To Touch the Stars

by Tess Mallory

  After a moment his eyes adjusted to the dimly lit room and he could make out large shadowy objects. He squinted upward and saw what appeared to be the riveted surface of a bulkhead similar to others he'd seen in cargo ships. So he was most likely in a cruiser of some kind and in space—but headed where? He tried to sit up but couldn't. For a moment he thought his muscles just wouldn't yet respond, but glancing down he made out the shimmering outlines of energy shackles around his wrists and ankles. They were invisible to the naked eye, but in darkness a thin aura could be detected. And speaking of naked…

  Eagle tightened his hands into fists. The invaders had stripped him, shackled him to what appeared to be a laboratory table, flat, cold, and hard, and had left him in the blackness. For what purpose? To intimidate and humiliate him, no doubt. Taking the protection of clothing from a prisoner had an immediate effect, creating a vulnerability an interrogator could use to his best advantage. Eagle had used the ploy himself as an officer in Zarn's Intelligence Division of the Forces. He had despised himself for it, but it had been effective. Was that when he had first begun to question the ways of his father? In Intelligence? Maybe so. It had just taken Telles's death—or what he believed was his death—to push it to the forefront.

  Telles was alive. He wanted to shout with the joy of it but at the same time he knew it wasn't Telles at all. Some-thing had been done to him. He'd always had tendencies, and in the last few years had openly talked against Zarn, something that had strained their relationship at tunes. But Eagle had felt Telles was just blowing off steam like a lot of men who worked in the more harrowing divisions of the Forces did periodically. It had even gotten to be sort of a game between them, Telles pointing out what was wrong with his father's regime, Eagle countering with what was right. He closed his eyes. It wasn't a game any more. Telles had done the unforgivable this time, and when Zarn caught up with him, his death would be real and completely final.

  He turned his mind away from the thought. He couldn't deal with this now. Didn't have to deal with it now. Eight now he needed to focus on getting the hell out of here. These renegades were playing for keeps. They wanted the girl and they wanted her badly. They had to know she was the heir, but how? She'd been taken on a backwater world on the edge of nowhere. And what if she was? What use was she to renegades? Did they think to use her to negotiate with Zarn for some kind of pardon? If they thought that would happen, they were stupider than he suspected. Were they being paid by someone to steal the girl?

  He couldn't think of any amount of money that would make even the toughest outlaws take the kind of risks these people had taken. To attack one of Zarn's stations was in itself asking to be evaporated off the face of the universe, but to abduct the heir to Andromeda, the child he'd searched for for so long—and then kidnap his son—was asking for slow, terrible torture. If they were Psyks, it would make sense because of its senselessness. But these weren't crazies. In spite of her anger, the woman who had attacked him was perfectly rational. She was on a quest to find the child and he had no doubt she would stop at nothing until she reached her goal. He had seen it in her eyes. So there was only one possibility left: They were rebels. But if that were true, why had Telles run away from them?

  He looked around the room restlessly. How long would they leave him here before the interrogation began? he wondered. His vision had adjusted to the darkness completely now, and he could see square and cylindrical containers stacked around the walls, coming to within several feet of him. He glanced at a tall, rectangular object only a foot away from the table he lay upon and went suddenly cold, his breath leaving him, his throat tightening, almost closing altogether. A mind-probe. One of the new, experimental models. He'd never seen one in person but his father had sent him schematics of the devices over the years, and this one had crossed his screen only a few weeks ago. It was portable and lightweight. Only recently one had been stolen by renegades from a remote outpost where it was being tested.

  It had come to the Kalimar's attention in the last year that his mind-probing devices were not always as effective as he had supposed; often children taken to indoctrination returned without having their minds and personalities completely stripped from them. He had immediately begun to rectify the situation and ordered his scientists to develop a new machine, one capable of probing even the most resistant mind.

  Eagle swallowed hard, willing the saliva back into his mouth to counter the dryness there. Although he had been a soldier since he turned seventeen, had fought in some desperate battles and been captured several times, he had never been subjected to a mind-probe. Until he was assigned to Station One, he had never even seen one. But after seeing the children on Station One go through it, he knew he wasn't going to like it. Still, since he had no idea where Telles might have taken Mayla, the probing would tell the renegades nothing, except who had taken her. Even Zarn's best devices couldn't read what wasn't there. He wasn't worried about what they might find inside his mind. He was worried about how little they might leave behind.

  "Nervous, Colonel?"

  A light snapped on and a familiar female voice swept over him, harsh, knowing. For a moment panic seized him by the throat, but he quickly brought himself back under control. She came into view, moving from the head of the table to his side. She no longer wore the droid suit, but was clad in a uniform that hugged her figure in a most disconcerting way. The blue of the material made her turquoise eyes seem even darker as they moved over his naked form in a calculated, unemotional manner. Her silver hair was pulled back severely from her sculptured face, tied at the nape of her neck. The blue-skinned man stood beside her, his gaze likewise dispassionate.

  "Should I be?" he said, the sound rasping and weak. He cleared his throat and tried again, inclining his head first toward his naked torso and then toward Eel "Is this how your kind gets their kicks?" he asked, summoning a cocky grin. "If you take off the shackles it could be a lot more fun, though it's been awhile since I've shared a woman."

  "Shut up." The command was accompanied by a sharp blow to his already injured ribcage. Eagle winced but didn't make a sound. "Give your name, rank, Forces number, and current assignment."

  Eagle tried to breathe shallowly to still the pain in his side. "Zarn, Benjakar, Colonel, Forces number 5943750, Guardian of Stations One through Four, Andromedan system."

  "But don't they call you something else, something… stupid like Bear or Canthar or Bluebird or something?" Her lips curved up in a smirk and Eagle longed to wipe the gesture from her porcelain features. He didn't answer.

  "All right, then, we'll just go with Guardian. Listen, scumbag, and listen well. If you answer my questions I might let you live—with your brain still intact. Where is the child? Where has your ship taken her?"

  Eagle met her imperious gaze unflinchingly. "First of all, it wasn't my ship. Second of all, I've been beaten up, stunned, stopped, shackled, and I don't even know what the hell all of this is about. If you want some answers, sweetie, you'd better tell me who you are and what you want with that little kid."

  The woman lifted her hand and Eagle braced himself for the blow. Her fist hovered over him for a moment, then fell back to her side, her eyes glinting with suppressed fury. He could tell she was fighting for control. He'd been there too often himself not to recognize her tension. She glanced up at the man beside her and he seemed to nod slightly in her direction.

  "We will have our answers—space-boy—whether we deign to tell you who we are or not." She began to walk slowly beside him, letting her fingertips lightly touch his sweat-soaked skin as she moved toward the end of the table. She stopped, glanced back at him, then started walking back up the length of his body, fingers trailing across his skin.

  The cargo hold was stuffy and oppressive and he could see fine beads of sweat across her forehead, beneath the silver band she wore. He tried to disconnect himself from her touch. What was presently a gentle, teasing stroke up the side of one leg could quickly change to pain, as he knew from experi
ence. He'd been captured a number of times during his service in the Forces, and torture was a common occurrence. Still, he shivered unconsciously as her fingers continued to trace a line up his calf, over his knee, across his thigh, and up to his hipbone. She rested two fingers on the pelvic bone protruding slightly beneath his flesh and for a moment their eyes locked, Eagle's daring her to do her worst, the woman's promising him she could if she chose to do so. He expected her to touch him intimately, for that was another way to humiliate a prisoner—violate him—though he had never used those tactics himself. But her probing fingers moved upward, across the flat of his belly to his chest, where she stroked the dark hair curling there for what appeared to be an absent-minded moment.

  Eagle knew better. She was playing with him, letting him know who was in charge, who was the master. Her fingers flattened against his chest before moving to explore his side. He didn't move as she touched the places that had plagued him since her attack, schooling his features not to reflect his pain. She smiled, obviously aware of his struggle. Gently she touched the side of his jaw, rough with a day's growth of beard. Her fingers moved against his lips, then slid upward to his temple and into his hair. Eagle refused to close his eyes and instead tried to fix her with his burning gaze, a gaze he hoped conveyed to her exactly what he intended to do if he ever got free. The blue-skinned man cleared his throat and the woman hesitated, then, in one last gesture of control, combed her fingers through his slightly wavy hair before dropping her hand back to her side.

  "Is he all there?" the man asked, his voice edged with a taut sarcasm.

  "Hook him up," she ordered. She leaned over him, placing both hands palm down on Eagle's chest. He could feel the warmth of her breath, could feel the soft crush of her breasts beneath her uniform, could feel her heart beating against his.

  "I'm going to find her," she whispered, her mouth scant inches away from his own. Her fingers threaded through his hair at the temples, and tightened against his scalp. "If I have to tear your mind apart and leave you a thrashing, helpless vegetable to do so—I will find her. Do you understand, space-boy? I don't care whose son you are or how pretty you are—you are completely expendable."

  She pulled away from him and, turning on her heel, left the room. Eagle closed his eyes, mustering courage for what lay ahead.

  Sky stalked out of the cargo hold and didn't stop until she reached her quarters three decks above. It was foolish to go so far when she would only have to return in a matter of minutes, but she had to get away and bring her raging anger under control. She stormed into the room, wishing she had a good old-fashioned hinged door like back on Bezanti that she could slam to vent her fury. In its lieu, she picked up the small figurine depicting an ancient Terran cat Kell had given her for her last birthday, and lifted her arm to throw it across the room. Her fingers inadvertently caressed the smooth surface of the object and slowly she lowered her hand, replacing the little cat on top of her desk where it stood guard over her computer. Sky crossed to her bunk and sank down upon its hard surface. Closing her eyes, she forced herself to take deep, calming breaths. For several moments she did nothing else as she cleared her mind, focusing only on the air moving in and out of her lungs. When she opened her eyes again, her temper was under control, leaving her to face the always appalling aftermath of her volatile emotions.

  She had wanted to hurt the man as he lay helpless and naked before her, had wanted to torture and maim him, and the intensity of those feelings had shaken her to the core. As a daughter of a Cezan she had been raised to be gentle, forgiving, and at all times to follow the peaceful teachings of her father and mother's religion. But after her exile to Bezanti everything had changed. She had changed in order to survive in the new world in which she found herself. No longer was there a mother and father and brothers and sisters to watch over her, as well as guards and palace attendants. For the first time in her life she had been alone, on her own, with a three-year-old to protect at all costs.

  She stood and moved aimlessly about her cabin. There was little there to reflect its occupant. The bunk was narrow, hard, the covering a dull olive green. There were no pictures on the walls, no personal items at all except for the figurine Kell had given her and a two-foot-high clay statue she had taken with her to Bezanti. She had sculpted the statue the season before her journey to the distant world, and when she'd learned she was to go there, she had sneaked her fledgling attempt at art into her trunk. Perhaps she had felt, even then, that she would need something of herself to hang onto in the days to come.

  Sky moved to the statue sitting on the small table next to her bunk and touched it with a loving caress. About two feet high, the statue represented a woman clad in a long dress, her hair, part of it braided, twisting in disarray almost to her feet, one hand lifted to her heart, her eyes staring straight ahead, bold, clear, as if she could see into the future. Her lips curved up in a half-smile and Sky touched the side of the statue's face. She had thought of her mother as she sculpted the image, and it resembled her slightly. What would her mother think of her now if she could see her from the Afterworld?

  Sky turned away from the statue, clasping her arms about herself and moving to look out of the fairly large porthole she'd had installed—one of the few luxuries she allowed herself as the ship's captain. She pressed her lips together tightly and stared unseeing at the stars in their silent ageless beauty.

  She feared her mother would not be pleased if she could see what her daughter had become. There was a hardness inside her that extended into every area of her life, except her love for Mayla. She had not realized until now how immune she had become to the possibility of inflicting pain on another human being. Over the years it had become almost second nature for her to fight—first in self-defense, later as a means to whatever end was on the day's agenda. Her morals, her religion, her beliefs, had all been swept aside, pushed away, forgotten in her quest to survive and to make sure her sister survived. It had been necessary, for how could she have continued as privateer, renegade, and soldier, and still adhered to her parents' teachings? She could not, and so she had changed, focusing her life on protecting Mayla, sacrificing her own feelings and beliefs in the process. It had taken its toll upon her as a woman, as a person, as an Andromedan.

  Now this man who deserved death had somehow pulled from the depths of her being such feelings of rage and anger she feared she would kill him before the interrogation could even begin. That was only part of her frantic need to get away from him. She had thought to taunt him by touching him, had hoped to make him fear what she might do next. But as her fingers collided with his warm, damp skin, her senses had quickened and something had stirred inside her, warring with the violence she kept under tenuous control. She had wanted him. It was as simple as that. No, maybe not that simple. For it had been more than a desire for his body—al-though the feel of his taut muscles under her hands had sent a quick thrust of need through the depths of her body—but she had felt something else besides desire. She had felt compassion.

  Compassion. She sneered the word in her mind. Compassion for the barbarian who had helped steal her sister from her. Compassion for the demon Zarn's son. She must be slipping, must need a rest, a break, a drink. How could such an emotion have ever entered her mind, let alone the desire to bed the man? A sudden nervous thrill ran through her veins, and she turned away from the porthole.

  Zarn's main area of expertise had always been mind control. It was how he had gained the trust of the Seekers and used that trust to gain admittance to the palace of the Cezans. After the conquest, it was how he maintained control for a time before he hit upon his plan to use the children as virtual hostages. It was common knowledge his scientists had continued their quest to perfect mind-probing and mental manipulation. He had never been known to use a telepath in his probings, but there was always a first time. Could his son be a telepath? Was he using his powers to sway her, to cause her to feel such an emotion for the son of the man she hated? She shuddered at
the thought of her mind being invaded by Zarn or his son, then calmed and raised her hand to touch the silver band around her forehead.

  Nothing could penetrate the protection Redar had given her before he died, at least nothing had been able to so far. She chose to believe nothing would. To entertain any other possibility would leave herself open to a kind of speculation that could easily undermine her mission. The compassion she felt for the man in the hold was just a leftover emotion from her past, from the days when she had the luxury of such feelings. Nothing more.

  A soft buzzing sound filled the room, and Sky leaned one knee into the middle of her bunk, reaching to answer the com unit attached to the wall near the head of it.

  "Yes?"

  "We're waiting for you, Captain." Kell's voice was as calm as an android's, and the steady cadence of his words sent a soothing balm around Sky's raw emotions.

  "On my way," she said. She strode toward the doorway but paused in front of the waist-high, built-in dresser in the wall of her cabin, which held sundry items of clothing. She pressed a button on the side of it and a mirror, the width of the dresser, rose from its recesses. Staring at her reflection, she took rapid stock. The turquoise eyes reflected her confusion, while narrow lines of fatigue and strain were etched into her forehead and around her mouth. She looked weary, fearful almost. This would never do. The prisoner must never suspect anything he had done or could do would ever shake her. She must be in control at all times.

  Sky took a deep breath and turned inward, finding the center of her mind, the place from which her telepathic power emanated, as well as received thought, when left unshackled. The center was like a soft blue-green light, flickering there, calling her to its core of tranquility and strength. She saw herself inside her mind, riding the dark gray waves of confusion and anger into the vortex, down into the deepest part of her mental being. The blue-green light encompassed her, drew her inside, folded her in the warmth and calm. Once there, encased in the power, it was a simple matter to reach out and mentally release the tendrils of disorientation and hostility from their energy-sucking attachment. She watched them snap, hover a second, then dissolve into nothingness. When Captain Sky Cezan emerged from her almost trancelike state, the form staring back at her from the mirror had changed. The lines of strain in her face had disappeared and her eyes revealed only control and strength. She smiled, once again filled with the surety of her own power. The smile faded and in its place, a grim line of determination appeared. It was time to question the enemy.