Starlaw (4 page)

The woman's clothing had been removed, as every patient's was when placed inside such units. Without it, the injured rested more comfortably. In its place, a ubiquitous blanket covered her slender form. The top of it rested just over her breasts.

He saw her wound closing. Thanks to the electro-magnetically zerion-altered field within the unit, the flesh was suturing before his eyes. Even the scar would disappear as healing progressed. As he stared, other thoughts took the place of curatives.

He took a small step back when mental meanderings caused his gaze to linger on her perfect, creamy flesh. Her fingers were long and slender. The tips had been meticulously manicured. Her body was athletically lean without being unappealingly thin. Muscle in her upper arms was evident. Her hair shimmered in the light from within the unit. There were streaks of red in it that he hadn't noticed earlier.

How would it feel to run his hands through the long tendrils and curl them around his wrists? What would her voice sound like when she eventually spoke? Again, he wondered about the color of her eyes.

Blue.

He decided they must be a deep, sparkling gem hue, the color of Lusterian midnight stones that were rare and prized.

How soft she looked. How very holdable.

It'd been a long time since he'd viewed a female with such striking, perfect features. Her flesh almost begged to be stroked. A man who could win this courageous creature's affections would live in a universe of passionate yearning. Whispered secrets would be shared in the night. She'd likely have any lover on his knees, begging to take her.

The sound of Gemma's activities brought him out of the delicious reverie.

He blinked quickly, lifted his chin, and tried to regain his composure.

What in the galaxy was wrong with him? The last thing a professional Constellation League supervisor should be doing was ogling some nude victim of a laser attack, even if she was so heartbreakingly lovely, and even if he had been without female companionship for such a long time. In all respects, from the top of her head to the tips of her toes, she appeared just as any woman of his own Lusterian race would. There were only two arms, two legs, two eyes, and two very finely shaped breasts.

“Here, Commander, this should help you get some rest. It's all herbal, nothing harmful.”

Darius took the mug Gemma offered and moved away from the unit. He settled onto a nearby lab chair and watched as Gemma worked with the controls on it.

“You know, she'll regain consciousness soon. She's moving her fingertips,” Gemma informed him as she carefully lifted the lid.

Darius placed his mug on a table and came to stand by their patient again. He wanted to see if his impression of her eye color was true. Gemma would never know about his interest in that regard, only surmising he was acting with concern.

• • •

Laurel fought her way out of the hazy darkness. Even through closed lids it was clear soft light surrounded her. She felt warm but lethargic, as if she'd been asleep too long. There was a minor twinge in her left temple, as though someone was gently pressing against it. After taking a deep breath and slowly letting it out, she opened her eyes and waited for them to focus. Throbbing in her left shoulder reminded her of the last thing she remembered. She and Cory were in Balboa Park. There was a stakeout and it'd gone bad.

She looked up and shook her head slightly to clear it.

The face of a pretty woman hovered above her own. This person might have been her own age, but who'd really know since the hoverer was a wonderful shade of
aqua-blue
.

Laurel assumed her caretaker
might
be a doctor, but lovely and exotically tilted dark eyes—coupled with pointed ears peeking through a mass of long, snow white hair—made her think twice. What she was seeing, blue skin inclusive, had less to do with any modern medical facility and more to do with Halloween or a little girl's fairy party. Someone was obviously playing a very weird practical joke. Or there was a better explanation.

I'm on some pretty damned good meds.

“Can you hear me?” the blue woman asked.

Laurel tried to speak but only managed a low moan.

“Here … give her some of this,” a man's voice offered as the woman took a mug from him. “Are you sure her communo-chip is adjusted properly? One has never been placed in an Earthling as far as I'm aware. Maybe it's not working or something's wrong.”

Laurel was helped into a semi-seated position. She tried to sip whatever was being offered. Blue skin girl seemed kind enough. The drink was warm. It was soothing on her throat and tasted like mint.

“Try to speak again,” the woman encouraged as she set the mug aside then lowered her patient into a prone position again.

“My partner … Cory … is he all right?” Laurel whispered.

“The chip works,” the woman said. “I'm happy to turn things over to you, Commander. I just save lives. Explanations are
your
job.”

Someone else moved into Laurel's field of vision. Whoever blue girl spoke to was about to address her. She remained absolutely still and tried not to lose it. Something told her she wasn't in Kansas anymore, and that she wasn't going to like the answer to her question.

“Enforcer … I assume that's your formal occupation … can you remember anything that happened?”

Laurel stared at the new face hovering over hers. She registered his question, posed in a very deep baritone. Her vision was clearing by the moment but she wasn't prepared to believe anything she was seeing was real. The meds were still onboard. Perception of their presence made her hallucinatory state at least a bit more acceptable.

The man who'd just spoken was much taller than blue girl. He had long, dark hair that was pulled back at the nape of his neck. Strands of it were falling over one shoulder. He sported some kind of uniform. Epaulets on the shoulders of his dark tunic made him look as though he might be a member of some elite police group she'd never heard of. But the gentle kindness in the blue girl's tone wasn't in his. The clench of his tan square jaw, the dark green riveting eyes staring down at her, and the serious set of his handsome, godlike features were off-putting.

“I remember someone attacking us. What about Cory?” Laurel asked again as her voice cleared.

She waited as the two characters consulted. All she wanted was one simple answer. Why weren't they giving it?

“Here, Commander, I found this in her clothing. It appears to be identification of some sort.”

That was the second time blue girl referred to tan guy as
commander
. What was that all about?

“This is your identification, isn't it? You
are
an enforcer, aren't you?” he asked.

She gazed at the black badge wallet tan guy had in his right hand. He'd opened it and her ID number and photograph were clearly visible. She was about to ask what idiot on the planet wouldn't recognize a police ID, but tact made her reel in the comment. She licked suddenly dry lips and tried a different angle. Tan guy quickly offered her more tea. She eagerly sipped it if only to gain more time to compose an answer.

For the first time, she noticed the very large, coffin-like box around her. The interior was lined with lights and soft, white padding.

She tamped down panic, swallowed more tea, and amped up her courage. Now wasn't the time to lose composure. Not if she wanted out of this damned container and back into reality. If she screamed or did anything that made them believe she was out of control, they'd likely load her with more drugs. What she had in her was too much as it was.

“I'm with San Diego PD. Please … tell me where my partner is. His name is Cory Martinez. We were ambushed on a stakeout. What happened to the men with me? Are they all right?”

Something was very wrong, aside from their not answering questions concerning Cory. A supervisor should be present. She saw no one remotely resembling another SDPD cop. Because of their absence, she wondered if anyone had contacted her parents.

Dad was ensconced somewhere in the northern part of the state with a wife two years younger than she was, expecting a baby anytime. Mom was at a law convention in New York with her live-in, architect lover.

As dysfunctional families went, they weren't strongly attached. Still, someone should have contacted them. They might not show up for any mundane reason but surely they'd come if their daughter had almost been killed.

How long had she been lying in the coffin-like box? How bad off was she that such a contrivance was necessary?

She barely turned her head, afraid to see what devices might have been attached to her body. There wasn't enough nerve in her entire arsenal of mettle to ask what hospital this was, and why she'd been placed in the big container. Someone would tell her soon. But she just couldn't ask about the medical side. Not yet.

With every passing moment fear crept into the smallest part of her soul; she was sure it invaded even the smallest cells. Dread made her lie absolutely still.

She clearly saw the faces of her attendants. Garish as blue girl was, big as tan guy seemed from her prone position, their expressions were pretty raw. Neither wanted to speak first. Theirs was the expression cops wore when they knew they had to deliver bad news.

She began to shake.

Stay strong. Don't break. It'll be all right.

• • •

The poignancy of the moment and the look on her face would forever linger in Darius's memory. He knew he'd never rid himself of the haunted gaze so fixed on him. Her eyes
were
a luxurious, gem-like blue that should have been shimmering with laughter. He got the impression she was much more acquainted with happiness than he. She had cared for her friends, they'd likely cared for her. Being as close to her comrades as the concern exhibited, how could she be anything other than contented? At least as long as they were present. But they weren't alive any longer and he needed to say so.

The man who'd died in his arms had asked for this woman's care. He recalled that last wish, even as that brave soul's life force sped into the universe and conjoined with others of equal valor. He owed that man's friend the truth.

He took a deep breath and exhaled before speaking. There was no easy way to tell her, but the responsibility for announcing deaths at the hands of criminals always fell to the most senior officer.

He uttered what was necessary, to dispatch news quickly and as painlessly as possible. “I'm sorry. Your friends didn't make it.”

In her gaze he immediately recognized the signs of disbelief. She looked back at him. Then her eyes shifted to Gemma. He could almost hear her thoughts.

Suspicion surely prompted her to question what he'd just said. It was a normal process of denial he was well aware of, having delivered such messages far too many lifetimes in his thirty-three years. But sooner or later, like it or not, the woman lying there would have to come to terms with the truth. It'd been spoken. It was up to time and circumstance now to drive that harsh reality home.

“I
am
sorry,” he softly repeated. “But there's no other way to say it. You're an enforcer. You know what can happen when you accept responsibility for defending others.”

Laurel shook her head. “You've probably misunderstood. We shot at a man … me and some other officers had to have brought him down. That's who you're talking about. Our suspect is the one who's dead. Not Cory!”

Darius considered her response. Experience in these matters came to his rescue. Because of his communo-chip, he was able to read the primitive writing next to her picture ID. Gemma had already mentioned this woman's name when they'd found her lying on the ground. But he still needed to hear her say it. She needed to maintain a level of consciousness his explanations required. Answering mundane questions compulsory of any enforcer might buy her the time she needed to emotionally acclimate.

“What's your name?”

“Laurel Blake. What's this thing I'm in?” she asked as she glanced at rows of blinking lights inside her container.

“This is an incubation unit or simply an
incu-unit
as we refer to it. It generates energy fields that react with the body's cellular processes. It significantly shortens and augments healing.” Then he got back to the meat of the discussion. He moved closer and simultaneously gestured for Gemma to drop the walls of the incubation unit away. Once that was done, he softly repeated the facts she needed to understand.

“The only two people left alive were you and the man who attacked you. I'm sorry.”

She searched his face, looking for any break in his gaze. Even now, her instincts kicked in. She was processing as someone with experience in such matters.

He simply waited. There were no tears, no cries of protestation. Just silence.

She eventually turned away. Before she did, he caught the telltale look of even firmer denial. A bit of coldness entered her blue eyes. She wouldn't be convinced easily. But neither was she a collapsing heap of emotion. Primitive as he'd been led to believe her culture was, that was to her credit. He gently squeezed her hand then moved away.

Gemma followed him a short distance before adding an opinion.

“Her vital signs dropped when you told her, Commander.”

“Watch her. Make sure she isn't left alone,” he ordered.

“Yes, sir.”

Darius walked out of the med bay and slowly headed toward his quarters. He unfastened his left shoulder epaulet and let the front of his tunic fall open. As he approached his quarters, the hatch separated to allow him access. He moved into his personal space and quickly pulled the fastener from his hair.

Stripping his clothing off without caring where the garments landed, he numbly stepped into the shower compartment and let the hot water wash away what was left of his emotions. He could only speculate as to what would happen to the woman.