Hunted by the Cyborg with Bonus

by Cara Bristol

  He swept out of the room.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  “Report. What have you learned since yesterday?” Carter paced the makeshift war room in Luna Center. His chest hurt with a pain nanos couldn’t fix. The sizzling jabs from the photon blast would subside, but the agony of betrayal would continue on. I trusted her. How could I have been so wrong?

  “Are you all right?” Brock asked with a concerned frown. “Maybe you should sit.”

  He couldn’t sit, couldn’t still his body while an assassin remained at large and Mikala and Vincere’s lives hung in the balance. What would Beth’s next move be? Ransom them? Kill them?

  He’d never seen it coming. People revealed their true selves in body language, tonal variation, expression. Clues could be faint, but they were there if you knew what to look for, and a cyborg could detect the subtlest nuances. He’d racked his human brain and his cyborg processor for behavioral tells, but come up with nothing that could have warned him.

  He would have bet his life on her trustworthiness.

  He had.

  She’d tried to murder him and Andros. She had switched the blaster to the kill setting and shot them both in cold blood. She would have succeeded if he and his security personnel hadn’t been wearing protective photon-absorbing suits under their uniforms. The material developed by Dale Homme had absorbed, and then dispersed, most of the energy from the blaster.

  Even with the suit, the blast had knocked him on his ass and incapacitated him for hours. But he and Andros were alive.

  “I’m fine,” he said, glancing at Andros, who fidgeted in his chair. He knew how the other cyborg was feeling. The lingering effects of the photon stream felt like a swarm of biting ants. Except Andros’s heart wasn’t being squeezed in a vise.

  He had no one to blame but himself. His ready, foolish trust had endangered Mikala and Vincere. Could I have fucked-up any worse? I did everything but put the weapon in her hand. I taught her how to fight, insisted she learn how to operate a blaster. She’d used everything she’d learned against them.

  Perhaps her inexperience had been the ruse. Who would send in a novice assassin? She’d done extremely well in the self-defense and weapons training. Too well. He had to face the possibility his organization had been infiltrated by a pro. If Cy-Ops went down, there would be little to prevent Lamis-Odg from conquering the sovereign planets of the galaxy.

  “We’re certain Beth O’Shea has no ties to Lamis-Odg?” he asked. Just saying her name hurt, but linking it even remotely to the terrorists sickened him.

  “Certain? No.” Brock shook his head. “That was my first thought so I have Illumina combing cyberspace. But, according to her preliminary report, Beth is what she claimed to be: the clone of Liza O’Shea, the daughter of Georgetta and Reuben O’Shea.” Assuming command while he had been out of commission, Brock had mobilized Cy-Ops.

  “The O’Sheas—who’ve been very cooperative—have been questioned. From Clo-Ventures, Beth went to the space station and never left until she arrived here for her Aym-Sec interview. The only chance for contact with Lamis-Odg would have been during transit.”

  A slim chance, but still a chance. “So there was a window of opportunity.”

  “We’re reviewing flight manifests, investigating every single person she might have encountered. Illumina is reviewing every single electronic transmission Beth has ever received.”

  “Get the information, stat.”

  “I’ve taken her off every other case except the Cornelius one.”

  “Pull her off that one, too. This is her sole priority.”

  “Will do.” Brock pressed his lips together. “Every cyborg and ship we can spare are searching for Vincere’s shuttle, as are the galactic police. Without knowing her motive, it’s hard to predict where she’ll go. The AOP’s undersecretary general who has stepped into Vincere’s shoes has issued an Interplanetary Bulletin for her arrest. Cy-Ops agents are standing by at the O’Shea space station in case she goes there. We’ve contacted our informants inside Quasar in case the pirate syndicate is involved—although I doubt they are. Quasar tries to keep a low profile. Mikala and Vincere are too well known to be sold into slavery.”

  “You’ve done everything I would have done,” he said. Brock hadn’t missed a step. It couldn’t have been easy for him, either. “How is Penelope holding up?”

  “Pia is upset, but she insisted I join the search. She wants her mother back and her kidnapper brought to justice.”

  “We all do.” He resumed pacing. “What kind of ship did Vincere have?”

  “A class two cruiser.”

  “His own ship. Not a diplomatic shuttle?”

  “Correct,” Brock replied.

  “What was the time span between the launch and when Cy-Ops began looking for the ship?”

  “I pinged our crew immediately, but we were watching for a diplomatic vessel at first. Beth capitalized on the panic, timing her escape to coincide with the mass exodus from Luna Center. Very few followed flight regulations. It was chaos in lunar air space and pure luck no ships collided.”

  “It was chaos in the general assembly arena, too.” Cyborg Sonny Masters tipped his head at Amanda Mansfield. “We had our hands full trying to control the crowd. We were circulating in the tiers when the shots were fired. Because of the size of the arena, people paid more attention to their personal monitors than the floor. The incident occurred at the far end of the arena, outside line of sight for many people. Until the yelling began in the tiers, many didn’t realize the attack was happening then it became bedlam.

  “People tend to panic in a crisis,” Brock pointed out.

  Sonny shook his head. “The shouting felt timed, like people were cued. I’d swear every section of the tier had several instigators who shouted in multiple languages.”

  Manny nodded. “It appeared some people were trying to incite a stampede to keep security busy. In my section, someone shouted, ‘The president’s been shot—run!’ before it happened.”

  Carter’s gaze snapped to the female cyborg. “What?”

  She nodded. “In the commotion, no one but a cyborg would have noticed, but the shout came two tenths of a second before the blast was fired.”

  “How many instigators were there?”

  Sonny and Manny exchanged a glance. He shrugged. “We can estimate. I can download visuals and/or audio recordings from my microprocessor for the instigators in my section and the contiguous ones.”

  “I can do the same,” Amanda said. “We’ll contact the other operatives who were assigned tier-duty and get the same from them. That will account for most everybody.”

  “Do it,” he said. “Let’s run an ID match against the attendee list, find those people, and question them.”

  “You’re thinking she had accomplices?” Brock asked.

  Carter pressed his lips together. “It looks like it.”

  Brock’s eyes widened, and he jerked his head. “Son of a bitch.”

  “What it is?”

  “Roarke pinged me. He located Vincere’s ship.”

  “Where?”

  “In orbit around Katnia.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Engine vibrations subsided to a barely discernible thrum, an indication they were in orbit. Fear rocketed as the door slid open to admit Lamani, armed with a blaster. He’s come to send me to Katnia.

  She would fight him with all her might. Better to be killed by a blaster shot than ripped apart by the Ka-Tȇ. How much resistance could she offer, though? After being immobilized for an entire day, maybe a day and a half, her limbs had gone dead. She doubted she could lift her hand, let alone strike him.

  “Change in plans.” He fiddled with his wrist comm and then aimed it at her. She flinched as a familiar pain shot into her head. Lamani pivoted and left.

  Head throbbing, stomach churning, she stared at the door. Change in plans? What did that mean? He wasn’t going to send her K
atnia? He couldn’t let her go—not with what she knew. She had reached the conclusion that Benson was Lamani.

  Her hand felt like a dead weight as she brushed away a tear trickling from her eye.

  Her hand! She’d lifted her hand! She tried both arms. They’d gone limp from disuse, but she was able to raise them. She shifted her legs. I can move! I can move!

  She stood up, took a step forward, and crumpled to the floor when her legs gave out. Awakening nerves sent jabs of pain through her body.

  Get up! Get up! Something was happening for Lamani to have released her. Stretching her limbs, she exercised the feeling back into her arms and legs then dragged herself to the small head. After using it, she stumbled to the door. Sealed shut. Of course.

  She marched and swung her arms to restore circulation. She had to be prepared for the terrorist’s return. The cabin offered nothing she could use to defend herself; the small chair was secured to the floor. Adrenalin surged through her, pumping her up with energy even though she’d been given nothing to eat or drink since boarding the ship. Thirst and hunger were the least of her worries.

  Footsteps thudded outside. Before she could react, the door slid open, and a blaster was thrust inside and pointed at her chest.

  “Beth O’Shea, you’re under arrest,” shouted a male voice in perfect Terran. “Throw down your weapon!” He remained hidden behind the wall; she couldn’t see him.

  “I-I’m not armed.” She held her arms away from her body.

  “On the floor. Hands over your head!” he barked. “Do it! Now!”

  She dropped and stretched out. Who was he with? Galactic police, she hoped. She would be taken into custody, tried and convicted for two murders, and incarcerated for the rest of her life, but that beat being ripped apart by Ka-Tȇ.

  She couldn’t see, but heard the heavy thud as two men charged into the room. They wrenched her arms behind her back and wound electrocuffs around her wrist. They hauled her to her feet and frisked her for weapons.

  Her rescuers/new captors were huge and muscular, their nondescript uniforms revealing nothing about their identity. Other than the order they’d shouted at her, they didn’t speak, just nodded at one another.

  They’re communicating telepathically. Only cyborgs can do that. Were they with Cyber Operations? “Are—are you with Cy—” she broke off to avoid naming the organization in case they weren’t with Cy-Ops. “Are you with Carter’s company?” she asked instead.

  They ignored her.

  One of them holstered his blaster and seized her arm. “You’re coming with us.”

  “Mikala is on board. Did you find her? Is she okay?”

  She got no answer from either of them. Instead, they dragged her toward the exit.

  “Don’t hurt her! Please. She needs help.” Lamani, transformed back into Benson Vincere, appeared. A worried frown creased his forehead.

  “You’ll have to stand back, Secretary General,” one of the cyborgs said.

  Lamani! He’s Lamani! “La-L-L—” The warning screamed in her head, but her tongue refused to form the letters to utter it. Lamani. Lamis-Odg. “T-t-t.” Terrorist. Tears of fear and frustration slid down her face as she struggled to speak. She’d lost control over her own body. Lamani, the most notorious criminal of the galaxy, stood right there, and she couldn’t say a word. Why was this happening?

  She looked up at one of the agents. “Help me,” she whispered. “I have to tell you…”

  “Tell me what?” he said.

  “Benson is—is—” She worked her mouth, trying to force out the name. She shifted her gaze to Lamani, trying to communicate with her eyes.

  “Yeah?” the cyborg asked.

  She couldn’t say the name.

  “Let’s go.” He grabbed her arm and shoved her toward the corridor.

  Triumph flashed in Lamani’s eyes before he masked it with a show of concern. “I hope she’ll get the help she needs.”

  “Not for me to decide,” the cyborg replied.

  * * * *

  Why did you do it? How could you?

  Carter watched through the observation window. Appearing shaken, scared, and defenseless Beth was led into the interrogation room. She’d been held in solitary for three days to wear down her resistance before questioning. He kicked himself for the pangs of sympathy that bit at him. She’s a criminal. A terrorist.

  Anger and disgust. That’s what he’d expected to feel when he set eyes on her again.

  Not a sharp sadness and loss tearing at his insides, a wrenching longing for what he thought they’d had, worry and concern for how frightened and defeated she appeared. She’d premeditatedly attempted to kill him and one of his cyborgs. She’d kidnapped the president and the secretary general and set the ship on a course to Katnia. If a headache hadn’t caused her to black out, there was no telling what she might have done. Roarke and another field agent had found the hostages locked up in a makeshift brig. Vincere had filled them in on what had happened.

  “Sure you don’t want me to question her?” Brock asked.

  “No, I want to see her reaction,” Carter ground out.

  They hadn’t enlightened her that her homicide attempt had failed. No one outside of Cy-Ops knew he was alive. Not Vincere. Not the Aym-Sec staff. Not Brock’s wife, Penelope. Not Mikala. He regretted deceiving people who might mourn him, but until they discovered what her plan had been, who she was working with, they had to operate on the hunch he’d been one of her targets. So, as far as anyone in the galaxy was concerned, Beth had succeeded in killing him.

  She started to sit with her back to the observation pane, but her cyborg guard motioned for her to move around to the other side so she’d be facing the window. Obediently, she moved and dropped awkwardly into a chair, her hands bound by electrocuffs. Unarmed, she posed no danger to his cyborgs, but after what had happened, they weren’t going to take chances.

  Carter had been informed she’d been a model prisoner, although she’d called out in her solitary cell, asking to speak to Brock. Request denied. She was in no position to issue any requests. None would be granted.

  Solia entered the observation room. “Sorry, I’m late. I came as fast as I could. I had a consult on the other side of the facility.”

  “Technically, you’re two minutes early.” The microprocessor in his brain kept perfect time.

  “Ah, but I know how you like to get a jump on things.” She smiled. “Anything in particular you want me to listen for?”

  “Lies and dissembling,” he said. He and Brock were pretty good at reading people, but Solia was a living, breathing lie detector. He blew out a huff of air. “Let’s do this.”

  As he entered the interrogation room, Beth turned. Her jaw dropped. Her eyes went wide then flooded with tears. “Carter…Carter…Oh stars. You’re not dead! You’re not dead!” She launched herself out of the chair and rushed at him. “Carter!” Her face lit with a joy he would have sworn was genuine if he didn’t know the truth. “I th-thought—”

  “Don’t touch me!” He seized her wrists before she could plant her hands on his chest. Despite his resolve, her faked emotion gave a kick to his heart. Disgust with his vulnerability made him less than gentle as he shoved her back into the chair. He wiped his hands on his trousers, but he couldn’t brush off the sensation of her soft skin, the wetness of her tears that had fallen, the white marks on her wrists that would turn to bruises later, or her devastated expression.

  Harder than necessary, he kicked out a chair and sat.

  Anguish swam in her eyes. “I’m so sorry—”

  An apology? Anger spiked, soothing the ache of seeing her. You apologized for stepping on someone’s foot, for arriving late—not for kidnapping, assault, and attempted murder. Sorry I tried to kill you—my mistake.

  “Suppose we start by you telling me who you are,” he said coldly. Déjà vu. Wasn’t this how they’d begun? If only he’d followed his first instincts.


  She blinked as if she didn’t understand the question. “I’m Beth. Beth O’Shea.”

  “Who are you?” He would keep asking until he got the right answer, until he understood why she’d come, why she’d done what she had.

  She rested her bound hands on the conference console. “I have to tell you something.” She took a breath. “Benson is L…Benson is…” Her face contorted as her mouth twisted. “On the ship—h-he—l.” She closed her hands into fists and slammed them down on the desk. “Why can’t I speak?” she cried out. “I need a PerComm, please. I need to send you a message.”

  A PerComm? So she could contact her accomplices? Fat chance.

  “Paper and pen.”

  “No. If you have something to say to me, just tell me.”

  “I can’t. Something is wrong!” She had that right, he thought bitterly.

  “I need help. Swain—I have to see Swain. Maybe he can help.”

  “Who are you?”

  Her gaze, pleading and urgent, met his. “Please, listen…” Her facial contortions increased. Her knuckles whitened as she squeezed her fists. Then she froze, stared at her hands then began to scrub erratic patterns on the console with an index finger. “My hand. Look at my hand,” she cried. “Benson is—”

  He narrowed his eyes. “What about Vincere?”

  “He’s—h-h-he’s—” Her head jerked so hard, he half feared she’d give herself whiplash.

  “Who are you? Who sent you?”

  “Look at my hand!” Tears streamed from her eyes. “Please…please…Carter.” Her mouth contorted while her finger worked spasmodically.

  Maybe you should get Swain? Brock asked him.

  Her crazy behavior was a pretense to throw them off guard. He’d fallen for her little-girl-lost act; he wouldn’t be fooled by this, too. No, he pinged back.

  “Why did you try to kill me?” His cyborg vision and microprocessor recorded every facial twitch, every blink, every curl of her finger that continued to scratch the table. Maybe he’d transmit a vid to Swain for a consult later. The Cybermed doc wasn’t a psychologist, but it wouldn’t hurt to get his opinion.