Unbound (27 page)

Plasma-hot fury shrank the world to the three barricaded behind privilege and entitlement. Feeling the ground teeter under her boots, she gulped down the words boiling in her gut. She had to keep her wits about her. This meeting was no ordinary trade with goodwill on both sides; something else was happening besides the obvious. “Let me get this straight. You want me to lend the Dilaryn name to the Dareh conglomerate. To bolster its standing with the Lomidari. After you forced my father to abdicate.”

Asrial stared into the smooth, self-satisfied face that wore not a single line of toil, remembered the furrows of strain on her mother’s brow that came from scrounging for trade contracts and years of worry for her husband and daughter, old before her time. Leaning forward, her weight on her hands flat on the table, she chose her words carefully. “No way in frigging hell.”

Fury erupted in the Bintanan’s eyes, towering offense at the thwarting of her will. Blood washed the old woman’s cheeks with ugly color as skin stretched pale over the knuckles of her shaking fists. She gaped, her wide mouth opening and shutting repeatedly before she found her voice. “You . . . dare?”

Her heir arched a dark, well-shaped brow but said nothing.

Bazhir glared at Asrial, unblinking black eyes frigid with the cold of deep space and just as unforgiving. “You are in no position to reject our proposition.” As the president of the entire Dareh conglomerate, he wielded vast influence, especially in Inner World sectors. One word from him was sufficient to destroy many businesses, another reason why she never considered settling for a corporate job after her parents’ deaths.

“And you’ll do what? Make me disappear? Too many people saw me. If I disappear, how would your restless Lomidari react?”

The Bintanan’s florid cheeks went gray, the thin lips white at the edges, confirming her guess.

Asrial nodded in satisfaction. “That’s what I thought.” It didn’t matter that she didn’t think she had such influence, only that the Dareh believed it.

She pushed away from the table, wondering how many of the muscle she could take down if it came to shooting. Not enough, she suspected. She was just a Rim rat; against professionals, she didn’t stand a chance. That didn’t mean she wouldn’t try—no way she was helping this carrion-eater stay in power.

At least she didn’t have to worry about Romir.

The Bintanan tapped the tips of her fingers together, a sneer creasing her cheeks. “Naive child. You misapprehend your position. We do not need your support, merely your face.”

Her face? Understanding came in a flash of chill unease. They meant to steal her identity.

Image programs could do that easily; video and audio could be manipulated to show whatever the programmer wanted. That was the reason buyers attended relic auctions in person or sent representatives—and why people gave more credence to face-to-face meetings.

Asrial inhaled sharply, her heart thundering in her ears, the skin of her arms prickling with cold. The world fell silent. Details leaped at her, preternaturally distinct, just like when she took the
Castel
through a Ring. The quivering tic at the corner of the Bintanan’s eye. The sudden, white-knuckled tension of the restless heir. The minute motion of Bazhir’s thumb rubbing the leather of the table.

Romir’s hand on her shoulder silenced the rash words that sprang to her lips, the tightening of his fingers urging caution. He was right, of course. The less said, the less that could be used against her.

She stood to leave. There was nothing to be gained by wasting more time here. The question was whether she would be able to escape—Romir would have no problem.

“I have not dismissed you.”

“Tough. I’m done talking with you.” Asrial turned her back on the three, her heart racing at the gamble. She glanced at Romir then the probably locked door, hoping he understood.

The nearest guard smirked. She had the pleasure of seeing that smarmy expression vanish when the door slid aside on silent tracks when she got within arm’s reach. Nothing like a great exit to do wonders for a woman’s confidence.

Unfortunately, it wouldn’t last. Couldn’t last. The Bintanan hadn’t come this far by turning a blind eye to defiance. Her back itched, anticipating a stunner blast. But she had no intention of rolling over and playing nice with the power-hungry yfreet.

Only the fear of instigating the very fight she still hoped to avoid kept her from drawing her stunner. The longer they put off that confrontation, the better their chances of escape.

“Stop her!”

Desperately aware they were outnumbered, Asrial grabbed for her stunner, praying that she had been right, that Romir had simply obscured it and it was still in her holster. The universe slowed to an endless crawl . . . until a familiar grip met her palm.

Romir’s hand bit into her shoulder. He dragged her in front of him, shielding her with his body.

Stunners hummed all around them, angry power on ready. Energy crackled, an electric blue corona reaching for them with glittering, searing fingers.

This was going to hurt.

Her body tensed instinctively, anticipating the neural agony of multiple stunner blasts.

She . . . felt nothing!

They missed?!
Never mind about that. Business first.
She fired back, squeezing off shots as fast as the stunner could manage. Aiming didn’t matter—there were that many of them.

Romir held her in place, his tight grip keeping her from diving for cover.

Shouts rose, bewildered, outraged, cut short. More beams crackled their way—but instead of hitting, they fed a ball of violent energy that appeared around them. Whirling, sparkling chaos wrapped them in an electrifying cocoon of safety.

It had to be Romir’s doing.

The scorched air made the hairs on her arms stand on end. The ball contracted, fluctuating smaller then larger, then smaller, nearer then farther then nearer. The fluctuations came faster as more beams hit it.

They had to get away—and fast. She didn’t know how long Romir could keep it up, but if he faded, the Dareh might realize what he was. In their lust for power, they had deposed her father. What more would they risk to command a djinn?

The hum of the stunners grew to a furious chorus—militarygrade stunners, she remembered, lethal at full power. And there were several of them. How much longer could Romir hold out before they overloaded his defense?

And when that defense failed . . .

Crackling energy scorched
the air as multiple stunners fired, acrid and searing. Asrial returned fire desperately, her eyes tearing at the stench, but she couldn’t tell to what effect. Hopefully, Romir’s defense wasn’t stopping her blasts.

With a wild sizzle, the ball around them exploded. Violent streamers of energy lashed out in all directions, arcing through the room like localized lightning strikes. Targeted lightning strikes. The men surrounding them broke into spasms, flung off their feet by their bodies’ response. Bouncing off the walls, they fell, convulsions pounding them against the floor.

“Go!” A push urged her on. “Do not look back.”

She went. And didn’t look back.

Alarms blared, a deafening cacophony sufficient to wake the dead to the third generation and make them wish they’d died all over again. They were too loud to ignore. Someone had to respond, and sooner or later—probably sooner—more muscle would fill the hall. Throw enough creds at a problem, and someone would pick up the slack. In this case, the Dareh had creds to spare, and they had professionals.

Unless she and Romir stole an aircar, they had to get to the ground and out of the tower to get away. Problem was, they were so high up the only way down—realistically—was the lift tube. Descending on foot while outrunning pursuit would be physically impossible. But the lift tube was a chokepoint: security would be able to isolate them.

The clangor of alarms shut down abruptly, leaving her ears ringing with silence.

“Frigging crap.” The only feet Asrial heard were hers as they ran past blank doors. Apprehension tightened her gut. Any moment now more muscle would spill out of those doors. Any moment now.

Hoping no one had thought to deactivate the lift tube, she banged her fist on the call panel. The door slid aside. The chamber was empty, which was a stroke of luck, but when they entered, it didn’t move, and she couldn’t see any controls to get it moving.

“It should go down, yes?”

“Yes, we need to get to the ground floor.”

Romir laid his hand on the wall—and the floor, the entire chamber plummeted.

Asrial grabbed Romir as her stomach was left far behind. “Not this fast!” They were dropping faster than they’d gone up, practically free fall. She didn’t mind a spot of zero grav, but the landing was a different matter: from this height, all that would be left of her was a bloody smear; she probably wouldn’t even bounce. Her skin crawled, and it had nothing to do with the wind from their passage. She screwed her eyes shut to block the sight of spires, floors, lines blurring past.
Spirit of space!
As a pilot, she’d have preferred death by plasma shield failure or just not exiting from Jump.

He put an arm around her. “Worry not.”

Easy for him to say! He’d just turn to mist.

Air thickened perceivably. More than clouds. More than steam. An invisible mass almost thick enough to chew. It wrapped her body in a blanket of heaviness.

Their descent slowed. She would have attributed it to terminal velocity, except the blurs through the lift tube’s walls regained their distinctness. Blobs in the nearby spires were recognizable as people.

Until the floor under her boots supported her weight again.

A door slid into view, and they finally came to a stop. Asrial froze, incredulous at her survival. “How?”

“Remember the spires on Maj?”

Her brain fumbled for relevance for half a heartbeat—what did Maj have to do with it?—before memory clicked in. Vyziers used djinn to bear them up and down their spires. His confidence was because this hadn’t been the first time he’d borne someone that way.

Guilt dug hard spikes into her back. Now was no time for distraction. They weren’t out of Dareh hands yet.

Romir released her and turned to the door.

“Wait.” She checked her stunner automatically. Since she’d been firing at full power, she wasn’t surprised to see its charge read more than halfway to low. She replaced the charge with a fresh pack, then holding the stunner at low ready, nodded at Romir to continue. “All right.”

The door opened into silence and surreal normalcy. No deafening alarms. No one in sight. The lobby was empty, though she imagined there were security cams pointed at them. With the Dareh bosses on site, security had to be tight.

Romir caught her arm before she’d taken more than a step forward, then slid in front of her. “Allow me.” It galled her to hide behind him, but he was better able to withstand a stunner blast.

Nothing happened when he showed himself, and Asrial quickly followed him out, half-afraid the lift tube would head back up. How much longer did they have?

Not much time at all, it turned out.

He stopped without warning, taking her by surprise—so sudden that she bumped into his back and bounced off. She would have fallen, if she hadn’t grabbed his belt, but she had no cause for complaint.

Guards spilled out of a side door, shoulders stiff, masks of urgency tight across their faces, as they rushed to the entrance lobby.

Crap, crap, crap, and frigging crap.
Romir could still escape, but there was no way she was walking out the front door now, not without a fight.

Asrial tugged on his sleeve and tipped her head to indicate the opposite direction. There had to be more than one way out of this place—if it was anything like Lyrel 9, there would be all sorts of access corridors for service deliveries and the like. Those in power preferred to keep the maintenance crews out of sight.

Following her lead, Romir walked briskly, keeping his body between her and potential discovery.

“Can you do something about the security cams without putting them out of commission?” The cams going blank would be almost as sure a giveaway of their presence as them being spotted. She didn’t hope for much. Unlike on Eskarion, they needed to avoid detection.

Romir’s eyes narrowed as he studied their surroundings. “Ah, easily solved.” The look he slid her said he understood her concern, the harsh light in his eyes reminding her that most of the memories he retained were of war. “I cannot fool the system, but taking down cams on multiple levels should make locating us more difficult.”

“Do it.”

“Done.”

Despite Romir’s reply, there was nothing obtrusive—like sparks or smoke or explosions—though that might have provided some reassurance; the security cams simply stopped moving. She had to trust that he had dealt with them the same as he dealt with the locks.

She took the next door with more caution. Dressed as they were in spacer gear, there was no way anyone would believe they were authorized personnel.

This corridor was narrower, and the walls lacked the gloss of extreme wealth. They were out of the public area and headed deeper into the maze. Now if only she could find an exit. The walls were unhelpfully devoid of signs. Obviously people were expected to know were they where and how to get to wherever they were supposed to go.

Asrial followed her ears to the muted throb of equipment. Heavy equipment meant maintenance requirements and, therefore, access corridors—or so she hoped. She studied the floor, looking for signs of hard use to give their flight direction. Her arms prickled, tension drawing her shoulders tighter the longer they walked as she waited for Stone Face’s men to make an appearance.

“This way.” Romir waved at a door that obediently opened onto a narrow, raised walkway overlooking a busy delivery dock. Bots buzzed around the dock floor, unloading, sorting, stacking barrels and crates. The scene looked so ordinary she stumbled to a halt to stare, half expecting to find herself in the bay of one of the stations she frequented.