Blood Will Tell (3 page)

Lestan Fels was a Gaian native. It was a freelance assignment with a mining company that had brought him to Iradia, where he fell in love with the beautiful red-haired daughter of a silk weaver from Aldis Nova. That much Miala knew, but what exactly had transpired when she was barely six months old, her father would never say. All she knew was that her mother had left, apparently with the remainder of his earnings from the mining contract. Lestan ended up trapped on Iradia with an infant daughter to raise and no immediate prospects of returning to his home world. It was not in his nature to complain, but Miala knew he hated Iradia almost as much as she did.

When he had been missing for two days, she’d known that the worst must have happened. Although of course Lestan hadn’t told her for whom he was working, it didn’t take a differential equation to figure out that there were only one or two potential clients in the area who had both the need for that high-level a security system as well as the means to pay for it.

Not knowing what else to do, she’d gone to the local Gaian garrison to make a report. Unlike most of the other inhabitants of Aldis Nova, who maintained that Iradia was a sovereign world and should not have to submit to any sort of Gaian presence, she was on good enough terms with the troops stationed there. Perhaps the rumors of Gaian oppression were true, perhaps not. All she knew was that the presence of the squad of soldiers and the officers who led them kept at least a semblance of order in the rough desert town. Certainly she would not have been able to walk the streets so freely if it weren’t for Captain Malick and his men.

It was Captain Malick who saw her, and for that she was grateful; he was young for the post and had always been friendly. Too much so, her father had grumbled—he didn’t like the idea of his daughter flirting with the leader of the local garrison. Miala hadn’t seen what the problem was. Captain Malick was charming and only seven or eight years older than she, and certainly of a far higher caliber than the local boys, who talked incessantly of target practice with the local fauna or tricking out their skimmers and not much else. At least Gerald Malick was educated and well-spoken, which was more than she could say of the boys her own age.

But when she sat down in his office and poured out her troubles to him, at first he had looked away, his pleasant features clouded.

“We can file a missing-persons report, of course,” he said formally, and she could see his blue eyes shift past her to the two soldiers standing on either side of his open door.

“How can he be missing if I’m pretty sure I know where he is?” she demanded, and after that he stood and palmed the door shut, then returned to his desk.

“I wish I could help you, Mia,” he said, and even the sound of her father’s nickname on his lips had brought the tears she had been suppressing for too long to her eyes.

“Why can’t you, Captain Malick?” She had been deliberately formal, using his title, although she had spoken his given name before in private.

Even though the door was shut, he had lowered his voice. “The GDF has a policy of not getting involved in Mast’s affairs. We leave him alone, and he leaves us alone to do as we wish. The arrangement has worked thus far.”

“Even if innocent people are involved?”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

She’d wanted to hate him then, but couldn’t; the dismay in his face was all too obvious. He wasn’t responsible for the Gaian government’s edicts and was only trying to make the best of a difficult situation. An officer who asked too many questions would soon find himself on the fast track to nowhere—although she couldn’t think of many posts worse than Iradia. It was, as she’d heard one of the soldiers comment once, the “ass-end of space.”

“So what am I supposed to do?” she’d asked at length. “Just pretend that nothing’s happened?”

“That would be the wisest course, yes.” Unexpectedly, he had reached out and taken one of her hands in his. “I know this is improper of me, but—”

She’d narrowed her eyes then, wondering what was going to come next. Unwanted advances were certainly the last thing she needed right now.

But he had surprised her. “I have enough saved to get you off-world. You could be in danger, if your father has let Mast know that he has family here. Let me get you away from here—my tour is over in three months, and I could come see you before I’m sent on to my next post.”

The unexpected generosity almost undid her. It would have been so easy to let Captain Malick take care of her, hustle her off-world to someplace safe. Perhaps he had convinced himself that he was in love with her, or perhaps it was merely some sense of old-fashioned honor that spurred him to attempt her rescue.

She hadn’t known what to say. She’d made a few inarticulate attempts, had begun to really cry, then let him fold her into his arms and hold her while she wept. If nothing else, it had felt good to have his strong arms around her, to feel the reassuring roughness of his uniform jacket against her cheek.

In the end she had been able to leave without really promising anything, knowing even then that she would never forgive herself if she didn’t do something to avenge her father’s death. What poor Captain Malick thought of her disappearance, she didn’t want to contemplate. Probably that Mast’s goons had spirited her away, finishing the job once and for all.

But now Mast was dead, along with all the rest of his hangers-on. It wouldn’t be too long before the next piece of scum rushed in to fill the vacuum his death had caused, but Miala thought she had a few days before the news spread. She only hoped that a few days would be enough.

The compound was empty of all but a few maintenance mechs, for which she was thankful. She never thought she’d be grateful for Mast’s raging ego, but obviously he had wanted the largest audience possible for his latest—and last—round of executions.

There was the slightest shift of the hand that lay beneath hers, and she glanced down, startled. Thorn did look better after all; the shadows under his eyes seemed a little less black, and that frightening grayish tint had disappeared from his face. And now she could actually see his chest rising and falling as he breathed, sending the healing oxygen through his body.

“You’re too mean to die, aren’t you?” she asked, but softened the words by reaching up to touch the dark wavy hair at his temple, now matted with blood. Once he had recovered enough, he was definitely going to need a good cleaning-up.

Miala wasn’t sure, but she thought she saw the smallest quirk at the corner of his mouth. Then again, it could have just been a trick of the lighting.

Speaking of cleaning up
, she thought, looking down at herself as if for the first time. The right side of her tunic was splattered with blood, and she was streaked with grime everywhere. Thorn looked as if he were holding on, and now she could think of nothing else but an extended spell in a shower. And clean clothes. There had to be something fit for use somewhere in the compound.

After rousing the mech and instructing it to keep a close watch on Thorn, Miala went down the hall and up to the third story, where she knew the slave girls’ dormitory was located. That is, everyone referred to them as “bond servants” to pay lip service to Gaian laws, but “slave” was a lot closer to the mark, and as long as the whole sordid business was kept more or less quiet, no one interfered too much. Miala had always felt sorry for the girls and wished she could do something to help them, but they were far beyond help now. However, the rooms they once occupied were probably her best chance at finding the toiletries she needed, along with a change of clothes.

Sure enough, the bath chamber was stocked with all sorts of little luxuries; apparently Mast liked his slave girls sweet-smelling and moisturized before he loaned them out as “favors” to the scumbags who came to visit from time to time. Miala stood in the shower for at least a half-hour, reveling in the warm water that cascaded through her filthy hair and washed the grime from her body. In her own meager house the shower had a five-minute timer, to save water, but obviously Mast did not care to participate in Iradia’s mandatory water rationing. She had to wash her hair three times before she felt it was clean enough, and it was utter bliss to finally cleanse her face of the dirt and false blemishes she had adopted as part of her disguise.

After that she dried off and then wrapped the towel around herself, going in search of something to wear. Although Miala didn’t doubt Eryk Thorn would enjoy waking up to see her in one of the slave girls’ scantier ensembles, she had something a little more substantial in mind. She had seen several of the girls when they arrived at the compound, and they had worn ordinary enough clothing. It had to be around here someplace.

As it was, shoved into the farthest corner of the wardrobe that all of the girls had apparently shared. Miala thought she even recognized the fitted tunic and loose pants the Eridani girl Genna had first worn when she came to Mast’s compound. That was good, because Genna was closer to Miala’s size than any of the other slave girls, and the outfit fit very well.

It felt odd, to be wearing a dead girl’s clothing, but Genna certainly didn’t need it anymore, and Miala did. Besides, the feel of something besides rough synthetics against her skin was pure heaven. The low-necked dark tunic and pants were obviously made of the local moon-moth silk, sleek and elegantly draped. And the clothing wasn’t any of the endless variations on off-white, ivory, and beige that were ubiquitous on Iradia as a defense against the heat and the blistering sun. Miala thought she could go her entire life without wearing a single one of those non-colors again.

But she had spent enough time here. She ran a comb one last time through her damp tresses, then slid on a pair of sandals she had found on the floor of the wardrobe. Finally she left the room and headed down, past the second floor where Thorn slept, all the way to the cellar where the kitchens were located. Although she felt considerably better than she had before she showered, she knew she wouldn’t be able to keep going without a cup of coffee…or several, she thought. It wasn’t the first time she had pulled an all-nighter, but a healthy dose of caffeine would be just what she needed.

It was somewhat unpleasant to be returning to the kitchens, where she had labored in ugly anonymity for several months, but at least now she felt like herself again. She made short work of brewing the coffee and decided to bring the whole jug of it with her back to the med unit, along with half a loaf of only slightly stale bread. Miala couldn’t remember the last time she had eaten anything.

When she returned, all was as she had left it: the mech hovering by Thorn’s bedside, the mercenary lying still under his covering of bandages.

“How is he?” she asked, as she set the jug of coffee and the bread on a counter.

“Better,” the mech replied, and pointed at the monitor as if it thought she could translate its readings. “He comes out of the coma soon.”

“Good.” She busied herself with pouring a cup of coffee. Behind her, the mech seemed to hesitate for a moment, then moved off to its corner.

The rush of the stimulant along her nerve endings was almost as heavenly as the shower had been; she hadn’t realized how groggy she was until she let the caffeine wake her up. It was good, too—only the best off-world brew for Mast. The bitter-chocolate taste awoke her stomach as well, and she pulled off a chunk of bread and took several healthy bites. It was only after she had satisfied her appetite somewhat that she picked up her cup of coffee and resumed her watch over Thorn.

She didn’t think him particularly handsome, although there was something about his mouth that suggested he might have a nice smile—not that he probably had much use for it. Certainly he seemed swarthy and exotic when compared with someone who more closely fit her masculine ideals, such as Captain Malick.

Not for the first time since coming to Mast’s compound, she found herself thinking of the young captain and his offer to her. Was he even still on Iradia at all? He’d said his tour was up in three months, and she had been here more than two. It was entirely possible that he would be gone by the time she finally cracked the security system. No, her only real hope of leaving remained with the man who lay so still before her. At least now she was certain he was going to make it, although she couldn’t imagine at the cost of what pain. Right now the mech had a heady cocktail of narcotics coursing through his system so he could rest, but he couldn’t function that way indefinitely. Sooner or later he would have to heal on his own.

Despite the coffee, she could feel her head beginning to droop. Perhaps it would be best if she went back up to the slave girls’ dormitory and caught a few hours of sleep on one of the narrow beds there. Thorn didn’t seem to be in any immediate danger, and right now her eyelids were beginning to feel like lead.

So she rose, and turned to set her empty cup down on the counter, but not before a hoarse whisper from the bed behind her halted her movement.

Miala whirled to see Thorn staring up at her, eyes very black beneath the heavy brows.

“Did you,” he asked, in so soft an undertone she could barely understand him, “say something about Mast’s treasure?”

III

For a moment all she could do was stare at him, not believing he could have actually spoken. A few drops of coffee spilled from the mug that dangled from her suddenly heedless fingers before she recovered herself enough to place it on the counter.

“You heard that?” she managed at last.

His eyes shut briefly, lashes black against his bloodless cheeks. “I heard a voice. Gave me something to concentrate on.”

“Does it—does it hurt very much?”

There was no mistaking the ironic glance he gave her as he opened his eyes once more. “Probably not as much as falling off that cliff would have.”

Well, she deserved that. Obviously he was lucid, if still very weak. And since he had heard her comments about Mast’s treasure, there was no going back now. She said, “Arlen Mast hired my father to rebuild his security system. Then he had him killed.” She paused, but Thorn made no comment. “So I came here to crack the security system and steal whatever Mast might have hidden in his vaults. Now he’s dead, so my job is a lot easier.”