The Fireborn Chronicles

by Mary Andrews

  “Hold your fire!” Moneo commanded from above. The scene grew still, all eyes and weapons riveted to Laynald. Moneo's icy voice called out again. “You are dead, Healer.” His words almost seemed to float down to where Laynald half knelt. “You will writhe there in agony until your heart bursts."

  So strong was the fire that burned through his chest that Laynald was barely able to draw himself up from the ground to his feet. He knew the poison of which the Conjurer spoke. He cursed under his breath. There was no cure now, only death—long and lingering. Barely erect and stumbling, he fumbled to loosen a single dart from its concealed sheath beneath his bloodied Cloak-of-Office. The rain pummeled him, trying to weigh him down. Every part of his body felt as though it was churning in flames.

  The Court Conjurer leaned confidently out over the rampart from above and laughed wickedly. “Beg and I may slay you quickly, Healer,” he taunted.

  Laynald looked up at Moneo and smiled through clenched teeth. The dart slid free at last, an extension of the Healer's hand. Channeling all his pain and hatred for the man above, Laynald replied. With a powerful underhand throw, he loosed it. He struck for Alejan, for The Code, for revenge. The dart took flight with the force of his hatred propelling it.

  It embedded deeply in the Conjurer's neck. Eyes wide with disbelief, unable to speak through the shock, he fell over the railing and lay sprawled at Laynald's feet. The Healer doubled over in agony and dropped to his knees—at last ready to die.

  Like scavengers to the kill, the remainder of Moneo's men reappeared. Rael lurched forward to intercept them and protect the fallen Healer. In a strangely graceful style, with daggers held closely parallel to his wrists, he both parried and attacked with a deadly precision until none were left to challenge him.

  Ira retrieved the gun, but afraid of hitting his companions, he opened fire on the only thing big enough to be a safe target—the gate itself. Once, twice, three times he assaulted the huge door with the beam of force until it finally splintered, cracked and flew open.

  Throwing the Healer over his shoulder, Rael rushed headlong through it into the night—Ira stumbling behind.

  * * * *

  Laynald regained consciousness to the sound of a thousand drums in his head. His shoulder felt like it was on fire. His pulse raced, and his chest ached. It was becoming difficult to breathe. From a view screen across the room, he could see Rael seated in another room with flickering panels blurring in and out of his vision.

  “We can't take the chance,” Rael was saying. “I can't have the natives assaulting the ship. Who knows what damage their magic could do?"

  “You don't understand,” Ira struggled to say. “I'm still drugged—my concentration's shot. If I can't precisely match his resonance and I try to force a rapport, the shock could kill him."

  Rael paused, his attention drawn to something unseen; his temple plates flickering wildly. “Company's coming, kid. Do what you think is best, but as high as his pressure is now, I doubt that he'll survive departure.” A high-pitched whine started as the captain's temple plates again flickered.

  Ira looked pleadingly at Laynald. “I ... I want to help,” he stammered, “but...."

  Laynald clenched his teeth and ventured a smile. “What ever you're up to won't bother me now, boy.” A wave of pain made him shudder. “You can't do more than kill me.” His attempt at laughter set off an even more painful bout of coughing.

  Ira slicked back his wet hair and plopped into the seat next to the wounded man. He tried with all his might to clear his mind by drawing slow deep breaths.

  “Three minutes,” the captain called out.

  Ira reached across and removed Laynald's right glove. The ship shook beneath them. Their hands touched, skin to skin. A raging inferno engulfed the young empath as he siphoned the pain and anxiety from Laynald, forcing a calm over him, slowing his raging system, adding his own strength to the other.

  The ship lurched uncontrollably. Their piercing screams rivaled the rumbling sound of the lift off.

  * * * *

  As seen from below, the ship filled the sky, a raging burst of shimmering light. It cast shadows and replaced the storm sound with an ear-spitting roar, then lurched forward, grew larger, became blinding—deafening—and sped away.

  The Gods had chosen, and Physician Supreme Laynald Lockheim ascended into the heavens to become one of them.

  * * *

  PART FOUR

  THE FIREBORN FOUND

  * * *

  CHAPTER 1

  The Nemesis sat silent and still within the cool confines of Station 15's docking bay. Commander Kree, for the fifth time, studied its black hull on the view screen as if that would make something happen ... it didn't. His antennae twitched, and his pod-shaped body shifted in a futile attempt to get comfortable behind this unfamiliar desk. He stood up and allowed his back plates to realign naturally before looking around the barren little room again. It was only meant to provide an antechamber for the interrogation room across from where he now stood. Kree was getting annoyed. He dropped down into the awful chair again and tried to brace himself against the desk.

  This Dark Ops Team had docked over an hour ago, graced him with a brief notification to expect their operative and then nothing. He glanced at the view screen again ... still nothing. They're doing this on purpose, he finally decided, that's what happens when you allow specialists to team up and write their own rules; no respect for decorum. He shifted again and considered sending for his own office chair. At least then he could be comfortable.

  The intercom buzzed. “Someone's coming, Commander."

  Kree looked again at the monitor and gasped. He fumbled with the screen's controls; zooming in to examine the tall, lean figure finally emerging from the dark ship. A flowing, full-length robe and hood concealed most of his features. Kree leaned toward the screen and squinted. He activated the zoom; the sleek black gauntlets of a Government Wall Master filled his screen. Kree shivered and returned the picture to its normal size. When did Dark Ops start accepting PSIonic operatives into their elite corps? he wondered, and how could anyone trust a Wall Master away from Wall security?

  Kree watched the station's nervous escort try to maintain a safe distance from his charge. Busy corridors emptied at the Wall Master's approach. Kree sighed. It had been such a relief to everyone when the Universal Government had finally rounded up all the PSIons and confined them to controlled service agencies like The Wall. Kree leaned back and switched off the view screen. At least the waiting is over now, he thought. The office door chimed. Flexing his mandibles in a last attempt to compose himself, Kree tapped his claw on the desk to allow entrance.

  The door whooshed open, revealing only the dark figure. Apparently, his guide had opted not to stay for niceties and had made his escape. The Agent paused at the entryway, his multifaceted eyes glittering ominously from deep within the dark hood. He briefly scanned the small room before allowing his gaze to rest on the commander. With a slight bow the stranger placed his right hand over where most humanoid hearts were supposed to be. Kree recognized the ancient and time-honored salute of service as well as the crimson flash of the agent's Dark Ops ID insignia activating across the back of his glove. All PSIonics wore gloves but only special operatives were implanted with this form of ID.

  Rising, Kree motioned the Agent to enter, but kept the desk between them, unwilling to take the chance of physical contact. He had grown used to humanoids long ago but telempaths—as rare as they were—scared him. “Greetings Agent,” he began, “I am Station Commander Kree.” He tapped nervously on the desktop again and motioned toward the door across the room. The viewing portal hissed to life, revealing its lone occupant within.

  The Agent allowed his hood to slide to his shoulders as he started toward the chamber door. He seemed barely in his twenties, with raven black hair long enough to be tied back in corporate style, but Kree was mostly taken aback by his cold, slate blue eyes. They were crystal-like. One in ten trillion wer
e the odds of such eyes in any species, and they always marked a rogue talent.

  Kree had never seen a Wall Master in person so he watched in silence as the young man passed; finding it mildly unnerving that though this Dark Ops Agent was easily six feet tall, his movements were, somehow, fluid and unnatural, almost surreal.

  The Agent halted before the antechamber's viewing portal and scrutinized its occupant: a humanoid, middle aged and slightly balding. The man in the tiny room lay tightly secured to a medical gurney, staring aimlessly at the ceiling and occasionally emitting a low and sorrowful moan.

  “This man is important to peace in three solar systems,” Kree finally stated from the safety of his desk. “Edward Dash, a Universal Government Ambassador First Class on an Ops assignment. Tanivol's local law found him like this in a red-light district. His ship's log claimed he was stopping for supplies, but he had just come from the Salidaco Station on Renata for repairs. That's only a couple of planets away."

  The Agent spoke softly, never looking away from the door's view screen, “I know.” He reached out and released the lock. “We received the reports with the assignment.” As the door clicked open, he paused before it. “Allow no one to enter this room until I have left. If anything goes wrong, contact the commander of the Nemesis immediately.” He stepped into the room and allowed the door to close behind him.

  Kree dropped back into his seat. He could absolutely guarantee that if anything went wrong no one would enter that room. In fact, there was not enough bonus pay in the galaxy to get him in there with a Dark Ops Wall Master. He tapped the computer readout screen to replay the Agent's ID information. “Ira Haze,” he spoke the name aloud, and activating the small room's surveillance cameras, he settled back to watch.

  * * * *

  Agent Ira Haze stood with his back to the door until the room's lighting dimmed to a soft glow. Slipping off his gloves, he set them on a tabletop and calmly moved toward the man on the gurney.

  Kree cringed from his vantage point, knowing full well that flesh-to-flesh contact would complete a psychic circuit between the two of them and allow an unnatural union of their minds. It was said that a Wall Master could rewrite, control and supplant a man's will to his own ends, among other things. That was why PSI operatives always wore gloves.

  The ambassador whimpered and strained against his restraints, completely unaware of the Wall Master looming over him. Ira paused. His body bracing for the inevitable assault that contact would bring, he reached out and touched the ambassador's hand.

  Reeling forward, the Wall Master almost collapsed upon contact. Kree shuddered again at the sight of the two locked together. It was ... unnatural. The ambassador's wailing ceased. The room grew deathly silent as both men froze, suspended in mid-motion.

  Kree watched them like this for a very long time.

  Then, unexpectedly, the room's lighting flared, and the young agent, trembling and gasping, pulled away from the ambassador. He stumbled halfway toward the door before his legs gave way, and he dropped to his knees.

  Kree reached for the com-link and called the Nemesis.

  * * * *

  Ira startled awake to find himself staring at an all too familiar ceiling. He was in the Nemesis sickbay, again. He reached up and rubbed his forehead lightly as if that would quiet the thunderous roaring in his head. It had been difficult to explain this degree of sensory overload to either of his teammates. Even the healer was unable to relate, but at least Laynald had left the lights dimmed this time.

  As his reeling senses gave way to a dull ache, he closed his eyes and focused on just breathing, easing the physical trauma enough to allow his memories to coalesce and become defined. The captain would be anxious to hear what he had learned.

  Eventually, Ira struggled to sit up, rolling his legs over the examination table's edge, pausing long enough to suppress a wave of nausea. Gingerly, his mind reached out. Isolating the tiny wisps of energy that led to the room's lighting control, he joined with them and ever so lightly pushed. The room brightened to a normal level.

  Laynald Lockheim sat across the room from him with his feet propped up on a med kit box. “I love that trick, Ira. Are you sure you can't teach me how to do that?"

  Ira sighed and grinned back at him before sliding off the table. “I'm afraid you just don't seem to have what it takes, Doc.” He tested his legs to make sure they would hold him.

  Laynald sat quietly, gauging his progress. “How about you?” he asked. “Are you ready for debriefing yet? The captain really wants to hear what happened."

  “I'm sure he does,” Ira answered softly. He slipped off the long black robe, revealing the equally black shirt and pants that this team wore as a uniform. He draped it across the table. “How long was I unconscious this time?"

  “About an hour,” Laynald answered, “I thought this was supposed to be a touch and go."

  “Yeah, so did I.” Ira paused to straighten and fasten back his long dark hair. “That damned robe always messes up my hair,” he complained.

  Laynald grinned at the young man's obvious change of subject but played along anyway. “Rael says if we hurry we can eat dinner with him, but he'll not be waiting much longer for us."

  Ira looked over at the old man's smiling face. “Why do you always look sinister when you smile?” He glanced around the room, rubbing his hands together nervously.

  “Just another byproduct of my misspent youth, I guess. Oh, you might want these,” Laynald tossed a pair of dark gloves to him.

  Ira caught them in midair and slid them on. “Thanks,” he said. “I was wondering where they were."

  “You really need to stop leaving them laying around, you know.” The healer got up and headed for the door. “Well, since it looks like you got both your legs and your appetite back, let's go."

  Ira joined him. A short walk down the corridor brought them to the common room. Team commander, Rael Pointe, greeted them from the table across the room. “Ah, at last.” He motioned Ira to join him. “I've already set you up with something to eat, kid.” He smiled warmly and pointed out three still steaming plates of food sitting across from his own. “Figured you'd be ravenous, judging from the way you looked earlier."

  Ira pulled up a chair across from his captain. “Don't call me kid,” he answered, allowing his soft voice to trail off as he succumbed to an overwhelming need to eat. He hadn't realized that he was so hungry.

  Rael looked over a steaming cup of coffee and smiled again. “I'll do that, kid, soon as I stop having to pick you up off the floor."

  Ira grimaced, returning his full attention to his food.

  Laynald ignored them and headed straight toward the meal-processing units that lined the wall behind them. Since his first day aboard Nemesis, he had insisted on making his own meals. Though Rael had complained and harassed him about his paranoia, eventually he had managed to convince the small team that old habits died harder than new partners.

  Choosing a hearty meal for himself, Laynald rejoined the others in time to see Ira's appetite finally sated. He placed a steaming mug in front of him. “Made this for you. Drink it while it's hot, and it won't taste bad, but you will drink it—all of it—Doctor's orders."

  Ira, finishing his plate, reached for the hot mug and drank deep. This particular concoction actually tasted good for a change, and it was supposed to help replenish ... whatever Doc said it replenished. Ira smiled. They didn't call him a healer for nothing, but even if it didn't work, he would have drunk it any way. Laynald was not one to be trifled with. Ira leaned back to sip on the hot draught at his leisure. As always the food and rest had finally soothed his senses from the ordeal.

  Laynald assessed Ira's condition from his seat at the table's end. “So,” he finally asked, “what happened over there? That station commander sure was worried that we'd blame him for your condition. It took Rael fifteen minutes to calm him down. I had to damn near drag your young carcass all the way back to the ship. You know nobody volunteered to help e
ither."

  Rael smiled from across the table but did not intervene. The old healer had just, officially, declared Ira fit to proceed with the debriefing.

  Ira sighed. He never relished having to relive one of these episodes, and this time there would not be enough for the commander to plug into. He set the cup down and began. “I linked with the ambassador without any problem, but as I reached out to calm him, I sensed ... another presence. Someone else was already in union with him in a way that I've never seen before. It's hard to describe. Their resonances were slightly out of sync, like feeling two heartbeats instead of one. I assumed that the ambassador's was the strongest one so I allowed myself to sink deeper into that one. I followed it to its core, hoping to purge the intruder by adding my strength to his. But as I phased into the other's mind and senses, I realized that I was not joined with the ambassador at all. Instead of seeing myself standing over him in that room, I saw darkness. And there was a searing pain, cycling over and over and over again. I heard, no, felt a woman's cries, but nothing more.” Ira paused, trying to banish his own childhood memories of PSI training sessions. “It was a ... a disruptor ... a neural disruptor. She is being tortured, Captain, and the ambassador is ... completely in sync with her ... I couldn't do a damned thing to help either of them. In fact, it was all I could do to rip myself away from her."

  Rael leaned forward, trying to ignore the young man's haunted eyes. Even their jewel-like glimmering in the ship's lighting could not detract from his torment. “But you were able to FIND her, right?” Rael asked, “Was there anything that I could latch onto with the compu-link?"

  Ira shook his head, “There were no visuals, none at all, only the disrupter.” He winced again at the memory of it. “Neural disruptors are the accepted tool-of-choice used to manage PSIonic services, you know. It pretty much scalds the senses,” he continued. “I heard her scream. That's all."