“For about nine hours,” Pyr answered.
“Good for me.” She opened her eyes. “I think I might have saved the universe.” She turned her head to look at Pyr, who was seated on a chair beside the bed. “Or did I dream that?”
He smiled, the gentleness of it transforming his normally stern features. His mouth was too attractive. So were his thickly lashed, dark-blue eyes. His shoulders were far too unreasonably broad. His burgundy red hair was held back by a sapphire-blue headband that matched his eyes. His shirt was the same color. She really wished she could find something massively wrong with his face and form and personality, or even his taste in clothes. She had to fall back to recalling that he had tried to torture her, and that he wasn’t likely to let her off the Raptor at the next planet even if she asked him nicely, but these seemed like flimsy excuses. She didn’t feel like a prisoner or a victim. She felt—safe. No, not safe. Eamon had made her feel safe and protected after every battle. She barely remembered what Eamon looked like; she regretted that. What she felt when she was with Pyr was not safe. If anything, being with him made her even more aware of danger, and she did not mistake his genuine concern for her as a promise not to use her as ruthlessly as he had to.
Roxy forced her thoughts away from emotional analysis. There really was no point.
Pyr took his hand from her shoulder. She was sad for a moment, until his fingers twined with hers. That was even nicer. “Martin said you were close to a solution. He says he’s cautiously hopeful.”
“Oh.” She’d hoped the work was over, but if they were close… well, she’d better get up and check over her own data. “Where’s Martin?”
“Even one with his youthful enthusiasm has to sleep sometime. Just how youthful is he, really? Did I dream his reminding you he was in his thirties, or is that a memory?”
She ignored the questions as she looked at him suspiciously. “You haven’t locked Martin up somewhere, have you? Cause if you do anything to him,” she went on as he continued to smile, “my sister will get you.”
“While several of my crew are locked up,” he admitted. “Your Martin is not among them. Kristi would never allow it.” She laughed, and he tugged on her hand, helping her to sit up. “Of course I did have to have him escorted from your side at gunpoint. Family loyalty? Or doesn’t he trust you not to betray the Systems because you want to sleep with me?”
“Lucky guess?” she asked, looking him steadily in the eye. “Or were you monitoring our conversation?”
“He should think better of you,” was all he answered.
“I don’t want to sleep with you; we want to have sex. Sleeping with someone implies an intimacy we are trying to avoid.”
“Good point.” After a moment, he added, “What I feel when you heal—that’s an intimacy I don’t want.” His hand touched her cheek, briefly. “When you were with Linch, and with Mik, I felt—something. Intimate.”
“Nothing you can put into words, even thoughts.” she said, and he nodded. She longed to feel mortified, violated, at least a little embarrassed for both their sakes, but what sang through her was elation. Not to be alone—in that place where she was most vulnerable and most herself—that was wonderful. At least, when he—
“You’re wonderful,” he said, and shrugged, and gave her a sardonic grin. “I’ll try not to tell you again.”
“I’d appreciate that. Ours is an adversarial relationship.” He thought she was wonderful! Damn it, damn it, damn it. She looked down at their linked hands. “Maybe Martin can help. Martin understands our problem, better than we do, probably. He specializes in taking care of telepaths. And he’s linked to my sister,” she explained. “Not bonded, but he understands the differences.”
“Differences?”
Of course, he wouldn’t realize that there could be differences in how telepaths and empaths from different worlds could bond, meld, link, and mate with each other. He and his wife had shared whatever link was natural to their people. She could sense that there was definitely some connection between himself and his men, especially with Linch, but he had no reason to be aware of all the nuances, gradations, and variations that could link telepaths from many worlds. For the most part, sharing thoughts between races was difficult, if not impossible, except where bonding was concerned. Sometimes it didn’t matter where you were from: it just happened. Some links were light, and fragile as gossamer. There was a koltiri bond that went so deep that, to form it, minds and bodies and souls blended in one ecstatic instant, and severing the connection was fatal. Her parents had shared that bond for nearly two hundred years, and losing it had burned away her wise and powerful koltiri mother’s mind and stopped her heart in the same instant the accident killed her Terran telepath father.
“What old hurt is making you so sad, Roxanne?”
She waved away the question, and the concern. “I don’t think I’m going to try to explain about the type of bond we could have,” she told him. “We don’t have the time. But if we want some—counseling—Martin’s our man.”
“Martin doesn’t want us to be together.”
She blinked at him slowly, several times. “Your point?”
He laughed. “Yes, of course. I do agree with Martin. But sometimes I forget I agree with Martin.”
“Your wife’s memory, my husband’s existence, our being on different sides,” she reminded him, too aware that these were becoming flimsier excuses with every passing hour that they were connected to each other. Then she stomped her foot. “If you were half the villain you pretend to be, you’d force the completion of the bond on me and then we could live happily ever after and not have to worry about our ethics!”
He snatched his hand away from hers so he could make an extravagant gesture. “I’m sorry! I will not bond with anyone simply because it’s best for the People. Not against your will. Or mine.”
It was definitely time to change the subject. Roxy looked around frantically, and spotted a neatly folded pile of clothing on the end of the bed. She noticed that she was still wearing the red tunic and black pants from Glover’s ship and turned her attention to the fresh clothes. And she wanted to wash her hair. Of course the man didn’t want to bond with her—she was a mess!
“I’m really quite vain, you know,” she told him as she picked through the selection he’d brought. “And flighty.” Apparently he wasn’t the only person on board the Raptor who favored bright colors and soft, clinging materials. She held up a saffron-yellow skirt that looked like it might fit. “Little short.”
She was all too aware of Pyr’s eyeing her long legs. “Not on Tinna. She and Kristi have been raiding closets.” He didn’t need to tell her that some of those closets had belonged to crew women who’d died of the plague. It was a reminder that she didn’t have time to worry about fashion, or her own private life. “That’s pretty,” he said as she shook out a length of gold embroidered purple silk. “I promised you pretty dresses.”
She could wear it as a sari, she thought, or as a sarong. She found an emerald-green crop top that would also do. There was a head with a fresher unit in the sickbay. “I’m going to get cleaned up now,” she told him. “Then get back to work. You don’t have to be here when I get back.”
He was still there when she got back, clean, with her thick hair neatly braided down her back. Dressed in fresh clothes, she felt ready to face Sagouran Fever, but not so ready to encounter Pyr Kaddani again. He was seated at the medical computer. She walked up behind him and saw that he was looking at data of one of the simulation tests she’d set up.
“It’s very pretty,” he said of the scrolling colors on the holoscreen, “but I haven’t the faintest idea what it means.” He sounded a little sad and disappointed when he added, “I was trained to be a warrior and nothing more.”
“Then why aren’t you off being a warrior?” she asked. “Instead of checking to see if I’m really doing my job?”
He turned the chair to face her, and his lips curved in a slow, appreciative s
mile as his gaze swept over her. She quite deliberately did not preen in response. “Pilsane is monitoring this computer station,” he told her. “He thinks you’re doing your job quite diligently. I was admiring your handiwork.” He waved his hand through the holo. “What does this mean?”
“It means we’re close to developing a vaccine for Sagouran Fever.” She sneered cynically at the thought of all her and Martin’s hard work. “Truth is, this is redundant. Whoever tailored the disease and the drug already has a vaccine. You don’t develop something like this without immunizing yourself.”
“But isn’t the point that you’ll have something you can give to people who don’t yet have the disease?” She nodded. His features lit with eagerness. “You’ll have this vaccine for me to send to my home-world soon, yes?”
His enthusiasm warmed her, and helped tone down her frustration at repeating someone else’s work. Having their own preventative for the disease made hunting down those responsible a bit less complicated. Less complicated in that they could kill the bastards instead of having to consider making deals with them.
“We will have something we can send everywhere,” she informed him. “Your world and the United Systems.” His expression and emotions blanked, and his eyes narrowed warningly, but he didn’t argue the point. She didn’t, either. She’d wait until she had the actual vaccine before bargaining with Pyr about it. “It still won’t be a cure for the plague or the Rust addiction—having to deal with that combination is tough—but we will be able to prevent anyone else from contracting the original variation of the disease. We will have to assume that the Trin who oversaw the development of the disease and Rust has also developed newer and nastier variations waiting to take Sagouran’s place if Sag Fever is stopped.”
As she said the word ‘Trin’ she was very attentive to his reaction on every level she could fathom. It was not that she didn’t believe that he hadn’t knowingly dealt with the Trin, but what she believed and her duty to the United Systems could not be allowed to mesh. Experience told her that anything as massively destructive as the plague had to be a Trin strategy. Complete trust was out of the question.
He knew that she probed him, and accepted it, even opened his shields for an instant while he looked her in the eye and said, “Your hatred of this enemy is truly frightening.”
“And necessary.” She felt nothing from Pyr in response to her mentioning the Trin, nothing except disgust at her paranoia. She had not expected to uncover any deeper connection than his having unknowingly worked with Kith, but was still relieved at finding only a reaction to her. She was not offended by his disgust.
“For a while, after I found out it was a construct, I thought it was the Bucons who developed the disease, but it really isn’t like them. I suppose its seeming like something the Bucon would do buys the Trin some time and camouflage.” She sat down beside him and flipped off the datascreen. “Let me tell you about the Trin.” She kept her hands busy setting up another a series of simulations. It was best not to look at Pyr, or let herself be too aware of Pyr looking at her. And it was certainly best not to let herself remember the nightmares she’d lived through while she described them. “The Trin are arrogant. That’s the one thing you have to remember when you deal with them—and it looks like you’re going to be dealing with them to stop the plague.”
“So you seem to think. Why?”
“Suicidally, recklessly arrogant,” Roxy went on. “They don’t care what they have to do to get control of the known galaxy.”
“Sounds like Kith.”
“Trin think it is their right to own the universe simply because they want to. They are boundlessly ambitious—and not even that well organized about it. They’re a loosely affiliated band of technologically advanced warlords. Extremely technologically advanced.”
“Everyone is aware of that much, Roxanne.” There was a warning impatience in Pyr’s tone. He reached out and covered her left hand, stopping her work, and offering slight comfort at the same time. “Now, tell me why it is the Trin and not the Bucons who are responsible for this plague.”
“Because they don’t care how many lives they have to take to control what’s left. Bucons are not murderous. Bucons like to negotiate, to trade. Trin make ultimatums, always go for complete victory. The Trin have done this sort of ruthless thing before. Not a disease,” she hurried on. “But the Sheets.” A sharply indrawn breath from Pyr told her he knew what a Sheet was. Trying to suppress information about that particular weapon of mass destruction had not been completely successful. “Most people who have heard of Sheets are not aware of how often they were used, or the extent of the devastation. The United Systems government kept a great deal of information from the media. If you ever saw a Sheet you’d think it was lovely,” she added, unable not to call up the memory of the sight of the delicate scarf of energy as it floated across the Tigris’s main view screen a million miles away. “They glow and sparkle and scintillate with light—and they eat worlds. What they touch, disappears. Every time the Trin used a Sheet they would send a message to the Council, only one word—’Surrender.’ One word for an entire planet—billions of years of evolution gone for nothing, and all to gain control of what was left. I saw a Sheet released on a star once. The damn thing absorbed the energy of a star. Took the star and put it somewhere else. There were three inhabited worlds circling that star, and everything on those worlds died in absolute cold and dark.” She did not go into lurid detail of what she’d felt and seen on those dark, murdered worlds. She looked at Pyr and said, “And that is only one of the reasons I am certain that the Trin are behind the plague.”
“Experience rather than proof.” He waved away any argument. “Doesn’t matter who is responsible.”
“Yes, it does!”
He arched an eyebrow at her. “And why is that, Roxanne?”
She didn’t realize how terrified she was until she heard herself blurt out, “Because I don’t want you going against the Trin on your own!” The next thing she knew they were both out of their chairs and her arms were wound tightly around him, holding him so hard it was as if she was trying to take him inside of her. He held her close and stroked her hair and gave her comfort she hadn’t asked for and wanted desperately. “Shit! Shit! Shit!” she finally managed to spit out, and tried to push him away. He held her for a moment longer, thinking I’m not alone. She muttered, “Shit,” again, but not in disagreement.
She felt like an idiot, and was glad when he let her go and changed the subject. “The last thirty hours have been quite productive for me, too,” he said.
That reminded her that there was a world beyond her research, and her concerns. She turned and went back to her chair, sat down, and primly folded her hands in her lap. Pyr went to sit on one of the beds. They gazed at each other from this reasonable distance, and she asked, “You’ve contacted this admiral you were looking for?”
“Yes. Turns out he was looking for me as well as looking for you. Seems he had a plan to eliminate Robe Halfor and wanted my help. He seems to think I might be interested in taking Halfor’s job with the pirate guild after Halfor is stopped from trying to topple the Monolem dynasty.”
“What makes him think a border-running renegade like you would be interested? He does think you’re Bucon, right?”
“He most certainly does. We’ve met before, Admiral Manalo and I.” He crossed his legs and hooked his clasped hands over his knee. He looked smug as he added, “He’s tried to broach the offer before. Since he watched you heal Mik, he’s even more interested.”
“Thank you,” she grumbled. “I so enjoy working with an audience.”
He ignored her sarcasm. “You aren’t the only thing I have that he wants.”
She was not above rising to this bait. “What else do you have?”
“A Door.”
Roxy shot to her feet. “You can’t have a Door! Shireny hasn’t invented it yet!” Reine and Betheny had been working on adapting captured Sheet technology into a t
eleportation device for the last two years. They were close, but Roxy was certain they weren’t there yet.
He regarded her outburst with high good humor. “You shouldn’t know what a Door is,” he pointed out.
“Neither should you,” was her outraged reply.
“Unless, of course, you are privy to a great deal more classified information than a medical specialist should be,” he added. “Unless your formidable sister Reine is the ‘Shir’ part of Shireny and your League relative is the ‘eny’ part. I believe her name is Betheny, the Pirate League engineer who defected a few years ago. And you still shouldn’t know about such highly classified research.”
She shrugged. “Sometimes Reine thinks in her sleep. And how do you know about Doors?” she demanded.
“Mik is a very talented man. The League provided him with some data and equipment—they are working with the Trin these days, you know—and he did the rest.” As she stared at him, wide-eyed and barely able to take in this revelation, he went on. “Ours is a prototype device, but it works quite well so far. Comes in quite handy,” he added. “Breathe, Roxanne. Even you need oxygen.”
She drew in a deep, ragged breath, and then anger overtook her shock as she remembered the planetary defense ship that had disappeared when the Tigris stopped it from attacking plague victims. “The cloak! You stole the Shireny cloak and have been selling it!”
Pyr looked thoughtful for about half a second. “No. I think Mik would have told me if he’d done that. Someone else must have acquired those specs and is bootlegging the cloak. I’ll have to go looking for them. We have a very good cloak, but not up to Shireny standards yet.” He got to his feet. “I have to go now, Roxanne. We’ll be attacking Halfor’s base in a few minutes.”
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