Guardian

Alerio opened his eyes and sat up on his bunk. For a moment, he just sat there, trying to get his bearings. His eyes felt gluey, and his mouth had a nasty aftertaste he associated with a long antivirus session. “Computer, are you activated?”

He blew out a breath and fell back on his elbows in relief. It had taken him hours to identify and destroy the Trojan, but he’d finally succeeded. Now it was time to check on his fellow Enforcers. He’d ordered the agents to work in pairs, assigning one fourth of them to take the first shift while the second group watched over them. Then the first crew would watch over the second. After those two groups were back online, the third and fourth teams would alternate. It would be slow work, but this was not the kind of thing you could rush, not with an infection this massive and invasive.

He frowned, glancing around his cabin. Speaking of which, where the hell was Galar, who had been serving as his spotter? The Master Enforcer was nowhere around, though he’d been here when Alerio went under. “Comp, contact Master Enforcer Galar Arvid.”

Alerio’s frown deepened. Galar would never have left him alone under these circumstances. Unless, that is, something had gone badly wrong while he was out.

He rolled off his bunk and moved through his quarters, conducting a fast but thorough search by eye and sensor. There was no sign of the big Warlord. Not that there were many places to hide in here.

Galar lay sprawled on the deck just outside his door, his eyes staring sightlessly at the ceiling. Blood pooled around his body in a lake of red. His throat had been slashed.

“Galar!” Going cold with shock, Alerio dropped to one knee beside his friend and searched for the pulse that should beat beneath the agent’s jaw. “Dr. Chogan, man down outside my quarters!”

Even as he made the call, he knew it was too late. Galar’s body was cold. Chogan could do a great deal, but she couldn’t bring back someone who had been dead that long.

“Activate all Enforcer emergency response teams,” Alerio snapped. Something was badly wrong, and he damn well wanted to know what was going on. “I want at least two teams down here, and two more to check the infirmary. Everyone else conduct a thorough deck-to-deck search of the Outpost, including the concourse and civilian Jump stations. I want a full status report on anything unusual.”

The next pause was so long, there was ample time for a chill to start crawling up his spine. “There is no response to the call.”

What the fuck was going on? “Send evidence collection ’bots to this location.” There was nothing he could do for Galar now except find his killer. But his most immediate concern was the living members of the Outpost, both agents and civilians.

With a last apologetic glance at his friend—oh, hell, he was going to have to tell Jess her husband of two weeks had been murdered—Alerio rose and started down the corridor.

He found the next body lying in the corridor. Wulf was a short, massively powerful heavy-worlder who had always been more than a match for anything he encountered. Someone had stabbed him over and over again. His blood splashed the bulkheads, deck, and ceiling in a three-meter radius. He had obviously fought hard for his life.

By the time the Chief found the fourth mutilated body, he was running. He didn’t even break step. If there was anyone left alive, it was his job to save whoever it was.

Had to be Xerans. Had to find the sons of bitches. And kill them. He’d grieve once his enemies had paid for what they’d done.

Ivar Terje looked up at him from Dona Astryr’s butchered body. The traitor was covered in blood. “I told you I’d kill her.”

Alerio opened his eyes and sat up on his bunk. For a moment, he just sat there, trying to get his bearings. His eyes felt gluey, and his mouth had a nasty aftertaste he associated with a long antivirus session. “Computer, are you activated?”

Chief Alerio Dyami finally collapsed back in his restraints, his massive body going still, panting, his wide eyes staring blankly at the infirmary ceiling. At least he wasn’t howling anymore. Those deep-throated bellows of horror had ripped at Dona’s soul like a point-blank blast from a shard pistol.

But even as he fell silent, Galar Arvid began to bellow his wife’s name from the next bunk, fighting the field restraints that barely kept him from tearing his way free. Jessica hovered by his side, stroking his face in a desperate attempt to calm him. “I’m here, baby, I’m here,” she chanted. “I’m fine. It’s an illusion, baby . . .”

Ten more bunks filled the room, all occupied by the Outpost’s senior officers. The agents muttered, swore, raged, then fell into a comatose stillness before beginning the process all over again.

The doctor paused for a weary moment. She looked like hell, her mouth pinched in a white face, her eyes haunted with worry for her patients. “No, dammit. The nearest we can figure, these agents were able to debug their computers just like the rest of the Outpost, but that seems to have triggered some kind of secondary infection. I deactivated their comps, but it didn’t even slow the thing down. Apparently whatever it is has somehow infected their brains, but my sensors can’t even detect it. I have no fucking idea what we’re dealing with.”

“Yeah. That goddess of yours—you might want to do some praying to her.” As if unable to stand still another moment, Chogan strode away again.

“I don’t think I can take much more of this.” Moving like a sleepwalker, Jess joined Dona beside Alerio’s bed. She had picked up a cup of stimchai in shaking hands. The liquid had grown cold, judging by the lack of steam. “I feel like I’m about to start screaming. Why was everyone except the senior staff able to get rid of the Trojan? These are the most experienced agents on the Outpost—they should have been able to defeat this thing if anybody could.”

“That’s a really good question.” Dona took the cup of stimchai away from Jess and dropped it into one of the bedside recyclers. “Why don’t we go”—she peeled her lips back from her teeth—“ask the only guy who knows? I don’t know about you, but I’m thoroughly sick of watching these men suffer.”

Jess looked startled for a moment before an answering grin lit her face that was every bit as carnivorous as Dona’s. “Yeah, I have a couple of questions for Alex Corydon myself.”

“If the Victor’s not a living thing, what the hell is He?” Nick demanded over Riane’s low moans of distress. Stroking her hair, he tried to soothe her restless twisting. He felt sick, helpless. It was not a sensation he was used to—or liked one bit.

“Shit! Riane!” Nick bolted off the couch after her, but she was already through the door. He hit it right after her, leaping into the RV clearing.

The Sela glanced around at them in confusion, having evidently returned to their human guises. “Dammit,” he roared, “somebody grab her!” They only blinked at him, standing frozen over their various artistic projects.

Actually, he supposed he couldn’t blame them. Riane bounded along like a deer, and he suspected if any of the Sela had tried to stop her, she’d have plowed right over them.

Which was when two men stepped out of empty air and caught her, arresting her frantic flight. She yowled in fear and swung a wild fist, but one of them grabbed it.

Nick’s instant relief turned to horror when he realized the men wore the black and red armor of the Xer. She screamed again, struggling against their armored hands, but she was too disoriented to fight with any effectiveness.

“I think not.” Another figure winked into view—naked, nine feet tall, and glowing golden, His bald head crowned with a set of horns that would have done a longhorn bull proud, a third spiral horn jutting between them. He snatched Riane from her captors as easily as if she were a toddler.

“Now,” the Victor said over Riane’s gleaming copper hair, “it seems each of us has something the other wants. Hand over the T’Lir . . . now. Otherwise . . .”

More Xerans popped into view, moving rapidly in among the Sela, quantum swords chiming. The Sela cowered away from them, fear and bewilderment plain on their illusionary human faces.

Dona and Jess strode toward the brig at a pace barely short of a run. “I hope that bastard knows something useful,” Jess growled.

The two women looked around to see Frieka trotting after them. His vocalizer indicator lights flashed blue amid the thick black fur around his neck. Alerio had managed to debug the wolf’s computer system before starting the disastrous work on his own.

“Aren’t any more crazy about this situation than we are,” Dona interrupted. “Besides, having been on the receiving end of Frieka’s teeth, I’ll bet Corydon would find them a very effective threat.”

“I’ve always thought so.” Frieka bared the fangs in question. “Just tell me what part of him you want me to bite first. Speaking of which, what is the plan?”

“Galar keeps remembering having to shoot that bitch ex-lover of his, the one who tried to kill him years ago.” A fine muscle worked in Jess’s delicate jaw as she stared down the corridor with bitter eyes. “But when she falls dead, her face turns into mine. He keeps seeing that over and over in an endless nightmare loop.”

“I see the dream in his mind. He’s a really strong broadcaster. The grief and guilt are driving him crazy. And I can’t seem to punch through all that crap and convince him it’s not real.” Jess curled her lip in a snarl of rage. “We’ve got to make Corydon tell us what he did—and how to fix it.”