by Chele Cooke
Her attention flickered back fast, however, and she took a deep breath.
“I want my brother.”
“Miss Tack, I’m sure you can understand why it would be unwise for me to release the young captain,” he said. “No lasting harm has been done to him, I assure you, but he knows far too much to forget about the things that happened here.”
She stepped forwards, a fiery little thing. Balling her hands into fists, her nostrils flared in the same way her brother’s did when angered. Yet, unlike her brother, she reigned in her temper with ease. When she spoke, she was perfectly calm.
“Once the cirque leaves Corapolvo, Lachlan will not be able to do anything about the things he saw. He is a captain, yes, but of one of the poorer quadrants of a small city on a backwater planet,” she told him evenly. “You seem like you’ve been doing this a long time, Mr. Hatliffe. You should know by now that the coalition care little for the stories of small-time captains.”
Cole cocked his head to the side as he regarded her. Releasing his hold on Jack, he stepped towards her. He expected her to jump away from him, to keep her distance, but she held her ground, never once breaking his gaze.
“Do you think so little of yourself that you believe your brother would not wish to find you?” he asked. “My illusionist has had a little look into your brother’s mind, as did our late fortune teller. They have seen the things your brother did for you, the things he sacrificed. Do you believe he wouldn’t follow if his little sister, the last of his family, were to vanish?”
She gulped and gritted her teeth as she glanced at Jack. Reaching out, Cole brushed the hair from her face. A shudder ran through her and he could feel the fear coming off her in waves. She didn’t move.
“Is that it then? I’m a prisoner?” she breathed.
A low chuckle slipped from him as he patted her cheek gently.
“Of course not, Miss Tack,” he said smoothly. “You will be the one to make the choice to leave Corapolvo with this ship. I never take on a crew member who does not ask for it.”
“I won’t choose this. I know what happens to people who choose this.”
He spread his hands in mocking defence and stepped back. Jack was having a difficult time keeping himself silent. He shifted and twitched, his jaw tight.
“Have you had your first vision yet?” Cole asked.
She looked away from him then, chewing on her bottom lip. He smiled.
“The first visions are always the most personal. Annalise found the same thing when she took her gift. It is a difficult thing to get past, something you will not do unless you learn to control it.”
“I won’t use it,” she hissed.
“Oh, it isn’t a matter of choice,” he answered. “The gift is with you now, and it will show you things whenever it chooses unless you take control.”
When he approached her again, she flinched away. He leaned close, close enough to see the flecks of brown and green in her hazel eyes.
“Only if you control your gift can you find a way to change the things you see, Miss Tack. Think about that.”
The shock and yearning was plain on her face when she looked up at him. He smiled as he placed his hand between her shoulder blades.
It was not his usual gift to push more than emotions onto people. He had learned over the years and put his effort into perfecting his talent. He usually let things run their course, but he was running out of time. He took all of the fear he had felt from her, solidified the yearning and desperation, and pushed the liquid emotion back to her. It ran like ink down his arm to his hand. When it reached his fingertips, she screamed.
Hadley Tack shrieked and buckled beneath the pain. Her knees hit the metal with a thump as she reached over her shoulders and clawed at her back, trying to grab the pain and wrench it away. Jack shoved past him.
“Hadley? Hadley what’s wrong?”
“STOP IT!” she shrieked, raking her nails hard into her skin.
Falling to his knees next to her, Jack took hold of her wrists and pulled her hands away. He cradled her against him, capturing her arms in his as she writhed and thrashed. He pulled the collar away from her neck. Jack Western froze. He stared in horror as his mouth opened and closed wordlessly.
A tattoo of a crystal ball was brightening against her skin. Perfectly nestled between her shoulder blades, it swirled with red and yellow fire, gathering speed until the burning orange smoke spilled from the ball and cascaded down her spine.
The curtain of rubies that glittered so prettily had finally disappeared. In its place, a swath of blood red velvet hung over the back of the couch on the other side of the room. A silver silk ribbon, which had led him through the dark, solidified into handcuffs fastened tight around his wrist: his own handcuffs. His thoughts formed into something more tangible than smoke sliding through his grasping fingers. He was finally able to catch them, hold onto them, and follow them to reasonable conclusions.
Lachlan pushed himself up, rolling his shoulder away from the ache at being kept in such an awkward position for so long. He grasped the pipe and hauled himself to his feet. His legs bowed beneath him and threatened to bend like rubber. Tingles and pricks of pain danced from his toes and all the way up his thighs. He’d been here for a while.
It didn’t take much to work out where ‘here’ was. The jewelled colours in the furniture fabric and the foreign paintings on the metal walls all led him back to the same answer. He was on the cirque ship.
The mist that had danced in amongst his thoughts was finally clearing. The man who ran the cirque had had him brought here. He’d kidnapped him with the help of some of his other men. They’d drugged him, telling him that he’d already had the stuff before. That was it, he knew. His suspicions about the lemonade were on target. If he could get a sample then he’d be able to hammer these people with far more than supplying liquor. He was already certain he could get at least one of them on murder.
Lachlan pulled on the cuffs. They were his own, not some cheap pair. He knew he wouldn’t be able to snap them. He glanced around for anything in reach that he could use. A bookshelf stood against the wall next to him. Palm-sized books were wedged in amongst large tomes on everything from the history of circuses to engine maintenance. Lachlan stared at the humungous manual, waterfall thoughts dripping into place.
Hadley. They’d wanted Hadley.
He tugged fruitlessly at the cuffs as he searched for anything he could use. The guys had made a game of trying to escape their cuffs without the keys using things like hairpins and bits of card. Lachlan grimaced, wishing he’d paid more attention to what he’d thought were pointless displays. There was only one way he remembered, a method which had made all the others retch.
Lachlan stared at his hand, useless against the pipe. There weren’t any hairpins, not that he’d know how to use one anyway. He had no idea how the card trick worked. There was only one thing for it.
Tugging the large engine manual from the bookcase, Lachlan pressed his thumb against the pipe and stretched his fingers to the wall. Glancing over his shoulder, he strained to hear through the door and lifted the book above his head. He swung it at his hand as hard as he could. Pain seared through his hand but it wasn’t enough.
Lachlan put his thumb back in position on the pipe. He couldn’t flinch. He had to do this. This wasn’t a time for cowardice.
Gulping, and wishing that he had one more taste of that lemonade just to make this a little easier, he brought the book down again. His palm smashed into the wall as his thumb snapped back against the pipe.
Lachlan howled and crumpled to his knees. The book thudded to the floor, his hand still in the cuffs. His breath rattled through his clenched teeth, his body shook with pain. He would have given anything for a mouthful of that lemonade just to help him forget.
The pain wasn’t getting any better. In fact, the longer he knelt on the floor, the worse he felt. His head pounded and his throat seared with a dry stuffed feeling of swallowing sawdust. He
peeled himself off the floor, going to wrap his fingers around the pipe before he realised he wouldn’t be able to grip it.
His thumb hung at an odd angle and he could feel nothing but pain from his wrist up. Pulling his tie free from beneath his jacket, Lachlan stuffed as much of it as he could into his mouth and bit down. He screamed into the cotton as he forced his thumb in around his palm and forced the cuff up his hand.
Skin came off against the metal, the cuffs digging into every inch of his flesh. He screamed and screamed as he jerked the metal a millimetre at a time over his hand. As his own blood started to lubricate the metal, it moved more easily, until finally, with a sudden jerk, his hand slid free. Lachlan gave one last howl into his tie and spat the thing out, wrenching it from his neck and wrapping it around his bloodied and broken hand.
Lachlan turned around in a circle. With no idea how long he’d been kept here, there was no knowing whether he’d be able to get from the ship without a weapon. That was when he saw it.
The silver hipflask stood next to a carved wooden box. It was only small, small enough to fit inside the pocket of a jacket. Lachlan stepped closer and picked it up. It was difficult to unscrew with only one hand, but he finally managed to get the cap free. Hovering halfway towards sniffing, Lachlan’s mouth salivated at the thought. It would be so easy. He could have just enough to forget about the pain, to push it to the back of his mind and do what needed to be done. He would be able to take it back to the coalition and prove what they had done to him. No one would be able to mock him if they knew.
It smelled sour with none of the sweetness of the lemonade. The scent of citrus lingered in the back but it was hidden far behind something he couldn’t explain. It was tart and overwhelming, so sour it made his eyes water. His eyelids drooped as he pressed the mouth of the flask against his lips. It was just a taste. Just enough to get him off the ship.
Lachlan spun as the door swung open towards him. A man stood in the doorway. He was short and dark, his eyes wide. For the briefest moment they stared at each other, both too shocked to move. Then the man shouted.
Dropping the flask, Lachlan grabbed for the closest thing he could reach. The wooden box was difficult to hold in one hand and he swung it as hard as he could. Blood splattered the corner of the box as it connected. It spun out of his hand. Clattering to the floor, it sprang open and something gleaming flew free and disappeared under the desk.
The man buckled and Lachlan was on him. He leapt over the man and wrapped his arm around his throat, pulling back. The man was scrambling for something, panic and fear setting in. Lachlan ripped the gun from his hand as he was flung backwards from the man and onto the floor.
Pinned against the floor, Lachlan choked as a hand found his throat. He beat his broken hand against the man’s head. He no longer cared about the pain. As they grappled for control, the gun pressed into a fleshy middle.
It was as silent and as deafening as anything Lachlan had ever heard. His dark eyes bulged, his lips opened in a silent scream. He slumped down on top of Lachlan and rolled off onto the floor, clutching at his stomach with both hands.
Lachlan scrambled to his feet, the gun still hanging from his fingers. The man on the floor jerked and coughed. He stared at Lachlan desperately.
“Help,” he begged in a bloodied breath. “Help.”
Taking a step back, Lachlan’s boot skidded across the metal in something wet. The hipflask was on the floor, a pool of liquid around it. He bent down and picked it up, collecting the lid from the desk. He held it against his stomach with his arm and twisted the lid on tight. The flask fit perfectly in his pocket.
“Please,” the man coughed, bloody phlegm splattering his lips. “Help.”
Lachlan held the gun tight in his good hand as he stepped over the dying man and set off at a run down the corridor.
Hadley wasn’t in any fit state to move. Mr. Hatliffe had left them in Jack’s quarters with the orders that they weren’t to go anywhere. Jack already knew that for Hadley, leaving wasn’t an option, not yet anyway. She writhed and whimpered as the ink burrowed into her skin, her gift taking hold. She’d already slipped into visions twice. As they took her, she twisted and cried all the harder. Jack knew what she was seeing. She wouldn’t be able to go anywhere by herself.
She wouldn’t be happy with him. In fact, he was sure that she’d be furious when she came back from the vision to find him gone, but he wouldn’t be able to find Lachlan whilst having to keep her upright. He’d find Lachlan and bring her brother to her. If everything went right then they could escape together.
It was a steep climb up to the bridge. Jack didn’t make the trip up there much anymore. He had no reason to except for when they arrived in a new location. Tonight he would not be scouting a new landscape but if anyone knew where Lachlan Tack was being kept, it was the pilot. Jack had seen Kenneth deep in conversation with the ringmaster on many occasions and, apart from Malak, he was sure that Kenneth was the only one who would be trusted with such a task.
The steps up to the bridge were dirty with constant use. As no groundlings ever came this high in the ship there was no real need to keep it clean while they were on a planet. Jack grasped the metal ridging of the doorway to steady himself and stepped inside.
As usual, Kenneth was sitting in the pilot’s chair. He hunched over the control desk, his elbow on one of the panels and his chin against his palm. He stared over the top of the controls and down at the midway through the ceiling to floor curved windows.
“Hey Ken,” Jack said, stepping up next to him.
Kenneth bolted upright, his chair swaying. He spun around, glancing up at Jack before looking away. His eyebrows rose beneath his strawberry blonde hair and he quickly scratched at his pale stubble.
“Jack, what are you doing here?” he asked.
He didn’t keep his gaze for long. He dropped his hands and turned his chair back to the control panels, his fingers finding knobs to fiddle with aimlessly. Jack watched him, his brow tightening over narrowed eyes. Kenneth had always treated him well. They’d even had a joke on occasion as they looked over new locations. Now the older man could barely meet his eye.
“Figured I’d stay out of the way, you know? The coalition and all,” he said, his attempt at cheeriness falling desperately flat.
Kenneth stared at the midway, his jaw tightening.
“Yeah.”
Jack looked around the bridge. Everything looked about the same as normal. Wherever Lachlan Tack was being kept, it certainly wasn’t here. That, he had to admit, didn’t surprise him. There were too many things to mess with on the bridge, so many ways to ensure they wouldn’t be able to take off. No, the ringmaster was smarter than that. He’d keep Tack out of the way, but safe.
The litcom lay on top of one of the displays for the loading dock. The lights along the rim blinked lazily, though the screen had long since gone dark. Jack found himself staring at it, his mouth going dry. Hatliffe wouldn’t have done everything himself. The Ringmaster was far too used to giving orders, to forcing others to do as he wanted. Why should he run around after the coalition when he had the show to set up for? Jack gulped.
“You told the coalition about me, didn’t you, Ken?” he asked quietly. “You told them who I was.”
Whether Kenneth had anticipated the question or not, he remained calm. He straightened himself in his chair and let out a long sigh.
“I’m sorry, Jack,” he breathed. “You know I wouldn’t have but… but it’s Hatliffe. You know what he’s like.”
Jack nodded to nobody in particular.
“Yeah, I know.”
Kenneth turned his chair slowly. He leaned back, looking up at him properly for the first time. The pilot had always been level-headed. He was a good man to hang out with for some quiet conversation, especially since he spent so much of his time alone on the bridge. He appreciated it when people visited him and didn’t push if you didn’t want to talk.
“It was the ship, Jack,” he
said quietly. “You know that. Either we give up one man, or we…”
Laying his hand on Kenneth’s shoulder, Jack gave him a warm smile as he perched himself on the edge of the control panel. Anger bubbled inside him. Hatred and fear mixed together until it burned. Handing him over wouldn’t have done them any good and they both knew it. He had been handed over as a distraction, a fall guy, nothing more. Still, he shook his head and shrugged.
“I understand,” he said. “I would have done the same thing. I don’t blame you or Hatliffe for taking the way you thought would save the most people. You were protecting the ship, I get that.”
Kenneth didn’t look convinced but he nodded and turned back to the controls just the same. He reached out and fiddled with one of the displays, switching it from the midway to the centre ring.
“It’s only a shame that it won’t make a difference,” Jack sighed.
“What do you mean?”
Jack shrugged and crossed his arms over his chest.
“Well, we’re striking early, right? You think the coalition will just let us go on our way?”
“They’ve said they will,” Kenneth mumbled uncertainly. He glanced over at the litcom and scratched at his stubble again.
“Yeah, but not if they don’t get that captain back, right?” Jack argued as casually as if they were discussing their next stop. “Even if they don’t chase us down, they’ll send out an alert to every coalition planet out there that a cirque has a deserter on board and they kidnapped a coalition soldier. The next stop we make they’ll be all over us before we even open the doors.”
Kenneth pouted and stared blankly at the stars. He didn’t even pretend to be busy anymore.