Sea of Stars (Kricket #2) Page 7

  “You just pulled off our mutually assured destruction!”

  “Nothing about the future is assured!” I counter.

  He gets to within a few feet of me when he’s hit with another surge of electricity. Bright yellow current infiltrates him, running over his flesh and dropping him to his knees once more.

  When he raises his hands in the direction of the soldiers, I interject, “Don’t fight them, Giffen!” Rafe soldiers dot me with their blue laser scopes. I kneel, putting my hands to the back of my head.

  “I should’ve killed you,” he pants as he struggles to put his hands behind his head.

  “I know the feeling,” I murmur, as soldiers approach us.

  CHAPTER 4

  BLEEDING OUR COLORS

  Our hands are shackled with cuffs and then sprayed with foam. When the foam hardens, a soldier approaches Giffen with a black pillowcase-like bag in his hand, preparing to toss it over Giffen’s head. They want him blind. Giffen’s intelligent eyes stare at the soldier for a long moment. The black bag is torn from the soldier’s grasp and thrown over the soldier’s face. A malicious smile touches Giffen’s lips. “Hit him again!” says one of the soldiers. Giffen is struck with another long jolt of electricity that makes him drop to the ground face-first in an unconscious heap.

  “Hold still!” The order comes from behind me. I don’t move. My face is covered with the same type of blackout fabric, rendering me blind.

  Pulled to my feet, I’m stuffed into a hover vehicle, pressed between the broad shoulders of the soldiers assigned to guard me. One of them thrusts something hard against my ribs, making my teeth clench in pain. He says near my ear, “Give me a reason to kill you.” I don’t make a sound, pretending not to have heard him.

  I breathe in shallow breaths as we begin to move. The bag is soft on my face, pulling against my nose and mouth every time I breathe in too deeply. It’s hot too and it smells like the mouthwash I used this morning. As we move, I’m grateful for the smoothness of the air propelling this vehicle, because every little breath I take now is a stab of pain to my ribs. I have no sense of where we’re going, other than that it feels like we’re moving downward at several points in all the twists and turns that we make.

  Finally, the transport comes to a stop. I’m ushered out of the vehicle; a large hand seizes my elbow, and I’m pulled almost off my feet. I try not to make a sound. I’m made to walk at a clipped pace until we reach some sort of checkpoint. A male voice says, “This is her, Rutledge?”

  “It is,” replies the one holding me.

  “She’s so little! How did she overpower an overup full of Brigadets?” he asks.

  “She’s a priestess, Coda. She can probably melt you with her hideous face.”

  “I’ve seen her face on the holovision. It’s not hideous.”

  “She’s a murderess,” Rutledge accuses. His grip is painful on my already bruised upper arm.

  “You believe the rumor that she killed Minister Vallen?”

  “She tried to kill Minister Telek too,” Rutledge grits out in anger. “What cell is she in?”

  “This way,” Coda says, all business now.

  I’m yanked forward again, my feet making clicking noises against what sounds like a metal grate floor. We pause here and there for heavy security doors and the distinct sound of laser security walls being disabled.

  The temperature in the place drops several degrees, so if they intend to put me on ice, they really mean it. The space begins to feel cavernous—infinite. The metal grate beneath my feet echoes our footsteps. When we pause once more, I’m pushed forward into a space where the sounds around me muffle. The hand on my arm releases me. I startle as a cold trickle of liquid runs over my imprisoned fingers, dissolving the foam shell on them. “Don’t move,” Rutledge orders. He removes the metal shackles, allowing my arms to go free. I lift one wrist with my hand, rubbing the circulation back into my fingers. When someone behind me pulls the blackout bag from my face, I squint against the glare of light coming from the walls, ceiling, and floor. With a cursory glance around, I note that I’m in a honeycomb-shaped cell—a hexagon. A metal cot platform juts out from the wall, a metal sink is near it, and a metal toilet is hidden in back behind a small partition. When I look over my shoulder, the soldiers who brought me here are retreating.

  “Wait!” I yell to them, following them to the front entry of the cell. When I near them, I come up short, running into an invisible barrier that must’ve activated after they had crossed the threshold of the cell. I drop to the ground, holding my nose that took the brunt of the impact.

  One of the soldiers goes to a panel on the wall to the left of my cell and turns on an intercom before he squats down so that his face is level with mine. His clear voice comes through a speaker into my cell. “You’re not that smart, are ya?” The voice is Rutledge’s. He taps on the glasslike divider; his thick finger doesn’t manage to make a sound that I can hear. “It’s an invisible bulkhead to keep deviants like you at bay.” I stare at the half-moon scar on his chin, wondering for a moment how he got it. He’s massive, this soldier. His arms are like the haunches of a bull, thick and beefy. Even with all that, he doesn’t look as formidable as Trey and the other Cavars. I think it’s because he lacks the tribal tattoo that distinguishes them as elite.

  I take my hand away from my nose. “I need to speak with someone in charge! I have information that’s vital to Rafe!”

  “Oh, we know you do. Don’t worry, you’re gonna talk,” he says with a sinister grin that has goose bumps rising on my flesh. “We’ll be back.” He laughs at my stunned expression and rises.

  Behind Rutledge, two soldiers drag an unconscious Giffen to the dronelike cell next to mine. “You miss your boyfriend?” Rutledge asks. “He looked like he was about to bash your head in when we found you in the supply hangar. Let’s make you two cozy, shall we?” He touches the control panel on the left side of my cell. The wall between my cell and Giffen’s cell becomes translucent. I watch the soldiers dump him on the floor. One soldier pulls Giffen’s blackout hood off, but neither of them takes off his shackles or hand restraints.

  “You have to free his hands,” I insist.

  “We don’t have to do anything,” Rutledge scowls at me. “This isn’t the palace.”

  “You think?” I retort. “Listen to me. There’s going to be an Alameeda attack in less than two rotations—”

  The soldiers who hauled Giffen into his cell join this soldier outside my cell. They all begin to laugh. “Does she really think we’re going to listen to the traitor who just tried to kill our minister of defense?” one of them asks Rutledge.

  “She looks so earnest too,” the other one laughs.

  I answer them sternly, “You should listen to me or we’re all dead!”

  One of the soldiers loses his amused expression. He glances around uncertainly and asks, “What if she’s not lying?”

  “She’s an Alameeda spy. She’ll say anything to make herself look like one of us.”

  “But what if she’s right?” the one insists.

  “I am right!” I interject.

  “She’s here to assassinate our leaders,” Rutledge growls, leaning his face near mine and trying to stare me down.

  “I haven’t killed anyone,” I reply. “And you must think I’m completely brilliant if you believe I could plot all of this supposed espionage in my childhood on Earth!” I put my hands on my hips. “I never knew any of you existed or that you’d come looking for me.”

  “You’re a priestess. You know things,” Rutledge states vaguely.

  I put my hand to my forehead and rub it. “So now you believe I have the ability to know things, but you think I’m making up the most essential thing to our survival: an assault from Alameeda?” The Brigadet’s expression loses a little of its bravado. “You don’t have to believe me. Go ask the Cavars whom I
’ve lived with for the past few specks! They know me. They can vouch for what I can do.”

  “Should I ask them now? We could do it together,” Rutledge says with a twinkle in his eye. He moves to the right side of my cell, touching another control panel. The wall to my right becomes translucent. I lose my ability to breathe for a moment. Trey stares at me in an assessing way from the other side of the glass-like barrier. He’s shirtless, attired in only his uniform trousers. I blanch when I scan his chest; he’s already been roughed up. His chest is covered in bruises and abrasions. There are singe marks on his skin. Judging by his reaction at seeing me, he already knew I was in this cell. He must’ve seen them bring me in.

  Trey puts his hand up against the transparent wall as he says my name, but I can’t hear his voice. The cells are soundproof.

  My knees feel weak. I shake my head in confusion. “Why would you hurt him?” I ask Rutledge. “He’d never betray Rafe. He loves this house.”

  “It would seem that he needs more motivation to tell us about you,” comes the soldier’s reply.

  I raise my chin. “I’ll tell you whatever you want to know. There’s no need to involve him.”

  “Oh, I know you will,” he agrees, “but we won’t be questioning you now.”

  “Defense Minister Telek wants to be present for it,” I state.

  His smile evaporates. “How did you know?” he asks. His eyes narrow in suspicion.

  “I’m psychic,” I say with derision.

  His eyes darken in anger. “Minister Telek can’t be here now. He’s having part of his intestines removed. Did you know that as well? They’re imaging his replacement parts now. They won’t be ready for a few rotations.”

  “We can’t wait a few rotations! We have to speak now!”

  “He has holes in his esophagus now,” the soldier says drily.

  “Minister Telek killed Defense Minister Vallen so that he could assume his post on Skye Council. Please let me speak to the council,” I beg.

  Rutledge appears unimpressed with my story. He shakes his head. “You only get to talk to us. We’re aware of your priestess ability to influence your adversaries.”

  “My ability to do what?” I ask after I close my gaping mouth.

  “We have proof of your trait,” he counters.

  “Oh! You’ve proof?” I scoff with rising eyebrows. “What’s your proof?”

  He walks across the metal grate catwalk to the adjacent rows of stacked honeycomb-like cells that go up as far as I can see. Hundreds of catwalks like the one that he’s standing on service the levels above. He touches a control panel on the wall, illuminating several of the cells in front of me. Inside one, Wayra stands watching my encounter with these soldiers. He, like Trey, has been interrogated, as the bruises and scrapes on his face and bare chest attest. Next to Wayra’s cell is Jax’s cell. Above him in individual cells are all my Cavar bodyguards from the palace: Drex, Hollis, Gibon, Dylan, and Fenton. Their cells are all clumped together.

  I put both my hands flat against the invisible barrier in front of me, smearing it with my blood. “Let them go! They’re not your enemies.”

  “They all refuse to answer any questions about you. Don’t you find that strange? Their loyalty is to you and not to Rafe.”

  “They’re more than loyal to Rafe! They’re decent men. They believe that I saved Cavars when I reported an attack by the Alameeda! They were assigned to protect me, and that’s what they’re doing—protecting me is part of their duty.”

  This takes him aback for a second. “We’re the authority here.”

  I make a derisive sound. “They’re Cavars. They don’t see Brigadets as authority—just as you’d scoff at their authority. They were answering to Minister Vallen until he was murdered. They’re intelligent men. They understand motives, and no one had a better motive to kill Defense Minister Vallen than Minister Telek.”

  “You’re accusing Defense Minister Telek of murdering Minister Vallen?”

  “I know he killed him. He told me he did it. He wants me to take the blame for it.”

  “So you admit that you poisoned him!”

  “Oh, for sure. Wouldn’t you? He murdered your defense minister! He wants to kill me to cover it up. Why do you think I poisoned him?” I ask.

  “I think you poisoned him because you’re a spy and you were under orders to kill him.”

  “Under orders from whom?” I ask with a cold stare.

  “The Brotherhood.”

  I frown. “I wouldn’t walk across the street if they ordered me to,” I reply honestly. “Listen to me: I could’ve killed Minister Telek, but I didn’t. That’s not important now. What’s important is what you plan to do to intercept the Alameeda invasion coming on Fitzmartin.” My tone becomes harsher as I speak.

  He looks uncertain. “This is your influence, isn’t it? I’m not falling for your skills.”

  “What do you think I’m doing to you? I’m just being reasonable. If you believe nothing else other than there’s an imminent attack planned, then we’re good. Everything else we can sort out later. At least check into it. Go over whatever protocols you use to defend this place and see if there are any holes. They come in with an air strike—big bombs. The shields will be ineffective because they’ll already be inside,” I ramble. He turns the intercom off so that we can no longer hear each other while he discusses something with his fellow soldiers. I pound on the barrier between us, yelling, “It starts at sixteen parts on Fitzmartin—sixteen parts! Do you understand?”

  They turn their backs on me and walk away. I panic, beating on the wall between us. “They’re coming on Fitzmartin! They’ll kill us all! Please listen to me!”

  Losing sight of them, I turn to look at Trey. He’s watching me, taking in everything about me. I look down at myself; I’m a complete mess. My hands are abraded from my fight with Giffen. The black jacket Trey gave me this morning is torn and missing several buttons.

  Quickly, I go to the wall that separates us. I wring my hands as I say, “We have to get out of here! The Alameeda are going to be here soon.”

  Trey mouths the words: Slow down. I can’t understand you.

  I cringe and put my hands to my head. “I don’t know what time it is!” I say to myself, as fear overwhelms me. I try to take a deep breath to calm down before I lose it. I touch the wall between us, using the blood on my fingers. I smear a picture of the Ship of Skye among the clouds. Then I add flying ships dropping bombs on it. Next to it, I write in backward letters: NITRAMZTIF NO STRAP 61.

  Trey’s hand touches my drawing of the Ship of Skye. He moves his hand to mine as I lean against the wall. I know he can’t hear me, but I say, “It’ll happen in about 48 parts from now! They get inside the shields! They bomb everything! It’s like the Hindenburg—ahh, you wouldn’t know what that is!” I scold myself as I thrust my hands in my hair, pulling it back from my face. “It’s like the whole place is on fire!”

  His expression is grim. He nods in understanding. Turning away from me, he goes to his sink, to the soap dispenser. He takes the soap to the entrance of his cell, to the invisible barrier.

  He uses the soap to write on the barrier: STRAP 84 NI TLUASSA LAIREA ADEEMALA.

  Wayra leaves his post at the entrance to his cell for a moment. When he returns, he writes in soap on his wall: BAW-DA-BAW. Jax and the rest of the Cavars do the same.

  I sit down on the metal cot and rest my cheek against the cool transparency of the wall.

  “I have to think,” I murmur as I look around at the cell. It’s a nightmare in terms of escape. If I were to somehow break through a wall, I’d only find myself in the next cell. The only way out is through the front wall, and my nose still hurts from running into it. I glance at Giffen in the cell next to mine. He hasn’t moved yet. I wonder if he’s dead, but I see his chest rise and fall, and I know he still lives. I’m not su
re whether that’s a good thing, or a bad thing. On one hand, he might be able to free himself once he wakes up, but on the other hand, a free Giffen may not be healthy for me. He might decide to kill me once he figures out I’m here too. Either way, the odds are looking like I’m going to die in here.

  I close my eyes for a moment, fighting despair. What good is seeing the future if you can’t get out of its way?

  When I open my eyes again, I meet Trey’s as he slouches next to me on his side of the wall. His eyes ask me questions. The first is: What happened to you? I shrug, and then cringe; my bruised ribs ache, making me not want to breathe. He motions for me to take off my jacket. He rises from the floor, waiting for me to do the same. Getting to my feet, I face him again. I gingerly peel off my black jacket and lay it upon the slab. I almost don’t want to look as I grasp the hem of my white top, inching it up my left side. My shirt is stiff, because it has ribbing sewn into it that pushes everything up and in, a fact that probably helped protect my ribs to a certain extent but now causes me to pause and wince, holding my breath for a second with my elbow pointed up. Finally exposing my ribs, I glance at them; they’re the color of midnight.

  Trey’s reaction is pragmatic, except when his hands ball into fists. He gestures that I should wet my jacket with cold water to use it as a compress. Following his advice, I dampen the jacket and take it with me to the cot against our adjoining wall. Lying down on the metal slablike cot, I face him. He sits right next to me again against the floor, since his cot is located on his far wall.

  With a lift of his chin in the direction of the hand clutching my side, his eyes ask, How did that happen to your ribs?

  I point over my shoulder to Giffen stretched out on the floor in the next cell.

  He nods his head in Giffen’s direction with a raise of his eyebrow.

  I shake my head and say, “He’s like me.” I point to myself. “He has gifts.” I point to my hair and say, “He’s part Alameeda.”