The Dragon Circle (44 page)

Eventually the hammock swings slowed. Kat crawled around and beneath the other hammocks toward the cockpit. Once clear of the sleeping men, she eased to her feet. The cold cerama/metal decks reminded her that the season changed toward autumn and winter. Loki had taken away her boots and socks. The soft synthleather wasn't much protection in the bush, but better than bare feet. She shivered in the cold morning air.

Someone moved behind her. She froze in place. Barely daring to breathe, she peeked over her shoulder. The guard nearest the hatch scratched, then settled back into sleep. Predawn light filtered through the portholes. Everyone would wake soon. Except perhaps Lucinda Baines. The diplomatic attaché had a different circadian rhythm than anyone else. Kat had found the woman prowling
Jupiter
at odd hours, no matter which shift had just ended.

Kat crossed the last open space on tiptoe as rapidly as she dared. Silently, she moved aside the curtain that separated the cabin from the cockpit. Loki lay sprawled against the control panels, his hand firmly on the interface that locked all pilot controls.

Through the windscreen she saw a burly warrior prowling around the lander and the shuttle. He carried a spear and an iron sword as long as her arm.

A new plan glimmered in her mind. She'd bet a month's pay that Kim did not guard the cockpit of the shuttle as well as Loki guarded this one. He'd not separate from his wife so readily.

One micrometer at a time, she eased away from the cockpit. Down on her knees again, she crawled back the way she had come to the small hatch giving access to the engines and the all-important fuel cells.

The hatch opened on noiseless hinges. Kat dropped into the belly of the lander just as two of the guards dropped out of their hammocks, scratching and yawning. She eased the portal shut, letting it latch only as the men began speaking.

If they questioned the extra noise, she did not hear. The emergency lights did not come on. She bit back curses as she stubbed her toes on protruding equipment. Where was the switch? SBs handled this sort of thing, not officers. Still she should have memorized the layout of every micrometer of the vessel. It was her job to know about light switches and such.

Blindly, she reached to her left. The bulkhead was blank. She moved her hand around. Still nothing. But then she was left-handed. Most people, including designers used their right hand. Her fingers met the recessed plate on the first try to the right. Soft red light flooded the cramped compartment.

A quick scan showed the fuel cells right where they should be, along the two exterior bulkheads. Six to a side. A cubed meter each in size. Paired. The ship would operate under reduced power if some of the cells were damaged or empty, but only if the operating cells were paired with an equally fueled one on the opposite side.

Kat knew precisely how to disable the lander. Quickly, she yanked connecting cables from all the cells. She opened others at random, letting the energy held under pressure dissipate.

Sometimes in combat a cell took too many hits and absorbed the energy directly into the storage coils. Crews needed to get rid of it before it exploded. She opened the jettison port.

Then she unbolted two of them on the same side and heaved them out beneath the lander. She heard the casings crack as the two cells hit the ground.

As a final desecration she crawled backward through one of the jettison tubes, pulling a cell behind her. This one she cradled in her arms as she dropped to the ground. Bulky and awkward, it nearly toppled her. She braced her feet and gritted her teeth. A pebble pressed against the soft skin on her sole. She felt a bruise forming and needed to hop and curse and get rid of the offending rock that felt as big as a boulder.

Somehow she managed to carry the fuel cell across the clearing to the shuttle. She expected the watch-man to shout an alarm at any moment.

Now for the tricky part. She hid herself and her purloined treasure behind one of the wheel struts. Not a great hiding place for long. Clouds obscured the sunrise. Tall trees and adjacent hills ringing the clearing would keep it dark here until the sun was well above them. She prayed that she had enough time.

One by one the locals trooped out of the two vessels, including the gloomy Lucinda Baines. That surprised Kat. Dared she leave the diplomatic attaché to the not so tender mercies of the brothers O'Hara? No matter. Kat would be back soon with reinforcements. Besides, Ms. Baines seemed to have a prior acquaintance with Loki. If she had survived his friendship before, she would again.

The moment the last occupant of the shuttle stumbled toward the remnants of last night's cooking fire, Kat sneaked aboard with the fuel cell. She coaxed the hatch closed and dashed for the cockpit.

“Controls keyed to O'Hara DNA,” Kim had said yesterday. She laid her hand flat upon the lock.

“Retina scan,” a voice from her past demanded. She almost choked with tears at the sound of her mother's voice. Then Kat remembered how the woman had abandoned her. Their moment of communion in the desert had sickened Kat from first contact with Mum's obsessed mind.

“Override. Emergency,” she barked in as deep a voice as she could muster.

“Emergency password,” Mum's voice replied in an equally gruff tone.

“St. Bridget and all the angels,” Kat cursed.

“Password accepted.” The engines roared to life.

Kat almost laughed. Mum's archaic religion was not popular in the GTE. No civil would think to invoke a saint for a password. She scanned the screens quickly. She didn't have time for more. Already her brothers and their lethally armed guards dashed toward the shuttle. She set the VTOL jets and lifted off.

“Well,” Cyndi huffed. “She could have at least taken me with her.”

“Oh, shut up,” Loki retorted.

“Do you know who you are talking to?” she fumed. Hands on hips, hair disheveled from sleep, she almost looked like a woman worthy of this planet.

Then Loki noticed how her makeup had smeared, darkening her eyes and blurring her mouth. She'd be a lot prettier without the enhancement.

“I know precisely who you are,” Loki said with a calmness he did not expect. “You are my prisoner. A hostage. Rank means nothing here. You have to earn respect—not be born to it.”

Cyndi narrowed her eyes in deep concentration. Loki had always feared that expression. He never knew if the result of her intense thinking bout would produce brilliance or trouble. Trouble for him. Trouble for her father. Trouble for the universe.

He no longer cared. Fear of losing her love had always made him succumb to her moods. Now he knew deep in his gut that she had never truly loved him. She loved the adventure of an affair with an outlaw. She loved outwitting her father and his security. She loved manipulating people. Just like Mum.

“Kim, are the fuel cells repairable?” he called to his brother rather than waste any more time with Cyndi.

S'murghit,
he should have put the force bracelets back on Kat. Restrained both her hands and her feet with the blasted things. But he'd spent a few sleepless nights in jail cells wearing the electronic shackles until Mum either organized a rescue or bailed him out. He hated the thought of doing that to another human being. Especially his sister.

“I think Kat made more of a mess than actual damage,” Kim said. He stood up from his close examination of the cracked casings. “A little cerama/metal caulk ought to repair the exterior.” He headed for the hatch.

“What about the energy that's leaking out?” Loki racked his brain for a solution. “Where is Konner when we need him most?”

“He should have been back here before us,” Kim said. He reached under the pilot's seat for the emergency repair kit.

“I'm getting worried,” Loki admitted.

“Well, we have plenty to worry about. The caulk is nearly used up in this kit. Not enough to fix more than one or two cells.” Kim emerged from the hatchway shaking his head. “Maybe some of the local moss will fill the cracks.”

“Raaskan,” Loki called to the people gathered near the fire. “We need to explore and forage. We're going to be stuck here for a while.”

Raaskan nodded, then began a conversation with the other warriors accompanied by many pointing gestures.

“I'm not going anywhere until I get a shower,” Cyndi announced.

Hestiia looked at her with contempt. “Bathe in the creek.”

“You mean with . . . with water! Fish crap in that water.” She stared aghast at Hestiia. When that evoked no response, she tried logic. “Water is inefficient, barbaric, and probably contaminated. I need a sonic cleansing. You all do.” Cyndi wrinkled her nose. “I've never smelled anyone so . . . offensive.”

Hestiia looked as if she would slap the GTE diplomatic attaché. Cyndi deserved it, but violence would not settle the issue.

Rain dropped on the top of Loki's head. Cyndi screeched and ran for the interior of the lander. Hestiia shrugged and returned to reheating last night's leftovers. Kim muttered and cursed as he scrounged around the cockpit for tools and caulk. The warriors spread out and disappeared in pairs behind the tree line.

“Now what?” Kim asked.

“When Konner gets back, tell him to start building a still. I think we're going to need it.” Loki pulled a toolbox from the lander and dumped the contents on the ground. “Bathing the coils in alcohol might enhance the effects of sunlight in recharging the cells.”

“What are you going to do?” Kim eyed the discarded tools as if they might hold the answers to all of their problems.

“I'm going to collect some of the fruit of the Tambootie and make some dragon wine.”

“W
HERE ARE YOU, Martin Konner O'Hara?” Martin Fortesque slammed his fist against his Lazy-former®. The cushions absorbed the impact and eased none of his frustration. The vid screen remained quiet, unable to answer his question.

“Marty, I found it!” Bruce Geralds popped onto the screen almost as if summoned. He sounded breathless and a little frightened.

“Found what?” Martin sat straighter. He peered into the screen as if he could penetrate the pixels to delve across space and time directly into Bruce's terminal.

“The will.”

“My grandparents' will?”

“Yes,” Bruce breathed. He looked over his shoulder as if afraid of being observed. “I'll shoot it to you directly . . . and file a copy with the local courts.” His eyes refused to look directly at the screen.

“What is it, Bruce?” Even as he spoke a document appeared in the lower right corner of his screen.

“Read it. Then destroy your file. I've secured the official copy where your mother can't find it.”

Bruce disappeared.

“Scaramouch, enhance document.” The screen enlarged the document enough so that Martin could read the fine print from his chair.

“Where as . . . wherefore . . .” he skimmed the legalese looking for the core of the document.

“ 'Everything to daughter Melinda Georgina Fortesque. ' No surprise there.”

The next paragraph jumped out at Martin. He began to chill. His mother's police record followed. Embezzlement, blackmail, conspiracy to falsely accuse another for a fatal accident involving loading equipment at spacedock. “Sale of a controlled substance on the black market. Smuggling of same said controlled substance. Any other person would have spent a number of years in prison undergoing psychiological rehab, possibly even a mind-wipe.

Obviously Melinda's parents had bought her suspended sentences and paroles.

Since taking over Fortesque Industries, Melinda had been a model of propriety. No whisper of scandal ever attached to her for long. Record of her crimes had been scrubbed from local courts—and probably from GTE jurisdiction as well.

“Principal and seat on board of directors to be held in trust until her thirtieth birthday or her marriage,” Martin read the last sentence.

His mother had married Konner O'Hara within two months of her parents' death.

Martin scrubbed the will from his files as well as any record of having received a document from Bruce.

Slowly, almost reluctantly he called up the minority report of the accident that had killed Melinda's parents.

“Evidence suggests the explosion was caused by external weapons fired from a small independent merchant vessel.”

He began to shake uncontrollably.

“You murdered your parents. You hired a Sam Eyeam to do it for you. All you ever wanted was control of the corporation. Nothing else. Not even me.”