The Key

by Pauline Baird Jones

  “If you will promise not to leave, I will give you time to get used to me…to this. I will help you…adjust.”

  “You’ll help me? That’s almost funny, you creepy, sad little man.”

  “Do not try my patience too far, Sara. There are limits.”

  “Or what? You’ll beat me?” She shook her head. “Go ahead. Kill me. I’d rather that than climb between the sheets with you.”

  Her eyes convicted him, but of what? Wanting to share his passion with a beautiful woman? Then he was guilty.

  “You rant against what you do not know.” Now he believed she had not been with a man. It surprised him that he had not seen it before. Her people’s ways had confused him. “There are many delights to be found between the sheets, as you put it.”

  He saw her eyes brighten, either with rage or tears, but if it was tears, they did not spill down her face. Something in her expression made him feel an odd need to comfort her.

  “You will get used to this, to me, in time. You do not believe me, but there will come a time when you will beg to stay with me a little longer. They all do…in the end.” In his mind, he heard her begging. For her, he might just give in.

  Her voice, her face lost all…animation and he felt her retreat to some place deep inside.

  “The end…I don’t have enough life left to get to that end.”

  It almost seemed like she was not talking to him, but to herself. Her shoulders rose and fell in a deep sigh.

  “You make it sound so dreary. I am quite skilled, my other companions—”

  Her jaw clenched once. There was a pause, then it clenched again, as if she were biting back a comment. Finally, her jaw relaxed into a smile, but it was one without charm or warmth.

  “I’m sure you get honest critiques on your prowess from women who will be turned over to your men if they don’t please you.” She looked at him. “Or even if they do.”

  He almost hit her again, but managed to stop himself. It was what she wanted. He would not give it to her. He would lure her out of hiding. He would seduce her into submitting to him. Before he was through, she would hold nothing back from him. Not her body or the key.

  Her lashes lowered, hiding her thoughts from him. She would learn not to do that either.

  “You will be surprised by what I will give you, Sara. And by what you will give me.”

  She hesitated, as if gathering strength, and then her lashes lifted again. He could see that she had found her way to a neutral place, but it had cost her. The strain showed on her face, cutting deep lines around her eyes and mouth, making her face more sharply beautiful.

  “There is a story, my people tell, about a holy man, a Jewish zealot.”

  He found he was…intrigued. A story? Had a woman ever told him a story before? What did she hope to accomplish? She was up to something. He may not know that much about her, but he knew this.

  “He lived a long time ago. His name was Elazar ben Ya’ir.”

  The name sounded like a sad song, the way she said it and it softened her mouth again.

  “His country was over run by invaders. He and his followers…objected to becoming slaves, to losing their right to choose.”

  Her mouth curved up for a moment and she paused, looking at him with a hint of challenge, as if she expected him to speak, to object.

  Now they were getting to the point of her story, but did she really think that would change his mind? She did not know him.

  But she would.

  “And what did they do about it?” Did she realize that by speaking to him, she was already adapting to his presence, to being with him?

  “They had prepared for war, gathered arms and stores, and retreated to a fortress called Masada.”

  The way she said the name, sent a shiver down his back.

  She stopped to lick her lips. He thought about offering her something to drink, but had a feeling she would reject that, too. Or throw it in his face, he thought with a slight smile.

  “Masada was formidable place, looming high above the Dead Sea. It had both natural and man-made defenses. They were determined not—to adjust.”

  She paused again, her look pointed. He smiled at her. She did not smile back. When she continued, her voice was slower, almost dreamy.

  “From Masada, the Zealots launched raids on the Roman oppressors, hoping to drive them out. But his group was small. All they managed to do was annoy the governor, Lucius Flavius Silva. He gathered a legion of his men and marched against Masada, determined to subdue them. He laid siege for two, long months, but Masada didn’t fall.”

  Another look, her brows slightly arched. Adin smiled. He was enjoying the story, but even more he enjoyed the way she looked as she told the story. Did she realize her face had warmed and softened? Each word brought her closer to submitting to him.

  “Silva was a stubborn man and refused to concede defeat.”

  The look she gave him told him she thought he was like the Roman. Adin was happy to have it so.

  “Silva came up with a plan to breach the fortress by building a rampart up to the high wall, so that his men could storm in.”

  “And these people just watched?”

  She shrugged.

  “It was a long time ago. No one knows for sure, but it’s possible that the Romans used Jewish slaves and they didn’t want to kill their own people. For whatever reason, the rampart was eventually finished.”

  She stopped and Adin leaned forward, interested in spite of himself.

  “Did they go in? Did they storm the fortress?”

  He could identify with this Roman as he looked at the lovely fortress he was most ready to storm.

  She nodded almost tiredly, her lashes half covering her eyes. “Josephus, who wrote the story down, says of that day, the Romans…put on their armor…to make an assault upon the fortress, which they did, but when they got inside there was only,” she paused, “…a terrible solitude on every side…”

  Adin smiled. “So the people escaped?”

  Did she think he would not see the point of the story? Her lashes lifted briefly, her eyes telling him he still did not understand.

  “Now I will tell you what happened inside Masada on that day.”

  Her gaze turned distant, as if she were there, with the zealots.

  “The husbands tenderly embraced their wives, and took their children into their arms, and gave the longest parting kisses to them…” She paused, as if the story gave her pain. “They were hardly able to bear the grief of what they were about to do. They then chose ten men by lot out of them…and the rest of the men laid…down by…wife and children…and threw…arms about them, and they offered their necks to the stroke.”

  Sara lifted her chin, as if she were also offering her neck to a zealot sword.

  Adin sat up straight. “They killed them?”

  She continued as if he hadn’t spoken, speaking even more slowly. “They cast lots again, for one out of the ten to finish the other nine…then when…they were all slain...with the great force of his hands…he…ran his sword entirely through himself, and fell down dead…”

  “But…why?”

  Her head turned in his direction. Her brows arched, as if he should have known the answer.

  “They preferred death to…adjusting.”

  She sagged back against the high back of the chair, as if she needed the support, as if the effort of telling the story had exhausted her. Her lids drooped low across her eyes and her lips were parted.

  “I won’t stay with you.”

  The soft murmur of her voice made his insides twist with longing.

  “I won’t…adjust…for you.”

  So sad, so beautiful. She would learn to smile again. She would forget everything but him, learn to live only for him.

  “I will not let you go.” He could not let her go. “Your life is mine. For always.”

  A slight smile curved the edges of her mouth, one side still slightly puffy from the slap.

  Her h
ead turned toward him, her lashes lifting again. “I’m already gone.”

  Now, when it was too late, he realized how strange it was for her to sit so still. He looked at her, a sudden, sharp fear almost choking him as passion was stripped from his gaze. Now he saw the beads of sweat on her upper lip. Her struggle to draw breath. Her struggle to stay conscious.

  He saw death in her eyes.

  “What have you done?”

  He jumped to his feet as she lifted one of her arms above the level of the table for a moment. Blood dripped off her hand in thick crimson rivulets from a gaping gash at her wrist.

  “You want my life? Scrape it up off the floor.”

  She laughed, but a gasp cut it off. She began to slump sideways and he jumped to catch her. Her head came to rest on his shoulder, in a mockery of the submission he had hoped for. The chains kept him from holding her completely.

  He smoothed her hair back from her face. “How did you do this?”

  “Like this…”

  Her arm bunched suddenly, his only warning before she tried to drive her knife into his heart. She was so weak, it was nothing to stop her. He removed the knife from her fingers and tossed it on the table, his hands sticky with her blood.

  …a terrible solitude on every side…

  Her lips moved and he leaned closer, his ear near to her mouth.

  “…unlock…”

  “Unlock…what…” he began when the outpost came to life. He could feel it. “Then you did have—”

  A siren began to pulse.

  “…oops…”

  In between the pulses he heard a voice, a warning voice.

  Her lashes lifted for a moment. Her mouth twisted slightly in what tried to be smile. She exhaled slowly and didn’t inhale again.

  Gower rushed in. “My leader, we must leave now!”

  He eased her back into her chair.

  She had found a way to leave him after all.

  Maybe later he would be angry, but right now, all he could feel was regret that something so lovely, so vital was gone, and a reluctant respect for her resolve.

  It felt wrong to leave her like that, but it would only be for a short time and all of this would be gone. For just a moment he could see her, not like this, but the way she looked when she was dancing that night, the way she looked when she sang, her face lit from within.

  He was glad he got to see her dance and hear her sing.

  “My leader…”

  “Let us leave then.”

  * * * *

  Fyn stepped out first, doing a quick clearing sweep, then signaled for the others to follow him. They were about halfway down a long corridor. Unlike the lower levels they’d worked their way through, there was light on this level, though not a lot.

  “Sir?” One of the Marines held up a cap. “This is one of ours.”

  “Then she is here somewhere,” Carey said. He looked down. “No helpful light path to show us the way.”

  “We could split up and search—” Fyn said.

  Before he could finish, the ground under their feet…hummed and lights flickered all around them, then steadied to a new level of brightness. It was as if the outpost…woke up.

  On the heels of this, a siren began to pulse, with a voice saying something in a strange language.

  Henderson looked around. “I could be wrong, but that sounds an awful lot like a self-destruct count down, sir.”

  If the outpost was awake…Fyn looked down. A row of lights pointed down the corridor.

  “Carey, look.”

  Carey looked. “All right, Henderson, take your squad and get back to the portal—”

  “Negative, sir. We’re not leaving until we all leave.”

  “Let’s get this done then. Fyn—”

  Fyn didn’t wait to be told to take point. He just took it.

  They didn’t run into anyone until four corridors later and then all they saw were backs running.

  “That can’t be good.” Carey looked worried.

  “We go this way.” Fyn pointed at the path, now making a sharp right. If all they did was find Sara in time to die with her, so be it.

  Around one corner, they ran into some opposition. The Marines stayed to clean up while Carey and Fyn surged ahead. The path led them down one more hall, and then turned into a doorway. Fyn picked up the pace, not so worried about running into anyone now, but very worried about why the AI seemed to think Sara was still here when the Dusan seemed to be fleeing the outpost.

  The door slid open for him and he found out why they hadn’t bothered to take her with them.

  Carey skidded to a halt beside him, his gaze taking in the gruesome scene at a glance. Fyn was already moving to her side. He didn’t know where to touch her. Blood dripped slowly down her hands into wide pools under her chair. A bloody knife lay on the table.

  “Shit.” Carey sounded winded.

  How was this possible? She could heal. He tried for her wrist, to check her pulse, but the deep gashes changed his mind. And the chains.

  They’d chained her. What else had they done?

  He reached for her neck. It took an endless minute for him to find a faint, a very faint pulse.

  “She’s still alive. Barely.”

  “It looks like she’s almost bled out.” Carey got on the radio. “Henderson, we found Donovan but…” He looked at Fyn. “Can we move her?”

  “She’s chained to the chair.”

  “I can fix that.” Carey pulled his nine mil, pointed the barrel where the chains connected to the chair and fired, breaking the connections one at a time.

  When she was free, Fyn picked her up and carried her to the bed, trying not to think about why it was there. Carey handed him napkins from the table and he knotted them around her wrists—too little, too late.

  Why wasn’t she healing? The angle of the cuts was…disturbing. They looked…self-inflicted.

  “What the hell happened here?” Carey asked.

  The countdown seemed to be going faster now.

  Carey hit the radio. “Get out of here. We’re coming as soon as we can.” He looked at Fyn. “We’ll have to risk moving her.”

  But they could both tell they were running out of time. As he bent to pick her up, the count tightened…then ended. They looked at each other, bracing for it.

  There was a bright flash of light. It reminded him of the one that saved the Doolittle. It flowed out and up…and when it faded…they were still there.

  “Okay…” Carey started to breath again. “I’m thinking we should leave before they realize this place is still here and come back.”

  “Good plan.” He looked at Sara, wondering how he was going to carry her with the chains still dangling from arms and legs.

  Carey got on the radio. “All teams fall back. I repeat, fall back—”

  “Sir, this is Evans, down by the portal. It looks like the Dusan are leaving the area.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “It’s all lit up down here. All kinds of sensors and crap just came on. We got maps, too, like back in the city.”

  “Okay, I want you to go back through and send a medical team back with a stretcher. Donovan’s in pretty bad shape. Tell them to hurry.”

  * * * *

  Adin watched from the bridge of his ship, waiting for the self-destruct to finish its countdown.

  There was a flash on the surface. A bright light flowed out from the spot, like the one that had come from the earth ship when he had tried to take Sara the first time.

  “Shields up.”

  Just like then, the energy hit them, spinning their ships out of position. Adin hung on to the side of his chair, waiting for it to stop.

  “Give me a read out on the surface,” he said. “Is the outpost gone?”

  His man looked up from the panel. “Yes, my leader. I am also reading dangerous levels of radiant energy from the outpost’s location.”

  What had he been hoping to see, he wondered? Why had he stayed? He had s
een her die. Now he had seen her burial.

  All he could hope is that one day he would forget her.

  “Take me home,” he said.

  Ten

  Sara knew people were concerned about her. The doctor talked to her in loud, jovial tones. The Old Man had come and looked at her with worried eyes and said hearty comforting things. They’d sent in the shrink.

  The ones she could keep out, she did. She couldn’t see Fyn right now. When she thought of Fyn, she saw Fiona looking at Adin with a slight flush on her face. How could she tell him what they did to her? How could she not tell him?

  Even with the help of the nanites, it had taken a blood transfusion to pull her back from the brink and she was still wasn’t fully recovered. Who knew bleeding out could slow her heal rate by almost half? She’d been weak as a cat, but was getting stronger every day.

  They all knew she’d slit her own wrists, but they didn’t know why. No one asked. She was on a suicide watch and the few people she did see tiptoed around her like the wrong word would push her over the edge.

  And they watched her.

  There was a camera in the corner of the room, like a lidless eye, a red light telling her it was always on.

  So Sara did the only thing she knew to do; she retreated back inside herself.

  She did okay until she fell asleep. That’s when the Adin came back. The scene played again and again, but it didn’t always end the same way. Sometimes he’d be right. She would give in to him. She’d wake up sweating and shaking and sick to her stomach.

  The doctor knew she wasn’t sleeping and gave her pills, but Sara only pretended to take them. The drugs made it too hard to wake up, to get out of the nightmares.

  Her chest was knotted and tight and she probably needed to cry it out, but she was a soldier. Soldiers didn’t cry.

  If they’d just have let her fly…but instead they watched and waited for her to crack. If she could have, she would have.

  As another night prepared to close in on her, Sara sat on her bed, working out the fingering for a song on the tabletop. She longed for her keyboard, but she didn’t ask for it.

  She didn’t ask for anything.

  Everything she did seem to have some deeper meaning to the shrink, so she did as little as possible.