by Jo Zebedee
“If they’re using tribal hunters or soldiers.” He squinted, but the searchers were too far away for him to make out if they were riding the light scoots the tribes used, or heavier, military-grade, ones. He didn’t have time to find out. “Let’s keep going. If we get a bit more distance behind us, we could burrow in for the day. Keep out of the heat.”
“We’ll need water,” she said.
He knew. And he didn’t have a knife with him for cutting the buck-cactus. “I’ll sort it out.” He started across the sand, feet slipping as he hurried. “You know our father’s in Abendau? If we could get word to him…”
“There’s no way to. Not with him not in the mesh.” Kerra looked at him sharply, but he didn’t have time for working out what it meant, not with the scoots getting closer.
He broke into a run, and she matched his pace. With his power, he could have shifted the sand over her footprints. Hell, with his power he could have dealt with the scoots and made sure they never got close. Without it… he’d be lucky if they had an hour left.
A noise invaded the clear air: the low rumble of engines. Over the dune-ridges ahead, more scoots appeared. Kerra stopped, and backed away. The pursuers behind them had fanned out. There was nowhere to run. Nothing he could do would hide them from a full desert search, not digging into the sand, not finding a cave-ridge. The scoots started forwards, in their direction. He grabbed her arm.
“Run!” he shouted, but the roaring noise of the scoots grew. He zigzagged across the sand. Kerra half-fell and wrenched her arm free.
“Keep going!” she yelled.
He slowed and stumbled as he looked to see where she was. The scoots were close now, but she was on her feet, facing them. Her hands were spread, and he felt her now, a tug at the back of his mind. She was in the mesh.
“Go!” she yelled. The engine noises were louder, coming from every direction. The mesh couldn’t match their number, even with someone more experienced using it. Even their father would struggle to get out of this.
“Head into the dunes!” he shouted. “It will slow them!” He added an extra burst of speed.
Someone grabbed him and swung him onto a scoot. The familiar spiced scent of a tribesman surrounded him. He tried to see if they had Kerra, but was held too tightly. The scoot turned in a tight circle, its engine idling, quieter than when it had roared its chase. On the scoot alongside, Kerra was held against another tribesman, her eyes closed. Beside her, a scoot lay on its side, smoking. She’d managed that much, at least.
“Take them to the village,” shouted the tribesman holding Kerra. “And inform Phelps.”
They left, Baelan craning to see if Kerra was all right. She still had her eyes closed, ignoring everything around her.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
The prosthesis sat along the inside of Kare’s jaw, hard against his teeth. He leaned over the sink, close to the mirror, and carefully inserted lenses so his eyes turned a deep brown to match the wig he pulled on and adjusted. He blinked, unused to the lenses, but couldn’t help smiling. He looked nothing like himself.
Good. He felt nothing like himself, either. Without the mesh, he’d returned to the person he’d been for ten years, powerless, relying on his own instincts. It felt oddly right: no expectations on him beyond that of any man; no need to be the magician who did the impossible.
That was now, though. Later he’d take every scrap of power in the mesh and turn it to his bidding. He’d use it against his mother and make sure she knew that in hurting him and those he loved, she had made the biggest mistake of her life. He hadn’t been strong enough to finish the job last time, but maybe this stranger in the mirror was. He nodded at his reflection: let this man do what had to be done. Let him be focused, not distracted. Let Kare give himself to this stranger, this he who he’d never been, and find a way out for all of them.
He squared his shoulders, as ready as he’d ever be, and left the room. His squad were lined up the hallway, prepared for the attack. Weapons were being checked, muted voices were going over plans one more time, uniforms of the palace servants were being checked and adjusted. He found Kym and gave her a firm nod: he’d promised he’d stop his mother. It was time to do exactly that.
***
The tent was dark on the inside and, whilst cooler than the full heat of a Belaudii day, sultry. Kerra curled in one corner, her head pounding. She’d been given only tribal food to eat: spiced packets of thin pastry and vegetables, and some sort of meat she’d been about to eat when Baelan said it was lizard. Then they’d served a clutterback’s leg, all bowed and black, and she’d been sure she was going to be sick. She half-wondered if they’d done it to make her, the outsider, look silly – but Baelan had taken it like a delicacy, peeling the skin, with its charred hairs, and biting into the pale meat beneath.
She glanced at Baelan, sitting on the other side of the tent, equally as silent as she was. The two tribesmen standing either side of the entrance flap had been watching him as closely as her – what he’d said in the city, about the tribes not trusting him, seemed to be true.
Had his powers started to come back? She wasn’t sure if she’d know when hers did – the mesh was dominating that part of her, growing and extending to fill parts of her mind she’d never noticed before. Did Baelan know she was in the mesh? She couldn’t sense him in it, but would he try to use it if he knew he could?
The mesh swirled at that thought, angry. It didn’t want Baelan. It was bigger now, a seething collection of people and images and thoughts, but she still had no real idea how to control it. Nothing had made it easier to work with: not focusing on it, not calling for Laurena to reach her.
She curled up tighter and fought the shivering that wracked her, but the sound of steps made her sit up. Baelan shot to his feet, and his eyes met hers, wary, watchful. A moment later, the flap of the tent was pushed aside. Baelan’s mother ducked in, her face bland and impossible to read. She glanced, briefly, at Kerra and then away, dismissing her.
“Mother!” Baelan ran to her and looked like he was going to throw his arms around her, but stopped short when his uncle walked in, back straight, eyes cold.
Phelps followed, his dark uniform contrasting with the sunlight behind. He stooped inside and dropped the flap, casting the interior back into semi-darkness.
“I see it’s our escapees,” he said. He gave a smile that would have befitted a shark. “Time to return to Abendau.”
Heart pounding, so scared she might be sick, Kerra got to her feet before she could be forced, and flicked her hair back. She kept her steps steady – let her not show how frightened she was – and walked up to Phelps, close enough to smell the mix of cigaros and sweat from his uniform. She glared at him.
“Quite the little le Payne.” He grabbed her chin, tipping her head towards him. His fingers were hard, and she wanted to wrench away from his grasp but wouldn’t give him the pleasure. He lifted his other hand and brushed it on her cheek. “But with the Varnon eyes. What will your parents give to get you back? Themselves? Each other? Or will they let you rot?”
“Nothing,” she spat. She clenched her fists, refusing to let her control slip. She had something he didn’t know about, but she had to choose her moment. “They’ll destroy you instead.”
“Of course they will.” He gave a harsh laugh and let go of her. “Get them loaded up. I’ll escort them to our Lady myself. But first.”
He clicked his fingers and the two guards stepped forwards, smartly grabbing her and Baelan. The doctor entered the tent, the same one as from the ship, carrying a small case. He opened it and took out two syringes, handing one to Phelps. With the other he approached Baelan, who twisted, kicking out. It made no difference – the doctor grabbed his arm and injected him.
He approached Kerra. She wanted to draw away, but instead faced the doctor. She stole a glance at Phelps. Let him think he was winning. The prick of the needle stung, but she didn’t care anymore. She could face worse than that.
“We don’t want to go back.” Baelan squirmed free and planted himself in front of Phelps.
Baelan’s mother took a step forwards, throwing off her brother’s arm when he tried to pull her back. “I claim my son, Taran Phelps. All you have to do is give your bond to the elders and he will be kept with the tribe. He’ll face their justice, but he’ll be safer.” She held out a hand, palm open in a silent plea.
“I can’t.” Phelps met her eyes. His mouth twisted in what may have been sympathy. “But I will do what I can for him.”
“If you meant that, you wouldn’t take him!”
“At least he’ll have a voice for him in the palace.”
“Then let me come back, too,” said his mother. “I will speak to my Lady Empress myself, and beg for clemency. Please.”
“The Empress has already decided,” he said. “You know this. You must stay with the tribes. The council agrees.” He lowered his voice and Kerra had to strain to hear. “Don’t push further, Shanisa, or you will be left in the position where you have no voice at all. Bide your time, and our Lady may soften. I swear to you, when – if – that happens, I will inform you.”
“And Kerra?” Baelan’s voice was shaking. “Will you help her, too?”
“That,” said Phelps, “is out of my hands.” He clicked his fingers, and two soldiers entered the tent. “Let’s go.” He opened the flap and pointed Kerra out.
“It might not be as bad as you think.” Phelps grabbed her wrists as she passed. “You have some value, after all, as long as your parents are prepared to deal.”
He pulled her forwards, and she staggered beside him. A scoot idled just ahead, bigger than the ones from the earlier search. She recognised its model from the compound: military grade, shielded and armoured, capable of carrying four people. Once they were on and the shield activated, there’d be no way off.
Baelan’s uncle lifted him, ignoring the kicking legs, and forced him into one of the two back seats. He drew the restraints across, holding the squirming Baelan with one hand, and tightened the strapping so it dug into Baelan’s skin.
“You son of a desert whore!” yelled Baelan. “I hope your eyeballs burn out!”
His own eyes were wide and wild; if Baelan had access to his powers, his uncle would know by now. She thought of the water in the rock pool boiling. Everyone would know. He fought, scrabbling at his uncle’s face, still cursing, his language more inventive than Kerra had ever imagined, but his uncle gave a short laugh and turned away.
His mother approached. She bent over Baelan, whispering something, and he calmed, sitting easier in the seat. He gave a sharp nod at something she said, and sent a glare at Phelps before resting his head against his mother’s shoulder.
A wave of loss swept through Kerra. She hadn’t had the chance to say goodbye to her mum. Their last words had been angry. If she was here, Kerra would tell her she was proud of her, no matter what she’d done, and that she loved her. The sand blurred as tears threatened.
“Get on, girl,” said Phelps, dropping her wrists. “Unless you want to be forced as well.”
She rubbed her wrists where he’d held her; she never wanted his filth to touch her again. She climbed onto the seat beside Baelan and pulled her own straps on. She touched the mesh. It pulsed, forming into something new and hungry, and she pulled back, angry at herself. She was useless; she had access to enough power to stop Phelps and was too stupid, or scared, to work out how to use it. If her dad was here, he’d blow Phelps into space.
Phelps climbed onto the scoot’s nav-seat and keyed their course into its small control panel. In a moment he’d bring the shield up and secure her and Baelan in place.
“Child.” Shanisa leaned over and touched Kerra’s arm. She smelt of spices and perfume, a heady mix that made Kerra dizzy. “May our desert gods go with you, and see you returned to your parents.” She glanced at Phelps under hooded lids. “Your father has been more to my son than his named one. I wish for you to be returned to him.”
Kerra didn’t know what to say. The tribes prayed to the Empress now, not their lost gods; Shanisa must understand Kerra could accept no prayers to her grandmother, so had fallen back on a religion banned to her. She risked much from the elders, even Kerra knew that. The gesture touched her more deeply than she’d expected. She nodded dumbly, and the woman backed away.
The shield came up, muffling the sound of the engine and casting her into a world apart from the real one. Baelan was tense, coiled like a snake, his anger clear.
Two scoots took up flanking positions around theirs, and Phelps turned their scoot in a wide sweep away from the camp, towards Abendau. Its Old Quarter with its red buildings was framed in the light of the desert sun. It was getting late; the sun had dropped behind the palace, giving the roof tiles a sheen of gold. By nightfall, when the evening dew had formed on the metal tiles, she’d be back there.
She hunched forwards, as far as her restraints would let her, and tried not to look ahead, but inward. Somehow, she had to gain control. And she had to do it now.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Sonly’s stomach did a familiar lurch as the grav-reg adjusted for landing, and distracted herself with her data pad. Still only three senators were prepared to meet her, and, frankly, none of them high-profile enough. She’d struggle to be the distraction Lichio needed, let alone anything more. She tapped away, connecting, connecting, connecting. At least there had been some media response to her release of the amended document and challenge of the allegations.
Lichio shifted in his seat, for once looking less than elegant in a battered pilot’s suit stripped of any insignia.
“Remember the drill,” he said. “Delay as long as you can but don’t leave the port. As long as you remain space-side, they can’t invoke any arrest warrant on Belaudii.” He paused and gave a slight shrug. “Not quickly, anyway, so make your show and get back to the ship. Get into orbit if you have to. Wait until you hear from me or Kare. I don’t intend to do anything other than get in, give support, and get out.”
He honestly expected her to run? She stifled hot words.
“And, Sonly.” He raised a finger. “No heroics. We’re going to have enough trouble getting off planet without having to dig you out, too.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She sniffed and turned her attention from him. Sometimes she hated Lich, he was so hard to fool.
“Sonly…?” She didn’t answer, and he cursed softly. “Remember the last time the Empress had you, that’s all. She was prepared to hold you then, as president. She’ll have even less compunctions now.”
She remembered it: the cell they’d put her in, how they’d used Kare to break her resolve. Fear edged her thoughts, a slight shivering of her shoulders, but she pushed it away. There was no time for fear. “Thank you for the reminder.”
“You could lose more than just a political career in Abendau.” He sounded frustrated. “Make the Empress wonder what you’re playing at, that’s all I need. It’s what you’re good at, and it’ll give her no time to worry about what Kare might be doing. Or me.”
No doubt he was right. She crossed her hands in her lap. Her stomach was in knots, and it was hard to tell if it was from the flight, or nerves. A distraction in the port, some publicity against the Empress, would be something to achieve in the circumstances. She gave a careful nod. “I know my role, Lich.”
“Thank you.” A soft alarm sounded, and he made a twisted face of horror. “Let’s see if this bucket lands better than it took off.” At a shuddering lurch, he raised an eyebrow. “Not holding out much hope, though.”
There was no chance to reply: the ship banked unevenly and an alarm sounded. The thrusters roared. Flung back in her seat, she started to count. By three hundred they’d have landed.
She’d reached only one-fifty when the shuddering stopped with a thud. The engines closed down, leaving a heavy silence.
“Well, that was fun.” Lichio unstrapped his restraints, unruffled as ev
er. She hated good flyers: they made her feel inadequate.
She got up from her own seat. Her stomach was still jumping, and she couldn’t blame the grav-reg now; it was nothing other than pure nerves. She was about to walk into Abendau port, where her name must be on every detention list, with nothing behind her but a battered reputation. If she called this wrong she could find herself whisked over to the palace cells. A chill tracked her spine.
She took a breath and followed Lichio down the access-way. They waited together as the hatch opened. A set of steps concertinaed from the undercarriage. They looked rickety, here in the expanse of a mostly-empty commercial hangar.
“Ready?” asked Lichio. His mouth quirked into a half-smile but he was pale, as if he, too, was just realising what he was doing. If he was recognised, he’d be arrested. If he wasn’t, he’d be joining a raid he claimed had little chance of success.
What would she do if Lich never reported back? How long would she wait, hoping? She wanted to say something – anything – to support him, but could think of nothing. Instead, she smiled and hoped it looked more convincing than it felt. “I’m ready, I just hope Abendau is for us.”
A soft beep sounded. “Cleared for disembarkation.”
“Let’s go,” said Lichio. He gave an ironic bow and ushered her out of the hatch.
They disembarked into the vast hangar and left through the passenger exit, down a long, faceless corridor towards the security-hub of the port. As they walked, low sounds ahead – voices, announcements of flights – took precedence over those of the docking bays. The smell of engine fumes faded, replaced by the aroma of the spiced food Abendau was famed for, coming from the commercial sector behind a bank of security scanners.
Lichio squeezed her elbow. “This is where I’m leaving you.” He nodded at the door leading to the port’s passenger-security hall. “Keep your head up, don’t look back, and knock ’em dead.” He paused, and then added, “But not literally. We don’t need any more scandal.”