Captive of Pleasure; the Space Pirate's Woman (The LodeStar Series) (15 page)

“Well, give her my thanks,” Joran said, and took a big bite of the warm roll. Tasted the same as always, of plain meat, veg and bread, but at least it was filling. “Give the rest to these fine pirates.”

Draz and Tarn accepted food, but Mako shook his head.
 

“You’ve got to eat, boy,” Tarn said.
 

“Later,” Mako rumbled. “Not hungry.”

Joran exchanged a look with the older men, who nodded to show they’d keep an eye on the big Mau man, who had no partner to look after him.
 

Looking up the bluff over the camp, Joran caught the glint of sunlight off an official emblem.
 

“See you later,” he said, rising. “I need to talk to our guests.”

“Call me if they give you trouble,” Tarn offered, a twinkle in his eye. “The female is cute—I’d let her put me in soft restraints.”

Joran shook his head. “She’s all business, that one. She’d put you in restraints, all right, but then she’d leave you there.”

The IGSF officers had landed their small, gleaming white cruisers on the rise above the camp, where they could see the sweep of prairie around them, to the jut of the mountains in the west, and south along the river. They both sat in small, folding chairs in the slivers of shade provided by their cruisers, Arc playing a holodice game while Mecham watched Jordan climb the hill toward them. Both had cooling capes draped over their heads and shoulders.

Mecham rose as he approached, casting a longing look at Joran’s yama. Joran grinned to himself. They were no doubt eating protein bars and vegedrinks, nutritious but deadly dull.

“How’s it going?” Joran asked. He took a swig of cold water from his bottle and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Then he sat on the edge of the nearest rock and took another big bite while Arc, glowering, took his time finishing a move in his game. He flicked the small, glowing holovid up with one finger. It hovered over his shoulder, the dice frozen in mid-fall.
 

“Fine, thanks. The commander sent you a holovid link with maps and charts,” Mecham said, grabbing at the edges of her cape as the hot wind gusted in her face. “We’ll go over them with you, then decide on a plan.”

Joran took another bite, chewed and swallowed. “No. I’ll go over the material, then I’ll get back to you when I’m ready.”

“Continue to obstruct, and we’ll take you to headquarters,” Arc said. “We’ll see how long it takes you to fall in line then. The charges against you have been filed formally at galactic headquarters.
 

Joran ignored the taunt. He rose and tipped his head back to drain his bottle of water.
 

“Enjoy the fresh air up here,” he said. “Fine view, isn’t it? Watch out for gyre-hawks, though. They can see for miles, may come in to assess for vulnerability.”

“Thank you,” Mecham said dryly. “We’re aware.”

“’Course you are.” They no doubt had the latest tech equipment available on their cruisers—weather, surveillance, a bevy of spybots already loosed on the camp, and enough weaponry to take down an army of pirates.
 

What they didn’t have was Frontiera savvy or the benefit of a local to advise them. If they did, they wouldn’t have camped on this hilltop. They might be able to eyeball the camp and the surrounding area, but that came with a price. The afternoon winds were picking up and by midafternoon they’d be howling across this bluff, sucking the moisture right out of the officers’ skin and rocking their little fighters. It would also get quarking hot up here with no trees to cool the surrounding air. They’d be using their fuel to cool their craft and themselves.

Joran tried to enjoy these facts as he loped back down the hill. But his emotions first and foremost were fury and helplessness—this last stuck in his craw like a sharp stone in his yama.
 

Goddamn Cerul. He’d drive her off planet if it was the last thing he ever did. Frontiera and her settlers deserved someone who’d watch over them in a fair and just way.
 

A tiny shower of sparks detonated near his head, and he flinched, then watched as the singed remains of a spybot dropped to the earth nearby.
 

He’d have to remember to congratulate Ilya on her anti-spy tech. She’d taken an idea of Var’s and weaponized some of her own bots to range the camp and take down any tech not recognized as their own.
 

The IGSF might just find themselves relying on their naked eye to keep track of Joran’s crew.
 

Wouldn’t that be a bitch for them?

Chapter 10

The Storm had no sooner left his tont when the alarm chimed, and the Occulan Zaë had met the day before knocked and then entered, a medic kit with its red stripes floating behind him.
 

“A fine morning to you, young one,” he greeted her in his raspy voice, eyestalks waving gently at her. “Stark wishes me to give you a medical exam. Just to ascertain that you’re well.”

Zaë looked from his stocky frame and his medkit to the tont door, still open to the bright sun. She could glimpse a slice of freedom—blue sky, green trees and golden prairie. Maybe if she just made a run for it?

“Nothing to be frightened of. It won’t hurt a bit,” he chirped, and reached back to close the door. “Please, sit here.”

Her escape cut off, Zaë forced her trembling legs to carry her to the divan. She perched on the edge of the seat, watching him for any sign that he would try to constrain her.
 

“Hmm.” The medic swung most of his eyestalks her way, and considered her with unblinking gazes. “You are still frightened. I will summon another female, yes?”

He opened a link. “Wega, my charmer. Attend me in Stark’s tont, if you will.”

Zaë wasn’t sure how she was supposed to be reassured by the presence of his partner, who bore what seemed to be her habitual scowl as she stumped into the tont.
 

“All right, get on with it.” Plunking herself down on the other end of the divan, she brought up a small hologame and began to shoot Ogren craft streaming across the faux sky.

Zaë did not like the instruments that the medic sent floating and humming around her, nor did she like the small prick of pain as he took a blood sample, nor the light he shone into her eyes. But she bore it, sitting quietly for each test, because she hated the black hole in her mind even more.
 

When he was done, she waited as long as she could while he stood hmming to himself, flicking through readouts on his holoscreen.

“Can you tell what’s wrong with me?” she asked finally, working her soft pantlegs between her fingers. Her hands were sweating, as were her armpits, and her voice shook.

“They definitely dosed you with a very strong substance,” he said. “What it is, I cannot as yet say. A combination of organics and synthetics. It has not harmed your body, but in your brain…hmm. It seems to have caused a blockage—no, more of a paralysis, really, between the lobes in your cerebral cortex—a lack of communication which is not normal, not at all. Memory is seated there, which explains why yours are not available to you.”

“My brain is paralyzed?” Her breakfast clenched in her stomach and she pressed her fingers to her mouth, swallowing back the gorge that rose in her throat. “I am damaged? P-permanently?”

“Now, now,” he admonished, taking her hand between his leathery ones. “You must not worry unduly. I will research this. We will find some help for you, just wait and see. Why, with regen tech, very little is permanent.”

“May I use the regen tech now, please?” she asked, rising to follow as he stepped back.

He shook his head. “Not until I learn more about the compounds used and their effect, I’m sorry. If we regenerate the brain tissue with the toxins locked inside, then the damage might be permanent indeed.”

His com chimed, and he let go her hand. “Hmm, Wega, we are needed elsewhere. Young one, my instructions for you are to rest, eat and drink plenty of fluids. And watch a holovid—they relax the mind.”

“But you’ll research my problem?”

“Yes. I will, you have my word.”

And that, it seemed, would have to do for now. The two went out.
 

Left alone, Zaë felt even more frightened. The walls of the tont loomed, closing in on her.

She ventured outside. It was bright and hot, a warm breeze flirting with her hair. She squinted around her. How could the outdoor world be so normal, when she was so changed?

Her heart began to pound again, and she forced her feet to move. Any action was better than none. She walked around the outside of the tont, where she found a folding lounger in the shade of an awning. There was an empty recyclable ale bottle crumpled underneath, as if the Storm sat here sometimes. Curling into his chair, she looked around.
 

The sky was a vault of pure blue and just below the river meandered, a clear golden green. She didn’t remember ever seeing a river quite that hue. Was it from minerals in the soil? Pain jabbed inside her skull and she flinched. Don’t try to remember how she knew that—instead focus on what was around her.

Near at hand, the catas lazed in their pen, quietly enjoying the shade of the trees in the heat of the day. A herd of large animals grazed in the distance, heads down, scarcely moving as they grazed on the cured, golden grasses.

It was hot, even in the shade, but she felt safe here—safe enough to at least think about her huge problem. Parts of her brain were paralyzed…she might never be normal…might never regain her memories. And when she did try, it hurt.

It grew hotter, even in the shade. Zaë used the hem of her shirt to wipe perspiration from her face and neck, and when she heard Nera calling her, she went inside with alacrity. The older woman looked up from washing veg as she entered. “You will eat, yes?”

Yes. Zaë certainly would. She ate her yama at the counter in the galley, with Nera fussing around, putting meat and veg Zaë didn’t recognize into a cooker.

“Where are we?” Zaë asked.

“On the great plains of Frontiera,” the woman said, as if astonished Zaë didn’t know. “Much better than any other planet. Here there are no crowded cities. You must take a fast cruiser to even the nearest settlement.”

Zaë took this in, as thirsty for information as she was for the cool water she drank. “Have you always lived here?”

The older woman shrugged. “I came here with my man, many years ago. He died, and it was just my boys and me, with my husband’s brothers, who hunted with him. One of them wanted me to be his woman, but he was like a skrog, big and dirty. When Il Zhazid came with his crew, I told him I would be his tontkeeper and cook, if he watched over me and my boys.” She shrugged again. “So here we are.My brothers-in-law are around, but I don’t have to marry them. They have other women who don’t mind skrogs.” Her curled lip gave her opinion of these women.

“Does Il Zhazid have a woman?” Zaë asked.

Nera gave her a wise look. “He has many women. Women who give themselves to him and his warriors. He does not choose just one, but takes whoever he wishes for an hour or a night. That is his way.”

Oh. Zaë fiddled with her water bottle, her lunch sitting like a stone in her belly. He had many women and tired of them quickly. What would happen when he tired of her? Would he expect her to give herself to one of his men?

“Now, now,” Nera said, giving her a worried look. “No worrying. You need something to do. Perhaps you would like to weave a mat?”

Zaë looked at her. “I don’t think I know how to do that.”

“Uh, embroider a scarf, or a skirt?” Nera offered. “Some of the women like to do this.”
 

Zaë shook her head sadly. She had no idea what she knew how to do, besides wash and clothe herself. Her hands began to tremble. She clasped them tightly on the counter. What if she didn’t know how to do anything? What if the slavers had been right about her, and she was only useful for some being’s sexual plaything? She had to remember, no matter how much it hurt.
 

Nera frowned in thought. “You must watch a holovid,” she said. “The master is very fond of these. He sits there on the divan, and he brings them up with his comlink.”

“Perhaps. Thank you.”

Nera hmmed with satisfaction. “Good. I will see you later, yes?”

Zaë nodded, but when the small woman left the tont, the door flap shutting quietly behind her, Zaë sat where she was, rocking a little on the stool, feeling as if she was perched on the lip of a yawning pit, full of things unseen waiting in the darkness to devour her.

 
She was here; she was safe for now. And it was cool inside, with the air-cooling system whooshing quietly. She kicked off her flats and padded around the room barefoot, trailing her fingers along surfaces to ground herself in the present. The divan was cool and smooth, the counter slick, the carpets soft under her bare feet.
 

The room was organic in shape, rounded with the shape of the tont, with supports rising within the walls like ribs that met at the apex of the roof. They were not bared, but contained in the fabric of the walls, which was plush and firm to the touch, like cloth only stronger.