Encrypted

ENCRYPTED

by Lindsay
Buroker

Copyright 2011 Lindsay Buroker

Smashwords Edition

* * * * *

PROLOGUE

Tikaya Komitopis slid one finger down the
encrypted message while she translated the plain text letters onto
a fresh page. She smiled. Her new key was working.

As she revealed more lines, giddiness
stirred in her belly. She forced herself not to rush, not to get
ahead of herself. Finish translating the message, then read it.

Tikaya tuned out the susurrus of voices in
the war room. She ignored the sweat moistening her freckled hands
and the mugginess of the salty air that failed to stir the leaves
in the palm trees outside the window. A wisp of blonde hair escaped
her long braid and dangled before her spectacles, but she ignored
it too.

Only after she copied the Turgonian
admiral’s signature did she grab the paper with both hands,
devouring the message.

Tikaya shoved her bamboo chair back so
quickly it toppled to the floor. She glanced about the desk-filled
room. Everyone had stopped work to watch the door where her
supervisor stood with the president. Their graying heads tilted
toward each other, some discussion on their lips.

She blinked. When had the president
arrived?

Then elation sent her racing across the
room, sandals slapping the wood floor. Perfect. He should know
first.

“
Mr. President?” she
called, though he was already looking her way. “I have—”

Her hip rammed the corner of a desk. She
flailed for balance, tripped over her own feet, and pitched
forward. The president caught her in an awkward embrace. Mortified,
she lurched backward and found her feet as heat swarmed her
cheeks.

“
Professor Komitopis,” he
said gently, amusement in his blue eyes. “Do you surf?”

Tikaya stared at him in bewilderment, then
over his head and out the open door. In the bay, a steamer rumbled
toward the docks while a few students straddled surfboards near the
beach.

“
No, sir,” she said,
letting puzzlement into her tone.

“
Don’t start,” the
president said.

Her supervisor snickered. Oh. She was being
teased for her clumsiness. The men’s eyes held no spite, but that
did little to abate the heat plaguing her cheeks. It was bad enough
she stood two inches taller than either man; she had to stumble
around like a drunken sea lion in front of them too?

“
You have a message?” the
president asked.

The importance of the note flooded back to
her. “Yes, yes. The war, sir. It’s over.”

The president’s eyes widened.

“
Or it will be in a couple
weeks,” Tikaya said. “Listen: ‘Admiral Dufakt, by his Ancestrally
Ordained Imperial Highness Emperor Raumesys’s order’—I love it when
they use that long title in their encrypted communications. You
don’t even need frequency analysis when you’ve got such an obvious
key phrase. Every time they—”

“
Tikaya,” her supervisor
whispered. “The message.”

“
Oh, pardon, sirs. The
Turgonian emperor says, ‘warships are to stand ready to facilitate
troop removal and diplomat transportation for treaty
negotiations.’” She tapped the page. “That’s the official part that
went out fleet wide, and this second paragraph came on another
page. I believe it’s a personal message between
admirals.

“’
That’s it Dufakt. With
Fleet Admiral Starcrest’s death, we’ve gone from dominating the
Nurian forces to scrambling to survive encounters with those
ancestors-cursed wizard ships. Having the Kyattese cryptanalyst
hand over so many of our decrypted missives to the Nurian
government exacerbated our problems. How an island full of
scientists managed to steal so many of our correspondences, I’ll
never know, but I do wish Starcrest had lived to punish them,
especially since taking over their piddling nation was his idea.
We’ll recoup and get the Nurians next time. Send along your
recommendations for promotions. Signed Acting Fleet Admiral
Mourncrest.’”

“
Good news, yes, indeed,”
the president said.

His head tilted to the side, eyes far away
for a moment, and Tikaya recalled he was a telepath. He must be
getting a message from some aide back in his office. Or maybe his
wife wanted him to stop for groceries on the way home. Tikaya had
never studied the mental sciences and did not know how likely that
was, but she smirked at the thought of the president popping into
the market for sugar and bananas.

When his eyes focused on Tikaya again,
concern hooded them, and her amusement evaporated. His tone turned
grim when he spoke: “Step outside with me, please, Professor.”

Tikaya handed the note to her supervisor,
and an uneasy flutter vexed her stomach as she trailed the
president.

A breeze wafted in from the ocean, making it
feel cooler outside despite the sun radiating off the sidewalk.
Seagulls squawked in response to a steam horn blasting in the bay.
The president stopped in the shade of a jackfruit tree.

“
The work you’ve done for
us this last two years has been phenomenal, Tikaya. I’m grateful,
and if our nation knew about it they would be too.”

She shrugged, embarrassed by the praise, and
prodded a fallen jackfruit with her toe. “Thank you, sir, but I’ve
just been hunkered in a room, playing with symbols. It was
different from my regular work but similar. A fun challenge.” The
president’s eyebrows twitched, and she winced. She should not call
anything related to the war fun. Too many had died. “The men and
women who risked their lives to obtain the missives are the
heroes.”

“
I’m grateful to them,
too, but their names aren’t the ones starting to show up in
Turgonian naval orders.”

“
My name isn’t...” She
froze. The Kyattese cryptanalyst. That had been in the message, not
for the first time. The Turgonians seemed to believe a single
person responsible. Her. The humid air did nothing to stifle the
chill that raised the hair on the back of her neck.

“
If they find out who you
are,” the president said, “your life will be in danger.”

“
They won’t figure it
out,” she croaked, mouth dry. “They won’t. They’ll be looking for a
cryptanalyst, not a philology professor buried in a back room at
the Polytechnic, deciphering dead languages on dusty scrolls and
tablets.” Why did she sound like she was trying to convince
herself? “We don’t even study cryptography on the islands; surely
they’ll think it was some Nurian who worked with us.”

“
I hope that’s true,
but...I hear you’re good with a bow.”

For a moment, the topic shift befuddled her.
Then realization dawned and made her shake her head. “In the field
in the back of my parents’ house, yes, sir. But I couldn’t shoot
anyone.”

“
I suggest you keep up
your practice in the months ahead.”

Tikaya closed her eyes and drew in a deep
breath. She did not even like hunting. That had always been her
brother and her father’s domain. She shot because she found the
repetitive, mechanical task conducive to thinking, to problem
solving. She had worked out many language puzzles while plunking
arrows into the straw targets on her parents’ plantation.

“
I hope you understand
that I cannot regret bringing you into this,” the president said,
“not when you’ve been so pivotal to our people retaining their
freedom. But I do...owe you a great debt. I will do everything
possible to deflect foreign questions about your involvement, and I
will pray for your safety in the months and years
ahead.”

“
I understand, sir. If
anything does happen, I don’t hold you responsible. I had to do
this. I wouldn’t enjoy living under imperial rule.” She sensed his
grimness and wanted to reassure him. “Those warmongers probably
make their professors wear swords to class, and, given how easily I
can trip over my own feet, that’d be a death sentence for
sure.”

The president smiled, but it did not reach
his eyes.

“
Something else, sir?” she
asked.

He sighed, gaze toward the sea. “Yes, the
reason I called you out here... I just learned the bad news. It’s
about your fiancé.”

Fear tightened Tikaya’s chest.
“Parkonis?”

“
I’m sorry. The Turgonians
sank the
Eagle’s Spirit
off the coast of the northern island. There were
no survivors.”

“
They sank—” Her voice
cracked. “No, they wouldn’t have... The
Spirit
is an archaeology vessel! It
doesn’t even have a cannon.” She gripped the tree for
support.

The president placed a hand on her shoulder.
“I know.”

Tikaya sank to the grass and buried her face
in her lap. She did not want to believe Parkonis was dead, but hot
tears streaked down her cheeks and dampened her dress.

The war was over, but she had nothing to
celebrate.

CHAPTER 1

Moisture slicked the handle of Tikaya’s
machete, and sweat saturated her hemp dress. Her blade rang as she
scraped leaves free from a stalk of sugar cane.

Sunset approached, and she had yet to cut a
hand, leg, or other notable appendage. Maybe she was finally
growing competent with the machete. The hilt slipped in her damp
palm, and she nicked her thumb. Maybe not.

She lifted her spectacles to wipe moisture
out of her eyes. A reflection in the glass made her jump.

Machete in hand, she whirled toward the
cleared area behind her. A man towered a few paces away, a dagger
and cutlass at his belt, and a muzzle-loading rifle crooked in his
arms. His bronze skin and dark hair would have marked him a
foreigner even if the black military uniform with its fine factory
weave did not. It was a uniform she had not seen in a year, not
since the war ended, but she had not forgotten its significance:
Turgonian marine.

Several paces lay between her and the wagon
where her bow rested on the driver’s seat. She had kept it within
reach the first couple months after the treaty signing, but time
had dulled her vigilance. Swallowing, she shifted her gaze left and
right, hoping to spot a couple of the seasonal laborers her father
hired to harvest the cane. But the day grew late, and she had
worked herself into a private corner of the field. The house stood
hundreds of meters away. No one would hear her yell.

The marine said nothing, though his dark
eyes followed her darting gaze. Running would confirm she had a
reason to hide; maybe she could trick him into thinking she was no
one of consequence. Not that being an innocent would necessarily
make her safe from a Turgonian.

“
If you’re looking for
rum,” she said, his language sliding off her tongue automatically,
“my brother’s working in the distillery. He can sell you enough for
your entire ship at a fair price.”

The marine’s eyes widened, and a
satisfied—no, triumphant—smile stretched across his face.

Dread curled through her belly. They knew
who she was, what her role had been in the war. Addressing him in
his language had been a mistake, a confirmation that they had found
the right person. She eyed the rifle, noticed it was loaded and
cocked. A huge mistake.

“
I’m not here for rum,”
the marine said. “I seek the cryptomancer, and I believe you are
she.”

Tikaya did not have to feign surprise. “The
what?”

“
The one who broke our
codes during the war. The one who thwarted our best cryptographers.
The one who—” his jaw tightened and a muscle in his cheek jumped,
“—gave our decrypted messages to the Nurians. That meddling cost us
a dozen ironclads and thousands of men.”

“
Your people tried to take
over our islands to serve as a strategic outpost.” Her hand flexed
on the machete. “You sank
more
than a dozen of our ships, including a peaceful
archaeology vessel with my—” She stopped herself. She might have
every right to condemn this man, but it was stupid to do so when he
stood across from her holding a rifle. “We wanted no part of your
war. We did what we had to do to protect our freedom. I don’t know
who your cryptomancer is, but I am certainly not that person. I am
a simple plantation worker, helping my family grow sugar cane and
make rum.”

“
A simple plantation
worker who speaks flawless Turgonian,” the marine said.

She stifled a grimace. If those thoughtless
first moments were her undoing... “The Kyatt Islands are in the
middle of many nations’ trade routes. Our children study several
languages in school, and many of our people are polyglots. You’ll
find the true experts working at the Polytechnic.” A place and job
she had not returned to since losing Parkonis.