Relapse (Breakers Book 7)

by Edward W. Robertson

  Raina seated herself opposite them. "What happened on the mainland?"

  Henna leaned forward in her chair, grinning wolfily. "We arrived not long after midnight. Started south along the highway, one leading and one trailing. Before dawn—"

  "Stop," Raina said. "Tell it different. With more life."

  Henna frowned. "How do you mean? Should I start when we made contact?"

  "Tell it like one of the storytellers. The toms. Like Mia would. As if you are there, experiencing it now, and your words are the only thing keeping it going."

  "Okay." Henna took a long drink of her spiked lemonade. "We set sail. On waters as dark as… grasshopper spit. But they were calm. When we came to the silent coast, I found that I wasn't: I felt the fear that always comes, but more, I felt the thrill of splashing to the sand and entering the woods while my enemies slept, unaware." She stopped and glanced at Raina. "Like that?"

  "Yes," Raina said. "Just as you are doing."

  Henna went on. Raina closed her eyes and felt herself there.

  * * *

  The next raid, she rotated out the warriors for fresh people. The target was a stable at the old airport in Torrance. She instructed her people to steal the horses and, if they could find a way to coax them onto a sailboat, to return them to Catalina. If this proved impossible, they would release them into the hills instead.

  While they were out, she and Mauser discussed the merits of becoming more aggressive. Of deploying multiple teams of warriors into the city for weeks at a time. With the right leaders, such as Henna, these teams would be able to move and strike as they pleased, hamstringing Anson's operations on a daily basis. With additional scouts and spies relaying intelligence to the strike teams, they could attack whatever was most vulnerable, and adapt easily to whatever defensive changes the People of the Stars made.

  First, though, they needed a better read on Anson's responses and capabilities. That meant one mission at a time.

  The second raid returned a mere day after they had departed. Raina listened as Fred, their leader, explained how they had approached the airport only to be spotted before they'd made it through the fence.

  "Spotted?" Raina said. "Was it night?"

  "Of course."

  "Then how were you spotted?"

  "We were climbing the fence. It bordered a cornfield and we thought the stalks would keep us out of sight. But we were challenged before we'd climbed to the other side."

  "How many of you were climbing the fence?"

  Fred rolled his eyes up, thinking. "Three. The other three were covering us."

  "When you need to scout ahead, do you send half your force as scouts?"

  "No."

  "Why not?" Raina said.

  "Because they're more likely to be seen." He glanced down. "I should have sent in one person first."

  "That's right. If one person is someplace they shouldn't be, then perhaps they're nothing more than a vagrant or a drunk person or someone who doesn't know better. Three, though, is an attack." She lifted one finger. "All it takes to open a cut is a single blade."

  "Who can kill any sentries, or if this isn't possible, lie their way out."

  Raina nodded. "Very good."

  She was pleased he had unraveled the lesson so quickly. But she was less pleased he had had to ask the question at all. Before dispatching the third raid—a straightforward attack on a weekly supply caravan that ran between the Heart and the Dunemarket—she drilled her people on every aspect of the attack, running them through scenarios until she could see the impatience festering behind their eyes.

  After they went on their way, she traveled to Avalon and joined the crew of a fishing vessel. Hauling in nets full of perch and cleaning the fish reminded her of the simple years with her adoptive father. She enjoyed losing herself in the memory of his arms bulging as he brought in the ropes, his skin so tan he could have passed for her real father, but she knew these memories were a trap: he was dead, killed by a man of blood and ambition, and that was the way of the world. If you hid like a mouse, then you would die like one.

  Only three of the six warriors sent on the third raid returned.

  The leader of the raid, Julie, gave the report. The ambush had been ferreted out by enemy scouts who'd somehow spotted their tracks. The Sworn guarding the caravan had allowed the attack to happen, but they'd been prepared. Two of Raina's warriors had died in the initial skirmish. Another had fallen during the retreat. In return, they had only killed one of the Sworn, wounding another.

  Raina stood, gazing across the three survivors. "You can't tell the difference between an enemy who knows you are there and an enemy who knows nothing?"

  Julie cocked her head. "How can you know that by looking?"

  "You don't know by looking. You know by feeling. Even if there are no trees to show you the presence of wind, you can feel it on your skin."

  "But they were trying to trick us. They came down the road like nothing was different."

  "You see it in the way they hold their hands near their weapons. In the way they watch when they should be complacent. Learning to read your foe is the core of your role."

  Jules stared at the tumbled stone of the grounds for several seconds. "They looked like nothing was wrong. Like they were fools."

  Raina bit her tongue. As soon as the briefing ended, she sent a messenger to call for Gates. An hour later, he ambled into the courtyard, sweat dewing his shaved head.

  "You will have your council," she said. "I am going back into the field."

  She brought Mauser in to help her construct the arrangement. She granted them a five-person council, including Gates and Tina Young. The council would have no binding authority over Raina's decisions as chieftain—and they urged her to choose a different title, "president" or "prime minister" or even "commander"—but they would be consulted before and after each major action, as well as on larger matters of strategy and logistics.

  Raina left most of the negotiations to Mauser. He enjoyed such things, approaching each proposal the way she would approach the enemy in the field.

  The final sticking point was how authority would shift in the event that Raina died or was captured or went missing. The five of the council insisted they should lead—that the natural state of a nation wasn't monarchy, but republic—but Mauser held fast to the idea that, while the council would be granted more influence and say, he would remain the first and final voice over the land.

  The argument lasted three hours and required two breaks: the first to empty their bladders, the second to cool their heads. In the end, after multiple rounds of concessions, Mauser won out. Each of the seven signed a handwritten document, Raina last.

  After, she went with Mauser to his quarters. He beelined to a blue bottle of liquor and poured himself a tall cup.

  He tipped back half of it and flopped on his leather couch. "Well, that was exhausting."

  "I had no idea you wanted more responsibility," Raina said. "If you wish, I can expand your reach now."

  He gave her a look of confused amusement. "That wasn't for my benefit. If you're spirited away for a permanent hunt on the moon, I don't want to lead this place. What a nightmare of an idea! All of that bickering was for you, Raina."

  "If I am gone or dead, what does it matter to me who leads?"

  He blinked at her. "How can you be so cunning on some matters and so naive about others? If we establish a system where, if you die, the five of them get to squeeze into the throne, then we're incentivizing them to get rid of you. Savvy?"

  "What a gross idea!"

  "We are talking about humans here."

  "So am I. A pack would never kill its leader over politics. The leader would only be replaced by one who is strong enough to defeat it."

  Mauser shrugged and had another drink. "Perhaps in human affairs, politics is strength."

  "It's a wonder the aliens weren't able to kill us all," she said. "So what if they thwart your maneuver by killing you along with me?"


  "Then we'll have to pray the Rainese loyalists see it as such an affront that they water Catalina's hills with the council's blood."

  Raina found this idea far more comforting than Mauser intended.

  * * *

  The ship plowed through the moonlit waves, its black sail nothing more than a shadow. Raina sat in the prow, legs folded beneath her, both hands on the hilt of a sheathed sword. She felt as Henna had put it. The twinge of fear, yes, but overwhelmed by the thrill of arriving on an unknowing enemy. Next to this second feeling, her fear was no more than the splash of a dolphin within the waves of the ocean.

  The boat dropped anchor sixty yards from shore and they took the rowboat in to the beach. She had reunited her first team: Henna, Carl, and Bryson. Intent on grooming others to lead strikes of their own, she'd brought Fred and Julie.

  Raina hunched in the grass as the others made their way up the sand. Ahead, trees hid them from the interior. Vacant houses crowded the shore a few hundred yards to their right. Raina pointed straight ahead, then cut her hand left. The others nodded. She rose to a low crouch and jogged into the trees. Their long, brown seed pods smelled like rotten maple. Before reaching the grassy, open fields beyond, Raina turned to her left to move along the shore under the cover of the boughs.

  Ten minutes later, she climbed a short ridge and flattened herself against the damp, patchy grass. Two hundred feet ahead, a trail led down the thirty-foot cliffs to a flat beach protected by an arm of rock. A boat bobbed by a dock, sails struck. Huts and racks were placed along the shore. Even at that distance, Raina could smell old guts and smoked fish.

  She spent another ten minutes watching, feeling the air, the rhythms of the night. It was not an obviously large prize—a few days of food—but there was a boat, too. Working, maintained vessels were not so common. Besides, the lack of spoils meant it was less likely to be guarded. Raina thought it would be good for their fortune to prove that they were able. That they were worthy of having their land restored to them.

  "Stay here," she whispered. "I'll test it alone."

  "C'mon," Bryson said. "There's nobody down there. They're gonna waste sentries on a fishing post?"

  "By now, they'll know we plan to hit them wherever they're not. Therefore, when they are present, they will do their best to make it seem as though they are not."

  He stared down at the cove, then unslung his rifle and laid it across a rock. "I'll cover the trail."

  "There is another way."

  Raina backed up the ridge until she was out of sight of the cove, then backtracked to a switchback down the cliffs. Below, waves hammered the rocks, oozing the path with slick mist. She reached the bottom and picked her way across the rocks jumbled along the cliff face.

  At the cove, she hid behind a spar of rock and watched the huts. There was still no movement, yet something felt wrong.

  Something moved from the corner of a shack. Small, swift, built to walk in moonlight. A cat. It slunk to the closed door and sat, tail lashing. Twice, it meowed with privileged insistence, then moved on.

  The plan unfurled in her head as quickly as a morning blossom. It was not as direct as she liked, but it had the feel of something correct, the way a river rock fits in the palm. She shifted her shorter blade next to the other so that both hung from her left hip, then jumped into the water.

  The currents were stronger than the surface of the cove promised. She kicked away from the rocky spar before she could be smashed against it. Away from the rocks, the sea calmed. She splashed toward the fish gut-strewn shore thirty feet away, making no effort to conceal the sound.

  "Help!" she called, pitching up her voice. "Help me!"

  Before she had to call again, the shack door flew open and banged against the wall. A man ran outside. He was shoeless, but he wore a white cape. A pistol gleamed in his hand. He stopped on the rocks and stared out to sea.

  Raina waved her arm. "Please!"

  "Hang on!" He put away his gun, then unbuckled the holster and slung it aside. He ran to a smoking rack, grabbed a cooler, and dumped it out. This in hand, he waded into the water.

  Raina thrashed closer. He intercepted her before she could touch bottom, thrusting the bobbing cooler toward her.

  "Grab on!" he said. "What are you doing out here, you idiot?"

  She choked salt water and grabbed hold of the cooler. She'd formed a story for him, but he concentrated on pushing them toward land. By the time they found their feet, she had no doubts he was alone. As they waded ashore, he put his arm around her, salt water falling heavily from their garments.

  "Who are you?" he said. "What happened?"

  "My name," Raina said, "is Amelia. Are you one of the Sworn?"

  "That's right." He frowned at her. "My name is Stig."

  "An unusual name. That is good. It means there will be no mistaking my offering for that of someone else."

  He drew back his chin, eyes thick with confusion. "What do—?"

  She whipped her blade from its curved red sheath and into his neck. The weapon clipped through his spine and on to the other side. The head tumbled back; blood showered from the neck like a broken sprinkler. The two pieces of Stig dropped to the rocks and stayed there.

  Raina turned toward the ridge and lifted her arms above her head, crossing them in an X. As she waited for the others to arrive, she crouched over the body to make sure its spirit was untouched on its way to be offered to the skies.

  * * *

  As she'd expected, Stig was alone. They made a pass of the site and bundled up the smoked fish, along with the nets and gear, and loaded them into the boat. Before they left the cove, they set fire to the shacks.

  Bryson was the last to convene at the boat. He had the cat tucked in his arms. He met Raina's eyes, stared her down, then took a seat in the cabin.

  Flush with victory, however small, Raina was tempted to stay and launch a second raid. But she knew better than to extend her people too far and too soon. It was like when Carl had trained her to fight with knives: before she learned to make combinations of strikes, she had to learn each individual technique.

  She watched the columns of smoke rise into the hills. There was no sign of pursuing vessels.

  On Catalina, she slept until the afternoon. After waking and performing her exercises, she was told that Tina had requested an audience. Raina granted it. Tina arrived within minutes, eyes sharp behind her rimless glasses.

  "I hear your raid went well," she said, seating herself in front of the bay window.

  "It was only a small cut," Raina said. "But if we keep cutting, they will bleed faster than they can heal."

  "We're all counting on it. In the meantime, something new has come up that will help us to reach our goals sooner. I hope that's to your interest."

  "Anything to let us reclaim our home is of my highest interest."

  Tina smiled professionally. "While you were gone, we received an ambassador from the Kingdom of Better San Diego. Her name was Kelly. She came with an offer of a treaty."

  "I have heard of their land," Raina said. "Such an offer is worth exploring."

  "I'm glad to hear it—because, in your absence, we accepted their request. King Dashing and his people will be here in one week."

  7

  The ocean rose to meet him. Ness pressed his legs together tight, toes pointed down. He knifed into the semi-tropical cool. With no way to tell how deep he was, he paddled in place beneath the surface, head tipped back, eyes stung by the salt.

  Fire flashed above him, illuminating the retreating hull of the sub. A dull, bass thud rolled through the water. He tucked himself into a ball, expecting to be pulped, but it was mere noise, not a shock wave. Even so, he was particularly glad to be submerged, where his bladder could do whatever it wanted with no one the wiser.

  His air was starting to get tight. A wake of bubbles washed over him, popping in his ears. He kicked up and his head broke the surface into a warm spring night.

  No matter how much time he spent
splashing around in salt water, he still wasn't used to it dribbling down the back of his throat. He hocked and spat. The sub was ahead of him and it was pretty smoky, but the vessel was still moving. Good news and bad: the rocket hadn't taken it out, but it was pulling away.

  Leaving him alone in the ocean in the middle of the night.

  He had clung tight to his walkie talkie, but when he brought it to his mouth, it was dead. He cursed and shook it, trying to get the water off, knowing it wouldn't make a damn bit of difference. After several futile seconds of fiddling with the buttons, he tucked the walkie into his belt.

  "Help!" He waved one hand over his head, paddling with the other to stop from sinking. "Tristan! Sprite! Man overboard!"

  The sub was a few hundred feet away and shrinking by the second, engines rumbling in the night. The smoke had cleared, but Ness could still smell its harsh tang. Beyond the sub, a white star streaked into the sky at an angle too high to be a rocket. The flare burst into a blinding white ball, pulsating as it peaked and drifted down.

  "Help!" Ness yelled. "I'm in the water!"

  The flare illuminated the sub and the high-masted clipper they'd been chasing. As Ness continued to holler, lights flashed from the pirate ship's decks. The crackle of rifles came soon after.

  Between the waves, the wind, the sub engine, and the gunplay, there was no chance in hell that anyone on the sub was going to hear him—if they were crazy enough to venture up top in the first place. His stomach clenched on itself. Bile climbed his throat. He turned on his side and swam after the sub, but within seconds, it was obvious it wouldn't make a lick of difference. His only hope was to take a page from Lionel and try to find something to hang onto until he died of thirst.

  Or the sharks found him.

  The flare had shrunk away to nothing, but its searing white arc was burned on the inside of his eyelids. As he blinked it away, a new idea beat its way free from the throng of panic crowding his mind. He reached underwater and pulled his laser from his belt.