Treasure of Light (The Light Trilogy) (13 page)

Hatred ravaged her. How many spies had the Magistrates worked into the command heirarchy of the
Hoyer?
Fifty? A hundred? At least fifteen had survived and gathered together a formidable fighting force from the crew members who’d managed to suit up and find shelter before the decompression could catch them.

“They’ve split the crew in half,” she muttered.

Baruch was meticulously searching the duct system and sealing each secured level—which forced more scum her way. The Clandestine Services forces had taken refuge on this level. She’d come down to try and talk to them, to tell them they had to band together to fight Baruch or they were all lost. But they’d killed her messengers and assaulted her temporary base of operations. They’d just assumed that every surviving officer loyal to Cole Tahn was either traitorous or incompetent.
It’s probably part of their goddamned instructional code.
They wanted control of the ship. Nothing less.

“Well, by God,” she whispered to herself. “They’ll take it over my dead body.”

Her gun felt clammy in her palm. She caressed the cool petrolon. She’d gone in to see Cole only an hour ago, but he still writhed in the grips of his concussion—shouting garbled sentences, tossing and turning on his sweat-drenched sheets. She prayed that the amount of jeno-steroids she’d given him would at least reduce the swelling of his brain and ease his pain. She couldn’t do anything else.

When the hell would someone finally get around to trying to tran them? Why hadn’t Slothen already tried? Surely Palaia realized they hadn’t checked in to confirm their receipt of Baruch? If somebody,
anybody,
would just try to tran them they’d find out
Hoyer
didn’t respond—maybe help would come.

Carey froze as a din of babbling broke out down the hall. Someone shouted a command and the corridor went quiet. Carey strained to hear any sound, any word that would tell her it was safe to get up and try to make it back to the bridge.

Joe, where are you?

But deep inside, she knew. She waited several more minutes, wiping perspiration from her brow. Finally, she eased forward and peered around the corner.

The “enemy” had gone.

Only Joe’s bloody body was sprawled against the wall. One of his arms had been severed at the shoulder, but the heat of the low-intensity shot had cauterized the wound. A blackened stump stuck out from his purple uniform. His blasted chest had pumped blood in an irregularly braided river across the gray carpet.

Carey fought down the welling tide of emotion. Dead?
Probably.
Anger smothered her … then she saw Joe’s right hand twitch. She lunged to her feet and ran, sliding to a halt beside him. He gazed up at her through eyes drowsy with death.

“Joe, hold on.”

Slumping to the floor, she pulled his mangled body into her lap, heedless for the moment of the possibility that the spies might return. Splintered ribs protruded from his back, spiking into her legs. Carey stroked his dark matted hair. “It’s all right, Joe. Just hold on. You’re going to be all right.”

He shook his head slightly and gave her an understanding smile. He knew as well as she did that Baruch had captured the level six hospital and none of the
Hoyer’s
physicians had survived the decompression. Futility swept Carey so violently she wanted to slam her fists into something.

“Goddamn it,” she whispered hoarsely. “How can we fight Baruch when we’re waging war against our own people?”

Joe gazed at her hollowly, then his body went slack. His remaining arm fell to the floor.

“Joe… ?”

Carey pressed her cheek against his. Her gaze landed on the place where she’d last seen the spies and cold rancor overwhelmed her.

CHAPTER 10

Jeremiel squinted at the amber letters on the com screen. He struggled to keep his mind from wandering. The letters had begun to blur every time he took a deep breath. The faint odor of cleaning fluids still clung to the walls, stinging his bloodshot eyes.

“You’re losing it,” he chastised himself.

But he had so little time. So
goddamned
little time. The twelve hours since the takeover of the ship had swept by like minutes while he fought to organize enough people to handle basic necessities.

He propped a fist on his desk and struck the key to abandon the rich personnel file. Pushing up to stand, he weaved so badly on his feet he had to thrust a hand against the wall to steady himself. He calculated how long it had been since he’d last slept. Fifty-six hours? And there was no end in sight. He’d been giving himself injections of stimulants, but the human body could only take so much before it just plain collapsed. He needed help. He’d delegated as much authority as he safely could, but Harper, Janowitz, and their rough-hewn crew had their hands full securing the ship and implementing the rescue program for Horebians.

“Just hang on. Rachel’s on her way.”

He forced a series of deep breaths as he looked around his cabin. The door to the latrine stood open. Stark white light shimmered from the shower fixtures. He stared at them longingly.

“Yes. Take the time. It might revive you a little.”

He couldn’t afford to sleep—not when the ship swelled with injured refugees and enemy soldiers scared to the point of madness. Horebians crowded like ghostly sentinels around every portal and monitor. They stared blindly down at their beloved world, watching it spin in the horrifying contortions of a wounded planet. He could feel the emotions growing to monstrous levels. Rage, hatred, and desperation seethed, ready to burst the seams of the
Hoyer.

He put his hands on his hips and stretched his taut back muscles. Crossing to the pack sitting beside his bed, he unfastened the closures and pulled out a dark blue jumpsuit and laid it across his gray blanket. Reaching inside again, he patted around for socks, but his hand touched something else—cold, tiny.

It set off an earthquake in his weary soul. He steeled himself, and gently pulled out the silver locket.

“Syene.”

He gripped it tightly in his hand and closed his eyes. Her face filled his memories. Beautiful long brown hair spilled around her shoulders. She gave him a confident smile and laughed, that sweet little girl laugh that always made him smile in return, no matter how desperate the circumstances.
“Well,”
her voice echoed softly.
“God help Tahn if he ever catches you. Your unrefined habits will make him wish to hell he hadn’t.”

They’d been standing in his cabin, dressing in battle-suits for the Silmar fight. Crystal sheets lay scattered over the desk and table, stacked a foot high in various spots on the floor. They’d studied and restudied every facet of the plans, every possible thing that might go wrong, and hedged their bets accordingly. Still, his nerves hummed so tightly he thought they’d tear him apart.

He watched her pull on her boots, and clenched his fists. “Syene, I don’t like this. Let me go. I can’t bear the—”

“We’ve been all through this,” she said, giving him one of those wry smiles meant to ease his tension. “You’re too valuable to send down on a routine subversion mission. I’m going.”

“Listen to me.
There’s a trap here somewhere. I—I don’t know where, but I can feel it. Something’s just…
wrong.”

She cocked her head and hair cascaded over her shoulders, glinting like polished brass in the light. Her dark graceful brows drew together. “Shall we discuss Neil again?”

He stiffened. They’d argued about it before, shouting at each other until he felt physically ill. “Not now, Syene.”

She nodded amiably. “All right. Getting back to our former discussion, then, there’s always a trap somewhere. The trick is to stay out of it. I’m fairly good at that, don’t you think?”

“Of course, you’re a brilliant—”

“Glad you agree.” She straightened up. “Now, I’d better get going. Lichtner isn’t going to wait all day for me.

She strode past him and he grabbed her arm and embraced her frantically. Her muscular body felt suddenly frail in his arms, too slender for fighting endless wars. They stood silently and he fought to memorize the feel of her, the way her shoulders rested against his chest, the silken touch of her hair tangling in his beard, her thighs pressing warmly against his. Deep inside him, a terrible ache grew.

“Be careful,” he said, kissing her fragrant hair. “I love you.”

She tightened her grip around his waist, pulling him closer, stroking his back tenderly. “Don’t be foolish. I’m coming back to you, Jeremiel.”

Coming back … back….

He stared at the locket. Raped and left for dead, he’d held her in his arms as she died. Silmar had been the last battle before Horeb, hadn’t it? Or were there others in between? His tired mind rambled over the question. Yes, yes, of course, the last battle … before Horeb. Syene had paid the ultimate price for his unquestioning loyalty to Dannon. He wondered now how he could have been so blind. She’d tried to warn him.

“How many strategy sessions has he missed, Jeremiel?
Where is he when he isn ‘t
here
with us?”

“He has a personal life, too. Leave it be. I trust him.”

But it had been Syene who’d deserved his utmost confidence. Why hadn’t he given it to her? Why hadn’t he checked on Dannon’s whereabouts during those terrible last days? Syene had pretended not to be hurt, but he knew. Still, she stood by him, loving him, fighting for him with passionate loyalty, shielding him from any and all criticisms.

Dying for him.

He turned the locket over and over, drifting with the delicate triangular shape, remembering the hundreds of times she’d worn it. Had it only been four months ago that he’d burst into that blood-spattered apartment on Silmar? His love for her still hurt deep inside.

Gently, as though it were made of glass, he put the locket back in his pack. It made a silken scratching sound against the petrolon. Tipping up his chin, he mentally searched the ship. His voice came out surprisingly calm. “You can’t hide, Neil.”

He’d found the records in his search of the
foyer’s
files. Tahn had picked Dannon up off Silmar, but he’d never set him down. Somewhere in the depths of the vessel, Neil would be scrambling for cover. A hot feeling of rushing adrenaline bolstered Jeremiel for a few seconds. Furiously, he stripped off his soiled black battlesuit and threw it on the floor. Setting the heat dials in the shower for eight out often, he stepped beneath the spray, flinching when the water washed the cuts and abrasions like a river of fire. He stood there for an eternal ten minutes.

“Forget about Dannon! Later. Think about him later. You have to be sane to meet with Halloway.” Tahn’s second in command had demanded a meeting and he’d put her off for as long as he could, hoping to get things figured out better before he had to face her.

When he stepped out of the shower, he felt better, not quite so painfully exhausted. He dressed in his blue jumpsuit and went to stand before the mirror. The reflection caught him off-guard. He barely recognized the man who gazed back. His shaggy brows drew together over his straight nose. Inflamed blue eyes studied him from dark circles. His mouth had a cynical twist to it, boding ill for all concerned.

“Well, you certainly look the part of an evil conqueror.”

He picked up his brush and took a few swipes at his hair and beard, then shoved his pistol in his belt holster and headed back for the com unit and the precious personnel files. The buzzing of his door com made his steps falter. He swung around, stumbling sideways before he gripped a chair back and regained his balance.

“Jeremiel? It’s Harper.”

He took a deep breath. “Come in, Avel.”

The door slipped open. Harper stood tall in a clean gray jumpsuit, a sleeping boy in his arms. Behind him, Chris Janowitz and two unknown men stood, rifles cradled in their arms. “Jeremiel, meet Wen Howard and Rumon Kaufa.” He gestured to the two skinny bald-headed men. “They’ll be working with Janowitz.”

Jeremiel nodded to each one, then his gaze shifted to Mikael. “How’s the boy?”

“Fine, we think. We found him just where you said, cabin 955 on level seven. They’ve been keeping him heavily sedated.”

Mikael Calas’ seven-year-old face looked serene. His black curly hair twined across his olive cheeks. Jeremiel heaved a sigh. “But is he all right? Has Doctor Severns checked him over yet?”

Harper shook his head. “No, I was on my way there. I just wanted to bring Mikael by here first, so you could rest easier.”

“I appreciate that, Avel. How is security faring? How many decks have we searched?”

Janowitz answered, “Levels eight through twenty. We haven’t had a chance to get to the bridge yet. The infighting on the upper levels has been so intense we didn’t want to try it until we’d organized more security teams.”

Jeremiel nodded. He’d instituted a rigorous investigative search before any refugee was allowed to serve as part of the ship’s Gamant takeover forces. He couldn’t risk allowing a Magisterial sympathizer or a former marine loyal to Ornias into a critical position. But it meant that the assignment process took a great deal of time.

Janowitz continued, “We found a bunch of Magisterial soldiers skulking around in the air ducts. I’m sure there’s a lot more. We disarmed those we captured, jerked them out of their vacuum suits, and herded them to level seven.”