She felt her eyes widen, but cautioned herself not to reveal much more. “Are you like me?”
“I don’t know. Now’s not the time to figure that out. We have to get gone.”
She shook her head. Escaping with the stryker would be a complicated matter. There was no telling what things the Zenti may have done to the Jocosta. Her last flight in the vessel had been just that, a last-ditch effort. Calibrations could have been affected in the navsys.
And there was the chrono-slip, no longer a random anomaly. “There might have been damage to the systems. There are dozens of calculations. The plotting—”
“Good. That’s thinking in the right direction.” He nodded, his moves exaggerated, tone mocking. “But you’re going to have to do that on your feet. Like now.”
“Okay. If I help you, what happens to me?”
His pause was long enough to make her realize either he was not being honest or he had not thought that far ahead. “I give you my word I won’t let anything bad happen to you.”
“The word of a criminal. Miri, Granter of Mercies.” She rolled her eyes.
Incredibly, Korbyn managed to look insulted. “No. I give you the word of a Guildsman.” He spoke gruffly in High Eugenes, with that quirk-some accent. “I’m a Guild-sworn of Ironvale. Infiltrator division.”
He watched her in expectant silence. His expression was grave, as if his words bore some weight or importance.
She lifted a shoulder. “Am I meant to be impressed?”
“You tell anyone in Poisoncry what I just said, they’d earn a happy payday,” he snapped, deflated.
Even if what he had just told her had given her some bloodthirsty leverage, it did not mean she owed him unwavering trust. Erelah flattened her shoulders. “This is still a trap, no matter what.”
“We don’t have time for this.” He leaned over her, reaching for her shackles.
She drew her knees up, prepared to lash out with her feet. “Don’t touch me—”
His vox chimed. Both of them startled.
Korbyn triggered the antique vox-link attached to the shoulder of his coat: “Jin-ji, there’s been a break with the stryker. Best you come to the bridge.”
Erelah and Asher stared at each other. She sensed his desperation now. The cool swagger and bravado he had affected during their first meeting had evaporated. This was not an act.
“No tricks?” She allowed her body to uncoil slightly.
He shook his head. “No tricks.”
“Still don’t trust you.” She leaned forward.
He unlocked the shackles. “Good. Trust is overrated.”
14
Instinct screamed through Asher’s head as they stole through the oddly deserted corridors of the Mercy. In the midst of this, the girl’s memories bubbled up. It was distracting. Given his Binait heritage, he may have learned a fierce control of his emotions, but she never had.
The maze of corridors twisted underfoot. Brain a throbbing misery. That black thing digging, scratching in the darkness behind her eyes. Spine-shattering panic rising, threatening to strangle. They would find Maynard soon, know she is missing. Take her back to the den of the beast…
Asher shook his head, trying to dispel it. The slimy aura of her helplessness clung to him. It was definitely not helping.
He kept his hand firmly wrapped around her upper arm, although he doubted she would try to run off. The ship was a hulking dark unknown to her, now filled with crewies he could no longer control.
He glanced at her in the dull light. She maintained that same almost regal posture, moving as if she owned the boat. The subtle narrowing in her eyes suggested her brain was hard at work. He doubted there was ever a moment when she wasn’t thinking.
Tilley was not her name.
Her real name drifted at the edge of his grasp, carried in the uncertain current of her memories. Emotions seemed easier to conjure. Specific things like facts and names proved elusive.
Like the code on the stryker compsys.
Sensing his attention, she turned a distrustful frown at him, thrusting her shoulders back. She was not what she had seemed at first: weak, coddled. There was spine there, brickiness.
He smirked.
Perhaps, under different circumstances…
“Binait.” She announced it with sudden affirmation as if concluding an internal conversation. “You’re part Binait. That may be why the sight-jack didn’t work. You’re a half-breed.”
Perhaps not. He felt that familiar ugly twang against his pride at the word. “Why what?”
“When I touched you—”
“Now? Now you decide to talk?” he growled, incredulous. Asher hastened their pace. “Some things ain’t your business.”
“This isn’t the same way back to the stryker.” She slowed, wary.
“No. Not directly.” He tugged her along. “Don’t care to walk right into a trap.”
There was not a crewie in sight as they reached the passage to the aux bay. The skin along the back of his neck tightened.
Tilley muttered a snippet of prayer in Eugenes, her gaze fixed on a section of corridor ahead.
The three figures unfolded from the shadows ahead. They leaned or crouched, bodies tensed, tattooed faces flat with hate. Their keen yellow eyes regarded him and the girl in hungry silence as they stepped into their path.
“More behind us.” She tugged at his collar. Heavy footfalls and a slight jar of the deck confirmed her announcement.
Splendid.
“Something amiss, brothers?” Asher demanded, pulling the girl to stand behind him. She wedged her body against his back. Her fingers were desperate hooks in the fabric of his duster.
He kept his hands out at his sides. None of them appeared armed. But they were never without a hidden blade. Even Zenti weren’t crazy enough to walk around armed with weapons that could blast a hole through the aging hull of the Mercy. He was. The weight of the pulse gun pressed into his waistband was a comfort.
None of them answered him. Instead they spoke to each other:
“Spivey gets the piece first.”
“Ix wants him breathin’.”
There was no longer a chance at manipulating them. They were set.
I really don’t need this right now.
He watched them block the passage. Their eyes flicking off and to the right. A sudden rushing sensation from behind him on that side. He ducked instinctively, shoving the girl clear. The swing missed him by inches. He countered while the Zenti was still off balance, driving his fist into his open torso.
The girl yelped in warning. Asher turned in time to take a fist to the jaw. A staggering explosion of white pain licked his spine. Something solid and unmistakably metal struck him across both hamstrings. He went down on his knees, hard. Reaching behind his back into his waistband, he encountered the empty space where the pulse gun once resided.
What the—
The next crewie rushed him headlong, only to have his chest seared in a flash of wicked yellow light. He collapsed to the deck and did not stir. Asher swiveled around.
The girl stood in a braced stance, both hands wrapped around a pulse gun. His pulse gun. Tilley had lifted it off him and now wielded it like an experienced soldier.
Her gaze flitted over him, hardened, calculating, as if he had been taken into account and dismissed. She drew her aim up and over his head. He flinched, feeling the flash of the pulse as it struck another target. The body of another Zenti buffeted his back and rolled to the deck.
Slack-jawed, he watched her step into the center of the corridor and release another round of shots. The remaining two Zenti did not have a chance; both strikes were center mass.
Mere seconds had ticked by.
The girl’s back was to him as she lowered the weapon to her side. A trembling shook her frame. Asher climbed to his feet, wincing at the pain in his legs.
“Tilley?”
Her shoulders tensed.
He took a cautious step forward, ver
y aware of the white-knuckled fist that gripped the pulse gun.
The only response was her sudden exhalation, like an empty scream. She took in the bodies, then released the weapon with a startled gasp. Asher snatched it up before it could hit the deck.
Her wide green eyes brimmed with tears. “I had to. Tyron…” She quaked, swallowing. “I did the math, you see? Bad odds. This isn’t me. It was T-Tyron.”
He nodded, numb. Five to one was bad odds. They would not have gotten free unscathed.
It begged the question: If she were capable of doing this all along, why like this? Why now?
He could not shake the notion that someone else was wearing her like a Tilley suit, some other intellect. If she had affected her earlier cringing fearful countenance, she was a far better actor than he had imagined.
He sensed the answer in her strange lost expression: she could no more control this than he could the alien riot of her memories now taking root in his skull. This was the side effect of a cruelty played on her; a by-product of the strange gift that allowed her to peer into thoughts and impose her will. As much as she could control another, there was a price. It could control her in return.
He had glimpsed it and put a label on it in the first moments of meeting her.
She was lost.
Now he owed her his life.
15
Erelah folded her arms against her waist and crumpled to a ball. It was easier to stare down at the deck and not see the five bodies. Looking would make it real. Distantly, she was aware of Korbyn’s movements. He was stepping over them, rummaging through pockets, searching.
It happened so quickly. The urge to act had been overwhelming and complete.
Foolish. I’ve been so stupid to think I could control this. I’m like a child walking around with a weapon, thinking it a toy.
Even Korbyn regarded her with fear now, like some…thing.
I’ve become Tristic’s monster after all.
“You hurt?” His voice was thick with caution as he stood over her. She did not look up.
Why would it matter what he thought? He is a thug, a common criminal and I should not care what he thinks.
The deeper truth: a man who would not hesitate to kill is fearful, of her.
The absurd laugh built in her throat.
Korbyn rested on one knee, facing her. The pulse gun was in his hand. The baleful red eye became a dull amber: charge depleted.
Five shots. It was old indeed, to be so easily spent.
She shuddered. Erelah Veradin never learned that. Tyron had.
He reached for her.
“Don’t.” She shrank away.
The hand withdrew, back to rest on the top of his thigh.
Was that pity in his eyes? Somehow that was worse. Pity from a criminal. It stung and burrowed under her skin.
“Are you hurt?” He repeated. His eyes narrowed. “Can you walk?”
Erelah did a quick inventory. No pain. Nothing was bleeding. Just the drained sensation that was becoming all too familiar. Used. Unmade, then reshaped.
She shook her head, eyes shutting. “I didn’t mean to—”
“I don’t care. I owe you now.” It was a sudden ferocious growl. “Get up.”
She snapped her eyes open. He wasn’t focused on her. He peered down the hallway, the direction that they had just come. His eyes tracking something.
“More are coming.” He pulled her to her feet. “Move.”
Her strides were poorly matched to his as they sprinted. At each new T-junction, Korbyn paused just long enough to trigger the hatch closed behind them. He was buying time, slowing down their pursuers.
How many Zenti were left? After the five that I…
You didn’t do it. Tyron did.
They reached a larger corridor and he pulled her back before she could make it out into the open. He shoved her against an alcove. She drew in a breath, ready to protest, and he slapped a hand over her mouth. It was reflex, an unthinking motion on his part. Erelah braced herself for the painful wave that came from the connection with him. Skin on skin, the thing that triggered the Sight.
Nothing.
She twisted away. Korbyn didn’t seem to notice. His attention was ahead, their destination.
“Too easy.” He leaned back into the alcove.
He noticed her startled expression. “What.”
Nothing had happened with that contact. No Sight. No pain. She tested, pushing out to him just the slightest. Nothing. It was as if he were not there.
She shook her head. Keeping the revelation to herself. “Why do we wait?”
“This is the last passage to the aux hangar where that bird of yours is stowed.”
Then why—
A subtle shift undulated the deck underfoot. The cycle time of the engines slowed. Dead stop.
“I think we’re about to be boarded—”
There was a sudden spine-snapping jolt to the deck, the walls. Erelah toppled. The grate chewed into her palms. An ear-splitting complaint of metal echoed around them. A popping nestled against her eardrums with the change of air pressure. A breach warning warbled into life, aged and uneven. Scratchy with static on disused speakers, an automated voice reported in Regimental a breach on a level and section that meant nothing to her.
“Boarding lancet,” Korbyn spat.
“They still use those?”
That was absurdly outdated tech, as dangerous to the users as it was to the ship being attacked. The flash of confusion in his eyes was gone just as soon as it had appeared.
There was a sensation of more grinding metal on metal, sudden violent shudders in succession. The sound drew closer like the slow march of a giant.
Safety bulkheads. At least something worked on Korbyn’s boat. They’d seal off access to the bay, to the stryker. There’d be no way out then. If whoever was attacking was enough to make Korbyn nervous, she wanted none of it.
“Out of time,” he hissed. His back was to her while he prodded at the screen of a malfunctioning interface.
This was her only chance. Erelah pushed off the wall and ran.
16
Faster! Erelah rounded the corner into the bay, Korbyn somewhere in her wake.
Move! Maybe if I get to the stryker first…
Keeping low, she slipped into the hanger, half-drenched in shadow. One glimpse of the sleek lines of the Jocosta poised in the center of the deck and a spike of relief shot through her. A dark figure darted beneath the vessel’s wing. Erelah dodged behind the wasted hull of an atmo runner.
She risked a quick look from her hiding spot. The uncertain light picked out the man’s features. Spivey!
The deck lurched, throwing her into plain view. The pressure change pushed at her eardrums, a precursor to the shutting of the cargo bay’s emergency bulkhead.
She scrambled back into hiding. Panic squeezed her lungs. Had he seen her?
The thud of a heavy tread announced Korbyn’s approach. He’d made it inside before the bulkhead shut.
Even if she could get to the Jocosta there was no guarantee she could find the remote frequency for the cargo doors in her lifetime. So much for making it to the Jocosta without him.
Now what?
Darting into the open space of the hangar would make her an easy target for Spivey or other Zenti lurking nearby. Going back wouldn’t work. There was a third option. She squirmed beneath the low-slung belly of a derelict runner and tucked her legs against her chest.
Heart thudding, she watched as heavy boots approached in a purposeful stride. They slowed, drawing a path along the runner’s side.
Was that Korbyn? Or Spivey? In her scramble, she’d lost track.
Erelah pulled herself further along under the runner. Her hands encountered a puddle of something warm and wet. She squinted in the dimness. Blood. She shuddered. The body of a Zenti lay nearby. Beyond him lay two more. It had been a butchering.
Had the mutineers turned on each other? The quiet, reasoning part of her did not
care. It meant fewer of them to outrun.
Breathing in shallow gulps, she watched as the boots paused. Then they took up stride again, heading around the aft of the runner. A brief flutter of relief washed over her. The plodding pace continued to her left then along her flank. The footsteps paused. Forced to lie on her stomach in the confined space, she could not turn completely around. Moving her lips in silent prayer to Miri, she struggled to listen over her pounding heart.
Silence followed.
Then, slowly, another footfall. And another. Moving away. The spring of panic in her chest uncoiled. She cautiously exhaled the breath she’d been holding.
Rough hands latched onto her ankles, dragging her out with undeniable strength. She screeched into Spivey’s victorious grin.
He planted a foot on her sternum, pressing down. The air left her lungs in a wounded rush.
“Gotcha! Where’s Korbyn then, girl?”
She rolled from beneath his boot and propelled herself into a corner against the hull of the runner.
“Right here.” Korbyn appeared over Spivey’s shoulder. The Zenti turned in time to catch a heavy coil spanner across his jaw. There was a distinct cracking sound. A spray of warm droplets peppered her face.
“Running off a smart move?” Korbyn hissed, pulling her to her feet.
She was still catching her breath when she saw the dark shape move over Asher’s shoulder. Sensing her shift of attention, he turned and caught the butt of a rifle against his temple. He collapsed to the floor, thick blood already pouring from his face.
The shape was a Eugenes male, built like a mountain. Red hair sprouted from his head in a wiry brush and a heavy beard woven into ratty braids ran down his chest. He reeked of stale rum and sweat.
The giant prodded Asher’s body. “Welcome back, brother. Lucien’ll be glad to see you.”
He spread a crazed grin at Erelah. “Today just gets better and better, don’t it?”
17
Asher drifted between pain and swimming grayness. Heavy hands moved him with graceless trundling. Then his body smacked against cold deck plates. Rough voices coughed out words. Throaty chuckles like growls. The shuddering thrum of a ship’s engine rattled his aching skull. Smaller, harsher, like a scrub runner, but with atmo engines.
allies and enemies 02 - rogues Page 6