Guardians of Paradise (23 page)

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Authors: Jaine Fenn

BOOK: Guardians of Paradise
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‘And you can do this prescience thing?’ He’d had no idea.
 
‘Not exactly. Remember I thought my powers changed after I used them with the pilot?’
 
‘Yeah, I remember.’
 
‘I think I might have unlocked something inside myself. I believe I may be developing this ability. During the wedding on the island I saw, just for a moment, that the marriage would end badly.’
 
‘Badly, how?’
 
She shook her head. ‘It wasn’t specific, just a feeling. A really strong feeling. What I experienced just now wasn’t specific either, just a premonition of something bad - at the moment the deal was clinched. When that future course was set, it felt like a web of possibilities closing, and I felt positive that pain and suffering would result.
Will
result.’
 
‘Whose pain and suffering?’ Taro was worried. Nual was normally so assured, and the way she was acting now was downright freaky. He tried to make a joke of it. ‘’Cos I’m thinking it might be them poor coves who try’n get in our way.’
 
She looked sideways at him. ‘Sometimes I really need your sense of perspective, Taro.’
 
‘Thanks.’ He felt a glow at her words. ‘So does this mean we ain’t taking the job after all?’ he asked carefully. Her odd feeling sounded like a pretty gappy reason to pull out, but he trusted her, so if she said the deal was too smoky, they were out. ‘I guess we’d have to give back the money . . . and this Patai cove won’t be too pleased with us.’
 
‘You’re right, of course.’ She drew a deep breath. ‘I could just be imagining it – I have no way of knowing if this is real. Until something I foresee actually happens . . . And if we let Patai down, he will be unlikely to consider hiring us again.’ She got up. ‘I’m just being foolish. We need this job.’
 
 
Nual was still preoccupied the next day so Taro tried not to let his own nerves at the upcoming mission show. She needed him to be strong for her.
 
When he suggested they go for a walk to distract themselves she shook her head. ‘I’m not sure . . .’
 
‘What is it? Have you seen something? A future something?’
 
‘No, I just—’ She turned to him and he felt the change. She’d been holding herself tightly wound, but now, just for a moment, she released the tension. It was like a wave washing over him, a crazy mix of fear, pain, shame . . . and
desire
.
 
‘What is it?’ he breathed.
 
‘You,’ she said. ‘I—I want you. I have never felt such need. It is almost as though loving you now is the only remedy for the dark future I glimpsed.’
 
‘You do know how gappy that sounds?’ asked Taro gently.
 
‘Yes! Of course I do - but I can think of nothing else. And I cannot decide whether I should send you away, or give in to my need.’
 
‘If you did give in,’ said Taro carefully, ‘would I end up like the pilot?’
 
‘Dead? No, I have more control than that now. But . . . enthralled, possibly, yes. It might undo all that work we put in, curing you of me.’
 
‘Nual, I’m willing to take that risk,’ said Taro. He still wanted her; of course he did. And he could be careful, make it just about the sex. ‘Remember what I am - what I
was
. I know what I’m doing. And I’m your friend; of course I’ll help you. So if the help you need is me, then you’ve got it.’
 
She stood hunched in on herself, everything locked down again, not influencing him in any way. ‘Are you sure?’
 
‘Aye, lady, I am.’
 
‘Then . . .’ She straightened, and the barriers came down.
 
Her beauty made him want to cry, it shone so bright. He gasped as lust thrummed through him and his body came up with a better plan. Three steps to close the distance, then they were kissing, his head bent over hers. Every part of him that touched her was on fire.
 
The kiss ended, and it was like the world ending.
 
They staggered to the nearest bed, ungainly in their desperation. They pulled the clothes off each other, then Nual paused and put a finger over his lips. ‘We have to be careful,’ she breathed. ‘Try and keep control.’
 
‘I’ll do my best,’ Taro said. He
knew
sex. He understood how it could be many things, how every time was different. He got the give and take of pleasure, knowing when to lead and when to let himself kick back and enjoy his partner. He used what he knew.
 
She helped him, keeping it purely physical, staying out of his head, but still it took all his concentration to act like she was just another punter, and not the centre of the universe.
 
Inevitably, the time came when he wasn’t going to be able to hold on much longer. Nual, sensing how close he was, murmured, ‘I can block it,’ out loud; the safe way, the human way. ‘But I don’t want to.’
 
He just about managed to speak. ‘Don’t want you to either.’
 
‘When you let go,’ she whispered, her voice barely audible, ‘it won’t just be physical. Do you understand?’
 
‘I . . . No—Yes. I don’t know!’ Nual’s words brought him back from the brink of orgasm. His mind felt strangely clear. ‘I can’t understand: I’m only human. But I know one thing: whatever I’ve been telling myself these past few days, I still love you.’
 
She smiled.

 
And even before he began to move in her again he felt that welcome presence in his mind, and as he opened himself to her he felt her do the same to him. Her sensations began to overlay his: he was still himself, but now he could feel every surge of pleasure he caused in her, the smallest sensation magnified and returned. He knew all she was, saw into her heart, her soul. There was darkness there, and destruction, but he embraced it because it was part of her, part of his love.
 
Their bodies were moving with increasing urgency, spiralling towards ecstasy. She -
they
- held off, their combined energy feeding each other, each enhancing the other . . .
 
. . . until they were one, in a place of utter peace with no boundaries, no past and no future, only the divine moment.
 
Finally, because even souls in perfect harmony have to return to their bodies eventually, they let go.
 
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
 
The sign used to say,
Welcome to Tarset
. Since Jarek had last visited, ten months ago, some wag had shorted out the display on the two Ts.
 
Hubpoints sometimes gave themselves airs. Most people lived out their lives on the planet of their birth, so hubbers generally considered themselves superior to the dirtborn. The constant throughput of travellers did give some hub stations a distinctive, cosmopolitan style. Tarset, built from a cluster of gutted colony ships dating from the original expansion and located off the main tourist-routes, had no such pretensions. It was pure utility, just a point where transit-paths could be accessed, ships serviced and business done. There were always people on Tarset in need of raw materials to maintain infrastructure and industry, and though his chosen cargo of mixed semi-refined ores wasn’t going to make him an enormous profit, it was something Jarek could pick up at short notice and always be sure of shifting. And the cargo provided the perfect cover for the run; freetraders moving around without registered cargo attracted awkward questions from customs officials, who tended to assume, often correctly, that they were carrying something dubious.
 
Tarset as a location wasn’t ideal - it was seven transits from Kama Nui - but it was a suitably anonymous place to meet someone who remained a mystery to Jarek despite the fact they’d been in contact for the last four years.
 
When Jarek had first embarked on his search for the hidden empire, he’d had little success. After three years without turning up any firm leads, he decided on a different approach: he started to look for those who had contact with the Sidhe instead, specifically freetraders who might be supplying them. He’d encountered Orzabet first while looking for patterns in trade routes.
 
He’d taken a couple of weeks off from trading to search the archives, before reluctantly concluding that this new approach wasn’t working either. Then a text message arrived, sent direct to the
Judas Kiss
: ‘Are you looking for who I think you are?’ It was signed ‘Orzabet’.
 
He’d replied, in text, asking if ‘Orzabet’ could be more specific.
 
He’d heard nothing for five weeks. Then he received a dataspike containing some of his own research data - and more, listing odd routes and unexpected absences of certain tradebirds, with records stretching back over a century, all correlated and indexed - but with key data apparently corrupted. The hardcopy message with the ’spike consisted of a remote data-drop address and the following text:
If this was complete, how would you use it? Tell the truth and maybe you can have the key.
Caught between exasperation and fascination, he’d replied,
I’d use it to find those who don’t want to be found and shouldn’t still be arround.
Two could play at being obtuse. ‘Orzabet’ replied the next day:
I believe we’re looking for the same thing
. The message had a decryption key appended which unscrambled the data, and so gave Jarek his original list of suspicious ships. This was how he’d found out about and followed the
Setting Sun
on its regular run to Serenein.
 
Since then he’d built up a cautious relationship with Orzabet - although, four years later, he was still none the wiser as to whether Orzabet was a man or a woman, or even a group of individuals operating under that name. Whoever it was, they occasionally provided Jarek with information that helped him spot possible Sidhe influence; in return he reported anything of interest he came across, and from time to time transported small packages - he suspected they contained dataspikes, but he’d never opened them - between hubs. Orzabet used text or comp-generated voice, and messages could come from anywhere. Any physical contact was through third-party logistics services. Either Orzabet moved around a lot, or he/she/they were able to spoof message-tags somehow. Or possibly both.
 
When Orzabet finally got in contact this time, he’d used the most secure of the messaging services they were currently employing to send a text that took their combined keys to access. It said: ‘I have the complete memory-core from the
Setting Sun
. Interested?’
 
The reply, received within two hours, was a single character ‘!’ followed by a new contact procedure, this time routed via a hubpoint in a different sector. This led to a terse, time-delayed conversation. The memory-core wasn’t something Jarek was willing to trust to a courier; he needed to give it to Orzabet in person - not that he intended to just hand over something so potentially valuable - and incriminating - to someone he’d never met. He requested an initial face-to-face meeting - without the item in question - and was deeply relieved when Orzabet agreed.
 
As soon as he reached Tarset, he commed the latest number Orzabet had provided. It connected, then promptly went dead. A minute later his own com displayed an address and a time, two hours from now.
 
Registered weapons were legal on Tarset, so Jarek went armed. A pistol, even loaded solely with tranq, felt reassuring.
 
The address was an office in a commercial section that was sublet to various small businesses. He hadn’t imagined Orzabet operating out of anything so mundane as an office, and he wasn’t surprised when his com listed this particular suite as currently unoccupied.
 
When he rang the chime a woman’s voice issued from the wallcom, asking, ‘Who am I?’
 
For a moment Jarek was confused, until he realised that since that first communication they’d never used names. ‘Orzabet,’ he said.
 
The door opened onto a small office, empty save for a desk and a chair behind it, on which sat a nondescript woman in her late twenties or early thirties. The only item on the desk was a large hardcopy book propped up in front of her, which Jarek thought an odd affectation for someone who dealt in virtual data. She watched Jarek enter in silence. He kept his hands in view as he walked towards her. The door hissed shut behind him.
 
‘No closer please,’ she said, her voice toneless.
 
Jarek stopped. He saw Orzabet’s gaze go to his belt. ‘I probably shouldn’t have brought the gun,’ he said, trying to sound casual.
 
‘Of course you should,’ she said flatly. Her own hands remained hidden.
 
When she didn’t say anything else he opened his mouth to speak, but she cut across him. ‘Are they all dead? The crew, I mean.’

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