Tor (Women of Earth Book 2) (17 page)

"Because he's our Captain and none of us could come up with a better plan," Posy admitted.

Mohawk's answer was no answer at all. "My job is to deliver you safely to Mishra. I have a duty to the First Commander."

"If my safe delivery was all you were concerned about, it would have been cheaper and more efficient to box me up and turn me over to the Galactic Postal Service or whatever the hell you people call it. I'm not a package, Mohawk. I'm an adult human." Wynne gently turned Truca so that they were standing side by side. "We are adults," she said, including the tear stained young woman. "We may not be as experienced as the rest of you, but we're perfectly capable of making our own decisions when fully informed." This last was a jab at Tor who'd promised twice to let her know what was going on. "What do you say, Truca?"

For a moment, Wynne thought the young mechanic wasn't going to answer, but after a moment of staring at her toes, Truca squared her shoulders and looked up.

"I say if you're going after the Sky Hawk, then that meteoric mess of a moon hopper isn't going to get you there. You're going to have to steal a bigger vessel. If I had to guess, it'll be the one you showed me in the boneyard the first time you brought me to Celos and every time since. You said she was a beauty and I said she was a piece of flying shit."

Tor worked hard to keep the straight line of his mouth solid and unamused. His eyes gave his feelings away. "I remember. I told you to clean up your language, no one wanted to hear that from a lady. You told me you weren't a lady. You were a mechanic."

Truca wasn't smiling either. "I also told you that I knew a piece of shit when I saw one. I still do, and I don't suppose that ship's in any better shape now. You forget, I'm the one who picked her engines over while you were doing business. You're going to need me to keep her flying, Captain. Posy doesn't have enough mag tape. Celos doesn't have enough mag tape," she added as an aside to Wynne.

"And who knows what shape the Sky Hawk will be in," Posy added. "We can use the extra hand, Cap. She doesn't have to leave the ship."

Tor's eyes lost their amusement. "No. I won't risk it. I won't leave her alone and vulnerable again."

"She won't be alone," Wynne told him. "I'll be with her."

Ish snorted in derision. "Two zinnies to kill with one shoe. I feel safer already."

Wynne knew an insult when she heard one. She'd never seen a zinny, but she knew what they were. Small animal pests about the size of a guinea pig, they were known for invading ships, reproducing rapidly, and consuming food stores by the ton. They were sometimes kept as pets by crew members because of their silky coats and affectionate nature once tamed. Pretty rats, Roark called them, but rats just the same. Mohawk promised to find one for the kids.

She was about to protest when Ish continued.

"To avoid all the tears and guilt when they get themselves killed, someone needs to show them how to defend themselves."

"Are you volunteering?" Tor asked.

"I suppose I'll have to. There'll be no peace for any of us if something happens to either one of them."

"I didn't think you'd care," Wynne said, surprised by Ish's offer.

"I don't," the woman responded with a curl to her lip. "But the Captain does. You've never seen him when he gets cranky."

"Won't be necessary," Mohawk interrupted. "Wynne's going to Mishra."

"You don't want to go to Mishra any more than I do, Mohawk. Whack 'em, shoot 'em, feed 'em to the carnars." Wynne shuddered with distaste at that last. "You're enjoying this back in action thing. I can tell."

"Duty comes before pleasure," he insisted, "and my first duty is to the First Commander. My mission is to get you safely to Mishra and your sister. Her time is near. She'll be worried."

Guilt slithered up from Wynne's belly. By now, word of the explosion and kidnapping aboard the Romer II had probably reached Mishra. She and Mohawk would be listed among the missing and presumed dead. Mira would be frantic with worry. Roark or his father's political influence would double the efforts to find the culprits. There had to be a way to contact them without giving up Tor and the crew.

"Is there a way to send a message to them?" she asked, her mind racing to find a way to satisfy everyone's needs and wants, including her own.

"Not in a way that won't alert the authorities to where we are," Tor answered. His face showed no emotion at all.

Why should it? For him, their night together had been one of many he'd spent with women he barely knew. His letter had not been of love, but of a gentlemanly goodbye and a request for Truca's care.

Wynne recognized that Tor and the night she spent with him were important factors in her wanting to stay with the Sky Hawk's crew, but she wasn't a naive child that might believe there was a future there. No, it was more than that. She needed this for herself, too. She needed, just once, to be free of the expectations of others and to follow her own course. It couldn't last and even if it could, she wouldn't let it, but it was something to hold on to. Once it was over, she could return to her obligations knowing that for a short time, she'd lived a life she chose and not the one laid out by fate.

"Not if I'm careful," she said, thinking of all the times her sister had told the truth to their parents without revealing the whole of it. "I'll tell them that Mohawk and I are safe and arrangements have been made for our return. I'll say we're leaving immediately, and though it may take us a bit longer, we will make our way to Mishra. I'll send another message as soon as I can," she added, getting into the spirit of the deception. "And I'll end it with not to worry, I'm in good hands."

"It could work." Mohawk puffed with enthusiasm for the lie that wasn't a lie and just as quickly deflated. "I'm duty bound."

"You're duty bound to keep me safe. You can't do that if you're headed to Mishra and I'm headed somewhere else. If it makes you feel any better, I'll tell them you tried but I flatly refused. Mira knows how stubborn I can be. Just ask her how many times she tried to get me to do something I shouldn't."

"You shouldn't do this either," he grumbled, "But I don't think they'd like it if I trussed you up like an unlucky thief, so we'll do it your way."

"I call it settled. Come, zinny miku, we'll take a final look at our meteoric mess of a moon hopper while the rest of them settle the details." Posy offered his arm to Truca and, sensing her hesitancy, immediately withdrew it. "So sorry, Truca. I..."

"No, don't. They took away...No," she said and reached for his arm before she changed course. "I won't let them take away this."

Wynne turned her head so Truca wouldn't see her burning eyes. She caught Ish watching the pair.

"Don't you ever call her weak," she warned the Osana woman.

"I never have," Ish shot back. "Soft isn't always weak. You would do well to remember that."

Posy and Truca were almost to the door when both Wynne and Tor called, "Wait."

Tor ran his hand up over his bristly skull with a sigh that begged for patience. "More orders?" he asked. "More plans to remake?"

"Oh, no, I think we're finished with that. I just wanted to say that before you get busy, you need to eat breakfast. Give me a few minutes and I'll fry up some of that meat."

Everyone took seats around the table, though Tor was last.

"If she's going to be a member of this crew, she needs to earn her keep," Ish said to the others. "I say we make her the cook. It beats the shit we usually eat and she'll be gods damned useless anywhere else."

"Not entirely useless in one particular place." Posy blew a kiss to Tor.

Pointing to the giant with the knife she was using to slice the unidentifiable meat, Wynne smiled sweetly. "Do you like my cooking, Posy?"

"I do indeed. None of us have the talent for it."

"Then if you expect to benefit from my talent, I'll expect you to curb your smartass remarks. Got it?"

Ish surprised her again. "First lesson learned. Use whatever weapons you have at hand."

"So, is that what you call ass chewing?" Truca after they'd eaten and she was ready to go back to work.

"Not exactly, but it got the job done."

Chapter 18

If the escape pod was a coffin, the moon hopper was a flying soup can. To allow for the additional weight, two of the three seats had been removed along with the interior walls. Noodles of wire and cable ran along the walls attached to random boxes and gauges flashing lights and unreadable messages. Wynne shared the floor with Ish and Mohawk. They were tied in place with heavy straps, and wore light weight jumpsuits and clear plastic bags over their heads that fit so closely they reminded her of the bags her mother had warned her about when she was a child.

"Don't ever put one over your head. You'll suffocate and die."

These bags were actually helmets that conformed to the shape of the head and sealed below the chin. A hard ridge that ran down the center of the face kept them from touching eyes, nose, and mouth. Spidery legs of tubing ran from a round and pulsating ball that clung to the ceiling above them. The ends of the legs were attached to the helmets and provided air to breathe, but with her mother's suffocation warning foremost in her mind, Wynne had all she could do to breathe slowly as instructed and not rip the hood off.

No one spoke, another conservation method, and her legs were cramped by the time they arrived. They barely had time to unload before Tor was heading back to the Devil's Den to retrieve Truca, Posy and a second load of goods.

"Don't go wandering off on your own. Stay close to Ish and Mohawk and whatever Ish tells you to do, don't argue. Do it."

That was Tor's romantic goodbye when he'd dropped the three of them off miles away from their destination. Granted, he'd been hovering three feet off the ground in the moon hopper, doors raised like a second set of wings, when he called her over. And time was of the essence, but still, he could have followed it with something better than a pat on the head and an avuncular wink. Forget the kiss. She'd have been happy with an apology.

He'd lied to her. Twice. Maybe it was a lie by omission, and maybe it was with the best of intentions, but he still lied. It made her feel like she was back on Earth where everyone tried to protect 'poor Wynne' from the truth. She was tired of being poor Wynne.

Ish led them not toward the dark shape of the city in the distance, but perpendicular to the direct route. They slogged through gritty silt the way one would slog through powdery snow. The breeze was constant, but did nothing to relieve the heat. It did, however, help disperse the cloud of fine grit stirred up by their feet.

Walking became easier when they climbed over a low barrier and onto a stone roadway cleared by suction vents placed strategically along the way. They were the only ones on the road.

"The full moons draw the outlanders in to the southern market. Most offworlders enter through the east gate where the spaceport lies. If it wasn't for the need to ship their produce off world, most of the local growers would be happy to see Celos burn to the ground," Ish told them before issuing her list of warnings to Wynne for the third time. Don't raise your head too high. Keep your cloak wrapped tightly. Don't let anyone too close. Don't answer if spoken to.

"Aren't you forgetting don't take candy from strangers and don't follow dirty old men into the bushes to find their lost puppies. I'm not a child, Ish."

"Have you ever been to Celos before?"

"No, but..."

"Then shut your mouth and pay attention," the Osana said harshly. "The Galactic Confederation has laws against slavery. That doesn't mean slavery doesn't exist. Your people are new. That makes you unique. For the Godan, some of you are GCP, but for others, you'd be a prize to add to their collection, something to display to their friends. You could end up as one of the lucky ones, but you'd still be a slave."

"It can't be that bad if Tor brought Truca here," Wynne argued.

"He didn't take her into the section of the marketplace where we'll be entering. He'd never bring her through the west gate. He thinks he's protecting her." Ish made it clear she didn't agree. She then stopped and pointed to the massive stone walls looming ahead. "There it is and that dark spot is the west gate. Stop here for a moment. We need to get you shrouded up."

Celos was not the space age city of Wynne's imagination. There were no needle shaped spires shooting heavenward, no saucer shaped constructions precariously balanced on central pillars too slender looking to hold such weight, no steel beamed fans, or molded shells, or glass cube architecture. There were, however, several flying conveyances zipping by overhead and boxes, hundreds of oblong boxes built of grey stone and dun colored brick. They were piled one atop the other like children's snap together building blocks.

Some were small and square with a business area below and living quarters above. Some were large and sprawling and laid in a brick pattern so that the overhanging floor of one floor of one level formed a covered patio for the floor below. None looked more than four stories tall.

In some of the adobe type structures along the main road, the street side of the floor above ground level was open to the street to show off the goods and services available in the shops below beneath frayed and faded awnings. Some of those goods were people in various states of undress. Their services were hawked by others in pale blue robes and the demonstrations were lewdly detailed. The sex trade was apparently big business in Celos.

Wynne had no problem keeping her head bowed and her hair down to either side to cover her face. The rough blanket Ish cut to size and insisted she put on before they entered the city served as hood and cape to cover the rest of her. What the blanket didn't cover, her old skirt did. Ish walked on her right side, curved sword unsheathed. Her malicious smile was an effective warning to any who dared approach. She would enjoy killing them it said.

Wynne hadn't understood why Tor thought Truca needed protection. Now, she did. If the compound had been the Devil's Den, this place was his playground.

"I can see why Tor didn't bring Truca through here, Ish. A young girl shouldn't be subjected to this," she admitted after another drunken fool made a grab for her cape to see what lay beneath. He sobered quickly when Mohawk's hand at his throat cut off his air supply and lay gasping in the street when Mohawk let him go.

Ish's look said that Wynne was as stupid as Tor. "If a venomous serpent shares your land, you don't hide your children from it. You teach them where it lives and how to kill it. Survival depends on recognizing that which will kill you." She was too busy watching the crowds to point, but Wynne knew the slight lift of the woman's head was for the second story performers. "That would kill Truca. Or you."

"But not you?"

Ish didn't turn to look at her, but Wynne could see the edges of her mouth. Like the one Ish offered to passersby, the smile wasn't friendly.

"No, not me. They would know me for what I am, the more dangerous serpent."

"Gotta love the woman," Mohawk snorted. He walked to Wynne's left. He carried a long and heavy looking firing weapon that looked like it could take out an army. If Wynne felt like she was suffocating in the heat beneath her bed sheet robe, Mohawk had to be dying of it under the vest he'd found in the Devil's Den. Made of heavy looking leather, it encased his torso and made his body look like a barrel with legs.

"Isn't that a bit of overkill?" Wynne had asked when he'd strapped it on.

"No. It'll protect me while I protect you," he said as he handed her a wicked looking knife in a sheath that would strap to her thigh. "If anyone gets past me, don't hesitate. Use it."

Wynne switched her bag to her left hand to keep her right hand near the hilt. Looking around at the throng of people surrounding them, she began to think that maybe Mohawk was right. A little body protection wouldn't hurt. Everyone she saw was armed in one way or another. The smell of unwashed bodies, odd smelling smoke and stale beer filled the air.

They'd walked for hours through the fading light toward the wall that surrounded the city. Wynne carried a cloth satchel filled with clothing. It wasn't all that heavy, but by the time they reached the gate, her arm was aching with its weight. She could only imagine what Ish and Mohawk's burdens felt like. Both carried heavy packs on their backs. Neither showed any discomfort.

Ish led them to the heart of the western market where the narrow central road opened into a plaza complete with a fountain at its center. The surrounding stalls looked better kept. Their awnings flapped bright and colorful in the breeze. The rancid smells were replaced with more interesting ones. The crowd here was better dressed and cleaner smelling.

Above them, vehicles similar in size and shape to the skitts the military used sped back and forth among the rooftops. They were known as street skimmers, though they operated far above the narrow streets. There was barely room for a handcart to maneuver near the ground. She found the high tech transportation incongruous against the almost medieval feel of the market below.

Relieved to be free of the vulgar displays, Wynne pulled her makeshift hood forward to better hide her face so she could look up and out over the scene. It reminded her of pictures she'd seen of bazaars in exotic places she never believed she'd visit. The water shooting upward from the fountain and cascading into the pool beneath cooled the air around it. She turned her face toward it to catch a bit of the refreshing mist. At the sight of the statues posed at the center of the fountain, she stumbled to a stop.

Statues of naked men and women were found at the center of fountains everywhere. They were art and only the most prudish would find them offensive. Wynne was no prude. Figures of children playing in the water were common and the little boys depicted often peed water into the pools with the innocence of childhood. Who could take umbrage at that? Certainly not Wynne.

The figures at the center of this fountain scene were not children and the acts they represented pushed art to its limits.

"Welcome to Celos," Ish snickered. "Where nothing is illegal and everything can be had for a price."

"Is it all like this?"

"The southern market looks more like the open markets you see everywhere, though some of the produce is unique. Don't eat anything that I haven't purchased. And keep your head down," the Osana woman ordered.

Wynne tried, but it was hard when there were so many curiosities on display. Some she recognized. Others she didn't. Some made her cringe, like the one offering Danian boar testicles. A hairy blob the size of a grapefruit sat on a tray between two men who were haggling over the price.

"What do they do with them?" she asked in a horrified whisper.

"What do you think they do?" Mohawk asked in return and without the need to lower his voice. "You eat 'em. Makes the old widow whacker stand up and take notice for the whole night."

"Does it work?"

"Only if you eat 'em raw."

Ish snickered. "Ever try them?"

"Of course not," he answered, clearly affronted. "What kind of Perithian would I be if I did?"

Ish huffed with disgust when Mohawk made them stop at a stall that carried strange looking weapons. She shifted impatiently, eyes roving over the crowd while the old Perithian bargained for a two bladed weapon with what looked like brass knuckles at the center of the adjoining blades.

"Always wanted one of these," he said happily after he found the one that fit his grip and the deal was done. He flipped it this way and that using the finger holes at the center. He made stabbing motions turning the blade to suit his imaginary attack. He looked like a kid with a new toy, but Wynne knew Mohawk didn't play with his weapons. He was practicing.

"What have you there?" a woman called out from the stall at the corner. She was dressed in a blue flowered dress that hung from jeweled pins at her shoulders and tented over the rotund body beneath. The flesh beneath her arms hung loose and flapped with each gesture of her hands. Heavy gold earrings hung from lobes that matched her ears in size. Her skin was a deep reddish brown, dry and cracked with age and sun.

Her color, her long, narrow nose, and her sharply pointed chin were replicated in the two younger men who stood behind her, arms folded, feet spread, and looking bored. Both were heavyset, but unlike the woman, time had not turned them to fat and flab. Their arms were thickly muscled.

She sounded friendly enough. "How much is it worth?"

"More than a Greckin's gonads." Mohawk laughed. He sounded friendly, too. After tucking his new toy away, he picked up a large silver pin with a light blue stone at the center. He weighed it in his hand, turned it over, and inspected the back.

"Fine quality," he said, "From a fine woman."

"It's a fine man who recognizes quality when he sees it."

They began a conversation that was filled with Mohawk's flattery and all about the jewelry business.

Good God, Mohawk was flirting. Wynne knew for a fact the man had no use for jewelry. Flowers or candy, either, if it came to that.

"Waste of good money," he'd told her once. "Fill 'em with liquor and fuck 'em till they smile, that's my motto."

She'd always known he never lacked for female company, but she'd always wondered why. She'd grown to love him because beneath the bluster, he was a good man, but she'd never seen the sexual attraction women found in him. Mohawk wasn't handsome, and the Lord knew he had no charm, yet every time he said he was off to the alehouse to get his 'rod polished', he didn't return until midmorning the next day. And she knew some of the women he'd spent the night with. Not all of them were old or desperate.