This story copyright 2001 by Charlotte Boyett-Compo. Published by Hard Shell Word Factory.
8946 Loberg Rd.
Amherst Junction, WI 54407
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Electronic book created by Seattle Book Company.
eBook ISBN: 0-7599-3588-2
Cover art copyright 2002 Dirk A. Wolf
All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author, and have no relation whatever to anyone bearing the same name or names. These characters are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.
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PART I
Chapter 1
KAMERONE Cree ignored the gasps of surprise. He felt the uneasy gazes watching his every move; smelled the terror as people stepped aside, plastering themselves against the corridor wall rather than risk touching him. Whenever any of his kind appeared on Frontier Station Khamsin-14, the arrival was reported at once and people reacted by locking their doors. Women were kept securely behind the closed portals and men found reason to sequester themselves inside their quarters. His kind was feared and he liked it that way. No one dared intrude on his privacy and no one dared to deny him what he wanted. Along with the other six Elite warriors like himself, he enjoyed autonomy unprecedented in Rysalian history. What he desired, he received. What he said was declared law. What he did was never questioned.
Until now.
On this morning, of all mornings, no one would want to admit they had seen him standing outside the closed doors of the Court of Military Inquiry. No one would dare discuss either him or the reason one of his kind would have been called to the Court.
"I will let them know you are here, Captain Cree," the guard on his right commented.
He glanced disdainfully at the guard, his clenched jaw the only outward sign the Reaper Captain was agitated.
Actually, Cree was infuriated. His hands itched to reach out and tear the heads from the two Security Officers who had been sent, just after dawn, to escort him to the Court. A powerful bloodlust built inside him and it was all he could do to stand still as he waited for permission to enter the judicial chambers. It was imperative that not one flicker of his eyelid; one tremor of his hand; one involuntary tensing of his muscles; one quiver of his voice betray him to those bastards behind the door. He knew if he showed the slightest weakness, they would crucify him.
"They are ready for you, Sir," the guard informed him.
Cree let out an annoyed breath as the thick doors to the judicial chamber opened. He was not guilty of the charges that had been leveled against him, but he knew that would make no difference to the Tribunal. The Court of Military Inquiry had been out for his blood for more than a year and today, he was sure they would get it.
Striding to the Bench, Cree executed a sharp salute, his boot heels clicking together. "Captain Kamerone Cree reporting as ordered!" he barked, his attention steady at a point somewhere just above, and to the left, of the Chief Justice's head.
The five elderly Rysalian Lords who sat on the Bench of the Court of Military Inquiry stared at him, their sharp gazes traveling down his tall form. They examined the press of his shirt, the straightness of his tie, the cleanliness of his pants; the high sheen of his black boots, then passed judgment on the gleam of his insignia and the shine of his belt buckle. They paid close attention to the steady rise and fall of his chest as he breathed, searching for fear, watching for nervousness. They made note of the unwavering steadiness of his gaze, the impassivity of his face, the rigidity of his posture frozen in salute.
"At ease, Captain," the Chief Justice finally ordered.
Cree's right hand came down sharply. He placed his hands behind him and clasped his wrists at the small of his back. Shifting his legs apart, he lowered his gaze to the Chief Justice, blinked to rid his eyes of dryness, swallowed casually, then respectfully directed his full attention to the man seated before him on the Bench.
"You know why you are here," the Chief Justice stated formally.
"Aye, Your Grace, I do," Cree answered.
"How do you plead?"
Cree knew it did not matter what plea he entered. He had already been tried, convicted, and sentenced long before he had been summoned to the Court. The fact that he was there was proof of his guilt in the eyes of the Empire. The Minister of Acquisitions would have made sure of it. Trying to keep the bitterness and anger from creeping into his voice, he replied, "Not guilty, Your Grace."
The Chief Justice's mouth twisted. "No more than we expected from one of your kind," he snorted contemptuously. The old man shuffled some papers in front of him and without glancing either to his right or his left, asked for comments from the rest of the Bench.
"At the request of the Minister of Acquisitions, we have no choice but to recommend disciplinary action," Justice Largus Cul stated.
"I agree," Chief Justice Ilya Ruan concurred.
"May I be permitted to speak?" Cree asked.
"No, you may not!" the Chief Justice snapped.
Cree had to bite his tongue to keep from lashing out at the old man. A muscle bunched in his jaw, narrowing his eyes with the tightness. His countenance took on a belligerence that did not escape one Justice's notice.
"Wipe that disrespectful look from your face, Captain!" warned Justice Cul.
Not daring to look at the man who had spoken for fear Cul would see his fury Cree blanked his expression. He returned his gaze to a spot above the row of men and waited for whatever punishment was going to be meted out to him.
"Recommendations?" the Chief Justice asked the others.
"Whatever we decide in regard to his punishment must be sufficiently harsh enough to discourage further rebellion," offered Justice Ruan.
Cree's hands clenched into fists behind his back. He wished he knew who was responsible for him being here. If it were the last thing he ever did, he would find that person, rip off her head, and drain the blood from her worthless body!
"I agree," Justice Cul concurred. "A year on Helios Twelve would not be amiss. The Captain needs to be taught humility."
"It will take more than a year at hard labor on a penal colony to teach this fool humility, Cul," muttered Justice Traye Onar.
"That is true," agreed the Chief Justice.
"Well, then," Justice Ryda Lona drawled as he threaded his fingers together and sat forward to glare at Cree. "I vote for Active Reinforcement."
The dark brown gaze of Captain Kamerone Cree widened, then shifted incredulously to the wizened old man. He spoke before he thought of the consequences of doing so. "For what?" Cree demanded. "I have done nothing wrong! I..."
"Silence!" the Chief Justice barked. "Did you receive permission to speak, Cree?"
Cree shook his head. "No, Your Grace, but..."
"Then be quiet!" came the sharp rebuke.
"But Your Grace, I..."
"Silence!" The single word was a dire threat left hanging.
Cree came to precise military attention: shoulders squared, arms rigid at his side, gaze straight ahead. His lips were clamped shut, but his eyes blazed with fury. A muscle began to tick noticeably in his lean jaw and his breathing became audible to even the most hard of hearing among the elderly men.
Justice Vuin Barif pointed an arthritic finger at Cree. "Do you see what I mean, Milords? It is for that very look of disrespect on his face right now that I am seconding the recommendation for Active Reinforcement!"
"I agree," Justice Onar nodded. "This is not the first time his insubordination has been brought to the attention of the Tribunal." The elderly man smiled hatefully. "I think it is time the Captain was taught he is a servant of the Empire and not the other way around."
/> Cree swung his narrowed eyes to Onar and saw triumph blazing on the wrinkled face. Of all the Lords in the room, Cree knew Onar was his worst enemy.
"Active Reinforcement is the recommendation, then," the Chief Justice pronounced. "Are there any objections?" He swiveled his shaggy white head from right to left. When no one objected to the recommendation, he trained his hawk-like glower on Cree. "Do you have anything to say in your defense before judgment is passed, Captain?"
Cree held the old man's stare. "What can I say?" he asked bitterly.
"What, indeed?" Onar scoffed and grinned as the young man's attention shifted to him. "You brought this upon yourself, Cree."
"Other recommendations?" the Chief Justice inquired.
Justice Barif smiled viciously. "Since he is the highest ranking warrior in the Ministry of Acquisitions, I believe we have to make an example of him to the others."
"What do you suggest?" Justice Onar inquired.
"A month on Helios Twelve after Reinforcement," Barif declared.
"I will agree to that," Justice Lona put in, nodding thoughtfully. "That should be enough to curb our wayward Reaper's insubordination."
"It should," the Chief Justice proclaimed. He looked once more around him. "Objections?"
"None from me," Justice Ruan grunted. "If anything, such a sentence is too lenient for our headstrong Captain."
Cree's bloodlust rose and the venom inside his veins scalded him. He would have liked nothing better than to fly across the Bench and attack his tormentors, mutilating each in turn until there was nothing left but a heap of yellowed bones and tufts of wiry white hair. The vision of such a massacre was a red haze before his vision, but he knew he would never be able to exact the revenge upon them they so richly deserved.
"Then it is the recommendation of this Court that Captain Cree present himself to the Ministry of Behavioral Modification no later than oh nine hundred hours today to begin his sessions with them."
"Do you understand the punishment as it was given to you, Cree?" asked Justice Ruan.
Cree nodded, not trusting himself to speak. If the old men took that as another sign of his insubordination, then let them add another month or two of hard labor on top of his unjust sentence.
"Then you are dismissed," the Chief Justice proclaimed.
Cree managed a halfway decent salute before taking one step back, pivoting and, with shoulders straight, spine erect, he marched from the room.
LIEUTENANT Drewe Lona, the nephew of Justice Ryda Lona, found his commanding officer sitting beside the Reflecting Pool of Alel's Force. Cree was staring morosely into the crystal waters and didn't bother to look up as Lona joined him.
"I just heard, Sir," Lona said quietly. There was no reaction from the Reaper. "Are you going to appeal?"
Cree slowly turned his head and looked up at his second in command. "Appeal what?" His eyebrows shot up. "To whom, Drewe?" He looked away again. "They had me sentenced before I ever stepped foot in that gods-be-damned room!"
Lona brushed some imaginary lint from the leg of his uniform. "When do you have to report to Be-Mod 9, Sir?"
The Reaper snorted. "In one hour."
"One hour?" Lona gasped. "You're joking!"
With a tired sigh, Cree turned once more to the man. "Do I look like I'm joking?"
Shocked acceptance settled across the Lieutenant's face. "Why so soon?"
Cree shrugged. "They have to make sure I'm physically capable of undergoing reinforcement," he said in a flat voice. "Once they're convinced I'm healthy and not liable to die during the session, they can torture me all they want."
"Don't say that!" Lona jammed his hands into the pocket of his light brown windbreaker.
"Why not?" Cree inquired, looking up at him. "`That's what it is, Drewe, and we both know it."
Lona heard the unease in his Captain's voice and pulled one of his hands out of his pocket to run it through his crop of sandy-blond hair. "I wish this wasn't happening."
Cree laughed sourly. "So do I."
"Do you have any idea how long it will take?"
Cree stood up. "If I know Onar, he'll have made gods-be-damned sure the session will be as brutal as possible and last as long as it is possible for me to stand it without going mad."
"I can't believe this is happening!" Lona ground out. "Not to you! Not to a Reaper!" He shook his head savagely. "Of all the Reapers, least of all to you!"
"Even the mighty can fall, Drewe," he scoffed. He turned away. "And I've fallen smack on my ass this time, but I know who to blame."
Drewe nodded. "The Resistance."
"Aye, the Resistance," Cree repeated. "And when I find out who authored this latest disruption of my life, I'll take great pleasure in ending her miserable life!"
Chapter 2
DR. BRIDGET Dunne heard the woman sitting beside her gasp as the doors to the Behavioral Modification unit crashed open. The receptionist, Ivonne O'Malley, came hurriedly to her feet. "Oh, God!" Ivonne whispered. "It's him! It's the Iceman!"
Bridget looked up as the Empire's Prime Reaper came marching toward the main desk where she sat. She knew the Elite warrior wasn't looking at her— his entire attention was focused on the woman sitting beside Bridget— but she felt the force of his fury anyway.
"I am expected," he ground out, passing his glower from Ivonne's terrified face to the papers rattling in her hand. "Where am I to go?"
Bridget stood up slowly. "We are ready for you, Captain." The demon-dark eyes Bridget had once heard described as colder than the glaciers on Mount Serenia snapped to her own and locked. "Really?" he asked sarcastically. "Well, here I am."
Bridget flinched at the harsh tone and swallowed back a nasty reply. She reached for the papers in Ivonne's trembling hand, then came from behind the desk. "If you will follow me..." She began, but he cut her off.
"Show me where to go. I can get there on my own!"
Ivonne risked a glance at Bridget's angry face and gave her head a slight warning shake. This was not one of the troops routinely sent here for reinforcement. This was a Reaper and the most deadly of his kind at that. Irritating him might well be the last thing Bridget ever did.
"I'm afraid you can't enter the Be-Mod 9 Unit unless you are accompanied by one of us, Sir," Bridget said firmly. She felt the Captain's lethal disdain flicker over her for just an instant before he pushed away from the reception desk and headed toward the black doors marked Behavioral Modification Unit Nine.
"Captain Cree?!" Ivonne called out, glancing nervously at Bridget. "Sir, you can't..."
"I want this crap over with," came the brusque reply. The slap of his palm against the panel as he pushed through into the inner sanctum of the Be-Mod 9 Unit made it clear to everyone that he had no intention of waiting.
"Son of a bitch!" Bridget hissed. She jerked up his papers and started after him.
"Bridget, please don't anger him," Ivonne whispered. "He's a..."
"I know what he is, Ivonne" When Bridget entered the Be-Mod Unit, he was standing just on the other side of the doors, his gaze missing nothing. He glanced at her then away as though she was little more than a fly buzzing too near him. "What now?" he demanded.
"You tell me. You seem to think you're in charge here."
His head snapped toward her and a fierce frown formed between his penetrating eyes. "Don't," was all he said.
Bridget held his stare. "Don't what?" she countered.
That demon gaze held her in its grip, but he didn't answer. If it was his intention to unnerve her with his silent regard, it didn't work. Bridget stood her ground, staring back at him, never breaking eye contact. When it became clear to him she was not going to back down, he seemed to lose interest in the standoff. A tiny movement, a flick of the muscle, in his right cheek was the only indication that the matter was settled.
"Where to?" he asked, but his voice was less gruff.
She led him to a room, opened the door for him to enter and then followed him inside. "Please remove y
our uniform and put on the pajama bottoms we have provided for you."
Cree's fingers were already tugging at his shirt. "How long is this going to take?" he demanded, jerking the tails of his shirt from his trousers.
"I can't say," Bridget replied.
"You won't say," he corrected in a hateful tone then began to unbuckle his belt. "No matter." The last words were hissed through tightly clenched teeth.
"As soon as you are finished, the doctor will be in to speak to you. She'll know you're ready for her."
He looked up from unbuttoning his trousers. "How will she know?" When Bridget pointed to a camera situated at the top of the wall, he snorted. "She's watching me undress?"
Bridget shrugged with more nonchalance than she felt. "You will be watched the entire time you are with us, Captain," she told him. "You should be used to that."
His hands stilled as he was about to push the trousers from his hips. "All the time?"
"Yes, Sir."
For a moment he didn't say anything, then he spat out a vulgar word and continued undressing, ignoring Bridget.
"If you have any questions— " Bridget stopped for he had pushed his trousers down and was standing before her completely nude.
His hands were on his hips, his legs spread, and he seemed to be relishing the red flush that spread over Bridget's face. She was staring straight at his crotch as though unable to tear her attention away.
"Reapers have the same anatomy as human men," he sneered and his words enabled her to tear her shocked gaze from his nakedness.
"Get dressed, Captain Cree," she managed to say before heading for the door. She felt his gaze raking her and she turned to find his smirk had been replaced by a look that scared the hell out of her. Freezing with her hand on the entry pad, she half-expected him to lunge at her, but he turned away, dismissing her with his action, and picked up the pajama bottoms.
Once outside his cell, Bridget leaned against the wall, feeling sweat dripping down her cleavage. Her hands were trembling and her head felt light. "I can't do this," she whispered and closed her eyes. "I can't!"
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