Girl Gone Nova (27 page)

Even as he thought these things, he knew Hel sought to lie to his other identity. He felt the duality of the roles more than he ever had before. Felt their conflicting desires. In one thing only were they united: their desire for Delilah.

* * * * *

In some ways, Halliwell was reminded of a
Keystone Cops
movie gone even more wrong than usual. There were so many different ships moving around, it was a wonder they weren’t all bumping heads. Would have been funny, if there wasn’t so much riding on it.

It was clever of Giddioni to phone in, but the geeks had his ship back on the grid since the data burst. Clever to bounce the signal off his flagship, but not clever enough. Even when he’d tweaked his shield, James was able to find him again.

Now, he was on course to Feldstar, where the unknown ship had dropped cloak. He’d be there in twelve hours, Earth Standard time. Their cloaked squadron was on his heels and would arrive maybe thirty minutes after him. And Halliwell had deployed a non-cloaked squadron as a diversion. It was far enough out to give the bogey the illusion they didn’t need to rush. And if the rush to the scene wasn’t enough, every scanner they had was pointed at the area where the unknown ship had popped into view.

It could already be gone, taking the Doc with them. If they could get close enough, they should be able to pick up her beacon. At the very least, they had a solid place to initiate tracking, at least that’s what the geeks claimed. The Doc had done her part. She’d gotten the bogey to drop his pants and give them a look. They’d have gotten better data if they’d been closer, but the cloaked squadron might have more scan info on the bogey.

He’d decided to divert the other squadrons, too, though they were at the back of the pack at the moment, but they could be deployed as back-up if the bogeys didn’t like letting go.

He could understand why the Doc’s beacon was set to low. It wasn’t designed for a galaxy. When she’d operated on Earth, even an intermittent signal might be picked up by the wrong person. Giddioni was going to have to assume a low orbit and hope to catch it on one of the constantly rotating frequencies it used.

At the moment, he was glad Giddioni had the intell to find her, and as long as they could track the bastard, he’d stay happy. And if the geeks lost him again, they’d all be unhappy together.

The camp felt empty without his people. Vidor paced outside Morticia’s tent for a while, then sat at the table and watched the opening of her tent, waiting for some sign she’d waked. As he’d paced the wind picked up, sometimes making the sides of the tents crack like whips. The wind brought some relief from the heat that had gripped the camp since Morticia’s arrival. Almost he believed this was her fault as well.

This departure was coming a few days sooner than planned, but perhaps it was for the best. Morticia was unhappy with this life. Perhaps she’d be less difficult aboard ship. It had plumbing.

He looked toward her tent again. She’d never slept this long in the four nights she’d been in camp. Was she tired or was something else going on? Perhaps she’d managed to slip away? He crossed to the tent and stooped to enter, stopping just inside at the sight of her sitting on the edge of the bed. She’d shed her jacket. Her top hugged her body down to where it met her trousers. Her figure was as pleasing as he’d imagined. He looked at her things and noticed some had been moved.

Her gaze met his, but it was too dim inside the tent to see any change in her eyes from absorbing the compound. Her forehead glistened with sweat, though.

“I don’t feel very good.”

He took a half step toward her. “Let me help you.”

“You just want to help me into your bed.”

He took another step toward her, but she jumped up, swaying slightly. She used the bedpost to steady herself. Her movements had lost their crispness.

“You should stay back. I’m probably contagious—if I haven’t already infected all of you.”

“You are not contagious.”

“You seem very sure of that. Did you do something?”

“What could I do? I have been outside waiting for you to rest so we may speak about your choice.”

Her eyes narrowed. She licked her pink lips, them bit the bottom one with her even, white teeth. Desire tugged at him, low in his belly.

“Talk? Yeah, I almost believe you want to talk.”

He stepped closer. She edged along the back of the bed.

“You can chase me around this bed, but you won’t get me in it, Conan.” She wrapped her arms around the next bedpost as if her knees had sagged. “I am ill, and you can’t help me.”

She rubbed the side of her face, as if it pained her.

“You will feel better soon.”

Her lashes lifted, but she was in the shadows still. How far had the compound impacted her?

“If you return me to my people—”

“That will never happen. Neither of us can go home, Morticia.”

Her control was less than before. He could see her struggle to think, to consider his words.

“Then I’ll die.”

The words pained him. “Everyone dies.”

She chuckled, the sound pleasing.

“You’re at risk, too.”

“We will be both be fine, I give you my word.” He moved closer.

She moved away. “I can still kick your ass, Conan.”

He smiled. “You can try.” He extended his hands in invitation.

She bit her lip, her gaze narrowing.

“I’ll even let you make the first move.”

“Your goons will come and get me.”

“They’re all gone.” He smiled at her. “You told me a storm was coming and you were right.”

“I’m always right.” She edged toward him now and his senses leapt in anticipation. “Most people find that annoying.”

His smile deepened. “Do they, Morticia ?” He shifted so that he stood dead center in the tent. She’d have to let go of the bedpost to reach him.

She frowned. “That’s not my name.”

He hesitated. ”What is your name?”

Her frown deepened. “I don’t remember.” She swung around the post and sank on the bed again. “Maybe it is Morticia.”

He didn’t need her name, he reminded himself as he edged closer, but he wanted to know it.

She frowned. “I was going to do something.”

“You were going to kick my ass.”

“Oh, right.” She brightened.

“I’m waiting.” Again he extended his arms. He had time. The compound’s effects would build for another half an hour and then subside in about two hours. The storm was still offshore. He would coax her into submission. “Come and get me.”

“I think I will.”

She used to the post to pull herself upright. She swayed, her body more fluid now as the drug moved through her veins. She straightened her shoulders. She tried to focus, but she probably saw two of him by now. She took a step toward him. He had to fight the urge to reach out and yank her close.

Another step. She swayed. Her knees started to buckle. He closed the gap, wrapping his arms around her. Her deadweight caught him off balance. He staggered and almost fell. He was still off balance, but her soft, supple body filled his arms and the bed was close. He pulled her tight against him, felt desire surge faster than the storm bearing down on them.

Her chin lifted, her soft mouth so close, her clear gaze—her clear gaze?

Something hard hit him in the groin. His breath whooshed out as pain exploded through his body. He staggered back, clutching himself. Her fist flashed, connecting solidly with his chin. He dropped to his knees. Through a red haze he saw she had his weapon. He reached for his transport alert, but the beam of his weapon caught him dead center in the chest. He fell back, his body jerking as the charge moved through him.

“I’d say I’m sorry, but I’m not.”

He fought against it. She couldn’t be allowed to return to her people…

* * * * *

Doc lowered Conan’s ray gun, swaying from relief and adrenaline. No worry she’d turn into an adrenaline addict. She was sick of the stuff. Fever may be rampaging through her system, but it hadn’t killed her sense of smell. Or her hearing. And she’d been expecting him to do something. Kind of insulting that Conan thought she’d fall for something as obvious as a Mickey. Good thing she played possum better than he did stealth.

She’d considered dosing him, but then he wouldn’t have felt it when she shot him.

Payback was a bitch. And so was she.

She checked his pulse and wasn’t too surprised to find one. He’d keep his weapon set to stun until he subdued her, or was forced to kill her. Even if she hadn’t suspected that, she wouldn’t have hesitated to fire. She wasn’t an assassin but she knew better than to hesitate against a larger opponent.

Conan’s barbarians wouldn’t leave them alone for long, not with a storm incoming. How long depended on his arrogance: huge, and the proximity of the storm: size to be determined. She knew the
Doolittle
would have been watching for her SOS, but Feldstar wasn’t that close to Kikk. If they saw the ship, it would still take time for help to arrive. And if she had the Garradian influenza, it didn’t matter. She was already dead.

Logic dictated she stand down. She was a scientist first. Logic should be her god. Why continue a battle she couldn’t win? Even as her brain presented its case, she yanked on another pair of gloves and started cleaning the items she’d need. She used the pockets of her pants and jacket to stow stuff. There was no long-term plan, no need for a pack. Her goal was simple: evade recapture until rescue or death.

The why didn’t matter, but her brain liked conclusions. Maybe I just like to win, she postulated, pausing to stare at Conan. He looked vulnerable, almost harmless lying sprawled on the dirt floor. With his systems offline, she could study him more objectively. He’d pissed her off too much to up her pulse rate, but she could see that women who didn’t know him like she did might find him attractive. On Earth he’d have had no trouble getting face time with women. Why had they chosen this way?

It bugged her that she’d never know. Her brain hated unanswered questions, too. Her brain was going to have to deal. It could take comfort in the fact it wouldn’t be that long before brain function would cease. Okay, so maybe that wasn’t something a brain could take comfort from. It would have to deal with that, too.

She’d bet they weren’t planning on coming back. Even Mr. Overconfident had to be concerned about dropping cloak and transporting so soon after having to scan for her non-existent transmission device.

Her head pounded and she ached in every joint. She considered taking some of that stuff with her, but her acuity was already degraded, and she didn’t know what all the side effects were. She turned from temptation and headed out of the tent without looking back. She scanned the clearing as the building wind tugged at her clothing and hair. The empty silence was creepy, even for a cold-hearted geek. The curve of a tropical-type storm was more apparent in the cloud movement now. A rainsquall had moved through while she was in the tent. The ground was muddy, with small pools of water in every depression.

Last time they’d tracked her from space, dropping in to ring her. But, and it was this but upon which she was hanging her hope of eluding them, their tracking had been imprecise until she broke cover. She’d used a few branches to break up her silhouette last time, but she’d also kept moving. She was ill and going to get worse, not better. So this time she wouldn’t run or break cover. She’d change tactics and maybe buy enough time for death or the cavalry to arrive. With any luck at all, she could report what she’d learned before brain function shut down.

Nature offered help. Mud tended to muddy a heat signature. It wasn’t a permanent solution, since it was vulnerable to rain. Still, it would help in the meantime, and she needed all the help she could get. She used her knife to widen one of the muddy pools into a nice-sized wallow and played pig. The water was cool enough to feel good against her hot body. When she’d coated herself as well as she could that way, she scooped up handfuls and applied it to her hair and face.

Next, she used the knife to cut several large branches from the closest bush. Plants and trees also gave off an infrared signature, though at a different level than a live body. They were less vulnerable to being washed away and should help break up the outline of her infrared signature. She pulled out her roll of twine, cut off several lengths and she used the twine to lash the branches to her body. She stowed twine and knife, feeling like
The Swamp Thing
. That had to have been a tough gig, if how she felt was any indication.

She had a small mirror, but it was for signaling. And she didn’t want to know what she looked like. What it felt like was bad enough. Her illness dragged like deadweight, on her body and her brain, as she studied the area surrounding the camp. She needed heavy ground brush, not too close to any trees. When the winds kicked up, trees tended to come down. No reason to go for an imprecise and painful death when the flu was taking care of that.

There was an area of low, dense scrub. Not completely protected from falling trees, but it was the best there was on offer. It had the added benefit of giving her eyes on the camp. She studied the incoming clouds. Looked like another rainsquall was incoming. It should help cover her tracks. So should the rotting ground cover. She made a false trail away from her hunker down point. Just because she hadn’t seen them using tracking skills, didn’t mean they lacked them.

Never assume.

The clouds overhead turned darker as the storm spun closer. Be nice to get a look at weather radar. All she had was her gut, and it was telling her that out in the open was a bad place to be tonight. Branches scraped her arms and face as she worked her way into the center of the low-lying scrub. She dropped to her knees, digging through the ground debris to create a shallow depression. She pulled out her binoculars and Conan’s weapon, placing both within easy reach and lay down. She scooped as much disturbed debris over herself as she could before settling in to wait. Her brain had a new question to gnaw on: who would come first?

Conan’s people or the storm?