Dark Horse

by Michelle Diener

Kila gave a nod.

  “Sometimes, a story is so popular, people like to wear a representation of it on their clothing, thatʼs all. When we say weʼve bought the t-shirt, it means weʼve bought into the story completely, even if we havenʼt bought an actual t-shirt.”

  “I would like to see one of these t-shirts.”

  Rose hunched a little. “Maybe one day Iʼll make one for you. Show you what it would look like.”

  Kilaʼs gaze lifted to hers. “I am sorry you were stolen from your home, Rose.”

  Rose nodded. “I have a question for you.” She thought of the awkward scene in systems engineering. “What is a music-maker? What am I agreeing to by identifying myself as one?”

  Kila leaned forward. “Who is telling you you are a music-maker?”

  “Sub-lieutenant Hista, Officer Yari. It was mentioned when I sang to Dr. Revilʼs child in the med-chamber.”

  “Your voice is so melodic, I can see why some would assume youʼre a music-maker. What song did you sing to little Gyp?”

  Rose sang the first line of Row, Row, Row Your Boat.

  Kilaʼs face froze. Rose waited, growing more alarmed, until at last she blinked. “Sing something else.”

  Not really knowing what to make of that, Rose decided on Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, trying to make light of the whole situation. She kept a half-smile on her face, waiting for Kila to call her on it, or realize she was being joked with, but it never came.

  “You are a music-maker.” Kila voice was hushed.

  “What does that mean, though? What does it entail?”

  Kila stood, and Rose got to her feet as well, so she wasnʼt being loomed over.

  “Music-makers are revered in our society. We love music, but biologically, our voices arenʼt very tuneful. There are some races we come into contact with who sing, but their music is discordant to our ears, or unpleasant to us, and they arenʼt interested in singing in our language. When someone who is Grih can sing well, and that happens very rarely, they hold a special place.”

  “Iʼm not Grih,” Rose said.

  “But you want to stay with us? Captain Jallan said that you wish to make a home with us?”

  Rose nodded.

  “You will be most welcome, no matter what. But as a music-maker, you will be embraced.” Kila bowed to her, as respectfully as Rose could ever have wished.

  As she left, Rose thought perhaps she wasnʼt a bug to Kila anymore, but maybe a pedestal was just as uncomfortable as a microscope.

  Dav stood outside Roseʼs door, and wondered what he was doing there.

  The two battle cruisers heʼd called for over a day ago, when theyʼd first stumbled on the Class 5, had light jumped in and taken up position on either side of the Barrist. Heʼd spoken to both captains, but there was nothing to do but wait until Admiral Valu assembled his group of Class 5 gawkers and Dav had to deal with superior officers who would want to muscle in on his action.

  Dimitara was expecting a delegation from the United Council, and it seemed like everyone wanted a front row seat, so it was going to take at least six hours for them to arrive.

  Dav had arranged for the Tecran officers to be transferred over to the Barrist, had lit a fire under his logistics crew to inventory the stores on the Class 5 so they had more of an idea of where the Class 5 had been, and had had a frustrating conversation with Borji, who still hadnʼt managed to get in to the comms or weapons systems on the Class 5.

  He had a hundred things he could be doing, but here he stood, two small black bags in his hand, playing delivery boy.

  Except, he knew that wasnʼt the full truth.

  He wanted to see Rose again. The moment by the pool . . . he fought the shudder that wanted to shake free.

  And then again, if it was just that, simple attraction, he could handle it, put it aside until things were calmer. Understand it.

  But there was more.

  Only one thing in the bags made sense. A set of clothing; trousers of a natural fibre that Kila was most excited about, and a shirt of the same fibre, but thinner, with small round fastenings, white with lilac flowers printed on it. They were soft with wear, and he had no doubt they were the clothes she had been taken from Earth in.

  But from there, things went wrong.

  The bags contained clothing made from hyr fabric. At least four sets. And sheʼd had a set on when theyʼd rescued her. Almost priceless, Olip, his logistics chief, had told him. Usually traded for favors or concessions on the international level, but if a price was set, he wouldnʼt want to guess what it could be.

  Then there was the yuiar-scented soap sheʼd been using. There were four bottles of it, two in each bag. The combined cost, Olip said, was more than Dav earned in a year.

  So why did she have it?

  He knew how the Tecran had treated her. They looked after the flocks of baug they liked to hunt on Tecra better than theyʼd looked after her.

  The convenient escape to Harmon, just as the air and power went down, the look on her face when heʼd told her most of the Tecran crew were dead. Now this.

  Something wasnʼt adding up.

  And while he wanted to trust her, wanted to do a lot more than that, he had a responsibility to his crew that he couldnʼt ignore.

  And the number of potential casualties if this all blew up in their faces was only rising as Battle Center and the United Council got in on the action.

  He raised his hand and pushed the buzzer, angry with himself that dread sat heavy and cold in his stomach.

  The door opened, and Rose stood there, in the burgundy tunic and pants they gave to visitors to easily identify them.

  She smiled at him, a shy smile that conjured up the warm, heavy air of the pool room, her weight in his lap, the feel of the firm, smooth skin of her breast under his fingers.

  He held up her bags, unable to speak.

  “They were able to get them!” Her smile widened, although she didnʼt reach for them.

  Appalʼs team had retrieved them before he and Rose had even left Harmon. Theyʼd been in the runner that had taken her up to the Barrist yesterday, but Dav wanted them thoroughly checked before they were returned to her.

  She stepped back. “Come in.”

  He managed to walk across the threshold, and she closed the door behind him.

  “My team checked the bags.” He placed them on the small table in the middle of the room. He noted with approval that there was a food tray near one of the chairs, and that it was almost empty.

  Her face tipped up to look at him, no hint of worry or guilt on it. When he didnʼt continue, the skin of her forehead creased in a frown. “There was something bad in them? They were . . .”

  She paused, and he realized she was trying to think of the Grih word. Eventually she blew out a breath in annoyance.

  “There was a tracking device or listening device in them?”

  He kept his face impassive. “Why would you think that?”

  She shrugged. “You just looked so serious. Whatʼs wrong, then?”

  He opened one of the bags, drew out the hyr fabric, felt it reacting immediately to the warmth of his hand. “Do you know what this is?”

  “I was told. Hyr fabric. Isnʼt it wonderful? I donʼt think anything the Tecran had would fit me, so it was perfect.”

  Could it be as simple as that? A lack of suitable clothing, so in a rush theyʼd given her something that would fit. Why would they care that her clothes fit her properly?

  He pulled out the yuiar gel. “And this?”

  She lifted her shoulders. “It was in the bags. I like the smell. It reminds me of home.”

  “Yuiar is found on Earth?” Again, could it be this easy?

  “Something like it, yes.” She took the bottle from him, opened the lid and sniffed. “Itʼs a combination of two scents that are often found together in soaps and perfume; cinnamon and vanilla.”

  “Expensive?” He tried to make the question casual.

  She shook her head. “Not particularly, no. Whatʼs
the problem with it? Shouldnʼt I have used it? Is it dangerous?”

  He honestly had no idea what to do with her. She did not understand what wealth lay before her on the table. And why should she? She wasnʼt from their corner of the galaxy.

  “Who gave you the bags?” He saw that she had at last realized this wasnʼt a friendly visit, that she was being questioned, and the hurt that sparked in her eyes for a fleeting moment hurt him right back.

  He didnʼt just remember the feel of her in his arms in the pool room. The way she had broken and then pulled herself back together in that room had been as real as anything heʼd ever seen. And as honest. It was driving him mad that he both questioned her version of events, and believed sheʼd been terribly wronged.

  “No one gave them to me. They were in the explorer craft already when I boarded. I found them on the way to Harmon in a small cupboard.”

  He turned away from her, and walked to the screen on the far wall of her room, set to a cool, frothy waterfall. “So they arenʼt yours.”

  “They are now.” Her voice was short, and he suppressed a wince. “I had nothing for three months. Just the same clothes on my back every day. Those packs gave me my first soap and my first change of clothes, and they became mine the moment I pulled them out of that cupboard. Why else would they have been put there, if not for me? I donʼt know why you would want to take them away from me, but tough, you canʼt.”

  “No one wants to take them away from you.” Dav turned to look at her. “We want to understand how it came to be that the Tecran gave you, their prisoner, the two most expensive items in their store, and sent you to safety, while they stayed behind and died.”

  She stared at him, eyes wide. “You think I had something to do with the deaths on the Class 5?”

  “I donʼt have a choice but to consider it. You certainly had motive. And now, I have to add that you have items which are worth my annual salary many times over sitting in those two bags into the mix.”

  She gaped at him. “I didnʼt know their value. I was pleased with them for their intrinsic usefulness. What do you think I was going to do with them? Sell them to the gryaks on Harmon? And how did I steal them from the stores, and how did I even know they were there, let alone how much theyʼre worth?”

  He shook his head. She was right, there were too many parts of this that didnʼt make sense, but he wouldnʼt, couldnʼt, get more involved with her on a personal level until she stopped holding back the full truth.

  “Iʼm sorry you donʼt feel able to tell me everything you know,” he said, stiff and formal as if he were addressing a Battle Center report committee.

  “Iʼm sorry, too.” Her voice was always musical, but she seemed to been forcing out her words. “Captain Jallan——”

  “Dav.” He snapped out his name, annoyed that heʼd betrayed himself, but after the pool she had no business not knowing his first name.

  “Dav.” She said his name quietly and he couldnʼt help focusing on her at the sound of it. Wanting to hear it on her lips again.

  She sighed, slumped into a chair as if their conversation had leached all her energy. “What does a music-maker do? Day to day?”

  He blinked at the change in topic. “They work on music.”

  “Do they mainly sing to a live audience, or record themselves in visual comms, play audio comms?”

  Dav frowned. “Live audience?”

  “Like a concert.”

  He shook his head. “They provide the music at state ceremonies, at important meetings and events.”

  “Why havenʼt I heard any of their songs? Iʼm told you love music and music-makers are revered, but you donʼt play the music over the comms, or even in the communal spaces on the ship.”

  Dav tried to understand her. “The music is too special to waste in that way. If we played it over the comms, it would lose its power.”

  He could see she was struggling with that idea. “Music doesnʼt lose its power, unless you play the same songs over and over too often, then sure, people get sick of them.” She tipped her head back, looking at him with her striking green eyes. “How many songs are floating around at any one time, anyway?”

  Dav thought about it. “Ten or so a year.”

  She gaped. “Ten? But all the songs from the years before havenʼt gone away, have they?”

  Since heʼd met her, heʼd marveled at how like them she was, but for the first time, he could feel the divide, the gap between her culture and his. “Each song is written for a specific event, so no, they canʼt be re-used.”

  “Music-makers write songs for specific events, and then sing them once, for that event, and thatʼs it?”

  He gave a nod.

  She blew out a breath. “Okay, thanks. I can honestly say that wouldnʼt suit me.”

  “You would deny you are a music-maker?”

  She paused. “I donʼt feel like a music-maker. I know my voice is okay, but it isnʼt great. And I donʼt understand why you wouldnʼt listen to songs more if you love singing so much. The power of it isnʼt diminished by repetition. Itʼs a never-ending well.”

  “I donʼt think you understand. To be called a music-maker is a high honor.” Another reason he should never have held her in his arms and touched her. A music-maker had no place on a Battle Center Explorer. “There are only ten music-makers alive in the Grih population at the moment, and two of them are near retirement.”

  She waved that off with a flick of her hand. “This is all a moot point, surely, if Iʼm likely to be locked up for mass murder?” She stared at him in challenge as she spoke, and it reminded him of the way sheʼd looked at him on the trip back to the Barrist on the runner when heʼd asked her what sheʼd been saying to herself by the river.

  It had the same effect on him this time, too. He could feel every sense sharpen, every muscle tense.

  “Rose, donʼt joke about that. Thereʼll be a United Council investigation. I believe you were held and abused by the Tecran, but the lens feed of what they did to you isnʼt anywhere my systems engineers can find it, and while the forensic evidence will show where you were kept and for how long, you are alive, they are dead, and you have in your possession some of the best things from their stores.”

  A chime sounded in his ear, and the comms system told him Borji wanted to talk to him.

  He gave a formal bow of his head. “I have to go. Perhaps you will consider what Iʼve said. I know you know something, Rose. Let me know when youʼre ready to tell me.”

  She shook her head as she stood, and looked down at her handheld lying on the side table beside her chair, almost glaring at it. “I canʼt tell you anything.”

  She lifted her gaze to his. “I didnʼt ask for any of this. I was happily sipping coffee on the porch of the holiday cottage Iʼd rented, watching the sun rise over the river and singing along to the radio, and the next thing I knew I was in that cell, with Dr. Fliap rubbing his hands together with glee at the sight of me. I really donʼt owe you, or the United Council, anything. If youʼre so worried about what Iʼm capable of, put me back on Harmon.”

  She looked so small, bristling up at him. Fierce and angry. And about as dangerous as one of the fluffy kapoots his mother liked to keep as pets.

  But still . . . there was something she was hiding. Heʼd bet on it. “I donʼt have any say in the matter anymore, Rose. Battle Center are sending a senior delegation, and Liaison Officer Dimitara has sent for a United Council committee. Youʼre going to have to ride this out.”

  She didnʼt reply, merely went to the door, opened it, and then gestured with her arm, in a way that left no doubt she was showing him out. Her face was grim as she closed the door behind him.

  He stood for a moment in the passageway, Borji still on hold, and tried to shake the feeling he had lost something. Although he couldnʼt have lost something he hadnʼt had to begin with.

  It didnʼt seem to matter, though. As he started back to the bridge, tapping his ear comm to bring Borji online, the feeling wouldnʼt go away.

/>   17

  “I hadnʼt thought through the implications of giving you those bags,” Sazo said as Dav stepped out of her room.

  Rose shrugged. “The hyr fabric is perfect, Sazo, and the yuiar smells like home to me, so donʼt be sorry about it. I remember you told me the hyr fabric was expensive, but I donʼt think I comprehended how much.” She circled her neck on her shoulders, trying to ease the tension that had built up.

  “Iʼve made some of the lens feed from your time on the Class 5 accessible to Jallanʼs systems engineer. Heʼll think the Tecran hid it to protect themselves.”

  She hunched her shoulders, uncomfortable with the idea of others seeing her so vulnerable. The shame wasnʼt hers, but she felt a twinge of it, anyway.

  “I didnʼt like the way Jallan spoke to you.”

  “I didnʼt either.” She grimaced. “Even though I know he had every right, that Iʼm in the wrong here, I still didnʼt like it.” She suddenly snorted out a laugh. “The fact that I didnʼt like it, felt hurt by it, gave me that extra bit of anger to hide my nerves.”

  “Youʼre not in the wrong,” Sazo said.

  “Yes, Sazo, I am. We are. Captain Jallan——Dav——is right to be wary. I am hiding something and heʼs responsible for the lives of a lot of people. All he has to do is think of how he found the Class 5, all those dead bodies, and he must worry that it will happen on the Barrist. As he says, Iʼm alive, theyʼre dead. Heʼd be negligent in his duty not to give me a good hard look. Iʼm the dark horse here.”

  “Dark horse?”

  “The unknown entity. The mysterious stranger who no one has any information about, and could be either friend or foe.”

  “How does he know, though? How does he know youʼre hiding something? Everything youʼve said is reasonable.”

  Rose sat down on the small, comfortable couch and lay across it. “Itʼs hard to lie to someone when you like them, and I really like him.” She closed her eyes. “Iʼm hoping itʼs not a gratitude thing, after he rescued me from that gryak, but even if it is, Iʼm already there.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Thereʼs a spark between us. A chemistry. I like him touching me. He seems to like it, too. And in this last conversation between us, he realized he canʼt trust me, and shouldnʼt be snuggling up to the potentially dangerous orange. I mean, he knew that before, I could see it in his eyes at the pool, but now itʼs really clear, with no room for doubt.”