Afterburn

by S. L. Viehl

  “Then I have to question your choice of specimen.” She tossed the towel into a nearby bin and slipped on her footgear. “You know there isn’t anything like mogshrikes on any water world in this quadrant. I know, I’ve checked.”

  “There is one species, as yet unidentified.”

  “The only thing that comes close is . . .” She trailed off and stared at him.

  There was one species. Like the creature believed for so many centuries to be living in Loch Ness on Terra, the only creature comparable to a mogshrike had never been proven to exist. It was called the ultimate nightmare, feared by even the most fearsome.

  “The rogur.” She wanted to laugh. “Oh, that’s priceless.”

  “Catching one would be.”

  “The rogur are a myth. Probably dreamed up by some traders that the Faction stiffed or enslaved.”

  “It exists, Terri.”

  “The Faction would be very interested to hear that,” she said, “seeing as they’ve been trying to find the rogur for years. They even published the results of the orbital surveys they conducted, so that competitive species would stop trying to land illegal probes in their oceans. In three centuries of searching, no one has ever found a rogur. No live ones, no bones, not so much as a fossilized rogur tooth has ever been uncovered.”

  “But the Hsktskt still fear the rogur, and they have to be stopped,” he said.

  He actually believed it. “For God’s sake, Noel, the rogur isn’t real. It’s a boogeyman story, invented to scare little Hsktskt into being good killers. That’s all.” A thought occurred to her. “Why all the interest in a fairy tale?”

  “The war is progressing slowly but surely into Faction space. We know there is something living on their homeworld, something that makes mogshrike look like guppies.”

  “How do you know? Where’s your proof?”

  He seemed to struggle with an answer before he said, “We’ve heard some rumors. Satellite recon shows the coastal cities on the Faction homeworld have been abandoned. The only things that would make them do that are the rogur.”

  Finally Teresa understood. “You’re planning to invade the Hsktskt homeworld. Good God. When?”

  “Eventually.” There was no remorse in his eyes, no hint of regret or shame in his voice. Noel had always been able to sleep very well at night, Teresa remembered. Even after he had done some fairly unforgivable things. “As you say, Terri, here is the bottom line: I don’t trust you any more than you trust me. I can’t use you the way I did when we were both young and stupid, and you can’t make my situation any worse than it is. Just consider what will happen if I leave and quadrant sends someone else in. Someone who will take over the URD and do exactly what he wants, whether you like it or not. And if it comes to that, who do you think will get quadrant’s blessing?”

  Right now the only thing Teresa was sure of was that he meant what he said. He would find a way to use her adopted planet, or if denied, someone else would come and take what they wanted by force.

  She could use him to save the ’Zangians, or she could take her chances with a stranger. “All right. I’ll go and speak to the Elders. Look at me, Noel.”

  He looked.

  Teresa placed her hand on the center of his chest and pushed. He went over the edge and into the moon pool with an enormous splash before he resurfaced, sputtering.

  “Why did you do that?”

  “Whoever told you I wasn’t a vindictive person?” She smiled gently down at him. “Lied.”

  CHAPTER 6

  B urn met no other mercenaries on his way to the portside tank where the surviving Ylydii were being held. Part of him was glad; the small wound inflicted by the male he had killed had already stopped bleeding, but the rawness of it inflamed the rage inside him. He focused on making his way through the ship and cooling his blood by working out the Ylydii’s helm controls in his mind. Within a few minutes he was in the corridor leading to the occupied tank.

  The taste of death fouled the water, adding to his fury, but with it came something else—something coiled and tense and alive.

  Burn needed to make the survivors aware of his presence, and narrow their point of location, but releasing a full pulse might alarm those guarding them. Instead, he uttered a soft wave of wordless sound, low enough to be mistaken for the normal noises made by the ship. Almost at once the wave bounced back to him and gave him all he needed to know about the occupants beyond the tank’s single open hatch.

  One male wearing equipment to breathe; a mercenary. A second form, motionless with death. And the third, almost as still as the second, but breathing.

  Duo. He released a second, more focused pulse.

  The low vibrations that returned this time painted a vivid portrait of the third. She was female, long and beautifully shaped. The graceful echo of her form absorbed him, sending small shocks of pleasure down his spine, until he realized why she was hardly moving. Something tightly wrapped around her form.

  Restrained.

  The pleasure of feeling her through the water faded. She was in trouble, perhaps wounded. Her companion was dead, and the water was rank with blood. At least here on the ship the smell and taste of it wouldn’t attract predators, as it would if they were on K-2.

  Burn wanted nothing more than to charge the tank, but he forced himself to think as a soldier, not an outraged male. Have to protect her. Disable the mercenary first.

  There was one way in or out; he could see signs that the other hatch leading into the tank had been welded shut. He couldn’t risk firing a weapon blindly into the interior; the charge might hit the survivor and kill her. That left subterfuge, something at which he had never particularly excelled. He swam back and forth, keeping his movements as minimal as possible so as not to disturb the water too much.

  A low-pulsed hum—not ’Zangian—enveloped him. He went still and shuddered as it caressed his hide. The music of it sank through his flesh and seemed to warm the center of his bones. Only when a second wave washed over him did he pick up the subtle difference in intensity from the first. The eerie song was not being directed at him; she was singing it to the guard.

  She was also moving closer to the hatch.

  Quit that wailing, a harsh humanoid voice said, or I’ll blast you a new blowhole.

  Burn repositioned himself just outside the tank. He waited until he felt the singer in the center, and felt the disturbance in the water as the guard lifted his weapon. Then he kicked off a wall panel and shot into the tank, making himself into a missile and slamming into the guard’s legs.

  Bubbles and pulse fire sprayed through the water as the guard was upended into an uncontrolled spin. Burn disarmed him with a single flip of his flukes and grabbed the pulse rifle before using the stock wedge to crush the flow valve at the top of the guard’s air tanks.

  I’m Militia, he called out. You’re safe now.

  A shadow darted beneath him, a patch of quick-moving black. Adrenaline surged in his veins as he flipped over and darted down, slamming into the small form and pinning it to the bottom of the tank.

  The pulse released from the creature was frightened, capitulating, and not at all like the sound that had come from the survivor. Keeping one fin hook pressed to the soft flesh beneath it, Burn flipped on the light of his headgear.

  She was Ylydii, and she was blindfolded. Cord-netting covered her body from neck to flukes.

  He tore the cloth from her head. That revealed large black eyes, rimmed with gold, which blinked and then widened to stare into his. The soft black of her eyes matched the hide covering her trunk and fins. It was so dense it reflected none of the dim light, but instead seemed to absorb it. She might have been a very dark ’Zangian female, except for her fins, which, even as tightly furled as they were, stretched three times the length of Burn’s.

  Who are you? he demanded.

  A . . . member of Ambassador Carada’s staff.

  Burn clenched his teeth. Catching her like this was making him feel things comp
letely inappropriate to the situation, so he focused on releasing her from her bonds. Why were you trying to escape?

  She worked one pectoral forelimb free and began helping him strip away the net. I thought you were one of them.

  I identified myself when I disabled the guard.

  They said they were Militia, too, when they came for me. Fear colored the soft pitch of her voice. Is anyone left alive?

  I don’t know. Burn eased the last of the net from her flukes and saw that she still held her fins in tight furls. It’s all right, I’m not going to hurt you. I was sent to help. Where is the ambassador?

  She made a fin gesture for helplessness. I don’t know.

  He felt a change in the water. Are you injured?

  No. Her great dark eyes narrowed. But you are.

  It’s nothing. There were no currents into which he could drop to increase his speed, so Burn tore off his flightsuit and presented his back to her. Grab onto my fin. As soon as he felt her latch on, he added, Hold on tight, this is going to be fast.

  Swimming fast meant no longer maintaining a visual field, so Burn sent a series of continuous pulses ahead of him to navigate his way through the dark passages leading away from the tank.

  The female Ylydii did her part by clinging fast to his fin and keeping her head pressed down against his hide, eliminating most of the drag her body might have caused. Burn could feel her frantic heartbeat against his spine, but he didn’t dare to slow down to explain things more until he had put some distance between them and the other mercenaries on the ship.

  Once they were in the hub, he slowed and rolled, swimming upside down to keep the female from being a target to any snipers possibly positioned overhead. At last Burn reached the cargo hold he had secured, and after pulsing to assure it remained empty, he secured the hatch and came to a stop. This is safe for now.

  For a moment she clung to him, and then slowly she released her hold on his dorsal fin. What about the others?

  He swam over to the wall panel and attached a transmitting device to it. I’m going back to get them, as soon as I can signal for reinforcements.

  Liana watched the ’Zangian as he communicated with his patrol. Never had she seen a male so large or powerfully made. How could a female hope to control such a male? Were the other males of his kind of such size? Did they issue orders to their females as easily as he had to her? Was he never punished for such audacity?

  Maybe his females do not exercise their authority over their males.

  Liana had never had any personal contact with the other aquatic species, nor had she been permitted to learn a great deal about them. Her mother had once told her that the ’Zangians and their ways were very different from their own, and at the time she had not sounded as if she had approved.

  Males are suitable for pleasant companionship, and breeding, Liana, but that is all. Their bodies are too weak, and they have no song, so their minds never truly develop. It would be unkind to demand more of them.

  Liana caught herself staring at the ’Zangian and averted her gaze. She was glad that she had not given him her proper title, and that there was no one around to see her behaving so badly. If she had shown such attention to an Ylydii male, other females would have interpreted it as a mating claim.

  He finished sending his signal and turned to inspect her. Are you hurt? I tasted blood when I found you.

  It was not mine. Astonished that he would attend to her when he was wounded, she stretched out her petite veils. It seems that I am only bruised.

  Let me check. He circled around her like a grandmother. There are marks on your back and sides.

  From the bonds. They were tight. Liana turned with him, trying to keep face-to-face. His singular gray color did not repel her, but it did seem odd. Where are your veils? She had thought them concealed under the strange, false hide he had worn before, until he had removed it.

  We don’t have veiled fins like you, and I’ve been changed. It’s a long story. The ’Zangian went to the hatch and checked the locking mechanism before returning to her. What is your name?

  No Ylydii would ever have been so rude, and for a moment she stiffened. Then she understood: she had not given him her name, and he needed to call her something. I am called Liana. Although he was only a male, she made the appropriate gesture of naming oneself before a comrade.

  I’m Sublieutenant Byorn mu Znora. My pod calls me Burn.

  Burn. Yes, he did exactly that, with life and power and determination. She repeated it, and while she had never met anyone named for such a violent verb, she liked the sound of it. What will we do now?

  The mercenaries will soon begin searching for us. I don’t know if the patrol can get to the docking portal to send in reinforcements. Burn disconnected his transmitter. I must fly the ship out of the battle zone. Stay here.

  If he was not with her, she might be captured again. I can help you. I will watch your back, and show you where things are. Thank heavens her mother had insisted she be given a thorough tour of the ship.

  He regarded her for a moment before turning. Climb onto me.

  Such intimate physical contact with an alien male was not seemly, and it was time she began behaving like an Ylydii royal should. I can swim on my own, Burn.

  Liana, if anyone shoots at us, I can shield you better if you’re holding on there. He waited, obviously certain that she would obey him.

  Had her mother heard Burn issuing such orders, she would have ordered him driven from the synchrony. But what he asked of Liana made sense, and there was no one to observe her abandonment of protocol. Still, it had been much easier when she had done this in the tank, when she had been afraid for her life.

  Your life is still in danger, she reminded herself.

  Gingerly Liana latched onto his dorsal fin again, and aligned the lower half of her body so that it cradled the back of his. The coupling position was reversed—if they had been mating, they would have faced each other, belly to belly—but it did not make her feel any more comfortable.

  Do you have a good hold on me? he asked her as he swam to the hatch. You are so light and little I can barely feel you.

  Were we still face-to-face, you would feel a great deal more, Liana thought a little hysterically. Out loud she simply said, Yes. Don’t let go, Burn said, and then he opened the hatch and shot into the conduit.

  Emily Kim walked out of the corridor leading to the public reading room of the Colonial Archives. She had woken up an hour earlier than necessary to prepare for her shift at Admin, and decided to visit the archive and continue learning about K-2, and possibly make some friends.

  Unfortunately, she was making more headway with the planet than the people.

  It wasn’t the other colonists’ fault. As she scanned the faces around her, she noted that her presence brought out the usual range of emotions from indifference to dislike. And as always, no one would speak to her, no matter how friendly she tried to be. It was exactly the same way her neighbors at her living quarters treated her. She tried not to take it personally—she was Terran, after all—but a week had passed and the silent hostility wasn’t getting any easier to endure.

  Her casual glance around the room continued, and then halted as she saw the bald, dark pink head of the one person on K-2 besides her boss who had been friendly toward her.

  Don’t rush over, she told herself as she walked through the aisles, making her way to him. He’s reading, so wait and don’t break his concentration. Don’t let on that you can’t remember exactly how to pronounce his name. She kept her pace sedate, and her expression polite, but her heart was definitely trying to hammer its way out of her rib cage.

  The young male Omorr looked up before she came within five meters of his terminal. “Emily Kim of Terra.”

  “Hkyrim of Omorr.”

  He regarded her for a long moment. “Are you in need of aid?”

  “I saw you and thought I’d come over to say hello.”

  “Hello.”

  �
�Hi.” Lord, could this conversation become any more wretched? “How are you doing?”

  “I do as I have always done, except now in new and different surroundings.” His skin turned a darker shade of pink, and some of his gildrells straightened. “You are well?”

  She nodded. “Working hard and trying to make friends.”

  “You must make friends easily.”

  “Not lately.” That sounded so pathetic. Was that disgust in his eyes, or pity? It was so hard to tell, and the bottomless pit she was hoping to drop into wasn’t appearing. “I didn’t mean to bother you. I’ll just go now.”

  She would have eased her way past two grape-cluster-eyed beings, but felt a delicate touch on her shoulder.

  “Emily.”

  She had to look down to make sure, but yes, it was one of the Omorr’s marvelous, spade-shaped hands on her shoulder.

  He was standing right behind her.

  “I was . . . bothered . . . to see you, but it is because I am not used to such attention.” Hkyrim moved to face her. “I am not skilled with words, nor have I ever met a Terran before you. I worry I will say something offensive.”

  “I know my species is notorious for being unfriendly toward, well, basically everyone else in the universe, but I’m not like them. Actually I transferred to K-2 because it’s a multispecies colony, and I thought it would be the perfect place to learn more about people from other worlds.” She sighed. “The only problem is that now that I’m here, no one will give me a chance.”

  He glanced at the others around them. “I have not made any new friends, either. Most species have an aversion to those who handle the dead.”

  She felt a surge of sympathy. “That’s not fair.”

  “I am used to it now.” He looked at his wristcom. “I have not yet had my afternoon meal interval. I become very irritable when I must eat alone. Are you in need of nourishment?”

  Emily grinned. “Desperately.”