The Fireborn Chronicles

by Mary Andrews

  Doc shook his head. “Enough of this. Can we just get back to the ship before one of you falls down?” He reached out and helped Rael to his feet. Rael stood and watched as Ira approached. He wondered if the numbness he felt was his or if Ira was projecting it.

  Though the walk back to the ship seemed uneventful, Rael felt uneasy that no one had initiated any response to Ira's activities on board the station. The fact that all three of his scary team now walked unchallenged through obviously vacated hallways was unsettling. He glanced at Laynald, and they quickened their pace. Perhaps this was a sign of respect for their loss, or possibly, it was just prudent that the station give them space. At any rate, the Nemesis was a welcome sight to them all when they reached it.

  Rael's temple plates sparkled as he signaled to disarm Nemesis’ security system. Her ebony surface shimmered, and the docking bay doors slid open to allow the slender egress ramp to roll out to admit them. Noticing that Ira was still leaning heavily against Laynald, he motioned toward the loading bay entrance. “You want me to call the service lift?"

  Ira shook his head, “No, I'm just still a little disoriented. The walk will do me good."

  “Unless I drop you,” Laynald mumbled.

  They followed the ramp into the ship and headed for the elevator. It felt good to be back on board, and Rael, still gripping Mahata's parcel, signaled his ship to make ready to launch. “Give me time to check this out before we meet again. When will you be back up again, Ira?"

  Ira shrugged, “I'm feeling better now, but I'm still kind of out of ‘phase’ or something. I could stand some time to sort this out, rest up or whatever."

  Rael looked at him closely, “Thank you, Ira. I never meant to endanger you. I guess I didn't think it through. Don't ever let me do that again, all right?"

  “Not your fault,” Ira replied, “I've never done anything like that before. It was a new experience. She said it really helped before she sent me back, though. You know she was so beautiful...” His voice trailed off at the memory.

  Both Laynald and Rael just looked at him.

  Ira took a couple of minutes to realize it. “I'm sorry,” he finally said. “I guess this is going to take a while to digest, but I'm really all right, just a little out synch. I'll be ok. But I don't think I'm up to climbing just yet though. Let's take the lift.” He motioned for them to follow and tried to pick up the pace.

  Laynald watched him walk away before speaking up. “I better keep an eye on him. You take your time, and let me know when you're ready. Remember, Lythia said she could hold them at bay until then."

  Rael nodded and joined them in the elevator “You know, maybe we should all take the rest of the day off. We're all pretty worn down just now. You try to take it easy too, and let me know if anything changes. I'll get back with everyone tomorrow. Hopefully right after my meeting on the station we'll be getting out of here and back to the peace and quiet of space and business."

  The door whooshed open near the sickbay. Dismissing them all with a wave, Rael headed toward his quarters.

  * * * *

  Ira keyed the door to his quarters, “I really don't need any more help, Doc. As usual, it always comes down to rest and nourishment."

  “Might not be a bad idea to keep an eye on you. This whole scenario isn't like anything we've seen before."

  Ira lay down on his bed and closed his eyes. “No thank you Doc, I won't have any trouble sleeping here, unless you keep standing over me."

  Laynald shrugged. “Fine, we'll do it your way, but call if you need me."

  Ira nodded, “Sure thing.” He watched Laynald walk away, and then tried to sleep but could not. Feeling unsettled, he tried to control himself. Perhaps if I concentrate, everything will snap back to the way it is supposed to be. It didn't. Frustrated and unable to focus, he stopped trying. Then, there was a presence, soothing and cool. It was Tristen, timidly reaching out to him.

  Sir?

  Ira rose from his bed and headed to her room next door. Unlocking it, he stepped inside. Tristen stood before him in a modest white nightgown, her dark hair neatly framing her face and a modest braid down her back. She looked as if she had just awakened from a dream or maybe stepped out of one. His head swam as he caught a glimpse of himself in one of the many mirrors he had asked Laynald to install to allow her to see better. “I look like hell,” he said with a smile. They stood uncertainly across from each other for a long moment before Tristen apprehensively stepped forward and taking his arm, guided him to the edge of her bed. Ira's disorientation permeated the room.

  “Sit. You must sit,” she told him. Ira collapsed without argument as another wave of dizziness overtook him. “Do you need me to call the Healer, sir?"

  “No,” Ira dropped his head in his hands. “He's already done all he can, and I don't want him to knock me out. Something's been wrong since I woke up after helping Rael's mother.” He looked up and into her sightless eyes. “I've never experienced anything like this. I'm not sure what to do."

  Tristen reached out to push his hair from his face. He jerked away. “Don't touch me!"

  She pulled back. “Sir, I did not mean to presume.... "

  He shook his head and raised his gloved hand to calm her. “No. No skin to skin contact,” he stammered. “It completes a link that I can't ... I can't control now."

  Tristen considered his turmoil for a moment before deciding what to do. She reached to the table by her bed and found the gloves that he had issued with her clothing. Slipping them on, she turned again to face him, brushed his raven hair back from his face and lifted his head to face her. “Show me what happened. Remember it all. Perhaps I can help.” Ira allowed her to witness the entire episode, everything in all its flashing and flowing forms. His confusion, his disorientation, his frustration all tumbled and rolled across her mind.

  She frowned shortly and stepped away from him, digesting what she had seen. Why would you do something so dangerous, sir?

  “It was important enough for Rael to ask me to do it,” he replied.

  Sir, does he know what he asks of you?

  Ira paused. “No, his way is different from ours. He doesn't realize many things, but I am his to command by choice. I owe him more than my life."

  Tristen nodded. You are in his service or his friend?

  “Both,” Ira replied as a wave of nausea washed over him.

  Tristen steadied him and then guided him to recline on her bed. Close your eyes, she told him and feeling his anxiety intensify she continued, Alright, you have traveled past the edge of life. You were washed away with the one you sought to help ... all the way through death's door ... and then brought back again. You are unsettled now because you're still unable to face the ramifications of what you have learned there. What really bothers you now is that you've learned how to kill.

  Ira's eyes snapped open. She was right. It all slowly fell into place. He knew what death looked and felt like, so he could now duplicate those conditions. He knew the way back and when to escape its grasp. He pulled himself up and to the edge of the bed again and sat staring at floor, his thoughts churning as he worked it all out. Then his spinning senses fell away. His eyes could no longer stay open, and his body grew heavy. As everything melted away, he became aware of Tristen's presence. She had drawn him into her arms and was holding him tightly to her. He briefly wondered when she had joined him on the bed, but he felt strangely safe in her arms, so he allowed her to hold him, and he slept.

  Tristen situated herself to keep him comfortable. She carefully arranged the sheet around him since he had so feared her contact, and then replacing her arm across his chest, she snuggled up against him. He would sleep soundly now for as long as need be. She'd shield his mind and body while he did, just as she had been shielding herself all along from this station's psychic probes as they tickled and felt all around them. Tristen turned her attention back to Ira. It is strange that someone who needs to be touched so much would go through so much trouble to prevent it.
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  * * *

  CHAPTER 7

  Rael dropped down into the chair by his bed. Nothing. He felt totally anesthetized; there was no spark of anger, no fear, not even tears, just a hollow weariness. He turned the small bundle over and over in his hands before opening it to pull out its contents.

  Wrapped in a tiny blanket was a pile of loose papers, worn and yellowed with age but neatly folded together. Among them, he found a long brown lock of hair, neatly braided and bound together by a makeshift bow of torn cloth. He leaned back into the chair, allowing himself to sink into its soft cushions as he unfolded the papers.

  In a boldly written hand it began, “Please read this before you act. My name is Rachelle Pointe; you must take this child away from this place. Tell no one or he will die. Rael is my only son. I have written everything on these pages. I cannot be saved. I do not even ask it of you, but please, please take him away from here—save my son. Please."

  Rael studied the pages closely. The makeshift journal was written on a compilation of paper scraps; the backs of work schedules and report forms. She probably had to pilfer things that would not be missed to do this. He returned to the words.

  “I was a prominent business owner in the corporate worlds: so ambitious, so stupid. I had inherited one of the last major Industrial Corporations to stand against that bastard, T.L. Harbringer."

  Rael paused for a moment. He knew that name. Harbringer was and had been for as long as he could remember the undisputed Overlord of the entire Intergalactic Corporate Sector. He returned to the page: “He made me a ludicrous business offer, and I was meeting with him in one last attempt to forestall a corporate takeover. As things turned out, I probably should have just spit in his face when I had the chance. I would have accomplished more, and it would have been far more gratifying. As it played out, he raped and brutalized me—his final blow rendering me unconscious."

  Rael closed his eyes for a moment. He had never been told any of this before.

  All he had ever known was that Mahata had rescued him from The Hive Planet so very long ago. Nobody had ever been able to tell him anything about his real mother. In his youth, when he had realized that his questions were not going to be answered, he had invested thousands of hours questing for her as he mastered his skills by tapping into Hive compu-links but to no avail. And all this time, Mahata had this. He felt a surge of anger, but as with all his emotions, it didn't last long. He wondered what it would be like to be able to hold onto a feeling, to be able to rage or revel in one like he had seen others do. He returned to the page:

  “I awoke nine months later in a malfunctioning stasis tube, reeling from the onset of labor. I was pregnant. It turns out that a transport crash had caused a power failure and that had disrupted my stasis tube. I didn't know where I was. I was so confused. The attending med core prepped me for surgery, and I was rendered unconscious again. I awoke in a hospital unit with this beautiful baby boy, but to my horror, we had been surgically implanted with Hive temple plates. That bastard had shanghaied me to The Hive Planet and done this! I was furious.

  “They began drugging me immediately, small amounts they said so as not to damage the baby until he could handle it. I was horrified! Everybody knows that you can only enter The Hive system by voluntarily joining up or by being condemned by a tribunal for irreprehensible crimes on a Gov planet.

  “It is by sheer willpower that I withstand the lure of the drug to do this. I am addicted to it. I can hardly wait for my next shift to start. I'm starting to burn for my next infusion; there's a peace and euphoria like nothing else. But I know it was designed to do just that; to render the slaves who man The Hive malleable and pliant to what they are meant to do. Sorry ... sorry, I'm rambling. That's the drug too.

  “But this child, my son, should not be here. As a Gov citizen, he has rights, so I've stolen him away, and I've hand written this so it cannot be traced. I heard that a Gov Ambassador's vessel had landed and that you would be inspecting the damages here. So, I have stolen him away and given him to you. You are now my son's only hope.

  “I am already dead. If I were to escape now, Harbringer would have to kill Rael and me; at least here, I have a reason to live. I've dedicated my entire life toward my career anyway. Now, within The Hive, I am productive. My mind joins with communications across the galaxy. My service is indispensable. I can think so clearly, and I never tire. I am better than any automated system: all resources are within my mind's reach. I run offices, I relay messages, provide research information. I'm the backbone of The Government. Twenty-four hours a day. It is exhilarating. I no longer care that it will kill me. But the child has not been affected yet. He is still too young. Please, please give him a life. Save him. Give him a different future. Give him vengeance if you can. He is the last of my family's line. Harbringer has stolen his heritage. I cannot even say that he is the father or if this birth was inflicted upon me by this place. But either possibility is a source of power if used right. Please take him away from here. If you return him now they will kill both of us. There can be no evidence to corroborate this. Our only hope now is his freedom."

  Rael leaned back in his chair and let his hands drop into his lap, allowing everything to sink in. In one day, he had lost two mothers. And now he had a name—someone to blame—for he knew that this man, who may or may not be his father, had the means and motivation to have caused Mother Mahata's mysterious death.

  Rael sat and struggled to identify how he felt. Finally, realizing that a roaring numbness still engulfed him, he lifted the pages and looked again. T.L. Harbringer, his temple plates glowed. Files cascaded through his mind, one after another as an all-source-search began. Identification listings, property listings, educational records, business transactions; the flow paused and focused on the year of his birth to documentation of the purchase of Pointe Industries upon the disappearance of the corporate owner. Pointe's acquisition lists flashed by—current holdings ... properties ... affiliations ... visual identifications. Rael paused to look into the face of the man who had both caused and destroyed his life: cold steel blue eyes, angular face, dark hair and a cruel and arrogant appearance.

  Rael frowned. He recognized this face. He crosschecked his findings with the most recent searches. Through the images retrieved by Tristen, he found it again. This explained the PSI Ring's inquiries about him. He initiated a secondary search of the Tanivol records and systems, financial reports. Results rolled in from unexpected directions. Rael paused again and set these files aside.

  He looked again at the loosely held papers still in his hand, then reactivated the compu-link and initiated a search for Rachelle E. Pointe. She had been an accomplished and competent young lady who had indeed inherited a floundering corporate empire. She was struggling to save it when she suddenly disappeared. Investigation reports suspected foul play but could prove nothing. Rael examined the images of her in the files. She had green eyes and brown hair. Rael wondered if his hair had ever been that color or if the implanting had so traumatized his system that his hair had always been prematurely gray, platinum actually. He sat for a moment, the papers resting loosely in his hands and the pictures churning in his head, then he filed them to memory for future retrieval, and all at once, he felt exhausted—numb and exhausted.

  He wondered if this was also another by-product of his implant. He knew he did not feel things like others seemed to. All his life it had separated him from what little normalcy he could've had. He had never really minded before now, but somehow at this moment it suddenly seemed wrong.

  * * * *

  Laynald found himself alone after leaving Ira's quarters. Finding his way to the bridge, he sat at the helm in the command chair. With the blast doors open, he kept watch on the docking area. Electronics could be fooled but vigilance could not. He had never been able to relax in this place. This place reeked of power. Power meant politics. And politics were dangerous.

  Rael had been right. Mahata's death would change everything. She had b
een Dark Ops commander-in-chief. There would be a huge power vacuum now. And though all power vacuums were dangerous, this one had all the earmarks of a conspiracy that threatened this crew.

  Whenever a new Ops commander was established, all Dark Ops teams faced critical evaluations and possible retirement of all types. He watched dock attendants performing their duties throughout the hangers all around them. The Nemesis had always enjoyed exemption from station maintenance and interferences. Rael's ship-interface rendered them all obsolete, and Ira said his mind link drove the stations PSI scanners crazy so Mahata had authorized this, overriding many objections.

  Laynald leaned the chair back, comfortably watching the screen. Long ago, he had learned the patterns of ship infiltration and surveillances. He had spent hours during past visits surveying the surveyors. He found it relaxing, even amusing at times. He'd watch tracers, explosives, listening devices of all sorts being installed and removed from unsuspecting ships. Often these were just backup security measures. Sometimes they were for group internal surveillance and investigations. From their team's inception, however, the Nemesis had avoided all this by Momma Mahata's order. A new director would probably not be so trusting.

  * * * *

  Ira awoke in Tristen's room. As his vision cleared, she drew away from him so he could rise. Tristen braced herself against his anger. This was not the first time she would be punished for compliance.

  Ira lurched out of the bed and away from her, his thoughts racing in all directions before turning to face her. “What were you thinking! Across the universe, everybody knows you don't risk contact with any Sensitive but especially not with me! Have you not noticed that everyone here wears gloves? Did I not warn you?"

  Tristen moved to the bed's edge and sat up. She raised her still gloved hands. You told me yesterday, sir. I was careful.