Zical seemed to know how off balance she was. He hadn’t asked much from her during the planning stages of their escape, but Dora was determined to contribute. However, compartmentalizing her emotions from her intellect as a human was a very different process than as a computer. Before she’d become human, she’d worried about her friends, but she could isolate those concerns so they didn’t interfere with her thoughts. The human brain was more organic, one section spilling into the others. Although she attempted to focus on the escape, staying to Zical’s left and slightly behind him during the walk toward the guards, worry over Kirek never left her thoughts for long.
She fretted about the tests his captors might put him through. Although he’d already survived being alone on an alien world, his childish body wouldn’t stand up to adult stresses. The thought that anyone might hurt him sickened her. She worried that Cyn’s feedback loop wouldn’t work to cover their escape from those monitoring from afar.
As if sensing her distress, Zical placed an arm over her shoulders. “Please, at least try not to frown.”
Zical’s arm comforted her, and she drew courage from his sympathetic tone. Obviously, she could hold up better and tried a breathing exercise that Tessa claimed helped to neutralize muscle tension. Dora breathed in deeply through her nose and out through her mouth. If her muscles relaxed a bit, she didn’t perceive a difference. However, since she’d tucked the top of her toga into her skirt’s waistband, the exercise of expanding her lungs distracted the male guard by calling attention to her bare breasts.
Her inadvertent breathing exercise might be just the edge they needed. As a warrior Zical could take advantage of the guard’s continued distraction. So she breathed deeper, then arched her spine, knowing the action would lift her breasts.
While the guard gawked at her chest in admiration, Zical flattened him with a one-handed knife strike to the throat. As the man fell, Zical released Dora’s shoulder and front kicked the second guard’s chin. Both guards slumped unconscious, and Vax and a few scientists tied their hands behind their backs and gagged them, before lugging them into the conference room and locking them inside. Meanwhile Dora confiscated their weapons and changed into a modest Risorian garment to attract less attention. When the men returned, she handed one gun to Zical and the other to Vax.
Finally, Zical pried open the door. They’d waited until dark, but the temperature outside remained hot. The air smelled of sweet grass, herbal spices, and the overwhelming bold floral aromas of nearby flowering trees. Within moments of stepping outside, her garment stuck to her, but she nevertheless kept the top on while they raced across the Risorian turf.
Vax and his people were departing out the other exit and starting down a dirt path as the scientists headed away from Zical and Dora, using a building for cover before advancing toward the city. In preparation for the journey, they’d all drunk as much liquid as they could hold, but in this heat, finding water would always be a priority. Anyone who stayed outside all night would quickly dehydrate and weaken.
Vax led his team out the back entrance and planned to head north. Dr. Laduna’s group headed in the opposite direction. Zical was about to lead Dora west and into the woods when she spied a two-person skimmer. “Over there.”
He shook his head. “We don’t have the code.”
“Maybe I can override it.”
“It’s too dangerous.” He tugged her toward the trees.
She tugged back. “Walking through a forest in this heat is dangerous. Come on.”
He allowed her to persuade him and stood guard, the weapon at his side. She popped the door and crawled into the driver’s seat, wishing she could connect with Ranth and hoping no one saw the interior light that had switched on automatically when she’d put her weight in the seat. At the sight of a color-coded keypad, she grinned.
Within moments, she’d pried off the plastic pad and pulled two wires loose. It took only a few seconds to twist the wires together to complete the circuit.
“Hurry,” Zical whispered. “Someone’s coming.”
She didn’t look up but knew from his tone that she hadn’t much time. “I’m almost done here. Buy us another minute,” she advised, snapping the keypad back into place and shoving open the passenger door. “Get in.”
“You’re driving?” he eyed her with dismay. No pilot ever liked anyone in charge of a vehicle except themselves, or perhaps another pilot.
“It would look strange if we suddenly switched places.”
No alarms had gone off. At least none they could hear. There were no signs of pursuit. The men in the distance kept walking and continued into a building. “The more time we go undiscovered, the more time we all have to get away.”
Zical snapped a chest harness across him. “Fine.”
Dora gunned the motor, expecting to go forward. They boosted straight up.
“Damn.”
Her stomach rose into her throat, and she wished Zical were driving. To give him credit, he didn’t try to tell her what to do, but clenched the weapon, his knuckles white. She had to figure out the stick fast before they crashed. In the Federation, most vehicles had simple controls. Move a stick right, the vehicle went that direction. Move it left and it went left.
However, the skimmer used a tricky combination of foot and hand controls that took a few tries to figure out. The vehicle was dropping fast, too fast. When they almost dived into a tree, Zical’s breath hissed, but he didn’t complain, even as branches scratched the skimmer’s underside.
But once she finally gained control and put the skimmer into a sweeping curve over the compound before heading south toward the city lights, he made an odd choking sound, as if someone was strangling him.
“Are you all right?” she asked, looking back over her shoulder for signs of pursuit. But she saw none.
She realized that he wasn’t choking. He was chuckling.
“What?” She frowned. “What’s so funny?”
“I was thinking about your breasts.”
“Why?”
“They’re a secret weapon.”
“Huh?”
“That guard never stood a chance.”
Zical kept chuckling, but Dora was damn irritated. She didn’t see what was so amusing. For months she’d wanted Zical to admire her breasts. Now finally he was thinking about them—as a weapon. He hadn’t said one word of praise about her mastering the skimmer controls.
Men—they could be incredibly annoying.
She didn’t know whether to be angry, frustrated, or upset. So she compressed her lips and concentrated on flying.
Chapter Sixteen
DORA FLEW OVER the city and looked for a place to set down the skimmer. In the dark, the pink buildings all looked as if they’d been cast from the same mold, and their backlit windows reminded her that despite the riots in the streets, people ate and slept, made love, took care of their children, and argued with their mates. In the morning they would rise, bathe, and go to work in a comforting pattern of stability among family and friends and coworkers.
But Kirek would be alone. He’d left his parents and his world behind, and now he was with strangers—strangers who, according to Deckar, might treat him badly. She’d hoped to find the boy quickly, but with no idea of who had taken him, a random search seemed unlikely to reunite them.
Her fear for Kirek’s safety made her less cautious. Instead of setting down on the outskirts of the city where they would be apt to land unnoticed, she’d opted to save time by heading straight into the heart of Baniken. When she spied a wide-open park, she steered toward a wide clearing.
The skimmer suddenly jerked, and the stick slammed into her hand. Her pulse sped, and her mouth went dry. “Did I hit something?”
Zical peered out his window, his tone as casual as a tour guide’s. “They’re shooting at us.”
Smoke spiraled behind them, and the pedals beneath her feet turned to mush. “We’re going down.”
The skimmer spun, the engine sputtered,
and she fought to turn into the spin. Gaining only a minimum of control, she veered toward the park but they weren’t going to make the clearing. She spied a pond and had to ditch that idea, too. Spinning crazily, she fought the controls, tried to keep the skimmer from plunging into a straight dive.
“There.” Zical pointed. “Land on the roof.”
“If we miss, we’re dead.”
“If we land at ground level, we’re dead,” he argued. “They’ve mobilized an army down there. They’ve been tracking us.”
Dora barely heard his words. One life-threatening problem at a time was all she could handle. More shots fired, and most of them missed, but several ricocheted against the skimmer’s belly. Any moment she expected a projectile to slice through. But the bottom must have been armored. No shots entered the cab.
But one cracked the windshield, shattering it, the fragments torn aside to leave a gaping hole. Hot wind roared through the tiny craft, and as she tried to set down on the roof, it felt as though a giant fist lifted them up, then slammed them into a wall. She must have blacked out for a few seconds. When she opened her eyes, smoke poured through the skimmer. She hung by her shoulder harness with the craft tipped onto its side, all the blood in her head pounding.
Next to her, below her, Zical sat so still that she feared for his life. With a shaking hand, she felt for a pulse, and relief washed through her at the strong steady thumps. Praying he didn’t have an injury she couldn’t see in the dark, she shook him.
“Zical. Come on. Wake up. We have to get out of here. Before the skimmer explodes. Or we burn alive.” All the while she talked, she was unbuckling her belt, thrusting open the door over her head, wondering how in hell she could pull him up and out if he didn’t recover consciousness.
Zical grunted, groaned. Even in the dim light, she could see his eyes open, and then smoke swept through the skimmer—just breathing filled her mouth, burned her eyes, and choked her lungs. She coughed. “You hurt?”
“Don’t think so.” His voice was groggy, and he began coughing, too.
Flames burst, reddish-orange sparks and fire. In the light of the hellish hot blaze, she grabbed the edge of the open doorway and pulled herself upward. From below, Zical boosted her feet with a strength that shot her out of the top and tumbling free; she banged her shoulder and scraped her knee on the way down. Pain dazed her. Her knee hurt like stabbing knives, and she blinked back tears of frustration. She had intended to turn around on the top, reach in, and help pull out Zical, but now she couldn’t help him. However, a moment later he climbed out by himself and landed beside her, his face streaked with smoke.
“We have to go. Now,” Zical ordered.
He helped her limp toward a rooftop door and lifted his weapon to pound, but when she tugged on the knob, it opened. They’d just stepped onto a stairwell when the skimmer exploded in a fiery roar that deafened. Too late she clamped her hands over her ears.
The ringing made her words seem as if they came from a distance. “Maybe they’ll think we’re dead,” she suggested, taking his hand, determined not to complain about her knee that stung and burned like fire.
She turned to look over her shoulder and saw skimmers about to land. Ignoring the pain in her knee, she descended with Zical into the building, yells of pursuit behind them.
KIREK AWAKENED AND instantly knew he was no longer with his friends. It was too quiet, too dark. Something was very wrong. His mouth was dry, his tongue swollen, but not from thirst. He suspected he’d been drugged, and by the hunger in his stomach, he guessed he’d stayed unconscious for at least a day, maybe more.
The last thing he remembered was talking to Dora and falling asleep in the cool Risorian compound. He’d felt a prick of pain in his neck. A shot? He touched the tender spot and winced. Now certain he’d been drugged, he blinked away the last of his grogginess, his alarm escalating.
Once again he was alone. He hated that tears filled his eyes. After reuniting with Dora and Zical, he’d felt as though he’d come back to his temporary home. While Miri and Etru were his family, Dora and Zical were like a dear aunt and uncle. Losing them a second time hit him hard. He wanted to shout in frustration.
He’d believed that since the Risorians believed him to be the Oracle that they would release all of them and allow them to continue the mission. Loneliness and frustration boiled in Kirek, but he forced himself to use his best asset—his brain.
Think.
It was hot here, and he strained to see in the darkness. Slowly his eyes adjusted, and he made out walls, a sofa where he’d been sleeping, a desk. He appeared to be in an office or study with an attached bathing facility.
He stood with care, letting his system fight off the remaining sleeping drugs that had left his mouth dry and his mind groggy. But his head was clearing fast. Fear and adrenaline and a need to survive had a way of readying the weakest muscles to fight or flee.
However, there was no one to fight, even if he’d been big enough or strong enough to do so. He groped for the door handle and found it locked. Fleeing wasn’t an immediate option.
Questions burned in his mind, the foremost being, who had taken him and why? The Risorians had wanted him to call for peace. Had they separated him from the others in an attempt to force him to do as they wished? Or had another of the warring factions wanted the Oracle for a purpose of their own?
Clearly whoever had taken him wanted something or he would be dead. That thought gave him the courage to explore the desk, where he found a computer system. “Computer on,” he ordered, expecting the connection to remain dead.
When the vidscreen flickered on and the lights in the room brightened, he was pleasantly surprised. A man whose face he’d never seen before came up on the vidscreen. He possessed serious dark eyes with too many circles under them, lots of wrinkles, and a stern demeanor. With none of his body or clothing visible, Kirek couldn’t guess which faction he represented.
“I am L’Matti. You are safe, Oracle.”
Kirek folded his arms over his chest. “Why have I been taken from my people?”
“Oracle. We mean to commit no sacrilege, but our need to verify your singularity is great.”
At the man’s words, Kirek fought not to tremble. He recalled Deckar’s words and the tests the clerics wanted him to pass. Tests that Deckar had implied would be unpleasant at best, and possibly mean his death if he failed. However, Kirek knew better than to show fear. The Kwadii believed that Tirips’ Oracle would not fear death … or torture.
From his studies he knew that all religious doctrines were based on faith, and despite his distress at his circumstances, Kirek understood that a haughty attack might be his best defense among nonbelievers and believers alike. “You lack faith?”
“We seek truth.”
“I don’t listen to doublespeak.” Kirek deliberately insulted his captor and spoke in his most demanding tone, one he hoped didn’t resemble a whine. “Bring me sustenance and drink. Then we will talk further.” He turned his back on the vidscreen, hoping his tactic would work.
If he were full grown and a warrior like his father, when the door opened and someone brought food, he could attack, escape, flee. But limited by his child’s body, Kirek had to depend upon his brains. While he could consistently fool scanners into false readings, he was certain his captors were aware of his abilities and would post living guards about these quarters.
He had three options. He could refuse to speak. He could lie and deceive. Or he could cooperate. As he waited for food, he mulled over his choices and decided he didn’t have enough data to draw a valid conclusion. Refusing to speak wouldn’t gain him much knowledge about his captors. He’d learn quickly if they’d resort to force, but not more.
If they caught him in just one lie, the deception could blow out what little faith these people seemed to have. Perhaps the truth would serve Kirek best. A slot in the wall of his room opened, and he helped himself to the tray laden with food. Unfortunately he saw no one and still h
ad no clue to who held him here.
Sensing the impatience of his captor to question him, Kirek ate slowly, hoping agitation would lead to mistakes that would give him a clue how much to say. With his belly full, he set the tray back into the wall niche and returned to the vidscreen.
“What do you want of me?”
“You are Tirips’ Oracle?”
“Yes.”
“Why have you come to Kwadii?”
“I go where Tirips sends me.”
“For what purpose?”
“To serve Tirips.”
“How do you serve?”
“In whatever capacity Tirips deems best.”
“Oracle. Many nonbelievers doubt you are the Oracle.”
“Did I not prove myself by walking through your death fields as your legends predicted?”
“Perhaps you employed superior technology.”
Kirek turned around slowly, his arms raised in the air. “Do you see technology on my person? Do your sensors see more than flesh and bones standing before you?”
“The nonbelievers among us need more proof,” his questioner stated with a weariness that was difficult for Kirek to read.
Was the man tired of speaking in circles? Did he doubt every word Kirek spoke? Or was he irritated with his superiors for putting him in a position where he must question the Oracle? Kirek didn’t know but kept his voice authoritative, superior.
“Can you tell us why Tirips sent you now?”
“I am only the messenger. Tirips does not explain herself to me.”
“What message do you have for the Kwadii?”
“Tirips doesn’t approve of her children committing violence against one another or others. She would have the Kwadii at peace.”
Rystani Warrior 02 - The Dare Page 23