by Susan Grant
Kào took a deep breath. “They fused successfully. I don’t feel a thing.”
Moray gave him a skeptical look.
“Incoming call for you, Commodore,” called someone from the hatchway.
“I’ll take it on the bridge, Rono.” His father rolled his eyes at Kào. “It’s been like this all day. Come. Walk with me.”
Kào fell into step beside his father. Hunched over her confiscated computer equipment, Trist did not glance up as they walked past.
“I need a moment of your time, sir,” Kào said as they entered the hallway outside.
“Of course.”
It was not his place to criticize his father’s decision to use the sedative gas, but neither did he care for the consequences of that choice. Tactfully he began, “It may not have been the best course, using the sedative to subdue the refugees. I fear that aggressive measures will destroy the understanding begun between us.”
“I worried for your safety, Kào. When Trist recommended that the sedative be used, I gave her full authority to do so.”
“Understood, sir. However, I was in contact with her at the time. I informed her that I was safe. Yet she defied me. And now she has removed the refugees from their vessel without my consent—or theirs. It will worsen the situation, I’m afraid. Therefore I have removed her from any further unsupervised interaction with the Earth people.”
Moray glanced at him sharply. “You have?”
Kào nodded. “But I realize I need her expertise in language development and instruction. I’ve decided to keep her on the job, but in a supervised capacity only.”
Moray’s personal communicator began beeping. “Almost there,” he growled into his wrist gauntlet computer. Then he confided to Kào out the corner of his mouth, “Crazy today, just crazy. I thought we’d caught up with that Talagar vessel we’re after. But all we caught in our nets was a motley flotilla of independent traders who haven’t seen anything, either. But Headquarters won’t let it go. Apparently, we’re the only Perimeter Patrol vessel presumed to be near where they were last spotted. Every blasted time we call off the search, they reinstate it.”
Kào cursed himself for adding yet another concern to his father’s full share. Patrolling the Perimeter for stray Talagars who resented the Alliance victory was a thorny and complicated undertaking; yet it was one Moray handled with aplomb. Kào, in contrast, seemed unable to even cope with a couple of hundred displaced primitives.
On the bridge, the aide Rono handed the commodore a blinking handheld communicator. Moray opened the message, but his remarks were directed to his son. “As you well know, this is not the first time I have come upon a people in need of rescue. But these are the first to turn against me. The Earth leader managed quite the enviable coup. He caught us all off guard—”
“She.”
“—making for a bit of a rough start, yes, but . . . He’s a she?”
Indeed. Just wait until Moray saw whom he was battling in his efforts to settle the refugees. “That’s correct, sir.”
“Interesting.” Moray thought for a moment. “Well. No matter. A face-to-face explanation of her situation ought to quell any further thoughts of rebellion.”
“I plan to give one, sir. I’ll speak with her as soon as she wakes.”
Moray shook his head. “No need. I’ll talk to her. Call me when she’s on the way.” He gave Kào’s shoulder a squeeze. “And don’t tell me how busy I am. I’m glad to be of help.”
Moray strode to a waiting knot of aides, who enveloped him, all vying for his attention, while Kào stood at the edge of the circle, feeling once more like an outsider. Exacerbating the familiar sensation was Moray’s flip-flop on the refugee debacle. He’d given Kào full authority over the refugees, only to take over the most sensitive task of all: informing the Earth leader of her home world’s destruction.
He subdued the urge to argue Moray’s decision; the very ship his father commanded was named after the man and his heroic past. The Savior. Moray had earned the label through his good deeds and judgment in dealing with victims of tragedies. It was his renowned area of expertise. Who was Kào to disagree if the man wanted to wrest from him the reins of the initial briefing? And yet, he did.
But it was futile, wasting another thought on the matter. He had a refugee leader to wake up.
Cold air whooshed across Jordan’s mouth. She’d left her bedroom window open again.
No. She wasn’t home. She was at work, napping in the drafty cockpit bunkroom.
Another blast of frigid air hit her face. She batted at the sensation with her hand, but her arm felt as if it weighed a thousand pounds. She hadn’t slept this deeply on the airplane in ages.
Wait. On flights with only two pilots there were no scheduled breaks.
Her heart lurched. The events of the past day rushed back in full force: the black object that had captured the plane, Brian’s death, the people who might be aliens. . . .
Cold air hit her again. She forced her eyes open. Shadowy forms loomed over her, speaking in a language that sounded like that of the man she’d taken hostage.
Squinting through drug-blurred eyes, she saw that the two forms had brown hair and were dressed in smart uniforms. Colorful patches, black leather piping, and crafted metallic-silver fittings spruced up the outfits. The men tugged her to her feet. Her legs weren’t working right, but that didn’t seem to bother them. Her body was so lethargic that they had to drag her along.
“What are you doing? Hands off,” she mumbled. Her tongue was stuck to the roof of her mouth. Not merely stuck, but plastered. When she worked enough saliva into her mouth to free her tongue, it made an awful sound, like Velcro being undone. It meant she was dehydrated. How long had she been out? If her dulled senses, aching head, and stiff limbs were any indication, it had been hours.
They hauled her from First Class to Business, through Economy, and toward the rear of the airplane. All the exit doors were wide open. Which meant that security was hopelessly breached.
Seesawing between lucid consciousness and a nausealaced dream state, she was too disoriented to put up a decent fight. As if it would do any good. How would she be able to help the others if she acted like a hothead and got herself killed?
Her father once described how the POWs in Vietnam tried not to chastise themselves over every little concession made to their captors. Better to save your strongest resistance for the biggest battles. She’d cooperate. For now.
Jordan stumbled. Only the two sets of hands clamped around her upper arms kept her from falling. A solid but giving lump had tripped her. As her vision cleared, she saw that the objects they were steering her around weren’t bumps at all but the bodies of the passengers and crew.
Everyone appeared to be sleeping, but the sharp, tangy smell of urine and fresh vomit clogged her nostrils. Good God. They’d been drugged. All of them.
She moaned softly as nausea gripped her stomach. Ah, but she couldn’t give in to it; she needed to stay alert, to be strong. For the passengers, for her crew mates.
For Boo.
In the dim light at the rear of the airplane, Jordan stumbled over yet another inert body. The man holding her left arm yanked her upright. Then someone, another man, rebuked her handlers in an authoritative tone. She guessed he’d warned them against hurting her. Although Jordan didn’t understand the language, she recognized the source: the scarred man, whose dark eyes were black and empty of warmth—eyes that could fill unexpectedly with penetrating compassion, she’d discovered to her shock. Her former hostage. Now she was his captive. What goes around comes around.
Hands clasped behind his back, he waited for her on the platform outside exit 5-L, the rearmost left exit. His features were as ruthless and hard as his body, a tall, broad-shouldered frame that was menacing in the way it blocked the light pouring into the airplane.
She refused to be afraid. Her father would have told her, Courage is mustering the strength to stand up when it’s easier to fall down.
That’s right. Her hands weren’t trembling, she told herself. Her stomach wasn’t doing somersaults, either. And she didn’t feel like she wanted to pee in her pants. Nope. No way. Who cared if the guy looked like Attila the Hun on a bad, bad day? He’d said he wanted to help. She had to conjure some semblance of trust in that promise, or she’d lose it, right here, right now.
Attila stepped to the right, allowing the guards to lower her to the platform. Her pupils couldn’t contract enough to compensate for the bright artificial light. Pain stabbed her eyes and made them water. That damned drug, she thought, squinting. It had mucked up her nervous system and God knew what else. Attila said something, and the guards released her.
Her legs were too wobbly to support her weight. The tall man steadied her with strong hands and pulled her to his side, almost knocking the breath from her. Her hand flattened atop an abdomen as unyielding as his utility belt, which ground into her ribs and hip. His hard thigh pressed against hers. Too close—all of him was. But if she could have stood on her own, she would have. Wooziness made her head spin all over again.
She must have blacked out. She woke to find herself sitting on a white molded bench seat. Blinking, she stared blankly at four black boots. Two were hers, she decided after a bit, familiar black-leather ankle boots. But the other pair . . .
Her gaze swung upward. Dark eyes. A hard-jawed face.
The tall man stood in front of her. With one hand he clutched a strap hanging from a curved ceiling that held rows of similar straps. And he was wearing the magic glasses.
So was she, she discovered, her fingers touching the smooth frames. He’d put them on her when she’d been out cold. It meant they could communicate. “Where is my crew?” she demanded. “Where are the passengers? I’ll do what you want. Don’t hurt them.” Desperate to find the glimmer of compassion she’d glimpsed earlier, she searched his face. “Please.”
He recoiled at that. “I will not hurt them. Or you.”
She would have expected to find him gloating, having turned the tables on her so expertly. But the cold strength radiating from this brutally handsome man contrasted with the apparent genuineness of his concern, a poker-faced empathy that just as unexpectedly burrowed into her soul. Without knowing anything about him, she suddenly felt that this was the kind of guy who’d walk between you and puddles in the street, who’d open car doors and put his coat over your shoulders if he thought you were cold—
Holy crap. What was she thinking? Squaring her shoulders, she wrenched her gaze away from his black, penetrating eyes.
She was delirious, she told herself. Doped up by the gas. She had to be. Why else would she be acting like Miss Wishful Thinking, putting Earth characteristics, chivalrous Earth characteristics, on a man who was a stranger in the truest sense of the word? He might appear concerned for her welfare, but the fact remained that he had captured her and her airplane.
Squinting upward, she tried in her disoriented state to make sense of him, of who—or what—he was. Impassive, he regarded her with equal scrutiny. Holding on to a ceiling strap, he swayed slightly, as if the molded white tube that enclosed them was moving.
Her attention swung outside. A blur of color and light whizzed past the small, circular windows. The tube was moving! It was a shuttle of some kind, reminding her of the monorail at Disney World. Were they flying or speeding along on a track? She wasn’t sure if she wanted to know. “Where are we? Where are you taking me?”
“You are safe now. You and your people.” His eyes asked her to believe him. But she mustn’t forget that the people he worked with had rendered them unconscious. And yet . . . the last thing she’d heard before passing out was his command of inaction. Maybe he did intend to help.
Or maybe it was only a trick. She didn’t know what to think.
He pulled a small device from his utility belt. A tiny but very clear screen showed passengers and crew being laid down on beds in what looked to be a clean and spacious bunk area. “See? They are safe. We want to help you.”
She read the caption in his lenses. “Help us? Why? You make it sound like something bad has happened.”
He began to answer, stopped himself. She had the feeling that he wasn’t going to explain until they got to wherever they were going.
They lapsed into awkward silence, and she sagged back in her seat. Oh, to be lost in drugged sleep with everyone else, while some other poor slob bore the responsibility of negotiating for food, water, and freedom. A fresh spurt of adrenaline made her hands shake. Was she up to the task of negotiating for her life and those of the passengers and crew?
In the corner of her vision, she caught the man studying her. When he realized she’d noticed, he averted his eyes, his jaw flexing. Strange that he was curious about her yet so uncomfortable in her presence. Was it because of his plans for her? She forced away the thought. Stay positive.
She grasped for normalcy, for civility. “Jordan is my name. Jordan Cady.” She poked one finger to her chest.
His expression softened. Well, maybe softened wasn’t the right word, but he regarded her with a certain leniency. She found herself wondering how he’d look when he smiled. If he ever smiled. She remembered the symbols branded on his neck. It was doubtful that a man with marks like that had much to smile about.
“Jor-dahn,” he repeated.
“Yes.” She decided that she liked the way he said her name, the J soft, more like “zh” or “sh.”
He spread his hand over his chest. “Kào. It is my given name.”
“Kay-oh.” He had a mother. A father. Someone had named him. For some reason the idea reassured her.
The shuttle—subway—whatever it was—glided to a halt. Doors opened with a hiss. As she followed Kào outside, she heard an airflow noise just below the level of her hearing, but the air itself was still, devoid of any scents. Like the bay that housed the 747, the walls and floor here were molded and white, and all the inscriptions were foreign to her. It was like when she’d traveled in mainland China; she’d found it impossible to orient herself when there were no recognizable words or letters. Then she looked to the right, and her breath caught.
The hallway swept up and away from her, and seemed to have no end. She jerked her gaze to the left. It wasn’t an illusion—the walkway did bow very distinctly upward. She followed it with her eyes to where it disappeared on a somewhat hazy horizon high above. A few people, mere specks, moved along the path near the “ceiling.” They were on a ship—one that dwarfed anything she’d ever seen.
The sight threw off her already shaky equilibrium. Her hands shot out, searching for balance, clawing for something to hold on to. Kào’s sleeve. In that protective, masculine way of his, he steadied her. But she couldn’t look at him. Couldn’t breathe. That kid on the 747 was right: Kào was Darth Vader. An alien. And she was on his spacecraft.
A huge spacecraft. The truth hit her with the raw violence of a fist in the gut. Oh, God. But she was going to find a way home; she swore it. She had a daughter waiting there, a little girl who needed her, and a family who loved them both.
Tears pricked her eyes, but she’d be damned if she’d break down. She had to be tough, to perform a role she never dreamed of playing, in a place she never imagined being. Strength would get her home. And get there she would.
Chapter Nine
Kào led Jordan into Commodore Moray’s meeting room. Moray and his staff had not arrived yet. At one end of the gathering table, Kào pulled out a chair and offered Jordan a seat.
Her gaze dropped to his wrist where his sleeves didn’t completely cover the thin dermal regeneration strip placed over a laceration there. “From when you tied me up,” he said dryly. “Have I done the same to you? Why, no, of course. It seems I’m a far better host than you were a hostess.”
Her lips compressed. Over the glasses, he saw her wide blue eyes flick to his. He’d baited her, and wasn’t sure exactly why. He wasn’t the teasing sort. Was it an attempt to ease her apprehen
sion before his father’s briefing? The bad news she was about to receive would be a blow.
“If you find gas preferable to handcuffs,” she returned drolly after a moment. He felt oddly rewarded that her expression had eased somewhat; she’d recognized his banter for what it was.
Sitting in the chair, she clutched its armrests as if she feared she’d fall. The chair bobbed only a few standard feet off the floor, but likely she hadn’t possessed the technology for floating furniture on her primitive world. Buoyant engineering was only a few hundred standard years old. Of course, since its inception the technology had brought improvements to almost every aspect of Alliance life, making it hard to imagine life before its discovery.
“Sorry to keep you waiting, Kào.” His father strode into the room trailed by his staff and a bevy of aides. The Savior’s crew was small but every other person seemed to be either an aide or a staff member. His father had not needed such a large contingent in the past. Now everywhere he went, his assistants went, too. Among them, trying hard to evade Kào’s glare, was Trist, clutching an armload of computer equipment to her chest.
Moray dismissed all but the linguist, then indicated that the two of them plus Kào and Jordan should sit around the table. He then donned a pair of conversion-glasses. Trist followed suit.
“Ah,” Moray said. One broad hand over his chest, thick fingers spread, he nodded warmly. “I am Commodore-elite Ilya Moray.”
Jordan offered what appeared to be a wary, reserved greeting in her language. “Jordan Cady, captain of United Fifty-eight.”
“Ah. Captain Cady. Is that the correct title? Welcome.”
Jordan nodded, then frowned at her floating chair, taking great pains to steady it. Posture erect, she sat with her fists knotted in her lap. Her uniform needed cleaning, but she’d freshened up considerably when Kào had offered her the chance just before arriving here. She’d dampened her hair and combed it, but loose strands around her forehead had already re-formed into tight ringlets. He’d never seen hair like hers before, curly but pale Talagarian blond. As if she sensed his gaze, Jordan locked eyes with him. Kào cleared his throat and forcibly diverted his attention from her.