part0075

She stood at the hatch to the cargo hold and studied the stryker through the small portal. Her fingers worried the webbing of the holster slung around her hips. The pistol’s charge light was a baleful red.

“Understood, Commander,” Veradin replied as he peered over her shoulder through the thick glass.

Their view of the space was limited. The internal cameras to monitor it were non-functioning, something that posed little surprise to Sela. The cargo bay was designed to be large enough to host two troop runners at a time. The ship’s docking web had deposited the stryker closer to the center of the bay. She was glad to see that tactically there was room to maneuver around the vessel.

The voice of the Cass declared hangar pressurization in Regimental. Veradin’s hand hovered over the palm interface to cycle open the lock.

Her nerves were long, tense wires plucked by every sound and sudden movement. She could be no more ready.

The lock opened. The cold air of the hangar swirled past their ankles as it met the warmer air of the companionway. Sela was swift to move. Weapon trained on the canopy of the stryker, she stepped in front of Veradin and led the way down the steps to the hangar floor. She put out a staying hand as they approached the strange vessel. He sidestepped her with an exasperated grunt. Her protectiveness was often an irritant to him. But it was her duty.

Veradin stepped up on the rung just beneath the swooped silver wing of the vessel.

“Sir! First contact dictates—”

“Not now.” He gestured for her to approach the craft’s other side.

Sela ducked beneath the wing and took a position opposite him along the stryker’s canopy. Frost had collected on the darkened slits of glass, obscuring the interior.

Veradin rapped the glass. The sound shattered the tense silence of the bay. There was no reaction from the pilot within. Sela adjusted her grip on the weapon.

Abruptly he hopped back to the hangar deck. He disappeared beneath the low arch of the wing. She realized he was looking for the emergency override for the canopy access. He must have found it because she soon heard his victorious shout.

They were treated to the hiss of escaping heated air from the cockpit. Ice fractured and fell to the hangar deck, and a column of steam snaked upward. The smell of charred circuits and burning plasteel filled the bay.

Sela climbed up on the stryker’s wing then recoiled. A baking heat emanated from the darkened interior. “Careful, sir!”

As the steam cleared, Sela could see within. Coiled in the close confines of the cockpit was the pilot, chest pitched forward against the yoked flight column. Veradin reached into the space and righted the body against the seat. The pilot’s head rolled limply. Long dark hair, the same shade as Veradin’s, obscured the pilot’s features. Sela felt her heart constrict into a cold knot even as the heat threatened to suck air from her lungs.

Veradin carefully brushed the hair back from the pilot’s face, but Sela knew already what she would see. The young woman’s peculiar jade green eyes gazed sightlessly up at the overhead lights.

The captain dove into the cockpit, ignoring Sela’s cautionary shout. He straddled Erelah’s form, snapping open the safety harness that held her in place. He cradled her face in his hands.

“Erelah! Erelah! Wake up!”

Her eyelids fluttered. The girl’s lips moved in an inaudible muttering. He pulled her up. Righting himself, he looped her over one shoulder to climb from the cockpit. Beneath the bulky flight suit she appeared tiny; nothing more than a skeletal frame.

He collapsed to the deck and pulled her into a clumsy embrace. Sela stood over their awkward family reunion with her weapon still drawn.

“Help me,” he panted. “Get the medistat, Ty.”

Despite the cloying heat of the hangar, Sela felt that icy kernel in her heart grow.

All the time Erelah continued to mutter. The words made no sense to Sela, but she recognized their meter and inflection. Lineao had repeated the same prayer to the Fates relentlessly as he worked on Atilio’s body.

Sela stepped quietly across the threshold with the spare set of clothes, a disposable single suit found in one of the crew lockers. The garment was about three sizes too big for the waif-like Erelah but served as Sela’s excuse for explaining her presence if the captain appeared. Her real reason was not compassion, but curiosity.

Erelah slept curled into a tight ball. Her back was thrust against the wall, her knees clasped to her chest. She had made herself into a small, dense point. Even the light and clarity of the room seemed to disperse in proximity to this strange young woman. Kneeling beside her, Sela placed the clothes on the bunk and studied the still, pale features of Lady Erelah, Last Daughter of Veradin. The soft shape of the face echoed that of Sela’s captain. High cheekbones, a delicately sculpted nose. The family resemblance was obvious, but the brother and sister could not be more different. Jon had said she was his junior by a few years, making her twenty-something standard. But she was so much younger, like a girl. And nothing but a frail tech.

The Kindred ladies that Sela had briefly glimpsed on Victory days were aloof, gliding visages draped in gossamer and full of refined grace. If Jonvenlish Veradin was a brilliant guiding star then this one, Erelah, was a collapsed one.

“Your purpose. Identify yourself.” The voice was hoarse, but the challenge in it was plain. It came from beneath the snarl of dark hair.

“Commander Tyron.”

A sliver of pale face appeared above Erelah’s tucked-in knees. There was a surety to her voice that surprised Sela. “You came to stare, Commander?”

She stiffened. “The Captain is concerned.”

There was a frigid silence. Then: “Jonvenlish, the caring, dedicated brother.”

Since being taken onship, Erelah had spent most of her time asleep. Occasionally she would wake to utter a string of nonsense in Eugenes. This was her most coherent round of conversation yet. A shame Veradin had chosen now for rack time. But it was Sela’s opportunity to question her without his brotherly hovering.

How had she known to find us? That question was her priority.

“How did you—”

“How long have I been in this location?” Erelah’s jade green stare looked past Sela’s shoulder into the corridor. She resisted the urge to follow the girl’s gaze.

“Slightly over sixteen hours onship. I don’t know how long you were adrift.”

The girl studied Sela.

She decided to prod again. “How did you get here in a stryker? There must be a support carrier—”

“The stryker…” Her eyes narrowed. “Where is it?”

“Safe,” Sela replied. Something was not right here.

“Where are we now?”

Who was doing the interrogating? A sense of warning chilled Sela. It told her to keep the answers from this woman.

Perhaps Erelah had received more damage than they could surmise, but this was not how Sela had expected this conversation to go. A dark intent seemed to radiate from the girl. It was in the unblinking stare and in the quiet, incongruously patient voice.

“Commander Sela Tyron.” Erelah’s eyes shifted back. Her pale lips stretched into a mocking smile. “Ty.”

A chill danced along Sela’s spine. She had not told Erelah her familiar name. Perhaps the captain had told her, but she doubted this.

Another unsettling silence stretched between them in which Sela felt studied, marked.

Then a tremor shook Erelah’s body. Her face sank beneath the mass of dark hair.

Had she lost consciousness once more? Cautiously, Sela touched the damp skin. The girl was like a furnace.

With a sharp gasp, Erelah crabbed back, pressing into the wall. She looked around the room frantically. “Don’t touch me!”

Sela fell back onto her haunches, surprised.

Her captain’s voice erupted from the doorway: “What the Fates! Ty!”

“What do you want?” Erelah sobbed as if seeing Sela for the first time. “Who are you?”

She sneered. Was she truly that damaged? “I just told you—”

“What’s going on?” Veradin demanded, stomping into the room. He tossed ration wafers and a water packet on the foot of the bunk and frowned at Sela in accusatory silence.

“I was checking on her,” she blurted, climbing to her feet.

No way was she going to take the blame for Erelah’s theatrics. As if she would want to provoke this.

“Please don’t touch me!” Erelah begged up at both of them. “You don’t know! Just don’t touch me!”

This was not the same woman who had spoken to Sela moments ago. This was a panic-stricken waif. Erelah wedged herself into the corner and braced her arms against the walls. The confused expression on the girl’s face told her this was a person in control of nothing, not even her own mind, it seemed. If it was an act, she could not see the motivation for it.

Sela stepped back. “Did you tell her my name? My full name?”

“What?” he answered distractedly. “No. She’s barely been conscious.”

He turned to his sister. Despite her struggles, he pulled the girl to him.

“She is obviously distressed.” His voice softened. He made hushing noises.

She watched them, two dark heads bowed against misery. Erelah’s sobs pressed to a low mutter. Veradin rocked them back and forth, uttering crooning sounds.

He looked up at Sela over his sister’s head. “She hasn’t your strength, Ty. She is not a soldier. You have to understand that.”

Sela backed into the corridor. An ugly hitch filled her chest. It was a sensation she did not care to examine. She had been dismissed. She did not exist in their little world. She was the dumb breeder who could not even speak their language.