LOGAN (The Innerworld Affairs Series, Book 5)

by Marilyn Campbell

  Hans's smile came back. "Tools, clothing, sugar. Things we need. Sometimes we put a drawing with the crops so they'll know what we'd like. Other times they surprise us."

  Logan wanted to hear more about the fairies, but Higgs chose that moment to do some more fretting.

  "Can I talk to you?" he asked, looking nervous enough to throw up.

  Logan let Higgs lead him out of the others' hearing range.

  "I just want to make sure there's no hard feelings," Higgs said, not quite meeting Logan's eyes. "You know, between us. I mean, I was just doing my job, you know. It's not like I had anything to do with your court martial."

  "Forget it, Higgs. We were all just doing our job."

  "Well, anyway, I just wanted you to know, you and the major have my support if you need it. My guess is, Wilkes and his pals aren't the only ones who might cause trouble."

  Logan smirked. "Thanks for the news flash." He stopped himself from taking his frustration out on Higgs. "Just pass on anything you get wind of. This situation's bad enough without us fighting amongst ourselves." He was about to return to Hans when Higgs stopped him.

  "Do you think they're androids?" he asked glancing at Hans. When Logan furrowed his brows, Higgs added, "You know, robots that are really close to being human but are still just computers? Or maybe they're aliens that have taken our shape to gain our confidence."

  Logan didn't want to hear why Higgs thought the aliens needed to gain their confidence. "I don't know any more than you do, Higgs, but I'll tell you this much. I'd lay odds that these guys aren't the ones we need to worry about. They're just puppets. What we've got to do is find a way to reach the ones who pull their strings."

  Higgs glanced from side to side as if expecting to see an eavesdropper. "If it's aliens we're dealing with, I should be able to help. I've read thousands of science fiction novels, you know."

  "Thanks, Higgs," Logan said, giving him a pat on the back. "I'll keep that in mind."

  As he made his way back to Hans, Logan rubbed his temples. Damn! He was getting a headache. Considering the tension he was holding inside, it wasn't surprising that one was coming on. All he needed now to make his day complete was a killer migraine—a blinding, five-day cluster type ought to about do it. Especially since there probably wasn't an aspirin in the whole friggin' place.

  What the hell had possessed him to step forward and help the major? He knew when he did it, he'd regret it. The welfare of the men was no longer his concern. The army had spit him out of its womb and forgotten him, much like his own mother had. But he just hadn't been able to stand there and let an ass like Wilkes get the upper hand.

  So here he was, back to being the one everybody was counting on to make the right decisions and keep them safe.

  Well, almost everybody. Wilkes wasn't counting on him for anything but a hard time. Though even that was something he'd have to live up to.

  Then there was Tarla. She certainly wouldn't count on him for anything. Not if she could help it. In fact, he'd done such a good job of putting her off, she'd probably refuse to ask him for help, even if her life was threatened.

  Logan was accustomed to life being one kick in the teeth after another, but this little turn of events sure beat the hell out of anything that had come before, including the court martial. It was the typical sort of trick fate always played on him. He had been spared from life in one prison, only to find himself being held captive in another in which his wardens were either fairies or aliens.

  And the only woman in the entire universe capable of twisting him into knots with nothing more than the sound of her voice, was there to make sure he didn't have a moment's peace.

  As he had a hundred times before, he drifted back to the moment when he first realized that Tarla was neither an angel nor a hallucination...

  * * *

  He squinted his eyes in an attempt to focus on the woman looking down on him. Either the concussion or whatever drug they'd used on him for the surgery still had him feeling disoriented and drowsy, but the throbbing pain in his thigh assured him he was very much alive.

  "Welcome back, Logan."

  Her voice sent a shiver up his spine in spite of the numbing narcotic. The way she said his name suggested they'd known each other forever and the way she smiled at him made it seem as though they really had.

  Her fingers combed his hair back from his forehead. "I'm Tarla. How do you feel?"

  He wanted her to touch him again, but he didn't dare ask aloud.

  "Hurts, doesn't it?" She lightly stroked one of the scars on his shoulder. "But it looks like you've been through this before."

  "Slovenia," he mumbled hoarsely.

  Her fingertip traced the scar along his jaw, then his forehead.

  "Detroit."

  "Is that where you're from?" He nodded once. "Too bad about the Chevies, huh? I thought they were a shoe-in for the championship this year."

  He wasn't much of a soccer fan but he was willing to discuss any topic that might keep her by his side. The drug in his system prevented him from intelligently holding up his side of the conversation, but she seemed to understand and did most of the talking.

  He remembered fading in and out for a day or two. Each time he awakened, she was there, smiling, telling him little bits of news and gossip. Once the amount of narcotic he'd been prescribed was reduced, he was able to get her talking about what he really wanted to know, which was anything and everything about her.

  She was from Baltimore, Maryland, thirty-four, had a large number of relatives and friends, each of whom she could relate a humorous story about. She liked children, rescued stray animals and, most important, had no husband, fiancé, or boyfriend waiting at home.

  The strange part was she seemed to really like him. For some reason, she saw right past what everyone else saw when they looked at him. He even had the urge to tell her about his own life, thinking she might be the one woman who wouldn't judge him by his past, but he needed more confidence for that.

  With each encounter, he grew more certain that she was feeling the same attraction to him as he was to her. And when he held her hand and she didn't pull it back, his hope rose.

  His leg felt a little better by the end of the second week and her nearness was keeping him in a constant state of arousal. He could tell Tarla wasn't the type of woman he usually associated with, and normally, he wouldn't have even bothered talking to her, but everything about her had him believing his life could be different with her.

  He wanted her, but he didn't want her to see him as an animal. He vowed to go slowly with her but he couldn't stand another day of only holding her hand.

  That night, after it was dark and quiet and she came by to say goodnight, he shifted to one side of the cot and asked her to sit next to him.

  "I know it's only been a couple weeks," he began, then stopped because her eyes were telling him he didn't have to explain. He reached up and, with his hand lightly stroking the back of her neck, he brought her head down to his. The moment her lips touched his, he knew, without a doubt, she could change his life—be the sweet woman who would lift his dark soul from the depths of hell and stand at his side through good times and bad.

  Knowing they had no assurance of continued privacy, he controlled the desire to pull her down onto the cot and bury himself in her softness. Instead, he kept the kiss light and closed-mouth and his hands above her shoulders.

  "I love you, Tarla," he whispered, and waited for her to return the sentiment. For several heartbeats, he was certain she wanted to do just that, then she sighed and slashed his exposed heart in two.

  "Logan, I'm flattered. You're a wonderful man, and I'd be honored to have your love. But sometimes, a man thinks he feels something for a woman who's taken care of him when really it's only gratitude. A few weeks from now, after you've gone from here, you probably won't feel anything like you do right this minute."

  "That's not true," he protested, unable to keep the hurt out of his voice. "I'm not some kid fres
h out of high school who can't tell the difference between love, lust and gratitude."

  She touched her fingers to his lips. "I know you're not. But I've been through this before with patients and, if I believed everyone who said he loved me truly did, I'd be perpetually heartbroken. Please don't misunderstand, I really care about you, but I can't afford to love you."

  She dipped her head to kiss him again but he turned his face from hers. It had been so long since he'd allowed himself to feel, that to have it thrown back in his face hurt worse than any physical wound he'd ever received.

  It made him remember the first and last time he'd been in love. He was fourteen and his raging hormones had clouded his mind enough to make him forget who he was and where he'd come from. When the prettiest girl in school was nice to him, he'd bragged that she was his girlfriend. As it turned out, she had only been treating him politely, as she had been taught by her upper-middle class parents. Behind his back, she told her friends what she really thought—that she'd rather kiss her dog than Dirty Logan McKay.

  After that, he improved his personal grooming habits but remembered to keep his hormonal sights on girls who didn't mind being kissed by white trash.

  The morning after Tarla's rejection, he wised up and started paying attention to what was going on around him. The pain in his leg was tolerable now without any narcotics, so his mind was no longer clouded by that either.

  The first thing he noticed was the number of other patients in better and worse shape than he was and Tarla was sweet to every last one of them. He told himself that was her job, so it was stupid to be jealous. But when he saw her lean over one young soldier and brush his hair back from his forehead, he pounded the last nail into the lid of the coffin that usually housed his heart.

  He had been a fool again.

  At least she hadn't lied the night before. She just called it like she saw it... and she was probably right. He wasn't in love. He was grateful. His mind, temporarily confused by drugs and pain, had mistaken her simple kindness for what she was, rather than what she did for a living. He knew from personal experience how vastly different those two things could be.

  By the time she came to visit him, he thought he had it all straightened out in his head, but he was still wrong. Just hearing her voice caused an ache inside him that no drug could fully numb. From that moment on, he did the only thing he knew to protect himself. He pushed her away. When ignoring her didn't work, he resorted to crudity to stop her from being so nice. Yet she kept coming back just as sweet and solid as hard candy, until he thought he'd go crazy before being sent back to his battalion.

  And when discharge day finally came, he was sure he'd be able to forget her. As it turned out however, he had needed the fantasy far too often in the gruesome months that followed.

  * * *

  A tug on his sleeve yanked Logan's mind back to the present and the job at hand, but one thought lingered. Even a cell at Leavenworth was preferable to a lifetime of being within hearing range of Tarla Yan, yet knowing he could never touch her the way he did in his dreams.

  There had to be a way out of this mess. If it meant taking charge of the whole damn bunch of misfits and puppet-people, he'd just have to do it.

  Right after he got over the migraine.

  Chapter 5

  "Assimilation has begun," the elderly Domestic Affairs Advisor Iris of Mergany announced.

  Imperial Prefect Parisia of Acameir nodded her approval. "Thank you, Iris. Keep a watch for the next few days until the antidote takes effect. I trust you'll advise me of anything problematical."

  "I'm sure I won't need to bother you."

  Parisia was not so optimistic. "I hope you're right, yet I can't help but be concerned. We've never had so many arrive at once, nor have any previous crossovers been in chains or carrying weapons. Speaking of which, have they been destroyed?"

  "Of course," Iris replied. "Exactly as the law requires."

  "Yes, yes, that's right." Parisia sighed. "Perhaps I'm worrying needlessly but I will feel better once the antidote has adequately adjusted them." The Prefect dismissed Iris and motioned to her daughter, Brianne, who had been standing quietly in the rear of the office awaiting instructions.

  Brianne had not been her original choice for the post of First Aide, but Parisia was now glad her child had nagged her into giving her the chance to prove herself.

  As Brianne gracefully moved to one of the chairs on the other side of the desk, her mother's heart filled with pride. She was reminded of herself two and a half decades ago, just before she conceived her twins, Brianne and Jason. The only genetic characteristic Brianne had inherited from her sire, Delbert, was the jade coloring of her eyes. Otherwise, she looked very much like herself—willowy, someone once said—tall and lean, with ivory skin and hair nearly as light. On the other hand, Jason was nearly a duplicate of Delbert, with his dark hair and angular features.

  It had recently become apparent that Brianne had also inherited her mother's organizational skills and leadership tendencies. She was going to make a fine Prefect one day.

  Parisia gave her daughter the necessary time to comfortably seat herself and arrange her long flowing caftan, then asked for her opinion of the new group of crossovers.

  "I share your concern," Brianne answered without hesitation. "It's been eight years since any Earth people were drawn through the gateway to Heart, and over a century since any females arrived. But it's the physical appearance of the males that is most troubling to me. The ones who have come before never seemed so young... or so... dangerous."

  Parisia angled her head curiously. "Perhaps they just seem so now that you are older and more aware of the differences between Earth men and men of Heart."

  "Perhaps," Brianne conceded. "At any rate, their masculinity will be neutralized very shortly and the size of their bodies will no longer have import."

  "Agreed. However, I am seriously considering bringing the ten women to us, or at least separating them from the men."

  Brianne gave that some thought then shook her head. "I believe the cost and complications involved in creating a separate, secure environment for them would be harshly criticized by the opponents to your budget proposal. You know Nadia would never go along with such a radical idea."

  Parisia gave a slight grimace. "Nadia will take the opposite stand from me no matter what I recommend. Everyone is aware of that."

  "Hmmph. Everyone is also aware that she is power-hungry and hopes to unseat you one day, but that doesn't quiet her. Unfortunately, Nadia is not the only concern in this matter. Until we have a chance to observe the female crossovers' behavior to be certain they do not have the volatile personalities of Earth men, I wouldn't risk integrating them into our society. Our cultures are simply too different for them to make a smooth transition."

  "I don't fully agree, but I will wait a few weeks before making a decision. In the meantime, I'd like to go over another matter that has been brought to my attention. Did you have a chance to see the report that came in this morning from Delegate Koballa?"

  "Not yet," Brianne replied. "I spent most of the morning in the Observation Room, watching the crossovers awaken. Did you hear, not even one hour passed before a power struggle occurred?" Her eyes grew wide and she leaned forward in her chair. "One man actually pushed another and I believe they might have come to blows if another man hadn't interfered!" Realizing that she had become a bit too animated, she resumed her sedate pose. "I found it very interesting."

  Parisia refrained from criticizing her daughter's momentary lapse of composure. She had been a very passionate, active child and, though she was now a mature woman, occasionally that child still broke through the adult veneer. There were times she feared Brianne would never fully overcome her excitable nature, but it didn't seem to interfere with her work, so there was really no reason to medicate her yet.

  "It's fortunate that you had the chance to observe their primitive behavior firsthand," Parisia said. "Most of our people have only s
een old visual recordings. However, I can assure you that in a few days, they will be quite normal and not at all interesting."

  "That's good. They are just a little frightening in their natural state." Brianne frowned thoughtfully for a moment, then abruptly recalled her mother's earlier question. "I'm sorry. You mentioned a report from Delegate Koballa. She's been at the Interplanetary Health Symposium, correct?"

  "Yes. She just returned. Here's her summary." Parisia picked up a folder and handed it to Brianne. "You can read the entire contents later but there was one notation I wanted to discuss with you before I spoke to any members of Parliament." She paused a moment to collect her thoughts. "It has nothing to do with the meetings Koballa went to attend. In fact, she clearly states that it is an unsubstantiated rumor."

  Parisia watched the expression on her daughter's face change from curiosity to concern and got to the point.

  "Do you recall the legend about the time when Heart had only men as rulers?"

  Brianne smiled. "Of course. Mythology is a required subject in primary school."

  "Tell me what you remember."

  Brianne's expression altered to curiosity again but she began the tale she had memorized as a child. "Once upon a time, all of Heart was ruled by men. Women were assigned the menial chores such as home-caring, food preparation, wardrobe maintenance... the sort of functions our men perform for us. But the men of that time were barbarians. They fought with one another over the most trivial matters and abused the women's bodies for sport. One day they were visited by beings from another galaxy." She interrupted her narration and cocked her head. "I'm sorry, I can't seem to remember what they were called."

  "Velids," Parisia said in a flat tone. "Go on."

  "Yes, Velids. According to the legend, they looked like giant centipedes as they exited the ship, but once they saw the humans of Heart, they altered their physical appearance to copy them. Rather than attempt to communicate, the men killed all the alien visitors on sight. Apparently the men had never heard of metamorphs and automatically assumed they were evil. Before long, another ship of Velids arrived to avenge their people's deaths. Because Heart men believed women were helpless, they placed them and the children in protective shelters during the brief battle."