A couple hours later, I was sitting atop an empty grain barrel in the back of my truck, eating a tin of hydrated soy meal for supper while I waited for my client’s people to come to the private warehouse where I was parked and relieve me of my newest cargo. I had to admit, if only to myself, I was eager to be rid of it.
I’d never moved live goods before, and despite my willingness to transport all manner of other things without batting an eye, suddenly I was wondering if the three diamonds waiting at the end of this job were payment enough for what I was carrying. More than that, I was wondering about the contents of the container sitting just a few short paces away from me in the truck. Speculating on just what was shuffling around inside there and what my client could possibly want with it.
I picked up the instructions the dock boss had handed me before I’d left Port Phoenix. They were written on a small square of dried animal skin that had been affixed to the container from its point of origin. I’d read the directions already, three succinct orders, penned by a bold hand:
Keep the crate and contents dry at all times.
Do not insert anything into the crate.
Do not open under any circumstances.
I set down my empty soy meal tin and hopped off the barrel. From where I stood, I saw there were the smallest tears here and there in the plastic tarp. I knew whatever sat inside the large box had been watching me the whole time I’d been in back of the truck with it. I’d felt eyes on me--shrewd, predatory eyes. Now, as I walked closer to the covered crate, the fine hairs at the back of my neck rose in warning.
“They say you are colder than ice.” The deep, cultured male voice sounded from behind the concealing plastic and confining wood. “No one ever mentioned that you were also very beautiful. As dark and enticing as night itself . . . Nisha, the Heartless.”
I didn’t say anything at first. Shock stole my breath and I stood there for a long moment, dumbstruck and unmoving. I hadn’t expected to hear my cargo speak to me, let alone know my name. Oh, I’d assumed it was some kind of beast in the crate--even now, I knew that he was something Strange, more than likely--but the smooth tone and elegant voice took me aback completely.
“What are you?”
“Come closer and see for yourself. I have no wish to harm you, even if I were able.”
I snorted, snapped cleanly out of my stupor by that treacherous invitation. “The only way I’d come any closer to one of the Strange is to put a pistol up against its head.”
“Ah, yes,” he said, exhaling a quiet sigh. Chains clinked and straw rustled as he moved about in his tight prison. “How you love your weapons, Nisha. Particularly when they are used against my kind. Many have died because of the arms you’ve put into the hands of bad men.”
“I do what I have to in order to survive,” I said, unsure why I felt the need to defend myself to him. “I’m in the supply-and-demand business, that’s all. My clients pay me to deliver things they want. What they do with those things is not my concern.”
“Hmm.” He shifted inside the crate again, and I could feel that assessing stare locked on me still. “So, you’re saying that you would just as easily sell your weapons for war to me--to one of the Strange--if I had the need and the wherewithal to meet your price?”
I wouldn’t, and we both knew it. I glared toward the covered crate. “I don’t need to justify what I do, least of all to someone like you.”
He released a heavy breath. “No, you don’t. And it was pointless to even ask it. My kind has no desire to wage a war against man. We never did.”
“You’d never win anyway,” I pointed out flatly. “You have too few numbers, for one thing, and most of you are indentured, besides. Wars take more than weapons, you know. They take vision and determination. They take leaders, and that’s something your kind has lacked all along. If the Strange were going to fight, they should have done it long ago.”
“Yes. You’re right, Nisha.” I heard regret in his voice now, and told myself I had no reason to feel guilty for that. “But there are those among my kind who believe that, in time, there will be peace.”
I exhaled a humorless laugh. “That’s why you’re sitting in a crate in shackles, about to be shipped off to who knows where and for what purpose.”
“I know what lies ahead for me,” he replied, that velvety deep voice as calm as I’d heard it so far. “I won’t be enslaved. That’s not why they took me. My capture will have only one outcome.”
“Death,” I whispered, ignoring the twinge in my chest. I wanted to see his face in that moment--whether or not it was Strangely hideous--to determine if the thought of dying scared him even a little. It didn’t seem to, and I held my ground, fisting my hands at my sides instead of reaching out to move aside the tarp that hid him. “You know you will be killed.”
“Eventually, yes,” he said, without a trace of fear or sorrow. “I feel my death might serve a higher purpose.”
I shook my head, unsure if he could see me or not. For some reason, despite everything I knew and felt about his kind, his resignation bothered me. More than bothered me, it pissed me off. “You’re just giving up. Don’t try to pretend it has anything to do with honor.”
“Sometimes, Nisha the Heartless, there is a greater good to be gained in dying than there was in living. For me, certainly. I go to my fate willingly.”
I barked out a sharp laugh. “Well, then, I guess that makes you either very courageous, or very stupid.”
I reminded myself that he wasn’t my problem. His fate--whether or not he welcomed it with open arms--sure as hell was not my concern. I walked over and picked up my empty soy meal tin, my movements tight with aggravation.
“I’ve had enough thought-provoking conversation for one night,” I told him, more than ready to get away from him and spend the rest of the wait up front in the cab by myself. “Get some rest. Your other ride should be here soon.”
I jumped out of the back of the truck and closed the doors, sealing him inside.