The Star King (22 page)

Jas bolted off the cushion, yanking on the hem of her microtunic that might make a hospital gown feel like full-body armor. She smoothed her hands over the wall's slick surface. What was the trick? Hand recognition? A voice command? "Let the purification begin!" she repeated. Nothing. Her hunt for seams in the wall became feverish. "Hey! Let me out!" She pounded her fists on the cold, unyielding surface. Something thumped between her breasts. The necklace! Disgust tightened her insides. She grabbed the weighty ornament, felt a tingling worm its way up her arm. As she lifted the medallion over her head, an overwhelming sensation stopped her.

No, you must not.
...

She stared at the disk, confused. Then she tried again.

Must not
...

Quivering, she tried to yank it over her head. This time her arms shot out to the sides. Bewildered and disoriented, she struggled to get rid of the medallion, but every time she did, her body rebelled. She felt like a marionette, except that the contradicting commands were coming from
inside
her. "What's happening to me?" she demanded. A piercing alarm began to blare. It shrieked on and on, a knife slashing her sensitive eardrums, bringing pain beyond her imagination. She slapped her hands over her ears and screamed.

The volume rose with her hysteria, like dirt sucked into a tornado. She sagged to the floor, writhing and crying out until her voice had faded to a ragged whisper.

* * *

Three abreast, Rom, Muffin, and Gann walked briskly into the glassy-walled cave. The sound of their footfalls echoed off the obsidian walls.

"Hell and back." Scouring Jas's hotel room, they had found a medallion just like the one Drandon's seedpicker had flaunted, that and a locater card that Rom hadn't recognized. They had followed the directions on the card—of a person named Beela—directly to this compound. Rom had kept alive the hope that he'd finally find Jas here—or at least an individual who could be forced to reveal her whereabouts. Now his confidence faltered. The cavernous hall was littered with the signs of habitation—scraps of paper, books, a cloak. But it was eerily empty of people.

"They left in a hurry," Gann said, righting a
tock
cup.

Rom crushed his hands into fists. "To where? The card listed a dozen other possible locations. By all that is holy, if she's not here, how will I find her?"

His men judiciously maintained their silence. Muffin— brought low by guilt—strolled away, peering at the floor, searching for signs of a struggle, while Gann knocked the repulsive paintings from the wall, one by one, looking behind each for hidden panels or compartments.

They looked like a couple of rookie Trade Police, Rom thought. Frustration vibrated inside him. This was not the way to proceed. The compound was deserted; any fool could see that. By now the Family of the New Day had taken Jas off-planet, to any one of countless

worlds. Were they as unspeakably evil as when Sharron had led them? Or were they merely fanatical artists? Regardless, they'd taken her against her will.

But to where?

Rom turned in a slow circle. Reaching deep, he silently evoked Romjha, the ancient warrior whose blood he shared.

Guide me.

Rom shuddered and closed his eyes. Using the lessons drilled into him from birth, he embraced the eons-old legacy he'd fled, the ancestry that filled him with both pride and pain. "Guide me," he whispered.

Only this once:

Only to keep the woman he loved alive. "I will find you, Jasmine," he chanted under his breath. "I
will
find you."

His senses gathered ... coalesced ... until every pore in his body thrummed. He moved beyond the physical, transcending time. He became thoughts and feelings and dreams, while memories swept over him like a restless sea.

He lost track of how long he stood there, motionless in the middle of the vast, barren chamber, but when he opened his eyes, it was with the supreme confidence of a hunter.

He would find her.

"Muffin! Gann!" The men met him at the perimeter of the room. "To the ship. She is not here." Pistol drawn, he led them into the shadowy corridor.

* * *

The siren soared to an agonizing pitch, wailing on and on. Fearing she'd lose consciousness and render herself helpless, Jas fought to sweep the choking terror from her mind, succeeding in calming herself only fractionally. The alarm diminished in kind, but she hadn't changed the pressure of her hands over her ears. Was it coming from within her head? Writhing on the cold floor, gasping in pain and panic, she uncovered her ears just slightly. The horrific screech remained unchanged. It
was
coming from within her! Her fear skyrocketed. So did the brutal siren.

It's feeding off your panic.
The thought—her own— cut through the chaos.
If you don't control yourself, it'll get worse.

Panting, shaking uncontrollably, she wrapped her arms around her stomach and bent forward, gritting her teeth, her damp forehead pressed against the rug.
It's okay; it's okay,
she told herself. Terror nearly overwhelmed her fight to save her sanity. Every time her anxiety spiked, so did the high-pitched howl. How much time passed, she hadn't a clue, but when she finally calmed herself, the wailing ceased.

She pushed herself up on quaking knees. After a few moments she stood, using the wall for support. Sharron must have known this would happen, that the medallion would feed off her emotions and magnify them, a feedback loop of some sort, designed to shatter her mind. This room must have equipment rigged to facilitate that. The knowledge nauseated her. Had she not figured out how to fight back, she'd likely be a compliant zombie by now, "purified" like the rest of his subjects—save Beela.

She had to ditch the medallion. Could she do it now? And if she did, how would she hide the fact from Sharron? If he discovered it missing, he'd likely immobilize her to keep her from trying again. Then she'd be at his

mercy—something she was now certain didn't exist.

She studied the necklace. The charm was connected to the chain by a link—one easily wrenched open. Hope flared inside her, chased by a mental buzzing. She immediately tamped down on her response and the buzzing stopped. It reacted to feelings, which meant she'd have to blunt all emotion, good and bad, to keep her mind unfettered.

She glanced nervously around for hidden cameras, forcing a vacant expression onto her face in case her activity might alarm her keepers. In one swift motion, she tore at the link. It opened, the disk plopping into her trembling hand. She sat on the couch, pretending to clutch her stomach, and furtively slipped the medallion under the cushion. Feeling a wave of triumph rush through her, she tucked the bottom of the chain into her bodice. Now all she had to do was pray no one checked.

As discreetly as she could, in case anyone watched, she faked a limp, searching the small room for anything that could be used as a weapon. Nothing. Too nervous to sit, she paced. Sharron would summon her when the second moon rose, however long that was. What was he going to do to her? Rape her repeatedly until he got her pregnant? And what was that he'd said about a bomb?

She stepped faster to quell the fear chilling her insides. She'd never felt so afraid—or so alone. If only Rom knew she was here.

But he didn't.

Jas gave her head a curt shake. A plan, she told herself; she needed a plan. She had been a soldier once, trained for such situations. Sharron must assume the medallion had turned her mind to Jell-O by now. Naturally she'd show him what he expected to see, pretending to be obedient, and then give him the surprise of his life.

A popping noise brought her to a halt. Three of the four walls morphed into blisters that swelled, then ruptured. The gaps revealed a virtual army of Sharron's gray-cloaked minions. Jas's heart sank. It was time. The second moon had risen.

Chapter Fifteen

Jas followed her captors into a darkened corridor. Fresh air washed over her bare arms and legs, cooling the perspiration prickling her skin. Somewhere a door or window must be open to the outside, to freedom. Longing tightened her chest, but she kept her head bowed in the manner of a meek convert. Patience was the key, she reminded herself. That was how she'd escape.

Using her peripheral vision, she took in as many details as she could. The glassy black walls and floor shimmered in the light of laser torches. There were plenty of doors similar to those on the
Quillie,
but they were all sealed.

Again she turned her attention to the floor, unable to shake the bleak sensation that these dozens of somber, drably clothed zealots were leading her to her execution. What a strange and awful turn her life had taken. A month ago she had been a divorced mother of two whose biggest fear was going on a date. Now look.

But she didn't regret the past few weeks for a minute. She'd never lived so fully, so completely. Anger blazed, and she clenched her jaw until it ached. It wasn't her time to die—she knew it in her soul—and she sure as heck wasn't going to make it easy for Sharron to kill her.
Hell no.
She'd fight until her last breath. That was what Rom would do if he were in this situation.

Rom...
She bit her lip to keep it from quivering. Even out of sight the man made her emotions gush to the surface. A shame they had' never had more time together—more than that one beautiful night.

The slightly built man she guessed was in charge gestured into a cavernous, empty room. "You go," he whispered. A viewscreen dominated the wall opposite the door. The screen was blank, but not in the silvery standby mode she was used to seeing. She was being covertly observed. The knowledge brought her to a halt.

Her escort peered questioningly at her from beneath his hood. "You go," he repeated under his breath.

Mute, she stepped inside. A plush mattress was mounted in the exact center of the room, like the prized showpiece in some nightmarish gallery. It was draped in shimmering white sheets as deceptively lovely as a

moonlit arctic night.

Her escort poked a gloved hand at the bed. "Gown."

She followed his finger to a dress arranged on the coverlet, made from the same glittering material.

"Put on," the little troll insisted.

Jas ground her teeth.

"Put on—"

"I need privacy," she said, stalling for a way to in-

vestigate the room without the guards looking over her shoulder. "I stay."

Pointedly turning her back to unknown pairs of eyes, she traded her tunic for the sparkly white sleeveless dress, and gave the hem a single impatient jerk. The dang thing was as short as the tunic. Fortunately the neckline was just as high, hiding the fact that she'd removed the medallion from her chain.

The short zealot collected her discarded clothing and backed toward the entryway. "Lie down," he said. "On back."

Great.
She shot a weary glance at the viewscreen, and reminded herself for the hundredth time that her escape plan depended on a convincing performance of docility and compliance. If she tried to run or fight the guards, they'd bind her arms and legs, rendering her completely helpless.

Only after she had settled onto the soft mattress did the double doors slam closed. Then a grating noise rumbled from behind them. A bar or something similar was being used as a lock. Old-fashioned, compared to her previous quarters, but just as effective.

Laid out like a human sacrifice, she stared at the ceiling- It was decorated with a starkly realistic painting of the galaxy's core. Streamers of white and yellow and red fanned out from its center, reminding her of a bloody cracked egg. She swallowed and glanced away.

The silence, the waiting, became oppressive. Her arms and legs trembled. A wonder that I have any adrenaline left, she thought glumly. To keep fear at bay, she went over her plans. First she'd feed into Sharron's fantasies. Then, as soon as he reached a vulnerable state of arousal, she'd ram her knee into his groin for all she was worth. Then she'd finish him off. She had been trained in self-defense in the air force, and although she hadn't practiced the moves in nearly two decades, she knew that the heel of her palm could still shatter a nose, and that knuckles rammed into a throat could crush a trachea. Even if she didn't kill Sharron outright, with the dazed state of his followers, she had a chance of escaping before he recovered. Not being a mindless zombie would give her a mental advantage over them all, she hoped with a quick morbid laugh.

The bar outside the door rattled. Her chest squeezed so tightly that she could hardly breathe. A breeze suggested that the doors had opened and closed. Thuds of booted feet stepping toward her confirmed it.

Sharron had entered the room.

She lifted her head to peek at the cloaked, hooded figure approaching the bed.
Patience.
Her only hope lay in accuracy, in surprise—and timing.

The cult leader paused to scrutinize the viewscreen, as if he liked performing in front of an audience and wanted to make sure the camera was running.
Creep.
She braced herself when he resumed his confident strides. Without a word, he lowered his big frame to hers. Cool cloth billowed around her, the scent of burned incense concealing his punishing physical strength. The terror of being raped destroyed her fragile calm, and she plowed her left knee into giving male flesh.

Sharron's breath exploded in a hearty
oomph.
"Great Mother—" he said in a gasp.

Yes!
She'd done damage. She jerked her thumbs upward, aiming for his eyes. But he snatched her wrists and used his body to squash her into the mattress like

an unrepentant bug. She instantly regretted her too-early, fear-driven attack. Bucking, she twisted under his weight. One leg came almost loose, but he pinned her with his muscular thighs. Finally she wrenched a fist free, throwing her weight into the swing.

"By all that is holy," he whispered loudly. "Jas, it's me."

Her arm froze in midair. "R-Rom?" Familiar golden eyes peered at her from beneath the rumpled hood. Joy exploded in her heart. She flung her arms around his shoulders, and his mouth came down hard over hers. Molding herself to him. she shuddered with the raw emotion in his fierce, passionate embrace.

He clamped her head in his big hands and groaned, the sound vibrating in her chest. But just as she lost herself in his kiss, he seemed to remember where they were and abruptly pulled away. Love and worry pierced his gaze.

And pain.

"I hurt you." She twisted her hands in the fabric of his cloak. "I thought you were him—Sharron. He's alive, Rom.
Alive!"

"I know," he whispered, and pressed one finger to her lips. "The viewscreen. It may or may not be transmitting."

"But how did you get here?" she mumbled anxiously. "How did you find me? Did he see you?"

"Answers later." He regarded her solemnly, stroking warm fingers over her face. His eyes were liquid gold, molten. "I didn't know if I'd ever see you again," he said in a thick whisper.

She brushed her knuckles over his cheek, simply nodding, while she held her breath to stave off tears.

"We have little time." Rom eased his weight off her and again became disciplined. "Sharron and his elders are in the prayer chamber. I hope they'll be there for some time yet. If we're going to get out, we have to do it now."

«Tell me what to do."

He clasped her hands in his and helped her to her feet. "I need you to play religious convert." He produced a wadded gray cloak. "Think you can?"

"Oh, yeah." She shakily smoothed back her hair. "I've become a regular Greta Garbo."

He cocked his head questioningly.

"Watch." She demonstrated the meek shuffle that had kept her alive so far. His eyes gleamed in silent approval as he handed her a pair of slippers. Earning the respect of this seasoned warrior was a compliment like no other.

Swiftly they fastened the garment Rom had brought with him over her white dress, arranging the hood over her hair. He withdrew a laser pistol from the folds of his cloak and peered into the corridor. "Clear," he said, beckoning her into the deserted hallway. "Now up."

"Up?" she asked blankly. She'd assumed they'd bolt down one corridor or the other.

He poked his gun in the air. A skylight-sized opening gaped just above their heads. "An access panel to the ventilation system," he said.

A hand thrust out of the hole. Jas jumped backward. Thick fingers wriggled invitingly, and her gaze tracked up a muscular forearm to the galactic version of a big blond Swede. "Muffin!" she choked out.

"Up we go." Rom slapped his hands around her hips, hoisting her into his bodyguard's grasp.

Muffin pulled her into a narrow, gloomy passageway.

She scooted backward in the air duct, allowing Rom room to climb in after her. He kicked up a snowy layer of dust while he refastened the panel over the opening. She muffled a sneeze.

Rom rotated in the cramped space and let Muffin take the lead down the dusky tunnel. Rom fell in behind her. The metal flooring abraded her knees, and she tripped on the hem of her cloak several times as they navigated through what seemed like miles of ductwork.

"I was in the middle of calling you when they drugged me," she said.

"Thank the Great Mother. That's how I knew something had happened. I found your travel bag and your tube of paintings at the Romjha. Wherever you were, I knew you were there against your will; you'd never willingly leave your artwork behind. When I found that woman's card I guessed what had happened."

Beela's card!
"Thank God for that. Who else is with you?"

"Zarra's outside," Rom said. "He's guarding a couple of borrowed starspeeders. I wanted to bring Gann and the others, too, but couldn't risk a large group."

"Three's still a good number. Do you have an extra gun? I'll cover you and Muffin when you go after Sharron."

"I'm not going after Sharron."

Incredulous, she shot a glance over her shoulder. "His death was what made your exile bearable. How can you leave here and live with yourself knowing he's still alive?"

His reply was barely audible above sudden whirr of the air through the ducts in which they crawled. "When I came here and learned Sharron still lived, the craving to avenge my brother was unimaginable. But I had a choice, a choice between you and Sharron. I chose you."

"He has antimatter bombs."

That met with a few seconds of silence.

"The braggart's still glorying in his empty threats," Muffin remarked to Rom. "He doesn't have them. They're too complicated for anyone to reconstruct."

Jas persisted. "He said he'd strap me to one and send me to the center of the galaxy."

Rom's tone was hard, edgy, and not to be contradicted. "Whether or not Sharron's tinkering with anti-matter isn't our immediate concern. Getting out of here is. Now listen closely. Our starspeeders are parked outside the compound. If we get separated, go out the front entrance and head for the trees. It's below freezing, but you won't be outside for long. You'll see one peak that's higher than the rest. Head for it. Keep going until you see the ships. If all goes as planned. Muffin and Zarra will take one and we'll take the other. But if anything should happen to me, you go with them."

"No way am I leaving without you."

"Oh, I think you are." He gave her rear a not-so-gentle shove. "Now move."

"Boss me around all you want," she whispered threateningly, "but I don't plan on leaving unless you're with me."

"Trust me, angel, I don't plan on it either." His matter-of-fact statement radiated so much confidence that she smiled despite her anxiety. "Sharron has accrued a considerable space force here—formidable fighters. He'll send them after us. The more lead time we have the better."

They rounded a corner and the passage constricted,

brushing the tops of their heads. Muffin stopped abruptly. Jas collided with his wide rear end, and Rom plowed into her from behind. Suave covert operators they weren't—on the outside, at any rate.

Muffin took a tool out of his cloak and used it to pry open a panel. He lifted it high enough to peer into the torchlit corridor below. The sound of distant monotone chanting sent chills careening down her spine. "All clear," he whispered in a deep rumble. He braced himself above the opening, paused, then dropped with surprising catlike grace to the floor. He flattened himself against the wall and withdrew his gun from his cloak.