Treasure of Light (The Light Trilogy) (17 page)

“Outmaneuvered,” Macey grumbled hostilely. “Sure. My friends are dead, Halloway! I can’t…”

He stopped when he saw Hera drop her pen and bury her face in her hands. A series of muffled cries rose. Her husband Kevin was still missing, and almost certainly dead.

Carey tightened her grip around her chair arms. “I’m not suggesting we give up, Macey. I’m suggesting we pretend to cooperate—which is what Tahn wanted us to do. Once we assure Baruch that we’re peacefully resigned to our condition, we can start organizing. And once Tahn is back on his feet—”

“What?” Macey blustered incredulously. “After what’s happened, how could we ever trust him again? I won’t trust him with my life!”

Carey’s gaze slid to the faces of every other officer on the bridge. Some looked away, trying to keep her from seeing that they agreed with Rich. Others met her gaze squarely, supportively, loyal to her and Tahn to the end. But how many? If she took a vote, would she have enough to win?
Doesn’t matter, sweetheart. You’re going to order your crew to lay down their weapons anyway. You’ve no choice. If you break your bargain with Baruch, he’s liable to cut off the oxygen to the bridge. But, blessed God, if you lose the vote and go ahead with it, every man and woman who voted against you is going to be waiting to slip a knife into your back … and Tahn’s.

Without moving a muscle, Carey quietly promised, “I want to start organizing to take this ship back. But I need unity. If we split into factions and spend all our time trying to slit each other’s throats, we’re lost. How many of you are with me?”

Hera’s hand went up immediately. Others slowly followed. Six in all. Only Macey and Jim Reno dissented. Carey inhaled a silent breath of relief, meeting Macey’s hostile glare with one just as glacial.

“I’ll inform the crew,” she said and reached for the com patch on her arm console.

Neil Dannon hid in the utter blackness beneath a series of clanging pipes. The past day had been sheer agony. The soft hiss of steam venting encircled him. He’d been crawling desperately from one level to another for hours, flinching at every sound. At least a dozen men dogged his trail. He’d counted them, noting the different sounds their boots made, cataloging the occasional voice. The Magisterial infighting had obviously stopped, for Gamant soldiers flooded every corridor from the bridge down. He had to keep moving.

Cold leaked from everywhere. He shivered and curled into a fetal ball on his side, trying to sleep. The chill of the deep niche assaulted his torn uniform like grasping fingers, twining inside to stroke his warm flesh.

Unconsciously, he reached up to clutch the sacred triangle he always wore. He patted his throat, searching, then heaved a tremulous sigh. He must have lost it somewhere in his mad flight. Maybe it was a sign? Jeremiel had given it to him.
Jeremiel…

Neil rolled to his other side, pressing his back against one of the pipes. A slight warmth crept into him. Slowly, he drifted off to sleep. Images flashed, distant, scattered, spinning through time.

And the voice that haunted his nightmares called to him again, as it had a thousand times in the past few months …

“Neil? Neil, for God’s sake, get up! Get up!”

Suriel. Rabbah system. Fifteen years ago. Round habitation domes lined the street, people visible inside, crying, wringing their hands as they watched the snow fall on bloody corpses and racing children. Black ships hung like deadly goblins in the air. Lights flashed rhythmically as they used instruments to search the windswept ground.

“I’m hit, Jeremiel. I’m hit!”

His leg dangled lifelessly, the thigh blasted wide. Blood ran hot and sticky to pool on the icy sidewalk. He pulled himself forward on his elbows until his strength ebbed, draining out with his blood like water from a bucket with the spigot left open.

“Neil?”

Baruch ran back to him, firing down the street to cover them. Neil squeezed his eyes closed against the blinding purple glare and felt a strong arm slip beneath his shoulders, trying to lift him. Another shot rang out.

“Neil, help me. Grab onto me. Try to stand!”

“I can’t! Jeremiel, get out of here! Go!” He violently shoved his best friend away.

Then he saw the Magisterial soldiers surging down the street toward them and terror laced his gut. God damn, there were so many. The Underground had raided a Right School to free the children held captive—but something had gone wrong—some element of the plan had failed.

“Jeremiel, for God’s sake, go!”

“I’m not leaving you. Damn it, get up or you’ll get us both killed!” He leveled his pistol, firing into the purple-suited tidal wave. “Hold onto me, Neil. Come on! Damn you, help me!”

Feebly, he draped an arm around Jeremiel’s shoulder and felt Baruch grip the sleeve of his black battlesuit, dragging him to his feet, supporting his hundred and ninety pounds as they stumbled around the corner and down a dark alleyway.

Winding through the streets like amorphous fog, Jeremiel finally hauled him into a ramshackle building on the edge of town. Panting so hard his lungs heaved, he’d gently lowered Neil to the hard floor. Quickly, Jeremiel undressed, removing the white shirt beneath his battlesuit and tearing it into strips.

“Feeling any pain yet?”

“Pain?” Neil gasped incredulously, sweat drenching his face. “My whole body feels like it’s on fire.”

Jeremiel gave him a broad flashing smile and casually remarked, “Good. You probably won’t even feel this, then.”

Neil suppressed screams for the next five minutes while Jeremiel bandaged his leg.

Insanely, he laughed, lifting his head to stare into the utter blackness. A warm feeling rose in his chest. He shook himself, but the deep emotions wouldn’t leave him be. Pain and hatred swelled, remnants of old love taunting around the edges of his heart—relics of the damned that he’d kept bottled up for months.

He forced himself to imagine what must be going on in the lower levels. Jeremiel had brought up a few thousand refugees he’d heard one of his pursuers remark.

“How are you doing, Jeremiel? Losing it, yet? You can’t hold on, old friend.”

Can you?

Neil clenched his fists futilely. He had to know. He had to get down to those lower levels and find out for himself or he’d go stark raving mad. If he could just steal some refugee’s clothes, he might be able to fade into the Gamant structure and discover what the hell Baruch was up to—and where his weaknesses were.

Gathering his courage, he slithered foward.

Rachel watched the brightly lit landing bay fill the portal. The seconds seemed to drag by until finally she felt a slight lurch and heard a dull scraping sound as the ship came to rest.

She switched off the restraints and got to her feet, rushing toward the exit. The pilot and copilot met her at the door.

“Please stand aside, Miss Eloel. We’ll need to check the-bay before you exit. Baruch’s orders.”

“I understand.” Reluctantly, she slid back against the stark wall and watched as they hit the appropriate buttons. The gangplank descended and the door snicked open. Sanders, the pilot, cautiously stepped out. Bakon stayed, guarding the ship and her.

Strange scents wafted in, stale fear-sweat and dirt, mechanical lubricants, and astringent cleaning fluids. Her thoughts drifted back in time to Aktariel’s warning and she fidgeted uncomfortably, then blurted, “Where’s the weapons compartment. I need a pistol.”

Bakon looked her up and down. The incredulous expression on his swarthy face said he thought her a little made. “I’ll protect you. You don’t need—”

“Nobody
protects me but
me,
mister. Where’re the weapons?”

He pointed to a compartment on the far wall. “Help yourself.”

She strode across the cabin, palming the control panel. Her gaze went over each weapon. Finally, she selected a Dulse pistol and strapped it around her waist. Expertly, she pulled the gun and checked the charge, then tested the balance.

Bakon peered out the entry and nodded, then turned to Rachel. “All clear, Miss Eloel.”

From outside, a sweet voice, high with desperation called,
“Mommy?”

In one swift turn, Rachel raced down the gangplank. The landing bay stood almost empty, except for a series of crates piled three high, and a knot of people standing in the center. Sybil ran toward her breathlessly, brown curls bouncing, eyes enormously wide. Dressed in a long orange robe, she seemed a tiny dagger of flame.

“Sybil?”

“Mommy! Mommy!”

“Oh, baby.” She opened her arms and ran, scooping her daughter up, smothering Sybil’s face and hair with wet kisses. “I missed you so much.”

“I thought you were dead, Mom,” Sybil whimpered. She squeezed Rachel’s neck like a choking vine. “I tried and tried to get people to take me to you, and nobody would. I was so scared.”

“I know, sweetheart. So was I. But it’s all right now.” She stroked her daughter’s hair softly, drowning in the feel of Sybil’s warm breath against her throat. “It’s all right. I love you. How long have you been here? On the ship?”

“A few hours. Ari and Yosef have been taking care of me.”

Sanders, Bakon, Funk, and Calas crowded around them. The soldiers cautiously scanned the landing bay, rifles aimed at nothing in particular.

“It’s good to have you home, Rachel,” Yosef Calas said gently as he patted her shoulder. He seemed balder and shorter than the last time she’d seen him. His spectacles rode low on his blunt nose, accenting his moist brown eyes. Correspondingly, Funk seemed to have grown six inches, his tall lanky frame adorned by a fuller mop of gray hair. Both were dressed in gray jumpsuits that made them look even older, if that were possible.

Rachel exhaled a tired breath. “I thought Jeremiel was meeting me here.” She frowned questioningly at Calas.

He shrugged, lifting his hands. “I thought he was, too. Perhaps he got detained somewhere.”

“Perhaps. Well, I’m sure he’ll be in contact. Has anyone arranged a cabin for Sybil and me yet?”

“A security man did,” her daughter answered. “It’s number 1901. There’s a dispenser in the room that shoots cups of tea and soup out at you.” Sybil demonstrated with her hands and laughed. The tinkly silver bell sound penetrated clear to Rachel’s wounded soul.

She hugged her daughter tightly again, then wiped tears from her cheeks before standing up. “Mister Funk, Mister Calas, thank you for taking such good care of Sybil. If I can ever—”

“Oh, never mind that now,” Yosef said, pushing up the spectacles. “Let’s get inside where it’s warmer.”

Rachel’s eyes probed the old man’s. Worry shadowed his withered face. As they walked, she asked, “Is the situation so bad here?”

“I think so, though Jeremiel doesn’t discuss such things in public.”

“I remember. Has he contacted his fleet yet?”

“That’s another story, I’m afraid. The spaceways seem to have gone very quiet when it comes to the Underground. He can’t even reach his units on Tikkun.” Yosef gripped her elbow paternally, leading her toward the exit.

Rachel gratefully allowed him to guide her through a small foyer, into a transportation tube for a few seconds, then down a long white hall. People in a variety of uniforms and tattered multicolored clothing raced around, anxious looks on their faces. Sanders and Bakon brought up the rear, rifles still cradled menacingly in their arms. Sybil clung to her leg in a death grip.

They rounded a corner and Sybil released her mother and charged ahead, short legs pumping as she led the way to cabin 1901. Standing on tiptoe, she hit the patch to open the door. It snicked back and Rachel could see a section of the dim cabin interior.

“Here it is, Mom. Come on! I’ll show you how to work the dispenser.” Sybil disappeared inside.

Yosef released her arm when they reached the door and looked up at her through adoring elderly eyes. “Go and get reacquainted with your daughter, Rachel. Ari and I are in cabin 1909. Call if you need anything.”

“I will, Yosef. I—”

From the edge of her vision, she saw six men round the corner, pistols aimed. Instinctively, she screamed, “Get down!”

Funk threw himself at Calas, knocking the old man to the floor with a dull thud. The shrill whine of rifle fire thundered, casting a deadly luminescent web through the corridor. Sanders collapsed in front of her, head lopped off, throat gushing blood like a hose turned on full.

“Get in your cabin!” Bakon shouted at her.

She tried to back away, but couldn’t without turning. One of Sanders’ arms blocked her path. She fired insanely at their attackers. Calas and Funk slithered into the cabin. A young man with thinning brown hair charged forward, leaping corpses, shouting, “You killed the Mashiah! In the name of Adom Kemar Tartarus!” His gun lanced the air with an arc of purple.

Bakon pitched backward into her, shoving her against the wall so violently he almost knocked the gun from her hand. Before she lost the cover of his body, Rachel panned the hall, slicing her wild-eyed assassin in half, watching blindly as his upper torso pounded the wall and thudded down the corridor. The remaining men fled, silently, expertly. From within the cabin, she heard Sybil crying, “Mommy? Ari! Let’s go help my mom!”