Or something else. Kindrist was whom the mute woman showed intense interest.
Kindrist’s quick pace ate the distance up between them, but she only nodded at the woman in passing.
A sense of gloom clenched his gut.
Not good from the old intuitive furnace. “Hey boss, what’s going on?”
“Our defense shields have been compromised. Voldon’s probes can read our minds,” her pace quickened, “if they’re close enough.”
“So, this quadrant or whatever you call it isn’t safe?”
“No. Policed. Yet, every second spent breathing is risky in reality during the Blood Wars.”
At least, she didn’t say the other guys were cannibals.
Something tickled the hairs to chilly attention on his arms.
She spun and stared beyond his shoulder.
He followed her gaze.
The woman sprawled out on the floor, supporting her upper body with one arm. A man, outfitted in a white ballet-type tight ensemble, ran toward her from the elevator.
“Is that her husband?” The man had to be by the way he hurried.
“No.”
The running man leapt over the woman and disappeared into the room.
So much for compassion for fallen comrades. He faced Kindrist. “Just what was that?”
“He’s her replacement.”
“For what?”
She turned back down the shady corridor. “The ship’s defenses.”
These people truly sucked horse shit for fun and could clutch their satisfying dung while he made a difference. “Well, I’m going to help her.”
Kindrist grabbed his elbow.
He stared into the orange light reflecting in her eyes.
“It isn’t safe if I leave you here. You know nothing about this ship.”
But whatever went on behind closed doors was his ticket off this ship. Of course, ignoring the injured woman was totally unacceptable.
“Forgive me, Kindrist. But minus the permanent erection, I can think clearly. And I don’t see any compassion in that guy jumping over the wounded woman to help with the ship’s defenses.”
“Her meditation was disrupted.” Kindrist’s stare insisted he listen. “She’ll shake off the shock if we leave her to recover. As for her job, we have five meditators working at any time to create a protective barrier to keep our thoughts from being harvested by Voldon.”
“Harvested?”
She turned down the hallway and pushed another ridiculously invisible button. “Used against us, Straightarrow.”
A door hushed him.
“Do you want to be enslaved?” she challenged.
“Enslaved? Come on. I’m a blood fucker. I’m enslaved by default, honey. Or should I say boss? Don’t talk to me like I have freedom of choice.”
A door opened into another elevator.
“Come on, Straightarrow.” She turned into the small box.
So, there was no way she could deny the truth in his accusation. He stepped into the lift and choked back a chuckle about the crap she tried to feed him.
The upward motion set his gut flopping.
An unsettling sensation. More like his gut was talking to him.
Shaking him.
The door whooshed open revealing an enormous chamber beyond the wide rectangular doorframe. A space thoroughly destroyed. Furniture was on end. Twisted. As far as a stranger could tell. Charred black in places. Mostly heaped along one long wall of the room. Orange lighting tubes curved down from the ceiling in places like bent dislodged rafters.
A few white-dressed almost solitary people combed through the mess. But they halted, nodded at Kindrist, then each returned to his or her silent sojourn.
Kindrist stepped into the shadowy wasteland and quickly approached the edge of the massive heap.
Everything smelled of damp biting smoke.
A strange heap that seemed to have poured from the edge of the ceiling to create the side of a mountain that splayed outward naturally like the debris at the base of the mount.
Something clicked as if trying to turn on.
One careful move at a time, Kindrist seemed to wade through invisible mud.
Watching.
Searching.
Why?
His gut turned and wrung itself sick.
What bad news happened here? He stepped to Kindrist’s side and joined her silent search.
A loud snap popped across the room.
A cry pierced the silence.
Maybe a cat.
Or a baby.
Kindrist’s head snapped to the sound, her gaze assessing the pile of trash.
The sound squalled.
More like pleaded. Definitely a baby.
She grabbed a heap of garbage and tossed charred debris aside.
She displayed a mercenary’s determination.
Not enough to save an infant buried alive. That had to be a baby. He wrapped his finger around a metallic leg of some object and pulled.
The cry intensified.
Poor kid caught up in a war he had no hand in.
A small hand thrust up through the clutter.
Kindrist latched onto the small fingers.
The crying ceased.
Quiet was better, but she wouldn’t get anywhere holding hands. He carefully lifted various pieces of metal from where the child lay covered. Bit by bit.
The bluest all-knowing eyes he’d ever seen focused on him, then Kindrist. The calm bundle stretched a free arm to her.
The child’s white clothing was amazingly spotless.
“He’s alright,” Jake gasped more for himself than anyone else.
Kindrist rested the child against her shoulder and patted its back. “Yes. She is.”
Why was a child here? “What is this place, Kindrist?”
She turned to the door and headed back. “The nursery.”
“Shit.” Talk about tragedy.
The baby’s blue gaze anchored on him, searching for something of its own.
Maybe he shouldn’t have cursed. Why could a baby make him feel guilty? He followed them back to the exit.
The door slid open.
A woman in white tunic and leggings raced down the hall toward them.
“Who’s that?” he asked.
“Her mother.”
Coincidence? Wait, they were telepathic. Gotta try to remember that.
The woman’s golden bun flopped at the nape of her neck where it had managed to loosely cling.
The mother grabbed her baby.
Silence.
Total silence.
These were such strange people. Emotional. Yet, uttering nothing. Earthlings were so out of their element here.
The mother threw her arms around Kindrist, squeezed, then shrank away, departing down the hall with the baby.
Kindrist turned back to the dump.
Not one revelatory detail graced her face. “Is that woman heading back to meditate?” Hopefully, with the children at risk.
“She’s a healer. She’s taking her daughter back to her quarters.”
Then that meant this was daycare.
“You’ve probably deduced this is the ship’s nursery.” She continued back the devastated space.
Why attack a nursery? “Did the zero misfire?” He kept on Kindrist’s heels.
“Voldon’s mercenaries target nurseries.”
What kind of creature attacked the defenseless?
“You’re probably wondering why he targets the defenseless.” She reached for another heap and foraged for life.
“I thought my mind wasn’t evolved enough for you to probe it?” But why did a psychic emperor lower himself to killing the children? “And Voldon’s rationalization would be?”
“To kill our legends.”
Why did he think To Kill a Mockingbird wasn’t so far off the mark? “You’re talking mental genocide?”
“It’s not just killing the legends to end our fight for freedom. Voldon strives to ensur
e the legends never happen. He wants to kill the children who could rise up to defeat him. The children who he can’t control.”
“I don’t get it, boss. If he can control all of us, why can’t he control these children of legend?”
“Fear. He fears the legends will come to pass. He fears his reign will shortly end as prophesized.”
“So he murders children to change his destiny? That man has no balls.” No balls, no morals. Voldon was definitely unfit to rule the universe.
She turned an arched brow to him where she leaned over a heap, reaching to toss something aside. “Oh, he has audacious balls. And he sends his telepathic drones on suicide missions to kill our children. That’s all. Our children.” She rose and faced him with a more than a questioning twist to her brow. “Where’s the honor in that?”
Honor shouldn’t be used when discussing Voldon.
“Exactly.” She returned to her digging. “Even worse. We usually have to jettison the atmosphere in this compartment to kill the fire before it comes in contact with something highly explosive. Because the water doesn’t always put out the fire. Jettisoning the compartment’s atmosphere means death to the surviving infants. Voldon’s trapped us with his demented strategy where we can’t even save our children. Hope.” She snorted. “We’re supposed to cling to it.” She snorted a laugh. “But sometimes the gods are with us and a child survives expulsion of the compartment’s air when protected beneath a heap of trash.” She rose, flipped her hair back over her head and scratched her arm.
Why did she suddenly seem human? Maybe an ounce of compassion sparked in her contemplative stance. And something could be said for a mercenary with a soft spot for the weak.
* * * *
Kindrist shuddered as the memory of her burning planet flashed in her mind. Voldon had feared legend would ring true and Nulvitia would birth the free-thinkers’ savior. The fool had scorched her world. But he wouldn’t kill her. Not until she played her last move. Spirit proved mightier than psychic powers that allowed one man to control sixty-one percent of the entire universe’s sentient beings. And if she didn’t try to give birth to a legend, every atom of oxygen she breathed was wasted on her existence. Jake had to come around.
A presence pushed into her mind. “Red Trekaar, what’s your location?” Goro asked.
“I’m digging children out of the rubble in the nursery.”
“You can’t be there if the pilot is still alive. If he gets one drop of your blood—”
“He won’t.”
“You of all people know how much I respect your skill. But your decision to assist in the nursery is foolish. Return to your quarters.”
“I’m helping.”
“Red! And take your mate with you. Do you realize what Voldon can do if he gets one drop of your essence? He will destroy any chance of any of your pregnancies reaching full-term. Beat Voldon by safeguarding your blood and children.”
Her gut sank.
The commander was correct. Voldon would use a drop of blood against her to control her actions and sabotage her efforts to give birth to a child of legend. “I’m returning to my quarters.” She straightened her spine and turned to her foraging mate.
How kind of him to search for the children. And to witness his conscience demanding he return to help the fallen meditator kept proving him a good being. Worthy of were-assassin duty. She had made a wise choice. Now to protect the rest of the possibilities her actions could instigate. “We’ve been ordered to return to our quarters.”
Jake unfolded, hands and wrists coated with chunks of wet black residue from searching through the wreckage, and shot her a confused look. “Why?”
“I was wrong to bring us here. Voldon’s warriors collect blood for him. If the suicidal pilot survived the crash, Goro doesn’t want us to risk our blood being added to his collection.”
Jake sighed and shook his head. “Huh?”
“I can explain more later. For now, it’s safer for us not to be here.” She turned toward the exit to lead Jake back to the lift.
Jake walked quietly behind her.
Cooperation from him was strange at this point. Not exactly what she expected from this type of male who led. At least, the distressed pilot wasn’t still lying in the corridor. Or she’d never get her valiant husband back to their quarters. She stopped at the lift’s door and waited for the silver hatch to glide open.
Jake claimed a spot at her side.
A presence pushed into her mind. “Kindrist,” Goro said in mindspeak, “the pilot survived. She will be interrogated as soon as possible. It will be better for all if you keep your soul mate in your quarters.”
Why did the sacrilegious temptation of interrogation always rear its ugly face? Would there be another victim? She sighed.
However, witnessing an interrogation just might help Jake understand the greater price of this war.
Chapter Eight
Jake watched two of The Seeker’s crew members in a small brightly-lit room beyond a large viewing window. The crew members milled around a silver infirmary table. Probably preparing for an autopsy. Aliens autopsying aliens. You gotta note the irony there. But do I want a ring-side view? He turned to Kindrist.
She glanced at him but slid her gaze back to the show.
His wife didn’t follow orders. “Aren’t we supposed to be in our quarters?” Would she shrug?
“The pilot has many tales to share. For us, we are better off seeing what the commander can gain here.” Her stoic stare at the interrogation scene never wavered.
But what could a lower-evolved being gain from a telepathic interrogation? “I guess I have to count on you for honesty in translation since you all are higher-evolved telepaths?”
Her conspiratorial gaze slid to meet his. “Interrogations are channeled to video screens throughout the ship. There are criteria one must follow in the free-thinking world. Because some of our treasured mercenary were-mates are incapable of reading minds, the telepaths’ thoughts are presented in various languages. Today, in English since all the were-mates aboard speak English. And everyone gets to witness the interrogation as a method of curbing bad interrogative measures.”
Well, at least they had some kind of ethics. And Kindrist was offering thorough explanations now. But she still had brought him here. They sat here, outside the interrogation room, against orders. How could she argue that point? “Can’t we watch this in our personal quarters?”
One of her black eyebrows arched sinisterly. “I thought human males preferred the wide screen?”
So she wanted to crack sexiest jokes? Sexism must be universal. “Good one.”
Something moved back in the room.
Two white-cloaked crew members pushed a frail body on a gurney toward the other metal table.
Jake’s gut curdled.
The body had the large head and elongated eyes of an extraterrestrial portrayed in all those Hollywood flicks.
Not good. But what could be bad about intuition speaking up?
“That’s a Mawshwuc, better known as a Martian to earthlings in science fiction. But they aren’t from Mars. Nor are they figments of anyone’s imagination.”
And intuition scores. “So, what’s the Mawshwuc’s story?”
“What you see is the culmination of war over three millennia. Mutations. The Mawshwuc began the war looking like Nulvitians, myself. But living a life in space, generation after generation bred in captivity to fight Voldon’s war, you see they no longer appear as any more than miniature stick figures with warped facial bones.” She shot him a sideways glance.
“And don’t let them fool you into complacency because they look weak. Mawshwuc’s are reconnaissance zombies. They have spent millennia capturing earthlings, harvesting their blood for Voldon’s use, and tagging earthlings as if they were nothing more than creatures being released for recapture at Voldon’s whims. If Voldon finds a way to control lesser-evolved beings through blood chemistry,” she wagged her head. “All those alien-abduc
tee stories are nothing but truth. Except earthlings have no idea the amount of danger earth faces. Give Voldon an inch of power in your solar system and earthlings definitely face the same future as the Mawshwucs.”
Intuition wasn’t throwing in its two cents. Kindrist had to be being honest. “Free thinkers are earth’s guardians against Mawshwucs?” The question seemed more to peg down the facts than prove he was paying attention. “Why haven’t your people gone through the mutations caused by life in space?”
“My planet was destroyed when I was ten. Nulvitians didn’t live in space. Call us planet huggers. Who wants to leave the planet they call home?”
True. Earth was home.
She nodded.
Goro strode into the interrogation chamber.
Against the white backdrop, he looked the sinister party in black. Even with the captive’s silver suit. But if Mawshwucs were commonplace on earth, there would be more evidence than just tales from people who appeared to have survived traumatic experiences. “How do these Mawshwucs operate on earth?”
Kindrist chuckled and met his gaze. “They are the vampires of earth legends. Soul suckers. Literally, one drop of blood on a Mawshwuc ship means your ass is potential zombie grass in Voldon’s hands. Tagged.” She winked. “And once you’re tagged, you find Mawshwucs returning for more samples.”
Not the picture he wanted to imagine. Yet, Kindrist could know enough to completely trick him into assisting her cause. Time to test her. “I’m tagged.” He twisted his earring.
She sighed and turned back to the unfolding interrogation scene.
So much for cooperation. “Okay, then give me some historical points to prove you’re not pulling my leg.”
She expelled quickly with more of a sassy snort than a sigh. “The Visitor is found in Egyptian hieroglyphics. His Mawshwuc form is carved into Ancient Egypt’s walls. You can’t miss him given his skull shape. And among Native-American petroglyphs are the stick figures with Mawshwuc heads. Mesoamerican nobility even deformed their skulls in order to take on the appearance of the Mawshwucs—their gods. If you’d prefer a trip through earth history, I can set you up with a computer—” Her gaze snapped back to the room. “What is that fool doing?” she snarled.
One white-cloaked male pulled at the captive’s mask.
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