by Susan Grant
Rom shifted uncomfortably. “Perhaps I can tell you more after I examine that medallion.”
With a resigned expression on his face, his friend lifted the lid of the second box, withdrew a lumpy drawstring pouch, and handed it to Rom. “Whether or not the eight families decide to back you, I will. Rest assured, I will fight—”
“I am not here to recruit anyone,” Rom said stiffly. “Nor to investigate the possibility of another war. I came for personal reasons. The galaxy is no longer my responsibility.”
“Somehow I find it hard to believe you believe that.”
Rom let Drandon’s remark brush past him. All his life he’d shouldered the expectations of others. No more. He was not the B’kah. He was a simple trader with his own interests at heart. He wouldn’t pretend to buoy Drandon’s hopes. He might be a hero in Jasmine’s eyes, but he didn’t care to raise anyone else’s expectations simply to end up dashing them.
“I’m here because of my own selfish interests,” Rom said briskly. “I don’t represent the eight families, or wish to. And the Vash Nadah are mired in complacency, so don’t look to them for help, either, should the Dark Years come upon us again. Continue to arm yourself and your family. Do whatever you need to keep your own interests safe. Better yet, search out a compatible planet and move there, as far away from the populated regions as you can.”
Drandon regarded him skeptically. “Run?”
“It is what I plan to do. There is a woman—I care about her a great deal. If your discovery proves to be the shadow of a larger threat, I intend to take her and her family to where they’ll be safe.” Tamping down on unwanted emotion, Rom untied the drawstring and emptied the purse’s contents into his palm. “The Family of the New Day used a depiction of clasped hands below a rising sun. This shows the hands below a nebula, or perhaps a plasma cloud or black hole.”
His friend’s relief was palpable. “So my picker was nothing more than some fanatic with an interesting bauble?”
“Perhaps.” Rom flipped over the medallion. “I suspect he belongs to a group that wants to reclaim the Family of the New Day’s former glory. The design is very similar.” Rom paused. “Unfortunately, if the Vash Nadah’s hold on the Trade Federation continues to deteriorate, I fear we will see more and more individuals like your picker.”
He pressed the engraved golden disk between his palms, and a faint tingling sensation crept up his wrists. Startled, he released it. The discovery dismayed him. “This is cast from an empathic alloy, like the original medallions.”
“These alloys were banned after the Great War,” Drandon pointed out.
“They were.” Rom kept all expression from his face as horrific memories threatened to overtake him. “But Sharron had a knack for reengineering banned technologies. This indicates that not all of what he worked toward died with him.”
Drandon gestured to the necklace with his cigar. “Isn’t it true that empathic alloys were once used to alter brain function?”
Rom nodded.
“So if I were to wear that medallion, someone could make me do their bidding?”
“They might influence your behavior,” Rom answered. “But they could not control it. Sharron came the closest of all. He possessed some psychic ability—a twisted sense of empathy, you might say—and he used the medallion to enhance this ability. During the war, when we experimented in a similar way with confiscated medallions, we were able to relay suggestions to our subjects’ neurons. But actual mind control was never achieved.”
Drandon narrowed his eyes. “What was achieved?”
“We found that most could deflect the hints we sent, unless they were weakened from sickness or exhaustion. Animals were another matter entirely.” Rom slid the medallion near where a Centaurian morning-fly was exploring the base of his glass. It hopped onto the medallion. Then, without warning, the insect rose sharply and slammed itself into the wall.
Stunned, the ex-smuggler contemplated the glittering splotch of moisture left on the stones. “Great Mother,” Drandon muttered. “That was quite a graphic demonstration.”
“Lesser creatures do not possess the strength of will we do.”
“In that, I hope you’re right. Just as I pray Sharron took the knowledge of the rest of the banned technology to his grave.”
“I suspect he did. From what my men found on his base, it appears he trusted few with his secrets. Only the elders of his sect even knew of the cloning, or far worse, his plans to resurrect antimatter weaponry.”
“Antimatter weaponry!” Drandon was uncharacteristically shaken. “During the Great War, the warlords used the like to obliterate entire planetary systems.”
“Sharron aspired to wipe out far more than mere systems, Drandon. Had we not stopped him, had we listened to the eight families and dismissed him as a harmless fanatic, he might have followed through with his goal. He wanted to detonate an immense antimatter explosion in the galaxy’s core, triggering, he hoped, its collapse. Whether or not that’s scientifically possible is debatable, but his group is a doomsday cult on a grand scale. Sharron believed we’d all be reborn into a ‘New Day.’”
“With him as God, no doubt,” Drandon remarked dryly.
“I must go,” Rom said, rising to his feet. Although Jas was safe within Muffin’s vigilant protection, in light of what he’d learned today, he wouldn’t rest until he was back by her side.
Jas leaned against Beela. Her legs trembled with the adrenaline still pumping through her veins. “I…I thought that man was hurt.”
Beela sniffed. “I suppose you weren’t the first traveler to think so. And you certainly won’t be the last.” Her two companions, a man and a young woman, collected Jas’s scattered belongings and returned them to her muddy purse. Meekly, they handed it to her.
Jas grasped the strap gratefully. “Thank you. Thanks, all of you.”
“We were on our way home when we heard your cries,” Beela said, gathering her cloak around her. She took Jas by the arm. “It’s not wise to be alone after such trauma. Come back to the compound with us. We’ll share a light meal and some lalla-blossom tea.”
“I don’t want to impose,” Jas protested weakly.
Beela gave a motherly frown. “You are not an imposition. Spend this evening among friends.”
“I have to be at the terminal in a few hours. Is it far?”
“In the mountains. But it’s only a short transport ride.”
“You mean the mountains nobody ever sees?”
“Yes. Above this filthy smog. Close to the heavens, to the stars.” Beela smiled indulgently. “I find fresh air enhances creativity and well-being.”
Well, Jas thought, that was what Betty had always said. If nothing else, Beela shared her friend’s appreciate-the-simple-things attitude, something Jas needed right about now. “Take me,” she said. “I’m yours.”
Beela gave a curt nod to the others. “We have our own transport,” the woman said, steering her toward the smallest of the Depot’s three transport terminals.
The young couple fell in behind them. Jas found it odd that Beela didn’t introduce them. Maybe they were assistants, apprentices, or possibly servants, below a successful artist’s notice. If Beela had her own transport, she was obviously doing well.
In fact, her ship was sleek and unmarked. As Jas strapped into one of the sixteen seats, the air locks closed with a hiss, and seconds later the craft lifted off. She sagged against the headrest, while Beela droned on about how much she would enjoy the visit. Jas hoped Muffin was in bed with his pleasure servant by now and not looking for her. Otherwise she’d suffer the big guy’s wrath when they met up later.
Not much more than fifteen minutes later, the transport landed with a resounding thump. Jas followed Beela out onto a windswept plateau on a craggy mountainside. Far below, the city glowed, multicolored and incandescent beneath a blanket of haze. The air was noticeably thinner and colder, lacking the cloying humidity of the Depot itself. Jas filled her lungs. “It�
�s beautiful up here,” she said.
“And inside, as well.” Beela waved elegantly toward an enormous opening in the rock and said, “Open.” The heavy metallic grate lifted on hydraulic pulleys, revealing the glittering interior of a cave carved from walls as shiny and black as obsidian. Jas walked inside, then turned slowly in a circle. Recessed lighting, pinpricks of light in the walls and ceiling, created the appearance of deep space. It was unsettling, making her feel as if she were floating.
Beela continued to sweep forward. Jas almost had to jog to keep up. Snapping her fingers and issuing curt commands, the woman dispatched dozens of men and women on unknown errands. All of them wore similar plain gray tunics, and their eagerness to please Beela was disconcerting. Several cast furtive welcoming glances in Jas’s direction, pricking her curiosity. Had she not known better, she might have thought they were expecting her.
Beela ushered her through another door and into an enormous chamber. Taking up most of the space on the back wall was a huge painting of the piece Beela had shown her in the museum the day before. The depiction of the black hole was so vivid, so arresting, that Jas could almost hear within its depths space and time melding into something unimaginable. Then her gaze crept to the other works, and she saw all were replicas of the first. “Did you paint these?”
“Not all. Some were created by my brothers and sisters,” Beela said, waving her hand at the group of plainly dressed, bland-faced men and women gathering at the perimeter of the chamber. The hair on the back of Jas’s neck prickled. Brothers and sisters? These people didn’t look anymore like Beela than Janay had. Swallowing, Jas took a second glance at the crowd. It probably wasn’t the brightest move, having come here without her own way of getting back to the Depot.
“Please enjoy the paintings,” Beela said, pride evident in her voice.
Jas glowered at the nearest. Her unease slipped into exasperation, prodded by her bone-deep exhaustion. Normal, everyday company would have been nice. But no, she’d have to spend the evening with a bunch of zealots when she was tired, irritable, and impatient for Rom’s return. God help the first person who tried to engage her in a discussion on politics or religion. She’d probably snap his head off.
“May I bring you some salve?”
Jas realized belatedly that Beela was standing next to her, just a little too close for comfort. Taking a step back, Jas opened her abraded palms. “They are sore,” she admitted, guilty for thinking badly of Beela when the woman was so accommodating.
The woman turned Jas’s hands this way and that. Then she brushed her cool fingertip over Jas’s wrist. “So beautiful,” she said in a soft, almost reverent tone. “So pale.”
Jas gave a nervous chuckle. “And here I am envying your year-around suntan.”
Beela continued to clasp Jas’s wrists. An awkward moment ticked by. Then she lifted a worshipful gaze to Jas’s hair. “Perfect. Black as the Maker’s heart.”
Jas snatched her hands away. “I beg your pardon?”
Beela blinked rapidly. She took several clumsy steps backward. “I’ll get the salve.”
Jas watched the tall woman hurry out of the chamber. Great. This was going to be one long evening, and she had no one to blame but herself. Since none of the others in the room appeared anxious to talk, she might as well view the artwork. If she was lucky, she’d find something other than the black hole, riveting as it was. Hands clasped behind her back, she wandered across the vast room. Beela’s “apprentices” parted for her like the Red Sea. They probably found her hair and skin color strange, too.
On impulse, Jas stepped into a corridor. The rock walls were bare of artwork. The passageway narrowed and led to another, which ended in a wide balcony overlooking the dark, unpopulated side of the mountains. The thick glass doors were sealed shut. “Open,” she commanded, just for fun. They remained tightly closed. Apprehension trickled along her spine, and she hastened back the way she’d come. She’d recalled passing at least two comm boxes earlier. If she could remember where one was, she’d call the Romjha. They owned a fleet of transports; surely they’d dispatch one to rescue a stranded guest. That way she wouldn’t inconvenience Beela. Although the woman meant well, she was growing spookier by the minute.
Mounted on the wall just to the right of the entrance to the main chamber was a comm box. Jas rummaged through her waist pouch for the comm card she’d purchased for routine calls. Instead her fingers closed around the wafer-thin metal card Rom had given her. She cradled it in her scraped palm, and her heart constricted. Call him. Yes, just to hear his voice, to say how much she looked forward to seeing him in a few hours. And to hear him laugh his head off when she told him how she’d gotten herself trapped for the evening in a compound full of loony artists. Grinning, she dropped the card into the slot.
As the machine flicked on, a breeze swept around her ankles, bringing with it a whiff of the incense she’d smelled just before the thieves grabbed her. She whirled around. A body slammed into her, knocking her off balance.
Jas tumbled across the polished stone floor, skidding on her rear end. Sprawled on her back, she gaped at Beela, who was shrieking, “Get the card out! Get the comm call!”
Chaos erupted in the chamber. Apprentices ran toward her from all directions. One dug Rom’s card out of the comm box. Jas tried to get up, but someone grabbed her by the hair and wrenched her painfully backward. Her numbness and disbelief transmuted to panic. She flailed wildly, trying to break free, but whoever had grabbed her hair now pinned her arms behind her back.
“I wish you had not tried to do that,” Beela said.
Wide-eyed in horror, Jas watched the woman walk toward her, a cloth clutched in her outstretched hand.
Chapter Fourteen
Seconds after the Quillie broke free of the atmosphere, the comm call in Rom’s front pocket chimed. Relief hit his tense nerves like rain splattering on still-hot thrusters. “Thank the heavens,” he said, yanking the device out of his pocket. He lifted the card to his ear. “Jas, your timing is exquisite.”
Static hissed on the other end.
“Jasmine?” He tapped the gadget in annoyance. “Hello, Jas?” Silence on the other end resonated with the fear clanging inside him. He met Gann’s baffled gaze, then scanned the status page.
CALL TERMINATED AT SOURCE.
Underneath was a twelve-digit alphanumeric code. Rom punched it into the flight computer. Gripping the console, arms braced, he stared at the display. Then he slowly raised his head. “To the Depot—maximum speed.”
“What’s going on?” Jas cried hoarsely, pumping her legs.
Beela’s lips thinned. “Keep her still!”
The apprentice who held her arms tightened his grip until Jas thought her bones might snap. Gasping in agony, Jas stopped struggling. “Why are you doing this?” she pleaded in an urgent whisper.
Beela crouched in front of her. The fanatical determination in her eyes was chilling. “He accepts so few of the treasures I offer him. But he wants you. And has ever since I first spoke of you.”
“Who does? What are you talking about?”
“But you made it difficult for me, because you did not wear your medallion. What, did you leave it in your lodgings? Foolish woman! It is for the faithful to wear, not to be left behind.” Beela settled the cool, damp fabric over Jas’s mouth and nose.
It smelled sweet. A drug. Don’t inhale. Jas wanted to scream, but somehow she had the presence of mind to hold her breath and press her lips together. Her heart slammed against her ribs, and her lungs burned. Tears stung her eyes. Then grayness tickled at the edge of her vision.
Light-headed, she locked gazes with Beela. The woman’s pale gold eyes, so similar to Rom’s, held none of his compassion, his humanity.
Jas’s lungs felt ready to explode. Don’t breathe. She knotted her hands into fists and scuffed her boots on the floor. But the elemental instinct to survive was too strong, and she couldn’t keep from sucking in a breath. The cloying odor of incens
e flooded her nostrils and made her dizzy. She saw her mother’s face…her children’s. And then Rom’s.
A silent scream of outrage tore from her soul. She wasn’t ready to die. Not now, not on the threshold of happiness, of figuring out her life.
A rushing noise filled her ears, crushing her senses and obliterating all coherent thought. And then there was nothing left but darkness…
Consciousness drifted back. Her bruised body ached, and her mouth was dry. She was strapped upright into a seat. Voices filtered through her drugged haze, and in the background, engines rumbled. They were taking her off-planet. She tried to get up, but her wrists were bound. So were her ankles. Fear-laced panic dampened her relief at discovering she was still alive, and a sob escaped her—more to protest her utter helplessness than to broadcast her fear. The voices became louder, closer, more agitated. Someone wedged a tablet under her tongue and it snuffed out the light.
When she woke again, her head had cleared. Although her insides felt strangely empty, considering how brutally Beela’s assistants had handled her, nothing hurt. Regardless, she’d best play dead—or whatever state she was supposed to be in—until she understood into what kind of danger she’d stumbled. After being kidnapped, drugged, and transported somewhere, she cringed, thinking of what might happen next.
She kept her eyes closed and attempted to use her senses to investigate her surroundings, as Rom had shown her in the Bajha game. The air circulating around her was cool and dry. She was inside somewhere, sitting upright and untied in a comfortable chair. Whatever she was wearing barely covered her buttocks, because she felt the silken cushion between her bare thighs, which meant—oh, God—that someone had removed her bra and panties.
She fought her rising panic. She heard a rustle of fabric, a breath. Apprehension trilled through her. Her stomach tightened with a surge of adrenaline, and her eyelids twitched.