Thieves

by Lyn South

  We watch as the dinghy reaches the second ship and they haul the men up on deck. Within minutes, the executioners return to their boat and begin the journey back to shore, leaving me to wonder how the condemned are kept from jumping over the rails on the other side of the ship. Are they in the cargo hold or tied to the masts? I can’t see them from where I stand.

  From a third boat, archers shoot flaming arrows onto the deck of what is about to become their funeral pyre.

  I’ve learned that public execution is a better window into a human soul than most anything else. Read the bystanders’ faces and three types of people will stand out in the crowd: the Morbidly Curious, the Sports Fans, the Justice Seekers.

  The Morbidly Curious seem to be the most benign. They’re not rowdy or conspicuous; they’re the ones closest to the action, watching every detail from beginning to end, with ghoulish fascination.

  Sports Fans are the bloodsport spectators; the celebratory mood can usually be traced to these people. For them, executions provide a release from the soul-sucking grind of daily life. They’re the party-goers out to have a have a good time, and they usually bring picnic lunches.

  Then, there are the Justice Seekers; these are the ones who unnerve me. They watch death with cold, holy judgment, certain they’ve helped mete out the Lord’s justice for that day simply by bearing witness. Exacting payment for sins is their highest concern.

  I have no illusions about who and what I am. I steal things and do my best to survive when the universe pitches me, headfirst, into purgatory. This alternate reality version of what I hoped would still be home is looking more like purgatory every minute.

  A dark-haired man standing fifty feet away catches my attention; in this sea of strangers, there’s something familiar about him. The build of his body. The slope of his nose and strong jawline as he stands in profile. His dark hair. He reminds me of...

  What did Papa look like?

  My breath catches in my chest. I grab Nico’s arm and point in the direction of the hooded figure. “Nico, that man. I think it’s...he looks like Papa.”

  “You know this is a needle and haystack situation, right? I think you see what you want to see, cariña.”

  The dark-haired man elbows past a group of women huddled together against the cold; space between one body and the next seems to be little more than the width of a hairline crack. I can measure his progress through the crowd in inches, not feet, as the gargantuan physical effort to maintain forward momentum slows his advancement to a crawl.

  My gaze snaps from the retreating figure to Nico and back again. I must look more desperate with each repeated glance because Nico sighs and waves a hand, conceding defeat.

  “Fine. Let’s go,” he says. “You stay right behind me and, I swear, if you take off, I’ll kick your ass all the way home.”

  “Fair enough.” A beat. “Is now an appropriate time to remind you how much I enjoy spankings?”

  It’s meant as a joke—kinda—but Nico maintains a steadfast seriousness. “You won’t be crazy about this spanking.”

  From ground-level, it’s impossible to see over the wall of people in front of us—we’re enveloped so quickly by the crowd it’s claustrophobic. Even Nico—all six feet, two inches of him—has trouble seeing over some of the taller members of the mob.

  “We can’t wade through all these people fast enough to catch up with whoever you think you saw.” He nods toward another narrow alley, identical to the one we’d emerged from twenty minutes prior. “This way.”

  “We have to figure out a way past the guards,” I say, noting that each exit toward the center of town has soldiers posted to ensure no one leaves the party early.

  “We’ll think of a distraction. Just keep moving.”

  Before I learn what Nico has in mind to divert the soldiers’ attention, the wind changes, shifting the billowing smoke toward shore. The crowd shuffles toward the alleys to escape the noxious fumes; their hive mind apparently wagers the authorities will also be concerned about avoiding the acrid cloud as it rolls in.

  Seems the crowd won their bet: The guards, recognizing the crowd’s mood turning anxious, abandon any attempts to stop the townsfolk from dispersing.

  Nico pulls me closer and we melt into the crowd as it funnels into the choked artery leading to the next street. Though the air is frigid with ice particles, the cramped space turns into a slow heating oven with the body heat of several hundred bodies crammed into it.

  Nico positions me in front of him. His hands go to my waist and he steers me like a rudder on a ship as we push our way to the right side of the crowd. “Don’t get your hopes up,” he says. “In this crowd, it would be a miracle if we catch up with him.”

  We exit onto the next street and nudge through several clusters of people trying to maneuver around us. We settle on the long porch of a mercantile store shaded by a balcony and watch the throng pass. There are droves of raven-haired, athletic men who look like they could have sired me.

  What did Papa look like?

  None of the women look like my mother.

  Ten minutes more pass before Nico ventures a question.

  “Anything?”

  I shake my head; tears sting my eyes. Nothing feels like home.

  I knew this was a long shot. I didn’t expect the search to feel so...

  Hopeless.

  Nico puts his arm around my waist and we stand in silence watching the towns’ people slide back into their daily lives.

  Betty’s voice buzzes through our CommLinks. “Intruder alert, Commander Garcia, darling. Security system breach is imminent. Unknown entities attempting to access transporter system.”

  “Fuck.” Nico says. “Betty, divert power from non-essential programs to the security system. Lock everyone out of the transporter system except me. Authentication: Garcia 022358.”

  We pick our way through the crowd, but it hasn’t thinned enough to make getting out of town a speedy process. The snow that sat on the horizon as we entered town arrives in a flurry of fat flakes that will lay a thick blanket of white over the town within the hour.

  Betty broadcasts another alert: “Security system breach in progress. Intruders have boarded the vessel.”

  Nico said very little as we raced—as much as anyone can race in a burgeoning snowstorm—back to where we’d left the ship. We maintained radio silence since the last of Betty’s transmissions; further transmissions would help whoever broke into the ship to trace the signal to our coordinates.

  For all we know, they’ve already tagged our location as we sit, shivering, in the stone barn less than a football field’s distance from the ship. While the barn offers protection enough from the wind, it’s almost as freezing inside as it is out. The storm creeps closer to blizzard conditions, and our options for finding another sanctuary are few.

  “The ship is still here.” Nico stares down at the micro-control panel in his hand. “We’re locked out.”

  Nico alternates between burying his nose in the data streaming from the ship’s computer into his Comm Panel and peering out the narrow barn window at the field where the cloaked ship is parked.

  “Did you think it wouldn’t be?” I stamp my feet on the straw, more to generate some heat than from impatience to know what’s going on.

  “Why are they still allowing access to the ship’s systems?” he says, muttering more to himself than to me.

  “I think the answer to that depends on who broke into our ship. What are the odds of our visitors being anyone other than Carter and his goons?”

  “Fifty-fifty. If it’s not him, the Benefactors could have sent another recovery team to clean up this mess. If we’re seriously unlucky, our guests are government agents and we can expect to either be marooned in this time or taken back to a prison planet.”

  “Would they do that? Strand us here, I mean.”

  “Let’s assume that both the government and the Benefactors are capable of doing whatever the hell they want, whenever the hell th
ey want,” Nico says. “Just in case the intent of our guests is to make us permanent residents in 1755, we need to find out who has taken control of our ship and what their game is. I’m trying to hack into Betty’s internal video feeds without being detected. If we can get a remote look inside, we may at least have the element of surprise on our side.”

  Having witnessed executions in two separate centuries, I’m not keen to attend a third any time soon, especially if it means I’m on the chopping block. I’m not crazy about the possibility of a memory wipe and a prison sentence, either.

  How hard would it be to melt into 1755 again?

  “Any way we can hack the transporter system to sneak back on the ship?” I say, pacing the floor.

  Nico rolls his eyes and shoots me a pointed look. “Did you sleep through Emergency Ship Procedures class when you were in training? Even non-mechanics and commanders are required to pass it to prepare for emergencies. You know... like the one we’re in right now.” He huffs out a big breath of air that contains a hint of an impatient growl. “You must have because if you’d paid any attention, at all, you’d know one of the first actions after taking emergency command of a time travel ship is to change the security codes to prevent unauthorized ship transports.”

  “First, yes, I slept through Intro to Ship Maintenance because it was boring. Second, how the hell are we supposed to get on the ship if those assholes changed the security codes?”

  He waggles the handheld at me. “Which is why I’m trying to hack my way in through the backdoor of Betty’s systems. So far, they’ve done a damn good job of blocking all paths to bypassing the encryption for system access authentication to even get to the backdoor.”

  Outside the barn, the wind howls.

  My stomach rumbles and a few seconds later, so does Nico’s; neither of us have eaten all day. Before I can ask about the plan to scrounge up our next meal, the wood doors on both ends of the barn fling open.

  Figures in winter camouflage uniforms and masks swarm through the entrances.

  I hear clicks; the sound of weapons with silencers.

  I dive at the bag where we stashed the phasers, but there’s a penetrating sting as whatever they’re firing hits my ass.

  Tranquilizer darts.

  I stumble, reach behind me in a failed attempt to pull the damn thing out.

  Nico lies sprawled on the ground, a tranq dart lodged in his shoulder.

  Legs numb.

  Head swims.

  Nothingness swallows me whole.

  Chapter 27

  Consciousness rises up through the murky gray. There’s vague awareness of warm air blowing on my face.

  Purple splotches swell over the dark background of my still closed eyes as light soaks through the skin. I watch the shifting patterns with detached curiosity as they flow and ebb in fluid patterns.

  Several things hit me at once: A dull ache fills my head and works its way down my body. My eyelids feel heavy, weighted; it takes effort to force open them. When I finally do, everything is hazy, like someone smeared an opaque glaze over my corneas while I slept.

  I force my eyes to focus. A ventilation duct sits above me. I’m lying on a cot in a corner of a cargo bay. To my right, a row of costume racks stretches down the wall.

  I’m on our ship.

  Groaning, I push myself to sitting position. Footsteps echo above me, then there’s the ping of boots on metal rungs as someone descends the ladder at the other end of the room.

  With not much time to find a place hide, I bolt out of the bed and within three steps run smack into an invisible wall. The aborted inertia throws me backward onto the floor.

  Commander Jackson Carter strides toward me, flanked by four armed guards.

  “Merde,” I sigh, not caring that I’m still sprawled on the floor.

  “Good. You’re awake,” he says, as he stops a few inches from the force field. “I was hoping the tranquilizer wasn’t too strong. We had to base the dosage on your recorded body weight at your last physical. But that was six months ago, so who knows if that’s still accurate.”

  “Where’s Nico?”

  He gestures at the transparent space between him and me. “I regret that the dramatics at the barn were necessary, and the temporary restraints.” He grabs a metal chair propped up against a nearby wall and turns it around so he can straddle it while resting his forearms on top of the chair back. “With our previous history, I didn’t think you’d agree to meet for tea.”

  The four men stand in a line behind him and I wonder which one of them fired the dart that got me. Figuring that I’m stuck in this makeshift jail cell unless I can talk Carter into releasing me, I crawl back onto the bed.

  “You couldn’t have used phasers?” I say. “Tranq darts are so old school.”

  “As imprecise as tranquilizers are, there were locals in the area. Strange flashing lights inside the barn might have attracted the attention.”

  “Where’s Nico?” I ask.

  “We talk first. Then we’ll discuss Commander Garcia.”

  “I’m not gonna talk to you about anything until I know Nico’s okay.”

  “Garcia is fine. He woke up thirty minutes ago.”

  “You’ll understand if I don’t take your word for it.”

  “Dodger, you wound me,” he says with a smirk.

  I’m not sure which annoys me more: his tone of feigned outrage or his use of my nickname. I scoot backward and sit cross-legged against the wall and wait.

  He contemplates me for a moment, then groans with reluctance. “Computer, enable audio channels so we can speak to Commander Garcia.”

  “Screw you,” Betty replies. The juxtaposition between the snark and her synthesized voice makes me chuckle. “You hurt Commander Garcia. I do not like you.”

  “Your computer has an attitude,” Carter says, sounding irritated. “She’s been fighting me since I boarded the ship.”

  “She hates assholes.” I give him an eat-shit-and-die look. “Betty, please enable audio channel access. I want to talk to Nico.”

  There’s a pause before she answers. “I will connect you for thirty seconds. The commander needs his rest.”

  “Thanks, Betty,” I reply. “Nico, are you there?”

  “Dodger!” Nico says, relieved. “You okay?”

  “Little sore. Got a massive headache, but no major damage. You?”

  “Same.” He pauses for a moment. “I’m confined to quarters.”

  I glare at him. “I’m not. They stuck me in a corner of the cargo hold behind a restraining force field.”

  “You’re okay. That’s what matters.”

  “Yeah. You, too.”

  Carter makes a slashing motion across his throat and one of his goons taps a control pad.

  “Nico?” I say.

  Silence.

  “I’ve muted the speakers, so even if your ship’s computer left the channel open, you won’t hear anything else he says. I’ve proven Commander Garcia is fine. Let’s talk,” Carter says.

  “You must be terrified of me.”

  He chuckles. “How d’you figure that?”

  “Do you need that much help to subdue one tiny thief inside a force field?”

  Carter glances at his reinforcements before giving me a squint-eyed appraisal. “I’ve seen you wriggle out of tricky situations. I’m being cautious while we chat.”

  “Why don’t we braid each other’s hair and paint our nails, too?”

  “There’s that Arseneau sass I know so well.” His face hardens. “It’s time you appreciate the gravity of your situation.”

  “I don’t appreciate anything about this. Your word choice sucks.” The throbbing in my head shifts forward, settling in my temples. I press a palm against the right side of my head.

  “Show some gratitude.” he says. “Both you and Garcia are breathing. Those tranquilizer darts could’ve been bullets.”

  “The only reason we’re alive is because the Benefactors need us for something. Other
wise, we would’ve been dead, or memory wiped, the second you captured us. Tell me I’m wrong.”

  “You’re half-wrong.” He raises one eyebrow in response to my confused scowl. “If you’re done pouting, I have questions.”

  “You can ask. Doesn’t mean I’ll answer.”

  Carter rises from the chair and paces in front of the force field. My eyes follow his movements. He’s two feet away, but it might as well be a hundred miles with this invisible wall between us. Glancing down at the portable force field generator, I see the power light is solid green. If I can just find a weak spot in the field somewhere.

  He notes the flick of my eyes from the force field generator back to his face with an inquisitive tilt of the head. “I can always electrify it if that will remove temptation for you.”

  I blink and look away.

  Carter’s opening question is less than impressive. “You’ve accepted the freelance mercenary jobs from the greedier Benefactors for a while now, haven’t you?”

  I barely contain my laughter. He folds his arms over his chest and waits for my giggles to fade.

  “Interrogation 101: Questions work better when you don’t already know the answer,” I say.

  “Before you make your next smartass remark, remember this: I control your food, drink, and bathroom privileges. I can also blare noise over the ship’s speakers, twenty-four seven, and keep you awake for the next three nights in a row. Sleep deprivation is an excellent way to motivate answers to questions.”

  “That’s torture.”

  “Whatever.”

  I wonder if there’s a bluff buried beneath his poker face. While I’m certain—mostly certain—that I’m important to the Benefactors, I don’t know how far he’s authorized to go to extract information.

  Merde. Better not push too much further.

  “I’ve been doing side jobs for Benefactors for a while,” I say.

  “Do you know the names of the individuals who pay for your services?”