Mercy's Mission

Mercy's Mission by Pam Rock Hard Shell Word Factory www.hardshell.com Copyright ©1999 Pam Hanson, Barbara Andrews 199...

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Mercy's Mission by Pam Rock

Hard Shell Word Factory www.hardshell.com

Copyright ©1999 Pam Hanson, Barbara Andrews 1999 Hard Shell Word Factory NOTICE: This ebook is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution to any person via email, floppy disk, network, print out, or any other means is a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines and/or imprisonment. This notice overrides the Adobe Reader permissions which are erroneous. This book cannot be legally lent or given to others. This ebook is displayed using 100% recycled electrons.

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2


To Ralph

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Chapter 1 “I DIDN'T SEND for a woman,” the man sitting on the cot snarled. “If you had, you wouldn't have gotten me.” Mercy Greer stepped into the curtained cubicle and stared with distaste at the surly occupant. Friends had warned her Rafe Trane had gone downhill in the year since his wife's death, but she hadn't expected this: the legendary space pilot was a drunken derelict. “Then get the hell out of here,” he ordered. “I'm busy.” “Busy pickling your brain with chooh, from the looks of it.” She wrinkled her nose at the rancid smell in the narrow, windowless room. A single naked light cylinder hung from the ceiling on a frayed cord, casting shadows over the man on the rumpled bed, his back against the stained plaster of the wall. “What I do isn't your concern.” He took a swig from the brown glass bottle he was clutching and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Are you sober enough for a business talk?” she asked, trying not to show contempt for his dissolute state. No point antagonizing him when she needed something from him. “I'm sober enough for anything you have in mind,” he said, obviously trying to get rid of her by being sexually aggressive. He leered suggestively with one eyebrow raised, but the effect was more pathetic than seductive. “I want to lease the Hazard,” she said, deciding a direct approach would get her away from him quicker. 4


“You can't.” “I promise you, I'll hire a competent pilot. And I'll insure the vessel for its full value while I'm using it.” “Very conscientious of you,” he drawled, punctuating his sarcasm with another swallow of chooh, the cheap alcohol favored by local drunks. “I'll supply any references you request. I'm sure you'll find my qualifications satisfactory.” Mercy hated dealing with a has-been like Trane, but she'd tried every other way she knew to get her hands on a ship large enough for her purposes. She'd been turned down by some pretty scummy characters, but this one was the lowest of all: a former hotshot greasing the skids with self-pity, or so her sources had told her. “I'm crazy about your qualifications already.” He hunched forward and put the bottle on the bare wooden floor beside his booted feet. “Take off your clothes, and I'll give them a thorough check.” “I have a silver sash in combative arts,” she warned, not mentioning she'd earned it in school competitions and hadn't practiced in years. “Touch me, and you'll have a broken collarbone.” “I'm impressed.” He lunged so fast he was past her guard before she could make a defensive move. He knocked her against the wall and put her in a body-restraining hold, arms pinioned to her sides and legs awkwardly splayed apart with his knee thrust between them. 5


Stunned and angry, she tried to squirm free, but he grabbed the single thick braid that hung down her back and used it to immobilize her head. “I have a top rating in saloon brawling,” he mocked, “and I wouldn't mind taking this tail of yours as a trophy.” “Let go of me!” “You have no idea what a bad idea it is for your type to come to a place like this. Not only that, you need to be taught some manners.” “Get your hand out of my hair!” She tried to knock him off balance with her leg and hip, but he countered her move and dug his fingers deeper into the thick braid at the base of her skull. “When I'm ready.” He eased the pressure but didn't release her. “You barged into my quarters....” “This is a pig pen in a brothel! It doesn't even have a door!” “You come uninvited into my home and make nasty remarks about my lifestyle. Give me one reason why I shouldn't teach you some rules of etiquette.” “I'll have you arrested for assault!” “Not a good answer.” He tightened his hold on her braid. “You're loathsome!” She struggled to break free, so angry and humiliated she wanted to throttle him. “You can begin by telling me your name.” His voice had a downlander's lazy drawl, slurred by drunkenness and tainted by an attitude of male superiority. 6


“Mercy Greer, Advocate for the Golgat City Courts.” She tried again to squirm free, but he was more alert than his voice suggested. “So, you're one of those misguided idealists who defend the criminal downtrodden. You're too pretty for the job, but, believe me, lady, your classy looks don't give you a license to butt into my business.” “You're going to lose the Hazard. I can help you.” “Help me lose it?” “Help you keep it!” “I'm going to let you loose,” he said, releasing the tension on her braid, “and then you're going to get the hell out of my room and out of my affairs.” As soon as he released her, she warily inched her way toward the entryway without taking her eyes off him. His rough rejection took her back to a time she didn't want to remember, and she suppressed her anger only because she wouldn't give him the satisfaction of seeing her reduced to impotent fury. She wouldn't try to reason with the insensitive lout, but she wasn't done with him yet. “Out!” He loomed over her, nearly a head taller, lean and muscular in spite of his dissipated life style. Not many men towered over her, and she hated that he did. “You're making a big mistake!” she warned. “Leave. Before I change my mind about letting you go.” The lazy drawl was gone; his voice rasped with anger. “I can pay enough to cover your debts.” She cautiously backed into the corridor where lowceilinged cubicles on either side were available for whores to 7


entertain crewmen from docked space freighters. In the middle of the day only an occasional squeal or shriek broke the silence, but smoke from incense burning to mask the stink of the brothel hung in the hallway like mist. “You need me, Trane. You owe so much in docking fees, the authorities won't let you step foot on your own vessel. You can't remove a change of clothing from the Hazard until you pay up.” “Since you've stuck your nose in my business, you must know no one but me pilots my ship. Ever! Not if she sits there till the next millennium.” “The docking administration can confiscate your ship for the back fees.” “The court dockets are jammed. It would take them five years or more.” Mercy knew he was right, but she desperately needed the Hazard right away. Every other possibility had fizzled. “Listen, I need it to locate a priceless treasure,” she said, trying one more time. “Only a unique ship will do, and I'll consider hiring you as co-pilot in addition to paying you handsomely for the use of it. For years she'd urged her adoptive parents, Varga and Rella Greer, to stop paying the generous allowance they put into her account at regular intervals. Now all those untouched golbriks, swelled by interest payments, should be more than enough to secure the ship and services of a down-and-out space tramp like Trane. Her parents might not approve ... they certainly would object to the risk she was taking ... but 8


for the first time in her life she had a real purpose, a compelling mission. What she didn't have were enough golbriks to buy a vessel outright and still finance the expedition. His ship was the only available one large enough to be suitable. “You haven't taken the Hazard out in a year. It's no secret that your wife's death....” “I'm not going to discuss that with you!” “I'm sorry for mentioning a painful subject.” His anger was justified, but it was hard to sound contrite with her scalp still tingling from his rough handling. Since he didn't seem insane or mentally deficient, why was he so irrational about leasing his ship when he was in danger of losing it? “Leave and don't come back, Advocate Greer. I'd rather see the Hazard a blackened shell than let you take it into space.” “That's crazy! I'll pay enough for a one-year lease to clear up all your debts and give you a fresh start.” “Get lost!” Rafe yanked the curtain back over the cubicle opening so she couldn't see he was trembling with rage ... and so he wouldn't lose his last vestige of self-control and really hurt her. Fists clenching the scratchy burlap, he listened, willing the intruder to leave, afraid of what he'd do if she didn't. At first he'd only wanted to punish her for violating his privacy, but her persistence infuriated him. Only one woman had ever gone into space on the Hazard, and if he'd taken her with him on that last voyage, she'd be alive today. 9


Lea Lumina and their young daughter, Decci, had begged to go with him as they usually did, but he'd refused, insisting they go to her family in the city of Golgat so Decci could enroll in a real school for the first time. He'd expected danger on his last and most daring trading mission and had refused to consider taking his wife and child with him. Instead he'd booked passage for them on a commercial vessel to ensure a safe trip for them. They'd never made it back to their planet. An engineering malfunction triggered an explosion on the ship he'd chosen for them. If he'd kept them with him, they'd still be alive. Nothing mattered since then ... not even the debt that had forced him to take out a mortgage on the Hazard.. Now, after a series of bad investments, mostly in risky cargoes carried by other space freighters, had failed to recoup his lost fortune, he couldn't even prevent his ship from being impounded for non-payment of docking fees. Blinded by the guilt and grief that never left him for long, Rafe felt his foot hit the half-full bottle of chooh. He grabbed for it but not in time. It tipped over, and the cloudy yellow contents dampened the boards of the floor, spreading in a dark globular pattern. Still shaking with anger, he picked up the bottle and tipped his head back to wet his throat with the last bitter drops. Now he couldn't even get fully drunk unless he went down to the salon, as Bedoza called the room where she displayed her girls and served rotgut to the customers, and begged her for more credit. She'd grant it, but she was getting more and more insistent about sharing his bed. 10


“No real man mourns for more than a year,” she'd told him the last time she'd come naked to the room she'd let him use since his eviction from the Hazard. He couldn't respond to Bedoza's fleshy enticements. She was the only real friend he had left, but her sexual overtures didn't stir him. He threw the empty bottle at the wall, splintering it into a thousand sharp wet shards of brown glass. A splinter lodged in his left cheek, a tiny inconsequential pain compared to the constant ache in his heart. He pulled it out and felt a sticky trickle of blood run down his face. A large segment from the bottom of the bottle was near the toe of his boot. He picked it up, heedless of cutting himself, and was momentarily tempted to use it to end his miserable existence. He threw the glass back on the bare floor boards and stomped on it with his boot heel until the fragment was pulverized, trying to eradicate the self-loathing that made him prey for opportunists like the woman who wanted his ship. Would he ever find peace and solace? If so, it wouldn't be in Bedoza's willing arms, but in the vast reaches of the galaxy where he felt most at home. No matter how despicable he was, he wouldn't let an arrogant would-be treasure hunter like Mercy Greer lease his ship. The Hazard was a shrine to his love for Lea and the daughter who came from their passion; all his happy memories were inside its shell. He crushed another piece of glass under his heel, then another and another. Finally his anger ebbed away, and he 11


was left with nothing but deep-seated misery. For a moment, when his fingers had been entwined in Mercy's silky-soft dark hair and his arm brushed against the firm swell of her breast under an expensively tailored woven shirt, he'd visualized her boarding the Hazard as though she belonged there. The cubicle was suddenly unendurable. Its drab filth was a tangible reminder of the way he'd failed his wife and daughter. Using the private back stairs to the alley, he left Bedoza's House of Pleasure, driven by the need to be near his ship, the place where he'd once known happiness. **** MERCY HATED going to the brothel even more the second time. Now that she knew what to expect from Trane, she carried a small stun gun in a black pouch that hung against her right hip. To avoid trouble with the city patrol for carrying a sidearm, she wore her seafoam green floor-length skirt and jacket with black shoulder braiding to show her position in the Court Advocacy System, although technically she'd given up her right to dress in work garb by taking a leave of absence. Her mission was too important to let rules and regulations get in her way. She met the same brawny, swine-faced doorkeeper at Bedoza's place as she had the first time. Now she knew what it took to get past him, so she handed over a coin as a bribe. He tested it between crooked brown teeth and smirked knowingly. “I can arrange a showing, if you like, ma'am. Most of the girls are asleep, but I can wake them plenty quick. Or have you made your own arrangements?” 12


“I want to see Rafe Trane,” she said, trying not to let her anger show. She was in no mood for games. The big lout hadn't forgotten her in the six days since her last visit; he knew she wasn't there for some perverse activity. “He's gone.” He stuck the coin into a pouch dangling under his enormous belly, letting her know she wouldn't get it back just because Trane wasn't there. “When do you expect him?” He shrugged and sat down on the three-legged stool where he kept watch over the smoke-blackened door of the brothel. “Maybe soon, maybe never.” “Is there anyone here who would know?” “The boss-lady, Bedoza. She's in the salon.” He pointed toward a red-curtained opening to the right. The brothel's salon was a combination kitchen, dining area, and tavern, empty of patrons at this midday hour. The garish scarlet walls were hung with crude charcoal drawings of couples in improbable positions, and gilded tables were scattered among shabby green and purple couches designed for reclining. Dim lights and a haze from smoky incense nearly obscured a food preparation area at the rear of the room, but Mercy spotted the room's lone occupant there, a woman stirring something in a blackened kettle over an oldfashioned cylindrical oil stove. “Excuse me,” Mercy said, wondering how much it would cost to get the information she needed. “Can you tell me when Rafe Trane will be back?” “That vile son of a diseased whore!” The woman grabbed the wooden bail handle of the pot and flung it across the 13


room, screaming obscenities Mercy had never heard spoken aloud. The pot smashed to the floor, leaving a stream of boiling hot liquid in its wake. A few scalding drops splashed on Mercy, staining the arm of her jacket with red splotches and searing the top of her hand. Her instinct was to reach for her stun gun, but she forced herself to assess the situation calmly. The woman ranted and raved but didn't seem inclined to throw anything else. She was a ruined beauty, her face heavily powdered to mask a network of deeply etched lines and her puffed-up hair dyed a strange shade of purplish-red. She was wearing a floor-length black leather skirt, split up one side to reveal a pasty white hip. Her huge breasts were uplifted by a stiff, boned halter with just enough shiny lavender cloth to cover them. “How I loathe him!” she said at last, concluding her tirade against Rafe. “Do you have any idea where I can find him?” The question produced a murderous scowl on the woman's face, so Mercy quickly added, “It's a business matter.” “Business! You can't do business with a cheat! He owes me for his room, for his drink, for the food that kept his worthless carcass alive! He paid me nothing! Nothing! He said, ‘Bedoza, you are my only friend,’ and how did he repay me?” She reached under the counter that separated them and pulled out a ledger with a marbled black and olive cover, slapping it down with renewed violence. “Room: seventeen golbriks; meals: thirteen golbriks: chooh: twenty golbriks. Did 14


he help me when I asked for small favors? No! I curse the day I met him!” Mercy took a deep breath while Bedoza added a few more colorful obscenities to her description of Rafe's shortcomings. Much as she hated paying his brothel debt, Mercy had invested too much in him to back off now. At least there weren't any charges for girls on his tab. She had enough to stomach without being saddled with the cost of fornication. “You have good reason to be angry,” Mercy cautiously began, “and I certainly agree he's a scoundrel.” “Then why are you asking about him?” Bedoza asked suspiciously, her anger instantly turning into something Mercy recognized as being more dangerous: jealousy. “Because of his ship,” Mercy hastily assured her. “I'm only interested in the Hazard.” “I curse the Hazard!” She started to articulate her opinion of the space vessel, but Mercy quickly interrupted her. “Tell me where to find him, and I'll pay his tab.” “Why?” Bedoza walked around the counter and confronted Mercy. “I want to lease the Hazard.” “You think Rafe will let you take his precious ship into space?” She laughed uproariously. “Lady, you don't know that space tramp! He'd cut off one of his balls before he'd let you have the Hazard!” “Do you want the money?” She shrugged. 15


“I won't say no to writing off his debt ... not that it's enough for all I've done for him. I've nursed him, coddled him, counseled him...” “I'm only paying what's written in your account book,” Mercy said. “Tell me where to find him.” “Pay first. That's how we do it here.” Mercy hesitated, then reluctantly counted out enough golbriks to cover the debt, laying them on the counter with her hand on top of them. “You're not so dumb about money,” the woman grudgingly admitted, “but about Rafe Trane, you're stupid. He'll never let you touch his ship. He swore to me he'd destroy it before he'd let anyone have it.” “Do we have a deal?” Mercy asked, ignoring the warning. Bedoza walked behind the counter. “I don't know where he's sleeping ... maybe in an alley or at the squatters’ settlement on the old dump site. If you want to find him, you'll have to stake out the Hazard. He'll show up sooner or later. Transpace Security doesn't have enough police to keep him from hanging around his ship.” Mercy took her hand away from the golbriks and let the woman grab them up and count them. She could've saved money by trying the spaceport first, but paying this debt gave her one more hold on the man. It would take more than a yank on her braid to get rid of her this time. She walked out of the brothel's salon, pretending she didn't hear Bedoza's parting shot: “He's no use to himself, and even less use to a real woman!” 16


Mercy spent a day looking for him herself and another day locating someone to continue the search for her. Golgat wasn't large, scarcely a million inhabitants, not counting the transients who came and left through Transpace's large commercial spaceport. Yet Rafe had disappeared without leaving a trail in the data banks, a near impossibility on Athera, a planet bound to the Galactic Coalition's bureaucratic travel regulations. As an advocate, Mercy had access to official and private records, and her quarry hadn't left the city by air, land, or sea. He hadn't accepted employment or secured lodging. He'd just vanished. The next day she was in no mood for a social gathering, but in the early evening she started dressing for a party she'd planned at her home. Twenty or so of her closest friends would start arriving any minute. This would be her last gettogether with them before she left on her mission, and she intended to satisfy their avid curiosity and say good-bye at the same time. She only hoped she really would be able to go. Standing naked in front of the mirrored wall in her bedroom, she brushed her long midnight-black hair until the ends crackled with static electricity. The waist-length tresses were perhaps her only vanity, and although she'd washed it several times since Rafe had dug his fingers into her braid, she was still agitated by his insolent handling of it. Her parents had taught her that touching a woman's hair was an intimacy. By doing so in anger, he'd insulted and degraded her, and she hated the necessity of dealing with him ... if he could be found. 17


She'd hired the best investigator in the city, a former Coalition tracker who sometimes helped with criminal matters involving her clients. If Rad Sohea couldn't find Rafe, the man was probably dead. And that would be the death of her mission. She needed him, and even more, she needed the Hazard. Pressed for time, she lifted a gown above her head and let it slide down her torso, adhering to contours and curves from her bosom to her ankles. She adjusted the thin shoulder straps and smoothed the fabric over her hips, then glanced in the mirror to be sure there were no wrinkles. She'd chosen her favorite evening gown: a shimmering black darcia with tiny vertical stripes of silver in the weave. It was impossible to wear anything under it without showing telltale lines, but it was so sleekly elegant that wearing it gave her confidence a boost. Her friends would try to talk her out of going to Abbess II, and their concerns would be well-founded. Abbess II was close to Tamar, and war could break out in the area at any time. But she couldn't let her friends dissuade her. She knew how it felt to be an orphan, hungry and abandoned, and twenty-seven frightened voices were crying out to her from across the reaches of the universe. Her hand shook with anger as she brushed her lips with carmine paste. Rafe Trane couldn't get rid of her with scare tactics! He'd physically threatened her and tried to intimidate her with overtures of sexual dominance, but that self-pitying space jockey had a few surprises in store! 18


There was nothing left to do but slip her feet into slender silver sandals and await her guests. She breathed deeply, determined to put the derelict space-trader out of her mind for a few hours of pleasure with people she cared about. The salon of her apartment was ready for guests. The caterers had brought their own tables and covered them with white damask before setting out platters heaped high with delicacies and huge silver tureens with succulent hot entrees. She'd never completely furnished the home her parents had given her when she finished her studies and qualified as an advocate. It was one of four units on the forty-sixth and top floor of an upscale housing complex, and she loved the private roof garden accessed by spiral stairs in a corner of the salon. Later in the evening her guests would wander up there, leaving the white marble area with its scattering of ebony tables and tubular black loungers. Without the array of blooming plants Mercy had collected in her seven years as an advocate, the room would have been cold and institutional. She never felt a need for possessions to showcase who she was, a trait her adoptive parents found quaintly odd and her friends thought was a fashionable quirk. The discreetly muted buzzer sounded, and she quickly responded, giving the lobby security guard permission to admit her best friends, Samoa and Dart Aurel, to the lift that streaked directly upward to her salon. The party was beginning. **** FIVE HOURS LATER, Mercy wished her dearest friends would just go home. A sudden squall had soaked the roof 19


garden and driven the guests back inside where the remains of the banquet were being cleared away by yellow-jacketed servers provided by the caterers. She still hadn't revealed the real reason for taking a leave of absence from her work. Whenever she was on the verge of telling someone, she thought better of it, instead taking the coward's way out and giving a vague excuse. If no one knew, she wouldn't have explain if her mission didn't come off. And she wouldn't have to face how different she really was from her friends. Trane's ship was her last chance. If she couldn't use the Hazard, she'd wasted her savings and wouldn't have enough golbriks to lease any other vessel. “I'm going to work on a research project,” she repeated for the third time to Cylix Nett, avoiding her fellow advocate's skeptical gaze. “I'll be back at work before you even miss me.” “Oh, I doubt that.” He stroked her shoulder and gave her a lopsided grin that made him look boyish under his carefully sculpted sandy hair. She hoped he wouldn't ask her again to consider a match. She loved Cylix like the brother she'd never had, but she wasn't stirred to passion by his long, lanky body and concave chest, particularly ill-garbed tonight in an ivory jacket that buttoned to his throat and matching tights that emphasized the thinness of his legs. A man needed a broad, muscular chest and powerful thighs like Rafe Trane's to look appealing in.... “Oh!” She cried aloud, shocked by the surprising turn of her thoughts. 20


“Is something wrong?” Cylix put a hand on her other shoulder and looked into her face with brown eyes dilated by a passion she unfortunately couldn't return. “No, nothing! I just remembered something I forgot to do,” she alibied. She was spared from elaborating by a buzz from the lobby. Somewhat puzzled because all her invited guests were there, she went to answer it. “Maybe you want me to evict this one,” the guard said hoarsely, obviously trying to speak to her on the com-system without being heard by her would-be guest. “No, let him come up,” Mercy quickly decided, sure it was her investigator. It was unusual for Rad Sohea to come to her home, so he must have something very important to report about his hunt for Trane. Maybe the derelict was trying to leave the city. A few of her friends might recognize Rad, especially Samoa and Cylix since they were both advocates. She decided it didn't matter; in fact, they might leave if they thought she needed to confer with an investigator. Her friends were curious but courteous. She hovered near the cylindrical lift, waiting expectantly until the smoky gray plasticine door slid open. Her words of greeting died in her throat. “You conniving bitch!” The party guests fell into stunned silence as Rafe Trane stepped out of the lift to confront her. “You're not going to steal my ship!” 21


“I didn't....” She was too shocked to summon up a defense and too conscious of her friends’ avid interest to call the security guard for help. “No? Then what in blazes is this?” He waved a sheath of papers in the air. “We need to talk,” she whispered, conscious of a murmur of indignation swelling around her. “If you have business with Advocate Greer,” Cylix said, stepping forward, “the proper procedure is to make an appointment for an office consultation.” He didn't even acknowledge Cylix's pompous statement. Instead he glared at Mercy with angry hazel eyes narrowed to slits. He was even taller than she remembered, and she could see a vein throbbing angrily in the thick column of his throat. “There's nothing to talk about! You're a sneak thief! A devious, double-dealing....” “That's enough!” Cylix said with cold fury. “I'm calling security.” “No, please, Cylix. I do have business with this....” She wasn't sure what to call him. “Very well,” Cylix grudgingly agreed. “I'm here if you need help ... all of us are.” “I'd better speak to him alone, I think,” she said, seeking a way to spare herself more humiliation in front of her friends. “I don't think that's a good idea,” Cylix said. The intruder was as menacingly out of place as the most bizarre alien in this room full of women in shimmering long gowns and men in tailored jackets and fashionable leghugging tights. He was still wearing the same baggy brown 22


trousers hung low on his hips, worn boots, and ragged white shirt with full sleeves gathered at the wrists as when she'd first seen him. The three buttons below his throat were missing, revealing bronzed skin and a sprinkling of reddish brown hairs slightly darker than the unruly mane on his head. His lower face was bristly; his eyes were blazing. Cylix was right: she shouldn't be alone with this man, but she'd gone too far to back down from him now. “Please, Cylix, everyone,” she said, fighting her agitation. “It's been wonderful having you here, but I have urgent business to discuss with Mr. Trane. If we could be alone....” “At least let me stay,” Cylix said with somewhat diminished vehemence at the prospect of being the only other person there. “No, really, I'm not afraid. I'll be fine.” “I'm going to tell the security guard in the lobby to check on you and call the police if you don't respond to the buzzer at regular intervals,” he said. Mercy hated being treated like a child, but for once Cylix's caution made sense. “Thank you all so much for coming,” she said, watching with mixed feelings as her friends took their turns going down in the lift. It took five trips for all the guests and servers, loaded with portable tables and serving dishes, to leave, and the whole time she could feel the space trader's angry eyes searing her. She was horribly conscious of the downy soft fabric of her gown caressing her skin, the worst possible clothing for a confrontation with a man like him, and her cheeks were 23


burning with embarrassment as her departing friends glared at the intruder. “I meant what I said about putting the security guard on alert,” Cylix, the last to leave, warned. “Yes, do that, thank you,” she agreed, turning her cheek to receive his hurried good-bye kiss. When the two of them were alone, she turned to face her adversary, her heart leaden with dread. The law was on her side, but her whole mission was riding on this face-to-face confrontation with the furious party crasher. “You had no right,” he said, his jaw clenched so tight his words erupted like a wave driven by a torrential storm. “No, I didn't,” she agreed, trying to buy time to present her proposition in a calm, logical way. “I went to the credit mart to pledge my salary against the mortgage on the Hazard. They weren't interested; they had no further claim on my ship because you bought up my debt.” “I paid nine percent over the face value of your indebtedness,” she admitted. “That's more than the rate I was paying....” “Supposed to be paying. You were eight payments in arrears, more than enough to allow the credit mart to sell off your mortgage.” “That was going to change. I have a chance to ship out on a freighter trading in asteroid ore.” “You can't...” she blurted out, then realized her mistake. “You're trying to tell me what work I can do?”

24


He spoke in a soft drawl that sent tremors down her spine. She sensed he was much more dangerous when he wasn't yelling or blustering. “I didn't know ... I'm sorry about that part, but I'm desperate! I have to have a ship and a pilot.” “Buying the paper on the Hazard doesn't give you a ship.” Vertical frown lines etched his brow and called attention to the clean, sculpted shape of his nose and his strong, squared jaw. He sounded calm and reasonable, but the expression in his eyes did more than condemn her actions: It stripped her soul naked. “You're right,” she admitted, using the advocate's trick of agreeing with a witness before shattering his defenses. “I can't touch the Hazard until the note comes due in three-anda-half years....” “Assuming I don't pay it off by then.” “On a freighter's salary?” It was her turn to score a hit. “Sometimes there are opportunities in space....” “For the ship's officers and financial backers, maybe, but you aren't very lucky in backing other ship's voyages, are you, Mr. Trane?” “Knowing my business won't get you a ship ... or a pilot,” he said, making an effort to conceal his fury now. “No, but I'll own the Hazard ... and it won't take five years to get through the courts if you can't pay your mortgage and the debt you owe me for clearing your docking fees and your tab at the brothel!” 25


He stared at her, his lips a thin, angry line. She could feel his hatred washing over her like an acid bath. His silent scorn made her awkwardly aware of herself: her hair damp at the back of her neck and spilling over her bare shoulders; her breath coming in short little gasps; the bow above her upper lip beaded with perspiration. She pulled in her stomach, tightened her buttocks, and locked her thighs together, trying to make herself rigid and invulnerable but failing miserably. Inside her silver sandals her toes were crowded together, and she had an odd sensation that the room was getting smaller and smaller. “So you paid off Bedoza for me,” he said, his voice expressionless. “Only to learn where you were.” “Did you get your money's worth?” She shook her head. “No one will take the Hazard away from me.” He said it so softly she had to strain to hear. “I don't want to own the Hazard! It's yours, free and clear, if you'll give me the use of it for one year.” What could she do to sway this man? She thought of begging, cajoling, even offering her body as a reward, but she realized that only one thing would influence him: his love for that large hunk of metal. “I'll make it legal: one year, although I may not need it that long, and the ship will be wholly yours. I'll have documents drawn up and signed before we go into space.” “We?” 26


“You said no one but you pilots the Hazard.” She held her breath, knowing she needed him as much as the ship. Buying the mortgage had cost far more than she could afford; hiring a top-notch pilot who wouldn't ask questions about their destination was beyond her means now. “Do you realize how generous my offer is? No ship's lease costs as much as I invested in your mortgage.” “Then why not lease some other ship?” “I have special requirements.” She had no intention of telling him how desperately she'd searched for an alternative. “I still retain possession of the Hazard. If I refuse to give you access, you can't touch it until the courts rule in your favor. As long as I make token payments, that will be nearly four years from now ... assuming I don't pay in full by then.” “That's the way it is,” she said, losing hope in the face of his cold assessment of the situation. “But if you accept my offer, the Hazard will be yours, free and clear, one year from now.” “When do we leave?” he said finally, after making her wait for what seemed like an eternity. Her heart skipped a beat, and she was afraid to believe her ears. “You'll sign an agreement ... your services and the ship for one year, with the mortgage as payment in full?” “When?” he repeated, his voice raspy with suppressed anger. “As soon as possible. I need to buy provisions and make some modifications....” “You're not going to rebuild, renovate, or alter my ship in any way.” 27


“I have to do a few things to the interior. You'll get it back exactly as it is now.” He folded his arms across his chest, his eyes never leaving her face. “Where are we going?” “I won't reveal our destination until after we take off, and I want your word of honor you'll help me secure the treasure I'm seeking.” She held her breath, expecting him to ask for a share of riches that didn't exist. “So we'll be treasure hunting.” He shrugged indifferently. He didn't seem to care where or why they were going, which suited her purposes just fine. There were advantages in having a pilot who didn't give a damn. She didn't want to go on this mission alone with him, but unfortunately she couldn't spare an iota of precious space or money to bring along a third person just for her peace of mind. “I'll have the document executed. I won't make any claims on the Hazard after the year is up,” she said. He nodded solemnly. She'd felt less uneasy when he yelled at her. “Where can I get in touch with you?” she asked. “You can't.” “Then how....” “Don't worry, Advocate Greer. When the Hazard is ready for the voyage, I'll know it.” She pressed her palm on the electronic sensor that summoned the lift to her salon. 28


After he was gone, she felt drained by the contest of wills. She'd won a victory of sorts but not without making a frightening agreement: Rafe would be her only companion in space and the only person who could help her secure a treasure more precious than all the gold in the universe.

29


Chapter 2 RAFE'S HEAD felt like an iron weight balanced precariously on the stem of his spinal cord. He sat up slowly and let his eyes get used to the artificial day-glow, programmed to go on automatically when the sun rose outside. He was tempted to shut down the circuit and go back to sleep, especially when he remembered: This was the day she was coming. He'd slept on the Hazard for the first time since it had been impounded for non-payment of docking fees. Last night, well fortified by chooh, he'd kissed the hatch in his relief at having the ship to himself again, but all that was left of his euphoria was a pounding head and a tight knot in his gut. This was his seventeenth of 387 days, a full Atheran year, of answering to that conniving female. Groaning aloud, he forced himself to get up and go through a series of limbering exercises. His body responded automatically after the hard days he'd spent at a conditioning center, thanks to Bedoza ... and Mercy's naivete. She'd handed over three times the amount he owed Bedoza, who had gleefully ... and sadistically ... insisted he use it to prepare for the flight by getting into shape. He'd cursed them both a thousand times as he lay sleepless on the leather mat that served as a bed at the center, too thirsty and aching to sleep. Several times Bedoza had looked in on his fitness ordeal, as though she were grooming him for her own pleasure. 30


He almost managed a smile. Bedoza was a hellion, but they'd been children together in the orphan's home before his uncle discovered his existence and took him into space on his trading ship. She might rage and bombard him with pots and pans one minute, but the next she'd forgive him. She covered for him with strangers, gave him a place to sleep when he needed it, and was usually philosophic when he turned down her other offers. After a trip to the public showers in the Transpace terminal building, Rafe felt revived. He'd been an idiot to drink again at the send-off party Bedoza had insisted on giving for him. After breaking sixteen days of abstinence, his stomach was as sour as his disposition. He walked across the pavement of the launch site and climbed the retractable ladder to the hatch of the Hazard, getting angrier with every step. This would be the first time he'd gone out without thoroughly checking all the systems himself. Every time he'd come to the ship, the professional launch team had refused to let him past their security barrier. “Where have you been?” Mercy came out of the control room in an iridescent blue body suit, looking like a poster girl for tourist jaunts to a nearby moon. “Is this your first space flight?” he asked. “No, my parents took me on a moon tour....” “Figures.” He turned his back and walked into the sleeping compartment. “Until we go into hypersleep, I'll use bunk one.” 31


“It appears you already have.” She looked at the rumpled covers and wrinkled her nose. “We're scheduled for takeoff in ninety-two minutes.” “Impossible! I haven't begun my pre-launch checklist.” “That's been taken care of. I had the Transpace launch team do everything necessary.” “Your overpaid goons aren't the ones taking this ship into deep space. Like it or not, lady, I'm the pilot of this vessel, and I don't intend to put myself at risk for your ludicrous scheme. I need a minimum of two days to be sure everything is functioning correctly. That's about twenty days less than I usually spend on the ship before a voyage.” “You don't have two hours. The sequence is already locked into the control console. If we go into shutdown now, Transpace will put an automatic hold on the launch. We could be cited for negligence if there's no emergency to justify it. They could impound the ship again, and I don't have enough golbriks left to pay more fines.” “Are you crazy? Only amateur moon gawkers depend on Transpace for departure coordinates!” His forehead was throbbing, and he was torn between throwing her off the ship or walking off himself. “Using a professional launch team is the quickest way to get started on a flight,” she said defensively. “It's the quickest way to disaster. I quit, lady! Get yourself another sucker.” He pushed past her, but she grabbed his arm, clinging so tenaciously he couldn't break free without hurting her. “Please wait.” 32


If she'd ordered him to stay, he would have left regardless of the consequences. “Please,” she said again, her voice soft and breathy. “Maybe I had bad advice....” “Rotten is more like it.” “But I paid for the best possible overhaul. I had a team working around the clock....” “They were very efficient ... at keeping me away from my ship.” “It's their policy ... no one but Transpace employees on site during an overhaul.” “It's my policy never to go into space without completing my own checklist.” “I understand that now.” She moistened her lower lip with the tip of her tongue, betraying nervousness even though her voice was steady. “But the time to make that clear was when we signed the contract. Now it's too late. Everything has been done by the launch crew I hired.” “I told you I'd need two days after they were done.” “You really should've had your own advocate review our agreement. Everything is spelled out in the contract ... including my right to use the Hazard for my own purposes beginning on the day we signed.” “What is this secret destination of yours?” “I've entered the Hazard in the Transgalactic Rally. The other racing crafts are already circling Athera waiting for the race to begin. We don't have two days to waste.”

33


“You told me you were after treasure,” he said skeptically. “Racing puts a lot of strain on a ship. All the more reason I should check it out myself.” “Entering the race is only a ploy to forestall curiosity. We'll drop out as soon as I think it's safe.” “It's past time to level with me. What are you getting me into?” “Nothing dangerous. I'd just rather be well away before my parents know I've left. They'll worry about a race, but not as much as....” “This deal stinks. What I should do is boot your behind right off my ship.” He stepped close enough to smell the faintly flowery scent of her raven hair and remembered the softness of her long braid between his fingers. “You could ... but I'd alert security and have the Hazard put into lockdown.” “Then you wouldn't get your treasure.” “This ship is mine for a year!” “The registration is still in my name. You can't turn it over to another pilot without my consent” “That's your opinion. A court might rule otherwise.” “That takes time, and you're in a hurry, Advocate Greer.” “Everything is set to go. Please, Captain Trane!” He shrugged, recognizing a stalemate when he saw one. Either the mission went as she'd planned, or he could walk away from his ship ... probably forever. He'd given up his berth on the freighter, and the chance of paying off the mortgage on the Hazard was a thousand to one. 34


“If we're going into space, we'll be living together for awhile. You might as well call me Rafe,” he said gruffly, not trying to conceal his anger. He was traveling to an unknown destination ... in a ship he hadn't inspected ... with a woman he trusted less than a Zazaran space pirate. “Wake me when there's something to do,” he said, flopping down on the bunk, pulling off his boots, and stretching out with his back to her. “The liftoff ... shouldn't you ... I mean, I'm not sure....” “Holding your hand isn't in our contract.” He secured the bunk's safety harness and pulled an insulated sleeping cover over his shoulders. “No doubt that crack launch crew of yours left a set of instructions on how to buckle yourself into a seat. The rest is automatic ... your choice, not mine. I hate relying on a Transpace program for the launch.” He closed his eyes and feigned sleep, inwardly raging at the circumstances. He didn't want anything to do with treasure-hunting schemes, and he especially didn't want to be responsible for a woman. A familiar pain washed over him, and he tried to make his mind go blank. **** EVEN WHEN RAFE wasn't sleeping, he didn't seem to be with her. When Mercy spoke to him, he answered, but it was like having a conversation with a computer: His replies were as impersonal as programmed responses. They were sharing the cramped crew quarters of his ship, but they seemed to exist in different dimensions. “If you plan to use the hypersleep system, I should start getting it ready,” he said several days later when their first 35


leg of the Transgalactic Rally was nearly complete. “After you leave Point One, it's a long haul to the next checkpoint.” “We'll be dropping out after the first checkpoint,” she said, glad to break the silence. She was beginning to realize how great it was to have friends like Samoa and Cylix who shared her interests and loved to talk about them. He shrugged and lapsed into another long silence. If he was at all curious about her evasive tactics, he didn't show it. His indifference saved her from explaining her strategy, but, at this point, she didn't care whether he knew or not. The truth was simple enough: Her parents would be horrified if they knew her real plans. They doted on her, sometimes smothering her with their obsessive love. Varga Greer was a highly placed financial officer in the Galactic Coalition. If he even suspected she was going to Abbess II, he'd have every Coalition vessel in the galaxy watching for the Hazard.. She didn't want to risk being intercepted and forcibly taken back to Athera. She loved her parents, but this was something she had to do. The first checkpoint was a space station orbiting Frigis, the planet closest to Athera in the Shu Solar System. The other ships in the rally would go on to Checkpoint Two, but Mercy had other plans for the Hazard. “We're seventh out of forty-two in the race,” Rafe told her after the Hazard had exchanged signals with the Checkpoint One station. He sounded more animated than he had since the launch. “I know the frontrunner: the Ximia. It's a Zazaran entry with a strong initial thrust but prone to technical 36


difficulties. The Hazard could win this rally ... and the prize money is probably worth more than a hold full of treasure.” “Not the treasure I have in mind,” she said, dreading the time when she'd have to tell him her real plan. It was one thing to commandeer a man's ship: another to put his life in serious jeopardy. She recognized her uneasiness for what it was: guilt. Then she remembered how she'd found him: drunk and belligerent, a has-been hotshot who'd been grounded too long. She'd given him a chance to go into space again, and he wasn't the same man she'd first met. On the days he used the vacuum shaver, he looked clean, fit, and.... She couldn't let herself be sidetracked by his overwhelming masculine presence. It wasn't that he was too old for her; he was a mere eight years her senior. She knew this and other statistics about him because she'd insisted on seeing his pilot's accreditation before signing their contract. She just couldn't forget the derelict she'd found clutching a bottle of chooh in a filthy brothel, an image she couldn't easily erase. His ship was fast, but the days went by with maddening slowness, until at last she had to start explaining her plan. “It's time to set a course for the Ptah System,” she told him on their eleventh awakening of the trip. “Are you asking me to make a navigational change?” he asked, raising one eyebrow in the skeptical way that irked her beyond reason. “I thought your launch team had taken care of everything.” 37


“Please.” She used the one word that seemed to sway him, but it came out sounding like a command. “Set a course for the Ptah System.” “There's nothing there but Abbess II. What kind of game are you playing?” “No game. Abbess II is our destination.” He looked at her as though she were a new specimen of waste-deposit worm, raking her body with eyes narrowed to slits. She was sorry she hadn't brought loose one-piece coveralls like the green one he was wearing instead of the bright blue, yellow, and orange skin-hugging, elasticized body suits a clothier had assured her were the latest rage for space travel. “That's on the fringe of Coalition space,” he pointed out. “If you think there's treasure there, you have a rude surprise coming. There's nothing but a religious order that makes a fetish out of being poor.” “Just get us there. I know what I'm doing.” “Do you?” He was sitting on his bunk, back against the metallic skin of the ship, his bare feet and arms giving an intimacy to their conversation that made her uncomfortable. “It's time to get to work,” she said crossly. “Put on your boots and change course for Abbess II.” “I wondered when you'd start giving me orders,” he said in the lazy downlander's drawl that set her teeth on edge. “Please report to the control room immediately,” she said stiffly, determined to ignore the clash of wills that seemed to electrify the atmosphere inside the ship. 38


“Does knowing what you're doing include a way to get around the ban on traveling to Abbess II?” he asked. She was unpleasantly surprised to learn he was knowledgeable about the political turmoil on the fringes of Coalition-controlled space. It wasn't what she'd expected from a man who'd reputedly spent the last year in a grief-induced stupor. “The real danger is Tamar. We won't be going to the Anhur System,” she said. “Abbess II is the closest habitable planet to Tamar. There are rumors the Tamaran warlords are stirring up trouble, and they don't care what the Coalition thinks.” “It's true Tamar doesn't belong to the Galactic Coalition,” she said, not enjoying this conversation even though the silence between them had been getting to her. “They've never had one central government ... the prime requirement for joining.” “They've been too busy savaging each other,” Rafe said, “but the gossip on the streets of Golgat says the three main warlords have combined forces. They're running out of living space on that hot, wet, nasty planet of theirs.” “We don't need to worry about that,” she said in her best courtroom voice. “We do if they seize the Hazard...I don't like the smell of your little adventure.” “I admit travelers have been advised not to go near Tamar, but there's no ban in effect. As a high-ranking Coalition official, my father is privy to government intelligence 39


reports. There's no reason why we can't make a quick trip to Abbess II.” **** CHANGING THE COORDINATES was easy enough, but Rafe made a production of it, taking as much time as possible even though Mercy hovered over him, asking questions and giving him assurances about the safety of Abbess II. “If you want me to do this, keep quiet,” he said at last, gratified when she actually followed his order. She called her foolish scheme a mission; he expected it to be a fiasco. But when it was over, he'd be free to take the Hazard to some remote system where he could hustle a few cargoes, get drunk whenever he felt like it, and maybe someday stop hurting so much. He set the ship on autopilot, reluctantly veering away from the course other racers would follow, and decided he couldn't take any more of Mercy. It was time to pack her away in a hypersleep bed and drift off into temporary oblivion himself. She wasn't difficult to convince, although he sensed she was nervous about the procedure. He caught himself grinning when she brought out a well-thumbed copy of PREPARING FOR HYPERSLEEP, an outdated manual that exaggerated the procedure of hooking up and the “euphoria” of drifting off to sleep for weeks on end. “It's not as bad as that book makes it sound,” he said. “You'll be a little sore when you wake up, but it beats twentyfour days of power-conserving. On longer trips it's best to dim down to emergency lights on a ship the size of the Hazard. There's only so much to do in the dark.” 40


He tried not to remember how Lea and he had passed the time on long voyages. Even though his heart was still a block of ice riddled with cracks from grief, his lower region was responding to his unwelcome passenger with a will of its own ... especially since she'd started wearing a yellow bodysuit that clung so tightly he could make out the indentation of her navel and the thrust of her nipples against the cloth. It was time for hypersleep ... and past time to face his ghosts. He hadn't entered the hold since his last cargo was unloaded: a band of mercenaries delivered to Dorus Antibes to help the ruler put down a revolution. He'd sent Lea and their daughter, Decci, home because he didn't trust the alien warriors he'd contracted to deliver. His throat ached when he thought about his wife's reluctance to leave him. “I hope your launch crew checked the hypersleep facilities,” he said dryly, leading the way to the roomy hold with accommodations for up to thirty passengers. In the dim light, the sleep tanks looked like caskets for the dead, each covered with dark sheeting. For an instant the primitive being that still lived in all of his species was struck with terror, expecting to see the pearly white skin of his beloved when he pulled away the drape. His heart beat slowed when he saw the emptiness under the transparent lid. The three tanks in the front were luxury units, specially designed for travelers who spent a great deal of time in space. He'd had them installed for his family, but it would be foolish to treat them as memorials instead of using them. He thought of using the more utilitarian tanks, but it probably 41


wasn't fair to a first-time hypersleeper to put her farther back in the darker part of the hold. His heart aching from the memories of the woman and child he still loved to distraction, he lifted the lid of Lea's tank. “Use this one,” he said gruffly. “You'll have to take off all your clothes. Leave them on the shelf under the tank, then wrap yourself thoroughly in the moisturized strips in this canister. They'll tear easily and stick to your skin wherever you lay them. Then lie in the tank and slowly insert your tubes. The feeding tube won't hurt your nostrils if you relax and go easy. I'll come back and make sure you've done everything right before you activate the breathing mask. If you like, I'll make sure you're asleep, then close the lid for you. Some people get a claustrophobic reaction the first time.” “Thank you,” she said, staring at the air cushions on the bed of the tank with an expression of dread. “I'll stay and help, if you prefer,” he said woodenly, hoping she'd refuse. “No, I have to learn,” she said without much conviction. He moved away, eyes shut tight, unable to erase the image of Lea's faint, tremulous smile the first time she'd drifted off into hypersleep. The memory nearly undid him. He had to force himself to go back into the hold to check on his unwanted passenger. “Roll over and let me check your back,” he said in a harsher voice than he intended. “If you leave any skin uncovered, you could develop some flaky patches.” 42


The lubricating strips were semi-transparent, giving her skin a milky look without concealing the cleft of her shapely buttocks. He quickly ordered her to lie on her back again, checking the strips from the turban around her head to the soles of her feet, trying not to see the dark dots on her breasts or the smoky area between her legs. “My nose hurts,” she mumbled, lifting the breathing mask a bit to be heard. “I told you there'd be some discomfort. You'll grow accustomed to it,” he said curtly. “I read that in the manual,” she snapped belligerently, but he heard fear in her response. “Your wake system is set correctly,” he said. “You pass inspection. As soon as you move the tiny lever on the right side of your mask ... that's it ... you'll slowly drift off to sleep. Your vital signs and medication needs are automatically monitored. The next thing you'll experience is a slight buzzing that means it's time to get up. Go slowly. The auto-massager will keep your body supple, but you'll be shaky at first.” He only had to watch for a few seconds. Her lips curved into a satisfied grin under the crystal-clear plate of the mask. Lea claimed she always had erotic visions just before she drifted into hypersleep. He used to think she was teasing, but maybe it was a female phenomenon. He always blanked out quickly, and he was never able to remember the dream sequences that filled his dormant hours. He prepared himself and made sure he'd wake up ahead of Mercy. There was more to landing on Abbess II than she 43


knew, and he wanted time to work on it before she woke up and distracted him. **** RAFE CAME AWAKE with the impression his dreams had been bad. He was horrified, frightened of something just beyond the horizon of his consciousness. Then he remembered: his wife and child were dead, and he was responsible. He prayed desperately: Please, never let me be responsible for the life of a loved one again. He wasn't up to it; he couldn't handle the fear of loss. He emerged from hypersleep, swearing he wouldn't resort to it again. One day or a thousand in space: It was all the same to him. When joy leaves a man's life, there's no anticipation, no eagerness, no impatience to be anywhere. His legs shook when he stood, and the lubricating strips stung when he pulled them off his body. It was a relief to be free of the apparatus of hypersleep, but not pleasant to face a landing on Abbess II. At least the Hazard was equipped with sophisticated navigational equipment that should take them safely through the ring of the planet, a hazardous asteroid belt that discouraged all but the most sophisticated craft from landing on the planet. Not only was Abbess II remote, it was a cold, dry planet with high rugged mountain ranges and little incentive for anyone to travel there. He supposed that made it an ideal place for ascetics who wanted a retreat from all other society, but the thought of going through all the flying rocks ... a 44


constant stream of little moons ... made him realize he didn't want to die yet. After turning up the heating and lighting systems, he defrosted a bland meal of artificial eggs, fruit compote, and grain cubes, fortifying himself for a long, hard session in the cockpit before the Hazard landed on Abbess II. He got so involved in what the computer screen was telling him, he forgot to go into the hold when it was time for Mercy to wake up. She startled him when she came into the cockpit, but no way did he let her know it. “I see you're awake.” She came up behind him, giving him a fright he was quick to conceal. “Are you all right?” He asked automatically, but he had bigger worries then Mercy's wake-up condition. “Yes, thank you. What are you doing?” “Trying to figure out how to keep us alive ... thanks to your launch team's negligence.” “What do you mean?” She sounded cross, but he didn't care if she had a fit. He had big trouble, and he begrudged her the time to explain. “When I left this ship at the Transpace dock, the Hazard had the most up-to-date navigation system capable of passing unscathed through an asteroid belt ... the kind that makes Abbess II a death trap.” He was so angry his breath came in harsh spurts. “They checked everything,” she insisted.

45


“Everything that's in the ship now, maybe.” He turned to confront her. “But some thief removed my Navigational System 7094 and replaced it with a piece of antiquated junk.” “But Transpace had security....” “Great security ... when it came to keeping me away from my ship. Nothing to keep a thief from gutting the system and installing one ripped from a ship ready for recycling. For all I know, your overpaid launch team made the switch themselves.” “Everything seems to be working....” “On autopilot, yes, but we don't have a chance of getting through the asteroid belt unless I fly on manual. And even then....” She looked pale and shaken, the color bleached from her skin by her stay in the sleep tank. Nothing he could tell her would be reassuring. “Rafe, I have to land on Abbess II.” “So you keep saying, but you can't spend a treasure trove if you're dead. Give it up, Mercy. It's not worth the risk.” “It is ... this isn't about the kind of treasure you mean. It's a life or death matter!” “Our life or death.” “No, let me explain....” “I don't want to hear.” “Rafe, I must go to Abbess II. You have to land the Hazard there. We have an agreement....” “A suicide pact? Lady, you're even crazier than I thought.” “This isn't about us....” “It's about survival.” 46


“Are you telling me it's impossible?” “Not impossible, but....” “You said, ‘not impossible.’ That means it can be done.” He wanted to pick her up by the heels and shake some sense into her ... or take her in his arms and make her see there were other things in life worth living for. His whole system was jolted by the realization that he didn't want her to die. He'd fought against taking responsibility for her life; he'd tried to be indifferent to everything but the promise of eventually being rid of her and owning the Hazard outright. He hated feeling responsible, but there it was. Blinded by anger, hating her for the way she was making him feel, he turned away and concentrated on their chances of landing on the planet without being knocked out of commission by a bombardment of treacherous asteroids. He didn't want to try it, but it was her decision. He wouldn't be responsible for the outcome. What did he care about making old age as long as he didn't go out with more guilt on his conscience? “Can you make it?” Her voice seemed to come from a great distance even though she was still hovering just behind him. He grunted without committing himself. “Get yourself hydrated, but don't try to eat any solids yet. Then prepare for a rough ride.” “I will.”

47


“One more thing. I'm the captain of this ship; you're the crew. You obey me instantly ... no questions, no hesitation. Our lives may depend on it.” “I understand.” “I don't think you do. We're not playing games with pieces of paper anymore. You do exactly as I say, or you'll wish you'd never found me.” He heard the gasp of anger deep in her throat and sensed waves of hatred vibrating through the cockpit, but she hurried away to do as he'd told her. He knew he should scuttle the landing, take her back to Athera, and damn the consequences. He talked tough, but inside he was sick at heart. It didn't especially matter if he died in a ship battered by asteroids, but he wasn't going to let it happen to her. Even if it would be her own fault. He hated what he had to do, but something in her words rang true. As difficult as it was for him to trust anyone, he was beginning to believe she had a mission worth dying for. He envied her that.

48


Chapter 3 MERCY WAS TOO edgy to eat, but she opened a foil packet of liquid nutrient and sipped it through a drinking straw, finishing it as quickly as she could. At first she'd been furious at Rafe's highhanded commands, but her anger dissipated. He was worried, maybe even frightened, about the danger ahead. The man's attitude scared her. He could sleep through a launch; he was so much at home in space he hadn't even pressed her for a destination. The ring of Abbess II had to be big trouble for him to worry about it. When she got home ... if she got home ... she was going to take Transpace to court for allowing the theft of his navigational system. Her chances of winning against the mega-corporation were practically nil, but she was going to become a major nuisance to them. “Mercy!” She dropped the foil packet and dashed toward the cockpit, hoping there was something she could do to help. “What can I do?” “Get a motion-sickness patch from the medical kit and put it behind your ear. Things are going to get rough, and I don't want you getting sick on me.” “I never get...” she started to say, then thought better of it. Damn! Now that she'd seen him angry when he was stonesober, she really was a little afraid of him. It was so unusual 49


for her to be intimidated by anyone, much less a derelict space jockey, she wasn't sure how to handle it. “Now!” She hurried for the kit stored in the living area, found a patch, and peeled off the backing as she ran. “Put the backing in the waste disposal,” he snapped. “I don't want it flying in my eyes when we start bouncing.” “My drink foil....” If a tiny bit of loose paper was dangerous, she could imagine what a rigid straw and a foil packet could do. “Will we lose gravity?” she asked anxiously as soon as she'd disposed of the debris. “We could. Sit here beside me, buckle in, and keep your eyes on the radar screen no matter what happens. The alarms are sure to go off. Ignore them.” She looked up through the thick window in the front of the ship and wondered if she had enough self-discipline to keep her eyes on the screen when potentially deadly asteroids were rushing toward them. Did she trust him enough to follow his orders to the letter? Would her nerve fail her? “I need an extra pair of eyes backing me up. Watch this circle,” he said, pointing at the center of the screen. “Anything larger than a beetle's eye in this area is potentially deadly.” “A beetle's eye?” “A dot on a computer screen. But what you really have to worry about is anything the size of a lum fruit seed or larger. Call out the location based on the face of a chronometer. 50


Here's one o'clock.” He pointed at an upper right hand area. “Sound out the instant an asteroid enters the zone.” “The inner circle ... yes, I understand. How big is an asteroid that looks like lum fruit seed on the screen?” “Think of Athera's largest mountain hurtling through space. They could be fifty times that size.” “We'll never make it!” “Concentrate on the screen!” “Nine o'clock!” she shrieked, horrified when a big dot suddenly appeared. “Another at seven. They're everywhere! Eight, watch out for another at seven. Rafe!” An impact rocked the ship, but she kept her eyes glued on the screen, too terrified not to. “One o'clock!” “Got it! Don't stop!” A whole series of small shocks ran through her body as the ship rocked and zigzagged to avoid debris in the asteroid belt. Once, for a horrifying instant, the screen went dark, but the back-up system reactivated it. Her voice was so hoarse it didn't seem to belong to her, but she kept calling out, fervently praying this wild and terrible plunge through deadly asteroids would end. “Seven,” she croaked, fighting a black pall reaching out to envelope her. “Seven....” Pinpricks of light exploded behind her eyelids, and she was falling backward into a bottomless tunnel. **** RAFE'S RELIEF at getting through the asteroid belt was tempered by his concern for Mercy. She'd slumped forward 51


just as they evaded the last giant asteroid. It wasn't unusual for a neophyte to black out in a space crisis, especially after a period of hypersleep, but he hated being torn between worrying about the ship and her. The Hazard needed all his attention: He had to ascertain the extent of the damage and program the landing coordinates immediately. She hung limp, held in the seat by straps, but he couldn't do a thing to help her, not until a safe landing was locked in. Mercy wished the voice would stop. She wanted to sleep, but a bright sun was blinding her left eye ... then her right. “Stop, stop, stop.” The voice continued, and she realized it was her own. “I give the orders here, remember?” Rafe's voice was soft and compelling, but she decided not to obey. “Don't shine that in my eyes.” “Just checking your pupils.” He clicked off the light, and she could see his face a few inches from hers. “You have a nice face when you're not scowling,” she mumbled, narrowing her eyes the way he did when he was annoyed. “You did well, Mercy,” he said, ignoring her slurred comment. “I want off this whirly-go-round. Nothing is moving. Are we dead?” “No, we made it. We're on Abbess II.” “Abbess II.” She shook her head, trying to bring reality into focus. “You must be a good pilot.” 52


“Possibly the best,” he said dryly. “But it helped to have Class-A shields. We're lucky the thieves didn't know the code to get at them.” She sat up slowly, still slightly dizzy but eager to get on with her mission. “We made it. We can go to the Priory now.” “We're in a landing zone, so it can't be far away. But you're in no shape to go anywhere. You can rest on your bunk while I see how bad the damage is.” “I just came out of hypersleep. The last thing I need is a nap.” She disengaged her safety harness and started to stand, but the deck swayed crazily under her feet. He scooped her into his arms and carried her to a bunk with surprising ease ... and gentleness. “I feel like a baby.” “You're not. You were a big help. Lie flat. That's an order. I don't have time to coddle you.” “Whenever you let yourself be the least little bit nice, you spoil it by saying something mean.” “Don't expect niceness from me.” He left the ship. Not only was she wide awake, she was too impatient to lie quietly and do nothing. Her legs were shaking and her muscles were twitching, but she sat up slowly, then stood, forcing herself to take small steps until some of her strength returned. The hatch was open, and she cautiously descended the ladder, awe-struck by her first view of Abbess II. The Hazard was sitting at an angle on an old-fashioned earthen landing 53


pad, the kind she'd only seen in pictures. Creeping vines had overrun much of the area, showing how seldom it was used. She had to walk carefully to keep from being tripped by ropelike tendrils. The landing site was on a plateau above a valley with jagged peaks all around, the purplish heights so high they were largely devoid of vegetation. She shivered and crossed her arms over her chest, amazed that a small group of women willingly lived in such rugged isolation. Settled by members of a 400-year-old Atheran religious order, the Priory existed with moral support from the home planet but little substantial help. Mercy knew from her research that the sisters of the Order eked out a meager existence by tending irrigated gardens and drying fish from frigid mountain streams. A ship with supplies and new converts from Athera might arrive once or twice a decade. Rafe was working near the stern of the Hazard, his face a blur behind a safety shield as he directed a thin jet of blue flame to weld a separation on the ship's surface. He worked with the delicacy of a master jeweler. His hands, encased in burnproof gloves that would make most people clumsy, had amazing dexterity, and for a crazy moment Mercy wondered how they'd feel caressing her skin. Her cheeks felt hot at the thought of those clever fingers stroking hidden places, and she shuddered, welcoming the chilling wind that cooled her feverish imaginings. She walked toward him determined to take control of her mission. “How bad is it?” she asked. 54


“I can fix the surface damage, seal the air leaks. I'll have to take the engine casings off to get the whole picture, but it looks like we were lucky. The shields deflected the brunt of the asteroid storm.” “I don't think many pilots could get through a mess like that on manual control.” “Maybe one or two others.” He didn't look up from his work. “In the whole universe?” She didn't try to keep sarcasm out of her voice. “Modesty isn't one of your strong points, is it?” “Survival out here depends on knowing what you can and can't do. I don't waste time on phony conventions.” “There's nothing phony about courtesy. It's a way of showing regard for the feelings of others.” “Don't get huffy. Grab that rag and dry my forehead. It's hot under this shield.” She wanted to tell him to do it himself, but considering what she needed him to do, it was more politic to save her ammunition for big issues. She patted his forehead again, fighting an urge to run the back of her fingers over the dark stubble on his cheeks, wondering if it had grown soft during his hypersleep. “I need to get to the Priory right away,” she said in a commanding tone, wanting him to know she was in charge again. “Not until I get the ship repaired.” “Stay here and do it. I'll go by myself.” 55


“No way. Look at that trail.” He pointed at a steep, winding path leading downward. Morning mist was still hovering over the valley, but she could see the dim outline of massive stone walls and a square tower. The Priory was built like an ancient fortification, utilizing the most plentiful building material on the planet: rocks. “I'm perfectly capable of climbing down a hill. It can't be more than an hour's trek.” “Rule number one for exploring unfamiliar terrain: never go alone. If you fall and break a leg, I'm the one who'll have to haul your sorry behind back up the slope. I don't need that kind of hassle.” “If I fall and break my neck, you won't have to bother with me anymore!” She'd had just about enough of him. “This is still my expedition.” “So it is,” he said with obvious disgust, taking off the shield to face her. He'd had his hair cut before they left Athera; now it was shaggy again, a deep russet helmet framing his strong, square-jawed face. His eyes had green glints that flashed when he was angry, and when his face clouded with rage as it did now, he was scary in a domineering sort of way. She took a deep breath, determined to take control again. I'm going to the Priory. You can suit yourself.” She started toward the path, hoping she wouldn't spoil her show of independence by losing her footing and landing on her backside. “I'll go,” he grudgingly conceded, “But don't plan on me for your big treasure hunt. If you go into these mountains, you're 56


on your own. I have too much repair work to tote your tools or pander to your whims.” “I won't need tools, and I certainly won't need you!” The trail downward was made treacherous by patches of loose gravel washed down by seasonal storms. She had to descend by clinging to boulders to keep from sliding, but she led the way, not willing to surrender leadership to the surly pilot. No doubt even a child could get used to mountain paths with enough practice. Distances were deceptive on the misty surface of Abbess II. The descent into the valley was shorter than she'd thought, but damp rocks were treacherously slippery. Rafe was more surefooted than she was, passing her and getting a sizable lead. When he waited for her to catch up and offered his hand at a particularly dangerous drop off, she wasn't foolish enough to refuse help just to salve her pride. They walked past a series of small artificial ponds where silver fish swam in crowded schools, no doubt a food supply for those in the Priory. What few trees there were had rough black bark and clusters of narrow, yellowish leaves, most of which had fallen to the ground. All the trees had a little fence of stones around them, showing they were cared for and cherished, but no one had raked the dead leaves. The small garden plots they passed also showed signs of recent neglect; vines like those that covered the landing site were beginning to creep into the cultivated areas. “I thought the Priory depended on their gardens,” Rafe said thoughtfully. 57


“I guess it's not their growing season.” Her yellow body suit was insulated, but shivers ran down her spine and her teeth chattered in apprehension.. “Maybe.” He stopped and seemed to be worried about something. His eyes narrowed, and he absentmindedly bit the knuckle of this forefinger. “What's the matter?” She had a better idea than he did of what they'd find, but his instincts for trouble were probably sharper than hers. He was acting like a wild beast picking up the scent of danger. “I don't like this. A ship lands on Abbess II maybe once in ten years, but no one's come out to see it. Why aren't the sisters curious about our arrival? I can see the ship from here, and so can anyone in the priory” “Odd,” she agreed, fighting a sick feeling of apprehension in the pit of her stomach. “Maybe the sisters absconded with your treasure. Did you plan for all the things that could go wrong when you put together this idiotic expedition?” “I've had enough of your comments,” she said, as angry at her own trepidation as she was at him. He ignored her and continued forward. The Priory looked like a fortress, but the iron gates at the wide arched entryway were open. They walked through sideby-side, entering a courtyard lined with hundreds of big tubs filled with wilted vegetation. “I should've brought a stun gun,” he said. “Something's wrong here.” 58


She saw a high wooden door, the only one leading off the courtyard. Although there were many windows, most were only openings in the stone walls, unprotected by glass or grills. Leading the way, Mercy nearly tripped over an object lying on the flagstone walkway. Rafe bent and picked it up, staring at it with an expression of disbelief. “A child's doll. I thought the sisters were a celibate order. What do you know about this place that I don't?” This time she ignored him and walked ahead without answering, pulling open the heavy door. They entered a highceilinged room with rough stone walls and a massive fireplace with lumps of dark brown fuel piled in the grate. A large loom with partially completed red-brown fabric dominated the room. Along one wall several wheels for spinning animal wool had half-full spindles of yarn. Mercy had read that the sisters didn't eat animal flesh but kept small domestic beasts for milk and wool. The room was a site for activity and companionship, and the absence of inhabitants was giving her cold shivers. Rafe walked over and touched the hearth, then the grate. “Cold ... dusty too. There hasn't been a fire here for quite awhile.” They passed through an arch into an even larger room, this one furnished with long tables, some overturned or knocked at odd angles. Slashed tapestries hung in shreds or lay on the floor in pieces. There were remnants of a meal, smashed dishes, and stains on the carpeted floor. 59


“The place has been ransacked,” he said, putting out his arm to stop her advance. “Is something going on you haven't told me?” “My father received reports ... only rumors really. Just by chance I was watching his communicator while he was away.” “Why are we here, Mercy?” he asked angrily. “Who invaded this place? Before I go any farther, I want to know.” “They're gone ... you saw there hasn't been a ship here in awhile. The vines on the landing pad don't look crushed.” “Those things grow fast ... a ship could've left only days ago. What did you expect to find here?” He gripped her upper arm, his fingers digging into her flesh. “Children.” “Children! I said I thought only celibate women lived here.” “They did ... until the orphans came.” “Orphans...how many?” He didn't release her. “Twenty-seven.” “Twenty-seven! I get the picture now!” He groaned and released her. “You expect me to transport twenty-seven children. Why me? If this is a rescue mission, the Coalition should be doing it!” “There are reasons ... that's why I had to have your ship. I heard stories you transported mercenaries on the Hazard...It checked out ... your ship is the only one I could find with facilities to carry human cargo.” “I did it once! I needed golbriks to begin a new life for my family on Athera because a trading ship is no place to raise a children. I know from experience. I was a space tramp from the time I was eleven.” 60


“Listen! Did you hear something?” He was instantly silent, his body rigid, ready for whatever was making a low, mewing sound ... a muted cry of distress. “This way, I think.” Mercy didn't feel threatened; it sounded like an injured creature. The large common room was lit by windows set high in the back wall, but the corridor they entered was as dark as night, a stone-walled tunnel leading into the bowels of the building. They didn't have to go to the end of the black void; the cry was coming from an opening on the left less than twenty paces from them. “In here.” Rafe took her hand, and she didn't mind having something to hang onto. It was a sleeping chamber, a rude cell with whitewashed walls and a narrow cot. A small window allowed them to see the room's occupant: a tiny female on a kneeler, head bowed and hands clasped together in prayer. “You were sent,” she said in a surprisingly resonant voice. “My prayers have been answered.” “You're one of the sisters?” Mercy bent over the woman, seeing an ancient face with deeply scored wrinkles and faded blue eyes. “Sister Lazbit. I have to tell you....” She swayed on her perch as though she'd faint. “Let me help you, Sister Lazbit.” Rafe bent and effortlessly picked up the elderly woman, gently cradling her in his arms and carrying her out to the common room where the light was stronger. “Find some water and blankets!” he ordered. 61


Mercy didn't like the way he barked commands, but she could see for herself how urgently Sister Lazbit needed help. Her face was dead white on one side, but the other cheek was horribly discolored by purple and green bruising. There was dried blood on the front of her stark gray gown. She ran through the door the sister indicated, easily finding the kitchen. The place was aromatic with bundles of dried plants hanging from the ceiling rafters. Jars of herbs lined the shelves along one wall, and she found a canister of tea leaves that gave off a minty fragrance. She thought it worth the few minutes it took to start a fire in the huge iron stove and heat water. She hurried back to Sister Lazbit with a big mug filled with potent tea, the scent alone enough to revive clouded senses. Rafe was holding the sister on his lap, softly reassuring her in the voice he once must have used to comfort his daughter when she was an infant. Mercy didn't stop to wonder at this new and surprising side in a man who seemed to loathe taking responsibility for other people. She handed him the tea and ran down the corridor to the sleeping chambers, gathering as many blankets as she could carry from several small cells like the one where they'd found Sister Lazbit. “Make a bed for her on this table,” he said when Mercy returned. “Roll a couple of blankets to raise her head. I think she has two, possibly three, broken ribs. She's having difficulty breathing.” They settled her as best they could, and Rafe gently ripped the bodice of her dress to reveal a coarse brown 62


undergarment. A wicked slash below her breastbone had cut through it, and the fabric was stiff with dried blood. “Do you have some kind of pain killer you can take before I try to clean this?” he asked. She shook her head impatiently. “You have to hear me out before it's too late.” “You should have your wound dressed first,” Mercy said. “No, let her talk first,” Rafe said, exchanging a solemn glance with Mercy. She understood that the woman might not have another chance to speak, no matter what they did for her. “It's our custom to retreat to a certain cave to meditate and purge our souls of sin,” the sister said softly. Mercy couldn't imagine what sin the ancient woman could commit living in a Priory on a barren, nearly lifeless planet like Abbess II, but she nodded to encourage her to continue. “I've lost count of days....” The pale eyes clouded with distress, but Rafe took her hand and murmured encouragement. “From the cave I saw a black vessel with flames on the side.” “Was it a Tamaran ship, Sister?” Rafe asked. “Faceless monsters with scarlet limbs like the Great Evil One,” she said, her face screwed up in distress. “Probably Tamaran warriors in battle helmets. They're pretty intimidating,” Rafe said. “She said scarlet limbs,” Mercy said softly so only Rafe could hear. “Red armor ... the Tamarans are partial to bright colors.” 63


“I hurried ... fell ... hurried.” The ancient sister grew breathless from recalling her desperate trip down the mountains. “I had to oppose them.” “What did you hope to do against Tamaran warriors?” Rafe asked kindly. “I am the Keeper of Secrets. I know ways....” “The Priory's oldest sister,” Mercy said, awed to be in the presence of a person reputed to have mystic powers. “All my sisters ... slaughtered!” She cried out in anguish, clenching her fists together. “They herded them like beasts to the place where the world drops away, hurling them into the abyss!” “All the sisters were thrown over a cliff,” Rafe whispered to Mercy, his face a stone mask as he gave his interpretation of the grim story. The frail old woman was trembling so hard Mercy thought she'd go into convulsions. She took her hands and tried to will some of her own youth and strength into the wounded sister. “The children?” she asked desperately. “Stolen!” “On their ship?” Rafe asked. “Into the very bowels of the Place of Torment. The innocents! We swore to nurture them, and now they're in the hands of demons!” “They must intend to demand ransom for them,” Rafe reasoned. Mercy's throat was so constricted with pain she couldn't speak. 64


“The leader struck me with a silver blade, but the Keeper of Secrets isn't so easy to kill.” Elation at her survival seemed to revive her a little. “I wear a sacred shirt of hair under my dress ... woven from the locks of sainted sisters who passed on ahead of us. It saved me to expose their infamy.” “The Tamarans thought you were dead?” Rafe asked. “No, they left me to suffer a slow death. Their gods demand pain from their victims.” “How cruel!” Mercy had known the terrors of living on the street as an abandoned child, but she'd never witnessed such deliberate, malicious cruelty. The Tamarans had wanted Sister Lazbit to die alone in great agony. “I lived to tell,” the ancient sister said in a much weaker voice. “You did, sister, you did.” Mercy took her hand, gently stroking the dry, papery skin. “Save them.” The words erupted from the old woman's throat with the final rattle of death. Her body went rigid, then limp, and an expression of serene peace stole over her features. “She stayed alive on willpower alone,” Rafe said. For once Mercy agreed with him. They wrapped Sister Lazbit in blankets, and Rafe dug a shallow grave in the only soft earth he could find: a garden plot. Then Mercy helped him pile stones to mark the site and scratched the sister's name on a slab of sandstone to identify it. “Will others come to live in the Priory?” she wondered aloud. 65


“Not while the Tamarans are on the warpath.” “Why did they come here? What possible use could they have with Abbess II?” Mercy asked. “Rumors say they want to expand to other worlds.” “But why this planet? There's no agriculture, no valuable minerals, no timber, barely enough water to support the Priory.” “Most of the planets on Tamar's frontier belong to the Coalition. The Tamarans need a safe base close to Coalition space. Abbess II is worthless, but it would be a good staging ground for attacking planets like Bast. They killed all the sisters to satisfy their bloodthirsty religion, but they wouldn't have risked coming through the asteroid belt unless this planet figured in bigger plans.” “They wouldn't dare attack Athera. The whole Coalition would rise up against them. Not even an isolationist planet like Thal would allow Tamar to threaten the peace and security the Coalition has brought to our galaxy.” “They're not after Athera. You're not thinking like the daughter of a Coalition officer. The Tamarans want to take over a few planets too minor to provoke the Coalition into war. They're not powerful enough for all-out war. Gobbling up weaker planets is more their style.” “And killing innocent women who can't defend themselves,” Mercy said bitterly. “At least the children are the Coalition's problem now. We can go home,” Rafe said, turning his back on the grave of Sister Lazbit. “No, Rafe, we can't. No one will ransom these children.” 66


“Aren't they Atherans?” “In a way, yes, but....” “Then the Coalition will ransom them or rescue them. It's not our problem.” “They won't do a thing for them! Their parents were killed in a clandestine mining operation. The Coalition won't even acknowledge the children exist.” He took a deep breath and looked into her eyes. “Mercy, whatever you have in mind, I've kept my part of the contract and brought you to Abbess II. Now, I'm done.” “No, you're not. There's no one but us to rescue those children,” she said. “No one.”

67


Chapter 4 “YOU COERCED me into coming on this crazy mission of yours, and now it's over,” Rafe said. “I'm giving you a chance to make a new start. You should be grateful!” Mercy crossed her arms, adamant they find the children. “You've spent too many years with your nose in law books, Advocate Greer. The Tamarans don't have words in their language for justice or compassion. They don't have prisons because there's only one law and one penalty: Obey your warlord or die. You have no idea how ruthless they are.” “All the more reason why I have to save those children.” “You don't even know whether they're still alive.” “They belong on Athera, the home planet of the Galactic Coalition. The Tamarans must believe they're valuable hostages. If they intend to sacrifice them to their infernal gods, why not do it here? Why go to all the trouble of taking them to Tamar?” “Whatever their reason, you don't have any clout on their planet. You'll never get near those kids. Your chance of rescuing them is nil.” He forced himself to speak slowly and reasonably, not at all sure he was dealing with a rational person. “I'll find a way.” He shook his head, pacing in front of her on the stony path beyond the priory garden. He wanted to shake some sense 68


into her, but doubted even that would bring her to her senses. “Why are those kids so important to you?” “Because I'm their only hope.” “The Coalition....” “Won't even acknowledge they exist. Their parents were doing illegal mining for a secret military buildup. Political heads would fall if it became known.” He looked up and locked gazes with her, wishing he could read what was behind those somber blue eyes. “There is no hope for them.” He said it with grim finality. He didn't value his own skin, but no way was he going to be responsible for another death: hers. “You're a coward!” “Believe what you want. I'm taking my ship back to Athera. Stay here if you don't like it.” “If you don't take me to Tamar, I'll lease your ship to every scumbag scalawag who comes along. You'll be lucky if you have a rotten skeleton of a hull left by the time you pay the mortgage ... if you ever do.” “I've kept my part of the agreement.” “Not if we go back without the children.” He could only stare at her, too furious for words. She'd tricked him into thinking she was a treasure hunter, and no doubt her legal tricks could deprive him of his ship. Now she wanted to drag him across the far reaches of the galaxy with the odds a million to one against ever finding the lost children, let alone rescuing them. 69


He walked away from her with long strides until he reached the point where he had to climb to reach the ship. In his haste to get up to the landing spot, he set off a rock slide that forced her to take cover behind a large boulder. The Hazard was as ready as he could make it on a planet devoid of technology, and he didn't owe Mercy Greer a blasted thing. She'd blackmailed him into coming to Abbess II, she'd lied about her reasons, and now she had the crazy idea he should take her to Tamar, the most dangerous planet in the galaxy for Atherans. His rage kept building as he climbed. His head was throbbing, and he needed the solace of a good stiff drink, suffering the deprivation more keenly than he had since his rehabilitation. He couldn't think of one reason not to leave her on this planet and strike out alone for the unknown reaches of space in search of some kind of peace. He'd be leaving her to a lonely fate, but she wouldn't starve. He might even send a message about her whereabouts to the Coalition. If her father was as powerful as he believed, a ship would eventually come for her. She was scrambling behind him now, heedless of the rocks still tumbling around her. “Rafe, wait!” she cried out frantically, as if she'd read his intentions. “Please, Rafe.” He reached the ship well ahead of her. All he had to do was enter and close the hatch behind him. There was no way she could force an entry, and he doubted very much that she had the technical knowledge to prevent his takeoff. “Rafe Trane, stop!” 70


She was crying, something he hadn't expected from the cool, self-possessed advocate. “Rafe, please hear me out!” He froze on his way up the hatch ladder, every molecule in his body yearning to be locked away in the familiar cocoon of his ship. He didn't trust himself to listen, but it felt like iron bands were tightening around his forehead. “I'm tired of your bag of tricks. This expedition is in my hands now,” he said angrily. He mounted the last two steps and lowered himself through the hatch, filling the opening in a way that prevented her from entering the ship. Fortunately, neither of them had armed themselves to explore the peaceable planet, fearing they might frighten its gentle inhabitants. “No tricks. Just the truth. Please listen.” It was the closest to begging he was ever likely to hear from the self-assured advocate. She was easier to thwart when she was sharp-tongued or belligerent. Her soft, beseeching expressions made it impossible to slam the hatch cover in her face. He could leave a screaming shrew behind, but not a teary-eyed supplicant. Maybe the easiest course would be to lull her into hype sleep, then return to Athera without her knowledge. Of course, he risked losing his ship that way. He wouldn't put it past her to have filed a stop-and-hold order with the docking officials. “Get inside,” he said gruffly, wanting to make it clear his mind was made up. “I'm not as naive as you think,” she said softly. “What I think is none of your business.” 71


“I was one of them once,” she said, taking him by surprise. “An orphan?” “Yes.” “So was I. No big deal. I survived long enough for my uncle to find me and take me into space on his ship. You certainly landed on your feet too.” “Only because I was starving and had the marvelous good luck to try snatching Rella Greer's money pouch from her belt. She saw beyond my rags and filth and took me home to Varga Greer, her husband.” There was a catch in her voice, and he hoped she wouldn't weep. “He was a high-ranking official in the Galactic Coalition even then,” she went on. “It was the sorrow of their life that they'd never been able to have a child of their own. I filled a void in their lives, and they blessed me beyond the wildest dreams of any street urchin.” “I suppose you feel guilty over your good fortune,” he said, in no mood to be swayed by a sad tale. “If you need to ease your conscience, there must be plenty of orphans on Athera who need help. Why chase all over the galaxy for a hopeless cause?” “Because I'm their only chance.” “Then they have no chance. Do you have any idea how dangerous Tamar is?” “Yes. My father has access to the highest security reports, and I've learned how to tap into his communications. The three warlords on Tamar are joining forces. They're losing 72


land through global warming, and the warrior class has gone berserk with the idea of conquering other planets.” “Did your intelligence tell you that when they're not doing anything else, they like to skin aliens alive and tan the hides for battle flags?” “So you are a coward?” “No, a pragmatist, and I don't like the million-to-one odds against rescuing even one child.” “Would you go if that one child were yours?” She'd gone too far! He was so enraged, he saw her through a red haze. “Would you?” she pressed, not knowing how close he was to throwing her from the ship and leaving without her. He would gladly step out into the eternal coldness of deep space if it would bring his family back, but how dare this woman use their deaths against him? “Rafe, you can save another child even though yours is lost forever!” He turned and pounded his fists against the bulk head, bruising his hands to keep from silencing her with blows. She was still now, and he lumbered into the cockpit and triggered the recessed door to shut her out. Hours later he roused himself from a stupor of grief, still sitting beside the control panel. Always before he'd needed strong drink to reach a fog of forgetfulness. This time he'd lapsed into a trance-like state triggered by sheer rage and frustration. He was shaken by the strength of his emotions and wary of the suppressed power of his grief. Now he feared 73


that the depth of his pain might someday take him away from himself to the depths of madness. When he left his solitary refuge, Mercy was huddled on one of the bunks provided for short hops. “Mercy.” He spoke her name softly, surprised to find himself thinking of her by her given name, not as Advocate Greer. She awoke with a start, quickly showing defiance on her face, but not before he saw a flash of fear. “I won't hurt you,” he said crossly. Nor would he apologize. She'd provoked him far beyond what any pilot forced into space against his will should have to endure. “I'm not afraid of you!” She protested a little too vehemently. “Prepare for hypersleep,” he ordered, ignoring her words. “Where are we going?” “To Tamar. But until we get there, I don't want to see your face or hear your voice.” “Don't you want my help going through the asteroid belt?” “No, I want your obedience ... now. You've been given an order, Advocate Greer.” “Understood, Captain Trane.” Her voice held a hint of mockery, or maybe he was imagining it. The decision made, all he cared about was preparing his ship. Let her fend for herself, and if she was careless in her preparations, she could suffer from dry skin and crease burns. **** 74


MERCY DREAMILY wondered if hype sleep could become addictive. She wasn't sure how long she'd been under, but Rafe must have triggered her awakening. Urgency pricked at the edges of her consciousness, but she didn't have the will to rise from her tank. The urge to go back to sleep was so strong, she resented the voice telling her to fight it. “You've got to snap out of it,” Rafe ordered. “I have to prepare for landing on Tamar.” “Tamar.” A ripple of fear shot through her, penetrating through the fog in her mind. “You have forty-two minutes to prepare for touchdown. That means coming up with a plan to locate those children ... if we get the opportunity. I'll be in the cockpit. Let me know what you have in mind.” He left without offering his hand to help her up. He'd let her sleep until the last possible minute, not giving her any time to think about her strategy. By the time she'd dressed and consumed enough liquid to clear her head, she had more questions than answers. Were Atherans allowed on Tamar? Would they be detained or even arrested? Was the Coalition ambassador still in residence on the planet, or did an official state of war exist? “Blast you, Trane,” she said bursting into the cockpit. “Why did you let me sleep so long?” “You do wake up cranky.” He didn't look up from the navigational panel. “We've been ordered to come down on Hakara Pad 2. All their communications officer asked was my home base and the class of my ship. They're making it too easy. I don't like it.” 75


“You've landed here before?” “Once, but even with an authorized cargo, I spent two days on the computer before my ship got clearance. The only thing that makes me more nervous than a hostile Tamaran is a friendly one.” “Maybe they've decided against expansionism and are tying to ingratiate themselves with the Coalition.” “Sure, and maybe I'll sprout wings and fly around to scout the situation under my own power.” “Well, what is your explanation, Captain Trane?” “My speculation ... for what it's worth ... is that they want my ship. Once we leave it, we're nothing to them but food for swamp beasties. This is your last chance to change your mind. We can still make a run for it. In her prime, the Hazard could get away from any Tamaran ship except their Super Cruiser X-74. I doubt if they have a war ship docked in Hakara, but that's a chance we'd have to take.” Mercy still felt weak and disoriented from hypersleep, but nothing could change her mind about looking for the orphans. “Dock,” she said. “Dock?” He glanced at her with the green glints in his eyes flashing angrily. “If you have a plan, I'd better hear it.” “First we have to find out which warlord took the children.” “How do you plan to do that?” His interrogation made her feel like a first-form student called on to recite. “I'll contact the Coalition embassy.” “If there still is one.” 76


“I can also talk to people in the public houses. Spread around a few golbriks.” “In what language?” “There's always someone who speaks Instell. Also I've mastered seven other galactic languages.” She needed help, not skepticism, and his was grating on her nerves. Trane had grown even more irritating during their trip than when she'd first found him. “Did you log any hypersleep time” she asked pointedly. “Enough.” She hated to ask the really big question: Was he going to help her? Much as she hated it, she needed him. “When the ship docks....” she began hesitantly. “I'll put it on auto-guard and code the computers to respond only to me. It's not a foolproof way to keep outsiders out, but I doubt if there are more than a couple of expert logjammers in the Tamaran ranks. I'll have to gamble that they're too busy with military projects to be called in to help hijack a merchant vessel.” “Does that mean....” Oh, how she loathed the necessity of asking! “Mean what?” He wouldn't give a millimeter; he was going to make her ask. “That you're coming with me?” “Are you asking if I'm going to help with your weakbrained scheme to get yourself dismembered or worse?” He was too much! She'd had some practice fending off unwanted suitors, and she wouldn't dream of backing off when there was a hotly contested battle in the advocacy 77


courts, but she'd never been forced to deal with such a stubborn, arrogant, opinionated male. “Are you?” It came out sounding like a challenge; she wasn't skilled enough in theatrical arts to sound humble. “I'll tag along while you ask your questions. I'd hate to see that braid of yours hanging from a Tamaran sword belt.” She embarrassed herself by reaching up to pat her long hank of hair. She needed his backup, but being with him was a constant irritant. “I call the shots,” she insisted. “On Tamar, you walk two steps behind me, obey my commands instantly, and defer to me like a proper lesser-one should. The concept of females having equal status is so contrary to the customs here, you'll find yourself in a Kobouch if you step out of line.” “What's a Kobouch?” “A retraining camp for disobedient females.” “You made that up!” “Don't bet your life on it.” “Can we take weapons?” “You can. Cut a hole in one of the bed coverings for your head. You can smuggle in as many weapons as you can hide under a robe.” He looked in her direction and actually smiled. “It's the flip side of being a female on this planet. The males think a female alien is very bad patinget ... not a word that translates, but basically you're taboo. If one of them touches you ... while you're alive ... he has to go through a nasty purification ritual.” “While I'm alive?” She didn't like the sound of that. 78


“Try to keep out of trouble and let me do the talking. Usually they let their females have the fun of carving up alien females who step out of line.” “Woman's work is never done.” Bile rose up in her throat, choking off what was really a bad joke. “I'm getting a go-ahead.” Rafe's voice gave him away: He must be secretly exited about the prospect of action, no matter how indifferent he tried to sound. “Go devise a robe and strap on every weapon you can from the arms locker. Be sure to bring a stun gun plus one with plenty of live ammo. Get a knife, a lock jammer, and anything else you can carry without dropping it. Get going!” Ignoring the sick feeling in her stomach, she made a makeshift robe and armed herself. She was anything but comfortable with a wide gun belt, a shoulder holster, and ankle straps under both boots, but she took everything Rafe suggested plus a cylindrical weapon that looked like a writing implement but delivered a dangerous laser beam. Locking down here wasn't the smooth operation it was on Athera. Rafe had to circle the landing area twice before the Tamaran coordinates agreed with his readings, and when he did touch down, the entire ground crew consisted of one huge, slovenly alien, powerful looking but clumsy in securing the land lock to the Hazard. “A slave,” Rafe remarked, seeing him through a forward hatch. “How can you tell?” “For one thing, the only fat inhabitants on the planet are neutered aliens. The average citizen has to struggle just to 79


get enough food. Also I think I see a slave tattoo on his shoulder.” “You know a lot about this place for someone who's only been here once.” “I read a lot when I'm in space,” he said dryly, opening the hatch and leading the way through it. The landing pads were set in a circular pattern, each at the end of a high bridge, one of nine laid out like spokes of a wheel with a round structure at the center. No guards were visible, but there was nowhere to go but to the check point at the hub. Thick, oily sludge slapped against the supports of the bridge far below. Mercy emerged from the ship behind Rafe, and the stench took her by surprise, making her gag. “Raw sewage and industrial waste,” Rafe said, covering his nose with his hand. “It guarantees no one will sneak onto or off the planet by climbing the bridge girders. That muck will suck a person down the instant he hits.” She went to the rail and lost most of the fluid she'd taken to rehydrate after hypersleep. He didn't offer sympathy; she was too humiliated to want any. “Remember, walk two paces behind me. Keep your eyes down and shuffle. Females are usually hobbled by ankle straps or chains when they're allowed out in public.” “To keep them from running away?” Her nausea was getting worse, not better.

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“No, it gives status to husbands and slave masters to be considered harsh. If you give me any trouble, I'll have to beat you or lose my dignity.” “You wouldn't!” He frowned at her. He would. “Remember, you're carrying our weapons. If they think you're a female warrior ... and that means any female offlander who doesn't defer to her master ... you'll be searched. Be humble. We can't afford to be caught armed.” Inside the checkpoint was drab and austere, nothing but thick concrete walls and a row of locked turnstiles stretched across one large, circular room. Rafe waited behind one until a click indicated he could pass through. After an anxious wait of several minutes, there was another click, and Mercy was allowed to pass into the empty space on the other side where Rafe had waited for her. Rafe nodded at an opening in the floor at the far end, and it proved to be the entrance to a spiral staircase leading downward into virtual darkness. Mercy gathered up the folds of her makeshift robe and followed Rafe, more by sound than sight, clutching a cold metal handrail. She didn't dare hurry. Besides the danger of falling on the slippery metal steps, she had to worry about bumping one of her weapons and making a revealing sound. The stink of the sewage sea followed them as they went, blindly groping their way downward until her calves ached from the unaccustomed exercise. Rafe didn't speak to her, probably another male status thing, and the total silence was 81


eerie. She had to keep reminding herself that she was the only hope of twenty-seven children. When Rafe came to an abrupt stop, she bumped into him and nearly lost her balance. He didn't turn or try to steady her. Did he think eyes were watching in the inky blackness? She shivered even though the air around them was hot and humid. Rafe pushed on the door, and it opened inward, allowing them to pass into another circular room with the same drab gray walls. A grid formed by metal pipes was set into the floor, not unlike a holding pen for cattle. She crept closer to Rafe until he snarled at her to keep her distance. She was too scared to resent it. Ahead of them in the dim room was a huge desk manned by three Tamarans. She'd seen pictures and read descriptions of the ferocious Tamarans, but none had prepared her for this first contact. Their anatomy was humanoid, but their mottled skin was reptilian, dominated by shades of yellow and green with orange tinges that supposedly became more prominent when they became angry or aggressive. Their ancestors had been part of a genetic experiment that failed: an attempt to engineer humanoids who could live under water on planets like Tamar. They'd been abandoned on this watery planet countless thousands of years ago, but had never evolved forward. Vestigial gills scarred their highridged cheekbones, and their dark reddish-brown eyes raked over the new arrivals with chilling hostility. 82


Rafe bowed, and she bowed lower, not rising until he did. The Tamaran in the middle rose and walked around the desk to stand in front of them, revealing himself to be nearly as tall as Rafe with narrow shoulders and lesser body weight. He was clothed in a single swath of cloth draped like a sarong over one shoulder and falling to the webbed toes of his bare feet. Like his companions, he had a wide, flat nose with wide air holes and large ears flaring out from his head. His appearance differed from his companions only in the pattern of configurations on his mottled skin. His was darker with greens predominating, while the thinner of the other two had yellow cheeks marked by slime-green swirls similar in color to the rest of his complexion. The third had mottled green and saffron skin, rougher in appearance with a disfiguring white scar running from under his eye to his sharply pointed chin. All were hairless, and the elongated domes of their heads gleamed as if oiled. The demons in Mercy's worst nightmares seemed benign compared to this trio. “State your purpose in coming here,” the standing creature ordered, speaking through a lipless mouth cavity in a garbled but understandable version of Instell. “My solar power packs were overheating. I had to land or be consumed by flames.” Mercy admired his clever lie. Possibly, just possibly, they'd be wary of forcing entry into the Hazard. “How do you account for this?” the control officer asked.

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“Probably a defective conversion element. That's why I'm here. To allow time for the unit to cool and possibly purchase a replacement.” “You don't keep spare parts on your ship?” one of the others asked suspiciously. “I'm a poor space trader.” Rafe spread his hands and shrugged. “I've fallen on hard times since the infernal Coalition has strangled my business with tariffs, blast their officious tax collectors to perdition!” His condemnation of the Coalition seemed to relax the Tamarans, although their lipless mouths didn't show any semblance of smiles. “You expect us to supply your needs?” the third Tamaran asked. “I have enough golbriks to pay for what I need,” Rafe said, managing to sound humble and mildly indignant at the same time. He was good at bluffing. She had to give him credit for knowing how to throw up a smoke screen. “Remove your garments and place them on the examining table. Move very slowly. Hand over one piece at a time.” Rafe didn't protest. He cautiously took off his rubber-soled boots, olive green jersey and heavy-duty khaki trousers, laying them in front of the examiner one at a time. Without further prodding, he stripped off his white cotton undergarment, the timekeeper on his wrist, and the pouch he wore around his waist to carry his papers and currency, handing them over with seeming nonchalance. 84


Mercy kept her eyes averted ... most of the time. She couldn't resist a quick glance under lowered lashes, noting the powerful swell of his shoulders and the golden smoothness of his back. His waist was trim above the pleasingly round swell of his buttocks, and his long legs were surprisingly muscular for a man who'd lived most of his life in space. The three control officers minutely examined every square inch of Rafe's clothing, pinching seams, pulling on fasteners, even removing the back of his timekeeper with a kit of delicate instruments. It was difficult to determine where duty ended and simple curiosity began, but Mercy glanced upward to see part of Rafe's wad of golbriks disappear under the leader's robe. He didn't even bother to call it a landing fee or entry charge, and he shrugged off Rafe's protest without even bothering to answer. The other two Tamarans walked to the front of the desk, and Mercy was sure their sharp, probing eyes would see the bulges under her makeshift robe. She couldn't believe they'd let her pass without at least a cursory inspection that would reveal the cache of arms she was concealing. She worried for nothing. She was virtually invisible to the three inspectors. Instead, the leader ran his hands over Rafe, beginning with his unruly reddish-brown hair. She admired Rafe's self-control when the alien probed his mouth with long, sharp-nailed fingers, tilted his head back to peer into his nostrils, and roughly yanked his ears. He left no orifice unexplored and seemed to be memorizing Rafe's anatomy with the tips of his fingers. 85


The Tamaran made a series of hissing noises punctuated with unpleasant grunts, then announced his conclusion in Instell: “He is free of disease.” How he determined that, Mercy wasn't sure. She had heard of thermal-medical theories asserting that currents of heat flowing through the body could be harnessed to promote healing. Maybe the Tamarans’ metabolism was such that they believed the state of a man's health could be determined by feeling him up. She held her breath, not knowing what she'd do if the control officer wanted to check her temperature with his loathsome fingers, but Rafe had been right: She was as good as invisible to the frightening lizard-skinned trio. At last they returned Rafe's possessions, minus the pilfered golbriks. He gracefully slipped into his clothes, modestly keeping his back toward her. She was just a tad bit disappointed, not that she cared anything at all about Trane's anatomy. One of the Tamarans produced a rectangular device with a handle and a bottle of midnight-black fluid. He used a brush attached to the bottle cap to ink the bottom of the block, then ordered Rafe to lay his hand on the desk. She winced when they stamped his hand with enough force to break bones more frail than his, but Rafe took it stoically, not even flexing his fingers when they allowed him to remove his hand. Apparently, that was it. One of them gestured at a narrow, handle-less metal door to the right of the desk and used a small black rectangular object to open it. 86


Rafe walked around the desk and through the opening without looking behind to see if she was following. She shuffled; she stared at the floor. She was ready to crawl on her belly and lick the floor with her tongue if that were what it took to get out of there. It was easily the creepiest experience she'd ever had, but she could see definite advantages in being the invisible woman. They had to walk the length of another bridge over the noxious sludge. An intimidating black booth with two Tamaran border guards blocked their way at the end, but Rafe showed the stamp on his hand and was waved through without a word. They left the high-tech world behind and followed a narrow planked path with boggy wasteland on either side. The boards were slippery with green slime, and some had rotted away. Rafe studied the walkway and avoided the worse pitfalls, all without looking back or speaking a word to her. The holster holding the stun gun was chafing her shoulder blade, the belt around her waist had slid around so the largest and most lethal of their weapons was banging her hip, and her boot tops cut into her calves, crowded as they were with a sheathed knife and a riot stick with a concealed blade. Tamar definitely wasn't on her list of favorite vacation spots.

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Chapter 5 WHEN THEY started following a path that led upward to the city of Hakara, Rafe finally spoke to her in a low voice. “Don't think we're home free. They want the Hazard. I'm sure of it. I only hope their superiors will buy my story about the solars. The average Tamaran is a technological idiot, so our best hope is they'll want me to fix it before they seize it.” “What's the worst scenario?” “Now you ask,” he growled. “Aren't we in enough trouble without sniping at each other?” He was silent for a long minute. “I suppose you're right,” he reluctantly admitted. “What we have to fear most is that they'll get curious about our reason for being here, but I'm not going to tell you any horror stories about their methods of interrogation. I'm scared enough for both of us.” Mercy dug her nails into her palms, wanting to tell Rafe how terrified she already was but afraid he'd use any sign of weakness on her part as a reason to give up on the children. “Do you know how to find the Coalition embassy?” she asked, changing the subject to their most immediate concern. “I know the area where all the offlander residences are. It has to be there.” “What's that smell?”

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The horrible stench of the sewage pit had receded as they moved to higher ground, but a strange, pungent odor made her feel lightheaded. “Welcome to Tamar.” “The whole planet smells like this?” Her stomach was doing flip-flops again. “You're smelling the city: too many residents packed together with poor sanitation. They burn dishes of scented animal fat to cover the stench of raw sewage, but it smells more like sulphur than perfume to us. Then there's the cooking...” “Should we have brought our own food?” She needed dry biscuits to settle her stomach and fluid to replace what she'd lost. “Tamarans are highly insulted if you do. Chances are it would have been confiscated anyway. Everyone is expected to subsist on the same diet, inadequate as it is. It's treasonous to consume imported foodstuffs ... unless, of course, you're part of the warlords’ military. Defenders of the planet get the best of everything available.” “Can we eat their food?” She thought of Bast, a planet her father had once visited, where feline-like inhabitants ate root crops no Atheran could stomach in any quantity. “Avoid anything aquatic. The water and anything that comes from it is highly contaminated. We can drink fermented plant juice ... sparingly.” “Will it....” she didn't know how to ask delicately. “Will I go on a drunken binge if I drink it?” he asked, not hiding his annoyance. 89


“Will you?” “No.” She had to believe him. Little as she liked it, her life and her mission were in his hands. They started passing shabby huts built on stilts, some tilting at angles where the ground below had become waterlogged. Naked children, paler than the adults and charming in the way the young of every species are, watched them with cautious curiosity. A few of the bigger, braver ones dogged their steps until Rafe threw them a few coins the control officers hadn't bothered to rob from his pants pocket. One of the urchins threw a handful of oozing mud at her, splattering the side of her robe, then ran ahead of Rafe, hand extended. Apparently he expected some reward for abusing an insignificant female, but Rafe waved him off. Homes were close-packed as they entered the city proper, poor grass-roofed shacks on shaky wooden supports. Gradually they started seeing a few larger buildings on stone or concrete foundations lapped by muddy, greenish water. The walkway became steep, tormenting leg muscles Mercy hadn't used on the trip through space. The Tamaran sun was at its midday height, a white-hot orb that turned the atmosphere to steam. She couldn't see much beyond Rafe's steadily moving legs, farther ahead now as she struggled up a steep incline. They had no choice but to walk through an open air market crowded with ferocious warriors, their garb varying from black Coalition-style uniforms with hard-billed hats to garish red, orange, and purple jackets worn with loincloths. 90


All carried sharp-bladed weapons of some type, usually worn on sword belts, but she only noticed a few antiquated firearms, no stun guns, and nothing as advanced as a laser weapon. She knew Tamaran technology was mostly borrowed ... or stolen ... but these warriors’ arms were even more primitive than she'd been led to believe from intelligence reports. She speculated that they had low status, with better weapons reserved for those closer to the warlords. The merchandise for sale in booths with makeshift awnings seemed to be mostly castoffs: faded garments, chipped pots, rusty-bladed knives, the kind of jumble more likely to be deposited in dust bins on a prosperous planet like Athera. Smoking firepits seemed to be doing the most business, by roasting lumpish black portions from some unknown beast. Naked except for loincloths, the cooks sprinkled each serving with an oily concoction that gave off a sickening odor. The few females she saw were poor, bowed specimens with saffron or brown robes and head coverings. Loaded with baskets and parcels, they shuffled after their males, starting in terror when they passed too close to a cluster of rag-tag warriors. One poor thing was seized by a black-uniformed warrior and dragged screaming behind one of the booths. Either her male was too frightened of the military to protest, or he just didn't care if his lesser one provided some entertainment for another male. In either case, he nonchalantly went to a fire pit and purchased a tidbit. Mercy wanted to interrupt the assault, for the female's shrill screams were a universal protest against violation. She 91


was trembling with anger, but any attempt on her part to intervene would be suicidal. Rafe walked even faster, showing her he wasn't indifferent to the scene they'd just witnessed. Suddenly the gun chafing her hip felt like a security blanket. The Tamarans stared at Rafe with varying degrees of hostility, and she didn't need to know the language to guess what they thought of him. Some ridiculed him and made a screeching sound akin to laughter; others watched with huge dark pupils, hissing and showing orange patches on their faces. Not only was she ignored, she didn't seem to exist for these alien chauvinists. On Tamar, she was invisible, but this didn't lessen her terror when they had to walk through a military camping ground, perhaps once some sort of public park or assembly place but now crowded with military dwellings, mostly poorly patched tents in faded but still gaudy shades of scarlet, orange, purple, and yellow. The smells coming from smoking grills sickened her, and she was beginning to suffer from thirst, constantly trying to moisten her rough, parched lips. But even her tongue was dry. She couldn't get the terrified Tamaran female out of her mind, and, worst of all, she feared for Rafe's life. He was an unarmed offlander walking through a barbaric military encampment, and his only defense was to hold up his hand to display the obscure markings stamped on it. Apparently he'd been given safe passage. The Tamarans must want him to repair the Hazard before they seized it. But 92


would he be allowed back onto the ship without an armed escort to supervise the work? She was suffering more from the lack of a feasible plan than from the discomforts of the planet and her load of weapons. How long could Rafe bluff the authorities before someone with technological knowledge exposed his lie? The farther he walked, the harder it was to keep up. She fell into a running shuffle, wanting to yell at him for racing ahead but too afraid of the Tamarans to call attention to herself. They had another steep climb, and Rafe finally slowed a little, even stopping once to rub his calves, probably knotted from the exertion of the walk. The roadway was narrow and heavily used. Several times they had to stand aside and let a cart or rickshaw pass, always pulled by servants or slaves of non-Tamarans preparing to flee the planet. Weak and exhausted, it took longer than it should have for Mercy to understand what was happening. “The diplomats are leaving,” she called out to Rafe, feeling less threatened now that the press around them was made up of galactic visitors, not hostile natives. “Diplomats, merchants, all kinds of visitors,” he said, slowing so she could come up directly behind him. “It's practically a stampede.” They had to step aside for a procession of turbaned baggage carriers straining to move dozens of heavy metalbanded trunks down the steep path. Mercy thought their chance of making it through the space port with such rich cargo was nonexistent. 93


Rafe said almost the same thing she was thinking: “If things are so bad the foreign quarter is emptying out, those poor freighters will never make it. If the warlords’ troops don't lop off their heads and steal their goods, the poor will throw them in the cesspool and take what they want.” Rafe walked faster and refused to stand aside for other fugitives, taking her hand and pulling her forward when she didn't think she could go another step without resting. He did stop once, barking out a question in Instell to a dark-skinned alien with the good sense to be leaving unhampered by possessions. His only response was an impatient gesture, but Rafe seemed satisfied. “This way,” he urged. The Coalition Embassy wasn't hard to locate, and high stone walls and an enamel plaque confirmed that they'd reached the right place. “It's deserted,” Mercy said with dismay, taking in the open gate and abandoned guard's post. “Maybe.” Rafe didn't sound as despondent as she felt, but he'd welcome an excuse to abandon the mission. Now that they were away from the harsh scrutiny of the Tamarans, he took her hand and led her toward the whitecolumned embassy building, a stucco structure that tried to imitate the white stone public buildings on Athera. Unfortunately the effect was spoiled by pitted plaster and unsightly green stains on the exterior walls. Not even the wealth and high standards of the Galactic Coalition could ward off the encroaching dampness of the planet. Each year more of the sparse land masses were undulated by rising seas. 94


Mercy felt a flash of pity for the threatened Tamarans, but not for their warlords’ plans for conquest. Only the favored and the elite would ever be transported to conquered planets; the poor of Tamar would have to adapt or perish, and they seemed to have neither the will nor the technology to find a solution. They were able to walk unaccosted into the wing of the building that held public offices, finding a typical Coalition outpost with well-equipped but not luxurious reception rooms and working space. Damp patches showed on the walls, and the stench of mold and rot wafted around them. They searched and shouted. The whole wing was deserted. “We'll try the residence,” Rafe said, finding the corridor that led to the ambassador's private wing. Again, no locked doors barred their way. The ambassador had tried to maintain Coalition standards, hanging tapestries on mildewed walls and using native rush mats on top of dank carpeting, but his living quarters were fetid and forlorn. “Is anyone here?” Rafe shouted in the high-ceilinged room designed for balls and receptions, his voice echoing in the emptiness. “By all that's sacred, what are you two doing here?” A stately, silver-haired man came through a side corridor holding a huge, old-fashioned firearm in a somewhat unsteady hand. “Captain Rafe Trane of the Hazard and my passenger, Advocate Mercy Greer.” “Don't tell me you're Varga Greer's daughter,” the old man said. “Yes, sir. And you're the ambassador?” 95


“Ambassador Jules August at your service, although the only service I can render now is to urge you to leave this pestilent planet if you have the means to do so.” “The whole alien quarter seems to be fleeing,” Rafe said. “I'm surprised to find you here, sir.” “I sent my family and staff away some time ago, but leaving isn't an option for me.” “Sir, I'm sure the Coalition would want you to save yourself,” Mercy said. “Not even the Great Unseen One can do that, I'm afraid. I have a terminal condition: My heart is failing me, and lift-off alone would be enough to finish me if I tried to go into space again.” “I'm so sorry....” Mercy didn't know how to console a man who was facing his own end so calmly. “Save your condolences, my dear Advocate Greer. I was old in the service when your esteemed father was beginning his career. I've always known this would be my last posting. I only regret that I've been ineffective in dissuading the warlords from their bloodthirsty course. Now tell me why you're here. You flirt with death every moment on this wretched world.” “We came here from Abbess II,” Mercy began. “A dear friend from my childhood days went there many decades ago. Did you meet Sister Lazbit? Is she as well as we old souls can be?” “When we got there,” Rafe said solemnly, “she was the only one alive. A Tamaran war party slaughtered all the sisters.” 96


“Yet Lazbit survived?” The ambassador lowered himself to a gilt and brocade chair, once elegant but now stained and pitted by encroaching dampness. “She was a lovely person,” Mercy said. “Brave, determined. She refused to die until she told someone what had happened. It was almost as if she expected us.” “She had second sight,” the ambassador said sadly. “I always thought it more a curse than a blessing.” “She was sheltering orphans brought there some six or seven months ago, twenty-seven of them. Their parents were killed in an illegal mining operation, and a Coalition ship abandoned them there to conceal the accident. The Tamarans took them.” “So Varga Greer's daughter has come to ransom them?” He shook his head with a sad chuckle. “It sounds like a mission your father would have undertaken when he was an impetuous youth. You can't succeed, of course.” “I told her the same thing,” Rafe said. She wanted to kick him! “We didn't bring ransom,” Mercy said. “I want to rescue them.” The ambassador's already pale face turned ashen. “That's a foolish notion.” “I agree.” Rafe sat in another of the moldering chairs and rested his elbows on his knees. “Let me see your hand,” Ambassador August demanded. Rafe held it out, the black stamp vivid on purpling bruises left by the control officer. 97


“Odd, they've given you a run-of-the-planet pass. Even the warlords tend to respect them. Did you tell them why you're here?” “They think I'm looking for parts to repair my solar converter,” Rafe said. “Are you?” Rafe hesitated. “I'm probably the only person on Tamar you can trust,” the ambassador said. “No, sir. My ship is fully operational.” “A wonderful ruse.” The old man beamed approval. “They're desperate for ships. If they thought yours was fully functional, your heads would be in the muck below the docking bridges ... not necessarily attached to your bodies.” He made death seem brutally real, and Mercy felt she had to sit. But before she could, the room swam around her and she blacked out. When she awoke, Rafe was holding a cup of water to her lips. “Don't be embarrassed. Hypersleep always left me queasy and light-headed,” Ambassador August said in a consoling tone. “I can still offer you a meager repast from my imported stores. A good meal will do wonders.” “This is real water,” she said, still on the floor and supported by Rafe's arm and shoulder. “I distill my own from the local sludge. I will as long as there's something around here to burn as fuel. I'm saving the furniture in this room until last because it was once so beautiful.” 98


“Do you know which warlord has the children, sir?” Her strength returned with every sip, and so did her sense of urgency. “Dah is the elder of the three. What he lacks in intelligence, he more than make up in ruthlessness. He has a huge harem of females, maybe in the hundreds, and both his rivals are nephews by marriage. Vasin despises his uncle, and he's as cunning as a serpent. The younger of the two nephews is Yoomah, a nasty piece of work. Rumor has it Dah gouged out one of his eyes for daring to contradict him as a youth. He refuses to wear a patch. Sees the empty socket as a badge of rebellion.” “Which one do you think has the children?” Mercy asked. They'd already been there too long. Now that she'd seen militant Tamarans, Mercy was even more terrified for the children's sake. “Dah. He's the only done with ships capable of getting through the asteroid belt on Abbess II. Did you bring many golbriks?” “Not enough to ransom even one child,” Rafe said. “And the control officers stole half of what I had. No doubt they would have taken it all if they hadn't believed I had to buy a part for the ship.” “I can help you with funds. I kept some of the treasury for emergencies.” The ambassador gave them more than golbriks. He let them eat their fill of imported foods and drink unstintingly of pure water, then set about outfitting them. First he gave them Tamaran robes with hidden pockets on the inside, 99


roomy enough to conceal all they carried. Rafe turned down his offer of the antiquated firearm but choose a small knife that opened by pressing a button for Mercy. He took additional ammunition for the gun he planned to carry himself, also hiding the stun gun in one of the robe's deep, secure pockets. He gave the lightweight laser to Mercy, along with a small light beacon and a compass. The ambassador also loaded them with as much food and water in cured animal-bladders as they could carry and a detailed map of the long string of islands that formed the planet's only land mass. He marked the probable headquarters of each warlord with an old-fashioned writing stick. “I would truly like to go with you,” he admitted, “but I would only be a hindrance. Unfortunately, I sent every cart and beast of burden with my staff when they left, and our self-propelled vehicles are rusted relics with no fuel.” “We can't thank you enough for everything you've done.” Mercy took his papery-dry hands and kissed the backs, her eyes watering with regret that they had to leave the gracious old man. “No tears for me, my dear. I have wonderful memories. No man my age can ask for more. Now I'll show you a better way to leave this place.” He led them through a maze of corridors to a small room with glass-fronted book cases lining every wall. The shelves were still close-packed with books, but Mercy could see fuzzy green mold on the spines and smell the telltale odor of rotting paper. 100


“For a man who loves books, this is the greatest loss,” the ambassador said, “but my specially-built shelves still serve one purpose.” He opened one of the doors, taking care not to let the glass fall out from its rotting frame, and pushed aside a row of ruined volumes. “If you ever need sanctuary, and I'm no longer here, remember this. You activate the mechanism ... if it still works ... by moving this board to the right. I've taken care to keep it oiled, so it should survive me, at least for a short time. I doubt any Tamarans will claim this or any other alien dwelling for some time. They abhor contact with outsiders and consider anything built by an offlander to be cursed. Their superstitions allow me to spend my last days in relative peace.” Mercy wondered at his acceptance of his own end. It was as though he would welcome eternal peace ... or oblivion ... whatever lay beyond mortal years. “Where does it lead?” Rafe asked, stepping ahead of her to enter a dark passageway. “To the room where I hope to breathe my last ... my tomb if you fancy that antiquarian concept. At least a place where my bones won't rest at the bottom of a foul Tamaran cesspool. But come, here's the clever part. I designed it myself and had my own people build it.” They followed the feeble light he was holding, walking over thick woven mats that kept their feet dry.

101


“Even the rocks ooze,” Jules August said. I often dream of my desert posting ... but you don't have time for an old man's reminisces.” They both demurred without much conviction. “Think of this planet as a volcano with the pressures within building with unstoppable urgency,” he went on. “It's only a matter of days, perhaps hours, before the whole thing erupts.” They'd reached a dead end, or so it seemed, but the ambassador reached for a handle, the beam of light showing a metallic door that opened inward. “My garden,” the old man said ironically, leading them into the open. “The door will open with a simple push if you know where it is.” Mercy turned and studied the stone wall. Dark patches of mold and pod-like abodes of crawling insects disfigured it, but a stone in the shape of a man's profile was distinctive enough to make the secret embassy entrance memorable. “Go now with my blessings,” the ambassador urged. “Beyond that thick cluster of bushes, there's a narrow path. It will take you back to the city without passing through any military camps. I'm sorry I can't do more for you.” Mercy impulsively hugged him, and Rafe clasped his hands in friendship then bowed, a genuine gesture of respect unlike the one he'd done to lull the suspicions of the control officers. When she looked back before making her way through the concealing bushes, the ambassador was gone and the decrepit wall showed no evidence of a hidden door. 102


Rafe stopped and looked in all directions, taking in the strange, thick-leafed vegetation and serpent-like vines that clung to every branch strong enough to support them. Huge trees flanked the walkway, their roots pushing up through the muddy path, making it a hikers’ nightmare. “I need to get back to the Hazard,” he said, the hard lines of his face a study in stubbornness. “First we have to find the children.” “Did you look at that map? This planet's only land mass is an endless string of islands with only a few rugged mountains in the interiors of the larger ones. Between us and high ground are swamps and bogs and hostile warriors, not to mention starving Tamarans in the interior who may be desperate enough to consider us a protein source.” “We have the ambassador's golbriks, a small fortune.” She nervously patted the deep inner pocket where half of them were wrapped in a waterproof bag. Luke's waist was lumpy where he'd stowed the rest in his waist pouch under his robe. “We can buy a boat, hire a guide....” “For a scenic tour of Tamar?” He hooted in derision. “Meanwhile, the warlords shut down the space port. I plan to be long gone before that happens.” “You're getting cold feet! You have a safe-passage stamp and a reason for being here. What more security do you need?” “How long do you think it will be before even a dense control officer figures out I've had enough time to find a solar converter?” “If you really needed a part, where would you go/” 103


“To a merchant, one of those aliens racing down the hill to get the hell out of this place.” “They'll keep the border guards busy ...—and give you an excuse for staying longer. It's not as if you can buy one in the marketplace.” “Mercy.” He shook his head solemnly. “If this warlord, Dah, hasn't come to the ambassador to negotiate for ransom, what are the chances the kids are still alive?” “They are.” She wasn't being logical or practical, but she had to believe what her heart was telling her: They would find the children. “For a man who was drinking himself to death in a brothel, you're suddenly awfully concerned about your own well being.” “I don't want your death on my conscience too!” He spoke in anger, reaching out and gripping her shoulders as if to shake her. “I'm responsible for myself!” “Then you have a piss-poor guardian!” She tried to raise her hand, wanting to rattle his know-itall composure with a hard slap on his cheek, but he anticipated her, grabbing both wrists and closing the space between them. “Let me loose!” “How can I bring you to your senses?” He dropped her wrists and circled her shoulders, pinning her so close she couldn't raise her arms to fend him off. “The Tamarans have one thing right,” he said, squeezing her against his chest so she could hear the sharp intake of his 104


breath and inhale the familiar wholesomeness of an Atheran male's scent. “They don't take orders from females!” “Rafe, stop! We agreed that I'm in charge on land.” “Advocate Greer, an agreement isn't worth a blasted thing if you can't enforce it.” “I have the legal right....” “If you have your way, you'll never see the inside of an Atheran court again. What happens to legal rights then?” “We're still civilized....” “Are we? Then what do you make of this?” He lowered his head, his lips parted in a savage scowl that excited her as much as it frightened her. “Don't! This isn't....” “Legal?” He ground his lips against hers, the rough bristles of his unshaven face scraping her cheeks and chin. She wanted to resist; she tried to struggle. If he forced her lips apart, she'd bite him. If he dared drop his hands an inch lower, she'd slam into his groin with her knee. She could fight him ... but what harm was there in discovering his intentions first? She unconsciously parted her own lips before realizing her mistake: Rafe's tongue filled her mouth with the most tantalizing sensation. Wiggling her arms free, she tried to steady herself by circling his waist, gasping for gulps of heavy air as his deepening kiss created ripples of electricity. Was this his idea of torture? His way of silencing her? His way of.... 105


His knee separated her thighs, and to her shame, she leaned hard against it, too befuddled to make the protests he deserved. His kiss didn't stop. Was it one or many? Who knew her lips could throb in rhythm with her heart? If this was punishment for disagreeing with him, then he was his own tormentor too. She could feel his arousal ... couldn't help but recognize the hardness pressing against her belly. “Stop....” It wasn't what she wanted, but she couldn't surrender any part of herself to Rafe, not as long as there was the faintest hope of finding the children ... her children, she now called them in her heart. She had to stay focused. “Are you sure that's what you want?” His voice was husky, and he'd managed to work her robe up to her waist in back, caressing her buttocks and pushing her even harder against his length. “This is no place....” “It is unless you're the conventional type who won't spread her legs without a soft bed to cushion her sweet behind.” The way he said it opened a gulf between them: the social chasm separating a woman raised as the daughter of a high ranking official and a space tramp. She'd almost forgotten ... had maybe wanted to forget. “I hired you for a mission!” She stepped away from him, ignoring a tinge of disappointment that he'd released her so easily. “You blackmailed me into it. There's a world of difference, lady-advocate. And my job was to take you to Abbess II.” 106


“You came here. I didn't hijack you at gun point. Why give up now without even trying?” “No ship, no rescue. No kids, nothing to rescue. Add it up, and this whole scheme of yours is a big nothing. The ambassador is no fool, and he doesn't know a thing about kidnaped kids. If the warlords were after ransom, they'd go to him. You can't even be sure a Tamaran warrior would bring hostages here. Did you see a single warship on the docking pad?” “There could be other places for them to land.” “Not for a ship the size of a warship.” “They may have come and left again.” “Possibly. Do you want to bet your life on it?” He covered his mouth with the back of his hand. Was it possible his lips were still tingling the way hers were? Was he, for the briefest of moments, out of control? She felt a glow of satisfaction, a purely feminine pleasure in having power over a man, but she quickly decided it wasn't worthy of her. Rafe had to help her because it was the right thing to do. It was below her to lure him with promises of sexual favors, not that she believed it would work. “Can we compromise?” she asked as meekly as possible. “What offer can you make that's worth my head?” “Give me five days. Whether we have the children or not, I'll go back with you. The minute we're on board the Hazard, I'll sign it over to you on the spot, plus a bonus large enough to have it repaired and refitted.” “If I refuse?” “You'll have to leave without me.” 107


He groaned in exasperation. “You wouldn't last five hours on your own.” “I would if I painted a copy of your pass on my hand and tried to pass as a male. No doubt the ambassador would help me.” “Fine, go it alone.” She nearly panicked but made herself hear him out. “What would you do with the kids if you found them?” he asked. “Maybe buy passage on another ship. I do have golbriks now.” He snorted at her suggestion. “Three days,” he said gruffly. It wasn't much time, but the days on Tamar were long. “Four,” she bargained. “Three. And I give the orders; I make the decisions.” “I'll listen to your input.” “Then let's just say I have veto power.” “I won't forget this. You agreed....” “Just don't forget the part about signing over my ship ... if we ever get on board her again.” “With the children.” “That possibility is so remote, I'm not going to worry about it.” “I appreciate your positive attitude.” “That makes two things about me that you appreciate,” he said with a maddening and wholly inappropriate grin. “That unfortunate episode will not happen again.” 108


“We'll see,” he said, giving her one more thing to worry about.

109


Chapter 6 RAFE KNEW if he had any sense, he'd put a halter on Mercy and lead her back to the Hazard. No one on this musty sink-hole of a planet cared if an offlander wanted to get rough with his female. He deliberately went fast on the steep downhill path to the city, hoping to wear down her resistance to leaving. “Rafe, slow down!” “You have three days, Advocate Greer. Do you want to waste time on a scenic stroll?” She called him a name that made him smile. “The water bags are slapping me like a spanking machine. I need to stop and rearrange them.” “Go ahead. I'll meet you back at the ship if you can't catch up.” “Don't you dare leave me behind! We have a deal!” He heard her stop but forged ahead anyway. “Rafe Trane, you wait for me!” she wailed. In spite of his worries, he broke out in a grin and stopped, sitting on a huge protruding root and watching a reddishbrown lizard scamper across the path until she came into sight again. Why in blazes was he smiling? Their chances of surviving three days on Tamar were terrible or worse, and to compound his problems, he couldn't stop thinking about how it felt to hold Mercy in his arms. He ached to hold her lush breasts in 110


his hands and run his lips over the sleek column of her throat. He wanted to be inside her and carry her to blissful response. Damn. He just plain wanted her; he was too honest with himself to deny it. But even more, he wanted to keep his emotions in cold storage. He didn't want to open himself to the kind of pain that came with caring. He didn't think he could survive losing another woman he loved. He watched as she moved toward him, picking her way carefully around washed-out hollows and treacherous roots. Beautiful as she was with soft dark hair pulled back from a stunning face and misty-blue eyes, she had flaws. She was too quick to give orders and too arrogant to follow them without arguing. Worse, she was obsessed with saving children who more-than-likely were no longer alive. She was going to get both of them killed. He didn't put much value on his own life beyond the instinctive urge to survive ... common to his species ... but he didn't want to be tested by the Tamaran's gruesome tortures. Even more, he didn't want to be responsible for Mercy falling into their clutches. Like any man, he wanted a dignified death for himself and a long, contented life for his woman. But she wasn't his woman, and he didn't want her to break through the shield around his heart. Mercy Greer was trouble personified, and all he wanted was to get her safely home and out of his life. He'd given his word to stay on this infernal planet three more days, but any honor he'd once had vanished when he'd elected to transport a shipload of mercenaries instead of protecting his own family. 111


He stood, full of self-loathing and temporarily free of the spell Mercy had cast on him. “Chasing after those kids is insane,” he told her as she approached. “How do you expect to get them away from a warlord who can squash us like insects?” She tilted her head and looked down her nose at him. The arrogance in her stance riled him, and he wanted the satisfaction of humbling her. “Suppose you lead the way, if you're so sure of yourself,” he challenged, knowing it was safe on this deserted path. So far they hadn't seen a single offlander or Tamaran. “Gladly.” She started walking as fast as her load of supplies allowed, and he followed, trying to distract his mind from their predicament by remembering how her body had enticed him when he'd helped her prepare for her first hypersleep. She had finely formed legs, strong enough to hold onto a man in the throes of passion. Her breasts were as enticing as any he'd seen, rosy tipped and full, and her backside was round and firm, made for a man's hands to stroke. As for the shadowy mysteries at the juncture of her thighs, he found himself growing hard at the thought. He studied her robed figure, forcing himself to see a stubborn, opinionated female in an ugly saffron garment, all the delights of her body obscured by the lumpiness of her inner pockets. Even her beautiful hair was covered by an unsightly scarf, and he decided there was something to be said for making a woman conceal her physical charms. What 112


male could attend to his business with a clear head when temptation was paraded in front of him? He was thinking like a fool, knowing full well that men were led astray by their imaginations when it came to baser needs. “Who's lagging now?” she called up to him, having put a sizable distance between them while he indulged in his fantasies. His mouth set in a grim line, he moved faster but let her keep the lead. Did women suffer from unfulfilled desires the way men did? The thought of Mercy tortured by passion entertained him mightily, but he strongly doubted his own ability to disturb her sleep. Walking down toward Hakara was like stepping into a steam bath without the pleasure of clean, scented water. They were approaching a part of the city that was mostly grim stone buildings, the walls pocked by crumbling mortar and black filth. Apparently most were used for manufacturing but were deserted now at the end of the work day. Rafe was lulled into a state of mental inertia, drained by heat and anxious about leaving the planet before it was too late. He was practically sleepwalking when Mercy's scream alerted him. She was fending off a thief who was trying to grab her head covering, doing well enough but not able to loosen both his hands at the same time. Rafe ran behind the would-be thief and locked his arms behind him, surprised to find he was totally covered in fine golden hair. 113


“Why would he try to steal this thing?” Mercy asked Rafe, retying the triangular scarf on her head. “Sell to buy food, stupid female,” the youth said in oddly accented but understandable Instell. Rafe turned him around to get a good look at him, keeping a firm hold on one of his arms. “What are you?” Mercy asked before Rafe could, but he was just as puzzled as she was in spite of his many years dealing with the inhabitants of other planets. “Quisto, son of Susus, great space trader,” he said with pride. “I meant where do you come from ... your planet of origin,” Mercy said. No wonder she was curious, Rafe thought. He'd never seen an offlander like this one, although the name of Susus was vaguely familiar. He was probably one of the Bast-based space traders who would haul any cargo, no questions asked. “My esteem father was birthed on Systotyrexous.” Rafe had heard of it: a small, remote world known mostly as a haven for the dregs of other planets: religious zealots so extreme they were deported; convicted felons from planets without capital punishment or prison systems; opportunists who believed they'd find mineral wealth. He'd avoided it himself, as did most space traders, because the danger of landing there far outweighed any possible profit. “And your mother?” Rafe asked. He was intrigued. The thief was obviously youthful, and his skin was covered in short golden hair, sleek and silky under Rafe's grip and unlike any he'd encountered before. His face 114


was humanoid but also markedly feline, especially his forehead and ears, which protruded from the top of his head and were also hairy. “Who was your mother, Quisto?” Mercy asked. She was good at going after information; Rafe gave her that. “I am hybrid,” the youth admitted, eyes downcast. “How wonderful!” Mercy enthused. “You must have the best traits of two species.” “My father was great space trader. Took me on his ship. Not leave me with egg-mother when I big enough to go.” Experimenting with hybrids bred in laboratory conditions was banned on Athera because of the often bizarre results, but a few other planets weren't so cautious. Apparently the great space trader from Systotyrexous had been down on his luck and sold his sperm to some renegade scientist hiding out on Bast. Or perhaps he was only intoxicated and regretted it soon after it happened. Whatever the reason, he must have wanted to make amends later, taking the offspring with him on his ship as soon as Quisto was old enough. No wonder the youth was so proud of his sperm-donor father. One of the happiest moments of Rafe's life had been when his uncle had welcomed him aboard his ship. “Your mother was Bast, wasn't she?” Rafe asked as kindly as he could. “My father great space trader Susus,” Quisto vehemently replied. “No tail on me. Not zonked in head. Father is great...”

115


“We believe you, Quisto,” Mercy said. “We can see you're not addicted to that stuff the Basts love. But why are you trying to steal my scarf? Where is your father?” The youth's face crumpled with what could only be grief. “He was plagued.” “He caught the plague,” Rafe translated. Mercy glared at him; he was just trying to be helpful. “Came to Tamar. It was closest. His spirit left. Control came in green suits, glass faces. Threw him into cesspool. Made me stay on ship many, many days. Then made me leave.” “They confiscated your ship after a quarantine period? How do you live?” Mercy asked. “Don't be naive,” Rafe said. “He's a street kid. He survives as a petty thief.” “What's that he's wearing?” Mercy asked, stepping closer and peering at a metal object hanging from a chain around Quisto's neck. Rafe turned it over, read the inscription, and whistled. “It's a bronze metal from the Federated Olympiad, a third place award for distance running. The date is worn, but I think it's about twenty years old. This is the kind of metal that gets passed down in families. It doesn't have any intrinsic value, but it's a great honor to win one. It had to come from an Atheran.” “I know that!” Mercy snapped, letting her edginess show. “Did you steal it, Quisto?” “No, it's mine.” He fingered the metal; the tops of his hands were covered with the golden coat, but his palms were 116


hairless and his fingers agile, unlike the Basts,’ whose tails were more dexterous than their hands. Rafe didn't have to weigh the odds against an Olympiad metal showing up on Tamar. He reached into one of his inner pockets and pulled out a foil packet with a high-energy grain bar. “I'll give you food if you tell me where you got it,” Rafe promised. “Trade like Father. Gave fruit.” “To whom?” Mercy was jiggling with impatience. “To skinface. Skinface like you.” “Where, Quisto? Where did you make this trade?” “Place for cargo. Empty except for skinfaces. I know way to crawl in. Sleep. Warriors put prison door over opening. I trade through bars.” “Very clever,” Rafe said. “How many skinfaces were in the cargo place?” “Many.” “It's them!” Mercy's voice was choked with emotion. “Rafe, it has to be the children!” “Can you take us to the skinfaces?” Rafe asked the youth. “Gone. No more trades.” “When did they go?” Rafe didn't want to hear, fearing the worst. Mercy was going to take it very badly if the kids were dead. The young thief shrugged his narrow shoulders. Rafe guessed that time meant little to an offlander stranded on this hostile planet. “Soon.” 117


“He means recently,” Mercy said, annoying him because now she kept translating the youth's Instell. “Maybe we can...” He knew what she was going to say but wouldn't let her give voice to it aloud. He cut her off to ask Quisto another question before they got into another debate. “Do you know where they went?” Rafe asked. “Yes-no.” He took that as a maybe. “Do you know why they were moved?” He was reaching, but so far this hybrid was their only lead. “Water from sky.” He shrugged. “The cargo place filled with water?” It was tough going, getting information from Quisto. Rafe had to remember what the homeless thief called things. Considering his probable age, maybe twelve to fourteen Atheran years, he had a pretty good grasp on communicating. “The warehouse flooded! They didn't necessarily take them away to kill them,” Mercy said. He hated to see her hopes building. It would only make it worse when she had to accept the inevitable. Even if the kids had survived this long in Tamaran hands, their guards wouldn't keep feeding them unless they had some diabolical reason for doing so. The fact that the warlord Dah hadn't contacted the ambassador to negotiate for ransom was ominous. He handed over the nutrient bar and watch Quisto rip it open with agile fingers and consume it in a few quick bites. The youth's teeth were tiny and sharp-pointed, more feline 118


than humanoid, but his approach to eating was like that of any half-starved child. Rafe rummaged in his well-stuffed pockets and found a handful of nuts with thin shells and oilrich meat, one of the few local foodstuffs the ambassador had given them. The hybrid consumed them with the same delicacy. “Will you take us to the place where you made your trade?” Mercy asked. Rafe had been waiting for this request. He didn't expect to find anything in a flooded warehouse, but at least it was probably near the space docks where trade goods were offloaded. He passed around a water bladder, pleased that Quisto squeezed it into his mouth instead of engulfing the spout with his rudimentary lips. He was young, but his father must have taught him some traders’ etiquette ... and sanitation. “Good,” Quisto said, drinking sparingly, as did Mercy. Pure water was a precious commodity, and Rafe didn't want to test his newfound independence from intoxicants by drinking fermented fruit juice until he had to. “Follow me. Make fast. Curfew soon,” the youth said. Mercy tried to learn what the curfew involved, but Quisto's concept of time had never adapted to Tamaran measurements. The walkways in this part of Hakara were less hilly but so curving and twisted Rafe had to wonder if the hybrid was leading them into some kind of trap. Mercy walked ahead, trying to keep up a conversation with Quisto, but he was either unwilling or unable to talk while he threaded his way 119


through the maze of close-packed streets. They passed boarded-up windows, sagging and falling roofs, and totally collapsed dwellings of the poorest sort, but wherever occupancy was possible, sullen faces watched them pass. Rafe's skin was crawling in the midst of so much hostility. He made sure the stamp on his hand was clearly visible, and no one approached them. He would have recognized the dock district with his eyes blindfolded. The stench grew so bad Mercy tied her head covering over his nose. Rafe pulled up the front of his robe and tried to breathe into the rough fabric but found it didn't help much. The cloth seemed to have absorbed the noxious odor. Quisto led them through a space between two buildings, a muddy passageway so narrow Rafe had to turn his shoulders sideways to squeeze through. He couldn't imagine a worse place to be ambushed; he slid his hand under the robe, resting it on the handle of his weapon. They came to a small cleared space, so waterlogged it was like a swamp. Quisto didn't hesitate to plunge his unshod feet into the mire, sinking to his fur-covered knees but not slowing his pace. He said something else about a curfew that Rafe didn't quite catch, but Mercy encouraged their guide to keep going. The warehouse where Quisto stopped was built of huge blocks of porous stone crumbling from the damp. He led them to a small grill covering what had once been an opening far enough above ground level to keep the outside water away at the current level. 120


“There.” Mercy bent over, holding up the robe so it wouldn't become saturated with standing water. “I can't see much,” she said, “but I think the water has pretty much drained away. “Two days, no rain,” the hybrid said, making it sound like a gift from the heavens. Rafe motioned Mercy aside and gave a hard tug on the grill. Apparently the cement that held it in place had never hardened properly, and the incessant dampness had made it crumbly. With a few hard tugs, he yanked out the metal obstacle. Quisto climbed through the opening with the agility of his Bast forerunners. Mercy watched him, taking out the small hand-held light source the ambassador had provided. “Are you coming?” she asked hopefully. “Let me go first.” Rafe took the light and managed to work his shoulders through the opening. The drop jarred him but he landed uninjured on his feet. “I'll catch you,” he said, sticking the light in one of his robe's upper pockets and stretching out his arms. She was light for a woman of her height, easing herself through the opening so she landed in his arms with minimum impact. Maybe he did hold her a few seconds longer than necessary, but she was too distracted by their surroundings to protest. Quisto had been right about flooding. The moldering stink of mud clung to the underground room, a large cavern with a ceiling so low Rafe and Mercy both had to stoop. Playing light 121


on the blackened stone walls and damp floor, Rafe saw small puddles where the floor was uneven and sodden bundles that appeared to be sleeping mats. Mercy spotted a filthy piece of cloth and gingerly picked it up. “Shine the light on this,” she said. “I should have asked Sister Lazbit what the children were wearing.” “She didn't have time to tell you,” Rafe reminded her, knowing this was no time to second-guess themselves. “Looks like some kind of head covering.” “It is!” She sounded elated. “It's a little bonnet. The sisters must have made it to protect a small child from the sun.” Rafe looked at the sodden gray rag and couldn't be sure what it might have been, but Mercy was excited. “They were here!” “Yes. Here.” Quisto reminded them that he'd told them so. At least they weren't killed here,” Rafe said more to himself than Mercy as he made his way through the cellar room, bumping his head on rafters a couple of times even though he was crouched. “I don't see any sign of blood, but the flood could've scoured the room clean.” “Wouldn't they take them to a temple or something if they wanted to sacrifice them?” Mercy asked, then realized what she'd said. “But maybe they still want ransom. I'm sure the children aren't dead.” “Maybe dead,” Quisto said. “Temples very bad places. Warlords evil. Like to hurt.” “Did you see them leave?” Rafe asked him. “Gone.” He shrugged. 122


“Negative on the eyewitness,” Rafe said. “The big questions are: who moved them and where?” He was being drawn into her quest against his will, but the tracker instinct in him couldn't help puzzling over it. “It has to be Dah's warriors, doesn't it?” Mercy asked. “Dah very bad,” Quisto warned. Vasin very bad. Yoomah worst. Hole where eye should be.” “That confirms what Ambassador August told us,” Mercy said, seizing on Quisto's words as though they could bring them closer to finding the orphans. “They could be anywhere,” Rafe said, returning to the opening. “This is a dead-end.” He didn't feel quite as adamant about abandoning the search. Poor kids, imprisoned in a foul pit like this, then dragged who knew where. “Quisto, do you know where Dah's headquarters are?” He bolted so fast Rafe couldn't have stopped him if he'd wanted to. Sheer momentum carried the hybrid up the rough stone wall and through a hole in the wall. “We can't lose him!” Mercy cried out. “Stop him!” Rafe doubted he could; the youth was as fast as any Bast ... and that was a whole lot quicker than a space tramp like him. He pulled himself out of the opening and gave Mercy a hand to boost her out. “If he wants to disappear, we'll never find him.” Rafe realized they were in a cul-de-sac with no exit except the way they'd come. He wasn't sure that was true for Quisto. The lengthening shadows might be concealing a hidey hole or an escape route too small or too high for them but adequate for the young hybrid. He'd seen the youth's leaping ability; he 123


might have reached one of the upper openings in the walls surrounding them on three sides. Rafe grabbed Mercy's hand and ran back the way they'd come, pausing when they came to a broader walkway that divided into several separate paths. For a city teeming with life ... Tamarans and offlanders ... this area was oddly deserted. He kept Mercy's hand and turned in the direction of the sea where there were sure to be public gathering places and cheap, tawdry accommodations for visitors. He had only a rough idea of where they were, but his sense of direction was usually excellent. They soon came to a main thoroughfare that followed the coastline. Stone warehouses lined the landward side, but across the muddy street were places for space traders to spend their golbriks, much more valuable than the inflationary currency of the Tamarans. The poor hovels, places to drink, eat, sleep, and fornicate with pathetic slaves, were all on exceptionally high stilts, showing the danger of rising waters. Rafe was more at ease once he saw a conglomeration of offlanders from the far corners of the galaxy but was puzzled by the haste of their movements. Everyone seemed to be rushing somewhere, but he'd never heard of a curfew that prevented strangers from spending their golbriks. He didn't see any warriors, or any Tamarans at all, for that matter. “Do you see Quisto?” Mercy asked, staying as close to him as their heavily loaded robes allowed. “No, but something's odd. All this rushing around...” 124


His words were cut off by a horrific noise, a siren so loud it made them cover their ears and cringe in pain. Moments later the crowds on the street literally dissolved, disappearing up ladders to the stilted hovels or squeezing between the more solid structures on the other side. Rafe pushed Mercy into a narrow opening between two moldering stone walls, backing in himself and ducking low to keep a wary eye on the street. His worst fears were realized a few moments later. A hoard of black-jacketed warriors swept down the street in a antiquated version of an all-terrain vehicle, a dozen or so riding on the top and sides. One of them spotted a hooded figure trying to hide behind a stilt that was too narrow to conceal him. Caught in the open, he hadn't chosen a good hiding place. Rafe heard the distinctive hum of a stun gun, followed by shrill hoots from the warriors. Two of them jumped down and threw their inert victim up on the vehicle. Rafe didn't need to tell Mercy to make herself small. She penetrated farther into the narrow opening and squatted down.. “Where are they taking them, do you think?” Before Rafe could hazard a guess, a low voice whispered: “The camps.” “Quisto, we were worried about you.” Mercy reached out and put her hand on his arm, probably afraid he'd disappear again. “What kind of camp?” Rafe wasn't sure he wanted to know. “Street sweepers take them. Not known what happens. Maybe slaves. Maybe worse.” 125


The youth's voice was hoarse with fear. “Are they Dah's warriors?” Mercy asked. Rafe didn't care whose they were. He just wanted to be damn sure they didn't get caught by them. “No. Yoomah.” What had the ambassador said about that one? “The one-eyed warlord?” Mercy asked. “He has eye pit.” “How often do they sweep?” Rafe estimated their chance of crossing to a lodging place on the other side of the street and didn't like the odds. “Up and down. Up and down. Until sun burns water.” “Until dawn,” Mercy translated. He wished she'd stop assuming he couldn't decipher Quisto's simplistic version of Instell to pay him back for doing the same to her. But not as much as he wished he was still tanking up on chooch in Bedoza's cozy brothel. Drinking himself to oblivion didn't seem so bad compared to what the Tamarans might do to them. “Do you have a place to hide?” he asked the hybrid. “Good place. Eat?” Rafe got the point. Altruism wasn't Quisto's strong point, but he could be bought. “Lead us there,” he said, doubting he could eat anything himself. Between the stench and the ruthless street sweepers, his stomach was a Gordian knot.

126


Chapter 7 NIGHT CAME ABRUPTLY, a sudden blackening of the skies, then, when their eyes adjusted, a canopy of stars. In spite of the dazzling display of distant suns, little light penetrated to the surface of Tamar. Unlike Athera, this smaller planet had no moon and no system to light the streets of the only large city. What technology that existed was the monopoly of the warlords, who used it only for their own benefit. A few windows showed the yellow glow of lanterns, but the majority of the denizens of the planet were too poor to afford the luxury of burning animal fat for illumination. Mercy held tight to Rafe's hand, even though it was unlikely he could see beyond the length of an outstretched arm. Quisto became their leader, displaying an uncanny ability to move through the darkness without a misstep. Whether it was his intimate knowledge of the city or the gift of night-vision from his Bast mother, he led them through narrow, sometimes watery alleys, stopping often so they could catch up. They heard but didn't see a band of street sweepers at the end of an alley and followed Quisto's lead, pressing themselves against a wall until the labored rattle of the vehicle receded. She'd never been more exhausted. Her legs were pillars of pain; hypersleep followed by intense activity was a formula for misery. Rafe had to be hurting too, but he silently kept pace with Quisto, circling her waist with his arm when they 127


began another steep upward climb. She wanted to shrug him off, but weariness overruled her pride. From the beginning, he'd helped grudgingly, but she forced herself to take advantage of any assistance he offered now. “Quiet!” Quisto warned them unnecessarily. Neither of them had breath to spare for conversation. He made a series of abrupt turns, losing them twice but returning to tap Rafe's arm and urge him to hurry. At last he came to a stop at what appeared to be a solid wall. Rafe risked using their light source for a few seconds, but all Mercy could see was a masonry wall made of crude mud-bricks. “Up!” Quisto told them in an urgent whisper, doing one of his amazing leaps and disappearing. “There's a balcony up there,” Rafe explained. “We had a rapine on our balcony once.” She knew how irrelevant her parents’ nocturnal visitor was to their situation, but she needed to connect with reality. This couldn't be happening. Soon she'd awake and find herself home in bed. She wished. “I'm going to boost you up. Grab the rail and pull yourself up. Quisto will help.” “Oh, sure, I'm twice his weight.” “Not quite.” There was a smirk in Rafe's voice. “You can stand on my shoulders and pull yourself up. It's not that high.” It was high enough. She thought her arms would be wrenched out of their sockets before she would manage to heave her legs over the side of the balcony. When it came to 128


climbing, she was much better as a runner. Rafe pushed on her bottom, giving her incentive but not much help, and she tumbled over a metal railing onto a hard surface. Rafe jumped several times, failing to grab the balcony rails, then finally managed to get a handhold. She and Quisto both tugged on his arms to boost him up to where they were standing. “I thought space traders were a lean and lanky lot,” she complained, rotating her arms and rubbing one wrist where his fingers had dug into her flesh. “Father very great space trader,” Quisto reminded her. “I'm sure he was,” Mercy assured him. Underneath his alien features, he was just a lonely orphan. He was a reminder of why she was there, and for that she was grateful. The area had sweltered all day under a relentless sun, and no cooling night breeze blew off the vast expanses of the sea. Mercy's clothes clung to her like steaming towels pulled from a vat of laundry water. She longed to stand under a cold shower, then lie naked on fresh sheets while cool air dried her body. Under cover of darkness, she worked the heavily-laden robe over her head, understanding now why the ambassador had given them waterproof pouches for everything, including their weapons. Her own clothes, lightweight knit trousers and top, were just as sodden, and she peeled off the shirt, swinging it and hoping to air-dry it. “What are you doing?” Rafe asked. “Trying to dry off!” She heard a swishing sound and realized Quisto had left them again. “Where did he go?” 129


“He doesn't tell me,” Rafe said crossly. “I gave him a couple of food packets, and he went over the railing.” “Where are we?” “Some sort of balcony. I think this was a residence. The whole area seems to be deserted now.” She edged along the metal railing, discovering that the entire balcony was hardly long enough for Rafe to stretch out. “We'd better try to sleep,” he said. “I never would have thought of that.” Maybe it wasn't fair to be sarcastic, but his attitude invited it. She fumbled for a drinking bladder and satisfied her thirst, then rolled up the robe as carefully as possible and covered it with her only-marginally-cleaner shirt to use as a pillow. Bare from the waist up, her skin still felt clammy, but there was nothing she could do about it. She lay down on the hard floor of their roost, sure she was too agitated to fall asleep. She awoke to a dawn unlike any she'd ever seen. The sun was still hidden behind the roofs of buildings, but the sky was brilliant cobalt blue, so dazzling in its beauty she forgot about the wretched planet below it for a moment. Air caressed her naked shoulders, and she contentedly stroked the hand spread across her breast. Without conscious intent, she returned to sleep. The second time she woke up angry. The hand she'd placidly accepted in a state of semi-consciousness was still cupping her breast, hard, strong fingers resting on her flesh while Rafe rolled one of her nipples between his thumb and forefinger. Much to her embarrassment, the nub was swollen and hard as if it had a mind of its own. 130


“Stop that!” She sat up abruptly, for once able to make him look uncomfortable. “I must have been dreaming,” he alibied. “Don't tell me what you were dreaming! You have no right to be sleeping with me.” “Beside you,” he said, rising and stretching languidly, his upper body as naked as hers. “In case you haven't noticed, you could hardly fit one of the Hazard's bunks on a deck this narrow.” He was right, but she was still mad, pulling on her sweatstained blue shirt under his watchful eyes. “What if someone saw us?” she asked angrily. “They'd think I was using my female the way females are meant to be used.” “Very funny!” Blast him! Her nipples were still hard and overly sensitive, and totally inappropriate sensations were tormenting her. She kept her eyes averted from the broad expanse of his chest, but in another time and place, with another man, she would have loved combing her fingers through the fine dark hairs and teasing his sable-brown nipples with her tongue. “If you're a little on edge,” he said in a mocking voice, “we could do each other a favor.” “Don't even think of it!” “A man has to snatch bits of pleasure where he can.” She backed up the half step the balcony allowed and felt Rafe's shirt hanging on the edge of the railing. Furious at his casual offer of sex, and suspecting he'd only made it because 131


he knew she'd refuse, she grabbed it and whipped it across the side of his head. “That wasn't a good idea!” he roared. He yanked the shirt from her hand and rubbed his reddened ear. For a moment she thought he'd retaliate the same way, and truth to tell, she wasn't proud of her outburst. As a child she'd brawled over territory and food, but her parents had taught her to control her temper and behave as one who enjoyed their status should. She dropped her arms to her sides and bowed her head, but no way would she apologize to a space tramp who'd fondled her while she was sleeping. “I'm sorry,” he said. It wasn't what she'd expected. “Mercy, I'm not at all sure either of us will get off this planet alive. Lying beside you...” “Never mind,” she said, cutting him off. “Do you have a better idea where we are now?” If she allowed him to say more, she might not be able to hide her own feelings. Besides being frightened and frantic with worry for the children's sake, she'd started to think about all the things she'd miss if her days were to end on this planet. Saddest of all, she'd never mate with a man whose spirit was a match for her own ... a man like Rafe. She scarcely remembered the face of Cylix Nett, and no man on Athera was lodged in her heart. Picking up her wrinkled shirt, she turned her back and pulled it over her head, feeling his eyes on her back. For one crazy instant, she wanted him to put his arms around her and 132


hold her bare back against his chest. She wanted to feel the warmth and comfort of his body in a tangible way. She wanted to be naked in his arms with his breath a whisper of air on her neck. But she was thinking like a little girl who needed to be held and comforted, and Rafe wasn't a candidate for care-giver. Suddenly Quisto agilely bounded over the railing, and the tension between them was forgotten. “Glad you came back,” Rafe said, his genuine enthusiasm telling Mercy how worried he was about their situation. “Hakara...” Instell failed him, and he let out a spate of unintelligible sounds, gesturing frantically with both arms. “Slow,” Rafe said. “Tell us slowly. Has something bad happened?” “Great bad, very great bad.” Mercy could see he was trembling. She touched his arm and murmured what she hoped were comforting words. “You're safe here. We're your friends, Quisto. Tell us what happened.” “Two bads make one big badder.” He held up his hands and clasped them in front of his face. “An alliance? Are you talking about two warlords joining together?” Rafe asked. “Vasin and Yoomah one big boss.” His fingers fluttered convulsively in front of his face. “There have been intelligence reports, rumors really, that the three warlords were uniting for a war to conquer other planets, “Mercy said slowly. “What happened to Dah?” 133


Quisto ran the side of his hand across his throat. Cut head. Warriors say no one boss. Cut heads. With great space trader father now.” “Are you saying Vasin and Yoomah are beheading Dah's warriors?” Mercy asked, making the throat cutting gesture. “Yes, yes, yes.” “Dah is dead?” Rafe put a firm but not unfriendly hand on Quisto's arm, probably to keep him from doing another disappearing act. “Yes, yes, yes. Hide, leave, go.” He pointed toward the sun still low in the sky but hot enough to make their still-damp robes steam. “What does it mean?” Mercy had a pretty good idea, but she hoped Rafe could put a better spin on the disastrous rebellion against the chief warlord. “It means we should blast off this infernal planet before the other two are at each other's throats. You add it up: two power-hungry warlords on a planet that's rapidly becoming an ecological disaster.” “They must be running scared if they murdered Dah.” “We're the ones who should be scared. I don't mind admitting I am.” “But what about the children? If Dah was holding them....” “He must have had a plan to use them. That scheme is history.” He didn't need to say it: He thought the children were history too, but she just couldn't accept it. “This could make it easier to find them.” 134


“Mercy, think! If they're loping off heads in the city, the interior is probably in chaos. Are Dah's warriors fighting?” he asked Quisto. “Run to high places. Fight plenty.” “We're smack in the middle of a civil war!” Rafe said, slapping his palm against his forehead. “How in blazes can I get the Hazard back and get us away from here?” “Away.” Quisto nodded vigorously. “All you ever think about is that ship! Now more than ever we have to find those children.” Worse than arguing, he ignored her. “First I need to see what the situation really is. I have to check out the dock and find out what's happening to offlanders.” “We need to find out,” she insisted. “You forget this is my mission, Captain Trane, and we're not on your ship now.” “I can't worry about protecting you in a situation like this. We'll have to find a place where you can hide.” He looked into the doorless opening in the balcony wall and shook his head. “Not here. Most of the floor in there has rotted away.” “Hide stupid female?” Quisto asked, pointing at Mercy. The little snot was as chauvinistic as Rafe, she thought, but maybe it wasn't a bad idea to separate for awhile. She wanted to learn about the captured children; all Rafe was likely to do was worry about the ship. If she were on her own.... “I'm not stupid,” she snapped at the hybrid, hopefully letting him know she was a force to be reckoned with. “Hide, yes. Eat.” Quisto said, unabashed by her outburst. 135


“Probably a good idea if we all eat something,” Rafe agreed. “Where is this hiding place?” Quisto gestured toward the city's coastline, which suited Mercy just fine. As soon as they abandoned her, she could do some serious hunting of her own. After a meager meal from the ambassador's imported food packets, they put their lives in Quisto's hands, following him back into the impoverished, half-ruined city. “Father great space trader,” he said after leading them down to the heart of a city curiously deserted compared to yesterday's bustle. “Play latta-yes-no. Win many golbriks.” “So your father liked to gamble,” Rafe said. “Not unusual for a space trader. Is that where you're taking us ... to a gambling den?” Wherever Quisto was leading, Mercy decided to follow until Rafe left her on her own. They came to a part of Hakara they hadn't seen before : an area of close-packed stone buildings on a rise on the opposite side of the city as the offlanders’ section where the embassy was. It appeared to be densely populated, probably because it was on high ground. Females with young children darted furtively from building to building, but the males were nowhere to be seen. She couldn't imagine a corner to hide existing in this populous area, and she was right. Quisto hurried down a steep incline, and they found themselves in a deserted area back near the water The humid air was unbearably hot, but at least they were far enough up wind to avoid the nauseating stink of the cesspool. 136


The path underfoot was the consistency of steamed pudding, squishing around her feet and covering her boots with muck. After a short while her feet were weighed down by clinging mud, and every step took a major effort. “Where are you taking us?” she asked Quisto, who kept the lead, dashing back whenever they lagged. For some reason his feet didn't sink nearly as much as theirs. His light weight could account for part of his ability to walk on boggy ground, but she wondered if his feet had some special buoyancy. She also wondered if he would lick the mud away like the feline side of his line did, but she didn't want to offend him by asking. They entered an area of heavy vegetation where the ground was firmer. She hated the ropy vines and overhanging branches that hit her in the face and made the trek even harder, but in a short while Quisto took a fork to the right, back toward the coastline. “Here,” he said, pointing to a beach shack of indeterminate origin and purpose. “That can't be a gambling den,” she said skeptically. “Escape way. Warriors no see.” “A back way in case the place was raided,” Rafe surmised. The inside of the windowless little hut was horribly musty, but Quisto located a large iron ring and, with Rafe's help, raised a trap door partly obscured by loose dirt. Mercy didn't like the looks of it, not one little bit, but it was probably her only chance to escape Rafe's surveillance. “Where does it go?” she asked but didn't get an answer. 137


Quisto led the way down a ladder into a narrow tunnel, again seemingly able to see in the dark. Rafe followed, shining a beam of light, then waiting for her to reach the bottom. The air inside was so fetid, they agreed to leave the trap door open. So far, this was the low point of her stay on Tamar. Neither she nor Rafe could walk upright, and Quisto was moving even faster than usual. Occasionally she noticed a support beam along the wall, but they didn't look sturdy enough to alleviate the fear that the roof of the tunnel would collapse on them. “Are you all right?” Rafe asked, unable to turn around and see for himself. “Sure, I always wanted to live underground. No sunburn problems. Do you have any idea where we'll end up?” What did they really know about the hybrid? He could be leading them into a deadly trap. “Not too far from the dock, I suspect,” Rafe said. “If they're disposing of bodies and heads there, it's a good district to avoid.” “Warriors come. Space traders run,” Quisto called back to them. “Is gambling illegal here?” Mercy asked. “No, not at the places run by warlords. I think the one where we're going was a clandestine operation. They needed a back door ... make that a tunnel ... in case one of the warlords sent his goons to break heads.” After what seemed like an interminable walk, they climbed up another ladder. Quinto grunted and pushed up another 138


wooden trap door, and Mercy found she had tears of relief in her eyes. They came out in a subterranean room dimly lit by several vent holes near the ceiling. In the beam of Rafe's light, it was easy to see the dilapidated furnishings of a gambling den: heavy tables, chairs in various states of repair, discarded bottles, and a scattering of lanterns. The management hadn't been big on decor, but they probably packed in quite a crowd when business was good. Rafe put the light away, able to see well enough to slide a deadbolt, rusty with disuse, across the trap door after he thumped it shut. He kicked it hard with the heel of his boot to secure it. By Tamaran standards, the place wasn't half bad. Maybe fifty or more people could stand around the cloth-covered tables, an occasional trace of the original blue still showing through the moldy gray. A long serving bar dominated one side of the room, and although the place had probably been looted, a scattering of gaming pieces littered the floor. “I'm surprised no one lives here,” she said. “Put a grate over the openings up there and hang some curtains. It's better than some of the hovels we passed.” “A lot of Tamarans have a phobia about being underground,” Rafe said. “Probably why an illegal operation for offlanders was in a basement.” “More of your reading?” she asked. “There has to be more to life than hypersleep,” he said dryly. 139


On top of all his other character flaws, he was beginning to sound like a know-it-all. “Let's see where we are,” he said, locating a narrow door and opening it a crack. She crowded beside him and looked up at a flight of roughhewn stone steps. They were in what would be called a stairwell on Athera, and Rafe cautiously climbed up to see where they were. “We're pretty close to the dock,” he said wrinkling his nose at the smell and returning to the basement den. “Looks deserted now, probably because everyone's in hiding. How's your water?” “Adequate,” she said. Especially for someone who didn't intend to spend more than a few minutes there. “Food? Stun gun?” “Don't worry about me.” “Wait here. I'll be back when I know what's going on at the space dock.” “Don't rush. I'll just entertain myself and have a great time.” He gave her an odd look, and she decided to cut out the smart remarks before he got too suspicious. “You'd better get back here soon,” she said to cover her intentions. One way or another, she was going to learn where those children were. Somewhere in this city one of Dah's warriors must be hiding from the rebellious warlords, and she'd had a little experience with hidey holes, thanks to Quisto. All she 140


had to do was get rid of Rafe, and she could find an informant. “I'll be back,” he said. Was that a tinge of regret in his voice? “I should go with you,” she said, just so he wouldn't guess what she was planning to do. “You'd only slow us down.” She had to bite her lower lip to keep from letting him know what she thought of that remark. Quisto slipped out the door and up the stairs, then motioned to Rafe to follow. “Stay put,” he ordered. For an instant, she had the wild idea that he was going to kiss her good-bye. If he did.... He was out the door, slamming it shut as though she'd try to sneak through with him. Then she heard something she didn't like ... not at all. It sounded suspiciously like a dead bolt sliding into place, but why would a door lock from the outside? She tested by pushing on a metal handle. It wouldn't budge. “Rafe, I'm locked in!” she shouted, more horrified than surprised when he didn't answer. She tapped on the door; she pounded and rattled the handle. She pushed a table over to one of the small vents near the ceiling and managed to peer out at a typical Hakaran street: narrow and muddy with refuse lining the sides. Her instinct was to yell for help. Probably any passer-by could let her out. She'd only heard the bolt; now that the 141


place was deserted, the former owner had probably taken the padlock to secure it with him. She spotted a pair of blackjacketed warriors strutting down the otherwise deserted street and gave up on the idea of calling for help. Rafe had left her with the small light. She didn't want to retrace the route through the tunnel, but he'd given her no choice. Finding the trap door exit in the gray light was easy; trying to budge the bolt he'd kicked into place wasn't. In fact, it was impossible! She kicked at the metal bar until her toe throbbed. She even tried to budge it with the back of a wooden chair, but the wood was rotten. It shattered into splinters. He must think he was so clever, she thought angrily. She was mad enough to boot him into the cesspool with all the rest of the noxious waste on this foul, damned planet. He'd intentionally locked her in with Quisto's compliance. That treacherous hybrid should be wearing a collar and leash! As for Rafe, she'd see him languishing in an Atheran prison until he was too old to hobble around the exercise yard. His ship could track down space garbage until it decayed into space junk itself. “Ohhhh!” She felt like a raging inferno, and all she could do was pace and fume. Why in blazes put a bolt lock on the outside of a door?

142


Chapter 8 MERCY POUNDED on the bolted door with part of a broken chair, but the rotten wood splintered into jagged splinters to no avail. She scoured the large gaming room for inspiration, finding a lantern with a few inches of fuel in the bottom of the well. “Worth a shot,” she said, wrinkling her nose as she poured rancid oil over the bolt on the trap door where they'd entered. Maybe some lubricant would help it slide open. Or maybe it needed to soak awhile, she decided when the oil didn't loosen it. One way or another, she was getting out of this place, and Rafe could high-dive off a docking-site bridge for all she cared. How could he do this to her? Temporarily stymied, she sank down on one of the sturdier-looking chairs and laid her arms on a battered table top. Gradually exhaustion won out over frustration. She put her head on her arms and fell asleep. A loud drumming woke her. At first she thought someone was pounding on the door, which wasn't logical because for some obscure reason the bolt was on the outside. Then it dawned on her. Torrential rain was buffeting the building, beating down on the outside steps, and battering everything in its path. She climbed on a chair to peep out one of the vent holes, but, amazingly, dusk had fallen already and visibility was nonexistent. 143


Worse, she heard the sound of water spilling into her subterranean prison. Her light beam confirmed the worst. Virtual waterfalls were pouring through the vent holes. No wonder the gambling den had been abandoned. She banged and tugged on the door to the street, but there was no escape that way. The bolt Rafe had kicked into place on the trap door was more promising. She pounded the oily metal rod with a broken chair leg, and finally it moved. Tamaran rain was like a hot shower, and her face was steaming from working in the stifling atmosphere. She was so busy hammering, she didn't notice a curious rumbling noise until she finally managed to lift the trap door. Water was rushing into the escape tunnel with a force that made it splash up and soak Mercy. She quickly slammed the trap door and kicked the bolt into place with all the force she could muster. How long would it be before the powerful rush of underground water would tear the door off its hinges and fill the subterranean room? Already the spill-off coming through the vent holes had brought the water level on the floor to her ankles. She was going to drown! Rafe had locked her in a watery tomb. How could he do this to her? Why didn't he figure out that bolt on the outside was there to keep people out of a dangerous trap? All the man cared about was his ship! The trap door exploded off its hinges and was thrown against a far wall in the wake of rushing water. The flood 144


swirled around Mercy's hips, knocking her against a table. She partly climbed and partly was washed to the table top, clinging to it like a typhoon survivor on a raft. The room was large, but already the water pushing upward from the tunnel was lapping the edge of the table. Mercy screamed for help. And screamed again. Water spilled over the top of the table swirling around her boots. Soon she'd be treading water, then how long would it be before the room was flooded to the ceiling? Rafe had to know she was in danger. Why didn't he come? He could be far away ... or too absorbed in worrying about the Hazard to give any thought to her predicament. Or he could be dead. She couldn't deal with the pain that thought unexpectedly caused, not with water soaking her calves and still rising. She tried to find a hand grip, but she was too far from the wall and the bolted door. The force of the underground water had snapped off the trap door. What would it do to the door between her and freedom? Probably nothing as long as there was room for the water to fill the cavity of the room. After that it would be too late for her. She watched the inky blackness of the rising water as the rain continued unabated. Now she knew why parts of the city were oddly deserted, even though other sections were horrendously crowded. The inhabitants knew where the next flood would be most devastating, and now she did too. She yelled for help again, but lost hope of escaping alive. Her life didn't flash before her eyes, but she was filled with 145


regret for the pain her beloved adoptive parents would suffer and for the kidnaped children whose last chance of rescue would be lost without her. Unfortunately, she was also tortured by a sense of loss about Rafe. What if she had agreed to his proposal to “help each other out?” How could she think of him as a lover when he was the cause of her impending death? The water swirled around her lower body, waist-high now, making it difficult to stay on her feet. The violent pounding of the rain outside was a death knell, so loud it dulled her senses and pushed her toward utter panic. It took her a second to realize she'd heard a new noise: a sharp thump. The door burst inward, and she heard Rafe's muffled oath before she realized that he'd been knocked over by the water rushing out to flood the stairwell. “Mercy! Where are you?” At least he was conscious, but she'd been knocked to her knees by rushing torrents. She couldn't see and hesitated to jump into flood water for fear of being battered against the wall and knocked insensible. “Mercy!” She felt his hands reaching for her before she saw him. Then she was in his arms, half carried, half swept toward the door by the force of the water. They were swimming now, hand-in-hand, struggling to reach the top steps where a cascade of water from the street made them almost invisible. Rafe had to drag her up to 146


ground level where knee-high water was rushing through the streets. Neither had breath to spare for speaking. Rafe locked his hand around hers, pulling her against the current through rain so heavy it was a solid sheet of water. The flow pushed against their legs, and without Rafe's iron grip, she couldn't have stood upright against it. She shrieked when something snaked across her line of vision, but Rafe grabbed at it. “Have to climb,” he ordered, putting a sodden but thick rope in her hand. “I'll hold it taut. You go first.” She'd climbed ropes without enthusiasm as a school girl, and gymnastic exercises hadn't prepared her to do it in a torrential rainfall with a sodden robe weighing her down like an overcoat of concrete. She heard a little mewing noise and realized it was coming from her. “I can't,” she gasped, her short labored progress taking more strength than she had left. “No option!” Rafe kept the rope taut and pushed on her backside, digging his fingers into her buttocks so hard she wanted to kick out at him. “Go!” he ordered. She did, moving upward away from his hand and adding one more thing to the list of outrages she planned to avenge. She was going to get even with this deserter, this bully, this wretched space tramp, if it was the last thing she ever did. She was too exhausted to be surprised when Quisto, his fur plastered down by rain, gave her a hand getting over a ledge onto a flat roof top. 147


“Come now,” the youth yelled over the edge of his perch. “Stupid female here.” Quisto was hanging onto the rope, which was looped around a metal vent pipe protruding from the slippery paved roof. She knelt and braced herself so she wouldn't be swept over the edge, but she couldn't see Rafe through the blanket of rain until he was on top of her, rolling onto the flat surface and taking her with him. She was flattened by his weight, and rain battered her face, cutting off her breath and near-drowning her. Pushing him away with all her strength, she struggled to her feet ... and exploded in anger. “Why did you lock me in that death trap?” she screamed over the racket of the storm. “I wanted to keep you safe,” he said lamely, trying to shield his eyes from the rain with his hands. “Safe! With water backing up from the tunnel and the door bolted on the outside? On the outside, Rafe! What did that tell you?” “Only that the owner had put it there. At one time, there was probably something inside worth stealing.” “And you decided it would make a nice prison!” “It was only to keep you out of trouble temporarily. I started back as soon as the rain started.” “It was damn near permanent!” “I had good reasons for leaving you!” He was shouting over the din, still so arrogantly self-assured she wanted to hurl him off the roof. 148


“All you care about is your blasted ship!” She pushed at his chest with strength born of fury, catching him off guard and knocking him off his feet. He landed hard, sprawled on his back with the downpour beating on his face. For a moment, she thought he'd hit his head and was unconscious. She went up to him and started to bend when he grabbed her ankles and pulled her down on top of him. She tried to struggle, but he held her close, pressing his mouth against her ear. “Mercy, I'm sorry. The last thing I want is to lose you. When I saw what the rain was doing, I came as fast as I could.” His words were soothing. She wanted to believe him, and it was hard not to when she was wrapped in his arms, his body a solid column of strength against the forces of nature gone berserk. Now that the threat of immediate death was gone, she was trembling convulsively, clinging to him and hiding her face against the saturated front of his robe. “We need to get to higher ground,” he said, patting her back and comforting her with his lips on her forehead. “Are you up to moving on?” “Of course I am!” she said, forcing herself to forsake the dubious comfort of his arms. “We still have to find the children.” “They wouldn't let me board the Hazard. I don't know how we'll get off this hell-hole, let alone take a gang of children with us.” At least he didn't remind her again that they most likely were dead. 149


Quisto stepped closer, rain streaming off his furry head and torso showing how stick-thin he was. “As for you,” she said, jabbing one finger against his chest, “if you ever again call me ‘stupid female,’ I'll kick your skinny butt from here to Bast. Call me Mercy. Understand?” “Understand.” He may have been hanging his head; she couldn't be sure in the downpour. She put her arms around the orphaned hybrid and held him for a few moments, knowing how much comfort Rafe's arms had given her. “Now we go,” she said, “and when we leave Tamar, you leave with us.” She stepped away, but not before she saw a broad feline grin spread over his face. “Great lady say go.” He smirked at Rafe. “I knew she would,” Rafe said. There was another decision made without her input. She would've kicked Captain Rafe Trane off the roof ... if his arms hadn't been so strong and comforting. “Let's get going,” she said, reasserting her leadership on this mission even though she didn't have a clue where to go. “The best we can do for now is find a shelter,” Rafe said, taking her hand and walking to the other side of the roof, followed by Quisto with the coil of rope on his arm. She started in fright when the youth bounded ahead of them and disappeared over the edge of the roof, but a moment later she was looking down at him. The building had a little balcony not unlike the one where they'd slept ... an uncomfortable reminder of waking up with Rafe's hand caressing her breast. 150


“The safest way is to drop down with your knees bent. I'll lower you as far as I can,” he said. She wanted to leap over the edge without any assistance from the intrepid space tramp, but this was a particularly inopportune time for a broken limb. Rafe held her hands in an iron grip until she was dangling above the small deck, then let go. She landed in a sprawl, sodden robes twisted around her waist. At least everything but her dignity was intact. She help her breath while Rafe dropped down, landing in a crouch and straightening immediately. “The water on this street isn't running as deep,” he said, pointing over the edge of an iron railing. “With any luck, we can walk out of the flood area.” “Then what?” She wasn't blindly following him, that was for sure. “Then we'll talk, weigh our options, try to figure out a way to survive this bloody civil war.” “You won't talk me out of looking for the children.” “Let's go,” he ignored her. “We'd better lower ourselves on the rope. The drop to the street is steep.” Quisto already had the rope tied to the rail. Mercy caught a glimpse of rusty iron and rain beating down on crumbling stucco, but she was more afraid of the rain stopping than a continuation of the deluge. It was probably close to curfew time, although the dark gray sky gave no hint one way or the other. She didn't want an encounter with the street sweepers. Stay on this planet long enough, she thought, and anyone could lapse into full-blown paranoia. 151


Rafe was right about the depth of the water, but the current was even swifter here, carrying debris that made their upward progress a dangerous game of weaving and dodging. The rain lost some of its driving force but didn't stop. From time to time they passed hulking stone buildings with flood victims packed on the roofs, masses of Tamarans driven from their homes or caught out in the open when the rains began. Mercy didn't know what would happen if they tried to join one of the clusters of survivors, but she wasn't willing to bet their lives on the kind of reception they'd get. “We have two options,” Rafe said, sounding as weary as she felt after fighting the current up a steep slope under the black canopy of night. “Try to circle around to the embassy and hope it hasn't been occupied by warriors.” “Or?” She was so tired every step became a conscious decision to survive. “We hide out in the interior ... if that's possible.” He conferred with Quisto, their voices too low for her to hear. “The jungle it is,” Rafe announced. “What about consulting me?” She sounded petulant and didn't care. She'd had more than enough of this master-slave farce. After being locked in a flooding basement, there was no way she would blindly follow Rafe. Not now ... not ever! At least the path they were following wasn't flooded. Her boots stuck in sticky mud, making drudgery of every step, but they were obviously on higher ground. The buildings thinned out until only a few ramshackle shacks were close to the road, but visibility was so bad Quisto had to act as their eyes. 152


They trudged through the night, and finally the rain stopped. Mercy was so tired she wanted to drop down in the mud and pass out, but she wouldn't let herself quit, not as long as Rafe kept moving. Even in her fatigue-befuddled state, she knew it was silly to compete with him in a contest of strength and endurance, but anger won the day. A little hugging wasn't enough to erase the fact that she'd nearly died because he'd locked her in a basement to keep her out of his way. That wouldn't happen again! The cobalt blue sky of dawn brought a welcome end to stumbling blindly through the dark and showed them that they'd left the city behind. The path was nothing but a muddy trail, and without Quisto's night vision, they almost surely would have strayed into thick vegetation or cleared areas with fields that reminded her of waterberry bogs: low earthworks surrounding flooded plots for crops that germinated under water. They passed one scrawny Tamaran, naked except for a loin cloth, piling dirt to rebuild part of an earthwork washed away by the rain. He glanced at them without curiosity and continued his chore, his mottled green complexion clear of emotional orange markings. They stopped to sit on the huge surface roots of a tree with pointy, sharp-edged leaves and stripped off their sodden robes to take inventory of their supplies. Only one food pouch had leaked, making the contents inedible, so they wouldn't starve for a couple of days. Safe water was a more pressing concern. Even rationing what they had left, they were in danger of dehydration by the end of another scorching day. 153


Rafe had procured a metal container of fermented fruit juice for each of them, warning them to limit themselves to a single sip every hour or so. Their stopping spot was cool by Tamaran standards. Mercy's eyes kept drooping shut in spite of her intention to stay alert. “Let's get a little rest,” Rafe suggested, wadding up his robe and using it as a pillow when he stretched out on a particularly large root. She didn't need urging, and Quisto was already napping, curled in a fetal position at Rafe's feet. The sun was high when she woke up, but the higher elevation was more livable. She was practically dry, and her robe, muddy as it was, had freshened somewhat in the wind. Rafe and Quisto were gone. She looked around and listened carefully, hoping they were only taking care of nature's business in the nearby undergrowth. She prepared herself as best she could for what lay ahead, taking a big sip of fermented juice. It hit her empty stomach with a jolt, but she didn't want to tap into the meager food supplies until she had to. Rafe didn't show. His robe was missing, too. Maybe he was scouting; maybe he thought it was safe to leave her because there wasn't much choice about where to go. She could follow the path back the way they'd come or go ahead. He knew she wasn't dumb enough to strike out on her own through the jungle growth, and there was no sign of cultivation ... or villages ... in the immediate area. 154


She waited awhile longer. The rain forest was alive with the chirps and rustling of small creatures, and there seemed to be another sound not too distant: the splash of water on rock. She had visions of a sparkling waterfall, a swift-running creek, an azure blue lake nestled in the jungle. This time she wasn't going to sit still for being left behind. At best, she'd get a bath out of it, and if she worried Rafe by her absence, he deserved it. Picking her way carefully through the undergrowth, she found a new path that seemed to lead to the water source. She was wearing her robe because it was easier than carrying it, and she was cautious enough to reach under it and keep her hand on the stun gun slapping against her hip. The roar of the water grew louder, and she became even more cautious. She didn't want to step off a ridge and find herself riding a waterfall to a watery doom. She climbed a slight rise and stopped dead. There was a waterfall and, even better, a beautiful clear creek with shallow water rushing over a rocky bed. Less inviting was a village a short distance beyond it, a circle of grass-roofed huts with no inhabitants in sight. There was only one remarkable feature, a huge boulder in the middle of the village, the center of the rock carved out to form a basin large enough to cook a good-sized animal, if that was the purpose of the depression. She approached, hoping any villagers in the vicinity would be as disinterested in her as the farmer repairing his bog. No one showed up, but she spotted something unexpected: an 155


all-terrain vehicle with fat balloon tires parked to the rear of the huts. From everything she'd learned of Tamaran farmers, they were far too poor to own any kind of transport. It had to be military. She scared now! She'd seen warriors up close and witnessed a street sweeper ruthlessly zapping an offlander for no good reason. She couldn't even imagine what they'd do to her, but this was her chance, probably her only chance, to make progress in finding the children. She waded through the stream, coming out behind the deserted huts as close to the vehicle as possible. Her days as a street kid had taught her some useful skills, like how to start a vehicle without a code or a key. Where were the villagers? More importantly, where was the driver of the vehicle? It was a poor piece of equipment, scorched and pockmarked on the hood as though it had been in a battle. Designed without doors, it contained only one seat, little more than a backless perch for the driver. The really important question was whether it would run. It could be a derelict, the fuel tank empty and the electrical packs dead. After one last visual survey of the area, she climbed on the seat. A key was dangling from the ignition; a fuel gauge showed nearly a full tank. She took a deep breath and gave it a try. The engine actually purred. No mater how battered the body was, the motor had been kept in good repair. She 156


experimented with the manual gears, tested the brakes, and knew it was a chance she had to take. Whatever they did to car thieves on this planet, it couldn't be much worse than what they'd do to her anyway if a band of warriors found her. They might have taboos about female offlanders, but she couldn't count on being ignored if they caught her on her own in the jungle. She followed tire tracks until she was well away from the village. The roadway was steep and curvy but not hazardous at a slow speed. Although her sense of direction failed her, it didn't matter. There was one road, and it took her past cleared acres and thick underbrush. Why didn't she see any villagers? Shouldn't they be out inspecting their bogs or something? Did the deserted village have something to do with the camps? She hadn't given them much thought. What were they? Where were they? Was she in Dah's territory? Were the villagers his supporters? Had one of the other warlords taken them away? “I may be in big trouble,” she muttered aloud. “Nothing new there!” She drove faster but not less cautiously. There were no road patrols here to rescue a stranded motorist. The road became wider and flatter; she didn't know if that was good or bad, but driving on a plateau was easier than threading her way around high hills. This was no joyride; she was frantically considering her options, worrying whether golbriks could buy information in this primitive area. 157


Absorbed in planning her strategy, she came up on a row of stakes without any warning, slamming her brakes by instinct and staring up in terror. Wooden poles, bare of bark and twice as high as her height, lined each side of the road, hundreds of them, each with a grizzly head staring down sightlessly from a sharpened peak. Tamaran heads, bright orange in the agonies of death, the poles below them sticky with blackening green blood, were already reeking with the decay of death. She covered her nostrils and tried not to retch. Were these the poor villagers? She forced herself to look up at the terrifying trophies. They seemed too uniform a size to belong to children, but she quickly looked away, closing her eyes, unable to black out the horrible mutilations. Each dismembered head had the eye sockets gouged out. She said a fervent prayer for these aliens who'd endured such a vicious end, sincerely hoping they'd been dead before their eyes were carved out of their faces. Nothing she'd heard about the warlords made it seem likely. She had to go, but where? If she drove farther, would she see the ultimate horror: the skulls of human children skewered on poles? She screamed, letting out her pent-up horror when a creature dove into the space beside her seat. “Hurry, go plenty fast, Mercy female!” “Quisto? Where did you come from? Where's Rafe?” “Fast, fast, fast!” He pointed behind them. She didn't need more urging. The road was flat and even enough to spin around in a U-turn. She accelerated to the 158


floor and headed back toward the deserted village with Quisto urging her to hurry in a high-pitched breathless voice. “Where is Rafe?” “Find heads. Tell me hide. Go-go.” He gestured at the road behind him. “He went the other way? We have to go back.” “No, no, no.” His protest came out like a burst of gunfire. “Not road. Tell me hide. Check bush.” “He went into the jungle? Why didn't he take you?” Of all the macho stupidity, why did he go off without Quisto when the hybrid had far better tracking skills? “Watch you.” “You were supposed to watch for me?” “Yes watch. Go awake.” Well, he figured out that she would leave their resting spot as soon as she woke up, she thought, disgruntled in spite of much bigger worries. “What made him think I'd find ... that? No, don't bother answering!” She didn't want to hear Quisto's version of Rafe's clever deduction. Did he expect her to sit on her backside waiting for him? She had to slow down; going downhill at breakneck speed was a sure way to leave her bones on this infernal planet. She neared the village outskirts and decided they'd better hide the vehicle in the thick undergrowth and walk. Maybe, since the heads most likely belonged to warriors, the villagers were only hiding. They might even be helpful to strangers if 159


she could communicate with them ... or bribe them with golbriks. She remembered a particularly bad hairpin turn just ahead and slowed, deciding this was the place to conceal the vehicle. “Quisto, we'll hide....” she started to say. The warriors came out of the brush, their unshod feet silent on the soft ground, and surrounded the vehicle even before Quisto could leap to safety. Their captors were the worst kind of Tamarans. They were wearing the black Coalition-style uniforms and hard-billed hats like the street sweepers, and their faces were riddled with livid streaks of orange. Some bared their teeth, showing the sharp points and snarling deep in their throats; all were furiously angry, and it wasn't hard to figure out why: an offlander had stolen their vehicle and, even worse, the thief was a female. They wanted to kill her. They didn't want to touch her. Maybe they were even squeamish about spilling her alien blood inside the vehicle. A taller, somewhat heavier warrior approached Quisto's side of the vehicle and spoke to him in lightly accented but excellent Instell. “Who is the female?” “You could ask me.” Sure they'd probably kill her, but she wasn't about to suffer in silence while this bully acted as if she were somebody's slave. Quisto's face crumpled like a wad of paper, but he kept his wits about him and didn't cringe. 160


“Female of great space trader.” Rafe had certainly been promoted. “Name?” “Timor of Systotyrexous. Great space trader.” She wanted to applaud Quisto. He's had the presence of mind to invent a name. “You saw warlord Dah?” Quisto looked blank. Who knew one of those decaying heads was Dah's? He shrugged. “Saw heads.” “Then you saw Dah,” the leader said. She hated the way they laughed. Rubbing iron vegetable choppers together would be melodic in comparison. “Tell the female to leave the vehicle,” he ordered. “I'm not deaf ... or dumb.” She slid to the ground, getting a small measure of satisfaction when the warrior on her side backed away. Serve them right if she lunged at them and touched each and every one. But as she'd said, she wasn't dumb. The leader yanked Quisto out of the vehicle, holding him roughly by the scuff of his neck. “You look like a Bast?” It was an insult; Quisto bristled but had the good sense to keep still. “Where is your tail?” He spun Quisto around to make sure he wasn't hiding one. “Father great space trader from Systotyrexous.” “A hybrid.” The warrior grabbed Quisto's upper arm and looked him over from head to feet, then sneered in disdain. 161


“We'll put this wretched specimen in the camp with the female. Maybe he likes female filth.” He pushed him toward one of the others, booting him on his tailless backside to show further contempt. Whatever a female camp was, poor Quisto was going there. It seemed the best she could hope for too. The circle of warriors had drawn their long, vicious swords, pointing them at her. “Walk,” the leader ordered. “No tricks or you die.” “I'll walk, I'll walk.” “Don't talk.” They walked a long way, the warriors amusing themselves by pretending to stick Quisto with their sword points. One nasty prick drew blood and made Quisto yelp in pain. The leader laughed but apparently told his followers to lay off. For some reason he wanted both of them alive. She found nothing reassuring about that.

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Chapter 9 CAPTURE WAS inevitable. Rafe had known it since touching down on Tamar. There were planets where an outlander could hide and survive, but this wasn't one of them. It was too land-poor and populous, and the civil war greatly complicated the situation. He had one chance to save himself: return to the Hazard immediately. They might let him board to repair the mythical malfunction, or he might have to kill the control officers. If he could reach it, the ship was a secure fortress. He'd scouted the area, and the Tamarans didn't have warships or fire power to stop him from leaving. “Damn that woman!” he said under his breath. She'd forced him into this, and he should let her suffer the consequences. He didn't know where she'd stolen the vehicle, but he'd spotted her driving up to the grisly impaled heads. He'd sent Quisto to get her away from there because the hybrid Bast could move a whole lot faster than he could. He'd followed on foot, keeping to the brush as much as possible, catching up in time to see her waylaid by a band of twenty warriors. They were poorly armed: A few had pistols but most carried broad-bladed swords. He could shoot a fair number at close range, but not without jeopardizing Mercy and Quisto. The Tamarans were smart enough to use them as human shields. 163


The path they were following broadened, and it became harder to stay out of sight. Massive trees were draped with thick yellowish vines that trailed along the ground, making it impossible to move forward without using the muddy track. He had to know where they were taking Mercy, and to do that, he had to break cover. She was trouble personified: a jinx, an evil omen, a loose canon. He should have left her on Abbess II; better still, he should have refused to pilot the Hazard on this foolhardy mission, no matter what she threatened to do. He'd made some big mistakes in his life, but helping Mercy in this fiasco was the queen-mother of bad ideas. If those kids were, by some miracle, still alive, any rescue attempt was more likely to get them killed than save them. The heat was getting to him, and whenever he tried to walk on the vine-covered jungle floor, clouds of buzzing, biting insects attacked. He pulled the robe up to shield his face, but his hands were swelling from multiple bites. The vehicle went up a steep rise, and he lost sight of Mercy and her captors for several minutes. Stomach churning for fear of losing her, he ran upward on the path. At the summit he saw their destination: the camp. Row after row of putrid-yellow barracks were bordered by two separate fences only a meter or so apart. He could see robed figures moving in the smaller of the two compounds and took it to be the females’ camp. This was confirmed when the warriors took Mercy to a gate with armed guards. To his surprise, Quisto was roughly shoved through the gate behind her. Even with his feline characteristics, Quisto was obviously 164


male. A quick look under his loin cloth could confirm it, and the hybrid had too much pride to pretend to be female. As for himself, Rafe was getting tired of the gender discrimination on this sorry-excuse-for-a-planet. He'd gotten a certain satisfaction in watching Advocate Greer shuffle along like a slave girl, but he loved a woman with fire and spirit, wit and intelligence. He wanted a female counterpart, not a cringing underling. In other circumstances he might have.... Thirst was making him lightheaded! He didn't love Mercy. He didn't want her complicating his life any more than she already had. There was always a flip side to love, and he didn't want that kind of pain ever again. He flattened himself on the ground at the top of the rise and studied the layout of the smaller camp. The barracks were like any cheaply constructed semi-permanent structures meant to house large numbers, but at the rear of the camp was a reddish stone building that suggested a long occupancy. The same was true in the larger camp, where he could see a throng of prisoners confined in a smaller enclosure within the high walls. The guards in the males’ camp were wearing black jackets and were armed with hightech automatic weapons. No one went near the wire fence in this camp. He guessed it was electrified. There wasn't a boulder or a bush large enough to conceal him within a hundred meters of either camp. No one could sneak up by day, which meant he couldn't do anything until it was dark ... if it ever was. He saw a random scattering of poles around both camps, but they were too distant to see 165


whether they were used for lighting ... or something much more sinister. He crawled backward until he was far enough down the rise not to be seen from the camps. His plan was to hide in the jungle until nightfall. He felt a sudden sharp prick between his shoulder blades and knew there was a change of plans. “Don't move, offlander, unless you desire to part company with your skin.” His captor spoke lightly accented Instell, only a slight hiss revealing that he was Tamaran. “Now rise slowly and elevate your hands.” This was a different breed of Tamaran, the pale greens and yellows of his skin free of flaming orange anger lines. Instead of ominous black uniforms, the band of ten or so warriors wore bright purple and red loin cloths and were naked above their waists. They were also too efficient for comfort. One of them used a vicious looking dagger to slit the fabric of Rafe's robe while another pulled it off, keening with satisfaction when he found Rafe's weapon and supplies. Others watched, heavily armed with semi-automatic weapons in the crooks of their arms, their prominent red-brown eyes watching him like a lab specimen about to be dissected. Two of them pinned his arms behind his back while another pulled off his boots and found the knife strapped to his ankle. A spate of laugh-noises showed how much they were enjoying this. They stripped him naked, patted him down with the expertise of experienced prison guards, then 166


one of them examined the stamp on his hand. The strip search ended as soon as the leader saw it. He didn't know why, but he'd had enough poking and prodding from the control officers. They returned his clothes and boots but kept the robe and all its contents. “Here, drink.” The leader handed him his own nearly empty water bladder. He quickly drained it before they changed their minds. They marched him down to the camp in the same way the others had forced Mercy and Quisto to walk to their doom ... or at least it felt like a death march. Getting out of the prison compound for males would be a whole lot harder than breaking into the one where Mercy was being held. His escorts’ civil behavior lasted until they were a few meters from the gate. Apparently they wanted to demonstrate their savagery to the guards assigned to the compound. Rafe was cuffed, kicked, and pushed through the opening into the compound amidst a tongue lashing that sounded like cuss words, no matter what the language. The leader, courteous until now, gave him a hard kick in the small of his back that sent him sprawling face down in the murky brown dust. A whole pack of black-uniformed Tamarans took over. He couldn't understand a word they said to him, but they flailed at him with thick hanks of rope until he staggered to his feet, his back burning from the blows. He could have pounded two, maybe three, of them into the dirt, but at least a dozen 167


surrounded him, making sport of pushing and kicking him toward the far end of the compound. With one final shove, three or four of them hurled him through a low gate into a fenced circle in the center of the vast compound. He landed, literally, in the arms of one of the many inmates crowded into the confined area. “Welcome to our playpen,” the prisoner said. “Any more welcomes like that, and I'm checking out.” Rafe flexed his shoulders and arms, wincing with pain but sure nothing was broken. “Name's Stash Zepher, late of Athera,” the man said. “Is the Hazard your ship by any chance?” Wary now, Rafe looked him over, seeing one of his own kind: a tall, lanky man with bronzed skin and sun-bleached hair pulled back and held with a rawhide strip. He was wearing a khaki jumpsuit and military boots laced above his ankles. He also had a stamp on his hand identical to Rafe's. “In a matter of speaking, it is,” Rafe said guardedly. “How did you come to be here” “I was racing my ship, the Bonami, in the Transgalactic Rally. Word went out that the Hazard dropped out. You're pretty far off course.” “You're here too.” “Had some problems with my navcom. Couldn't stay on course. Lost control and had to make an emergency touchdown at the nearest planet. Unfortunately, this was it.” “Bad luck,” Rafe commiserated, glad to meet a fellow pilot even in these circumstances. 168


“How about you? Tech problems? Your ship had good odds to finish in the money if the old bucket held together. I always bet the pilot myself.” “The Hazard held,” Rafe said with a touch of pride. “Then how the devil did you end up on this garbage scow?” “I hired out.” He rubbed away a trickle of blood running down his cheek. “On your own ship? Bad luck.” It was Stash's turn to be sympathetic. Every space trader dreaded the kind of reversals that forced a pilot to follow orders from someone else. “It happens.” “Why come to Tamar? There's nothing here worth hauling away, and the only pay they give you for a cargo is a vacation in one of their scenic spots.” Stash gestured at the dreary compound outside their crowded pen. Rafe looked around at the other prisoners, a polyglot crowd from a dozen or more worlds, some of them probably the same merchants he'd seen fleeing when he and Mercy first arrived. “I was hired by an advocate to bring back a load of kids ... orphans from a mining accident.” “Thought the Coalition handled cases like that.” “Not this time. The parents were part of a clandestine operation. Hush-hush stuff. The Coalition turned their back on the kids rather than have a big scandal.” Stash nodded his head and looked at Rafe with a steady gaze, his cheek bright purple where he must have received the same kind of reception Rafe had. “Where is he ... your boss?” 169


“She.” He gestured toward the female camp. “The kids?” Rafe shook his head. “Maybe dead.” “Maybe not. Depends on who snatched them after the coup. What do you know about it? I've been here maybe nine or ten days.” “It's a bloodbath. The black shirts are beheading Dah's followers. Near here there's a road lined with impaled heads. Not a pretty sight.” “The word in here is that Yoomah's a maniac. Dah poked out his eye with his own fingers; now he's on a killing rampage. Vasin is a blood cousin, but a hell of a lot smarter. He's letting Yoomah do the dirty work, then....” He shrugged. “I've got to get into the female camp.” “We'd all like a bit of that,” Stash said, “but the chaps here got no sense of romance. A loony tried to sneak out when the gate opened for a supply truck. They chopped him up, starting with his toes. Like slicing a bloody sausage.” “Maybe a mass escape....” “Not bloody likely.” He looked furtively over his shoulder. “Most of the chaps here piss their pants if a guard looks in their direction. Mostly a bunch of lifers, I'd guess. Set up trading and made a little money. Pretty soon they think they're colonists. Find a forever-female and start a brood. Then they don't have the sense to get out when it starts going sour. Heard about a space tramp from one of those grubby little planets...” “Systotyrexous?” “Believe that's it. They dumped him in a cesspool.” 170


“He died of plague. He left behind a hybrid-Bast son, Quisto. They put him in the female camp with the advocate.” “Odd, that.” “About getting out of here....” Rafe knew he was going to try. **** MERCY KEPT expecting something really terrible to happen, but her first three days in the camp were mostly monotonous. The inmates, all of them offlanders but none from Athera, were herded into a big washroom every morning and allowed to bathe under jets of water coming from the ceiling. Quisto went wherever she went. No one seemed to notice ... or care ... that he was obviously a male. Some of the prisoners did like to stroke his silky pelt, but he bristled at being treated like a pet. She'd seen Rafe captured, and knowing he was a prisoner was scary. She hoped he wouldn't try anything rash. The males’ compound had electrified wire fences and really nasty black-shirted guards. During the day she kept her cool, but at night she had nightmares about what he was enduring. With nothing else to occupy her mind, she brooded over what would happen to the lost children, if they were still alive, but it was a new fear that haunted her at night: She cared what happened to Rafe. The whole idea of being with him ... mating with him ... was preposterous, but she was emotionally fragile from the stress of the mission. Maybe she was even suffering from some form of post-adolescent infatuation. Certainly what she felt for him was only an emotional mix of apprehension and 171


frustration and helplessness. She wanted to be saved. Rafe was an unlikely candidate for the job. They came on the fourth morning bringing the Tamaran version of trucks: large open-topped wooden boxes on wheels pulled by vehicles similar to the one she stole. All the females stood along the wire fencing watching male prisoners being herded into them, walking up ramps made by lowering the tailgates. One by one the boxy carts were filled and slammed shut. Mercy caught a glimpse of Rafe, but a guard blocked her view as he boarded. She saw the black-shirts raining blows on the prisoners to make them hurry ... or maybe just for fun ... and she cringed. Her heart was in her throat. She was so frightened she swayed against the fence, realizing that the unknown is almost always more terrifying than a known danger. Four loads of men were penned up like livestock going to market, then a fifth truck backed up to the gate near where she was standing. The female prisoners were herded through the gate by saffron-robed female guards, given no time to return to the barracks and gather what few possessions they might have left behind. Mercy had elected to wear her robe all the time, cumbersome as it was. Her indifferent keepers hadn't bothered to search her, and she still had the stun gun, a knife, and a few packets of food. She'd forced herself to eat the gray gruel that was served twice a day rather than dip into the few precious stores she still had.

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It was extremely odd that the female guards hadn't bothered to confiscate her weapon. Their blank-faced indifference was one more piece of the puzzle that didn't fit. The camp emptied of prisoners, and Mercy was among the last to be loaded. Quisto stuck close to her, as he had throughout their captivity, even clinging to her hand as they squeezed into the overcrowded transport, reminding her how young he was in years if not in experience. The tailgate flew up without warning, knocking both of them into a heavyhipped alien in a gaudy brocade robe whose quarrelsome ways had caused her to be shunned by the other prisoners. She cuffed Quisto hard on the side of his head and gave Mercy a poisonous look. Adversity didn't always create allies. The trip gave new meaning to the word misery. A cloud burst soaked them, then the sun came out and fried them. No one could sit; there simply wasn't room. She and Quisto pressed their backs against the tailgate for support, but those packed in the middle were thrown from side to side against each other. Curses, cries, and arguments in a dozen languages made a din that contributed to the general misery. The odor of close-packed bodies and out-of-control bladders made Mercy feel faint, but she managed to lapse into a semiconscious state, more trance than sleep. When the transport finally stopped, it was well into midday. Her legs ached so horribly she could hardly walk down the ramp. Quisto did something she'd never seen him do: go down on all fours to creep down to the ground. She couldn't have been more astonished if she'd suddenly found herself in a fairy tale kingdom like those more fortunate 173


children were reading while she was a homeless waif on the streets. She took Quisto's hand, impatient with herself for having fanciful notions and succumbing to a moment of selfpity. What she saw was impressive indeed. Quisto echoed her feelings with a low whistle through his teeth. Their crude transport had crossed a land bridge to another sort of island altogether. A vast harbor was crowded with sea craft of every description, the majority with graceful tapering masts and sails in all the colors of the rainbow: vivid oranges, bright yellows, soft blues and greens, and more shades of purple than she'd ever imagined. The best and finest ships were docked at long piers, their sails gleaming white like badges of honor. If the size and variety of the fleet was surprising, it was nothing compared to the scene on land. The glistening white buildings that covered the rising ground of the island were so unlike the urban decay of Hakara, it was as if all the wealth of the planet had flowed to this city. Even the government building where they were headed had diamond glints in the white stucco walls and a golden domed roof that rose high above them. The whole complex of buildings was oniondomed with copper or gold plating catching the sun and nearly blinding the eye. It reminded Mercy of ancient mosques, more suited to worship than ordinary commerce. She only allowed herself to be dazzled for a few moments. She desperately wanted to see Rafe, but the male prisoners were nowhere in sight. They followed a path of crushed white shells, escorted by black shirts who kept their distance from 174


the females but made their orders clear by brandishing swords and thick pieces of rope. The inside of the building was gloomy and drab, more what she'd come to expect on this awful planet, but Mercy was weak with relief when she saw Rafe standing near the back of a press of well-guarded male prisoners. They were being herded through a maze of iron pipes, the kind of grid used at cattle markets on Athera. The majority of prisoners were being sent to the left into a large pen where warriors in full black uniforms held weapons at the ready. A few went into a small area where they were being questioned by a Tamaran in a purple skirt that fell to his unshod feet. Rafe turned and saw her, his face mirroring the relief she felt. She risked a guarded gesture with her hand and was relieved when he smiled in spite of purpling bruises on his face. A harsh outburst of unintelligible words warned her to move on, and she saw the women ahead of her going through a maze similar to the men's. “Slave pens,” Quisto whispered in a frightened voice. “Yes,” she agreed, seeing their situation more clearly now that she knew where Rafe was. Unlike the males, the female prisoners weren't forced to strip, nor were they searched. Mercy couldn't believe she was going to be allowed to keep the stun gun, but she followed the others, head bowed, shuffling to avoid attracting attention. The guards made their awful laughing noise when they saw Quisto. One lifted his loin cloth and gave him a squeeze that 175


made him cry out in pain, provoking evil mirth. But they allowed him to shuffle forward with the females, obviously considering it the ultimate torment for a male of any species. Mercy stroked Quisto's arm, and he seemed to take comfort in her gentle touch. **** RAFE FELT nothing but dull resignation, knowing he was probably in for a lot more pain and, ultimately, death. He wasn't proud of most of the things he'd done in life, but he steeled himself to die well, a credit to his species and his profession. Even though he'd only met Stash, he felt a kinship with him. Dying with someone from his own world would be a little easier than a solitary death. “Look over there, mate,” Stash whispered. “They're bringing the females.” Rafe looked over his shoulder, ignoring a command from the nearest guard and a blow from his rope that cut into the raw abrasions on his back. He saw Mercy, her thick black braid neatly plaited and falling down her back. Her eyes were downcast, but she waved her hand in a subtle gesture of recognition. She was alive! That meant he had to fight to stay alive himself, at least until he could find a way to get her to safety ... wherever that might be on this stinking planet. “Heard they use slave labor to build walls, hoping to hold back the sea until the warlords and their favorites find a better planet,” Stash said, gripping Rafe's arm to restrain him from making a rash move. Are you up for hauling rocks, mate?” 176


“I'll go for a long swim before I help Tamaran scum do anything.” Rafe hadn't thought of taking his own life in a long time ... not since meeting Mercy ... and he realized that as long as she was alive, it wasn't an option, no matter what their captors did to him. It was chilling to know he had to endure whatever was done to him, but seeing her gave him a reason to battle death. An elderly prisoner ahead of them, a humanoid with the elongated skull characteristic of the Obot solar system, was being forced to remove his clothing, protesting in a terrified voice that his religion forbade public display of his body. The guards were amused by his protests and made sport of cutting away his many layers of clothing with their swords. Rafe felt Stash's hand on his arm again. “Pick battles we can win, mate,” he whispered bitterly. Humiliation was getting to be old stuff. Rafe stepped forward when it was his turn, sorry that Mercy had to watch again while he was forced to strip. The prison guards had taken his robe and all that was in it, so all he had were the clothes he'd worn when he left the Hazard. He started pulling off his shirt, preferring not to be prodded into it. He tried to angle his back so Mercy couldn't see the camp souvenirs on his back. “That won't be necessary, sir.” The guard who spoke in excellent Instell had the pale green complexion and bright purple loin cloth of one of his original captors, but Rafe had learned to distinguish one 177


Tamaran from another by studying the color configurations on their faces. This courteous warrior was a stranger. “Why not?” Rafe asked. He had no reason to believe special treatment was anything but ominous. “The honorable Vasin has his mark on your hand, sir.” “This blob here?” Stash asked, holding out his own stamp marking. “That is correct, sir. Follow me, please, both gentlemen.” “I don't like this,” Stash whispered in Atheran, a language the guard was unlikely to understand. Rafe glanced back and stopped abruptly. “I must bring my female and my servant,” he said, praying he wouldn't be taking them to a worse fate than the one they'd have as slaves. “Please, sir, come this way,” the guard insisted. Rafe was determined to win this skirmish. He sat on the floor in a leisurely way, crossing his legs and arms. Stash did the same. “You must come!” The guard's Instell wasn't as polished when he was agitated. “Honorable Vasin orders it.” “You can carry or drag us,” Rafe said, “but I walk nowhere without my female and my slave, the Bast boy.” The decision was too big for their guard. He hurried over to a higher-up, and they were approached by a particularly nasty-looking black shirt. Rafe saw a menacing orange hue spread across his face, but apparently no one there had the authority to drag them away against their wills. When the first guard came back, he brought Mercy and Quisto, keeping a comfortable distance from the 178


contaminating presence of a female. Rafe bounded to his feet, not intending to take Mercy in his arms, but suddenly she was there, the sweet scent of her skin filling his nostrils. He pressed his cheek against hers, stunned by the tenderness he felt for her, not intending to kiss her but letting it happen as if it were preordained. Her lips parted under his, and for a brief moment, he was happy with his lot in life. “Save it,” Stash warned. “I think you've pushed them hard enough for right now. Our friend is looking pretty disgusted.” Rafe was embarrassed: He'd behaved like a kid with the first bit of fuzz on his chin. But he wasn't sorry. Their situation was grim, and he was willing to snatch an instant of happiness whenever he could. He didn't have time to consider why a moment in Mercy's arms was transforming. “Follow, please,” the Tamaran said. Their little party of four stepped out onto a broad paved pathway at the rear of the building. No guards kept watch over them, but Rafe suspected it would mean instant death if they tried to escape now. The Tamaran guiding them was tall and broader through the shoulders than most of his species. His bare back and shoulders were creamy yellow with swirls of green, reminding Rafe of a piece of marbleized glass he'd found on the street and treasured as a kid. He wondered if lighter shading was a sign of higher status, but suspected not. More likely it was a random genetic characteristic. The only obvious distinction among the warriors was the use of the Coalition-style black uniform, but even these Tamarans were by no means 179


uniformly clothed. Some wore their jackets with loin cloths or long skirts in bright colors; a few wore trousers with bare chests. The hard-billed caps had been scarce at the camp, possibly too expensive for mere prison guards. He tried to remember the way they were going, but the labyrinth of narrow streets seemed designed to confuse. One thing was sure: They were heading uphill. He wanted Mercy beside him so he didn't lose sight of her, but he had to admire the way she'd fallen into the role of subservient female again, walking several paces behind him with eyes downcast. A fortress stood at the summit of the largest hill, and as they climbed they got a glimpse of the area around it. The town was close-packed, gleaming from fragments of quartz ground in the plaster that covered the exteriors of all the buildings. Below was the sea with boats so close together a person could walk great distances by going from deck to deck. They seemed to provide homes for most of the Tamarans in the area. A high plateau stretched out behind the fortress, but even higher walls and heavy-trunked trees made it impossible to see beyond the fortification. They followed their guide through an open but heavily guarded gateway, and Rafe glanced back at Mercy, satisfied that she was allowed to pass through it. “Quite the place,” Stash said in a low voice. “First hint I've seen that these lizards know what the good life is.” Zepher wasn't exaggerating. Great pots covered by enameled mosaics lined a huge courtyard, each one 180


overflowing with exotic plants Rafe hadn't seen anywhere else on the planet. A great number of warriors were moving about ... bad news for any escape plan ... but a feeling of order and cleanliness rare on Tamar abounded. He caught Stash's eye and nodded; the space racer raised one eyebrow. “A warlord's digs,” Stash whispered. “Yes, but which one?” “Fraid we're going to find out soon enough. Hope it's not the eye-popper's. If I have to check out, I'd rather do it with both my baby-blues still in place.” “Anyone waiting for you on Athera?” Rafe didn't know his new friend well enough to probe into his private life, but considering the odds against ever leaving this planet, it seemed reasonable to ask. “I've had a dozen wives without the inconvenience of marrying. Your advocate there....” He glanced back at Mercy. “She's a fine piece. Pity she's your woman. She could make a man's last moments happy.” “There hasn't been anything between us.” Rafe regretted bringing up the subject. “Pity.” Stash chuckled in disbelief. They entered the building through a low doorway, both men ducking their heads to pass under the arch. Except for an occasional direction, their guide was silent, resisting Stash's attempts to draw him into a conversation. Since entering the fortress, he'd seemed stiffer, his back as rigid as his gracefully curving spine allowed. “This way,” he said in a hushed voice. 181


He stopped after leading them up a steep stairway. The narrow corridor was illuminated by skylights in the ceiling, and there were several closed doors on either side with obscure designs beaten into metal surfaces. “This is no prison,” Stash said, whistling softly. The guide opened one door, looking at the four of them with the obvious puzzlement of a host with two unexpected guests to accommodate. “The lad's with me,” Stash said. “Want to hear about his old man, the great space trader.” He winked broadly at Rafe. “Course you owe me.” Rafe was escorted to a second door across the hall, the Tamaran taking care to step back in the corridor after opening it. His abhorrence of contact with a female alien would have been comical if their lives weren't hanging on a thread. “You will be summoned,” he said sounding as stuffy as possible with his high-pitched voice. “Bathe and adorn yourselves. Kindly put your prison garments in the refuse chute.” He looked away when Mercy followed Rafe into the room. “Do you know what's going on?” Mercy asked the instant the door was closed. “I'd say we're honored guests ... for the moment.” “But why? Why put us in this beautiful room?” “Your guess is as good as mine.” He glanced at the windowless walls hung with curtains of shimmering gold and purple, a floor covered with woven reeds, and a large skylight above a thick silver sleeping mat as broad as he was tall. All he really saw was Mercy. 182


“I was scared stiff what would happen to you in that camp,” he said, at a loss to tell her how he'd really felt. “Nothing much at all. I bathed, ate lumpy gray food, and worried what was happening to you.” She kept her distance; he took it as a sign that her spontaneous kiss had no lasting significance. “You look like someone stomped on your face.” “I'm okay.” He was, now that he knew where she was. “I guess you didn't ... you know....” She wrinkled her nose. “Bathe? Sorry, no amenities in the boys’ camp.” She pushed aside some strings of bright-hued beads hanging in front of a small alcove. “Here's your chance. Look, a pool in the floor, robes hanging on the wall. I think you're supposed to pretty up.” “Yeah, and throw my clothes away. I got the message. You too, since you're coming with me.” “You forget what world you're on.” “I forget nothing. I don't intend to let you out of my sight again. Too bloody much trouble connecting up with you again.” He looked at the bathing alcove where every surface was covered with exotic mosaics made of tiny blue, red, and purple tiles. A large sunken tub had taps for water and a drain but no stopper. “Get in the tub, Trane. If we're going to be roomies, I want you to smell nice.” She left him alone in the bathing alcove, the beads tingling as she left. He stripped, still finding no way to hold water in 183


the bath, so he sat under a high spout and let water cascade over his head. “Leave it to a man to settle for a quick shower.” Mercy stepped through the beads carrying a small basket. “A gift from our hosts, I assume. It was on a shelf in the other room.” She brought it to the edge of the tub where he sat attempting to cover himself with his hands. “For your bath.” She knelt and put a rubbery oval over the drain. “Now some scent.” She scooped up a handful of lavender crystals and slowly sprinkled them over the water starting to cover the violet and blue tiles of the tub. “You do recognize this, don't you?” She held up a yellow cake of soap. “You'll really smell nice when I get through with you.” “When you....” He held his breath while she dropped the dingy robe to her feet and added her own garments to the pile until he could see her creamy skin and other delights. “What do you think you're doing?” Did his voice sound as odd to her as it did to him? “Did you think you could hog the tub?” she asked. “I guess I had taking turns in mind.” She stepped down into the slowly rising water while he did the only thing he had the will to do: watch. His memory of her body had blurred since he'd prepared her for her first hypersleep. She was even more spectacular then he'd remembered: taller, more slender, and her breasts 184


were fuller, lush globes she was holding in her own hands like offerings. Her tummy was delightfully round, her navel a tiny finger hole, and the dark silk between her legs thick and luxurious. She dropped to her knees in front of him, a mockingly subservient gesture, a prank that made her grin broadly before she bowed her head. “Your humble servant.” She giggled. “What are you doing in my bath?” His voice was a hoarse croak now. He didn't know whether she intended to make fun of him or seduce him. “Don't you like surprises?” She lathered the soap in her hands until bubbles spilled out between her fingers. He reached for her, pretty sure of at least one of her intentions. “No, no.” She slapped his hand away. “Where are you coming from, lady?” “I'm just trying to get into the spirit of things around here. Every possible service for my lord and master.” She ran soapy hands over his face, lingering on his lips until he could taste the soap on her fingertips. “Poor Rafe,” she cooed, tenderly washing the bruises on his face with a single finger. He still suspected her motives. Was she mocking him or trying to involve him in some wild plan? She was making it difficult to think clearly. The bar of soap slithered over his chest, sliding by accident or intent in the space between his thighs. Pretending not to notice, she 185


caressed his chest, making him a little crazy when she ran her nails over his nipples. Her hand fumbled for the soap, not exactly stroking his groin but not avoiding it either. He'd sometimes wondered what his breaking point would be under torture. He could probably hold out longer under hot irons than he could under her kind of torment. He hadn't felt this way in a long, long time, and he wasn't sure what to do about it. She lavished the same care on his arms and hands, soaping and rinsing, making a ritual of it. He shuddered with raw desire when her fingers slid between his, her breasts so close he could see a tiny beauty spot not much larger than a pinprick above her left nipple. The water was getting deep, half way up his chest and still flowing in a warm stream from the overhead faucet, just missing his head and splashing off one shoulder. She lathered his hair, grown long and shaggy since leaving Athera, and cupped her hands to splash water over his head. “Now turn around. I'll scrub your back.” she ordered. “No, you've done enough!” He tried to distract her by taking the soap away. “My turn.” “Not yet. I've hardly begun.” The day she took no for an answer, he'd believe the Hazard could hop from galaxy to galaxy. She pulled herself to the edge of the tub, sitting on the rim to reach down and soap his back. He braced himself. “Oh, Rafe, I didn't know! Oh, poor baby!” No one had ever called him a baby, poor or otherwise. He practically stammered. “Mercy, it looks worse than it is.” 186


“Those awful Tamarans! Your back is raw. I loathe those monsters! Oh, poor dear.” “Only rope burns,” he tried to reassure her. “Nothing deep or serious. I'll look as pretty as ever in a few days.” Now he really felt like an idiot! Him pretty? “You need balm ... something to fight infection.” She stood and padded around the alcove, checking the basket again while he watched intently, loving the way water dripped from her thighs, down legs too sleek and perfect to belong to a real woman. Her bottom wiggled seductively, and her breasts swayed just enough to make him stand up in the tub, longing to take her in his arms. “Stay there,” she ordered, sounding more like Advocate Greer. “I'll have to use soap to be sure it's clean.” She slid back into the water, making a little splash and avoiding his outstretched arms. He wasn't smiling a minute later. The strong soap set his back on fire even though her touch was gentle. “I hate doing this, but it's so inflamed. It has to be cleaned.” He braced himself and let her do her worst. At least it took his mind off his throbbing erection ... sort of. Count to a hundred, and it will be over, he told himself, missing the sight of her as she stood behind him cleaning his abused back. One and two and three, he began. When she gave his buttocks a soft slap to signal the end of the ordeal, he forgot what came after sixty-seven. “Mercy.” 187


He turned, and she was in his arms, clinging to his neck, her breasts cool and wet against his chest. Their kiss was paralyzing; he wanted it to last forever or longer. He'd forgotten the sweetness of a woman's mouth, the giddy joy of melding a female body to his. Taking her hand, he led her from the tub, backing her against a wall and hearing her intake of breath when her bare back pressed against the cool tiles. He didn't have a plan: had forgotten how to be seductive if he'd ever known. “Rafe, yes, yes, Rafe, yes.” Her arms circled his neck. It was all the invitation he needed. They fit like two halves of a whole. She was tight, wet, ready, convulsing as soon as he plunged to her depth. He held the weight of her thighs as she wrapped her legs around his waist, throwing her head back, inviting him to fasten his lips to the column of her throat. He wanted to feel like this forever, but it had been too long ... too long since he'd held a woman ... too long since he'd dared to feel.... Her spasms shook them both, made her gasp and dig her nails into his shoulders. He came in a wild rush, pleasure so intense it was painful, release so complete his legs trembled. She slid her legs down his, her toes touching the floor without separation. He held her, kissed her forehead, her eyes, the hollow of her throat, enchanted by the gentle throb of their union. “You're an enchantress, I think,” he whispered against her lips, pulling off the elastic at the end of her braid and working 188


his fingers through it until her hair fell free around her flushed cheeks. “Rafe....” “Umm?” “Someone's knocking on the door.” “No, that's my heart.” “I wish it were.” She suckled his lip, pulling it between her teeth, arousing him where his member still rested deep within her. The knocking became louder, more insistent. “Rafe, you have to answer. I don't want them to hurt you anymore.” He kissed her hard and pulled away, finding nothing to shield himself but a small scratchy towel too small to wrap around his waist and cover his buttocks. He heard her laugh with amusement as he reluctantly answered the summons. “You must robe yourself and come with me,” the Tamaran who had brought them there said. “My female comes with me.” “As you wish,” he said with obvious distaste. “She may stand behind your couch and serve you, since it is your custom. But she may not speak or eat or call attention to herself in any way or her penalty will be quite severe.” “I understand,” Rafe said, backing into the alcove under the Tamaran's cold stare, wondering if he should leave Mercy behind, but knowing all too well how trouble followed her.

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She was dressed in a billowing white robe, her hair still falling loose over her shoulders. He wanted to be alone with her, but not at the cost of her life if he offended a warlord. She slipped another of the robes over his head, lightly caressing his shoulder with her lips before covering it. “If I'm an enchantress,” she said softly, “you should be afraid of my spells.” “Behave tonight. We don't know the tolerance level of our hosts.” He said it lightly, but a shapeless, formless worry nagged at him, something less tangible than the real dangers surrounding them. And, as his euphoria faded, he found it exceedingly hard to believe Mercy was that susceptible to his battered body and shoddy charms. What was she up to now?

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Chapter 10 THE TILES WERE cool on the soles of her bare feet as Mercy shuffled along behind Rafe. Supposedly, Quisto was a slave, but because he had floppy appendages between his legs, he got to walk with the boys. The Tamarans were throwbacks, a tribe of primitive barbarians, hardly a step up from the earliest cave dwellers on her planet. She wouldn't be surprised if they ate raw flesh and did devil dances around stone monoliths. Their guide led them back to the courtyard, crowded now with a sinister mix of the two warrior groups, into the main block of the fortress. Outside the tiles had nearly burned her feet, but inside the floors were cold again. She stepped closer to the wall, impressed by a series of elaborate mosaics but more interested in the temperature of the floor. Away from the center of the corridor, it was less cold. The warlord had a cooling system running under the floors. To her, it felt like walking on ice, but because Tamarans never wore footgear on their broad reptilian feet, it was probably an effective means of temperature control. It was also sophisticated, and so were the recessed lights that bathed the corridor in a pinkish glow. The poor of Hakara couldn't afford animal fat for their lanterns, but there was every sign that their rulers lived in technological splendor. She liked this planet even less, if possible.

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She could only kid herself so long. She was obsessing over a warlord's domestic comfort to keep from thinking about what she'd done. And why she'd done it. Not daring to look up, she stared at Rafe's ankles and heels below the hem of the finely woven white robe. He took long strides, playing his role to the hilt: the adventurer about to confront an extremely dangerous adversary. Was he as frightened as she was? Did he bitterly regret ever laying eyes on her, let alone going along with her so-far disastrous mission? Did he think she was crazy, chasing across the solar system without regard for the consequences? Did he hate her for getting him into this? She'd never suffered the agonies of a bad conscience before. She didn't know how to compensate Rafe for the terrible sacrifice he might have to make: his life. Everything had seemed so simple when she saw him as a space tramp who was wasting his life, no good to himself or anyone else. She didn't know how to feel about him now. When she'd gone to him in the bath, she'd tried to pretend she was rewarding him in some way for his suffering: a condemned man enjoying a few moments of pleasure before facing his doom. But whom was she kidding? She'd wanted to know how it would be, their bodies joined, his flesh against hers. She'd wanted Rafe. Their guide left them in a high-domed room, artificial light flooding the mosaics. She tried to concentrate on scenes of mythical beasts and strange, exotic flora, but her body, quite against her will, was remembering the euphoria of climaxing 192


with Rafe. Pretending to be his inferior was a blessing right now: She didn't have to face him. How could she explain what she'd done when she didn't understand it herself? “Mercy, come on!” His urgent whisper broke into her funk. They were being ushered into another room. Rafe struggled to be clear-headed for whatever lay ahead, but he couldn't get Mercy out of his thoughts. Once Bedoza, in a fit of anger, had accused him of being emotionally impotent. In a way, she'd been right: Every time he'd thought of another woman, his love for Lea Lumina haunted him. He'd failed his wife and child by not keeping them with him; he couldn't betray them again. He'd been wearing his guilt like a shroud, and Mercy had made a tear in it, reviving feelings that pleasured and pained at the same time. But no matter how much he might suffer afterward, he doubted whether he was strong enough to resist Mercy if she offered herself again. Far from being satisfied, he wanted to lie with her on the silver mat in their room and slowly explore every inch of her body. He wanted to gorge on her sweetness and inhale the heady fragrance of her skin. He ground his teeth, too absorbed in his thoughts to care why they were being made to wait in this gaudy purple and gold room. He wanted Mercy, and he didn't know if he loved her or hated her for arousing long-dormant needs. “Look lively, mate,” Stash said in Atheran, poking him with his elbow. “Did you hear a word I said?” “Sorry ... I was thinking.” 193


“She's a lot to think about, but get with me here. Do you have a handle on what's brewing?” “Must have something to do with our ships,” Rafe whispered, although he'd given their predicament far too little thought. “Yours needs repairs; they think mine does. I'm damn sure they didn't ask us here out of the goodness of their hearts.” They were led to a huge room filled with long, low tables with couches for guests to lounge beside them. At least one worry was dispelled: They hadn't been taken to a temple to be sacrificed to some bloodthirsty Tamaran deity, at least not right away. This was a banquet hall, and the warriors in attendance were stabbing chunks of food with daggers, seemingly with only one thing on their minds: the consumption of food. “I've seen porkers go at their feed with less enthusiasm,” Stash commented in a low whisper as they followed the guide to the front of the rectangular room. “Tamarans have a second stomach that stores food. They can eat massive quantities when it's available, then go for days on water alone,” Rafe said absentmindedly, intent on studying a long table on a raised platform that dominated the front of the room. Only two Tamarans sat in isolated splendor at the table covered with gold cloth: one pale-skinned with a dark purple robe and a gold sash, the other garbed in the ominous black uniform worn by particularly nasty warriors. “Wait until your masters are seated,” the guide ordered Mercy and Quisto. Then I'll show you your place.” 194


When he said “your place,” he meant “your lowly place.” “Sirs, please follow me and prostrate yourselves before Honorable Warlord Vasin and Honorable Warlord Yoomah.” “Does he expect us to do that nose-to-the-ground bit?” Stash asked in a stage whisper, fortunately unlikely to be understood by anyone present even if they knew the Atheran language. The space racer gave his own twist to words. “Only if you're interested in keeping your head,” Rafe said dryly, more concerned about what Mercy was doing than the necessity of groveling on his belly in front of two vicious tyrants. Compared to being beaten with ropes, prostrating himself wasn't a big deal, but the subtle humiliation of it was worse than he'd anticipated. The guide spoke rapidly and at great length in unintelligible Tamaran before he was cut off by a single word from one of the formidable presences. “Rise,” the guide ordered. “Avert your eyes and follow me.” When Mercy tried to follow them to a place at the head table, his voice crackled like the snap of a whip, and she dropped back without argument. Rafe and Stash were led to a long, backless couch and invited to recline, their sides propped on elaborately embroidered cushions for ease in reaching the table. The Tamaran slapped his palms together, and large, round, beaten metal plates were set down in front of them, followed by earthenware pots with heavy lids that a pair of Tamaran servants or slaves removed one by one. 195


Enough food to satisfy a small village for a number of days was in evidence, and their servings were dwarfed by the gigantic offerings set in front of the warlords. “Do we make dinner chitchat?” Stash asked, cautiously investigating the contents of a round, reddish-orange pot. “I don't hear much of it.” Rafe could see the warriors, a mix of black-shirted and colorfully garbed Tamarans, silently stuffing food in their lipless mouths. They made eating look more mechanical than pleasurable. “Speaking between yourselves is forbidden,” the guide said, hovering behind them. “Do not address the honorables until one of them addresses you.” “My female....” Rafe began. “I will bring her, but she must not speak or eat.” “Understood.” He was having seconds thoughts about having her there, but it was the only way to be sure she didn't wander off into an even more dangerous situation. He knew when Mercy and Quisto came up behind them but pretended total indifference. After checking out four or five pots, Stash had found a grainy mush only marginally more appetizing than what they'd had to eat in the camp. A highclass Tamaran diet included delicacies like grubs in a jellied green sauce and sea plants mashed into a blood-red pudding. Rafe forced himself to eat, discreetly keeping an eye on the two warlords. They didn't speak to each other, but apparently Tamaran dining etiquette didn't call for it. The one who had to be Vasin was smooth-skinned, his gill remnants more decorative than defacing. Rafe's guarded glance at Yoomah showed a much 196


fiercer countenance dominated by the gaping black hole where his eye had been gouged out. Thin orange lines flashed across his face like bolts of lightning in an evening sky, caused not by external provocation but by the turbulence of his thoughts. Yoomah scared Rafe, and when he exchanged a guarded look with Stash, the space racer obviously felt the same way. The meal ended when the warlords finished. Apparently they were in a benevolent mood, letting most of their followers eat a goodly amount, but the instant Vasin raised his arm to a lackey standing behind him, there was a loud metallic clang from two plates being banged together. All eating stopped. Several warriors spat out half-chewed food in their mouths. Rafe quickly swallowed, pretty sure there must be some awful punishment for eating even a morsel without the despot's permission. A virtual army of kitchen helpers raced out and cleared the tables on the run. Any hope Rafe had had of secreting away some food for Mercy and Quisto vanished. He braced himself, rigid against the pillows, expecting the warlords to turn their attention to their prisoner-guests. “I hope we're not dessert,” Stash whispered when it seemed to be acceptable to speak. “Or the entertainment. Does it seem smoky in here to you?” “More like foggy. Keep talking to me, mate. I'm feeling airy between the ears.” “Maybe drugs in the food?” Rafe shifted position, and the room seemed to tilt at an odd angle. 197


“More likely that.” He pointed. A pair of naked Tamarans were placing a large bronze bowl smoking with incense on a stand in front of the warlords. They scurried away on all fours, their scrawny buttocks higher than their heads. “Never seen them do that,” Stash commented. “I hope they're not going to smoke our backsides over that pot.” “Gentlemen of Athera,” Vasin suddenly said. “I hope you will pleasure yourself with our hospitality.” “Thank you, Honorable Vasin,” Rafe replied, hoping he hadn't broken some taboo by responding to the warlord. He was decidedly lightheaded, and his limbs felt limp. “Mighty nice of you,” Stash said to the warlord, overdoing his down-home persona. Apparently they hadn't offended Vasin, but Yoomah's internal fireworks intensified, making his face look violently combustible. Vasin spoke sharply to him, and he turned his back to Rafe and Stash. Did that mean Vasin called the shots, was in fact the sole dictator? Rafe thought it might be too early to jump to any conclusions. He was distracted when a red-robed Tamaran suddenly appeared in the space in front of the warlords’ table. It took Rafe a few seconds to realize he'd been lowered from the ceiling. With a display of robe-swirling and arm waving, the performer pulled a long stemmed silver pipe from out of nowhere ... or more likely his sleeve. He dipped it into the smoking bowl with the kind of flourishes magicians on many worlds employed and stuck the stem down his throat. 198


Rafe was having a hard enough time keeping his meager dinner down and hoped the trick didn't involve regurgitation. Whatever was in the smoke was giving him a high like he'd never experienced, not even in the days when he would try anything for some temporary oblivion. “If I fly off the couch, haul my ass back down, mate,” Stash said in a slurred voice. “Afraid I'll be flying with you.” “Rafe! What's wrong?” He knew Mercy was talking and felt her shake his shoulders, but he couldn't make out her words. In front of him, the magician's pipe was blowing colored images into the air, strange shapes that danced with an eerie beauty. “Remove the alien female!” Vasin's harsh command cut through the fog in Rafe's brain. The adrenaline from his sudden burst of fear must have neutralized the narcotic effect of the smoke. He was clearheaded and terrified what would happen to her. “Run, if you value your life,” their guide barked at Mercy. She ran from the room, Quisto following her with graceful feline leaps, their guide summoning several warriors to follow both with a flick of his hand. Rafe and Stash both rose to go after them, but a virtual wall of warriors appeared in back of their couches. “Resume your seats, honorable guests,” their guide said. “You are not permitted to leave. You have many beautiful things to see.” “I don't want her hurt!” Rafe said. “Rest your mind.” 199


He didn't know what that meant, but he couldn't help Mercy by impaling himself on the dozen or so sword points making tiny tears in his robe. At least now he seemed immune to the narcotic effect of the smoke. The entertainment continued in a haze of yellowish smoke, but he remained clearheaded ... and anxious about Mercy. She could be on her way to a retraining camp ... or worse. Far worse. A strange beast with six legs and greasy purple skin was gyrating to the sound of tinkling glass bells piped into the room from an unseen speaker. Beyond the glass of several huge skylights, the sky was dark, but the room was artificially illuminated by the same pinkish lights that lit the corridors. Except for a disturbing sense of unreality, Rafe was back to normal ... but normal for him was coming to mean a state of extreme anxiety about Mercy's safety. The entertainment ended when Vasin boomed out a highpitched order. The performers literally ran out of the room, taking the bowl of incense with them, and the spectators were silent. Apparently players on Tamar didn't get applause. “Hestah,” the warlord said in an only marginally softer voice. Their guide raced to the front of the table and prostrated himself, squirming in his eagerness to lie as flat as possible. Apparently he received some orders, because he rose and ran to Rafe and Stash. “Follow, please.” “I'd like to know where my female is.” “And my slave,” Stash added. 200


“Please, please, please. Honorable Vasin is granting you an audience in his ... his...” He gestured, apparently so flustered he couldn't think of an Instell word for where they were supposed to go. “Audience chamber?” Stash asked, rising in a languid way. “Best we trot along. It's a sure thing no one here can tell us anything.” Rafe agreed there was no point in resisting the warlord's lackey. They were led past the stares of maybe two hundred warriors assembled for the banquet. “Never saw so many chaps so quiet,” Stash said. “Maybe they're hoping we'll make a break for it.” Rafe made eye contact with a particularly fierce warrior in a black shirt, a little surprised when he dropped his eyes. A second earlier the Tamaran had had a murderous expression with orange lines radiating down his face. Stash said what he was thinking: “You'd almost think they've been ordered to be nice to us.” They were going deeper into the main part of the fortress, following a maze of corridors. Rafe kept careful count of the turns, and he knew Stash was making a mental map of the place too. “Wait here,” their guide said, opening a tall door that appeared to be covered in tooled leather dyed a deep violet and featuring some of the most loathsome beasts in the galaxy engaged in pornographic acts. The room was long and narrow with a raised chair that could only be called a throne at the far end. Every inch of the 201


room's only piece of furniture was carved gilt except for a seat cushion of pale blue, an unusual color on Tamar. Behind the throne was another narrow door, this one painted to look like the marbleized stone of the walls. Their guide left without a word. They waited, pacing on a floor covered with mottled green tanned hides that looked suspiciously ... and chillingly ... like Tamaran skin. Recessed lighting gave the room a yellow cast. Rafe's sense of timing was usually good, but here in this eerie, windowless room, worrying about Mercy and the fate of all of them, the wait seemed to stretch on interminably. “Forgotten us, do you think?” Stash asked, sounding more uneasy than he had since Rafe met him. “No chance. More likely a war of nerves, which means they want something we're not going to want to give them.” “I'll take my ship out and let it self-destruct before I'll fix it for this lot.” “I feel the same way,” Rafe said, “but....” “Your squeeze makes it sticky,” Stash said sympathetically. “I'd hate to see that lovely skin peeled off ... no offense, mate.” “None taken. She's not mine.” Who was he trying to kid? He'd rather have Mercy with him than command a fleet of ships. He just didn't know why. The small door behind the throne opened, and Vasin stepped into the room alone, walking toward them and inviting them to sit. “This was my uncle's fortress,” he said in very distinct Instell. “I find no need for the trappings of authority.” 202


He lowered himself gracefully to the floor, sitting crosslegged and gesturing for Rafe and Stash to sit opposite him. “A leader must appear aloof to his followers,” Vasin said. “I prefer less pretention.” There wasn't anything Rafe could say to that. In fact, it seemed safer not to say anything until Vasin showed his hand. “I apologize for the inhospitality of my planet. I fear not all visitors wish us well in our endeavors. It is necessary to screen strangers. I trust you enjoyed my humble banquet in your honor.” “Very nice,” Stash said. “How does your magician do that bit with the colored smoke?” “He lives by his secrets. I do not demand that he tell me.” Rafe wasn't buying the benevolent-despot act. Too many Tamarans were scared silly around this guy. He was curious about where Yoomah stood in the chain of command. “We are, as you saw, a civilized planet, although our resources are severely limited by our shrinking land mass. I am devoting my life to finding a new home for my people, a place to live in peace.” “That's a laudable goal,” Stash said, tongue in cheek. “Does your cousin go along with it?” “Yoomah cares only that my uncle's followers never maim a young warrior again. He is my arm; I am his eye.” “I would like to speak with him,” Rafe said, hoping to learn more about the power structure, especially its weaknesses.

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“No, you would not.” Vasin spoke with gentle irony. “He would like to see all offlanders ripped to shreds by the sharp teeth of a sea beast. I prefer to forge useful alliances.” “My female....” Rafe began, cut off by the warlord's screech of laughter. “You Atherans place such great store on your females. Our planet is plagued by them. For every warrior born, a score of females swarm out of their mothers’ wombs. Some we feed to the sea beasts. The strongest we keep for breeding. I alone have several hundred to receive my sperm.” “Do you have children?” Rafe asked, skirting cautiously closer to the information Mercy so badly wanted. “Fourteen young warriors. I neither know nor care how many females.” “It came to our attention, Honorable Vasin, that Dah brought a number of children of our species here,” Rafe said. “Ah, you know that. Good.” His smile was the purest manifestation of evil Rafe had ever seen, more chilling than all the violence on the planet. “Nearly half male, if I recall.” “Do you know where they are?” Stash asked with none of his usual flip attitude. “Certainly I know, fool! I am Honorable Warlord Vasin.” “My friend means no disrespect, Honorable Warlord Vasin. It was meant as a polite enquiry.” Vasin stood and looked down at them, his eyes as forbidding as black holes in space. “I will show you, then we will speak of ways to help one another.” 204


He walked up to the throne and moved aside a panel on the arm covered by ornate gilt to reveal a row of buttons. He pressed one, and the door behind him opened immediately. Rafe was shocked into silence, and Stash let out a surprised whistle as a line of Atheran children walked silently into the room. He counted quickly: twenty-seven of them wearing faded red and purple loin cloths, their shaggy hair every shade from deep black to golden blond. Three were dusky-skinned; seven had yellow and brown complexions. The rest were pale white ... too pale for children who lived under the Tamaran sun. He walked up to them, seeing a group of robed females waiting outside the open doorway. The children looked well fed with no obvious signs of abuse, but they were too quiet, too withdrawn. Several seemed to be lost within themselves, staring without seeing. Rafe wanted to weep for them. “You see, very fine children. Eat plenty, not whipped unless very bad. All they need is their own kind to oversee their training,” Vasin said. Rafe didn't trust himself to speak. He walked past the line of children standing at attention and didn't know how to comfort them. An older girl covered the rosy buds of her breasts with her arms, and he didn't know how to let her know there was no shame in being forced to be naked. An older boy stared at him with dark, sullen eyes, as if Rafe had already disappointed him in some way. “A shame to feed them to the sea beast,” Vasin said. Rafe had never hated a living creature more. He wanted to break his neck, wipe the mocking sneer off his lizard's face 205


forever, but he knew any rash act would doom the children and Mercy to a horrible death. The children were so still, Rafe was nearly thrown off balance when a small girl rushed at him, grabbing his leg and breaking into tears. She was one of the youngest, maybe three or four Atheran years, and her dark hair was matted on her head. She looked up with teary hazel eyes so like his lost daughter's that he picked her up without thinking and held her close, awkwardly murmuring words of assurance. “It's okay, sweetheart. Everything will be all right.” Vasin made a small gesture, and several of the Tamaran females ran up to the children, hurrying them out of the room. One grabbed the little girl from Rafe's arms. She reached out for him, but didn't protest. No doubt she was ruled by fear, as were all the others. “You see,” Vasin said with satisfaction. “Very fine children, even the females if you can tolerate them. They should be with their own species. Dah thought to ransom them, but he was foolish. Would the Coalition send us ships for children?” “No,” Rafe admitted hoarsely. “Exactly! But I am Honorable Warlord Vasin. I wish no harm to Atheran children. I suggest they are numerous enough to colonize one of our new worlds.” “One you plan to conquer?” Stash asked with a mildness that didn't conceal his anger from Rafe. “One we will certainly conquer. Imagine a new world with two great space men as their father-gods for ages to come. Choose females from among these fertile children and spawn 206


a new world of your own, working with your benevolent Tamaran overlord. Very pleasing, yes?” His eyes had the glow of a fanatic. It was horrifying to know that he absolutely believed he had the power to start colonies and give away whole planets. Rafe thought of the carnage on Abbess II and was sick at heart. “Those are your people,” Vasin said with deep satisfaction. “You will be their....” He was at a loss for the right Instell word for the first time. “Savior?” Rafe supplied the word, but what would he have to do to save innocent children from this megalomaniac? “It will be very easy for you. No pain,” Vasin promised in an oily voice. “How easy?” Stash was rigid with anger, and Rafe grabbed his arm, knowing they couldn't afford to lose their tempers. “Sleep, and I will show you.” Vasin slipped through the throne room door, and moments later their guide came to show them the way back to their rooms. Rafe didn't know what the warlord expected him to do, but he was going to get those kids out of Vasin's grasp or die trying.

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Chapter 11 MERCY PACED, counting the small, brilliantly colored tiles on the floor until she felt cross-eyed, getting more anxious about Rafe with each passing moment. She rattled the door handle, but once again she'd been locked in. Were the Tamarans such monsters that they dined a victim before the kill? She glanced suspiciously at the platter of food a shy female had brought and slid inside the door, making a hasty retreat and locking it again. It was more of the mushy gray stuff, a blackened piece of animal flesh, and a glass bottle of fermented fruit juice. She allowed herself another sip of juice, but she couldn't eat when she was this worried. Where was he? She solaced herself with the remaining juice, but not even intoxication could ease her mind. She lay on the silver mat and stared moodily up at the sky until a panorama of stars told her how late it was. Maybe she dozed; at least she was startled when Rafe burst into the room followed by Stash. “Good, they fed you,” Rafe said, frowning at her uneaten meal and empty bottle. “I guess they're going to let all of us live another night.” “What happened?” She scampered to her feet, shaking her head to clear away the fuzziness of her thoughts. “Bloody little,” Stash said. “Aren't you going to eat this?” He picked up the blackened lump and bit into it with gusto. “Tastes better than it looks. I thought the little guy might be with you.” 208


“No, they locked him in your room. What kind of planet is this ... all the locks on the outsides of doors? Tell me what happened!” “After their dog-and-pony show, they took us to the throne room. Interesting floor covering ... nice greenish lizard skin, but the only reptiles I've seen here are the two-legged ones.” Stash took another bite. “Better save the rest of this in case the little guy didn't get fed.” “Will you stop! I want to hear what the warlords said and did.” “Women are always telling me to stop something or other,” Stash said with a sly grin. He was a handsome rogue, but she wanted facts, not a flip commentary. “We saw the children,” Rafe said in a somber voice. “They're alive? They're okay?” Her heart was pounding in her throat. “Alive, yes, and not physically abused as far as I could see. But they're one scared bunch of kiddies.” “Oh, Rafe....” “We've got to get them away from here.” He said it in a tone of flat finality, not meeting her eyes. It was Stash who described their meeting with Vasin. Even he sounded grim and angry. “The downside is, the bloody warlord has us by the balls as long as he's holding those kids hostage,” he concluded. “But what does he want?” “We'll find out tomorrow,” Rafe said, “but you can be sure we won't like it.” 209


“Handsome chaps that we are, I don't think he's interested in our hides,” a subdued Stash said. “The ships?” She said it with dread. Without the Hazard they couldn't leave Tamar, and neither could the children. “They have them already,” Rafe said. “Let's not speculate. We'll find out soon enough.” “My cue to leave,” Stash said. “I'll give this road kill to Quisto, but you'd better eat some mush. No telling whether they'll feed us tomorrow.” “Thanks, mate.” She was catching on to Stash's lingo. If only it were that easy to talk to Rafe. He told her the rest when the door closed behind Stash: the verbal fencing, the implied threats, the bribe of a colony for them and the children. “Do you believe anything he said?” “Do I trust him? No. But he's gone to a lot of trouble to bring us here safely. He definitely wants to use us, and Stash and I only have one bargaining chip.” “You can fix your ships.” “Or anything that goes into space, if we can improvise or salvage parts.” “I don't like any of it.” She said the obvious, not wanting to bring the conversation to a personal level. She'd blatantly seduced the man in his bath; now she was uncomfortable looking him in the eye, let alone talking about what had happened. “Tell me about the children,” she said.

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“They're Atheran ... no doubt about it. Vasin lined them up so we could look them over. One little one broke rank, came to me. I hope they don't punish her for it.” He frowned, the crease lines on his brow deepening. She had a strong urge to smooth them with kisses, but things were so awkward between them that he stayed on the opposite side of the room. She asked more questions about the fortress, the two warlords, and especially the children. At last he said, “There's nothing more I can tell you, Mercy. Do you want to talk about what happened with us?” He looked down at the floor, obviously ill at ease and wishing he were somewhere else. “I guess there's nothing to say. I'm sorry ... if you want me to be.” “No, don't be sorry.” He looked up at her but stayed his distance. “When we slept on the balcony, you said something about helping each other. And I felt so bad about your back ... and getting you into this mess. And who knew what those monsters were planning tonight?” “Mercy.” He came closer. “You don't have to explain.” “Well, I don't usually ... I'm not ... you know.” “You don't hawk your wares like Bedoza.” He gave her a little lopsided grin, and she felt her insides turn over. “We're stuck with each other for now,” she said, “and I don't want you to think one thing has anything to do with the other.” 211


“What?” “You know.” “Advocate Greer is too prudish to call sex by its name?” “I'm not prudish! I just don't usually ... don't ever....” “Spread your legs for a space tramp?” “That's not what I meant!” “Well, when you figure out what you mean, I'll already be asleep. I think that mat is big enough for both of us. At least I'm not sleeping on hard tiles.” “You're angry!” “Not because we had sex.” “Why then?” “I don't know.” “That's no answer.” “Okay, it you want it straight ... I don't expect you to gush over my manly body or declare undying devotion. But you could at least pretend you liked it ... and me. I'm not a studfor-hire, regardless of where I was living when you found me.” “I know that.” He was making her feel like a snooty bitch. “You did me a favor,” he said grimly. “I appreciate the gesture. It's been a long time.” “I wasn't doing you a favor.” Where did that tiny little voice come from? “No?” He grinned. “You were scratching an itch?” “You're terrible!” She rushed at him without thinking, raising her fists to pummel away his arrogance. He caught her wrists and locked her arms at her sides, his face hard and annoyed. She 212


wiggled and squirmed to free herself, but after a few moments of struggling, she didn't want to be free nearly as much as she wanted his arms around her. “Have we cleared the air yet?” He was grinning broadly now, toying with her. He was strong enough to do as he liked with her, and they both knew it. “I don't know.” She wouldn't look at him. “If you've made your point,” he said nuzzling her forehead, brushing his lips against her eyelids, “I'd like to make love to you, Advocate Greer.” “Call me Mercy,” she whispered. Rafe lifted her effortlessly in his arms and carried her to the mat. Their borrowed robes were big cumbersome tents, but under them they were naked. Rafe knelt and pulled his off in one sweeping gesture, but he wouldn't let her do the same. “Tonight I'm in charge,” he said in a tone that sent shivers down her spine. To be totally controlled, to surrender her will and identity and exist for the pleasure of a man was a startlingly new concept to her. It was game-playing for real; it was love ... but she couldn't allow herself to think of that. He ran his lips over the top of her foot, separating her toes and kissing each of the ten in turn until she squirmed and giggled at the tickling sensation. Bending over her, he lifted her calves in his hands and ran his bristly cheek up one side of her leg and down the other with the robe bunched high on her thighs. 213


Inch by inch he pushed the tangle of cloth higher on her body, making love to her knees and thighs with his lips and tongue. She braced herself, expecting a shock of pleasure when he reached her throbbing groin, but he stopped, instead working the robe over her torso and arms, then lifting her shoulders to pull it off. He threw it across the room and whistled softly, straddling her legs and lowering his mouth to her breasts. She'd never suspected how sensitive they were. When he took one nipple between his teeth, she could feel it all the way to the private place he was parting with his fingers. The skin on his back was smooth and warm under her hands. She danced her nails down his spine to the small of his back and the top of his cleft, aware of her own power when he shuddered with pleasure. Grasping his buttocks, she dug her fingers into the firm flesh, kneading and squeezing, delighted by the way he contracted and relaxed them in rhythm to her caresses. She was ready to explode, and he had yet to put his lips where she most wanted them. She arched her back, raising her hips to capture his erection between her thighs. Her breasts were wet from his suckling; her bottom contracted when he reached under and raised her even higher against him. “Kiss me,” she whispered, flicking her tongue over dry lips. He couldn't be hurried. He nuzzled her throat and pressed soft kisses in the hollow. He took her ear lobe between his teeth, his breath a warm whisper of air, and his hands 214


lowered her hips to the mat spreading her thighs and curling the triangle of hair around his fingertips. Her anticipation heightened until it was akin to pain. He tested her, removing his damp fingers without attempting to pleasure her. “Kiss me!” It was a command from Advocate Greer. He laughed. “Don't be beastly.” She tried a soft, cajoling tone. “Tell me what you want.” He was a devil, denying satisfaction while he stoked her. “You! I want you.” His mouth came down on hers, forcing her lips apart with controlled violence. He kissed her hard, thrusting his tongue to the back of her throat, making her ears ring with the force of his assault. She panted for air, kicking out at his legs and feet, trying to get out from under the weight of his body when he abruptly pinned her flat. She pushed at him with her hands, squirmed and tried to roll as he continued kissing her with a passion that was as exciting as it was alarming. He rose above her suddenly, allowing her to roll free and land face down under him. In their contest of wills, she hadn't improved her position. He held her thighs in a vise between his and none too gently freed her hair from the braid, combing it out with his fingers and burying his face in the strands he'd released. She heard a sharp intake of breath. 215


“You're too beautiful for your own good,” he murmured so softly against the back of her neck she had to strain to hear. He kissed her tenderly, brushing soft kisses on her shoulders and down the length of her spine. “Do you know how many times I was tempted to teach you a lesson?” he asked, lightly tapping her buttocks with the flat of his hand, rousing her from the languid state his kisses had produced. She mewed in pleasure, rolled over, and locked her hands at the back of his neck, pulling with all her strength when he seemed to resist. “I want you, Rafe.” She reached for him and slowly moved her hand up and down in an ageless rhythm, guiding him into the aching throbbing epicenter of her existence. The pinkish glow of recessed lights bathed his face as the rush of blood in his cheeks made them ruddy with passion. She couldn't close her eyes. She had to see his eyes dewy with desire, his lips parted, his chest heaving as he focused the whole of himself on the ancient and mystical rite of union. She swelled to receive him and contracted to give him joy. Slowly her lids drooped, her lashes a spiky curtain until she finally closed her eyes, surrendering to the single, all powerful assault on her senses. Legs locked around his hips, she reveled in the damp sleekness of his skin and the pounding of his organ. She dug her nails into his neck and cried aloud, wanting to hold back so the wonder of it didn't have to end. 216


He let loose a guttural cry, lifted her hips, and plunged to a soul-shaking climax that carried her with him in a whirlpool of sensation. She couldn't believe it. Her spasms lasted and lasted, her body so limp she could only float on the new-found currents, everything washed from her consciousness except Rafe. Her hunger for him was satiated and renewed simultaneously, his lips gently caressing hers, the hazel of his eyes flashing golden glints. “If we die,” she said, laying her head in the crook of his arm when he relaxed beside her, “I'm glad this happened.” “And if we live?” “Doubly so.” “I'm not going to let you die. Not you or the children.” His voice was so determined she let herself believe it was possible for an instant. “I've brought you here to do the impossible. I can never forgive myself.” “There's nothing to forgive.” “But how can we survive? So many of them, so few of us.” “Do you still have the stun gun?” “Yes, and the clothes we brought from the Hazard. I washed them while you were being wined and dined by those monsters.” “Where's the gun?” “There's a loose tile in the wall of the alcove just behind the faucet. I pried it out with the edge of the tub stopper. There was a hollow behind it, maybe made by a former guest 217


here. But what good is a non-lethal weapon against hoards with swords?” “Do we have to talk about it now?” He stretched languidly and pulled her over on top of him. She pressed a soft kiss on the stubborn jut of his chin, following his jaw line up to his ear with her lips. She loved the neat, straight line of his brows and the strong bridge of his nose. He had such nice ears, flat to his head under the shaggy growth of his reddish brown hair. Even in repose, he had a strong man's face, his full lower lip softening what was otherwise a stern visage. She ran her finger over it, giggling when he captured it between his teeth. “In the morning....” she started to say. He silenced her with a kiss on the corner of her mouth, then the tip of her nose. “If something happens to me....” he started to say. “Don't tempt fate.” She tried to distract him by running her finger in the crease between his thigh and torso, fondling him until he covered her hand with his and showed her where to stroke him. “Whatever happens to you, happens to me.” She rested her head on his stomach, beguiled by the relaxed intimacy between them. “Not necessarily.” He cupped her breast, taking the weight in his hand and teasing her nipple into a hard knob. “Put yourself in Stash's hands. He'll look out for you.” “Seems to me that position is filled right now,” she said with a mock pout, rewarded by a yelp when she plucked a single dark hair from his groin. 218


“Mercy, I'm serious. Stash is clever. If anyone besides me can get you out of this, he can.” “And the children.” “It will take a miracle.” She'd had one miracle in her life when Varga and Rella Greer chose her to be their daughter. “I believe in miracles,” she insisted. “You are a miracle.” He gathered her in his arms and proved she was a novice in the lovemaking game.

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Chapter 12 “I HAVE TO go with you!” Mercy was on her knees on the silver mat, separating damp hair with her fingers and braiding it. Still naked from the bath they'd shared, she was so beautiful she took his breath away. “It's not up to me.” He knelt behind her and reached around to cup her breasts, wanting to prolong their intimacy. “You could insist. They want something from you, so they may allow it.” She pressed her bottom against his budding erection, tempting him even though they both admitted to aching from the exuberance of their night together. “Do you think there's time?” she asked. “Later,” he said, hoping he wasn't promising the impossible. “When old sober-sides comes, just pretend I'm invisible. I'll shuffle along behind you and not say a single word. I swear!” “I'll feel better if you stay here.” He kissed her shoulder and slid his hands down to her tummy, wondering if either of them would live long enough to know whether he'd impregnated her. He dreaded what might happen to her, and the possibility that she could be carrying his child doubled his fear for her safety. “I'm not in as much danger as you are,” she said matterof-factly. “The warriors avoid me like the plague.” 220


“Vasin wasn't pleased with you at the banquet. He can flick his finger, and your head comes off.” “I'll wear the wretched robe,” she said, still trying to strike a bargain. He stood, shaking his head, deciding it was time to get dressed. “Thank you for washing my clothes,” he said, trying to change the subject. “Don't start thinking of me as your handmaiden. I didn't like the stink of them close to me.” He bristled at her arrogant tone but ignored her. She was trying to annoy him, maybe thinking he'd get so angry he wouldn't care what she did. She was wrong. He cared more than he would have believed possible. She dressed while he did, quiet for the moment but by no means giving up. Her trousers and shirt had faded to muddy tan rags, but she still looked graceful and proud. “You're still alive because Vasin wants something from us,” he warned. “Offend him again, and he might not be so lenient.” “I know that, Rafe, but do you know how maddening it is to be kept in the dark while you and Stash hobnob with a despot?” “Keep out of trouble. Please, Mercy,” he begged. “If I don't follow you, will you leave the door unlocked? I can't get in any trouble in the fortress. The warriors pretend they don't see me.” “All right, but don't wander far.” 221


“I'll be too anxious to hear what Vasin wants to be gone when you get back.” “And don't try to find the children.” “I didn't even think of it.” “You're a lousy liar.” She made him smile even when he wanted to shake some sense into her. “But you won't lock me in? I hate it!” Their guide didn't come alone; he arrived with an escort of four warriors soon after Rafe dressed. He joined them in the corridor, shutting but not locking the door. “Sleep well, did you?” Stash asked with a knowing grin. Space tramps liked to compare sexual exploits almost as much as they enjoyed talking about their ships, but Rafe was uncomfortable sharing any part of his feelings for Mercy, much as he liked Stash. “Is Quisto coming with us?” “No, I convinced him to keep an eye on your lady.” Rafe nodded in satisfaction and fell into step behind the guide, flanked by two warriors on either side. He didn't know if they were an honor-guard or jailers. They threaded their way through the city to the docks where the largest boats were anchored. A gangplank was down beside a silver-sailed craft with gleaming black paint on the wooden sides. There was a wheelhouse at the bow and a pavilion on the stern where the Honorable Warlord Vasin was stretched out in splendor on a reed mat heaped with cushions in all the exotic colors favored by his people. He was wearing the long skirt that served as the uniform of his followers, this 222


one particularly bright with vivid splashes of red on deep purple. In the sunlight, his skin seemed to have faded to a pale creamy green, and with his eyes half-concealed by lowered lids, he looked sleepy and content. Rafe couldn't help thinking of a serpent sunning on a rock. Vasin greeted them with a lazy nod. Their guide prostrated himself on the deck and banged his face three times on the hard wood as if doing penance. “Travel in the interior is arduous,” Vasin said, “so please make yourselves comfortable. My craft will take us to our destination with good speed ... and I've planed a spectacle to make the hours pass more quickly.” They were served fermented fruit juice and a platter of hard grain cakes they had to gnaw to break off bits. They had the same bland, papery taste as the mush that was the mainstay of the Tamaran diet. A canopy suspended on four poles shaded them from the direct glare of the sun, but heat steamed off the water, sapping Rafe's energy and making him drowsy. He dozed ... not surprising since his sleep had been more interrupted than not the night before ... and sipped the intoxicating juice when his body demanded fluid. Fortunately he suffered no ill effects or cravings from the beverage. A hour passed, perhaps two, with the crew silently navigating the craft within sight of the dark foliage on the shoreline. Stash roused him when they dropped anchor in a small cove.

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The warlord signaled with his hand, and a nearly naked sailor brought three long, heavy telescopes, handing one to his master and the others to Rafe and Stash. “Focus on the waters below that cliff, gentlemen,” Vasin said. “I regret that we cannot get closer for a better vantage point, but the sea beast is sometimes capricious.” Rafe let his eye adjust to the reflection of the sun on the surface of the water, then he saw a dark creature partially submerged at the base of the cliff. He scanned the rock wall up to the summit, able to see well enough with powerful magnification to make out a small group of Tamaran warriors and an offlander stripped naked with pale skin and the bony legs and arms of an elderly person. “The chap who made a fuss when we arrived,” Stash said, identifying him only a second before Rafe did. “A fool,” Vasin said dismissively. “He has some idea that his god doesn't want him to be a slave. Now he won't be.” His laugh was even worse than that of most Tamarans: It was permeated with evil. “Bloody hell!” Stash said with a gasp as the old offlander was hurled off the top of the cliff, plunging downward toward the creature in the water. “Never saw anything like that.” The beast rose up on several of its many long tentacles and plucked the poor unfortunate out of the sea. The eerie snake-like arms pulled the victim apart, limb by limb, literally eating him alive. Blood gushed and colored the water around them, then the beast took the remains with him under the sea. 224


“Very quick today.” Vasin sounded disappointed. “It happens when the beast is too hungry. When we give him three, maybe four, he makes more sport of his meal. One very fine warrior of Dah's swam to deep sea before the beast pulled his head off.” “Are there a lot of those beasties swimming around?” Stash asked. “No, no. They are very rare. Dah forbade hunting them, or they would be extinct. It feeds here because Honorable Warrior Vasin is a generous master. I don't know how much longer I can take food from my people to nourish children of Athera, but perhaps....” He shrugged. “Perhaps they will find guardians of their own kind and start a colony of friends.” Stash walked to the low rail and vomited. Rafe was frozen in horror. He'd seen enough carnage and brutality in his lifetime to help him endure the sight of death in most forms, but this was cold-blooded barbarism. He flexed his fingers, wanting to break the despot's neck with his bare hands and let his followers do their worst. He couldn't. No matter what the cost, he had to save Mercy and the children from the tentacles of that vicious beast. Vasin's lackeys brought more fermented juice along with platters of blackened flesh and pale bulbous objects filled with seeds that the warlord sucked, then spit out, littering the deck with the husks. Rafe finished his third bottle and threw it overboard. He should have been drunk but he wasn't. Sheer black rage kept him marginally sober, all his senses sharpened by hatred. 225


Stash dozed as the sea became choppy, rocking the deck, but Rafe focused on ways to escape from the planet. He couldn't lead children back the way they'd come, but he would never leave without them. A freshening wind took them around the tip of the fortress island to another large volcanic outcropping ... and a different world. “They're not using the slaves to build sea walls,” Stash whispered in Atheran. “Space docks.” “I haven't seen this many ships in one place since I left Coalition service.” Stash stood at the rail as they approached the harbor. “You've never mentioned Coalition service,” Rafe said. “I gave it a shot. Too much spit and polish, yes-sir-this, yes-sir-that. When my term was up, I got out before they could find a reason to cashier me. Followed a squeeze to Abradoxus ... but that's a story for another day.” Part of the space port was still under construction on a high plateau above the harbor city, but as far as the eye could see, a huge fleet of space ships were docked, noses to the sky. “Look over there,” Rafe said excitedly. “That's a class seven Coalition air ferry. And one of the Atherans’ obsolete Thunderbolt war buggies.” “The bloody pirates!” Stash swore under his breath. “They've stolen everything that came their way for generations. I remember when the Columbine Seven didn't come back, and there she is.” 226


Vasin had withdrawn to the wheel house, apparently content to let his captives take in the immensity of his fleet without his presence. “The Hazard can't be important to them when they have a buildup like this,” Rafe said. “The Bonami either. My little piece of space junk would hardly be noticed in this armada.” “I see you appreciate my fleet, gentlemen,” Vasin said, coming up behind them on silent unshod feet. “We'll disembark now. I have much to show you.” The warlord and an escort of four warriors escorted them to the best land vehicle Rafe had seen on Tamar: a long black limousine with a broad seat in the rear upholstered in creamcolored leather. Vasin sat there alone; Rafe and Stash sat on jump seats on the driver side, facing warriors who watched them with the intensity of hunters getting a bead on their prey. The silent chauffeur guided the vehicle up a broad, blacktopped roadway. Pedestrians scattered to the shoulder of the road, and several transports made haste to park along the side before the warlord passed. “I use those things which are useful, but I'm not seduced by the toys of offlanders. My new kingdom will not be polluted by the products of industrial wastelands. We will live on the gifts of land and the sea, as all living creatures should.” “Without an industrial economy, there wouldn't be ships to link the worlds of our galaxy.” Rafe tried to sound as ponderous and philosophical as their captor, but his temple was throbbing with anger. 227


“It took centuries to perfect a craft like the Venture Eighteen,” Stash said, turning on his seat to peer at a craft lying disabled on its belly a short distance from the road. Vasin would score zero as a debater, Rafe thought. He didn't deign to refute anything they said; he only smirked and made pronouncements, seemingly indifferent to anything contrary to his own opinion. Now that Rafe could see the massive array of ships at closer range, he began to realize the truth about Tamar's fleet. This wasn't a display of military might: It was a junkyard of inoperable ships, a resting place for craft that couldn't be launched. He met Stash's eyes and knew he too had a grasp on the condition of the Tamaran armada. Stash muttered an Atheran word: a slang phrase for space junk. Vasin was a pirate with a fleet that could plunge the Coalition into a war for survival ... if it were functional. Rafe knew that repairing the allegedly disabled Hazard was a trivial concern compared to what Vasin might ask of them. He was sick with dread, but he set his face in a grim mask, determined not to let Vasin use his own emotions against him. There were no fences, no checkpoints, no sign of guards. The latter could be explained by the rebellion: Vasin must need all his warriors to slaughter Dah's followers and keep a watch on his dangerous ally, his cousin Yoomah. But it was supreme arrogance to ignore security measures when so much stolen space technology was grounded in one place. Without surveillance, Stash could easily find a new navcom, 228


and Rafe could replace the inferior equipment someone had switched for his top-of-the-line model while the Hazard had been impounded for back docking fees. The Tamarans felt secure because the existence of this huge fleet was a secret, both to offlanders and most of their own kind. Now it was no longer a secret. Rafe understood the implication without being told. Neither he nor Stash would ever be allowed to leave Tamar alive. Scratch one idyllic colony: forget about being fathers of a new world. They were prisoners for life, however short that was likely to be. Even without hearing Vasin's proposition, he knew they were destined to be slaves as surely as the unfortunates who had to haul rock. He couldn't get the tentacled beast out of his mind. There was nothing subtle about Vasin's threat. Give him what he wanted, or twenty-seven innocent children would be fed to the sea monster, perhaps as many as three or four at a time so the beast wouldn't be too famished to give them slow, agonizing deaths. Rafe closed his eyes and saw blood-red on the inside of his lids, maybe a trick of the light but more likely a manifestation of impotent anger. The road curved around the coastline to the far side of the plateau where a huge building constructed of something resembling cinder blocks overlooked a sheltered harbor. A few boats were anchored several hundred meters from the pier, but none were tied to the moorings on shore. 229


“As you see, gentlemen,” Vasin said after a long silence, “we could have sailed here, but I wanted you to see the full extent of my might.” “How many of those tarnished beauties can you get off the pad?” Rafe asked, deciding not to play Vasin's game of subterfuge and deceit. “Looks more like a museum than a military base to me,” Stash said. They'd rattled the warlord's composure: streaks of orange lightning flashed down his cheeks, revealing his anger, but he didn't respond to their comments. Rafe had been too focused on the potential warships to notice the cloud cover suddenly rolling across the sea to blanket the island. The vehicle stopped by a broad metal door, and they stepped out under an ominously black sky. Thunder crackled nearby while Vasin emerged from the rear seat and looked up at the sky. The warlord was nervous. Rafe stooped, retying his boot lace with intentional slowness, wondering if the impending storm had anything to do with it. Vasin barked an order at the warriors, then broke into a run, dashing for the shelter of the building. Two of the guards roughly pushed Stash toward the door, and the other pair grabbed Rafe's arms, shrieking for him to hurry in a highpitched spate of words that didn't need to be translated. The lightning intensified with astonishing rapidity while thunder rumbled with ear-splitting volume. It was a whooper of a storm even before the rain started but no surprise after 230


the deluge at Hakara. This planet definitely had wacko weather. The two warriors trapped out in the storm with him unbuckled their sword belts and let the metal weapons, magnets for the lightning, fall to the ground. Apparently they'd been ordered to stay with him, even if it meant being out in an electrical storm that sent their leader scurrying for cover. Rafe dragged his feet to confirm that the guards were indeed terrified of the storm. They each grabbed him under an arm and tried to carry him to the door, but they didn't have enough lifting power in their scrawny arms and shoulders. He wasn't crazy about the lashing rain. In moments he was soaked to the skin, his hair streaming water, but the Tamaran's show of panic was well worth it. They screeched, pushed on his back, and ran circles around him. When he finally pushed open the door, they nearly knocked him over in their eagerness to get inside. His uncle hadn't been the forthcoming type, but one of the lessons he'd impressed on Rafe when he took him into space was: Know your enemy. He'd mostly been concerned with trading rivals, but his advice stuck with Rafe. Here was a side of the Tamarans he hadn't seen: absolute terror of either thunder or lightning, or perhaps both. Did all Tamarans panic the way Vasin and his four warriors had? Rafe tucked the possibility away in his meager arsenal. It wasn't much when the whole population was a threat, but he was eager to learn their weaknesses. 231


They were dripping on the floor of a huge room with only one obvious function: to house banks of computers lining three walls. “Would you look at that!” Stash didn't even bother to disguise his comment in Atheran. “I think we're in a time warp.” Rafe saw what he meant. They weren't looking at hundreds of separate units. All the equipment was one single throwback to the early invention of computers. “All this to do what a handheld unit can do now in nanoseconds,” Rafe said, reminded of historic images of his species’ early forays into space. “It figures,” Stash said, lapsing into the safer use of their own language. “A junkyard of ships past their prime and technology hundreds of years out of date.” Vasin was parading around the room with the stately gait of a general reviewing his troops, but only the machine stood for review. Not a single operator was on duty at the obsolete computer. “Ghost ships, an abandoned control center, and an insane egomaniac,” Stash summarized. “What isn't wrong with this picture? There isn't a ship out there without a system better than this one. Why don't they use what they've stolen?” They looked at each other and knew the answer: All the technology on Tamar was stolen. They'd learned to navigate their pirated ships, but when one broke down, no Tamaran could repair it. They didn't know how to utilize the resources they had. No wonder the control center at Hakara was notorious for long waits to land. 232


“The bloody fools don't know what they're doing,” Stash whispered. “Now they have us. But two of us alone could never make a dent in the work needed to make even a small part of their fleet functional.” “Very impressive, don't you think, gentlemen?” Vasin returned, his good humor restored by surveying the room full of hardware. “You are capable of operating it, I assume.” “Kid stuff,” Stash agreed, speaking in precise Instell. “He means it's very easy.” Rafe liked their situation even less. If Vasin's grasp of technology was as primitive as it seemed, he might expect them to perform miracles on the obsolete equipment. He felt like a magician facing a performance without his props, and a lot of lives would be sacrificed if he failed.. “Come,” Vasin said, leading the way to a spiral staircase in the far right corner. “Now you will meet our wizards.” The storm was receding, the booms of thunder widely spaced and muted. They followed Vasin up the winding metal stairway, the warriors following close behind. The second level was divided by a corridor with closed doors on either side. As a work place the building could accommodate hundreds, but this level seemed as deserted as the ground floor until Vasin led them to a door at the far end and entered without any warning to the occupants. All the technicians in the room were Tamaran, and they looked up with alarm and surprise at the offlanders in their midst. More likely they were scared witless of Honorable Warlord Vasin. The head of the lab, unusually portly for a 233


native, grunted when he prostrated himself in front of Vasin. The others backed away and tried to be invisible. Apparently belly-slithering was an honor extended to the few who held administrative positions. The warriors and ordinary peasants seemed to be exempt. Maybe they didn't need lessons on how to be humble. Vasin exchanged words with the prostrate technician, obviously not liking his views. He gestured to one of his warriors who took out his sword and landed a vicious blow across the groveling creature's back with the flat of his blade. The victim shrieked, then whimpered and crawled into a corner, curling in a fetal position. “Has he been reprimanded or fired?” Stash asked in Instell. “I cannot tolerate worthless dung. The sea keeps rising. Only a fool opposes what must be done.” Vasin wasn't just talking about the disgraced technician. “See what we have,” he went on, gesturing at an array of computers, less bulky and not as ancient as the system downstairs. “Dah bought some from merchants. Others he had removed from the vessels, leaving them stripped of navigational capabilities.” Rafe saw the equipment, but he also saw a hopeless tangle of cords, converters, and surge controls. A screen near him had images flipping across it too quickly to distinguish. Paper was spilling out of a printer, blank except for a few words that seemed to be identical on each. The room was crowded, the rancid odor of decayed food and unwashed bodies contributing to the oppressive atmosphere. As a work place it 234


was about as appealing as a garbage dump. Efficiency seemed to be a totally alien concept on Tamar. “Now I will tell you what you must do to be a friend of the Honorable Warlord Vasin.” His smile was chilling.

235


Chapter 13 MERCY DIDN'T know how much time she might have before Rafe got back, but she did have a plan. She hadn't lived on the streets as a child without learning how to go after what she needed. She put on her own clothes and stuffed the stun gun in her waistband. She separated her roll of golbriks and folded each high-rag-content certificate into a neat square that she could remove from her trousers pocket without revealing how much she was carrying. Then, reluctantly, she pulled on the robe provided by the warlord and put two fermented juice bottles filled with water in the two side pockets. She'd discovered that the handle of the faucet could be adjusted to deliver water so hot it steamed. Hopefully it was hot enough to kill any dangerous organisms. She couldn't operate half-cocked on potent jungle juice. She went out the door, not in the least surprised to see Quisto sitting, chin resting on his knees, on the floor of the corridor. “So they stuck you with the job of bodyguard,” she said, not sorry for his company. Great Space Trader Stash said, “Watch the lady.” “Stay close, and if one of those bad-boy bigots messes with you, I'll touch him.” She wiggled her fingers under Quisto's eyes. “That would teach him not to cross a lady warrior.” 236


Well, she'd given Quisto a giggle. Too bad she didn't feel as tough as she tried to sound. She wasn't even sure they'd let her leave the fortress. Her first test came as soon as she stepped into the courtyard. An especially bug-eyed warrior wearing a black shirt and a limp purple loincloth blocked her path, hooking his thumbs in his sword belt and daring her with body language to try dodging around him. Much as she hated to waste ammo on one of Yoomah's stooges, she hiked up the robe and reached into the pocket of her trousers. “I want to come and go as I please,” she said forcefully. “Vasin did not forbid it. You have no authority to stop me.” She moved a step closer, forcing him to back up or risk the contamination of her touch, and unfolded a golbrik. “You know what this is, don't you?” She waved it in front of him, getting her answer in the way his eyes greedily followed it. The golbrik was the universal currency, the one form accepted on all planets where the Coalition was known. On a poor planet like Tamar, it had more buying power than a fistful of local money, especially in this time of rebellion. She still found it hard to believe no one in the prison camp had searched her and confiscated the gun and golbriks, but female guards had avoided contact with offlanders just as the males did. “I'm going to make a deal with you. You understand deals, don't you?” 237


He nodded his head just enough to show he understood Instell well enough to follow her words. “This can be yours.” She waved it for effect. “I will place it on the ground for you to find. No one can blame you for picking up a lost golbrik. In exchange, you must let me and my hybrid come and go as we please. No trouble, no hassle, no bother. Do you understand?” He wanted the golbrik so badly, his long slender tongue hung from the corner of his mouth. He looked furtively around him, but the courtyard was deserted. “Agreed,” he said, barely moving his mouth when he spoke. “Better than that,” she said, “if no warriors accost us, I will lose another golbrik for you to find after five sunrises.” She held up five fingers for emphasis. One golbrik would be a great windfall for a common warrior. Probably two would make him wealthy by his planet's standards. She was surprised by the expression on his face: Tamarans could show gratitude. His color softened from dark mottled green and yellow to softer shades of lime and cream. She'd never witnessed this phenomenon before. It was almost like reading his mind. She let the currency fall and walked away as though nothing had passed between them. Every city had a marketplace; even a warlord's vassals had to have a place to buy necessities. She guessed rightly that the clutter and commotion of commerce would be as far as possible from the white walls of the fortress and the buildings where the government ran its affairs and the elite lived. If the 238


common people lived on boats, then the market would be near the sea. “Let's go shopping,” she said to Quisto, content to let him find the quickest way through the maze of streets heading downhill. The market wasn't near the water; it was on it. Land-poor as the planet was, they'd constructed a huge barge with room for many merchants to set up their wares on bright colored rugs sheltered by makeshift awnings. Maybe once offlanders would have been permitted to sell their goods in Dah's city, but now only natives squatted beside baskets of produce, pens of live winged creatures with black skin and no feathers, and earthenware bowls that Mercy didn't care to examine too closely. One seemed to contain eyeballs suspended in a jellied substance. She waited until the gangplank was clear, not wanting to start a riot by accidentally touching someone. When she did step onto the barge, there was sudden silence, eerie compared to the din of bargaining and chatting she'd interrupted. She wondered what the chances were that anyone understood Instell. She started to walk slowly down the length of the barge, cleared as if a command had gone out to give her an unobstructed walkway. When she stopped in front of a seller with baskets of hard-kerneled grain, he backed up to the low rail behind him and looked ready to dive into the water if she came any closer. “Instell?” 239


He shook his head vigorously but pointed to the far end of the barge. There she found an elderly Tamaran, his face creased and his shoulders severely stooped. She realized how few natives she'd seen who showed signs of advanced age. Either their biological life spans were short or the planet took a huge toll, keeping the population young. The man wasn't selling anything ... not any visible product anyway. She didn't need to ask him if he spoke Instell. He addressed Quisto in a grave, quivering voice. “Why did you bring this female here?” he demanded to know. “Great warrior lady from Athera,” Quisto said, surprising Mercy, who certainly hadn't expected a promotion like that. “Take her away,” the elder said, practically spitting in irritation. Mercy made a golbrik appear. He didn't react the way the warrior had, but she definitely had his attention. “Ask your female what she thinks she can buy from Honorable Shaman Ba-ho-ka-zoo?” A shaman could be a holy man, a wise man, a wizard, or a witch doctor. Or maybe a little of all. Mercy knew she was treading in dangerous territory. She wasn't afraid of superstitions or threats, but she didn't want to be vulnerable to potions or poisons he might be able to sneak into the fortress. She bowed, decided that might not be enough, and prostrated herself in front of him, even touching her forehead to the gritty deck. 240


“Tell her she may rise.” The shaman sounded a tad less hostile. Mercy knew she'd have to up the price. She elected to dazzle him: the ambassador had been generous when he turned part of his hoard over to her. She stooped and carefully laid five unfolded pieces of currency in front of the shaman. He was no dummy. “What do you require?” He asked Quisto, of course. “I wish to find children of our species. I have no child of my own. I hope to purchase one.” “They belong to Vasin.” Her heart did flip-flops. He knew about them. “I wish to confirm that they are alive. Then I will offer to buy one from Honorable Warlord Vasin for many, many golbriks. He has many children. He will be happy with my offer.” The shaman mulled it over, eyeing the row of golbriks in front of him. “I do not betray Honorable Warlord Vasin.” He said it loudly enough to be heard all the way to the shore. “Of course not! But are you a friend if you deny him the means of securing great riches?” He meditated on it. It took all the self-control she possessed to stand perfectly still while the shaman's fear fought a battle with his greed. Finally, just when she thought he was sure to refuse, his fingers snaked out and gathered up the golbriks, making 241


them disappear under his loincloth, the only garment he was wearing. He had her money, but he hadn't given her any information. If he decided to keep it and say nothing, she couldn't do a thing about it. “Go now,” he ordered, speaking to her directly. “You took my payment.” “Do you think Honorable Warlord Vasin would contaminate our precious land with the filth of your species? Take yourself from this honest place. Whore! Bringer of disaster! Corrupter of the pure and good! You belong with the dregs of our society, in the cove where the current leaves debris.” His voice kept getting louder until he was screaming a her, calling her names in his own language. She could take a hint. Anyway, she was pretty sure he was only covering his own ass, and who could blame him when Vasin cast a shadow of doom over all his subjects? She backed away, then turned and fled before some fanatic decided to sacrifice himself to cleanse the planet of her presence. “Very bad names,” Quisto said indignantly when they'd put a good distance between themselves and the floating marketplace. Very bad lizard.” “He's not a lizard,” Mercy said, shushing him because there were Tamarans everywhere, any one of which could prove hostile. “You're starting to talk like Stash.” “Great space....” “Yeah, yeah, I know.” She was in a decidedly foul mood. 242


They were following the shoreline, watching water lap at the black, gritty path under their feet. The waves were foaming, washing the land before they surged back to sea. She was fresh out of ideas when a dead sea creature washed up just in front of them. In death it was transparent blue with clawlike appendages and eyes bulging sightlessly. It was also familiar: one of the delicacies she hadn't been allowed ... or wanted ... to taste at Vasin's banquet. She was ready to forget it when the next wave left behind a long strand of blue-black sea plant and shattered bits of shell. They were walking toward the place where the sea left its debris. Not only that, the close-packed boats that served as homes were even shabbier here, crowded and stinking even from a distance. A naked male finished relieving himself over the side, cursing at a young one watching him from a nearby boat. A female crept near on her knees, and he cuffed her savagely, then started quarrelling with another male. They pushed and shoved each other, making a high-pitched din. She didn't need to be a social scientist to know these were the bottom feeders of Tamaran society. “The dregs of society,” she said, repeating what the shaman had said. “In the cove where the current leaves debris. She realized how clever he'd been. Any attempt to tell her the location secretly would have been suspicious. He wanted the money but not the consequences of helping an offlander, so he'd roundly cursed her in front of a sizable audience ... and given her just what she'd paid for. He'd even told her 243


Vasin wouldn't contaminate precious land by allowing their species to live on it, a clear message that the children were on a boat. “The cove.” Quisto was sharper than she sometimes gave him credit for being. They'd followed the shoreline out to a promontory that formed one side of a sheltered cove. The boats were so close here that they practically bumped sides, covering at least a third of the relatively calm water. Some were pathetically small and crowded, and she saw a few small children tied to the masts on ropes that allowed them to move about without falling overboard. The crafts in the cove numbered in the hundreds, none close enough to board without using one of the wooden dugouts that littered the shore, apparently at the disposal of anyone who needed one. Similar small dugouts were also tied to the boats where people lived, an effective way to navigate the cove but not one she dared use. She sat on the beach far enough from the waves to stay dry and began systematically studying every craft in the cove. The sun was blindingly bright, she didn't have a head covering, and her eyes smarted from the reflection on the water. She sipped water from one bottles and gave the other to Quisto. “Help me look,” she said. He paced, but she needed to stay still to keep an imaginary grid in her mind. She intended to check every craft for clues that might mean it held the children. She could 244


hardly believe she was close to finding them. If Rafe hadn't actually seen them, she might have lost hope. She squinted against the sun, finding the bright colors of the hulls and furled sails hard to distinguish from a distance. The whole mass seemed to blend into a huge smear of color, and focusing on one deck among the many was making her sleepy. Apparently the boat-dwellers were inclined to nap whenever they could, and she saw males and children of all sizes curled in fetal positions under the hot sun. When the inhabitants stayed still, it was easier to do her visual inventory. She closed her eyes to rest for a moment, then opened them suddenly when her mind's eye found the clue she needed. Atheran children couldn't survive under this sun, not without being severely burned, and Rafe hadn't seen any skin damage. They had to be kept either in a shelter on deck or inside a boat. The shallow draft on these crafts didn't allow for accommodations in the hull. She could eliminate the boats with small huts on their decks. She was looking for twentyseven children, if they were all being kept together. She stood and spotted a prime candidate, a good-sized boat with something that looked like a long rectangular tent on deck. She pointed it out to Quisto, hoping his eyesight was sharper than hers. “That last boat on the far right ... what do you see?” she asked. “Gray hull, maybe silver. Sun very bright.” 245


“Anyone standing or sleeping on deck?” He shielded his eyes with his hands, squinting as hard as she was at the boat. He whistled sharply in a pretty good imitation of Stash. “Pale skin!” “Where?” “Head in tent flap.” Her heart was pounding with excitement. “You're sure?” “Sure as bloody hell!” Great! He was starting to talk like Stash. “Let's go back before we attract any more attention.” Now that she didn't need them to shade her eyes from the sun, angry gray clouds were rolling across the sea. “Hurry, before we're soaked again.” Thunder was rumbling in the distance when they reached the city of white walls, and by the time they sprinted into the courtyard of the fortress, lightning crackled in the sky around them. She hated to think of those poor children on a boat deck sheltered only by flimsy cloth, but she'd done all she could for now. She'd found the kidnapped children. She desperately wanted to tell Rafe, but their room was empty. Quisto went across the corridor to wait out the storm ... or maybe nap ... leaving her alone with thoughts as turbulent as the skies. Rafe didn't return at dark. She shared a monotonous meal with Quisto, who was eager to explore the city under cover of night now that the storm had passed. She didn't want him to take risks, but the hybrid wasn't receptive to motherly advice. Males! 246


How she wanted Rafe and Stash to return! She was tortured by the thought of everything Vasin was capable of doing to them. What did he want? What would he do to get it? She tried to stay calm, soaking for a long time in the room's one compensation: a deep, warm bath. But eventually that pleasure paled, and she paced the room, anxious and lonely. He could be dead. They both could. She felt guilty because she wanted him even more for herself than for the children's sake. She ticked off his assets out loud. “He's resourceful, he's smart, he's tricky, he's....” “He's back. You are talking about me, aren't you?” “Rafe!” She flew into his arms, pulling his head down to meet her lips. “Do you always talk to yourself?” He was joking, letting her kiss his face with frenzied relief, but somehow he wasn't quite with her. “I was so scared!” She wrapped her arms around his waist and pressed her cheek against his chest, comforted by the rapid thud of his heart and the heady musk of his body. “It's okay. Everything is fine.” He said the right words, but there was a false ring in his voice. “I found the children,” she said. “They're on a gray boat with a tent on the deck. Quisto saw one of them for an instant. A pale skin, he said.” 247


She expected some reaction, if not elation at least mild satisfaction. He didn't even care that she'd been wandering in the city. “Did you hear me?” Of course, he did! “It means they're still alive.” She'd heard eulogies delivered in a happier tone. “What did Vasin want?” Fear put cold hands on her spirit. Something terrible had happened. Something Rafe wasn't eager to tell her. “Tell me!” she insisted when he moved away. He looked haggard under the pinkish glow of the recessed lights, his eyes dark pits and his mouth set in a grim line. How could one day sap his stamina so much? “Don't leave me hanging. You don't know what horrible things I'm imagining,” she begged. “The truth is worse.” “Rafe!” “It's not hopeless.” He wasn't a very good liar. “Stop, stop, stop!” She bunched the front of his shirt in her fists as though she could shake the truth out of him. “Tell me everything that happened from the time you left!” “He made us an offer. We accepted.” “Vasin made you an offer? What kind of offer? Rafe, this whole thing is my fault. At least let me know how terrible it is.” “I will, but give me a little time. Let me take a bath first.” “All right.” She was eager to hear what'd happened and hated being shut-out, but she had to respect a simple request like that. 248


He peeled off his shirt and carried it with him through the strings of beads that curtained the alcove. She started to follow. “Alone,” he said without looking at her. “Please, Mercy.”

249


Chapter 14 “YOU'RE GOING to commit treason!” This was the worst blow of Mercy's life. A freshly-bathed Rafe stood across the room from her in the dark, his voice so despondent she would have cried for him at any other time. “Expediency,” he said bitterly. “But if you do what Vasin wants....” “A graveyard of pirated ships will be fully functional.” “Think of the planets Vasin will be able to terrorize and conquer.” “Don't you think I have?” She'd never heard him so upset. “Of course, you have, but Rafe, the Coalition will have to get involved. It will mean war. Even if Vasin is defeated....” “You're not telling me anything I don't know!” “But why?” He was silent, refusing to answer. “How can I understand if you won't explain?” she asked, desperate to hear why he was doing it. “Why can't you just take my word for it? You still don't trust your tamed space tramp, do you?” “Don't say that! This isn't about who we are ... it's about what you're going to do!” “Have to do.”

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She could hear the misery in his voice, and part of her yearned to take him in her arms and comfort him. But this was one time when she couldn't. “Tell me from the beginning. Please, Rafe! I'm part of whatever you do. It's too late to shut me out.” “The truth won't make you feel better,” he warned. “No, but I have to know.” “Vasin could have taken us to his fleet on the motorized boat that brought us back. Instead he arranged a scenic cruise: blue sky, calm sea, joy juice flowing like water.” “Where is this leading?” She was seething with impatience. “To the depths of hell, the mythical inferno, every man's worst nightmare.” She didn't imagine the sob in his voice. She was afraid to hear what was tormenting him ... and afraid not to. “The bastard included some entertainment: an exhibition by his pet sea monster. We anchored on the far side of a cove ... a safe distance away ... and the lizards threw dinner down to him: an old offlander who'd objected to being a slave.” It hurt to breathe. She didn't want to hear the rest, but she had to. “The beast was huge with tentacles like one of our squid. It tore the poor guy apart limb by limb.” He took a deep breath. “Vasin was disappointed. The monster gulped his dinner. On a good day, he plays with his food first, puts on a good show.” “How awful!” Anything she could say seemed so trivial compared to what he'd seen. “That was just a preview of coming attractions.” 251


“The children?” “He'll toss three or four at a time so his pet won't be too famished to torture them for awhile.” Her legs were rubbery; she didn't know how deal with the unspeakable horror of Rafe's experience. “And to prevent it you have to....” “Download the diagnostic programs for all his stolen vessels.” “Can you do that?” “I'm afraid so.” “How?” “Stash and I will have to log on to their computers through the Hazard's.” “But if the ships are mostly alien....” “I can access all the different classes of ships. An engine is an engine. In theory, all drives work the same way, but to repair a ship, the diagnostic program is essential.” “Why does Vasin need you?” “Either Dah's technicians are idiots, or they have their own reasons for playing dumb. Dah liked it here. He was more interested in reclaiming land and building floating cities. He wasn't doing much with all the ships his predecessors had pirated. Mostly he sent his functional ships out on raids like the one to Abbess II, but he was interested in looting, not colonizing. His captain probably brought back the children because there wasn't much else of value on that planet.” “What about Yoomah? What's his agenda?” “He's a homicidal fool. He got into the rebellion to avenge himself on Dah. It's Vasin who's dangerous to the galaxy. He 252


wants to revive earlier warlords’ dreams of conquest. To do that, he needs ships. Apparently he has mechanics and pilots, but no one with the technical skill to break into the diagnostics.” “Until now.” She felt physically ill. “It's all my fault.” “If we weren't here, Vasin would have to hijack, kidnap, do whatever it takes to get computer experts. He's an opportunist. Dah kidnaped the children, hoping for ransom from the Coalition to help create his first floating city, but internal problems kept him from doing anything with them. Vasin saw a way to use them. If he hadn't been so busy with the rebellion, we would've been brought directly to him. As it was, Stash and I have this.” He held up his hand, the ink faded but still legible. “It's a slave mark showing that Vasin is our master. Anyone who interfered with us would answer to him.” “You have to refuse ... you can't ... oh, Rafe! What can we do?” “Nothing.” “Your honor, your integrity, your loyalty to the Coalition....” “I'd let the damned beast rip me apart if it would save you and those kids, but it wouldn't.” His voice was so bleak, she broke into tears. He didn't come to her. She didn't know how to comfort him if he had. Their dilemma was inescapable; their guilt was enormous. There was no way out. Rafe lay down on the mat, and she joined him without touching him or being touched. Much later she fell into a 253


troubled sleep. When she awoke, Rafe was gone. She didn't know if he'd been beside her all night. **** WHEN RAFE RETURNED to the room he shared with Mercy the next night, it was dark. He was so exhausted his brain felt like dead matter inside his skull. He couldn't think anymore and didn't want to. Stash was still working in the improvised lab Vasin had set up in the fortress, transferring the best available equipment so his captive technicians could work under his direct supervision ... not that he knew the first thing about what they were doing. He only knew the results he expected, and he renewed his threats on almost an hourly basis. They were making it look harder than it was. Navigational technology wasn't a secretive science. Every pilot who went into space had to be his own expert, and that meant being able to repair his ship and render assistance to any vessel currently in operation. Rafe and Stash could both call up diagnostic programs on their ships’ computers for any vessel known to be operational in the last 200 years. Vasin didn't know how it was done, and Dah's technicians were either ignorant or uncooperative. Or they were afraid they'd be executed as soon as Vasin had what he wanted. Rafe didn't know how long Vasin could be stalled, so they'd elected to work around the clock on their own agenda. This was his time to snatch a little sleep. More than sleep, he wanted Mercy. He needed affirmation that there was still something to live for, and he knew he'd 254


find it between her supple thighs, in the feverish depths of her body. But not tonight. He couldn't handle his own doubts and misery, let alone give her any hope. He stripped naked and eased his body onto the mat where she seemed to be sleeping soundly. Exhausted beyond any man's limits, he slept immediately. Leaving her as soon as the first sign of dawn appeared in the skylight above them wasn't as easy as sneaking into bed had been. She sat up the moment he stirred. “I didn't hear you come in.” “I worked late. Have to get back.” He fumbled for the clothes he'd dropped on the floor. “You're leaving me locked in here again?” “I'm going to work.” “I'm been thinking....” He groaned unintentionally. If there was one thing he didn't need, it was Mercy's help. “You can't do this. The genocide on Abbess II was nothing compared to what Vasin might do it he gets his fleet into space.” “What about the children? You manipulated me into coming here to save them.” His head felt two sizes larger, and his limbs were as heavy as lead. He didn't have the energy to quarrel with Mercy. “I know where they are. We can rescue them and escape.” “Grow up.” “Don't talk to me that way!” She rose up on her knees, the personification of an indignant female. 255


“It's time I did! You're an unrealistic do-gooder. You got me into this, and now you don't have the stomach to do what has to be done.” “That's what I'm trying to tell you. You don't have to commit treason. My plan....” “You have no plan. You never did.” He pulled on his clothes and left for another long session on the computers, ignoring the bottle that smashed into the wall inches away from his head as he opened the door, reminding him that before she became a lady, she'd been a street urchin. It was one of the things he usually liked about her ... but not today. **** BY THE THIRD day Vasin had tired of hovering over them, demanding progress reports, making threats, and pretending to understand what they were doing. He left them in peace but the weather didn't. Thick black clouds began massing over the island early in the day, and when the storm broke, they disconnected their equipment. They were too close to finishing to risk electrical damage from surges, and the rumble of thunder promised another violent storm. Lightning was streaking the horizon as they ran back to their quarters. “It's a nap for me,” Stash said. “Good idea,” Rafe agreed, but he dreaded returning to his room. Mercy had scarcely spoken to him since their heated argument, and when he entered the room, the atmosphere was more highly charged than it was outside. 256


“You've got to stop locking me in!” She confronted him wearing only her much-washed panties and what was left of her shirt, the sleeves ripped off for coolness. “We're all safer if you're off the streets.” “I'm going crazy with nothing to do but stare at these walls. I know how many tiles are in every wall. I've started counting the ones on the floor.” “Everyone needs a hobby. Be glad it's not a cement block cell.” “You're impossible!” She lunged at him, maybe not sure of her own intention but he grabbed her, pinning her against him and silencing her in the quickest way. “You know, I believe kissing was invented to keep women from talking too much.” He'd tried to provoke her and succeeded, welcoming her explosion of temper, anything to break her hostile silence and unspoken accusations. He knew treason was the unforgivable sin, but he didn't need or want her moral judgements, not now of all times. She fought him like a wild woman, but he was determined to make her want him the way he wanted her. She didn't say a word to stop him when he put his hands on her, but he knew he wasn't forcing her. His kisses were intended to punish, but she returned them with a ferocity that took his breath away. She wouldn't speak to him, but she peeled off her own garments and helped with his, knocking him off balance so they tumbled to the mat together, each struggling for 257


dominance until he was so aroused that blood was thundering in his ears. He'd never done anything like it ... probably couldn't do it again if he wanted to ... lying side-by-side, face-to-face, legs and arms tangled in a stalemate that drove them into a frenzy. He pounded into her; she rode him. Her bared teeth grated against his lips; he dug his fingers into her buttocks as they strained in acrobatic agony, the sheer impossibility of rising to a climax making them crazy with lust. Pushed to the point of madness, he fell on his back, taking her with him, letting her straddle him with unbelievable savagery. She broke her silence with breathless moans, digging her nails into his shoulders and chanting, “Now, now, now.” He held back to torment her and suffered even more himself. He was losing her, her face blank with concentration, and he wanted her with him to the last instant. He heaved with his hips and shoulders, throwing her on her back. They separated, and she crossed her legs, trying to deny him, but he grabbed her wrists, not willing to let her torment him. She gave only token resistance when he forced her thighs apart and drove into her. Afterward she sobbed on his chest, her knee hard against his spent member, her hand curled under her chin. “That was bad.” She wiped tears away with the back of her hand, but he didn't mind the dampness of her cheek. “Was it?” “I should hate you.” The venom was gone from her voice. 258


He answered by kissing her tenderly on her forehead and holding her close. “Now you know I'm not a lady ... never was.” “All I ever want you to be is mine.” He stroked her back and hips, loving her graceful curves and firm flesh. She relaxed against him, removing her knee and curling up as if to nod off. “Have a good sleep,” he murmured, leaning over her to brush a soft kiss on her lips. “Oh, no, you don't!” She sat up abruptly and plopped her bottom down on his stomach, riding sidesaddle and knocking the breath out of him. “You're not going to distract me anymore tonight,” she said. “I doubt I can.” She had his attention, albeit reluctantly. “I mean it, Rafe. I'm going nuts locked in this room.” She turned and straddled him, thumping his chest with one finger. “You've convinced me.” “You and Stash are shutting me out. This is my mission. There has to be a way out without committing treason.” “Please don't tell me you have a plan!” “As it happens, I do. We've got to get the children away from here. What guarantee do you have that Vasin won't kill them anyway once you've done what he wants?” “Give me some credit. Don't you think I know that?” He'd had enough intimidation. He sat and easily dislodged her, pulling her bottom side up across his thighs. 259


She stayed in that vulnerable position for about half a second. “Can't we talk about this in an adult way?” she sputtered. “In the morning,” he stalled, sure that the less Mercy knew, the safer she was. “In the morning you'll be gone again!” “And I will be locking the door.” “Without even hearing what I have in mind?” She rose up on her knees, hands locked behind her neck, tempting him again but spoiling it with her anger. “You treating me like the Tamarans treat their poor females!” “Not by choice, and not because I think a female is inferior.” He had a feeling anything he said was going to muddy the waters even more. “The Tamarans probably think they have good reasons too.” “They do: They're afraid. Females greatly outnumber males at birth. They subjugate and destroy them to keep the upper hand.” “I suppose you read that in a book?” “No.” He was too annoyed to explain. “But you still don't want to listen to my plan.” He took a deep breath, pretty sure he was going to have to shoot holes in it ... and make her even angrier. “The children are on a boat. All we have to do is sail away with them.” “Do you know the maximum speed of the craft they're on?” 260


“No, but....” “Do you know how many warriors guard the fortress and the city at night?” “I still have the stun gun.” “One gun ... a few hundred warriors.” He was too weary and heartsick to hide his sarcasm. “We have to sneak away.” “Mercy, I'm not going to let Vasin murder those kids. You have to trust me. I have to know that you're safe. I can't let you call attention to yourself. Vasin thinks the children are all hostages he needs to control us. Don't I have enough to worry about without adding you to the list?” “Do you think I would jeopardize....” “Not intentionally, but this place is a political hot spot. When Yoomah satisfies his passion for revenge, is he going to go along with everything his cousin wants? What are the odds that they can work together after the crisis is over?” “Nil to none,” she admitted unhappily. “Access to the computers has let us tap into some documents on Tamaran history. For instance, tomorrow is the beginning of the lightning god sacrifice.” “Sacrifice, as in killing people?” “Their religion is basically a way of dealing with natural phenomena: lightning, floods, volcanoes, wind storms, even the vast reaches of space. That's probably why they killed all the sisters on Abbess II: for safe passage through the asteroid belt. Maybe the god of gravity had to be appeased too.” 261


“Are you telling me all this because Vasin is gong to sacrifice the children?” “No, because lightning scares them silly. Only males of their own sex are good enough for their chief god.” “Then who....” “They hold a lottery and raise revenue at the same time. Male Tamarans can pay a stiff fee to stay out of the drawing. Those who can't afford it take their chances. Priests write the names of the poor who can't buy their way out on special wooden sticks and bring them here. The lottery was held about twenty days ago, before the rebellion started, but not even civil strife can change the results. The warlords have already collected the losers. Beginning tomorrow night, they'll hold a vigil on the roof of the fortress with all the victims chained to metal poles. When the next electrical storm comes ... and this is the season when they're most frequent....” “They leave them there to be electrocuted?” “Yes, and if there's no storm the first night, they keep trying. They hold the vigil every night until lightning kills all the victims.” “I hate this planet! You can't help these barbarians conquer other worlds, no matter what the consequences.” “You have to stay in the room tomorrow. We won't have much time to act. The storms move in fast and blow over in an hour or less.” “You're saying....” “Get some rest. I plan to.” He lay down and turned his back to her. There were many things he'd like to tell her, but she was going to have to trust 262


him for now.

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Chapter 15 THE ONE THING Mercy could count on was being fed. Twice a day a female furtively pushed a tray into the room, only opening the door for an instant, then immediately slamming and locking it. Her technique would probably work well with dangerous beasts in a zoo. Now, with the second feeding due any time, Mercy was ready for her, dressed as she had been when she discovered the children's location. She took one of the precious golbriks she had left and laid it on the floor where the female couldn't miss seeing it. Then Mercy stationed herself behind the door and waited. Her patience was at the breaking point, but she forced herself to wait. This was the last time Rafe would ever lock her in anywhere. The female Tamaran opened the door and bent to shove the tray into the room. She was the several paces into the room and furtively looked around, not seeing Mercy behind the door. The ploy worked so well Mercy felt guilty for fooling her. The female dashed into the room to take the bait, and Mercy sprang her trap, rushing into the hall and slamming the door. She secured the lock with the woman pounding and shrieking for release. She hurried to Stash's room, but it was empty. Where was Quisto when she needed him? 264


No matter! They'd kicked her off the team. She was playing a lone hand from now on. She had one more obligation: make sure the warrior who'd accepted her first bribe was fully appeased. She thought he might be easy to locate, and he was. She found him loitering near the courtyard gate, possibly on guard duty but definitely watching for her. She passed him without acknowledging that she knew him but let a golbrik fall to the ground. “If any of your kind inquire, you didn't see me leave,” she said, not expecting him to answer. She wondered if a golbrik meant he could buy his way out of the next barbarous lottery. She hoped to be far away before lightning claimed its next victims. **** RAFE AND STASH kept watch on the high cloud bank all day, their hopes building at dusk when the first rumbles of distant thunder signaled the beginning of a storm at sea. Stash had brought Quisto with him, quizzing him exhaustedly about the whereabouts of the boat with the children. They wouldn't get two chances. Their timing had to be perfect. Stash and Quisto left when it seemed certain the storm would hit the city within the hour. Rafe had an unexpected delay when he got to the courtyard. A line of manacled and chained Tamarans were being led to the outer stairs leading up to the roof of the fortress: the sacrifices for the lightning god. He ducked into the corridor, intending to collect Mercy and sneak past the crowd watching the unlucky lottery losers. From what he'd seen of Vasin and the warriors 265


in the last storm, no one would risk being out in the open once the victims were chained to the lightning rods. He ran down the corridor and slid back the bolt on the door. A robed figure streaked past him, shrieking hysterically and escaping too fast to waste time on pursuit. Damn! Mercy had tricked her way out. The gun, the robe, and her own clothes were gone. Rafe continued to curse in all the languages he knew, grabbed his own robe, and donned it on the run. He was angry enough to strangle her, but mostly he was scared to death for her sake. Why, now of all times, had she pulled a disappearing act? The fortress was a labyrinth; the town's streets were a maze. He could search all night and not find her ... if he had time to look. The approaching storm was hastening darkness, and everything depended on split-second timing. He ran to the courtyard gate where a warrior was leaning against one of the pillars of the gate, staring up at the roof where the sacrificial victims were waiting in fear. He had nothing to give the guard, and he didn't want to try killing him with his bare hands. Above all, he couldn't attract unwanted attention. He couldn't imagine being able to charm a Tamaran, but his only option was to try. His jaw dropped when the guard greeted him courteously, slightly inclining his head. Rafe wished him good health, a salutation he'd heard a few times, doubly surprised when the guard stood aside, making no effort to detain him. He had a 266


slave mark. No one else within the fortress had shown him anything but guarded contempt. “The female offlander, have you seen her recently?” he asked. “She went toward the pillar of Mosindah, father of Dah.” He pointed at a slender white column, apparently a memorial to a dead warlord, and glanced nervously at the sky. In a few minutes the courtyard and the town would be deserted, every Tamaran taking shelter from the electrical storm. “How long ago?” The Tamaran looked puzzled, not surprising since his concept of time was to divide the day into five periods based on the activities of the warlord. He obviously couldn't translate that into an offlander's concept of time. “Did she leave before they went to the roof?” Rafe asked, pointing at the victims whose heads could be seen from their vantage point. “Yes.” “Very long before?” He didn't have time to play a game of thirty questions, but he had to keep calm. A cooperative warrior was unique, and he had to believe Mercy had bribed the guard to make him cooperative. “No, no. Just before the shaman went up to....” His Instell apparently didn't cover whatever it was the holy man did before the sacrifice. “She said tell her master she went to the children. Tell no one else.” Rafe smiled grimly at the word “master.” She wouldn't acknowledge him as her master if he chained her to a wall, and sometimes that seemed like the only way to keep track of 267


her. He would have been amused if it hadn't been a life-anddeath situation. Did she have any idea how much danger she was in? Only Vasin's need for their technological know-how had kept her alive. He met Stash and Quisto in the boat they'd stolen from Vasin's pier and rowed to the end of the market barge, deserted now with the deck stripped of the merchandise and awnings. Quisto steadied the smaller craft while Stash gave him a hand to board. “Where's your squeeze?” Stash sounded almost as alarmed as Rafe felt. “Gone. She changed places with the female who brought food.” “Where the bloody hell did she go?” “To the kids, according to ... if you can believe it ... a friendly warrior on guard at the gate. If she stirs up everyone on the boats....” “We'll be food for the sea beastie at dawn,” Stash said anxiously. “Should I start the motor?” “No, we have to stick to our plan.” How could she do this to him ... to all of them? Rafe sat on one of the cross boards in the shallow boat, grabbing a paddle and fumbling for a minute until he and Stash got into the rhythm of pulling together. Quisto guided the boat past anchored crafts with a pole, trying to make sure they didn't collide with any of the close-packed barges that served as homes. It was a cumbersome system, but they managed to push past the tightly packed mass of crafts without attracting attention. Apparently the locals were 268


cowering inside their shelters on the decks, waiting for the awful wrath of the lightning god to strike. It was now or never. “If she's not with the kids, you and Quisto go on without me,” Rafe said. “She bloody well better be. Without that stun gun she's carrying, our chance of getting through control to the Hazard are about as good as those poor lizards coming down from the roof alive.” The storm was still offshore, but time was running out. They'd planned not to start the motor until they had to. The gauge showed a full tank of fuel, but they'd need every drop to tow the barge with the children to Hakara. They couldn't take even half of them in the small boat they'd stolen, not without swamping the craft. Rafe prayed the children's prison was seaworthy; it was promising to be a rough trip. The thunder was ominous now, and lightning split the skyline. The wind was freshening, helping them now, but they'd have to head into it once they'd tied a heavy rope from the children's craft to the motor boat. Quisto had spied on the prison craft while they worked on the computers. He was pretty sure the children were guarded by females. A pair of warriors brought baskets of rations every day, leaving them on the deck without having any contact with the guards or children. What Quisto couldn't determine for sure was how many Tamarans were watching the children. Rafe cursed under his breath: the stun gun would have made the operation much easier, but the three of them could 269


manage. What tormented him was the possibility they might have to leave Mercy behind. When Vasin discovered his hostages were gone, he'd be sure to avenge himself on her if she was still somewhere in the city. She couldn't possibly escape on her own. They could tell by the stench that they were approaching the least desirable anchorage where the poorest of the poor were forced to live. The cove was a dumping ground for the sea's debris, and it also served as a sewer for the inhabitants of the boats. Tonight the smell of rotting sea life was nauseating, but only a minor problem compared to what they saw when they came abreast of the place where the children's craft had been. It was gone. “Are you sure it was here?” Stash asked Quisto. “The dark can play tricks on your vision.” Quisto was crushed that his new space hero was questioning his word. “Right here. Exactly. Beside boat with striped sails on two poles.” “That's right over there,” Rafe said, pointing to the nearest craft. “I think she sailed it away.” He felt a tinge of totally irrational pride: Mercy had managed to get the kids away from there. He wouldn't have believed she could pull it off. “Bloody hell! I knew we should bring her in on the plan,” Stash said. “I know women, and....” “Stow it!” Rafe said. “It's my fault that she didn't know, but that doesn't tell us where they are now.” 270


“The big question is how long she'd been gone. Did she get away at the morning feed or the evening?” “Not even Mercy would hijack a boat in broad daylight.” “Tonight then. She can't have gone far.” “She's got to try for Hakara. The ambassador showed us a hiding place in the embassy. Her best bet would be to hide there until she could find a way to get them on board the Hazard.” “Can she launch on her own?” “She's never done it, but she'd smart enough to get into the computer. With enough time, she might figure it out.” “We'll bloody well have to catch up.” Stash crawled toward the outboard motor. “If we waste fuel finding her, chances are there won't be enough to tow the kids to Hakara. “Not to mention evading those infernal devils when Vasin finds out we've stolen the royal boat,” Stash agreed reluctantly. They did what had to be done, rowing like the devil was on their tails ... which he soon could be. The lightning was moving inland, giving them a head start as the Tamarans hid from their lightning god's terrible power. But the approach of the storm churned up the sea, and once they left the shelter of the cove, the boat was rocked by the choppiness. They were battered by the wind on the seaward side, and the rain began, blinding them and making it nearly impossible to know whether they were being swept farther out to sea. Rafe's shoulders ached from the strain of pulling an oar in heavy water, and he ripped a chunk from the soaked robe to 271


wrap around his hands, already feeling blistered from the punishing work. Quisto was no sailor: He cowered in the stern, his whimpers muted by the growing intensity of the storm. Rafe had had more than his share of close calls, but this topped them all: The waves were high enough to capsize the boat, and the lightning was getting close. “Head in!” Rafe gestured in the general direction of the shore and shouted to be heard. Talking was impossible, but Stash knew as well as he did that the small boat was in danger of being swamped at any moment. They couldn't be any good to Mercy or the children if they drowned. They pulled for their lives. They beached with the fury of the waves submerging them and no way of knowing where they were. All they could do was shelter in the boat while the storm raged around them. The storm was heading inland, lightning searing the sky and giving them brief glimpses of the beach and a cliff above them. “The bloody beast....” Stash yelled, the rest of his words lost. Rafe knew what he was thinking. If their senses had been too befuddled by the joy juice on their trip on Vasin's boat to notice directions, or if they'd been swept up the coast instead of down it in the violence of the storm, this could be the sea monster's cove. A bolt of lightning in the distance broke apart the sky making every flash that preceded it seem tame. Rafe imagined it hitting the fortress, surging through the terrified 272


victims of the barbaric sacrifice. He could imagine charred bodies, horrible death masks burned onto their faces. He trembled in horror, afraid none of them would ever leave the damned planet. The storm began to subside, the rain still heavy but thunder moving into the distance, no longer deafening. They climbed gingerly out of the boat, making sure to secure it with a rope to a rocky outcropping so the capricious sea wouldn't claim it. Without lightning or stars, they were operating in heavy darkness, but it was too soon to put out to sea. They had to determine where they were and where they had to go. Rafe walked the beach like a wild man, imagining the children's barge submerged by the sea, slowly plummeting to the bottom, taking all that he'd come to care about with it. He wanted to start a search immediately but knew Stash spoke with the voice of reason when he pointed out the futility of searching when they couldn't see their own hands in front of their faces. Quisto heard the first faint sound. “Listen, listen,” he frantically urged. Rafe heard it too: the unmistakable sound of a human child's cry. The two men followed Quisto, relying on his superior vision and hearing. The sound grew more distinct along with a low murmuring. With his sight obscured by torrential rainfall, Quisto nearly walked into the beached craft. 273


“Advocate Greer, I presume,” Rafe said loudly enough to be heard over the storm. “Rafe!” He wanted to show her how angry he was, but she jumped off the beached barge and into his arms, knocking them both down on the gritty sand of their landing place. “Thank heavens! You're alive! You're here!” He tried to get up but she threw herself onto his chest and kissed his face, forehead, cheeks, nose, chin, mouth. Especially his mouth. The force of her kisses did what no apology could have: softened his anger. Relief flowed through him like a lava flow, making him forget his reasons for being furious at her ... at least for the moment. “What have we here” Stash stepped on the deck, his voice gentle as he stooped and gathered several frightened children into his arms. He also brought Rafe back to reality. There were hugs all around as Rafe and Mercy joined him in trying to let the children know they were safe now. Quisto even let several curious youngsters run fingers over his soaked fur. Rafe got acquainted with the kidnapped children without really seeing them, but he knew when the little hazel-eyed girl clung to his leg. He lifted her and hugged her hard, learning her name was Marta. All the children seemed to realize they were back with their own kind. Protecting them was the heaviest burden Rafe had ever had to carry. They huddled together inside the children's tent: Mercy, Stash, Quisto, and the faceless little strangers who had brought Rafe there. Some slept; perhaps they all dozed a 274


little, but when a calm sky began to turn dull gray above them, there wasn't time for anything but desperate flight. Stash and Rafe pulled their smaller craft through churning waves at the water's edge, securing it to the barge with the rope they'd stolen along with the warlord's boat. Mercy did her best to calm and reassure their charges, dividing them into pairs: a bigger child to watch a smaller. They elected to launch the boats and get well offshore before using the motor. The beach was deserted, but they had no way of knowing how far sound would carry or how close the Tamarans might be. It took all the males, including four of the bigger boys, to push the barge into the water while Mercy paddled the motor boat ahead to keep it from being banged by the barge. Rafe and Stash took their places in the warlord's boat. Mercy and Quisto herded the children into the tent and provided comfort and reassurance, at least for now an adequate substitute for the food and water they'd soon need. Rafe didn't mention his worst fear about the cove. Stash had already picked up on it; he worked in grim silence, trying to get the motor to turn over. It was their only chance now. They had to get ahead of the pursuit that was sure to come as soon as Vasin realized what they'd done. The motor finally sputtered to life, and Stash headed toward open sea while Rafe anxiously scanned the waters of the cove, praying he was wrong about the cliff above them. He checked the stun gun Mercy had given him, needing to know how much power was left. She'd discharged it to 275


overcome the kids’ two guards, heaving them unconscious into the dugout she'd used to reach the barge. She'd kept it charged in the waterproof pouch; they could count on ten shots, no more. He figured it would take at least five to neutralize the officers inside the control center and the two they'd seen before outside by the booth. He'd like to know there were at least two to cover emergencies, such as opposition boarding the Hazard. That left three to use against a sea monster that could rip a person's leg from his torso. A hundred shots might not be powerful enough to kill it. The best they could hope was to temporarily confuse it. Rafe took one of the wooden paddles and slammed the end against the rail of the boat. It took three tries to crack the hard wood, and seven more blows to create a jagged point on the end of the second one. When he'd done it to both paddles, he had two crude harpoons. They probably wouldn't be enough, but he might make the beast angry enough to turn all his fury on him. It was the children's only chance. He didn't need to urge Stash to hurry. The space racer was coaxing maximum speed from the motor, but pulling the barge was slow work. Rafe scanned the calm surface of the dark water, too edgy to sit and afraid to blink for fear of missing a warning sign that the beast was near. He fervently hoped that the monster had gone out to sea to escape turbulent waters in the cove. All he saw at first was a hump. It was enough. The beast had come to feed even before the sun crested the horizon. 276


It raised itself close to the base of the cliff by treading water with its tentacles, a maneuver with considerable grace ... and menace. Nothing crashed into the water to appease its appetite. “I see it,” Rafe warned. “We're at the max,” Stash replied. Rafe knew it, but he watched the mammoth sea beggar grow more and more agitated as the creatures on land failed to appear and provide food. The moment had to come. The beast lacked patience, swimming around the cove with only its giant domed head breaking the surface. Rafe knew the moment it honed in on its prey, whether by sight, sound, or smell he couldn't tell. The sea monster saw its chance and headed toward them at a speed that far exceeded theirs. Mercy had assigned Quisto to keep the children inside the shelter, but she was on deck, seemingly mesmerized by the legendary creature bearing down on them. “It's here!” Rafe shouted. This was the only warning he had time to give. He splashed in the water with one of the harpoons, diverting the beast from the barge where Mercy was the most vulnerable. The beast seemed to have reasoning powers. It swam beside the boat, cautious of the motor, letting swells wash over its partially submerged head. Rafe had the gun in his hand, the two poles at the ready. His guts churned with fear when the beast rose up and snaked one huge tentacle toward him. He forced himself to 277


ignore the purplish-black arm that could deliver him into the jaws of death. He couldn't hurt the beast enough to stop him by attacking a single tentacle. He yelled at Stash to slow the boat; he couldn't risk being thrown off balance if the boat hit a swell going fast. The creature was every bit as sadistic as Vasin had described him. The tentacle was as thick as Rafe's thigh, but the beast moved it with delicacy, tentatively touching Rafe with the tip. The loathsome appendage slid up his leg, curled around his buttocks as though to beguile him, then slowly slid around his upper torso. Finding no resistance, it swam closer so its huge head was up against the side of the boat, its opaque black eyes as frightening as anything Rafe had ever seen. The gun was in firing position. He pulled the release slowly, knowing he had to be accurate or die in the next few seconds. Stash moved close, picking up one of the harpoons. Rafe aimed at one of the beast's eyes, the only place where he could be sure of hitting a soft membrane. The monster leaped upward in surprise when the surge hit his eye dead-center, withdrawing its tentacle to flap it furiously around its head. Rafe fired again into the other eye, hoping at best for a few seconds of confusion. A surge that would stun a man would only annoy a beast this size. He grabbed the other splintered weapon. They rammed them both into the creature's eyes, puncturing the membrane at almost the same moment. Inky fluid burst out and soaked them as the beast recoiled, tentacles flying wildly around its body and head. 278


The beast thrashed at the water, still able to swamp and destroy them in its’ mindless death spasm. Stash was already at the controls while Rafe used Quisto's pole to push the monster away. It snapped and left him holding a mere stick, but they were pulling away, black blood churning around them as the boat pulled its unwieldy burden away from the beast's death throes. Rafe was shaking uncontrollably. He heard Mercy's frantic call but was too shaken to reassure her. He sank to his knees and pulled off the gore-soaked robe, tossing it into the sea. When they were well clear, he stripped and washed himself and his clothes, scrubbing as if he could cleanse himself of all memories of the monster. “Now all we have to worry about is Vasin and his goons,” Stash said, turning control of the boat over to Rafe so he too could wash away the sea beast's taint.

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Chapter 16 MERCY WANTED to go to Rafe, even if it meant swimming through water blackened by the sea monster's blood. She'd knelt at the bow of the barge, frozen with horror, while he and Stash killed the beast, and minutes later she was still shaking. Seeing him so close to death had made her sick with regret for not trusting him enough to wait. She had so much to say to him, but it couldn't be shouted from one craft to the other. He must have felt her eyes on him because he turned and gave a mock salute. At least she knew he was still cocky. If it weren't for the children, she would have gotten to him somehow, but she was swamped with responsibilities. Now that the children were awake, they were agitated, excited, frightened ... and hungry. She and Quisto had to divide the meager store of rations on the barge, and the water situation would soon be critical. Even more urgent, she had to learn the children's names, give them reassurance, and let them know what to expect when they approached Hakara. She found herself surrogate mother to twenty-seven young ones hungry for attention, affection, and answers to so many questions they made her head spin. Quisto helped her keep her sanity. Much as he'd earlier seemed to dislike being petted and pawed, he let the smaller children sit on his lap while even the older ones were allowed to stroke his fur and marvel at his feline ears. 280


As the sun grew hotter, they huddled in the shelter of the tent, the flap closed because the reflection on the water was too bright for Atherans who'd been forced to stay out of sight during the daylight hours. The trip to Hakara was much quicker by sea than by land, but fear of pursuit made it seem interminable. When the men finally beached the craft at the base of a high cliff, Mercy jumped into the shallow water and ran toward the motor boat. Rafe saw her coming and turned his back. “I'm sorry.” What else could she say? “It doesn't matter.” He joined Stash, hauling the barge until the bottom scraped on the gritty shoreline. “You could've told me what you were planning!” She had to shout over the breaking of waves on the beach and the excited outbursts of the children. Rafe didn't answer. She wanted to punish him, pummel him, make him see her point of view. Mostly she wanted his arms around her ... but that wasn't going to happen, not with all those avid eyes watching. “Damn space tramp,” she muttered under her breath, then turned her attention to the more immediate problem of getting to the Hazard. It didn't look good. Rafe and Stash were scanning the sea, azure-blue and calm now with no sign of pursuing boats. They seemed satisfied with the watery horizon, but the cliff was another problem. 281


“We have to get up there,” she said pointing. “No chance, love,” Stash said. “It leads straight to the embassy. It's our only chance to get into Hakara.” Rafe roamed up and down the beach, returning to them with a bad report. “Sheer rock walls block the way on either end. We go straight up, or we don't leave this beach.” He started untying the tow rope while Stash rummaged around on the barge, discovering that the tent was anchored to the deck with a network of ropes attached to metal rings. “Will the tent ropes do it, do you think?” Stash asked. It was the first time Mercy had heard him sound anything but sure of himself. “They'll have to go. Give me your knife,” Rafe ordered Mercy without calling her by name. The slender blade was still secure in the inner slot of her boot. She handed it over silently, then tried to calm the children and keep them all together, although a couple of the older boys were unruly, not wanting any restraints after their long captivity. When Stash rounded them up and charged them with the responsibility of keeping watch over the “girls and young ones,” they settled down. Girls, indeed! The two men worked quickly and silently, joining the short lengths of rope from the barge to the tow rope, occasionally asking the bigger boys to help pull loose the tent moorings. This rope looked terribly thin compared to the thick, sturdy tow rope, but Mercy didn't say anything. Their only chance 282


was to get up the cliff, regardless of how scary the prospect was. When they were done, they had a long length of rope knotted in a dozen places. Rafe and Stash played a deadly serious game of tug-of-war to test the strength of every knot. “Ready as we can be.” Stash sounded grim as he tied one end around his waist and tossed the other to Rafe. Their plan was obvious. Linked together for safety, they were going to try to scale the sheer wall of the cliff. “When we drop the rope down, you'll have to secure it around the kids, one at a time beginning with the smallest.” Rafe put his hand on the tangled hair of a bright-eyed little girl who stared up at him with adoration. Stash showed how he planned to loop the end of the rope and explained to all the children how they would be hauled up one at a time. “It will take a bloody long time,” he said, “but it's the only way.” Mercy's heart was in her throat as the two men inched their way upward, grasping for precarious hand and toe holds, only one moving at a time so the other served as an anchor. She couldn't have done it herself. Her vertigo kicked in just watching them. The climb seemed endless, but at last they reached the top and tossed the rope over the cliff. She could see the other end was tied around Stash's waist while Rafe lay on his stomach and leaned over the edge ready to pull. The system worked well for the smaller children, over twothirds of the group, but when the heavier ones began their 283


ascent, the rope had a tendency to rub against a rocky outcropping. “Kick away from the face of the cliff with your legs,” she told each as she secured the rope. “Don't let the rope scrape the rocks.” She could see Rafe checking the tightness of the knots after each child was safely on the summit, but the joints weren't their big worry. The heavier the child, the greater the tendency for the robe to rub against irregularities in the wall of the cliff. The tow rope was thick enough to stand the strain, but the tent ropes from the barge were flimsy in comparison. When the last child was hauled to the top, she insisted that Quisto go next ... partly because she was dreading the ascent and partly because the men would need his help to pull her weight up the sheer cliff. He left reluctantly; they'd come a long way together. She couldn't make out Rafe's words, but he was yelling something as he watched the rope snake down to her. She weighed half as much again as Quisto and the largest of the children. Rafe was silhouetted against the sun at the top of the cliff, and she wanted to be up there with him so badly her teeth hurt from clenching her jaws. She remembered his earlier accusation, but she did have what it took to see this mission through. Rope secured under her arms, she grabbed it with both hands, intending to use the cliff-walking technique that looked so easy when Quisto did it. 284


She felt the rope begin to move, but it hit a snag while she was still dangling a body's length from the ground. She looked up, but an outcropping of rock hid Rafe from her sight. Swinging her legs, she pushed against the wall, hoping to help. An instant later she hit the ground. Flat on her back with a length of rope across her legs, she was too stunned for a minute to realize what had happened. She sat up gingerly, then was able to stand, shading her eyes and looking up at the cliff. A section of tent rope, perhaps rotted by excessive dampness, had snagged on the outcropping, breaking some fibers. The rest had probably broken under her weight. Backing up, she saw Rafe looking down at her. She walked and waved her arms to show she wasn't seriously injured. At least the beach was relatively soft, and the fall had been nothing compared to what it could have been. But she was down, and they were up, and she was no climber. Without a rope, her chance of reaching the top was nonexistent. Rafe had to save the children. If he tried rescuing her first, time would run out. Vasin would find them, and their fate would be horrible. She signaled emphatically, waving her arms and hands, mentally trying to will him to leave without her. “Go, go, go!” She screamed, hoping her voice would carry, or her signals would convince him to leave her behind. For a few terrible moments, she thought Rafe would try to climb back down for her. It would be much more risky going down than up, and he wouldn't have Stash's weight as an anchor. The two men were talking earnestly, but she couldn't 285


hear what they were saying. Then Rafe leaned over and shouted down with the full volume of his deep voice. “....be back!” Again she waved urgently, motioning him to go. His head disappeared. He'd left with the children, Stash, and Quisto. She'd never felt so alone in her life. Rafe had said he'd be back. She didn't believe it. She'd brought him there to rescue the children. They'd come this far; he wouldn't let them fall into a warlord's clutches. That meant taking them to the Hazard and leaving. There was no alternative. She trusted him to save the children. Coming back for her wasn't an option. For the second time in her life, she was wholly on her own. She thought of the birth parents she'd never seen, the abusive state-appointed guardians she'd fled as soon as she was old enough to join a gang of street urchins, and her loving, kind, adoptive parents. If this was her end, at least she'd had their love. Did Rafe love her? Certainly he desired her, but was he still in love with his dead wife? Maybe Mercy had never had a chance with him. Now she would never know. One thing she did know: She wasn't going to wait passively for Vasin to torture and kill her. Her head would never stare sightlessly from atop a pole. She ached from the fall, but nothing seemed to be broken. She walked the beach as far as she could, but Rafe had been right about not being able to pass the rock of wall that came 286


down to the sea. Water was crashing against huge boulders, and she lost her last hope. She slowly walked back to the spot where the craft were beached. How long would it be before ominous sails appeared on the horizon? Did Vasin have other motorized craft at his disposal? Would he come himself or send warriors to reclaim his stolen boat and take vengeance? She couldn't fight them. Her knife was her only weapon, and it wasn't good for much besides splicing rope. The barge was a grounded hulk, the ancient sails that had taken it as far as the monster's cove ripped away in the storm until only rotten remnants hung from the mast. Even if she could push it back into the water by herself ... which was highly unlikely ... it could only float on the currents. Any skilled sailor would find her easy prey. Her only hope was the motor boat. She pushed it off shore until the water lapped at her waist, then got aboard and checked it out. She was grateful to find a half-consumed bottle of joy juice, which she downed immediately to slake her raging thirst. Too anxious to feel intoxicated, she checked the motor, pulling a start-line to bring it sputtering to life. It died before she could sit on the seat bolted to the deck. The reason was no mystery: the fuel gauge showed empty. She got the motor to turn over several more times, but without fuel, she wasn't going anywhere. She watched helplessly while the boat slowly drifted back to the shore. Escape by land or sea was impossible. Now she could only sit and await her fate. 287


She fingered the knife and found the blade dull, not surprising after Rafe used it to saw rope. He would come back for her if he could, but she trusted him to do what was right: Get the children aboard the Hazard and away from Tamar. She didn't want him to come back to die with her. Sooner or later Vasin would find her. She pressed the flat side of the knife against her inner wrist. It wasn't what she wanted to do, but she wasn't going to be taken alive by the warlord. She trudged to the base of the cliff and sat with her back propped against the solid rock, looking out at the sea, watching for the first telltale blur of a sail on the horizon. **** WITH THE SUN sinking on the horizon, it was Rafe who saw a glint of silver sail in the distance from his vantage point at the top of the cliff. What he didn't see was Mercy. The abandoned crafts were still beached on the shoreline, water slapping against their hulls, but the tent was flattened, offering no concealment. Mercy was gone, but where could she go? He felt an icy fear, worse even then when he'd faced the sea monster. He crawled to the very edge, peering over. The same rocky outcropping that had severed the rope prevented him from seeing the base of the cliff. He looked around frantically and found a loose rock the size of his fist. Standing at the edge, he threw with all his strength, watching as it plopped into the waves rolling against the beach. A moment later Mercy bounded out of the shadow of the cliff and waved frantically, pointing at the still distant sails. 288


He had another life line, a long heavy-duty cord from the embassy. He'd found it rolled on a large spool in one of the out-buildings and hadn't bothered to worry about its original use ... probably to operate garden equipment when the Atheran headquarters had been a beautiful showplace. All he knew was that it should be long enough: just long enough. There wasn't any to spare, which meant he couldn't secure it to any of the boulders lying well back from the edge of the cliff. He had to anchor it himself. He knotted it around his waist. He and Mercy would live or die together. Lowering it hand-over-hand, he watched anxiously until it was dangling within reach of Mercy's outstretched hands. She could reach it, but there was none left to tie it around her torso. “Oh, baby,” he said fervently. “Make yourself do this. Climb, Mercy, climb!” Held in his arms, Mercy would feel feather-light. Suspended at the end of an electrical cord, she seemed as heavy as a carload of iron. She managed to pull herself the first few meters, but she was a lousy climber. He'd had to boost her behind on even a short climb. He was terrified she couldn't make it. He started pulling, backing up, no longer able to see her. With more time and more cord, he might have been able to go down and help her, but the sails were moving fast, and he could only pray this line wouldn't break and she wouldn't loose her grip. His shoulders were on fire; the veins on his arms stood out like exposed tree roots. He inched backward, dying to check 289


on her, but he needed every bit of leverage he could get by digging his heels into an indentation he found in the rocky ground. “Are you with me, Mercy? Hang on, sweetheart. We can do this. Don't let up!” He shouted encouragement, not even sure she was high enough to hear. He pulled with renewed vigor when he heard her muffled voice. When he saw the tips of her fingers groping for the edge of the cliff, he dropped down on his hands and knees. The moment when he was able to grab her wrists and pull her to safety was the happiest of his life. “The children,” she gasped, falling face down on the ground. “On the Hazard.” He looked at the horizon. A silver-sailed boat was leading the others. It had caught the wind and was closing in on the shore, promising to make land soon. He'd cut it close ... but not too close. The Tamarans on the boats couldn't pursue them now, but he had other worries. “You came back.” She rose to her feet, flushed and shaky but struggling to recover. “I told you I would. You can trust me.” “I do, but the children had to come first.” “Let's go. If we're not back when the navigational sequence is finished, the Hazard will leave without us.” He didn't have to explain what that meant. He took her hand and forced her to run until they got to stone stairs that led to the rear entrance of the embassy. He found the way easily this time, but even a delay of a few seconds could 290


doom then to sure death on Tamar. Vasin wasn't the forgiving type. He led her through the secret entrance to the embassy hiding place and out the front, hoping against hope that they wouldn't encounter any curious warriors. The area was relatively deserted. He could only guess that the purge against Dah's followers had taken most of the warriors into the interior. But reaching the space docks would be even more dicey than it had been with the children. Someone might have missed the control officers and guards ... and the stun gun tucked into his waistband was only a prop now, the last of its resources exhausted gaining access to the Hazard. The pounded through the ambassador's residence and down the roadway to the city. She staggered and tripped several times, and he was so exhausted every step was an ordeal. “How did you....” She didn't have breath to spare for questions, a blessing because he was too winded to answer. The sun was sinking low; they had less than an hour of daylight left, but the stifling heat was draining him. He worried that Mercy might collapse, but she kept up, clutching his hand and breathing hard. There wasn't time to pick their way carefully over the slippery boards that made up the rotting pathway to the docks. Once she went down hard on one knee, saved by his hand, and his foot plunged through a spongy board, giving his ankle a nasty twist he had to ignore. The two guards lay as he'd left them, packed into their small guard booth, still deeply unconscious from stun gun 291


blasts. He pulled her harder, imagining the launch sequence in his head and dreading hearing the rumble that would mean they'd been left behind. “Stash will wait,” she gasped. “He'll want to, but I activated the computers. He doesn't have the code to stop them.” “Good.” He knew she was approving his desperate measure to insure that the children would leave no matter what happened to the two of them. The control center was as he'd left it too, the Tamaran officers sprawled behind their desk. He'd expended the last charges of the stun gun on them. Now all that lay between them was a long, dark climb up the stairs to the bridge and a long run to the ship. He squeezed her hand and pulled her mercilessly along behind him. The stench grew unbearable, making them both struggle to breathe, but they reached the bridge and started pounding toward the ship. They ambassador was standing where he'd positioned himself, the antique firearm braced on his shoulder. “Come with us!” Mercy screamed, making a desperate attempt to break free of Rafe to safe the old man. Rafe saw the ambassador smile and gently shake his head. The weary old civil servant would die a hero's death. Rafe had promised to tell his story on Athera and see that a memorial was erected to comfort his family. Both knew he couldn't go into space and live, and he'd chosen to stay in his post as long as he was alive. 292


He pushed Mercy up through the hatch and clambered aboard himself, the opening automatically closing as the last step in the countdown. His last act on Tamar was to salute Ambassador Jules August. Mercy was already securing a belt in a takeoff seat when he dropped down beside her. He was still breathing heavily when a familiar shudder sent the Hazard blasting toward space. “Where are the children?” “In safety seats in the hold. Quisto's playing nursemaid. He's darn good at it.” When it was safe to move around, they found Stash at the controls. “I owe you for that,” Stash railed. “Locking me out of the computer so I couldn't scrub the liftoff. What if you didn't get back?” “What if we'd brought a platoon of black shirts with us? How long do you thing the ambassador's bullets would hold them off?” “Glad to see you, pretty lady. When that space tramp is in la-la land, maybe we can get better acquainted.” He grinned winningly and let Rafe know he was only semi-serious. “Rafe ... how many hyper-sleep tanks do you have?” “Enough.” “But I thought....” He could see her doing the arithmetic in her head. “We're two short.” “Maybe we won't have to worry about that,” Stash said urgently. “Check the screen.” 293


“How do you read it?” “Tamaran war ship. Vasin wanted to be sure we didn't get away and alert the Coalition to his nasty little plan. They may steal all their technology, but they know what to do with their functional ships.” “I guess we won't have to lie awake waiting for a war to start.” “I'll take evasive action.” “It won't do a damn bit of good,” Rafe said. “The Hazard can't out-maneuver one of those Bachus Nine-Twelves.” “After all that....” Mercy's voice was ragged with dismay. “Belt in. We'll give it a try.” Rafe took the controls while Stash monitored the course of the alien ship on the screen. “We're in their bead,” Stash said urgently. Rafe turned his head for an instant. “I love you, Mercy.” He heard her startled gasp, then blocked out everything except the ship that was going to blast them out of existence. Or maybe not. Stash hooted and jumped up, engulfing Rafe in a bear hug and leaning over to plant an energetic kiss on the astonished O of Mercy's mouth. The two men laughed, congratulated each other, and pounded backs. “Have you gone mad?” Mercy asked. “Probably,” Rafe agreed. “Vasin's prize ship just selfdestructed down to a molecular state, and we're outta here.” “How? Tell me, Rafe!” He swept her into his arms and kissed her long and hard, but Mercy wasn't easily distracted. 294


“Let's put the kiddies to bed, and I'll tell you.” She sputtered; she swore. She threatened to turn the Hazard into a tour ship to the moon. He was so happy he forgot he was dead-tired. Bedding down twenty-seven children for hypersleep made overpowering a sea beast seem like child's play. They had to be fed, watered, bathed, and given immeasurable turns in the head. Stash gave them all haircuts, and Mercy deloused and shampooed them as far as the water supply allowed. Twenty-seven children had to be hugged, cuddled, and reassured. “We'll find your Uncle Joshua,” Mercy assured one worried girl. “If any of you have relatives, the infobanks on Athera will locate them. I promise.” “What if I don't?” “Then you'll stay with me forever,” she assured the hazeleyed little beauty who'd captured Rafe's heart at first sight. When all the children were tucked in for the half-year trip back to Athera, two sleep tanks were left. “We could flip a coin,” Stash suggested sportingly. Rafe shook his head. “I don't need hypersleep to conk out for a long, long sleep.” “Little rascals ask a lot of questions, don't they?” Stash asked. “You're the captain of the Hazard. I guess it's your call who sleeps.” “I'm sorry about your ship,” Rafe said. He knew what a blow it was.

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“There are other ships,” Stash said, “but this is the only skin I have. I've gotten partial to it. Are you two okay on food, water, entertainment?” “Rafe will keep busy reading,” Mercy said. “Really? I've never heard it called that, mate.” He winked. They left Stash and Quisto to prepare for hypersleep. Rafe knew what was coming, but he also knew he was the captain in space. “Tell me now!” “First clean up, have a bite to eat. That's what I intend to do.” “I want to know why you and Stash were so happy. If the Tamarans can launch a graveyard full of ships now....” He ignored her. They had plenty of time, and he needed to catch up on a lot of life's pleasures, including for once having the upper hand with Advocate Greer and chucking every stitch of clothing on his body out the disposal. **** MERCY HAD FORGOTTEN how good it felt to be clean. The ship recycled its own water, so she didn't feel guilty about hitting the shower knob for jet after jet of wonderful cleansing spray. Squeaky clean from head to foot, she pulled on a pink sleeping shirt that covered her from throat to knees and went to find Rafe. “What happened to the Tamaran ship, and how can you and Stash possibly be so happy when you're guilty of treason?” “Come here.” 296


He was lounging on one of the bunks, naked except for a pair of white briefs that made his skin look golden tan. “Tell me. I'm too tired for games.” He shook his head and patted a sliver of space beside him. “If you're not going to come to your captain, your captain will come to you.” He lunged at her, pulling her down on the bunk and pinning her with his body. “A virus,” he whispered in a husky voice that made her forget the question. “A virus.” His hands were under her shirt, inching upward while she squirmed in a half-hearted attempt to escape. “Stash and I planted a virus in the Tamaran's system.” “But how?” She gave him her full attention. “Do you remember when I complained about someone switching parts on me while the Hazard was docked on Athera?” “Yes, but....” “And I had to navigate manually through the asteroid belt.” “Yes.” His eyes were serious. She wanted to see them sparkle with happiness, green glints flashing at her, but she couldn't throw off her reservations; she couldn't get past the days he'd spent working for Vasin, becoming a traitor to his own kind. She would willingly give him her life for saving the children, but she couldn't give her heart to a man who'd 297


betrayed the Coalition. The possibility of intergalactic war was horrible beyond imagination. Her father had given all his talents and ability to preventing such a catastrophe, and her own loyalty was the foundation of her life. “Unlocking the diagnostics for Vasin's odd-ball fleet wasn't the difficult part, Stash and I planted the virus from my defective, substitute system into Vasin's.” “That's why that ship exploded instead of destroying us?” “I have to believe that.” “And his other ships?” “Screwed.” “Why didn't you tell me? How could you keep me in the dark? I didn't even know your plans to rescue the children.” “I'm sorry.” He sounded as it he meant it. “The stakes were high, and I knew you'd be Vasin's first victim if he ever suspected we were trying to sabotage his fleet. What you didn't know, you couldn't be persuaded to tell his torturers.” “I shouldn't have doubted you.” She hid her face against his chest, allowing him to stroke her damp, unbraided hair. It was more than she could assimilate after all that had happened. She lost consciousness, exhausted beyond human endurance. She awoke in his arms, his breath tickling her ear and his hand caressing her bottom, warming her flesh and arousing her even before she was fully awake. Sometime while she was sleeping, he'd discarded his briefs. She stretch lazily, wiggling out of her sleep shirt to low, appreciative whistles. “Rafe....” 298


“Umm?” “It takes a long time to get to Athera. Have you ever been in space that long without hypersleep?” “Never.” “What can we do?” “I had in mind a honeymoon.” He kissed her breasts, taking his time and teasing her nipples with his teeth. “You mean....” Oh, how she loved to be touched by his sure, hard fingers and aroused by his talented tongue. He made her want things she'd never thought of trying. “I love you, Mercy.” He said it so softly it was like honey nourishing her soul. He had magical lips and mischievous fingers, and he used both until she wanted to be absorbed into him. No physical closeness was enough, even though she craved it with fervent enthusiasm. “Are you talking about real love, not like: ‘I love food’ or ‘I love racing?'” “Real, forever love. I want to wake up with you every morning and chase you into bed every night.” “Assuming I'll run.” “Tell me you love me, Mercy. Say you'll marry me.” “I do love you.” She punctuated it with a long, hungry kiss. “But I'm afraid.” “You afraid? You're the bravest human I've ever met. I was afraid you'd jump in the water and polish off the sea monster yourself. What kind of hero would that make me?” 299


“I did think of it, but you were doing fine.” “Are you afraid of marrying a space tramp?” There was a trace of bitterness in his voice, and when she tried to fondle his erection, he restrained her hand. She didn't know how to answer. She couldn't imagine life without him ... or with him. “Where would we live?” He was quiet for such a long time, she was afraid he'd take back his proposal. “It's time,” he said solemnly. “Time for what?” “Maybe to grow up. I love being in space, but it's no place to raise children. No place for you to practice your profession.” “But if you sacrifice for me....” “It won't be a sacrifice. I know ships better than most, even the experts. I have some ideas on how to improve them. I don't want to waste any more of my life in oblivion, lost in hypersleep on intergalactic flights. Marry me, Mercy. Please.” “I won't be your first wife.” “No, and I won't stop loving her, but I'm whole again because of you. I love you deeply, completely. You're my future, Mercy, and for the first time since my world fell apart, I want a future.” “How do you feel about being father to twenty-seven children?” She was teasing, but her worry about their future was real. 300


“Plus a dozen or so of our own?” He rubbed against her, his eagerness to make love to her obvious. “Most will have relatives to claim them.” “I'd like to keep the little dark-haired one. She has no relatives.” “Me too.” “Mostly I'd like to keep you.” “I'd like to be kept ... at least, I'd like to marry you. Can we start the honeymoon now?” She reached down and placed his member where she wanted it, between her waiting thighs. “Consider this the official beginning.” He plunged deep and hard inside her, and not all the stars were outside the ship. *** PAM ROCK is a pseudonym for the mother-daughter writing team of Barbara Andrews and Pam Hanson. Barbara had twenty-one books to her credit and Pam was a journalist when they teamed up several years ago. Four of their previous futuristic romances were published by Love Spell. STAR SEARCHER was a finalist in the 1996 Affaire de Coeur Reader's Awards and the 1997 Write Touch: Readers Award contest. MERCY'S MISSION is the pair's first e-published book, and both Pam and Barbara are thrilled to be a part of this exciting new endeavor!

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Mercy's Mission

Mission

Mission

Mission

Mackenzie's Mission

Monster Mission

Mission road

Mission Carnal

Honors Mission

Honors Mission

Mission road

Mission road

Mission Farpoint

Mission Road

Spocks Mission

Tödliche Mission

Mackenzie's Mission

Mission Touchdown

Honors Mission

Final Mission

Mission Farpoint

Night Mission

Die Mission

Mission- Irresistible

Night Mission

Mission Canyon

Mission Arktis

Feuersterns Mission

Mission Menage

Mission Compromised

Feuersterns Mission

Mercy's Mission

Mission

Mission

Mission

Mackenzie's Mission

Monster Mission

Mission road

Mission Carnal

Honors Mission

Honors Mission

Mission road

Mission road

Mission Farpoint

Mission Road

Spocks Mission

Tödliche Mission

Mackenzie's Mission

Mission Touchdown

Honors Mission

Final Mission

Mission Farpoint

Night Mission

Die Mission

Mission- Irresistible

Night Mission

Mission Canyon

Mission Arktis

Feuersterns Mission

Mission Menage

Mission Compromised

Feuersterns Mission

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