by Cara Bristol
He had hoped that, by morning, they’d be on a space station, or at least on a rescue shuttle. With her PerComm, they could have contacted the IFA or the diplomatic corps directly. Communicated one-on-one.
Not going to happen now.
“It is my fault. You’re right. I brought this stupid rock”—she kicked the geode—“and let the PerComm, our most important emergency supply, burn up.”
“Somebody will come for us. Don’t worry,” he said. He had a Plan B, although it wasn’t without risks.
“How? How are they going to know we’re here?”
“When the shuttle fails to arrive on Xenia, flight authority will start searching in a grid pattern and will check all planets capable of sustaining life,” he prevaricated.
“That could take weeks.”
Months, if they relied on the IFA to find them.
“I have some things I can try.” Connecting to his wireless, Brock activated an emergency distress beacon, sending out a repeating electromagnetic signal. The pulse wasn’t strong enough to reach the port, but any spacecraft in the vicinity would pick up on it. If they were lucky, IFA, Cy-Ops, or a friendly star cruiser would be the one to happen by and not Lamis-Odg.
“What things?” She stood up.
“I’m sorry, Pia, I can’t tell you. It’s classified.”
“Oh, for universe’s sake!” She planted her hands on her hips. “We nearly died in two separate explosions, you’re seriously injured, we’re stranded on a deserted planet and nobody knows we’re missing, and you’re keeping secrets? Who am I going to tell?”
She cupped her hands around her mouth. “Hello! Trees! Can you hear me?” she shouted. “Special Agent Brock Mann has classified information! He has a secret plan!” Laughter disintegrated into choking sobs.
Brock wrapped his arms around her and held her. Her body shook, and her tears dampened his chest. He tightened his hug and rested his chin on the top of her head. “It’s going to be okay, Pia, I promise. I’ll get us out of this.” He would. Because he had to. Any other alternative was unacceptable.
“You can’t promise that. There’s so much that’s out of your control.”
“But there’s so much that’s in my control,” he said.
“It’s classified. You can’t tell me about it.”
“Right.” He smiled. “You’re learning.”
She lifted her head. “Okay. I’ll trust you.”
“That’s my girl.”
Tears glistened on her lashes. He couldn’t resist brushing his mouth against hers in gentle reassurance. When she traced his lip line with her tongue, he groaned and deepened the kiss, pulling her hard against his body, drinking in her sweetness, need and relief tangling. What if her clothing had caught fire? He shuddered. If something happened to her, he’d never forgive himself.
Pia wasn’t a job, a responsibility anymore. She’d squirmed her way into his heart and made him ache for what he could never have. How many times had he been forced to lie to her?
Sierra Echo seven six Romeo one Bravo Charlie eight six one Bravo. SE76R1BC861B. The master pass code to halt the self-destruct sequence popped into consciousness. Thanks for nothing. His MCU had broken the code too late, but it did remind him of the hard truth: he was still a cyborg, his existence as classified as the secrets encrypted in the MCU that interfaced with his brain.
Even if he could tell her the truth, what woman wanted a man who was part machine?
Dreams would have to remain dreams.
Brock broke off the kiss. “Let’s go.” He gestured, and they left the gouge and tromped into the woods again. Layers of wide leaves padded the forest floor. “This is like walking on a mattress,” he commented.
Pia scrutinized the canopy. “The leaves sure are big. They’re like fronds or giant fans.”
“I’ve never seen them this large,” he agreed. Tonal hues and shapes varied by species, but the one constant was the huge size. The smallest were at least a meter across.
“Why don’t you let me check your burns?” she suggested.
“Later.”
“Do you mean that?”
“Tell me about the captain.”
“You’re trying to distract me.”
“Well, yeah, but I do want to know.”
She sighed, communicating she was tabling her concern, not abandoning it. “I found his body and those of a first officer and a steward in the corridor outside the escape pod. I could tell from the uniforms they were crew members.”
“That struck me odd about Urgak at the start—his uniform didn’t fit very well,” Brock recalled.
“And, of course, that the steward never arrived,” she said.
“That, too,” he agreed. If he’d listened to his gut, all of this could have been avoided. “When I checked the escape pod before launch, I learned that access had been limited to crew members. Urgak wanted me away from the area because he’d hidden the bodies there.” He glanced at her. “Did you happen to notice how he killed them?” Knowing how they died would help to determine who Urgak worked for. The Malodonian hadn’t operated alone; he belonged to an organization, Brock was certain. And he’d bet it was Lamis-Odg.
“No. He must have caught them by surprise, because I didn’t see signs of a struggle.”
“You sure they were dead?”
“Lividity had set in.”
Postmortem bruising caused by blood pooling at the lowest point was a good indicator. “Dead,” he agreed. And if they hadn’t been before, they were now.
“How could Urgak have boarded the shuttle and gotten the access codes to allow him to do this? What about security measures?” she asked. “To set foot in any space port you have to have identification, access codes. There are scans.”
“Security measures prevent only known threats,” he said. “As soon as a measure is implemented, ingenuity finds a way around it. There’s much that the public and even the authorities aren’t aware of.” No one served as a better example of that than he. The main reason cyborgs were classified was because of what they could do. If a cyborg ever went rogue, he could do significant, even irreparable damage.
“The captain—Urgak—was Lamis-Odg, wasn’t he?”
“Probably.” He flexed his shoulder blades. The raw pain had eased to an ache.
“So Lamis-Odg managed to get Urgak captain’s clearance on a diplomatic charter.”
“It might have happened that way,” he replied. “I’m guessing Urgak had some flight credentials when Lamis-Odg recruited him. The organization often uses existing resources and personnel. Maybe they blackmailed him or threatened him, or just coaxed him over to their side. Perhaps he’d become disgruntled or sympathized with their agenda.”
“I was so stupid, so naive,” Pia said. “I refused a bodyguard. If you hadn’t been here, I would have been toasted.”
“You’re an ambassador; your job is to see the best in people and bridge gaps. You focus on what can go right, I anticipate what can go wrong.” Right now, that was a lot. First Lamis-Odg had attempted to kill Pia with an MED21, and, when that had failed, had tried to blow up the shuttle. An organization that tenacious would seek verification of her death. He had to get her off this planet as soon as possible.
“Why target me?” Pia asked. “I’m an ambassador, but I’m a neophyte. This is my first interplanetary assignment.”
“But you convinced the Xenians to meet with you. No one’s been able to do that. And you’re tenacious.” He shifted her carryall to the other shoulder. “You wouldn’t even give up a rock.”
“You’re saying I’m stubborn.”
What was determination except a more mature form of stubbornness? “I didn’t say that.” He attempted to steer the conversation around the land mine. “And your mother was one of the most popular Terran presidents ever. The Aaron name carries clout.” He glanced at her. “You have more power than you realize.”
Brock veered right. His computer brain had an unerring sense of direction. “
We should be free of the woods soon,” he said. They trekked about half a kilometer, and the canopy thinned enough for trickles of light to filter through.
They broke out of the woods onto the narrow, naked strip upon which they’d landed. In the distance, smoke rose from burning trees. The fires appeared to be contained. Some plants were naturally resistant, perhaps these were, too.
“We’ll put a little more distance between us and the fire, in case it spreads, although I don’t think it will. We should stay close to the wreckage because, if they’re searching for us, that’s where they’ll start.”
“The rescue team won’t leave without scanning for life, right?” she asked.
“That would be standard operating procedure,” he agreed. However, one couldn’t count on people following procedure. And it would depend on the type of vessel that responded to his beacon. Pleasure and leisure craft would not be equipped with surface analyzers powerful enough to penetrate the arboreal barrier.
Brock studied the sky. Purple mixed with blue in an eerie light, and the planet’s twin moons hung like lanterns readied for night. They needed to seek shelter.
Pia rubbed her arms.
“Cold?”
“No.” She shook her head.
“We’ll get out of this. Let’s find a place to bed down.”
Rocks littered the furrow, but the lack of trees allowed for a faster, more direct walk, and Brock picked up the pace, anxious to be settled.
“This is a little odd, isn’t it?” Pia commented after a while.
“What is?”
“The way this planet is so heavily forested, but there’s no vegetation along this one section. It almost looks like someone tried to clear a runway.”
He’d gotten the same impression. “Yes, it does.”
“You don’t suppose this planet is…inhabited, do you?”
“No. It doesn’t appear like it. See how trees encroach on the sides? The planet is taking it back, healing the scar. If the strip was cut, whoever did it abandoned it.”
“I wonder why. The planet is beautiful. If it were managed and cultivated, it could be hospitable,” she said.
He swept his gaze over the rough cut. It did appear to be manmade. It had been fortunate for them that the landing strip existed at all, but he disliked the uncertainty surrounding its creation. Still, there was no point in worrying Pia.
“I assume there’s water here,” she said. “With the trees, there would have to be.”
“That’s a logical assumption. We’ll search in the morning when it’s lighter.”
“I have water with me.”
The amount she’d brought wouldn’t last if they had to hunker down for a while. They could be here days, at least. Weeks, probably. He scanned the forest flanking the road, zeroing his gaze on a tree, a multitude of branches shooting off its gnarly trunk to create a netlike canopy seven or eight meters off the ground. Not too high, not too low.
He halted and assessed Pia. She was petite but athletic. “How good are you at climbing trees?”
“I climbed one or two in my childhood. Why?”
He pointed. “That’s where we’ll sleep tonight.”
“Up there? I brought a blanket. I thought we’d spread the cover over a bed of leaves. There’s so many of them, it’s like a mattress anyway.”
“We shouldn’t sleep at ground level. We don’t know what animals live here.”
“There don’t seem to be any.”
“Just because we haven’t run across some, doesn’t mean they don’t exist. They could have been scared off by the shuttle landing and the fires.” He jerked his head toward the tree. “This way.”
Stubby broken branches knotted the trunk-like rungs. “Use these for hand and footholds, but test them for strength before you put your weight on them. I’ll be right behind you to catch you if you slip.”
She turned around. “Before we go up, I want to examine you. I can’t believe you’ve been able to maintain this pace with your injuries.”
That wasn’t all she wouldn’t be able to believe. He shook his head. “Later. We need to get off the ground as soon as possible.”
She darted her gaze around the dark corners of the forest. “Why? What are you worried about?”
Her questions when she caught sight of his back again. He had no good answers, so he intended to delay the interrogation as long as he could.
“Nothing. I’m being cautious.” He pointed to an interwoven spray of limbs. “See those branches? That’s where we’ll sit. Now, up you go.”
She gave a huff of frustration, but she grabbed ahold of the stubs. As she kicked off, he boosted her up with a push to her rounded bottom. She glared down at him.
“I’m trying to help.” He feigned innocence.
“Is that what it is?”
He gave her a two-meter lead and then started up, maintaining enough distance that she wouldn’t accidentally kick him in the head, but staying close enough to catch her if she fell. She scampered nimbly, like a monkey, and in a short minute settled on the outcropping of limbs. Brock swung up beside her and wedged her carryall into a narrow fork.
Branches spread out in a twisted web, creating a cradle among the boughs several meters long by a couple wide. Their bed for the night. “This is rather cozy,” he said.
“Let me check your burns.”
“Pia—”
“Don’t Pia me. Hand me my bag.”
“Med treatment won’t help.”
“I’ll be the judge of that.”
Fuck. There would be no diverting her. With resignation, he passed the bag.
She dug through the carryall and extracted a medkit. “I can at least give you a pain injection.”
“I don’t need it.”
“You’ve proven how tough you are. I get it. Take off your shirt.” Her implacable tone signaled she wouldn’t accept any further delays.
Night had descended, and the trees obscured most of the light from the twin moons. It was doubtful she’d be able to see anything, making this as good a time as any. He shrugged out of his shirt as she rustled around in her duffel. He shifted and presented his back.
Click.
Darkness vanished in a blaze of light. Pia had snagged and switched on an emergency illuminator.
“Great universe!” she gasped.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
Chapter Ten
Brock was acting all tough and macho—no act, he was tough and macho—but she’d seen his back after he’d caught fire. His shirt had melted into his flesh. It astounded her he’d managed to trek through the woods. The man had more fortitude than any human being she’d met in her entire life.
She didn’t know what she could do for him, other than pump him full of pain meds, insist he keep the injury covered to minimize infection, and hope against all hope that help arrived as soon as possible.
Thank goodness she’d grabbed an emergency light. She’d found it on the floor near the pod, as if the fake captain had chucked it while making his escape. She’d shoved it into the burgeoning bag.
If she’d thought to grab her PerComm, they would have been rescued already, and Brock would be in the infirmary being treated by trained medical professionals.
Penelope steeled herself for what she would see and clicked on the light.
“Great universe!” She nearly dropped the illuminator. “Brock—oh universe!”
The burns had disappeared, the injury site replaced with fresh, pink glowing skin. How was that possible? A few short hours ago, his back had been oozing, charred clear through the dermis, the epidermis, the subcutaneous fat, all the way to the underlying muscle and tissue.
Pia rubbed her eyes. “Your burns have healed!” Gingerly, she touched his spine, and he stiffened.
“Did I hurt you?”
“No.” He sounded like he was gritting his teeth.
She ran her fingers over his flesh in disbelief.
“See, I told you it wasn’t that bad.” He flexe
d his shoulder blades as if to shake off her touch. “You were worried for nothing.”
“It wasn’t nothing!” She pictured his damaged flesh. She’d seen the flames! He had been on fire. His shirt proved it. Although the sleeves and front were intact, the back panel had melted away. Even if his injury hadn’t been third-degree, he would have been injured some.
“Then how come I’m not burned?” he said.
“I don’t know.”
“Do you suppose that in all the stress of the attempts on your life and the crash landing that you’re not remembering it correctly?” He paused. “If I had been severely injured, I wouldn’t have healed already, would I?”
“But—but—” She snapped her mouth shut.
“My shirt caught fire, but you extinguished it before it could do much damage.”
She squinted. He couldn’t have grown new skin in a matter of hours. Obviously, she hadn’t seen what she thought she’d seen. The pinkness probably came from a mild burn.
Certainty collapsed into confusion and self-doubt. “I’m losing it,” she said. The assassination attempts, the shuttle crash, being stranded, the loss of her mental faculties—she couldn’t take much more. She burst into tears.
“Hey, hey.” Brock took the light from her hand, switched it off, and then hugged her. He tangled his hand in her hair, which was probably as messed up as she was. “It’s going to be okay.”
“No, it’s not. Because I’m g-going to be like a—a dead…albatross around your neck.”
He chuckled. “You’re mixing your metaphors. It’s just albatross or dead weight.”
“See? I can’t get anything right.”
Having his arms around her so strong and secure made her remember his kisses. It proved how screwed up she was that she considered feigning distress so he would continue to hold her—not that she had to pretend much.