Sea of Stars (Kricket #2) Read online

  His green eyes lean near mine; his breath is warm on my rapidly swelling skin. “Does a priestess feel pain?” he asks.

  Lowering my forehead, I drive it into his nose, hearing it crack as blood spurts out to spatter my cheeks and his. As I reel with dizziness and an aching skull, I try to smile when I murmur, “Yes. Do you?”

  When I become lucid once more, Trey’s smile of encouragement is gone, replaced by a look of deep-seated concern. My hand reaches up to touch my throbbing cheek. I wince. With one hand on my hip, he gently squeezes my side. “Kricket, are you all right? What just happened?”

  “I don’t know,” I answer. Holding my head in my hands, it aches for a second with remembered pain from a dream, and then the pain is gone.

  “Did you see something? You didn’t lose consciousness, but you feel like ice.” He rubs my arms, attempting to make them warm.

  Was that the future? I wonder. “How long was I like that?”

  “Twenty, maybe thirty seconds. Are you okay?”

  “I’m . . . fine.” I opt for a truthful answer. I am fine right now. If I have another freaky blipisode, I won’t be; but for right this second, I’m okay. “I saw something: it was like a different film spliced into the movie of my real life, but with sound and the sensation of getting my head bashed in.” I quickly relate to him what I saw.

  “Was it an Alameeda soldier—the one hitting you?” he asks, his jaw tensing. He looks as if he’s having a hard time remaining calm.

  “No—at least, I don’t think so,” I say. “He didn’t look Alameeda—he had green eyes.” Trey knows what I mean. Most Alameeda have blue eyes and blond hair—my color hair. I’m half Alameeda, but I didn’t inherit their eye color. I have my Rafe father’s violet-colored eyes instead.

  Trey strokes my pale hair. “Your eyes became almost blue for a few moments, Kricket,” he says.

  “They did?”

  He nods; his thumb brushes my cheek. “The most startling color blue pushed outward from your pupils like a rolling cloud, infusing your irises.”

  “Maybe I should try again—this time concentrate on the context of what I want to know. This vision just sort of happened—it pushed its way in. I wasn’t focused on a direction—a time or place.”

  Trey lifts his hand to rub his brow for a moment. “Maybe you should rest—”

  “We need me to learn how to do this, right?” I ask.

  He nods slowly.

  I square my shoulders. “Okay then, let’s try again,” I tell him.

  I can tell he wants to know more about the vision I just had. He’s disturbed by it. So am I, so much so that I don’t feel like repeating it—ever. Trey lets his hand fall abruptly from his forehead. “If you want to try again, let’s try something a little different. Try jumping ahead in time just a quarter of a part,” he suggests, using his word part, which translates to an Etharian “hour.” “See if you can get a handle on this new flash-forward technique.”

  “Okay,” I agree, trying not to show my anxiety. I take some deep breaths, attempting to calm my racing heart. “Ready?”

  He sits up straighter, his hands going to my waist and holding me steady as he looks into my eyes. “Okay, I’ve got you,” he breathes the words, sounding anxious too.

  I stare into his sexy, violet gaze, trying to think in terms of five minutes ahead. It’s so abstract to me. I’d much rather stay in the moment—with Trey. I blink. Nothing. After a few minutes, Trey leans forward and kisses me. He captures my bottom lip, tugging on it until I groan with pleasure. “You shouldn’t reward me for failing,” I whisper against his lips.

  “You’re incapable of failure,” he replies. “You just need practice.” He holds up his wrist communicator. “Here.” He takes it off, holding it out in front of me. He presses the screen, displaying the time for me. “Focus on this.” He changes the time, setting it a few minutes ahead.

  I try again to concentrate. I take a cleansing breath, inhaling Trey’s clean, masculine scent. I relax a bit. My eyes blur as I watch the timepiece tick away the moments. When I exhale, my breath is visible as cold, smoky plumes.

  A trumpeting noise sounds near the entrance to Trey’s apartment. The holographic projector near the door lights up with the image of Wayra’s face filling the space. First Wayra’s nose is huge and then Wayra moves so that only his eye is projected. It spans the space of at least six feet. “May eye remind you,” Wayra’s voice pipes through the speaker in the wall, “that time waits for no one? Open the door.”

  As my focus returns to Trey’s alert expression in the present, I break out into a smile. Trey smiles back and it causes my heart to race in my chest. “What is it?” Trey asks.

  “Wayra is on his way here,” I reply. I begin to climb off Trey’s lap. He steadies me with an arm beneath my elbow. I don’t wait for him to rise, but hurry up the few steps to the main floor. From there I walk to Trey’s foyer and stand by the door. Over my shoulder, I tell Trey, “When Wayra arrives, he’s going to project an enormous, giant eye on the hologram.” Trey nears me, leaning against the wall by my side. He crosses his arms and waits. In a few minutes, a trumpeting noise sounds. Wayra’s nose appears larger than life and then his eye comes into focus. Through the intercom, Wayra’s voice booms, “May eye remind you—”

  I push the button on the side of the door, triggering it to open and recess into the ceiling. “—that time waits for no one?” I finish for him.

  Positioned with his eye nearly pressed to the black camera lens mounted by the door in the corridor outside, Wayra’s violet eyes widen in surprise before they quickly narrow into a scowl. “Don’t do that, Kricket!” He shivers as if he finds me creepy. “How did you know what I was going to say?” His broad, uniformed shoulder pushes past me into Trey’s apartment. He’s almost as big as Trey; they could be brothers in that regard, but Wayra has more of a brutish look, whereas Trey’s is refined.

  “A lucky guess?” I offer.

  Jax follows close behind Wayra with a serious expression on his face. It throws me off for a second, because Jax is usually very easygoing. He combs his dark hair from his eyes with his fingers, highlighting his need for a haircut. He’s probably the most lax Cavar when it comes to his hair. He let it grow a little longer when he was at the palace as my military bodyguard. I think it suits him as a medic.

  “You’ve been playing with the future again, haven’t you?” Wayra asks. “Good, because we need your help. Something’s wrong.” He looks past my shoulder to Trey. “We can’t get close to Defense Minister Vallen’s office—it’s surrounded by Brigadets.”

  My brow wrinkles. “Brigadets?”

  Jax pipes in, “They’re another branch of armed forces separate from the Cavars. They’re not like us. Cavars are like your Marines—Brigadets are like . . .” He trails off, struggling for a word.

  “Wackers,” Wayra says unhelpfully.

  “Military police,” Trey provides the answer from behind me, frowning at Wayra for swearing in front of me.

  “Yeah, they’re like military police,” Jax agrees.

  “They’re knob knockers, Kricket. Stay away from them.” As if using his favorite filthy swear words is not enough, Wayra punctuates his words with a finger point in my direction. He glances past me again to Trey. “They’re following us. I clocked at least a dozen. What do you wanna do, Sir?”

  Walking back into the apartment, I near the window again. From just behind me, Trey asks Wayra, “Are the cycles ready?”

  Wayra nods. “Always.”

  Trey looks in my direction once more, but his attention rests there only briefly before he focuses over my shoulder on the window at my back. Tensing, Trey moves to me, pulling me away from the window and behind his broad back. The sunlight that was streaming in the glass dims, casting a shadow on us. He gives a soft whistle, nodding toward the window. Wayra swears again under h
is breath and reaches for the pistol-like weapon on his belt that they call a harbinger.

  “AFA,” Jax’s voice is steely.

  “What’s that?’ I ask, hearing stress in his voice.

  “Armored Fugitive Apprehender,” Jax replies, and then looks at Trey. “What does it want?”

  I can’t see over Trey’s shoulder, so I have to glance around his side to see what has set them off. A dronelike robot hovers in front of the window outside. Its shape resembles an inverted pyramid the size of a soda machine. The surface of the drone is dull, metallic nickel, but the triangle face is black. Within the center of the triangle resides a round lens eye that glows red. As the red iris adjusts, focusing its omnipotent camera lens on us, I’m struck by its likeness to the all-seeing eye on a dollar bill. Then it moves, the two points of the top of the triangle shift downward and twist so that they adjust rapidly to form pointed barrels—not unlike the barrel of a gun . . .

  “It’s arming!” Jax’s voice is anxious. The AFA sends out a strident, deep-moan sound; the noise vibrates the pane in front of us, shattering the window-wall into twinkling, glistening pieces that billow in an explosive cascade of glass. Trey turns and dives at me, bringing me to the ground and covering me with his body to protect me from the sharp, jagged pieces. He takes most of his weight on his side so that I don’t get crushed when we land.

  As we lie on the floor panting, the entry door to Trey’s living quarters slides open, disappearing into the ceiling. A blur of shiny black boots make clipped, tapping noises on the floor’s hard surface. Fully armored combat-uniformed soldiers enter the foyer. Blue dots from mini-Gatling-like machine guns freckle my skin when Trey rolls off me.

  I’m fairly certain that the men with their guns pointed at us are Brigadets; their uniforms are different from Cavars’. “Kricket Hollowell!” the leader of the unit barks. “Remain still!”

  I don’t move. I can’t: I’m a shattered ceramic garden gnome, rooted to the floor by fear.

  “By administrative order nine-four-two-four-six, you are hereby charged into the custody of the head of Civil Defense, Minister Telek, for interrogation.”

  Trey rises to his knees slowly. Blue spots make connect-the-dot patterns on him as well. “Kricket,” he says to me in a calm tone, like he doesn’t want to alarm me. Too late! “Tell them that you intend to comply.”

  My voice is calm—numb—as I say, “I intend to comply with the order.”

  Two soldiers move forward; one grasps me and hauls me up to my knees from the ground. He holds my hands behind me while the other one removes what looks to be an aerosol can from his belt, spraying my hands and wrists with it; it feels like foam coating my fingers. The foam hardens, welding my wrists and hands together in a tight clump. In shock, I glance at Trey. His fists are encased in plastic behind him too.

  Looking over his shoulder at the soldier who read the order, Trey asks, “When did Minister Telek become the head of Civil Defense? Where’s Minister Vallen?”

  In a matter-of-fact voice, the soldier answers, “Minister Vallen is dead. They found him this morning with his larynx torn out. Our report says you visited him last night, Gennet Allairis.”

  “I did.” Trey answers honestly. “We discussed the Declaration of War he intended to sign.”

  “The Declaration of War was signed this morning by Minister Telek after he was appointed to the post and sworn in. He has some questions for you, Gennet Allairis—for all of you.”

  Trey becomes tight-lipped. Jax and Wayra hold still as they’re foam-shackled like us. One of the soldiers grasps me by my upper arm, lifting me up from my knees to my feet. My knees want to knock together, but I know how stupid it is to show weakness, so I square my shoulders and look straight ahead.

  “Aww, look how tough this one be, Leelenaw,” the soldier who holds my hands behind me says. “She’s a right pixyish look for a shefty Alameeda boosha.” I don’t know if I’m right in my translation, but I think he said I have a pretty fairy look for being a shifty Alameeda slut.

  Before I was brought to Ethar, Jax had surgically implanted a language translator into the area of my brain located behind my ear. Since then, I’ve learned that the implant has branched out from the module, creating pathways to the frontal lobe, affecting centers in my brain that control not only language, but speech and sound as well. It deciphers several of the dialects used on Ethar, but it doesn’t always get everything right. Just like with any technology, it’s only as good as the information loaded into it. Slang, as well as some other Etharian-to-English translations, can sometimes still be confusing and insufficient to me. The way in which things are said—the use of idioms as modes of expression—can throw me off. I’m going to have to have Jax upgrade my language chip to accommodate this kind of slang.

  Growls come from Trey, Wayra, and Jax as they eye the soldier like he’s meat.

  The soldier grins. “Whah-ho! Have yous all had her then?” He laughs at his own crudeness.

  Wayra scowls at the other soldier who seems to be in charge. “Since when are you letting foreigners into the Brigade?” he demands.

  “Since we’re at war. Comantre sent us reinforcements,” he answers Wayra with a look of resignation. Then he directs his comments to the rude Comantre soldier, “Shut your maw, Raspin. You speak only when I say you speak.”

  Raspin looks unfazed. “Don’t stretch your underbits,” he says with a sly, insubordinate smile, “I was just makin’ friends.” He winks and makes kissy faces at me. I turn away and look straight ahead again, ignoring him.

  Leelenaw, the soldier who’d lifted me from the ground, leads me out of Trey’s quarters. Several more soldiers in combat gear await us in the corridor. They eye me curiously as we pause and wait for the others to file out. Trey somehow maneuvers into position next to me, not an easy feat with so many wanting to get a look at me. The floating triangle-vending-machine-of-terror follows us into the hall; its stalking, all-seeing pyramid eye focuses its attention on me.

  “So that thing’s creepy,” I murmur to Trey.

  “It’s a programmed killer. Don’t provoke it.”

  “Okay,” I agree, trying to hide my shiver of fear. There are times when acting like a raving lunatic can save your life. In the foster care system, when another kid thinks you’re crazy, she’s more apt to leave you alone. Even when she’s much bigger than you, you know that she knows there’s such a thing as “crazy strength.” Crazy doesn’t hold anything back—doesn’t save anything in reserve. It doesn’t fight fair. It just goes ballistic . . . and crazy never stops. I’ve gone crazy before with a broken beer bottle, fending off drunken men. In a situation like this, however, crazy gets you killed—or worse—and there are things worse than death. I glance over my shoulder at Raspin behind me; he scratches his wiry red hair with his two fingers beneath his helmet, giving me a wicked grin, but there’s something dishonest about it. It confuses me.

  “Look at all the Brigadets they ordered to arrest us,” Wayra starts mouthing off to Jax. “Cavars everywhere are laughing at you!” he says to the soldier with a hand on his upper arm. “Why’s everyone so afraid of her?” he nods his head in my direction because his hands are a plastic paperweight behind his back. “She’s just a little lost Etharian. You should be protecting her. She’s Rafian. She has proven her loyalty to us.”

  “They’re just doing their jobs, Wayra,” I say, trying to calm him down. He’s never been in this situation. He’s never felt this kind of betrayal.

  “Blow their jobs!” he snarls.

  Winding through a few curving hallways, the high-end elegance of the sconce lighting on the walls falls away the farther we get from Trey’s door. As we progress and turn down several more corridors, the soft lighting is replaced by silver tracks of light in the floor and ceiling.

  On the next corridor, we enter a bridge-tunnel of pure glass suspended two hundred stories or more
above the base platform of the ship. Stretching between two separate towers, it’s illuminated by the sun, giving us an unimpeded view of blue sky. I squint, unable to shield my eyes from the glare as I assess the height of the tower we’re about to enter; it’s the tallest within the floating city, almost reaching the top of the iridescent defensive shield that covers us the way a dome protects the scene within a snow globe. As we cross the bridge to it, I peer through the transparent floor; beneath us is a breathtaking reservoir of crystal-blue water. The water streams into a deep blue moat around the base of the gleaming silver tower. Beyond it, lush green lawns divide beautifully structured gardens.

  As we cross to the tower, glass doors slide open for us to enter through; the lead Brigadet strobes a pattern of light onto the crisscross of blue security beams barring our way. The blue lasers evaporate, allowing us to proceed into the tower. A fem-bot hologram materializes as we move forward, floating along with us. “Greetings and welcome to Premiere Palisade’s level 210,” her sultry robot voice says, “featuring the offices of some of our most prominent members of Skye Congress and Skye Council. The main concourse of Palisade Station is one level below. The Sonic Rail Line, transport to surrounding skyscapes, can be located on the main concourse, one level down. Overups to destinations within Premiere Palisades are located on the main concourse, one level down. Do you require a guide?”

  “Cancel guide,” one of the soldiers barks, resulting in the hologram’s disappearance from sight.

  We continue through the corridor. Military personnel in the Premiere Palisade begin to take note of us. Most of the tall, willowy women we encounter slow their progression as we pass them—sometimes with mouths agape. At first, I think they’re looking at just me, startled to see someone who looks Alameeda, but then I notice the adoring stares that Trey is getting when their eyes move from me to him. Blushes and soft whispers behind hands greet me as I glance over my shoulder.

  Walking by an elaborate wrought-iron balustrade, we arrive at a gallery that overlooks the round chamber below. It’s an ultramodern elevated train station. The tracks intersect the building and run between skyscrapers, linking them together. The arrival and departure area is the size of a high-tech coliseum. All along the walls of the chamber below are elevatorlike doors, which must be the entry points to the overups referred to by the guidebot. The doors project television images featuring some kind of news program that I can’t make out from here. Passengers enter the small chambers and disappear behind their doors. My eyes move on to the gleaming silver tile that lines the chamber, noting that the black-tiled pillars and arched niches of its architecture give the space an old-world-meets-new-world look.