Chapter Eleven

 

Prince Kyber of the Hans and his magnificent palace were a balanced mix of East and West. For tonight’s dinner with the UCE hatchet man’s only son, it was clear he wanted to emphasize the Asian part of his heritage.

Fruits and flowers decorated a long, polished dining table made of teak inlaid with jade and mother-of-pearl. Volleyball-sized clear spheres held live butterflies and exotic moths. While Bree’s previous meals with Kyber were eaten using conventional Western silverware, tonight’s utensils consisted of solid gold chopsticks and spoons. Tiny gold dishes to hold sauces and red silk napkins highlighted the goldware.

Kyber had changed the walls to a dark yellow to complement the gold. The window screens tonight were open to the real view, the outside courtyard bathed in the colors of the sunset. It was a mild evening with the barest touch of autumn in the air.

Kyber pulled out her chair. As she sat, Bree’s gown swirled around her legs, the amethysts making little bell-like sounds. The dress’s sleeves were designed to fall off the shoulder, but a “smart bra” held the bodice in place. Joo-Eun had pulled Bree’s hair into a twist, securing it with two jewel-tipped sticks. Wisps fell around her jaw and neck. Bree felt good. Pretty. It was the first night since waking in this world that she felt remotely lighthearted. Nothing like good food, gorgeous clothes, and handsome men to erase your self-pity. Well, one handsome man. The other was still missing. “Where is Tyler Armstrong?”

“He will arrive soon.” Kyber settled himself in his chair in front of a place setting of gold and sapphires. “He is dressing for dinner.”

“Dressing for dinner?” Bree sipped from a goblet of icy water. “You treat your prisoners well.”

Kyber smiled and said nothing. The benevolent dictator, Bree thought. The kindhearted tyrant.

She hoped the decent treatment had put Armstrong in a good mood; she desperately wanted to talk to him about Cam. And more. He’d be another view of a world she knew little about. The UCE…the U.S.A….she wondered if she’d find similarities between them that the Interweb and Kyber’s prejudice were unable to reveal. A part of her wanted to find a connection; she missed her home. And yet, she felt obligated to Kyber for all that he’d done for her. That familiar tug-of-war. She struggled, wondered how she’d settle it. But soon, Tyler Armstrong would arrive, and she’d learn the answers to all those questions and more. Nervously, she rubbed her hands together.

A light on the gauntlet computer Kyber wore on his left forearm flashed and beeped. “Yes, Kabul?”

“He is here.”

“Allow him in.”

A couple of Kyber’s leather-clad bodyguards entered the room. Between them was General Armstrong’s son.

The guards left her would-be kidnapper alone in the foyer and retreated to the double entry doors, where they took up a position to either side.

Armstrong glanced back at the guards, as if not believing they’d left him. He walked to the dining table with slow and deliberate steps as if trying to conceal a limp. Bree narrowed her eyes. Something was off. His clothes didn’t fit. His pants were too short. He was leanly muscled and athletic, but gaunt, thinner than the pictures she’d seen of him on the news. His hair was a little longer, too.

Her heart gave a jump when she met his ice-blue eyes. She wasn’t sure what she was expecting to see in them, but the emotional intensity she found there startled her. If was almost as if he had feelings for her.

Bree’s heart gave her ribs another swift kick. Ridiculous, she thought. Tyler Armstrong couldn’t have feelings for her; he didn’t even know her! He was the pirate, and she was the gold. That hadn’t changed from the very first time she’d seen him. If anything, his fascination with her, and his hunger to have her, were sharper than before.

Wasn’t it?

She realized then that she was staring at him. Say something, Maguire. “Thanks for coming to dinner, Mr. Armstrong?”

That appeared to amuse him. The little scar on his upper lip stretched with his half smile. His gaze lingered on her face. “You look lovely. I trust your care is adequate?”

She swallowed against a dry throat. Why did she feel so shy? Men normally didn’t fluster her. This man somehow did. “Thanks, yes. More than adequate. Prince Kyber has generously opened his home to me.”

“Yes, I have,” Kyber cut in. “Sit, Commander Armstrong. Please.” The prince waved at the only other empty chair, on the opposite side of the table from where he sat next to Bree.

Armstrong slid into the chair. He remained stiff and serious, and on guard, as if he expected something to happen at any moment. But his military rigidness faltered some as servant after servant brought in platters and bowls of food and set them out on the table. Savory smells thickened the air. Bree watched Armstrong’s expression. The man’s jaw moved, and he pressed his lips together. His gaze sharpened, his eyes never leaving the food. He was hungry.

Her heart gave a little twist. When was the last time he’d eaten?

A servant murmured to her, wanting her to indicate her choices from the feast. “I don’t care. Pick a selection for me, please.” As soon as the servant went to work filling her plate, Bree pushed a tray toward Armstrong. “Try the meat buns,” she told him. “They’re delicious.”

Almost a little too eagerly, he grabbed one of the steaming buns and tore off a large bite. Chewing, he ate more before swallowing the first. He wasn’t hungry, Bree thought. He was starving.

“Would you care for wine?” a server asked Armstrong.

“Please,” he mumbled between bites.

The woman filled his goblet. Armstrong gulped it down. The polite way he dabbed at his mouth with a napkin was at odds with the ferocity with which he attacked his dinner.

Bree tried to make conversation and break the ice so she could get to the more serious questions about Cam. “Prince Kyber called you Commander. That would make you the naval equivalent of an air force lieutenant colonel, wouldn’t it? That’s the way it was in my time.”

Armstrong glanced up sharply. He stopped chewing. His attention went to Kyber before coming back to her. Then he mumbled something and went back to eating.

She tried again, reaching for common interests. “I am—I was in the United States Air Force.”

“I know,” he said.

“A pilot.”

“Yes.”

Bree gave a silent sigh. He didn’t want to talk, and that didn’t bode well for getting any information out of him.

If she’d been thinking ahead, she could have gotten this information from the Interweb, and used it to make him more comfortable. “So, do you fly, too? Are you a naval aviator? Or just a boat type?”

He spoke as he shoveled food into his mouth with the chopsticks. “Tyler Armstrong, Commander, eighty-twelve, one-one-seven-sixty-two-twenty-two. April third, twenty-one-forty-six.”

When questioned, should I become a prisoner of war, I am bound to give only name, rank, service number, and the date of birth. Article Five: The American Fighting Man’s Code of Conduct. The articles existed to give guidance to captured soldiers, and while he wasn’t an “American,” Armstrong had followed the code to a tee. Kyber told her he’d thrown the commander in jail for trespassing and attempted theft. But Armstrong acted as if he were a prisoner of war.

Was he?

Bree took a closer look at him: the ill-fitting clothes, the thin brown fabric that stretched too tightly across his shoulders. Her gaze traveled to his face. He was tired and drawn. Under his left eye and on his right jaw were yellow and green smudges. Old bruises. They’d beaten him.

Shame and shock squeezed her chest. I’m so sorry. I had no idea. Now she understood why he wouldn’t answer her questions. He thought she was trying to interrogate him. I will evade answering further questions to the utmost of my ability. I will make no oral or written statements disloyal to my country and its allies or harmful to their cause.

Bree put down her chopsticks and stared at her plate. She’d lost her appetite. She’d expected dinner with a rich and spoiled treasure hunter, whom she could sweet-talk into giving her information about Cam. But that’s not what she got. It felt wrong to be dressed in an expensive gown, eating gourmet delicacies, while dining with a beaten-up captive in scruffy clothes, dragged up here only because she’d desired it.

Bree sat still as she listened to the two men eat. The tinkling of chopsticks brushing against china. The softer music in the background. No one spoke.

Kyber? He seemed pleased with himself. See? he seemed to say. I am an open-minded man.

And Tyler Armstrong? His sole focus was wolfing down as much food as he could, as if he thought he might never eat again. Suddenly, she wanted very much for the dinner to be over.

It took all her strength of will to forget her discomfort long enough to ask her questions. “Commander Armstrong.” Her voice seemed to startle both men. “This has nothing to do with your specific duties. I hope you will be able to help me. I wanted to meet with you tonight, because you were the first one to find me in the pod. I wasn’t alone in that long-ago mission. My wingman Cameron Tucker was with me.” Her voice dropped. “Did you see her? Do you know where she is?”

Armstrong stopped chewing. She saw him swallow. Then, with slow and careful movements, he rested his chopsticks on the edge of his almost-empty plate. By sheer force of will, it seemed, he erased all emotion from his face, a skill she lacked. His eyes told her nothing, either; they were chips of ice. “Tyler Armstrong, Commander, eighty-twelve, one-one-seven-sixty-two-twenty-two. April third, twenty-one-forty-six.”

“This is not an interrogation. It’s a plea for help.” She made fists on the tablecloth. “Cam Tucker was my wing-man. She could be out there. Alive!”

“Banzai,” Kyber said in a gentle tone.

She ignored his attempt to soothe her. “Do you know anything, Commander?” She hated the desperation she heard in her voice. “I don’t need details. Just tell me if you know where she is.”

Armstrong’s eyes thawed. He looked as if he wanted to say something and then decided against it.

“What?” she demanded. “What do you know?”

He shook his head. “Nothing,” he said quietly.

Bree’s nostrils flared. She fought the almost overwhelming urge to grab his collar and shake him. “You mean you can’t tell me. You can’t talk. What if it were you, looking for someone in your unit? Someone under your command? You wouldn’t give up.”

A muscle jumped in Armstrong’s jaw. He inhaled, held his breath, released it. And said nothing.

Ack! Bree pressed a fist to her stomach, as if that could somehow keep her from letting go of the last shreds of her composure.

Kyber brought his mouth to her ear. “I knew he’d disappoint you.” He was slow to move away, as if flaunting his familiarity with her, eager to have Armstrong believe it was more. Then, smug, Kyber leaned back in his dining chair, leaving her to sort out the sorrow and resentment in Armstrong’s eyes.

Just barely, she squelched the urge to explain that she wasn’t sleeping with Kyber. She wasn’t supposed to care what this stranger thought of her personal life. Why she did was anyone’s guess.

Armstrong folded his napkin and placed it on the table next to his plate. With one last soulful look at his unfinished meal, he said, “I don’t think I’ll stay for dessert.”

She caught his eyes and mouthed, Eat.

His gaze hesitated on hers. Then, with an oddly self-satisfied glance in Kyber’s direction, he lowered his head to devour down the rest of his food.

Kyber sipped his wine and regarded his prisoner with what could only be hatred. But his animosity didn’t appear to bother Armstrong in the least. It amazed her that he seemed to consider his loss of her more important than saving his own hide, which he wasn’t doing a very good job of preserving, provoking the man who held the keys to the dungeon.

“Don’t let it fool you,” Armstrong murmured.

She frowned, shaking her head.

He waved a hand at the sumptuous feast. “The finery. Don’t let it fool you. You’re a prisoner here, Banzai, just as I am.”

“I’m not a prisoner. I’m free to go.”

Armstrong lifted a brow. “Really?”

“Yes, really,” Kyber answered for her. “Banzai Maguire is my guest, and is here by choice. She understands the dangers that exist outside these walls—and that with me, she is safe.”

“You couldn’t even keep your own father safe.”

Kyber’s face closed immediately, as it had when she’d asked about the assassination attempt that had left the king in an irreversible vegetative state. “You are out of line!”

“Well, could you?”

“Silence!” Armstrong had twisted the knife in what appeared to be a still-raw wound.

Kyber’s chair scraped backward, and he stood. Dressed all in black, he was downright menacing. “You know nothing of the truth, you son of an imperialist pig.”

“If you couldn’t keep your own father safe, how will you keep Banzai out of harm’s way?”

“You question my security?”

“Damn right, I do.”

Bree groaned. Boys, boys.

“Must I remind you, Commander, that the very safety measures you question stopped you before you could steal Banzai away? Without proper medical attention, she would have died. Thanks to my security team, you didn’t kill her.”

“Kill her?” Armstrong shouted back, incredulous. He turned to her. “The UCE wants to repatriate you, Banzai. We want to bring you home...”

Home. Her chest ached with the word. How she wished home still existed. But the country she saw daily on the news didn’t resemble in any way the nation to which she’d once pledged allegiance. Where was her home now?

“Why do your countries hate each other so much?” she asked, finally expressing out loud the question dogging her since she’d arrived at the palace.

That elicited a moment or two of surprised silence.

“What I mean is—you two are enemies because your countries are at war. Right?”

“We are not at war,” Kyber bellowed. “But if they send more delinquents to steal what’s mine—”

“She is not yours,” the commander yelled back.

“She certainly does not belong to you.”

“I disagree.”

Bree dropped her head in her hands. She could hear it now: Is not…is too…is not…

“She was born in the northeast sector of the Central Colony,” Armstrong pointed out.

“And she remained here, protected within my lands for almost two centuries. If the UCE wanted her, perhaps they should have shown a little more interest.”

“The UCE didn’t know!”

“But why so much hatred?” she interrupted. “Why can’t your governments come up with a treaty?”

“There is a treaty,” Kyber said. “The UCE refused to sign it.”

“What treaty is that?” Armstrong demanded.

Kyber lifted an elegant brow. “The one drawn up after the UCE conceded defeat at the end of the Bai-Yee Wars. It sits in its airless case in the Royal Museum. The signature line that reads The United Colonies of Earth? Notoriously blank.” He turned to Bree and explained. “My kingdom began as a league of Asian nations linked by an economic trade agreement. The Asian Economic Consortium. Fifty years of the West outsourcing high-tech jobs had brought us wealth and power that no one anticipated. The UCE wanted it. Wanted us. When they sought to tax what we gave to the world, we declared independence.” He narrowed his eyes at the UCE commander. “And we bled mightily to achieve it. The Bai-Yee Wars. The fighting ended many generations ago. Now, we, the Kingdom of Asia, don’t share with anyone. We don’t need to. We have it all and in higher quality and quantity than anyone else on this planet.”

Armstrong’s mouth twisted. “Is that why you keep your citizenry in bondage?”

Kyber groaned. “The usual UCE refrain. It’s all they can come up with in criticism. In truth, your people are the ones in bondage—shackled to out-of-control taxation and overgovernment.”

“At least we can leave the country.”

“Ah. That is the fundamental difference between our lands. My people do not want to leave.”

“What would make this better?” Bree asked. A fighter pilot attempting diplomatic mediation. If ever a situation paralleled the bull-in-the-china-shop metaphor, this was it. “If the UCE signed the Bai-Yee treaty?”

“It will never happen,” Kyber said.

Armstrong shook his head, apparently in agreement for the first time with his enemy. “It won’t,” he agreed.

“That’s too bad,” she said quietly. It wasn’t just bad blood that kept the two huge powers at odds; it was ancient bad blood, the worst kind.

“Meanwhile,” Kyber said with a deep sigh, “I’m left to hold my own against the battering waves of aggressive territorialism.”

“Bullshit! The UCE has no interest in your kingdom.”

“The only thing that keeps my kingdom safe from colonial expansion is our sheer power.”

“Our colonies provide the framework for a stable world.”

Kyber rolled his eyes. “Is that the excuse your father uses when he has to use force police in your colonies? Your military has become a guard dog trained to turn on its own master. And I wouldn’t be surprised if it does, Commander,” he added with disdain.

Armstrong appeared less sure now. Or maybe the hint of doubt seemed magnified in the face of Kyber’s absolute belief and unshakable confidence. “The UCE and no other brought the world lasting peace.” He gave the impression of being certain on that point at least. “And we owe it to the world to continue bearing the burden of keeping that peace.”

Kyber turned away, waving his hand in disgust. His jewel-clasped ponytail whipped over a broad shoulder. “This table is no place for your propaganda. Take him away,” he ordered his guards.

The sentries left their posts by the heavy double doors and came for the commander.

Unrepentant, Armstrong stood. The guards took hold of his arms and led him from the room. The polite nod of farewell he gave Bree held a hint of disdain.

Sleeping with the enemy. That’s what he thought, she’d bet. But she tried hard not to care. She owed him no allegiance—or Kyber. Gratitude, yes, but not loyalty. She didn’t belong in their world. The only thing that mattered was staying true to herself, and to Cam.

Bree turned her back to the open doors and walked to the window. She didn’t see the beauty of the simulated scene, only her monumental dilemma. Tyler Armstrong was the only other person besides Kyber who could help her. He knew how to find the cave—and, she suspected, much more than that. She needed him to find Cam, but how would she get him to help? The dinner had been a disaster. She’d have to come up with a different plan.

Kyber joined her. “Do not listen to anything he says. You are safe here. Safe with me. I will not let any harm come to you.”

“I trust you,” she said.

Somber and silent, he rubbed his knuckle down her sleeve. “Something more troubles you.”

“I’ll live.”

He took her by the shoulders and turned her to face him, regarding her in a distressed and proprietary way, as if she were a treasured pet who’d suddenly stopped eating. “I’ll send another expedition to the cave. Will that make you feel better?”

“Yes!” Tears of gratitude should have filled her eyes then, but perpetual numbness precluded a display of emotion. Dr. Min Park would tell her that crying was therapeutic, but Bree hadn’t been able to work up a single tear since going down in her jet over North Korea. “Thank you. I owe you a lot, Kyber.”

“Bah! Anything for your happiness, my pet.”

His pet? Hmm. Her instincts had been right on; that was how he viewed her. But was it so horrible? He’d given her the best medical care, treated her with kindness and respect. And he’d offered her a life here, if she wanted it—a good life. A fabulous life, actually. No, it didn’t come with the heady rush of protecting the skies in an F-16; there was no country to offer allegiance to, no sense that she was contributing anything vital. No challenges.

But she’d have safety here. Protection. Few people received a future so nicely prepared and gift wrapped. She should be happy. But restlessness and a sense of unfinished business, an uncompleted mission, wouldn’t allow it. She had to consider her time here as temporary—for now.

This time, she changed the subject. “I learned more about my ancestors today,” she said in a lighter tone. “I found names and locations for the ones that live in the UCE.” Brittany’s great-many-times-over grandkids, which made Bree their great-many-times-over aunt. “There’s a branch of the family living in Canada.”

“Tri-Canada’s borders are sealed. There is nothing any of us can do about locating someone who lives within them. Not even me. As for your relations in the UCE, I will arrange for you to meet them when you are feeling stronger. But on neutral ground.”

“Like where?”

“Not there.”

“Why not, Kyber? I was born there.” She stopped before more of her frustration over the failed dinner with Armstrong leaked through.

“It is the safest course of action, Banzai. Go to the UCE and you may never leave.”

“Are you so sure of that?”

He was growing angry again. “They want you, Banzai Maguire, and not for good reasons. I cannot allow you to go. You’re too valuable. I won’t give you permission.”

“So, you’re not saying I can’t go, only that I if I do, I don’t have your consent.”

He took her chin between his thumb and index finger and tipped her chin up as he bent his head toward her. His mouth hovered a fraction of an inch from her lips. She felt his warm breath, smelled the wine he’d drunk. Attraction kindled curiosity, and she let him kiss her—a soft, lingering taste of her lips.

He pulled back and murmured, “I require consent in all things, Banzai.”

She flattened her hands against his chest. Kyber held her close, waiting to see what she would do. Or say.

Regrettably, it wasn’t a “yes” to a night of great sex with one of the most powerful men in the world. Maybe, if she were lucky, it would have erased the distracting effect Tyler The-Unhelpful-One Armstrong had on her, but one night with Kyber might lead to more, and she’d become even more entrenched in a life she wasn’t sure she wanted yet. She wouldn’t lead him on; she owed him that much.

She dropped her hands and stepped out of his embrace. “I have some thinking to do.”

Kyber let out a slow breath. “Damn the human animal’s propensity to think.”

She rubbed her hands together nervously. Her palms were damp. “I want to see Commander Armstrong again.”

Kyber’s mouth thinned. “So, that’s what this is about.”

She reared back. “What what is about?

“Why you wouldn’t kiss me.”

“I did kiss you!”

He circled his hand. “You know what I mean.”

She rubbed a hand over her face. “Will you please stop thinking of everything in terms of sex? It’s hard—you’re a man—but try.”

Kyber gave her his gloomy acquiescence.

She folded her arms over her chest. One sleeve dropped lower. She hitched it back up to her shoulder and folded her arms again. “‘When questioned, should I become a prisoner of war, I am bound to give only name, rank, service number, and the date of birth. I will evade answering further questions to the utmost of my ability.’ That’s Article Five of the American Fighting Man’s Code of Conduct. Armstrong’s not an American, but that’s what he was following. It means he sees me as the enemy. Or, more accurately, he sees you as the enemy, Kyber. I think I stand a real chance at getting something useful out of him, and right now I’ll take anything, but I don’t think he’ll talk if you’re around.”

“You want to see him alone?” Kyber appeared horrified at the idea. “I said I will send another expedition to the cave. Isn’t that enough?”

“If he knows where Cam’s pod is, it’ll help the searchers find her, right? Otherwise, they’re digging blind. Let me see what I can learn from him.”

“But alone? I will not allow it.”

In desperation, she tried to come up with a solution that would ease Kyber’s worries and allow her to speak to Armstrong without his presence. “I’ll bring guards with me.”

“The dungeon is no place for you.”

“Then let me meet him somewhere else. Please.”

Kyber turned away to gaze out at the torchlit courtyard, his brow furrowed in concentration. Just as the silence began to feel uncomfortable, he said, “I’ll arrange the meeting elsewhere. But Kabul will accompany you.”

Kabul, the chief of palace security? To Armstrong, the man’s high rank might prove as intimidating as Kyber’s. But what choice did she have? Running out of options and time, she had to find out what he knew about Cam. “Tomorrow?” she asked, her chin coming up.

Kyber sighed deeply. “I will see what I can do.”

That meant he’d think about it. He was the boss here. He didn’t have to ask for anyone’s approval on any matter.

His wrist gauntlet bleeped. “Yes, Kabul?”

“Your Highness. We appear to have a terrorist interruption of the Interweb.”

“Another worm?”

“It doesn’t appear to be, no. There’s been no breach of palace security. But I want to research it further before I say for certain.”

Kyber walked away from Bree. “You said interruption. Of what nature?”

There was silence for a few seconds. Then Kabul said, “I don’t quite know. Is your display on?”

“No, but I will put it on.” Kyber spoke to the room. “Horace, show display!”

The courtyard faded as the molecular barrier closed. The huge windows turned white, bright white. It was strange to see the screens without an image. There was sound, though: a booming voice that was weirdly without gender. It was either a woman with a deep voice, or a man with a high one, and it seemed to have been caught in mid-speech.

“...we have spoken of good and evil today, and what it means to us and our future,” it said. “But, be warned, democracy is not inherently good, for democracy is similar to freedom, and freedom itself is not inherently good. Why? Freedom is an avenue for both good and bad, because whenever there is free will, it creates an opportunity to choose evil. The same is true of democracy. A person can vote for a good leader, or a person can vote for a bad leader. True democracy makes no distinction, for democracy is only as good as its creators.”

What is this? Bree mouthed to Kyber.

His frown was dark, and he shook his head.

“‘A democracy devoid of morals is chaos. Remember this! We have it in our power to begin the world anew.” The voice rose in volume. “‘Many may cry peace, but as for me, give me liberty, or give me death!’”

Goose bumps tickled Bree’s arms. Give me liberty or give me death! That was a direct quote of Patrick Henry’s famous battle cry. She’d been guilty of not knowing as much American history as she should, guilty of taking for granted the sacrifices made by the founding fathers of the United States, guilty of seeing the Fourth of July as little more than a patriotic celebration with picnics and fireworks, but those words she remembered. Even after two—no, almost five centuries—Henry’s words had the ability to inspire.

It took a few moments of silence for Bree to realize the voice had stopped. And yet it had been so hypnotic, so compelling, she remained standing there, stock-still, hungry for more.

Kyber, however, had a completely different reaction. “This is an act of war! They have invaded my palace, brazenly, used my communication system to spread their poison. Ax Armstrong dares to provoke me when I have his son in my hands? He will learn the consequences of his arrogance. Expansionist, imperialistic pigs!”

“Are you sure it was the UCE? That was Patrick Henry.”

Kyber shook his head. “Do you know this man?”

She almost smiled. “Not personally. He died about five hundred years ago. He was a great statesman during the American Revolution. An advocate of democracy. But the UCE seems to be an autocracy, and so is your government. Someone’s urging revolution, Kyber. And using the words of American patriots to communicate it. Knowing what little I do of your world, I don’t think it’s the UCE that’s behind this.”

“Bah! You do not know them as I do.” Kyber started to walk away, stopped, and turned back to squeeze her arm. “My apologies for ending our evening so abruptly, but I must meet with my security adviser on this matter.”

Exhaling, he escorted her to the door. “But do not worry, Banzai. All is well in my kingdom. This episode, like all others, will pass.”

It probably would, she thought with regret. But silently, she cheered for whoever had the guts to transmit his or her beliefs on independence. And she wished the person luck. She didn’t predict anyone taking chances like that anywhere in this world would enjoy a very long life.

 

* * *

 

Ty gripped the bars and listened to the speech blaring from the security screens imbedded in the ceiling of his cell. No image accompanied the sound. Only white. White light. “‘Many may cry peace—but as for me, give me liberty, or give me death!’”

Was this a new way for Kyber to feed propaganda to the prisoners? Hmm. The message of self-government didn’t quite mesh with the Han prince’s firm and absolute grip on his kingdom.

Ty waited for more, after the voice stopped broadcasting, but it seemed the show was over. Rocket-man, as Ty had come to call the rebel who’d been struck on the head, who’d shot the rocket at Kyber and Banzai, rushed to the front of his cell. He shouted down the corridor to Ty. “Did you hear it? That voice?”

Ty folded his hands over his chest and glared at the man. He’d since learned the agitator was harmless. An idiot, actually. A small-time crook. But even the most brainless of troublemakers could cook up stunts that could maim or kill.

Ty was glad there were bars between them. After having to go through seeing the pain in Banzai’s eyes, knowing that he’d refused to help her, he was in a foul mood; he didn’t trust his temper. “Yes. I heard it.”

“‘We have it in our power to begin the world anew.’” The man threw his head back and laughed. “What do you think of that, UCE?”

“Do you really want to know?”

Rocket-man’s head bobbed.

“It’s a nice thought, but improbable. Starting the world over means unrest. Instability breeds more poverty, more pain. I’ve visited most of the world’s cesspools of humanity. I see what it’s like for those people. They haven’t the power to begin anything anew, let alone being able to find a clean toilet to take a piss. Stability is the only fix. Stability produced by the UCE, the Euro-African Consortium, and, yes, even your Kingdom of Asia. But,” he finished with a shrug, “that’s only one man’s opinion.”

The outlook of a soldier paid to preserve that stability in key spots around the globe. The son of a man who had dedicated his life to keeping the peace.

Noises in the corridor grabbed Ty’s attention. A couple of guards marched down the corridor. They rarely came around between the prisoners’ meager meals, and now here they were, late at night. A guard unlocked Rocket-man’s cell. “Come on,” he said, and pulled the prisoner out of his cell.

“I...I have nothing more to tell you,” Rocket-man yelled.

“Shut up. You’re going home.”

Rocket-man let out a whoop and pumped his fist at Ty. “I’m getting out!”

“I wish I were in your shoes, man,” Ty admitted. Oddly, his full belly made imprisonment harder, not easier, to bear.

“I’ll get you out.”

Sure you will. “Thanks for the good thoughts.”

“Look for the shadows!” Rocket-man called over his shoulder. “When they come, run!”

“Shut up.” The guard shoved him on ahead. On his way past Ty’s cell, he crashed his studded baton against the bars. “UCE scum! The prince isn’t going to like your Shadow Voice disrupting the Interweb. I hope he lets me do the punishing.”

Ty flipped him off, then walked to the back of his cell, his gaze fixed on the security panels above and outside. The guard thought that the UCE was somehow behind the broadcast. What the guard didn’t know was that at home a message like that would get you arrested faster than you could say treason.

He returned to the back of his cell and sat down. Leaning his back against the far wall, he shut his eyes. Shadows. “When they come, run!^” What did the man mean?

Ty wondered if it had any connection with the graffiti on the cell wall. Obviously, Shadow Runners were protesters. But the guard had called the entity making the speech a “shadow voice” and attributed it to the UCE. Something didn’t make sense.

Ty knew one thing, though. When you turned on the lights, shadows disappeared.