Horns of the Ram (Dominion Book 2)

by Austin Rogers

  He’d have to find his emergency stash of oak-aged whiskey once they’d gotten back onboard. Fine beverage, that, though he’d settle for the swill Jabron drank to dull this pain.

  Used to drink.

  They emerged to the platform and feasted their eyes on the ruggedly beautiful Hornet class clipper ship of Orion looming before them. A scuffed and scratched body of faded reddish orange steel. Abrupt black nose under the sleek, half-circular windshield of the cockpit. Stubby triangular wings worn raw on their undersides. Several meaty men chattered in Arabic as they hauled crates up the back ramp.

  “‘Ere she blows,” Strange said.

  Davin smiled weakly, caught in a bittersweet feeling. “Home sweet home,” he muttered.

  Siraj strode into the open from the loading area at the back of the platform, along with a ropy-muscled African woman with a perpetually scowling expression. A handgun nestled snug in its holster strapped to her thigh, and thin but raggedy dreadlocks trailed down her back from a band clumping them together at the back of her head. A black choker held a tiny silver cross in the hollow at the front of her neck.

  Once they stopped in front of the remainder of theFossacrew, Davin realized he recognized her. It was the woman from the e-poster in the alley. Her mood apparently hadn’t brightened since that recording. She looked none too happy as she crossed her arms and sized them up.

  “Orionites,” Siraj said, looking confident and amused as he rested a hand on his submachine gun. “This is Esiankiki. She goes by ‘Kiki.’ I trust you realize I would only assign a task like this to one of my very best fighters.”

  Kiki turned her lip up at the two-memberFossa crew and shifted to face Siraj.

  “Please, Raj,” she pleaded in her thick accent. “Send somebody else.”

  “I can’t trust anyone else,” Siraj said quietly, almost apologetically. “Not for this.”

  He eyed her knowingly, probably harkening back to a previous conversation where he’d explained the weight of their mission. Sierra could be their key to freedom, or independence, or whatever exactly it was they wanted. It made Davin’s stomach twist in knots—the thought of delivering Sierra from one captor to another. But there wasn’t any use in denying the obvious: they didn’t have a choice, and they could use the help anyway.

  Kiki squared up to Siraj, got right in his face. “I should stay. You’ll need me when the fighting starts.”

  Siraj didn’t flinch. “You’re a good fighter, Kiki. But you’re not an army. You’ll serve the cause better by bringing back the prima filia.”

  “We don’t even know where she is! I never signed up for some goose chase across the galaxy.”

  “And I never signed up to be babysat by a scary lady with dreads,” Davin cut in. “But fate’s brought us together, sister, so why don’t we just make the best of it and hit the trail.”

  “There is no fate,” Kiki snapped back. “Only God.”

  “You should be happy, then,” Davin replied. “If God’s the one who orchestrated this merry union.”

  Kiki huffed and shook her head. “God works in mysterious ways, but I don’t have to like it.” She swiveled on her heels and stormed off, toward the loading area where a single, beige duffel bag remained. She slung it over her shoulder and stomped up the back ramp.

  “Welcome to theFossa,” Strange said under her breath.

  Siraj stepped closer. “You have a way to find the girl, yes? And to get across the border?”

  “I’ve got a guy who should be able to help with that,” Davin said with a grin. “Down in Dubai.”

  Siraj arched an eyebrow. “Should?”

  Davin shrugged lightly. “Should.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Sagittarius Arm, on the planet Triumph . . .

  The first sensation to return was sound. Soft string music trickling in from a few doors away. Next came the silky touch of sheets. Cristiana’s fingers glided up from her sides to her abdomen, past the slope of her breasts and to her pillow, unfurling her arms to stretch. Her hand ran into a forearm resting above her pillow—thick, a man’s arm. But soft skin, not that of a warrior.

  Cristiana’s eyes flitted open to find herself back in her stately bedroom at the Eagle embassy, window shades lifted to allow in a burnt orange glow from outside. Milosha sat on her bed, watching her with that caring gaze. His loose, white shirt was unbuttoned down to his pectorals, the gilded hem flayed slightly open to reveal a chest quite well-carved for a financier. Either the Eagle genesmiths had modified his genetics for increased musculature with age, or Milo had taken up weightlifting. The narrow, neat strip of facial hair framing his jawline and upper lip crinkled with the return of his characteristic smirk.

  He lifted his hand and stroked her hair above the ear. “Sleeping Beauty wakes.”

  “How long have I been asleep?” Cristiana asked. She began to arch her back but halted when a soreness flared where the whip flail had dug in.

  “Almost a full day in universal time,” Milo said. “The nano-meds put you out like a light. Doctors said it would do that. You’ll be sore for a week, but your wounds should be healed by now, regrown skin and all.”

  Cristiana rubbed at her shoulder where the lava had burned into her armor, remembering the race. Each moment remained seared into her memory as vividly as Milosha sitting before her.

  “What have I missed?”

  Milo’s eyebrow tweaked in that expressive way that always indicated something meaningful. “More than your imagination could conjure.”

  She pushed herself up to a leaning position against the padded headboard. With her awkward movement, the wispy, ocher-brown bed curtains jiggled beside their posts. “That depends how rich you think my imagination is.”

  He gave a lopsided smirk and said, “Think I’ll lie down for this.” He swiveled around, swung his feet onto the bed, and rested his head beside Cristiana’s. He lifted his wrist and pressed a few tiny buttons on his cuff. A holographic image of the galaxy materialized in the air above the bed as he held the cuff steady. The pointer finger of his other hand, bearing a silver ring with embedded blue lights across its circumference, poked into the air four times, and each time a new swathe of the Regnum became highlighted in a reddish glow. All the regions that touched Carina lit up, uniting into a bloc that covered almost half the Regnum’s territory.

  “Swan persuaded other manors not to pledge their forces to the Grand Lumis,” Milo explained. “Three of them: Owl, Trifid, and the Wings.”

  Cristiana sat further up, awakened by a new jolt of adrenaline. “What?”

  “Swan is convinced the Confed had something to do with the battle for Upraad,” Milo went on. “The border manors, too, apparently. They want war with Earth, but Zantorian is against it. Swan’s effectively split the Regnum in half, right down the middle.”

  “Nether,” Cristiana cursed, studying the map. “I thought you were just going to show me a holo of Larkin taking the Blood Oath.”

  Milo made a grunting sound in his throat. “That would’ve been bad enough. But this is serious. Zantorian imposed sanctions on all four manors, cut off all trade. It could cripple us in recession if it lasts long enough. Market values have already plummeted today more than I’ve ever seen. Diamond’s down forty-two percent.”

  The number staggered her. It was hardly believable. “The dicar’s lost almost half its value?”

  “Could peak above fifty tomorrow.” Milo let out a heavy breath and dropped his cuff hand, allowing the galaxy map to disappear. He rubbed his eyelids with the base of his palms, clearly tired from a full day of working out the implications of all this, probably shifting billions of Eagle’s dicars into safer investments. So much chaos and confusion in so little time.

  “What happens if Swan and their cohort invade the Confed?” Cristiana asked, more to herself than Milo.

  “All nether breaks loose,” Milo said. Not the answer she was aiming for, but the best that could be expected of a financier.

  “It
’s exactly what the Carinians want,” she said as the realization hit her. She grabbed the sheets and flung them off her legs. “Where’s Lord Drazen? I should speak with him.”

  Milo sat up and put a hand on her arm. “No, no, my love. You should get your rest. You just woke.”

  Cristiana hauled her legs off the bed and fought against Milo as he tried to push her back down. It only increased her resolve.

  “He may need me for something,” Cristiana said. “I’m sure our fleets are moving.”

  Milo grabbed a handful of her medical gown. “Cristi, the lord general has all the warriors he—”

  Cristiana twisted away from his grasp, karate chopped his hand into the bed, and thrust to her feet with the vehemence of a cornered animal. Her heart pounded. Teeth clamped together. It took a few seconds to realize that she’d hurt Milo. He held his forearm where she’d hit him and stared at her with bewilderment. Even seeing what she’d done to her cradlemate—even knowing she’d overreacted—she couldn’t bridle the ferocity inside her chest. The anger.

  “I willnotbe useless,” she bit off, almost shaking. “I may not be Triumph’s champion, but I willnot . . . be useless.”

  A bitter sting burned in her eyes, but she blinked it away and turned to find her nanoflex outfit.

  The warrior of Eagle had work to do.

  Chapter Twenty

  Orion Arm, on the planet Earth . . .

  Davin looked over the three of them in the reflective chrome doors of the elevator—probably the fanciest box he’d ever found himself in, all polished wood and blue-backlit buttons. He stood unsteadily in the middle, between Strange and Kiki, still not in ship-shape but a lot better than when he’d first woken up. The wonders of modern medicine.

  Strange stared down at something. Notatanything, really. Just staring. Probably thinking the same thing Davin thought when he saw their reflection. TheFossa crew had gotten smaller. And much quieter.

  That same sunken, hopeless feeling that had plagued him since the Jerusalem shootout crept back. And with it, the impulsive drive to fight against it, to push it away, even if it meant saying something stupid.

  “I bet you get asked a lot about jane,” he said, cringing at the sound of his own words. “Y’know, because of the dreads. Like, ‘Hey, got any jane? You look like you got the good stuff.’”

  His joke bounced off the Defender like waves against a sea wall. Her puffy maroon lips curled into a scowl, and her eyes turned sour and stony. Davin felt himself shrink into a slouch. It was a half-assed joke, and he’d just made things worse. He glanced at Strange, who would normally be chiding him for his insensitivity. Part of him wanted her to chide him, just for old times sake. And to jog her out of her trance as well.

  Kiki let out a protracted sigh as she watched the numbers on the display screen above the door fly up: 28, 29, 30, 31, 32 . . .

  “I’ve never done any drugs,” she said softly, almost offhandedly. “Don’t want to. There are more important things than feeling good.”

  When the display screen showed 38, a forcefulDING filled the elevator, and Davin felt the lift come to a halt.

  “Never thought I’d say this,” he muttered as he shuffled toward the chrome doors. “But I couldn’t agree more.”

  The doors slid open to reveal a forty-something, Hispanic silver fox in glossy gray slacks and an untucked white collared shirt. Ernie spread his hands and erupted in a triumphant laugh.

  “Daveen!Mi hombre!” Loud, gregarious, and demanding of attention—they’d come to the right place.

  Davin felt a much fainter grin on his face than he’d expected upon reuniting with his old friend and mentor. He ambled out of the elevator and embraced Ernie, slapping him on the back a few times before pulling away.

  “Good to see ya again, old man.”

  “Old man? What, this?” He brushed the graying stubble on his cheek with the back of his fingers. “Just a little salt left over from dinner. Come in,hermano, come in. Who are your lovely accomplices?”

  While Strange jogged Ernie’s memory about the one time they’d briefly met and Kiki shook his hand and tersely introduced herself, Davin stepped down into Ernie’s huge, sunken living room. Lots of plush, contemporary furniture; artful, black-and-white closeups of women’s cleavage; and a handful of telescopes on tripods aimed up through a series of wide windows overlooking the lit-up Dubai skyline. Smooth electro-jazz filled every silence from a dozen speakers around the space—a strange, slightly irregular melody. Probably that randomized, computer-written stuff that had put all the small-time musicians out of work.

  Davin arrived at an odd couch that looked like a cloud painted red, leaned his hip against the cushy edge of it, and pressed a hand over his ribs. Pain flared in the stitches from all the movement.

  Outside, city lights illuminated the flat plain of desert on which they sat, stretching far into the distance. Dubai was a hub of international and interstellar trade, easily seven million residents. Incredible, to the Agoran mind, that Earth held dozens if not hundreds of cities the size of Apex.

  With so many damn mouths to feed, it was no wonder the Confed monetized their religious sites.

  “Daveen, you alright,mi hombre?” Ernie asked from behind him. “Look like you’re constipated or something.”

  “Nah, not constipated,” Davin said. “Shot.”

  Ernie hopped backward in dramatic fashion. “What? Like, with a gun?”

  “Yeah, you know, ‘pew, pew, pew.’ That deadly contraption you don’t let kids play with.”

  He stepped around the couch to face Davin, drained of all joviality. “Whadda hell happened?”

  Davin sighed. “It’s a long story.”

  Ernie nodded, picking up some cue Davin hadn’t intended. Cogs churned in that semi-crazy brain behind his eyes. “I’ll get the tequila.”

  #

  Kiki wandered between the telescopes set to track certain stars across the sky, but Davin could tell she was listening to the conversation as she peered into the lenses.

  Strange slouched on a bloated, red-cushioned chair that seemed poised to swallow her, tapping at her tablet with vacant eyes. She’d been as quiet as Kiki while Davin recounted their last few weeks to Ernie over sips of tequila and lime juice. He didn’t love the taste, but the bitterness seemed appropriate at a time like this.

  He kicked his feet onto the cork-and-glass coffee table while Ernie absently scratched at his stubble on the adjacent couch.

  “Damn,vato.”

  “Yeah,” Davin said before taking another sip—like a punch in the throat. “Damn.” He pushed away the tug of emotion and refocused on the mission. “So that’s why we’re here. We gotta find Sierra and get her back.”

  Kiki flicked her dark eyes at him across the room, a tacit reminder of the Defenders’ place in the equation. But she kept her identity in the dark outside the safety of the Defender compound, and Davin figured he’d let it stay that way.

  “You can track the gate path of ships coming in and out of Sol space, right?”

  Ernie sucked air through his teeth. “Not that simple,hombre. I’m the ex-im rep for Central America, so I’ve got access to the database for all ships coming to and from the spaceports at Mexico City and Panama City. That’s it. If they weren’t inbound to one of those ports . . .” He shook his head. “I got nothing on ‘em.”

  “I have no clue what reason the Carinians gave the Confed for why they were here,” Davin said. “But they were in Jerusalem, that’s for sure. Aren’t the manifests of all ships landing at Confed spaceports public information?”

  Ernie shrugged with an expression that didn’t inspire confidence. “Theoretically. But the Carinians have what you call a ‘special’ relationship with the Confed. They don’t always have to report things for the public record.”

  Worry niggled at Davin, a twist of nerves that seemed to get tighter the longer he thought. He’d put all his eggs in Ernie Kyger’s basket, and the guy had never let him down before. Of course
, he’d never asked anything this big.

  Suddenly, Ernie’s eyes burst open, and he sat forward on the couch, mouth agape. “Yes! It could work . . .”

  “What? What?” Davin demanded, taking down his feet and setting his tumbler on the glass middle of the coffee table. It took a second for his slurred vision to catch up with his movement.

  Ernie trained his wild eyes on Davin. “We could use the spaceport manifests.”

  Davin blinked. “I literally just suggested that.”

  His eyes squeezed shut, and he waved away Davin’s statement like a pesky, Agoran spine-fly. “No. What you said was stupid. I’m talking aboutusing the manifests to see—here, I’ll show you.” He rotated his wrist toward the glass middle of the coffee table in two quick flicks. A holo beamed out from a projector in the cork base of a three-dimensional menu field. Ernie poked a box labelled “SP Tracking Docs.” It opened a jumbled and confusing grid of labelled cubes that faded around the edges. Ernie stuck his hand in the mass and moved it to the side, causing the displayed field to shift and show new cubes. When he found the one he wanted, he pinched his fingers on it, and the holo shifted to a new image of a flat sheet of information. Some government form showing blanks for ship specs, cargo, passengers, fuel, and lots of other little details. Bureaucratic nonsense to Davin’s mind, but to Ernie, it was apparently the key to something important.

  “You probably landed at the SLSP, right?” Ernie asked quickly.

  Davin’s eyebrows furrowed at him. “The what?”

  “The South Levant Spaceport.”

  “Oh, yeah. We did.” Felt like so long ago.