by Susan Grant
“No more appointments are available,” the tech there said, running Wren’s data square. “Come back later.”
“May I stay here and wait?”
He shook his head. “Against the rules.”
She turned back into the streets. The air was stifling, the dust choking. There were thousands of people around her but she’d never felt more isolated. Her energy began to flag. And her spirits. She gave her glasses a push with the tip of her finger and forced her feet to keep moving.
The breeze and Wren’s boots churned up fine dust. It burned her nose and eyes. A scan of the crowd revealed only disinterested faces. Yet, the sense that she was being watched or followed nagged at her. She was trapped in this camp. Everyone who glanced at her became suspect. They became her hunters.
Every moment she was stuck out in the open increased her risk. She’d never realized how draining fear was.
Never mind her. This was what it had been like for her father’s subjects, namely the believers, every day of their lives.
At the docks, pilots and others made sport of mocking the refugees. Their defeated enemy was being paraded before them as they gloated. Shame thickened her throat. It embarrassed her to see her fellow Drakken this way. Their appearance and condition contrasted so sharply with the obviously much better off Coalition. Look at us. This was what happened when making weapons of mass destruction took precedence over society.
She’d seen nothing like these people on Barokk, of course. She realized that her father’s aim had been for her never to see the way real Drakken lived—and especially not the damning evidence of his reign of terror. If her life had turned out the way it was supposed to, she never would have known of it. She would have gone straight from Barokk to a battlelord’s household, never realizing anything else existed. Sabra had further assured her ignorance by keeping so many secrets over the years, keeping her horribly innocent of…everything. The woman had done it to protect her. Out of love, but it was wrong. Wren had a new life now. She vowed never to be kept in the dark again. And never, ever in anyone else’s control.
The pendant pressed to her skin, a constant reminder of that last, terrible day on Barokk. The things she’d learned and not understood whirled in her mind all day and all night. Ilkka had been about to reveal a secret about Lady Seela, her mother, a secret so harmful that Sabra wouldn’t let her do it. Was her mother as vicious as her father, and Sabra meant to protect her from the knowledge? She’d always spoken of her mother in loving, reverent tones. More lies, lies and secrets. No matter the reason why they were perpetuated, Wren resented it.
She’d have the final word. She’d find that treasure her family had apparently accumulated and donate it anonymously to the people who cared for war victims. Every last coin, every priceless jewel. She wanted none of it. She couldn’t rid herself of her family’s genes, but she could unload their wealth and, in that small way, try to atone for what they’d done.
To do that, she had to get out of the camp. She held fast to that goal, her first outside the basic need to survive. Her first made as an independent woman.
As she made her way through the streets, a genuine sense of excitement rippled through the camp. “Have you heard?” people were saying to each other. “The warlord has another child. A girl child.”
Fates. Wren kept her shoulders hunched and her face down.
“They’re offering a bounty for her arrest.”
A bounty. As if the motivation to find her wasn’t enough. Double fates.
“How much?” someone asked, craning their neck to see.
“Fifty million queen’s credits.”
A roar went up. “Fifty million?”
“A fortune.”
“A man would never have to work again in his life with that kind of money in his pocket.”
“Or a woman.” The females in the crowd laughed and cheered.
Bounty and millions rang in Wren’s ears no matter where she turned. People were plotting and planning how they’d spend their share of the reward, never imagining the very woman they sought was in their midst. Refugees and guards alike searched each other’s faces, wondering if this girl was the one, or that one.
The crowd clustered around the data-generated likeness displayed on the screen reserved for camp news, warnings of infractions and the like. Normally gatherings of any size were forbidden. The Triad was willing to bend the rules to make sure she was found. No wonder she’d been able to slip past without detection. They were using a sketch based on her parents: “Highly attractive,” read the notes, “tall, blond, hazel eyes. Or possibly green…”
All her life she’d bemoaned the fact she hadn’t inherited her parents’ looks. Now she couldn’t be more relieved. How long before someone figured it out? The bounty had turned everyone into a potential captor, from the refugees to the guards.
THE TRIAD WAS OVERWHELMED by the influx of refugees all through the Borderlands. Refugee ships were being rerouted so often it was difficult if not impossible to know when one would dock. The galaxy it seemed was in disarray even now, months after the surrender. To Aral all that mattered was data showing the vessel that picked up the citizens of Barokk had already arrived, beating him here. He had the location of her sleeping quarters after narrowing down by age and description what false identity she was using: Wren Senderin. As a presumptive law enforcement agent he was privy to the data. Due to the camp’s rules of emptying the sleeping tents during daylight, Awrenkka was now one of thousands milling in the streets of the camp. He’d wait for her. While he waited, he’d search.
No one raised an eyebrow at his activities and inquiries. It was, so far, nothing unusual. Criminals poured into Zorabeta and the other camps with regular Drakken. The Triad wanted them winnowed out as best as their strained resources permitted. Little did they know that a former battlelord was about to do them all a favor by taking the warlord’s daughter off their hands.
He and Kaz walked along the docks. A group of traders loitered nearby with those he was certain were off-duty soldiers. Sharing drinks, they made a sport of Drakken-watching, snickering about the backwardness of the refugees.
“Each new load gets worse and worse,” one observed to more half-drunken laughter.
“Their women wear tattoos, too.”
“And they pierce body parts you don’t want to know about.”
Never was the gulf between the two civilizations more apparent than in this camp. The differences didn’t stop at skin and jewelry. Hair was another visible reminder of the gulf between their peoples. Drakken hair was most often worn beaded, braided, or knotted, or some combination of all three. Most high-ranking military officers favored a more conservative style, however. Kaz wore her hair the same way she always had: short. He’d insisted on her removing most of her jewelry, however. Dutifully she’d complied, leaving only the two small ruby-red diamonds, one in each earlobe, that had been a gift from Bolivarr.
Aral dragged a hand over his own hair. Cut short, it was freepin’ hard to get used to. Every day of his adult life he’d combed his hair into a neat ponytail tied at the base of his neck out of habit and sensibility more than style. Practically living in an Imperial Navy uniform, he’d had no need to give a thought to fashion. He’d had far more important things on his mind. By keeping to a life aboard ship, he’d bypassed, or, rather, avoided, time on his planetside estate and the frivolous social whirl that came with it. Only when visiting the warlord did he have to play that game. The palace parties, the drugs, the rich food and drink, the women, the tournaments, it was all what he’d like to forget.
Yet, with meeting Awrenkka imminent, he couldn’t help wondering what she’d think of him. Would she find him pleasant to the eye, or frightening?
Did he care?
It blasted well felt like it.
“You had better not meet her wearing that face,” Kaz cautioned in a private tone. “You’ll frighten the girl.”
“She’s not a girl. She’s a mere two years young
er than you. Four younger than I am. We are not girls and boys by any means.”
Kaz shrugged blithely, but he sensed she did so to hide her hurt at his sharp words. They rarely quarreled. Not since the dark months after Bolivarr’s death when neither much slept due to their efforts to find him. It was almost a relief declaring him dead a few years later, though no less painful.
He shook his head, feeling fatigue dragging him down, and causing him to act intolerably to his friend and valued officer. “Kaz, sorry. I need sleep.”
“Nightmares?”
“And what little sleep I did get was interrupted by that blasted PCD.”
“What did Z want?”
“I didn’t answer.”
“Was that wise?” she queried carefully as a good second ought.
His quick, soft laugh sounded weary, even to his own ears. “Probably not.” He sighed. “Kaz, he wants me to help capture Awrenkka. What else could it be? Everyone else of importance is dead.” The name Karbon was left unspoken. “Whatever new information he cares to share can wait. I’ll contact him before we leave for good. He’ll thank me for my service and that will be that.” He peered into the glare of the harsh sunlight that was as bright as two suns. It felt like acid poured on his raw nerves. “I can’t be like this around her,” he confided. “She won’t understand. I’ll try to sleep with some of those new meds later.”
“Later? She’ll be with you later. It’s your wedding night. Sleep with her, not your meds.”
“It won’t be that way with us so quickly.”
One inky, perfectly formed brow lifted. “Where there’s attraction, there’s desire. Where there’s smoke, there’s fire—”
“Kaz, it’s bad enough I don’t know the first thing about the care and feeding of a wife. I won’t compound things by forcing myself on her like a common barbarian.”
“Don’t let too much time pass—waiting, being cautious, thinking you’ll know when the time is right. You won’t. Each day together is a gift that you may never have again. There’s no warning when it happens, Aral. You know that.”
He thought of her and his brother. “When one doesn’t move on with life, isn’t that waiting, as well? Being cautious?”
Her mouth tightened as she flicked a speck of dust off her simple, dark flight outfit that she’d somehow managed to keep immaculate despite the wretched conditions. “Point taken.” Then she squared her shoulders. “I should not have brought up such a personal subject while on duty.”
“You seemed fine until it got too personal for you.”
“My apologies for not being more professional.”
“Professional? Bah. We were friends long before we were shipmates, Kaz. In fact, the very first time you boarded a ship of mine it was through illegal means. You stowed away to be with Bolivarr.”
He was glad to hear her husky laugh. “You knew about it. You sanctioned it. So technically, it was not stowing away.”
“Technically—selfishly—I needed the extra hand onboard. I looked the other way.”
“Hardly. Late-night sech matches over bottles of whiskey don’t exactly equal looking the other way.” She laughed softly, her eyes sparkling. “Such good days those were. All three of us were partners-in-crime, not only your brother and I. Don’t rewrite history.” Though he knew if she had the power, Kaz would write Bolivarr back into their lives. They all would.
Her smile faded to a pensive gaze and she turned her focus back to the streets. “Perhaps it’s time we did close the book on the past, Aral. We’ll write new books. Today you’ll begin your first chapter.”
“Look at them—look!” Untiring of the parade of bedraggled Drakken, the group gathered nearby grew louder and rowdier. Now they were ridiculing some of the Drakken wounded in countless attacks, injuries old and new. The Coalition hadn’t been spared such wounds, but unlike common Drakken they’d had access to the medical care to mitigate damages and repair them.
“That one’s missing an arm,” one of them observed. “Did he leave it at home?”
“Ignorant oafs,” Kaz snarled. “Put them in the Empire under the warlord’s rule and see how long they’d last.”
They were lucky they’d never had to know what such a life was like. Aral wouldn’t wish that on anyone. Life under the warlord’s thumb was something no human should have to suffer. Yet, they had for thousands of years, the last warlord arguably the worst of the lot. That his people were adapting to new circumstances with tentative hope said more for the Horde than the Coalition that defeated them.
“Shut the flarg up, Oreksen,” one of the traders admonished the group who was making fun of the war wounded. He stood in the shade of his ship, Borrowed Time, when the men switched from poking fun at tattoos and dress to injuries. The ship’s name was somehow familiar, but then Aral’s mind held on to many more details than he should, details he often wished he could forget. “That’s just plain disrespectful,” the trader said.
“Touchy today, Vantos?”
“Yeah, I’m touchy.”
Aral asked a nearby trader, “Who is that man?”
“Vartekeir Vantos. The guy’s a legend, the longest lived runner we ever had.”
Ah. So that’s why he was familiar. Aral spent a lot of time shoring up the blockade. He was supposed to keep runners from getting through to supply forces on the other side. “Supposed to” being the key words. As “M” he’d done little he was supposed to for the empire. He’d been too busy ensuring its defeat. Over the years, many of the Coalition vessels had become familiar to him. Borrowed Time was one of a few that kept showing up in his sights. Lucky for Vantos, it appeared. He’d survived the war.
“Ex-runner. War over means game over.” Vantos threw a hatch closed after checking the contents within then turned back to the man he’d rebuked. “I’ll run my fist through your face if I hear you saying anything else about those people’s injuries. They’re civilians, for blasted sake.”
He walked over to Aral and Kaz, wiping his hands on a greasy rag. “What a hells hole, eh?” He turned to Kaz and winked. “But I have to say the view around here’s improved dramatically in the past few seconds.”
Kaz’s mouth thinned in annoyance. She was a battlelord’s second. No man would dare speak with her in such a brazen manner—if he wished to live to the end of the day. “Pity I can’t say the same.”
Vantos quickly covered his surprise with a laugh. “Most women appreciate a fine view.”
Kaz turned her disdainful gaze back to the crowd she was supposed to be searching. Her dismissal broadcast that, one, she wasn’t “most women” and two, his flirtation was beneath her regard.
“That hurts. I’m going to be sore tomorrow.” The trader’s manner might be deceptively casual as he gnawed on that infernal nanopick, but his probing eyes gave him away. He was curious about Aral, wanting to know more. “Interesting crowd,” he hinted, moving his chin in the direction of the incoming refugees.
“Extremely,” Aral said.
“Looking for someone?”
“I enjoy people watching.”
“Ah.”
More laughter erupted from the group of traders who clearly hadn’t tired of watching the refugees. To the sound of guffaws, one of the crowd-watchers called out to his cohorts, “And look—that one’s wearing eyeglasses!”
Glasses? Aral knew of only one being who wore them. His blood surging, he jerked his gaze around to a petite woman making her way through the crowded streets. She wore her hair loose and shorter than the other women. The wind kept picking up strands and blowing them around her face, teasing him with a peek at a pale slender neck and the curve of her jaw.
She was too small to radiate the kind of magnetism she did. She should be lost in the crowd; instead she was the eye of the storm as chaos spun around her. Maybe it was how she seemed to avoid interaction with everyone else, or the way her brown hair reflected the sunlight that bounced too harshly off everything else, strands that glowed red where the light hit it.
Just as he remembered.
A bolt of recognition, of anticipation, electrified him from head to toe. Awrenkka. At last.
CHAPTER NINE
WREN STOLE sideways glances at the other refugees and the traders at the docks. Who were enemies? Who were friends? A trio of traders stuck out for not laughing at the refugees. One of them, a handsome, boyish trader-pilot, bantered with a more subdued, tall and striking couple. The male of the pair caught her attention. He was tall, muscled, with slits for eyes and a hard mouth. In profile, he looked carved of stone. A human weapon, there was nothing soft about him. He belonged in uniform. On him trader garb—boots, leather flight jacket, trousers worn slung low around his hips and cinched by a thick leather belt—was a joke.
Wren pushed her windblown hair off her face, unable to pull her eyes away. Don’t do this. It’s too dangerous. She couldn’t risk drawing their attention. The other, boyish trader noticed, pulling some sort of thin stick out of his mouth to look at her. Then all three turned to look at her in unison. The tall, dark-haired trader stepped forward, as if to get a better view. As the crowd jostled her, she stared back. She knew that face, those eyes. Blacker than midwinter’s eve and as haunted.
A punch of recognition, of déjà vu, hit hard. He looked like Aral. Fates, yes. Aral Mawndarr but with short hair and all grown up. The lost boy who’d touched her heart, only to crush it.
Impossible. The real Aral was a battlelord and most likely dead. Word was that the Triad had killed or sentenced to death all the warlord’s top leadership—really, a type of genocide, of mass murder, too. Or did the definition depend on what side of the border the orders originated? If Aral had evaded getting caught, which she doubted, the very last thing he’d do was show up in a refugee camp to loiter in wretched conditions and with those he’d consider far beneath his exalted self, like these dockside traders. She’d never forgotten the callous way he’d dismissed her, as if she were miles beneath his regard. Seeing this look-alike reminded her of a very real danger: real loyalists on the lookout for her.