The Down Home Zombie Blues (9 page)

She shot to her feet. “Petrakos.” There was life in her face, her eyes all but dancing. “Don’t go away. I’ll be back.”

She turned and, barking something out in Alarsh to the guards, sprinted through the doorway. It closed behind her.

Theo sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, turning the cube over and over in his hands. He was always a pretty good poker player. But this was the first time he’d ever gambled for his life.

5

Pietr drummed his blunt fingers on his desktop. “I have no problem with your appropriating this nil’s structure, Commander. However, I have serious reservations about having him participate in the mission.”

“I fully understand. But his structure isn’t a transient rental, as Agent Wain’s was. That’s the disadvantage. His neighbors know him. They’d question our presence unless he was there. On the positive side, his presence would remove a great deal of suspicion. And he is involved with the local security force, sir. He has access to information that could be vital to us.” Jorie hesitated, well aware she was asking permission to do something that most likely had never been done before on a nil world. She couldn’t begin to guess how many general-procedure regulations it violated. No, she could. Seven.

“He knows too much about us. How can we be sure he won’t relay that to his superiors in that same security force?”

“We can’t. But as long as the zombies are a threat, I don’t believe he will. He admits he needs us, sir. We leave and hundreds,
thousands
more will die.”

The captain nodded slowly.

“He’s not your average nil, sir. He has security training. He faced the zombie without panicking.”

“I don’t want him facing zombies, Commander. I want his structure and his knowledge of the locale.”

“Yes, sir, I just meant—”

“I know what you meant. We don’t know what he’ll do after it’s over, and that’s my concern. Do we reward his assistance by a hard-termination? We’re not the Tresh.”

“He’s accepted relocation to Paroo.”

One silvered eyebrow arched. “Has he?”

“He indicated as much.”

“And a man’s never lied to you, Commander?”

Jorie’s cheeks heated.
Hell and damn.
But it wasn’t Lorik’s lies Pietr was asking about. “That’s always a risk.”

“Yes.” Those same fingers that had drummed the desktop now tapped against broad lips. “But less of one if we use a restrainer implant.”

Jorie forced her face not to show the slightest sign of revulsion as an icy chill shot through her. Restrainer implants were used to control violent prisoners. The Guardian version wasn’t the same as the one the Tresh Devastator operatives had used on her, but still, unease sprinted on spiked toes through her gut. Petrakos wasn’t violent. He was willing. He wanted to help. He had a good face.

And now she had to tell that same good face that they not only wanted to inhabit his structure but invade his body as well.

Petrakos was seated at the table, eating the sweet-bulb slices, when she returned to his quarters. She sat across from him and slowly began to detail her plan: the use of his structure to facilitate equipment and personnel transport. The use of his knowledge of his locale to fill in the gaps in Danjay’s data.

Would he be willing to deflect suspicion from them if his security force raised questions? He agreed, readily, enthusiastically. He’d seen a zombie. He’d seen Danjay’s corpse. Two very compelling arguments.

“Captain Pietr and I express deep appreciation for your assistance.” She’d poured herself a glass of water but couldn’t drink it. She kept her hands folded on the table, afraid she’d make nervous movements that would betray her state of mind. She couldn’t stop thinking about the implant. A fatal charge that could be detonated on a whim. At max level, instant death. But the Tresh had never been so kindly. No, the Devastator operatives had used low-level pulses on her. Wave after wave of incredible, unending pain while the Tresh commander, Davin Prow, stood there and smiled his angel’s smile.

She shoved the memory away.

“It’s the least I could do,” he said. “You’re the ones taking all the risks.”

It took her a moment to fully translate his words. She was sadly out of practice with her Vekran. The more she spoke to him, the more she remembered. She just wished they were talking about something—
anything
—else. “Part of that risk is your knowledge of us. You understand, when this is finished, you still must go to Paroo.”

He picked up his glass, took a sip of water. “It looks like a beautiful place.”

He would like it there. He would find bliss.
Think of that,
she told herself.
Not what you have to do to get him to Paroo.

“The captain…the captain requests one further effort from you, as to your intentions.” Hell’s wrath, she shouldn’t have stumbled over her words. He put his glass down, his eyes narrowing slightly.

“He wants me to make a statement, an oath? I can do that.” He paused. “You understand the word?”

“Oath. I understand. No, we have to…” Damn, damn, damn! It took all her concentration just to sit there. And her mouth seemed to have forgotten how to speak.

“You have to…?” His voice was low.

She drew in a breath, let it out. “Put a security device on you.”

His frown of suspicion turned to one of puzzlement. “An electronic monitoring bracelet?” He circled his wrist with his fingers. “Transmits a signal so you know where I am?” He shrugged. “That’s fine.”

“Yes. No. Not quite like that.”

“Oh?” Suspicion returned. “And just what is it like?”

She barely registered her fingers splaying over the area beneath her shoulder next to her collarbone. Her thumb found the rough scar easily, even through her uniform’s fabric. “It goes here. Inside. Implant.” She glanced down at her fingers, then back up at his face. It showed no expression whatsoever, and that chilled her. “You understand this word?”

He nodded slowly. “And just what does this implant do?”

“It’s a security device,” she repeated. “Yes, it locates you. But it also…if you become a threat to us—”

“It kills me.”

Oh, if only he spoke Alarsh! Or her Vekran was better. But that was the very reason they needed him. “If you become a threat to us,” she repeated, “it permits us to take appropriate action.” She waited to see if he questioned her words. He only stared at her. She continued: “The device has different settings. Hard-terminate is not the only one.”

“What’s the other?” There was a sudden bitterness in his voice. “Slow, painful torture?”

She’d wondered if he understood her explanation. He did, far too well. “We won’t need to use it with you. You want to help us destroy the zombies. You’re willing to relocate to Paroo. You’re not a threat. You come back to the ship. We remove it. It’s forgotten.”

His hand clenched and unclenched on the tabletop. “If I refuse this security device?” He said the words with obvious derision.

“The mission proceeds without you.”

“Damn it!” He slammed both hands on the table, then shoved himself out of the chair.

She shot to her feet, hand on her pistol, and questioned her decision to leave the guards outside, door closed. But he was striding away from her, not toward her. He reached the far bulkhead, stopped, but didn’t turn. She watched the angry rise and fall of his shoulders in silence.

He shoved one hand through his already spiky hair and then dropped his arm to his side. Finally, he faced her. “That’s one hell of a way to treat a friend.”

Her voice, when she found it, was not much above a whisper. “Regrets, Theo Petrakos.” She meant it. The knowledge of what that implant could do—its searing, crippling pain—was still fresh, even after ten years. She didn’t wish that experience on this man who was willing to help her, this man who, in his own world, was a protector of others. This man with a very good face who, under different circumstances, could well be a friend.

He came back to the table, his knuckles white as he clasped his hands over the back of the chair. She was still standing, right hand on her pistol. He stared down at her. “Who makes the decision if I live or die?”

“The captain. And the mission commander.”

“That’s you.”

“Yes.”

He asked another question, but the words were wrong.

“I don’t understand.”

“This decision. To kill me.” His voice was harsh, raspy. “Two people say yes and I die? Or one person says yes and I die?”

“You’re not going to die—”

“Two or one!”

“Two. Unless I die during the mission.”

His mouth twisted into a pained smile. “Then I guess I better work real hard to keep you alive.”

The entire procedure took less than ten minutes, disappointing Theo considerably. He’d wanted it to hurt. He needed the pain to remind him that just when he thought he’d figured everything out, he hadn’t. He wanted Jorie Mikkalah to watch in awe as he gritted his teeth and took the pain like a man, without flinching.

Instead, an older woman with bright orange eyes, skin the color of a rich amber beer, and two long white braids trailing down her back held a small light over his bare shoulder for a few seconds as he sat on a padded table in what was obviously the ship’s medical clinic. The light felt—illogically—cold, and by the time he realized his shoulder was numb, she’d pressed a wide metal disk just below his collarbone. He felt a slight thump, not much more than if someone bumped against him. There was no pain.

She took the light and the disk away, smiled at him, then said something in what he was coming to recognize as Alarsh. He caught Jorie’s last name in the middle of it.

Commander Mikkalah was studying the data streaming over the clinic’s wall. She hadn’t even glanced his way during the entire procedure. Another disappointment. How could she watch him in awe if she wouldn’t even face him? She turned, however, when the woman spoke. There was a tautness about her eyes and mouth.

Queasy over medical procedures? He hoped his having that implant shoved into him bothered the hell out of her. It more than bothered the hell out of him. But he had no choice. There was no other way they were going to let him return to Earth.

“It’s finished,” Jorie said. “You may place your shirt. Care with moving for a time. Soreness is expected.”

Either she didn’t want Doc White Braids to know she spoke his language better than that or she really was rattled. Or there was something about the implant she wasn’t telling him.

He pushed himself off the padded table, accepted his shirt from the doc, then pulled it on. A little stiffness, yeah, as he pushed his right arm through the sleeve. But he’d played softball off and on for years, been hit by enough pitches, plowed into enough third basemen. Nothing he couldn’t handle.

Except that this was an alien device that could kill him. He yanked his T-shirt down to his waist and watched Commander Mikkalah have a nice little chat with the doc as he tucked it into his jeans. Instructions on how to detonate the implant? He had to find out more about that thing in his shoulder. Which meant, as much as it grated on him, he had to keep his line of communication open with Jorie Mikkalah.

“We go now.” She jerked her chin toward the door to the corridor.

He shoved his hands in his pockets, followed her out. The guards were gone. He noticed that immediately. Of course they were. She had the magic button, the one that could kill him.

She slowed her steps until they were side by side. He slanted a glance her way, tried to see if she had a new wristwatch or badge or something clipped to her belt that was labeled
Kill the Nil.
Nothing so obvious, unfortunately. And her face was still grim.

“Don’t like doctors much, do you?” he asked, fighting the urge to grab her by the shoulders and back her up against the wall. Or grab her and shake her, scream at her for shoving a lethal device into his body. Theo Petrakos wanted to do that so badly, his throat burned. Sergeant Petrakos kept walking, making light conversation, knowing she had home-field advantage right now and he didn’t.

But he would, soon. Patience was a virtue.

And revenge, when it came, would be sweet.

“Med-techs,” she answered. “Vekran term is
med-techs.
And my opinion is that they’re useful in many circumstances.”

No, she definitely didn’t like doctors. Good. If he got a chance, he’d introduce her to Suzanne Martinez. Preferably in Suzanne’s clinic. With a little luck she wouldn’t know what the word
veterinarian
meant.

He rotated his shoulder as they waited for the elevator, studied his surroundings as a way to keep his mind occupied, his emotions in check. The corridors here were busier than the one outside his cabin. They had passed ten, maybe fifteen crew on the way to sick bay, another dozen just now. Most could walk unnoticed on any Bahia Vista street, the orange or gold eye colors not immediately apparent. Hair colors, though, were brighter. He saw no soft shades. Blonds all seemed to be yellow-gold blond; black hair was shot through with blue. Reds were all orange tones. He saw only one other person—a younger guy—with Jorie’s hair colors of orange, blond, and brown.