Raider

by Justine Davis

  “Live, Drake,” she whispered. “Live. I will get you out of here.”

  She checked for broken bones first. His legs seemed intact, in fact almost undamaged, save the old scar, from his first encounter with Jakel’s laser pistol. That seemed an eon ago now, and she didn’t even waste a moment reproaching herself for not having guessed when she’d thought she’d seen Drake favoring that leg at the same time.

  Jakel had apparently focused his evil tools elsewhere. When she got to his hands, those hands that had touched her, held her, stroked her, she found every finger on the left broken, and all but one on the right. She felt the wetness of tears hitting her own hands before she even realized she was crying.

  Useless, she snapped at herself. Tears are useless.

  She continued her inspection, guessing from the huge, dark bruises on his torso that Jakel had at some point resorted to a bat or club of some kind. He could have broken ribs, which would made even this much movement dangerous, puncturing internal organs. A row of raw, red burns across his chest, and the bloody X she found carved into his flesh over his heart, probably with that bedamned laser pistol, told her more than she would ever wish to know about the kind of torture Jakel had inflicted.

  She could not carry him. But she would find a way.

  That logic she’d forced told her there was no way he would survive being moved.

  And yet he would certainly die if she left him. As if she could.

  Yet in the end, it was never really a question. She knew as well as she knew her own heart that Drake Davorin would rather die free today than cling to another day of life in this dungeon. And that if she left him, he would find just enough strength to end it, dying on his own terms rather than Jakel’s.

  And suddenly, the chains binding him were too much. She pulled out the obliterator, still on low, and aimed it at the metal links, as far away from Drake as she could get them. She hesitated, but Brander had sworn that while it couldn’t take out anything large, it made up for that by affecting only what it hit.

  She fired.

  The chains vanished without a sound. Drake did not even react. She quickly looked away from his bloody, ruined wrists.

  “You will be free, my love,” she whispered, touching his battered face with only a finger, all she dared.

  She gasped as one Ziem blue eye fluttered open. Her breath jammed up in her throat and she couldn’t speak.

  His swollen lips moved. Barely. She heard a whisper of sound. Her name?

  All the things she wanted to say hovered, and yet she couldn’t find the words for any of them. She had a mission now, and unless she achieved it, nothing else mattered.

  “Drake,” she said, “We have to get you out of here.”

  He made a low, despairing sound. “Seem . . . so real.”

  “I’m here, Drake. Can you move at all?”

  That eye—the other was swollen shut—seemed to narrow. Then closed.

  “Vision . . . again.”

  She could barely make out the mumbled words, couldn’t imagine what it took for him to talk at all. Some part of her mind registered that he’d brought up her image here before, and she thought later she would be pleased by that, but now she bent over him, speaking urgently. “Drake, listen to me. I’m here, I’m real, and we have to get you out of here before Jakel comes back.”

  That eye opened again. Stared at her. She could almost see him fighting back waves of what had to be agony. “K . . . Kye?”

  “Right here,” she said, trying to smile.

  “No. Can’t. You . . . must go.”

  “We’re getting you out of here.”

  “Kye . . . please . . . save you.”

  “I will not leave you here.”

  “Must.”

  “I must,” she said, “get you to Mahko.”

  The eye closed again for a moment. “Too . . . late.”

  “No!” Her cry was ill-advised, but she could not stop it.

  “Dying, Kye. Feel it.”

  “No.” This time it was barely a whisper.

  “Love you. Get out.”

  “Drake—”

  “Give me . . . that much. Live.”

  His eye closed again, and his head lolled to one side. For a moment, she feared the worst, but that same weak pulse beat in his throat.

  It was as well he was unconscious. She stood abruptly, looked around the foul room. In a corner, she saw what appeared to be a long, heavy coat or smock of some kind. So Jakel didn’t get blood on himself? Her stomach curled, and she promised herself later contemplation of how the man would die, slower and longer than any of his victims.

  She grabbed up the heavy cloth garment and brought it back. She laid it out next to him. It took longer than she had hoped, for she feared hurting him further, but eventually she had him lying on it. She swiftly tied a knot in the end of each sleeve, then grabbed them up. And pulled. Pulled harder. Leaned into it so far that had the stitching given way she would have careened across the room.

  It took much of her strength and all of her weight, but he began to slide across the floor. She heard him groan, but kept on. It became easier as she gained momentum.

  At the door she stopped, listening. Then opened it. Still silence. She peered outside. It looked the same as when she’d come in. She pulled the door wide, propped it open. She raced over to the lifter, hit the button. Once they were upstairs, she could call one of the Sentinels with the diversion group for help moving him.

  The moment the lifter arrived and the doors slid open, her heart sank. She could hear, down the lifter shaft, the sound of shouts, and heavy thuds. And then blaster fire. Something had gone wrong up there, and this path was cut off.

  A light lit up on the lifter panel. It was being called back up. The doors began to slide closed.

  Instantly, she grabbed up the guard’s chair and slid it in the door’s path. It creaked as it tried to close, and for a moment she feared it wouldn’t stand the pressure. The metal bent, but held. A warning light activated on the panel and all motion stopped.

  She spun around and ran back to Drake. He lay frighteningly motionless, but thankfully unaware.

  There was only one option she could see. Back the way she’d come. But while she thought she could get him through the old utility tunnel, and Maxon could help her lift him out, the size of the twins’ hand-dug passage was something else. It was just too small for a man of Drake’s stature. And even with help, digging it out would take too long, for Drake’s sake if not for the risk of discovery. If things had gone badly wrong up top, the Coalition could be already searching the grounds for intruders.

  But there was no other choice.

  She began to move, thinking she would have a long, hard pull to think of what she would do at the end of it. And it was longer and harder than she’d imagined. She was more than fit, but her hands hurt, her back was tight with the strain, her legs wearying too soon.

  It is nothing—nothing—compared to what he has been through.

  She pulled on, and on. When she reached the narrow spot at the wall, it was a close thing, and she had to leverage him up over the small lip. It would be difficult, but she began, chanting inwardly that they were almost there. They were nearly through, and she stepped over him to pull from the other side, banging her hip on one side and the holster on the other.

  The holster.

  She froze as a thought slammed into her.

  She turned it over in her mind, and then nearly laughed aloud as she realized she had the solution literally at hand.

  She would blast the tunnel larger with the Coalition’s own weapon.

  The weapon Drake had stolen, in the guise of the meek, cowardly taproom keeper.

  How fitting, that in the end, he would save them both.

  She be
gan with the lowest setting, not wanting the passage to cave in, but it was taking too long. She upped it and it was better. She carved it out carefully, marveling rather warily at how the material just vanished.

  She had just judged it wide enough when she heard footsteps approaching. She darted back into the shadows, appealing to all the mountain gods she didn’t really believe in, even to the Spirit, that it wasn’t the Coalition, not now. Not when they were so close.

  When Maxon’s face appeared, she nearly went weak with relief. She said his name, keeping her voice to the lowest whisper she thought he could hear.

  “Kye?”

  “Yes. I need your help, and Mara’s. I have him, but he’s badly hurt. You’ll have to pull him up.”

  She shuddered to think what tying that rope around his battered ribs would do to him, and tried to pad it as best she could with the coat. He did not stir at all, and she thought of checking to see if he had survived the long drag through the tunnel but it didn’t matter now. Nothing did except getting him out and away from here.

  Once it was done, they hauled him up easily enough, then threw the rope back down to her. She scrambled up, closed the hatch, and hastily covered it as best she could, given that the hole was larger now; she doubted they would ever use it again, but the Raider had taught her never to discard an asset that still worked—they had too little.

  She fought down her dread; she could not afford that luxury. Could not afford any feelings right now.

  They carried him with great care. Now that she was outside, she could hear shouting coming from all over the compound, heard the sound of rovers whooshing through the air and large transports in the distance, heading for the mountains where Brander had clearly created such a commotion with his rail gun that the Coalition was responding in force. And drawing all their attention, as planned. It was a dangerous game he was playing, but she had faith in her scapegrace cousin; he would manage.

  She knelt on the deck of the air rover beside Drake’s too-still form as they raced for the ruin, and safety.

  Chapter 46

  “YOU HAVE MADE a grave miscalculation, Jakel.”

  Paledan looked at the man, contemplating the quirk of nature that sometimes brutal creatures—for he thought of the man as little more than a beast—reflected their inner nature. He’d once heard Blakely joke that if a blowpig mated with a muckrat, the result would look like Jakel, but be kinder. He thought that fairly accurate.

  “Blame your guard, who left his post,” the man said stubbornly. “I nearly had Davorin talking.”

  “You tortured him nearly unto death and he told you nothing.”

  Yet he spoke to me.

  Paledan pondered the words Davorin had spoken before passing out. The Coalition dealt in power and force, and had little use for ideas and less for ideals. They cared for nothing that couldn’t be gained by force, and the concept of a belief that wouldn’t die even when crushed, that people would hold unto death, was dismissed without thought.

  And yet . . .

  “It would appear Davorin’s standing in Zelos is higher than I was led to believe,” Paledan said thoughtfully, glancing once more at the symbols on the wall, the Ziem sabers. “Why else would so many risk their lives to divert our attention from his escape?”

  Jakel snorted. He was pacing Paledan’s office like the muckrat Blakely had mentioned, lumbering, heavy arms swinging. “You call surrounding that half-wit Ordam risking their lives? The man couldn’t fight his way out of a crawler web. I doubt he even knows how to fire a blaster.”

  “On that, we can agree,” Paledan said.

  Jakel appeared to interpret that as encouragement. “I still don’t understand how Davorin escaped. He was incapacitated, I swear.”

  “He appeared to be, yes.”

  “And the door lock was just . . . gone. How in hades did that happen?”

  Paledan had an idea about that, but it was hardly something he would share with this man. “Mysterious.”

  Jakel flicked a glance at him. Apparently, he felt braver, because he said, “You unlocked his chains from the wall.”

  Paledan lifted his gaze then, locked it on Jakel’s face. The man stopped in his tracks.

  “You do not,” Paledan said without inflection, “wish to open that subject.”

  Jakel backed up a step. Threw up his hands. “No, no, I. . . . Look, give me some men, I’ll find Davorin and drag him back here.”

  “You will not.”

  “But—”

  “You will, however, answer to me from now on.”

  Jakel blinked. “What?”

  “We are agreed Barcon Ordam is unable to command a curlbug, let alone a man such as yourself, are we not?”

  “Uh . . . yes?”

  “And am I correct in thinking he has treated you with less than respect?”

  Something hot, almost red, flashed in the monster’s eyes. “Oh, yes.”

  “Then it should be a relief to answer to the Coalition, should it not? And have Coalition backing at your disposal?”

  The man’s expression lightened. “Yeah. Yeah, sure.”

  “And the chance to teach Ordam that respect?”

  The avid expression that came over Jakel’s face then warned Paledan that this man would have to be dealt with. But for now, he was a tool to be used. And Barcon Ordam had outlived—by a large margin—his usefulness.

  “Then come with me.”

  He strode out of his office. He never looked back; he didn’t have to, he could hear Jakel’s heavy tread close behind him.

  They found Ordam huddled in a chair in his office. He let out a yelp of terror when Paledan threw the door open without knocking.

  Ordam let out an audible sigh of relief when he saw who it was.

  “Commander! You must have them arrested, all of them. I ordered the troopers to take them when they were here, but they refused!”

  “My troops,” Paledan said, “do not take orders from you.”

  Ordam cringed. “Of course, of course, but you can order it now, surely? I can identify them all.”

  Paledan looked around. The office was remarkably tidy, given that some thirty citizens had been gathered, shouting and making demands, not two hours ago. They had taken care not to destroy or damage anything, Paledan thought. Under orders?

  “On what charges?” he asked, his tone one of mild curiosity.

  “Since when does the Coalition care about charges?” Ordam’s tone was incredulous.

  “Contention valid,” Paledan agreed. “But explain how you justify tying up those troops ‘protecting’ you against an obviously orderly group, while a prisoner escaped and the mines were attacked? How did you not realize it was a ruse, a diversion?”

  “How could I? They stormed this office! They accused me of being a traitor to Ziem, of handing them over to . . .”

  His voice trailed away. Paledan smiled. “And did you not?”

  “It was for their own good,” Ordam protested. “You don’t understand these people.”

  “But you, being the special creature that you are, do.”

  It hadn’t been a question, but Ordam nodded rapidly. “Exactly. Most of them are stubbornly independent, and foolish; they don’t know what’s good for them. They need a guiding hand, to show them.”

  “I would, had I the time, spend a few minutes explaining reality to you, Ordam. But I have other demands on my time at present. And so, I will leave your education on the price of treason to someone else.”

  He glanced at Jakel, then back at Ordam. “One other thing. He works for the Coalition now.”

  Ordam looked merely puzzled. Until Paledan nodded at Jakel and said, “He’s all yours.”

  Paledan heard the screams all the way down the hall.

  BRANDER STA
RED down at the broken man in the narrow bed. Even if the truth hadn’t gotten around, the disguise was hardly necessary now, he was so battered. He had stopped Mahko barely halfway through reciting Drake’s massive injuries, because he couldn’t bear it.

  “I’m so sorry,” the healer whispered, his expression devastated. “I have eased his pain slightly, but I can do no more for him. He does not have long.”

  Brander dropped more than sat in the chair beside the bed. He felt a touch, a gentle squeeze of his shoulder. Eirlys. She was about to lose the man who was both brother and father to her, and she was trying to comfort him? He couldn’t even look at her.

  “I will be just outside,” she said, and he wondered that she was able to think at all, let alone think to give him some moments alone with Drake.

  For a long time, he couldn’t bring himself to look at the man he had grown up beside, planned beside, and fought beside. But when he finally did, he realized Drake’s eyes were open, at least as much as they could be given the swollenness of his face where Jakel had beaten him.

  He tried to speak.

  “Bran—” The hard B sound was too much for bloody lips, and he stopped.

  “Don’t try to talk,” Brander said, leaning in.

  “Have to. Things . . . need said.”

  “Drake—”

  “Twins. Look out for.”

  “Of course. You know I will, until you’re able.”

  Drake’s eyes closed. Brander heard the hiss of sound as he labored to breathe. Then he was back, looking at him steadily. “Not . . . this time.”

  He saw the knowledge in his best friend’s eyes. Saw the resignation there, and could only imagine the pain he must be in for it to be there.

  “You must—” again, his lips seemed to protest making the sound, but this time he forced himself to go on, stronger now “—take over. Raider can’t die.”

  “You are the Raider.”

  Drake gave the barest shake of his head. “An idea . . . a symbol. They will fight for you.”

  “No.”

  “They will. Use the scars, the helmet. The legend . . . has to go on. If the Raider dies . . . Ziem dies.”