by Carysa Locke
Pirate Bound
A Prequel Novella
Carysa Locke
Contents
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Epilogue
Contact Me
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright © 2016 by Carysa Locke
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Cover Design by Natasha Snow
Edited by Cynthia Shepp
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Chapter One
The morning started with murder, and it didn’t look to be improving anytime soon. Dem had one crewman dead at his feet. A second man, the killer, was in the brig. With a dozen witnesses, the weapon in hand, and Vic’s confession, his job should have been simple. File a report, and mop up the mess. Simple, straightforward, and uncomplicated.
But women complicated things. Like the one who clung weeping to him now, soiling and wrinkling the clean, gray suit he’d put on less than an hour ago. He couldn’t make out what she was saying between sobs, but her jumbled thoughts came through loud and clear.
Never meant it to go this far… so much blood… oh, God, Marcus! He’s dead, he’s dead, I can’t believe—
That was all Dem could take before upping his shields and completely shutting her out. A dull headache started throbbing just behind his temples, and his jaw tightened as he attempted to peel her off him. Dem was larger than most men, at six-and-a-half feet tall, with the sort of powerful frame far more suited to subduing violent outbursts than handling clingy women. He was trying not to hurt her.
He looked beyond her to the body that had inspired this show of emotion, and bit back an oath.
What a waste, he thought.
Marcus had been a good man, a solid gunner, and a skilled telekinetic. Now he was dead, his body blocking the lift to the flight deck, his blood congealing on the controls. All because some selfish, manipulative woman had played him against his best friend. Former best friend. The antagonism between Marcus and Vic had been rising for weeks. Over a null, of all things. A beautiful null, but still.
Maybe his own emotional indifference was to blame, but Dem didn’t think any woman was worth killing over, no matter her physical appearance. Since killing was something hardwired into him, that was saying a lot. This was particularly true since she lacked the much-needed Talent to pass on to any children. Leanne was completely head blind, not a drop of gifted blood in her veins.
Not that it stopped her from inadvertently projecting her horrified thoughts onto anyone who wasn’t shielding. Dem didn’t know if that was due to her current emotional state, or if she happened to be one of the nulls incapable of learning basic shields. He didn’t care; he just wanted her to stop projecting all over him.
And crying. That needed to stop, too. Any minute.
If anything, the volume of her distraught weeping began to increase. Dem shot a look at Haggerty, one of his highest-ranking security officers. He didn’t have to say anything. Haggerty took a hasty step forward, put his hands on Leanne’s arms, and pried her off Dem as gently as he could. The woman clung like a pair of magnetic boots on the hull of a ship.
“Come on, Leanne. You have to let the security chief do his job,” said Haggerty quietly, reminding her not so subtly of Dem’s position.
It didn’t do any good.
“What—job?” she asked between sobs, as Haggerty pulled her unwillingly away. “We—know—what happened! Vic killed Marcus!” This last ended in a wail that made Haggerty wince, and had Dem pivoting on his heel away from the stupid woman, before he did something her regretted.
He might not feel the same level of anger at this situation that some of his men did, but the fact that Leanne had played a part in taking the lives of two valued crew members, however unintentionally, was preying on his instincts to protect all the others. From her. The easiest way to do that would be to remove her altogether.
What had they come to, relying on women like her for the future of their entire race? Leanne, and those like her, were supposed to be a solution, not an even bigger problem. But so far, Dem had yet to see her do anything useful. Quite the opposite, actually, as this morning’s drama was testament to.
As pirates, they’d always done whatever they needed to survive. That used to mean taking heavily laden ships of all kinds—merchant, scientific, and military. Occasionally, they’d even hit a colony world. Equipment, weapons, medical supplies, raw materials, food, and luxuries like coffee and rare textiles. They took the goods and left the survivors behind. But six years ago, the Commonwealth tried to be done with their pirate problem for good.
Dem’s fist clenched at the memory of standing outside his mother’s room, helpless to save her, listening to her die. She was just one, of course—more than eighty percent of the Talented female population had succumbed to the virus called Matera-D. It spread quickly, passing from ship to ship, and port to port before anyone realized the hacking cough and accompanying fever weren’t symptoms of the latest flu variant. Young and old, mothers, sisters, wives, and daughters—they all died. Quarantines were established, and a vaccine developed, but it was far too late.
Of the few surviving women, half were left barren. Talent passed from both lines, but it was strongest, and most successful through the maternal side. The Talented were now dying a death of attrition. If they didn’t find some way to replenish the population, they would be no more within a few generations.
The Commonwealth would win.
Leanne was a product of the battle for survival. Over the past two years, they’d begun taking women in addition to their usual plunder. It was an ill-conceived gamble that failed to pay out. The chances of a null producing a strongly Talented child were approximately one in twenty. But that didn’t stop men from getting stupid over them.
Already a matriarchal society before the virus, the balance had tipped dangerously further since. In order to keep them happy and safe, most men would do anything a woman asked. Would give her anything. Complete any task asked of them. Kill anyone who hurt her or made her angry. Dem often wondered if he was the only one to see the risk in that.
Probably. He was the one cleaning up the bodies.
He rubbed at his forehead. The grating sound of Leanne’s incessant weeping faded the further he moved away, thank the Mother.
Dem.
The telepathic voice boomed through his head, sudden and unnecessarily loud. It came with a presence, a personality that was unmistakable. Self-aware and confident to the point of arrogance, Treon often seemed insufferable to those who didn’t know him. Even, sometimes, to those who did.
For instance, he delighted in shoving his way past Dem’s shields whenever he could, effectively reminding him who was the more powerful telepath. Dem winced, resisting the urge to find his youngest brother and strangle him.
Some impulses were hard to outgrow.
What is it, Treon?
You’re needed in astrogation.
I’m busy.
&nbs
p; Not anymore. This is important.
Treon—
Dem didn’t finish the thought. His brother was already gone, the overpowering presence vanishing as quickly as it had come. He sighed, and at the next juncture turned away from the brig and toward the CIC.
It was early. Most of the ‘day’ shifters were still in sleep cycle. Yet, a number of people were up and about, passing him in the corridors. Nemesis benefited from a full crew at all times, throughout the standard day and sleep cycles. One never knew when a fat merchanter, a rich luxury liner, or the rare military carrier might present a tempting target.
Honestly, Dem could do without more luxury liners for now. Strictly from a tactical perspective, the fleet could use another carrier. Or even another Monarch class, like Nemesis. Not that they came across those very often. The Commonwealth was extremely careful with the flagships of their fleet, especially since losing the C.S.S. Nemesis nearly two decades ago. A loss like that stung for generations.
His lips curved into a smile. He’d only been a boy, but the triumph of taking one of the Commonwealth’s vaunted Monarchs was a day everyone remembered. The pirate queen of the day, Lilith, had transferred her flag immediately. Nemesis became a symbol, a show of strength, and a political hub for the pirates.
It still was, sixteen years later.
Her grandson, Cannon, led them now.
He was standing beside Treon when Dem walked into the CIC. The current king wasn’t someone who stood out in a crowd, not at first. But there was something about him that drew the eye after that first passing glance. He wasn’t quite as tall or as large as Dem. A day’s growth of beard covered his tanned face, as was often the case. Cannon didn’t always find time to shave between one crisis and the next. He had shrewd, green eyes, dark brown hair that he wore long enough to brush his shoulders, and skin that stayed bronze despite spending most of his time aboard ship. It wasn’t a color obtained under a planetary sun, but a natural tone from a mixed ancestry. This morning, he had his hair pulled back at the nape of his neck. His coloring came from his Grandmother, Lillith. So did his presence, temper, and his Talent.
The first thing Dem focused on was the thermal cup in Cannon’s hand and the fragrant steam rising from it. His king smiled, and picked up a second cup from a tray beside him.
“Coffee?”
“Thank you.” Dem accepted it with a respectful nod.
“I hear Vic is in custody,” Cannon said, his green eyes steady.
Dem nodded. “Marcus is dead,” he said, although he was sure Cannon already knew. Word traveled fast in the enclosed environment of a ship. Especially when most of the crew was telepathic.
“Leanne?”
“Being handled, for the moment. She’s trouble, Cannon.”
“Aren’t they all?” Cannon sighed, and Dem raised an eyebrow. Perhaps he wasn’t the only one to see the problem.
Took your time getting here. Treon didn’t look over as he spoke the words into Dem’s mind. His brother rarely chose to speak out loud. Most people would find constant mental communication taxing, but Treon did it as a matter of course. Dem suspected it was a way to highlight his power to others, by constantly doing what they could not.
“Some of us have work, Treon,” Dem responded, deliberately speaking aloud. It was something their mother would have done as a point of etiquette, had she still been alive. “Work I’m leaving behind to come here.”
Treon stood very still, his eyes closed, his black hair swept back from the face many called beautiful. Both Treon and Dem had their mother’s sculpted cheekbones and full, expressive lips. But where Treon was lean, his face fulfilling the beauty suggested by those features, Dem was square jawed and hard looking. Those features, along with the darkness of his skin, he inherited from his father. Physicality wasn’t the only difference between them. Women swooned over Treon—at least until he opened his mouth. They looked at Dem, and they were intimidated or afraid. They sensed the Killer in him. And there was nothing he could do about that. Treon had no such issues. His father had been a powerful telepath, a gift that had, for once, bred true.
What work? You know what happened. Marcus is dead, Vic is in custody, and Leanne…Leanne is pregnant by one of them.
Dem stopped with his coffee halfway to his mouth. “You’re sure?”
Treon opened one eye long enough to give him a look.
“Of course.” Dem took a drink, considering. The pregnancy must be naturally occurring, as Doc hadn’t reported anything in the latest population tracker. “Will the child be Talented?”
Too early to tell.
Dem met Cannon’s gaze as Treon went back to whatever he was doing.
“Captain?” A young crewman sat at the astrogation station, looking uncomfortable and nervous with the group of powerful men looming over him. Especially when their attention shifted to him.
“What is it, Donnall?” Sebastian, first mate to Cannon and Nemesis, made his way over. He trained most of the bridge crew, and the young man in question looked young enough to be new to his post.
“I’ve finished scanning all coordinates within range as you asked, sir. Nothing.”
“Well, Treon?” Cannon prodded. “This is your show.”
I need a few moments of quiet. Pinpointing exactly where they are isn’t easy, you know.
“I’m sure,” muttered Sebastian.
Would you like to try?
“Sebastian.” Cannon gave him a mild look. “Leave him be. Treon, hurry it up.”
Yes, Captain. There was no mistaking the laconic tone. But Cannon just rolled his eyes. He was accustomed to dealing with Treon.
“Coordinates to what?” Dem asked. The chance to drink Cannon’s coffee notwithstanding, he had to wonder why he was here.
“To whom,” Sebastian corrected, leaning against a console while they waited.
“Treon,” Cannon said, “has found two Talented minds, somewhere out there.” He waved a hand toward the viewport, and the stars that glittered beyond it. “Talented, powerful, and female.”
Dem wasn’t sure how to respond. He couldn’t help the sudden, instinctive surge of adrenaline at the knowledge, while part of him wondered how much more trouble this would bring across his desk. If men were willing to kill one another over nulls, what would they do over actual gifted women?
“Who are they?” He frowned. “Where did they come from?” How had they escaped the virus six years ago?
They are running from something, or someone. Afraid, exhausted… They haven’t slept much in the last few days. And the ship they’re in… a Viking.
“A dropship?” Dem stared. “Out here on the fringes? From where?” The nearest outpost was several space jumps distant—too far for a short-range reconnaissance or transport. He looked at Sebastian. “How much fuel do Vikings carry? How far could it have traveled?”
Well…” He looked thoughtful. “I suppose it could be loaded with an extra fuel cell, but if they’ve been out there for days, as Treon suggests…”
I don’t suggest. I know.
“Then I’d say they’re running dangerously low. Wherever they’re planning on jumping next, it better be their last.”
“When we catch up to them,” Cannon said, looking at Dem, “you’ll be heading the team we send in. I don’t need anyone getting stupid and scaring them. Or worse.”
“Of course.
Aha! Triumph filled Treon’s voice. I have them. Here are your coordinates.
Chapter Two
Exhaustion dragged at Sanah. She could barely force her eyes to remain open. But it was Nayla’s turn to catch an hour of sleep, and her sister needed it more. She was only sixteen. Sanah had a responsibility to care for her, to look after her, and to make sure she was safe and healthy. She’d failed in that for the past three years. She was determined not to do so again.
Pain welled up to choke her. The sting of betrayal was sharp, her own anger a bitter taste in the back of her throat.
How could Niall have
done this? How could she have let him? Ignorance was no excuse, not with her Talent. Passive it might be, useless to her brother and the organization he served, Veritas, but wasn’t that the irony? She, of all people, should have sensed the lies buried inside the truth. She should have known, damn it.
She looked over at Nayla again, thinking of all the times she’d seen her sister in the past month—in the past year. The dissatisfaction she’d sensed beneath the surface smiles, the longing and stifled feelings of loneliness.
It was, Sanah had thought, normal teenage angst, for a teenager who was anything but normal. Of course Nayla wanted a different life. Of course she felt lonely and trapped, unable to attend school like any other girl her age. None of that came as a surprise. Sanah had tried to visit more often. Niall, she knew, wasn’t the most demonstrative brother. He felt affection for them, of course, but his first commitment was to Veritas. He was a workaholic, like their father.
It helped him succeed, becoming highly placed within Veritas, the highly secretive organization of Talented individuals they all worked for. In the past year, he’d finally achieved the position of director. She’d actually taken him out with Nayla to celebrate. She’d paid for that extravagant bottle of Shivas Red, the exclusive red wine that only shipped once every three standard years from the vineyards in the Viscon valley on Charion. Niall had felt so satisfied, so proud.
Disillusionment turned the memory to ash.
How could she have been so blind, even stupid? How had she missed it? If their parents were still alive, what would they say?
She honestly didn’t know. She’d only been fourteen when they died. Her memories of them were blurred by time and youth. She wanted to believe otherwise, but in reality, she had no idea if, like Niall, their parents’ loyalty to Veritas eclipsed family. As an organization, it demanded commitment from its members. Powerful, secretive, and hidden from society, they pulled the strings behind the most powerful planetary representatives. Some said behind the very throne of the monarchy. Absolute secrecy. Unquestionable loyalty. Sanah had given them that much. But Niall gave them more. He chose becoming a director over his own family.