by Astrid Amara
Tover’s eyebrows rose. “I thought you said you were in a monogamous relationship?”
Yves grinned. “I am. Sometimes.” He moved closer and wrapped his arms around Tover’s waist. “A little fooling around here and there never ended anything, however.”
The heat of Yves’s body sent a surge of desire through Tover, but he gently pushed the other man away.
“Thanks. I am flattered. But I’m also in a monogamous relationship.” It wasn’t true, of course—he and Cruz hadn’t said anything of the sort to each other, ever. But the idea of Cruz incarcerated in peacekeeper captivity at that very moment curbed Tover’s libido.
Yves didn’t take it personally. He nodded and collected his holoscreen. “Well, I hope it works out for you two.”
“Thanks again.” Tover reached for Yves’s hand and swiped his wristpad over Yves’s.
Yves glanced down at the amount of shares Tover had transferred and blinked. “Fuck! That’s a month’s pay, Tover. It’s too much.”
“It’s not. Especially if you never mention it.”
Yves glanced up sharply at that. “Have I just done something illegal?”
“No. You’ve done exactly what I asked—broke the code of a wristpad once owned by a terrorist, now owned by me. But the media is hungry for any story about my kidnapping, and I’d prefer it if no one knew how I got this.”
Yves seemed relieved by the answer. “Okay. Between us, then.”
Tover gave Yves a quick kiss. “Good luck to you.”
Yves looked confused by the comment, but nodded as he left.
Tover bolted his suite door behind Yves and checked the time. It was now two thirty in the morning.
But everything on the wristpad that he couldn’t access before awaited him. So he ignored the needs of his body and got to work.
The knock on his door was at seven o’clock precisely.
Having stayed up until only an hour prior, Tover decided to ignore whoever so inconsiderately woke him up. But the knocking at the door persisted, then grew in intensity. By the time Tover sleepily stumbled out of bed, it sounded as though someone attacked his suite with a battering ram.
He swung open the door, wearing only pajama pants, and came face to face with three men, identical, expensive business suits and blank expressions. Their clothes reeked of money, their shoes looked high class, but the pistols holstered and visible under their jackets was nothing but pure gangsterism.
They stepped into Tover’s apartment without invitation.
“Wait!” he protested. “Who the fuck are you?”
“We’re with Harmony. Get dressed, it’s time to go to work.”
“Fuck you,” Tover spat.
The man closest to him pulled out his pistol. Tover belatedly recognized the barrel for electric ammo as the bullet slammed into his belly and set his body afire.
He fell back, every muscle in his body going rigid at once. His body convulsed then, shocks repeatedly firing through his nervous system, causing his heart to stutter. He bit his tongue and blood filled his mouth. The pain was excruciating, and endless. Blood seeped from the entry wound. The shocks seemed to go on and on, and by the time his muscles finished convulsing, he was sweaty and exhausted, barely able to crawl to his bed, let alone work.
But his new companions didn’t share that opinion.
“Get up, and get dressed,” the tallest one ordered.
“Who the hell are you?” Tover gasped. His entire body ached from the aftereffects of the electrocution.
“We’re Harmony’s negotiations team,” the tallest one said. He had a tan face and piercing brown eyes. “My name is Wert. This is Wilson”—he gestured to the man pointing the electric pistol at Tover—“and this is McIntire.” He nodded to the one whose slicked-back thinning hair hinted that he was older than he first appeared.
But he was still strong. They all were. And long—unnaturally long—showing modified bodies, clearly ex-military.
“I suggest you follow our suggestions,” Wilson said. “You will be rewarded for your cooperation.”
“I don’t want money.” It was clearly futile to argue with these men. They weren’t “negotiators”. They were hitmen.
Wilson cocked his head, studying Tover. “What do you want, Navigator?”
“To quit,” Tover said, voice shaking.
“Try again.”
“To see my family.” He hadn’t expected the words to come out, but they did, as if summoned by some subconscious need within him. “I want to see my parents.”
Wilson nodded. “That will be your first reward then. Put your clothes on. We’re due in the cargo control deck in half an hour.”
Tover silently dressed in front of the men. He glanced over his shoulder as he sprayed nu-skin over his newest wound. The men watched him, silent and wary.
His initial fear slowly shifted into seething anger. After everything he had ever done for Harmony, and this was how they treated him? Forced to work at gunpoint?
If Ana had told him this story a month ago, he would have laughed in her face and called her an idiot.
Who’s the idiot now?
Tover changed into his navigator’s uniform, muscles still trembling from the electric ammo. Wilson led him out and the other two flanked him. Tover’s own security team joined the negotiators at the elevator of the hotel and said nothing as they swarmed around the men. They clearly knew the negotiators would be there, and again Tover’s anger overrode his fear—that the nameless, faceless men who guarded him would be informed of these goons in advance of Tover himself?
Tover entered the cargo control deck and all of his coworkers smiled and welcomed him back, none seeming to sense the danger emanating from Tover’s new escorts. And if they noted the way these men flanked the navport chair, hands casually resting on their belts, jackets open enough to give Tover a glimpse of their pistols, they said nothing about it.
A few friendly faces asked if he felt better, and someone looked as though they’d pat him on the back. But a stern glance from one of the negotiators ended that.
As they waited for the first load of the day to be towed into position, Tover glanced at the navchair and the console, and started to sweat. Delia’s advice had at least helped enough to allow him to sit down, although his brain kept urging him to get up, to run. Gull approached with a concerned look and seemed hesitant to open the cuffs. When she did, a visceral pain knifed through Tover’s gut, but he clenched his teeth and worked through his visualization exercises. He didn’t offer his hands and so Gull had to gesture. Finally he lifted them. She gently closed the cuffs around his wrists.
“You okay?” she whispered. Her glance traveled to the men flanking the chair, and she looked frightened.
“Didn’t you hear?” Tover faked a smile. “I’m in negotiations.” He was about to enter a full-bodied panic attack at having his hands trapped in front of him. He counted backward to avoid throwing up, and concentrated all his will on the star charts above, hoping routine would kick in, overpower the terror that racked his body.
Gull reached for the helmet. Sweat plastered Tover’s hair to his forehead and soaked through his shirt. He must have been pale, because Gull looked about to cry for him and mouthed a silent apology as she gently pulled the helmet on and strapped it tight.
Every part of Tover screamed in protest as the mouthpiece swung into place. No no no no no…
Gull gently pushed the mouthpiece into his mouth and Tover gagged. Panic rushed through him. God, he was going to throw up with the mouthpiece in. He clenched his eyes shut, tried to calm himself down. Breathe, breathe…
“Christ, Chief, the nav’s gonna puke!” Gull cried. “We can’t jump safely.”
“The navigator is fine.” This came from the negotiator on Tover’s right, Wert. At once, everyone on the control deck went quiet. Tover coul
d see their expressions change with the realization that something strange was happening.
Wilson made eye contact with Tover and nodded coldly. His hand rested near his gun.
Tover swallowed. He had to get it together. He focused on the coordinates, felt his route, and before he could think any further about the men ready to shock him for disobedience, before he could think what cruel keepers his employers truly were, Tover switched on the outside speakers, turned on the microphones, and listened to the vibration of the universe.
He slowed his heartbeat, opened his mouth.
Years of training made this part simple. He sang and punched through space. His voice was pure and the exaggeration capacity enormous on a system of this magnitude. He moved the cargo and nearly a kilometer of vacuum. All the power of this vessel, at his mouth, and he couldn’t even enjoy it.
He completed the fold and then it was too much, he had to get out, immediately. He tried to spit the mouthpiece out but he couldn’t. He couldn’t pull off the head unit. He thrashed in the restraints, and Gull rushed to his assistance.
“Goods arrived intact,” the communicator called. Everyone applauded, even the negotiators.
As the mouthpiece slid free of his mouth Tover felt the vomit rise up in its place. He had to get out of the chair before he ruined it.
“Get me out! Get me out!” he cried, in full panic, yanking desperately against his wrist restraints. Gull flipped the switch to free him, and Tover stumbled off the dais, crawling to the second level where he puked into the nearest waste receptor. He shook violently. He heard the applause die out and knew everyone watched him. He felt shame, but had no control over his own actions.
“We need a medic!” Gull shouted, rushing to Tover’s side. Tover gagged again.
“He’s fine,” Wilson said. He frowned down at Tover. “Get yourself cleaned up. We have thirteen more shipments to move before lunch.”
Tover completed twenty-one jumps before the negotiators gave the cargo chief a nod and Tover was allowed to go home.
Gull helped him off the dais looking pale, and even Chief Kulshan appeared somber as Tover walked from the room. No one bothered to applaud anymore.
Tover headed straight to his aviary, where he sat for several hours, figuring out the answer to a simple question: What did he want?
Not this, he thought, staring down at the red marks around his wrists. It wasn’t only PTSD. The job itself now sickened him. Cruz had been right. He was the property of cruel masters.
He had nothing to look forward to other than more of the same sort of days in the future. He could get used to it again. Maybe he’d even enjoy the prestige and the praise once more.
But that hadn’t been what had sustained him for the last year. It had been Cruz’s visits. That is what he had continued to wait for. And now that was forever gone.
Part of him wished for his old ignorance. It was so much easier to believe he was a demigod whom the world worshipped, who could have anything he wanted. Now that he knew the truth, he could never go back to the way things were.
He fell asleep in his aviary, exhausted from the night before and the day’s brutal beginning. When he woke up, neck stiff from sleeping on the floor of the aviary, he glanced up at the majestic sight of his birds in flight.
A deep sadness filled him. His birds would never know the freedom of those rubies on Carida. Keeping them here, caged for his own pleasure, was hardly a life they deserved.
I’m a monster.
But cages were all they knew. They wouldn’t survive on any terraformed planetary wild. They were domesticated, and this was their life. They’d have to make do with the cage.
Tover studied his hands. His wrists had healed completely, Lourdes had taken care of that. But he could still feel where he’d been held down.
Poor choices, he thought to himself, looking back up at his birds. I’ve made poor choices.
But then Cruz’s voice came to him. He’d never really had a choice, had he?
Until now.
Chapter Nineteen
One valuable lesson Tover had learned on Jarrow was the benefit of shutting up, giving in and doing one’s job.
After his first confrontation with the negotiators, Tover offered no further protest. He allowed them to escort him to the navport chair every morning, standing guard as he completed jump after jump, he let them congratulate him on a good day’s work as they walked him home.
He tried to put a brave face on it. It wouldn’t do anyone any good if they knew how miserable he was—himself most of all. If the rough pieces of a plan he’d developed in his mind were going to come together, it would take a miracle—and everyone’s belief that he’d returned to normal.
It was hard. His body still reacted physically to the mouthpiece and cuffs. It took every ounce of his will to force himself to appear calm as his wrists were bound in place. But his convincing performance eased tensions in the cargo control deck. More importantly, the negotiators relaxed. A little.
After two weeks of obedience, Wert lingered behind in Tover’s suite after they deposited Tover back home. He handed Tover a data drive.
“Your reward,” Wert said. Tover reached for it but Wert pulled it back, smiling cruelly. “By the way, I can’t help but notice you’re losing weight.”
Tover had been losing weight—his appetite disappeared after the misery of a shift in the navport chair.
“You will need to work harder at eating. We can’t have you get sick, can we?”
Tover did his best to look shamefaced. Wert handed over the drive and Tover took it.
“Thank you,” Tover managed to say. Every part of him wanted to strike out at the smug expression on Wert’s face. Instead he turned away.
“I’ve ordered up a couple steaks. Finest quality, from Earthport no less. Let’s have dinner together.”
Tover sighed. Would his torment never end? “All right.”
He had to endure another hour of Wert’s company, in silence, both of them blankly staring at the media screen while Tover forced bites of steak down his throat. But his own plans required him strong and fit, not emaciated, so he had as much incentive to improve his appetite as his captors.
Only once Wert departed could Tover read through the materials on the drive. It was a shock when the first image file he opened revealed his own face.
Well not exactly—but very close. He was undoubtedly Ray Duke’s son, seeing what looked like his own face at first, albeit older and with sandier-colored hair. But they had the same blue eyes, high cheekbones, and long, thin nose.
His father was a contractor for an aviation manufacturing firm, and a citizen of Arland.
Tover’s mother, Marna, had been a scientist, specializing in the analysis of mineral deposits collected from sites at remote outposts. Several of the documents were from a laboratory archive, with her explaining technical details about soil samples that Tover only half-understood.
Both of them were dead, of course. Amongst the scattered collection of media files, their obituaries caught his eye first and foremost. Apparently they died less than a year after Tover had been voluntarily handed over to Harmony for sensitivity testing. There were no specifics on the cause of death, although he wasn’t sure if this was censorship on the part of Harmony or that no such data was ever made available.
Bitterness surged through Tover and strengthened his resolve. He copied the files onto his wristpad for safekeeping, and so that he wouldn’t forget.
By day, Tover tried his best to play the part of dutiful, repentant Harmony employee. Nights, however, he carefully transferred files from Cruz’s wristpad onto a new memory drive. To avoid transferring the files over Harmony’s main servers, he had to circumnavigate them, which took time. It was a trick he’d been taught many years ago by a lover, showing him how to bypass Harmony’s content filters to download gay pornogr
aphy. Tover almost smiled at the thought that all those years furtively secreting videos of men fucking each other could end up saving a planet.
Once he’d transferred all of the newscasts Zoya and Cruz had edited, he now had the more difficult task of getting it to a neutral media source.
Alexey Jade had spoken correctly when he described Jemma Rose as a journalist Tover respected, but they weren’t friends. In fact, Jemma was one of the few reporters on DK Station who openly questioned the monopoly Harmony had on navigators, and the power such resources represented, concentrated in the hands of a single private entity. If anything, they had been at cross-purposes for the years he’d worked at DK Station.
But now he needed to get in touch with her. If anyone on the station would be willing to risk the exposure such a story would evoke, it was Jemma.
Yet the negotiators watched his every step. His movements had been restricted to work, his suite and the gym. Food requests were delivered. His access to the media had been limited to only the sight of those persistent reporters, lingering in the public spaces of DK Station where even Harmony executives couldn’t clear them away.
He put in a formal request to resume his therapy sessions with Delia Yu, and this was under consideration but had yet to be approved. Likewise, his desire to speak with his publicist also required vetting from some higher power at Harmony. Who that higher power was, the man or woman who had replaced Peter Owens, was a mystery.
Tover operated in a confined world. It was nicer than The Baroque, to be sure, full of kind people on the fringes, smiling and telling him he looked healthier, that he’d been sorely missed. It had feather beds and workout equipment and all the media libraries he could ever want.
And it was as lonely, confining and demoralizing.
Only news sources based on Carida provided any updates regarding the Pulmon Verde arrested in conjunction with Tover’s kidnapping. He learned, through the help of a Spanish translation program, that Cruz and one other terrorist had been docketed for trials in the larger, more serious venue of Great Arland. Which meant they would be temporarily detained at DK Station for transfer.