning with them.”

  Narpok smirked. Demanding a custom-built house that fit her status as a rare Kalquorian woman sounded like a good idea to her. She should have thought of that before.

  “No, I doubt revealing to her that you’re the Basma will change her attitude in the least. She could care less about rebellion and a pure Kalquor so long as she gets what she wants.”

  Narpok went still. Sitrel was talking to the Basma right now? The rebellion’s leader knew about her, Narpok? Excitement made her heart pound. But why did he have an interest in whether or not she joined Clan Falinset?

  If only Sitrel would call the man by his real name! If she knew who he was, she could go to him herself with playing all these stupid games with underlings.

  “I suppose she would speak to you if she hasn’t retired for the night. Let me check.”

  His footsteps sounded again, this time approaching the doorway. Narpok stifled a gasp. She turned and ran for her room at top speed.

  Fortunately, Sitrel wasn’t in the same hurry as she. She managed to get to the sleeping room and
close the door before he reached the hall.

  She turned on the light. Pretending she’d been sleeping when she still wore her gown would tip Sitrel off that something wasn’t right. She was flustered at the near discovery and fought to calm her thundering heart. Her respiration was too fast. Between the close call and not having run anywhere since she could remember, she gasped for air.

  Sitrel didn’t give her a chance to compose herself. He tapped lightly on the door and called, “Narpok? Are you awake?”

  Narpok looked around the room frantically. She caught sight of herself in the mirror. Her wan face was far too flushed, her chest heaving from the brief exertion.

  “Narpok?”

  “Just a moment!” she cried. Her voice was too loud, too upset. Sitrel caught it right away.

  “Are you all right? What’s wrong?”

  Desperate, Narpok grabbed one of her new gowns from where she’d tossed it on the back of a chair. She wrenched at the sleeve, tearing it. Before she could overthink her next move, perhaps tripping herself up, she marched to the door and ordered it open.

  As soon as she stood face to face with Sitrel, she waved the dress at him, practically shoving it in his face. “Look at this! Do you see this? Torn! One of those idiots working for Dramok Maf tore my new gown!”

  After a moment’s surprise, Sitrel’s expression settled into a deadpan look. Seeing him turn dismissive calmed Narpok almost at once. She could well imagine his thoughts: petty Narpok had gotten herself in a state over clothing. Relief made her knees shake.

  He held out the small silver com without commenting on her loss. “Someone would like to speak to you.”

  Narpok considered continuing to make a fuss over the dress. After all, it would be typical of her old self to do so. She was eager to speak to the Basma though. It might be her only opportunity.

  She flung the gown at Sitrel and snatched the com from his hand. “Yes, who is this?”

  “Good evening, Matara Narpok. It’s Dramok Maf.”

  She blinked. That couldn’t be right. Sitrel had been talking to the Basma, hadn’t he? Poor crippled and bent Maf couldn’t have been more the opposite of the larger than life, mighty leader of a rebellion. Had she heard wrong?

  Her thoughts lurching unsteadily, she mumbled, “Dramok Maf?”

  The voice was warm and indulgent. “Yes, my dear. You sound upset.”

  “Oh. Well. My gown was torn, you see.” Her mind flew. No one had ever managed to give a description of the revolt’s leader. Those who knew what he looked like had not come forth.

  “I’m sorry to hear that. You may buy another to replace it, if you like.”

  “You’re too kind. I suppose it’s not important.” Maf was smart. Maf hated Earthers. He’d admitted he supported the revolt.

  “I’m glad to hear it. Tell me, what did you think of my son and his clan?”

  Could he be the Basma? Certainly it had been a surprise when ambitious Sitrel had settled for being Maf’s aide. Or had he settled? Narpok looked at her cousin, knowing all too well how much he’d have loved to be at the side of someone like the Basma—

  “Narpok? Did you like Falinset?”

  Sitrel stared at her. She forced herself to pay attention. One way or the other, she had a role to play. “Oh, they’re very nice. I think they’d be all right if they show their rank a little more. Their home doesn’t reflect their status at all.”

  The indulgent, fatherly tone rang false in her ears … was she listening to the voice of the man the Empire called traitor? Could it really be? “They prefer a simpler life, but for you I’m sure they’d be glad to change.”

  She drew a deep breath. As if he could see as well as hear her, she tossed her head in pretended annoyance. “Yes, well, I can’t be expected to live in that hovel of theirs. What would people think of me? I get enough of the public’s pity as it is.” She gave a deeply wounded sigh, letting her hurts embrace her. “It’s bad enough that the Earther replaced me on the throne I was promised. Then to be forced to live in that shack? It will never do, Dramok Maf. I couldn’t stand it.”

  “I’m sure we can figure something out, Narpok. Don’t you worry about that. Remember, we want you to regain your rightful place.”

  “I hope so. I was born to lead.” The last sentence was snarled with perfect confidence.

  “So you were.” He sounded pleased. “Please put Sitrel back on.”

  Narpok handed her cousin his com, recalling in her posture the regal haughtiness she’d once worn like a second skin. Sitrel must have noted it because he dipped in a slight bow before he caught himself. Narpok tried not to smirk. Sitrel had no more respect for her than she had for him, and he never accorded her any if he could help it.

  Scowling, he turned away and walked out the door. As his footsteps receded down the corridor, Narpok had a sudden inspiration. She hurried to the doorway and called after him.

  “Sitrel!” She coughed and cleared her throat. “Before you go, cousin, is there a doctor on staff? A medic or nurse?”

  His brows drew together. “Tell me you’re not getting sick?” He acted irritated rather than concerned.

  “Maybe. Maybe it’s just the travel and poor food. Maf needs another chef, one who can actually cook. I’ll sleep in tomorrow and see if I feel better.” She waved him away, dismissing him like an afterthought. Which he was.

  He shook his head and turned on his heel. He walked towards the study, muttering into his com. Narpok retreated into her quarters, locking the door behind her.

  She started towards the bed. Then she thought better of it and grabbed a table, pulling it in front of the door. She added one of the chairs, straining against the heavy piece of upholstered furniture. If anyone tried to come in, the pieces would slow him down.

  Ridiculous, of course. No one was going to break into Maf’s home to have his way with her. Still, it was better to be safe than sorry. The idea of waking to find a man – or men – looming over her, leering as they stripped away the bed linens and pulled her nightclothes off, holding her down…

  Narpok felt tears prickle her eyes. She forced herself to breathe, taking her thoughts away from the terrible visions that night sometimes brought.

  Instead she looked at the piles of clothes she’d scattered throughout the room, making it look like she still felt herself the trivial, privileged girl she’d once been. She thought about her next move.

  Maf. The Basma. It seemed unlikely they were the same man, as unlikely as Princess Noelle being held by Clan Falinset. Yet Maf was incredibly intelligent. Charming once she got past his looks. Pwaldur had often claimed Maf was someone to watch out for.

  Narpok unconsciously snarled at the thought of her dead Dramok father. He fit more her idea of what a man called a traitor should look like. Big, powerful, able to captivate those he wanted to support him … Pwaldur’s true nature had been a shock, particularly to his own daughter. He’d had them all fooled, hadn’t he? He and his co-conspirators had killed the rest of her parents in their bid for power long before attempting to kidnap Empress Jessica.

  To think someone who looked as physically unimpressive as Maf could be the leader of a revolution was something of a letdown. But then, it would be the perfect way to hide in plain sight too. No one would ever suspect Maf simply by looking at him.

  Narpok needed to be sure. She plowed through a pile of clothes, looking for something she could use the next day. Surely she had bought a pair of trousers or shorts in her shopping spree? In one of the ready-made shops she’d visited she’d grabbed things at random, barely checking for the correct size before having the clerk ring up her purchases.

  She breathed a sigh of relief when a pair of cropped trousers appeared. They were ugly, certainly nothing she’d have consciously chosen to wear, but they would be perfect for what she had in mind. After locating a blouse to wear with them, she set her chronometer to wake her before the sun was due to rise.

  She climbed into bed. Despite the exhaustion weighing
her body down, she was sure she wouldn’t sleep at all. The potential discoveries she’d made and the discoveries she hoped to make had her heart racing again with excitement.

  The opportunity to repay so many for what they’d done seemed bare inches from her grasp. Her voice sounded breathless as she said, “Lights, off.”

  Narpok stared into the blackness and waited for morning.

  Chapter 22

  Despite her conviction she wouldn’t sleep for an instant, Narpok managed to doze fitfully on and off through the long night. What little sleep she got was filled with strange, disjointed images and nightmarish creatures. When footsteps sounded outside her door, she woke with a gasp and sat straight up, a scream locked in her throat and searching for a way out.

  At first, old memories of sneering men coming into her childhood bedroom confused her with her actual surroundings. It took her a few hideous seconds to remember she wasn’t on Kalquor, back in the home of Dramok Pwaldur. She was in the vacation home of Dramok Maf. She was wide awake and able to move, instead of fully aware but unable to defend herself from attackers.

  She noted the old fugue state that she’d taken refuge in for the last few years lurked at the edges of her consciousness. The misty nothing beckoned, whispering there was nothing to fear in the void, nothing to hurt her in the empty spaces where a devastated psyche might hide forever.

  The footsteps in the hall continued past her door without pause. They faded as they went on, moving towards the front of the opulent home. No one came into the room. She was not under attack.

  Narpok shook her head and grimly forced away the soft invitation to vacate her mind again. She refused to fade out of reality. She had a goal now. She had a mission she was determined to accomplish.

  The gentle tug of oblivion disappeared. She was whole. Aware. Strong. “Window vids on. Scroll perimeter of home,” she commanded.