The Skypirate Part 25

"Well, I don't. And you're not to tell anyone I've gone. I don't want anybody coming after me. This is personal."

She wasn't going to be able to talk him out of it, she thought. Just as she hadn't been able to talk him out of the raid on Boreas. Or his a.s.sumption of guilt for what had happened on Trios; she had only managed to free him of a little of the pain.

She took a deep breath. "You're determined to do this?"

For his answer, he swung his pack into the air rover.

"Eos," she muttered. She had to do something. Even coercion, if that was the only tool she had. It had certainly worked for the Coalition. The problem was, she didn't know if she held the bargaining power to do it. And learning that she did not would be a painful lesson.

"Then take me with you."

That got his attention, she thought with satisfaction as he gaped at her.

"Are you demented?"

"I'll cover the collar, as I did before."

Dax snorted his derision. "Woman, even without that d.a.m.ned collar, you'd be grabbed inside of five minutes. No."

"Then I'll go in the guise of a man."

He burst out laughing. "Snowfox, no man with eyes or glandsis going to mistake you for a man. Trust me, I know."

She felt herself flush, and was thankful for the concealing darkness. This was the first time he had even alluded to what had happened between them in his quarters. She steadied herself. "Then I'll go as a boy."

"You wouldn't be much safer that way," he said dryly. "There's more than one brothel in the colony that caters to that taste. No, Califa."

"You have to have some help," she insisted.

She saw his jaw tighten. "No. I won't be responsible for you ending up back in the hands of the Coalition."

And there it was, the answer she'd expected. The answer that the inherent n.o.bility he so fervently denied he had forced him to give.

"And I suppose you'll use the controller to see that I don't follow you?"

"I don't have to use it, do I?" he said quietly. "I merely have to leave it here."

She sucked in a breath, then plunged forward. "And if I were to tell you that if you go, I'll follow you anyway?"

He drew back a little, startled at her words. It was a long, silent moment before he spoke. "I thought it was you who accused me of being suicidal."

"And you are, if you insist on doing this."

"So you hold your own death over my head? That kind of coercion doesn't befit you, Califa. It is a Coalition trick. I thought you'd left that far behind you."

His words stung, more than she would have thought possible. In her cla.s.ses, she had taught that acceptable tactics were anything that worked. Now, all she felt was a chill nausea in the pit of her stomach. Before the collar, she had never known a man she couldn't compel, a man she couldn't manipulate. Only now did she realize she'd been a fool to attempt to use such stratagems on Dax. And she was ashamed at having tried.

But she would not take the coward's way out now. She drew herself up straight and faced him.

"I'm sorry," she said tonelessly. "You're right. My apologies."

She heard his quick intake of breath. "You must have been an incredible officer. Major."

Her gaze flew to his eyes, searching for any sign of vitriol or hatred in his use of her former rank. She found none. It was he, she thought, who was incredible. And he was still about to do his d.a.m.nedest to get himself killed.

Well, if she couldn't stop him, perhaps she could help him. And if it was treason, she thought grimly, what more could they do to her? When she spoke, her tone was brisk.

"How well do you know the Archive building?"

He blinked at the sudden change. "Well enough."

"Will you use the flashbow?"

He was watching her warily now. "No. I wouldn't want to have to hand it over to them, to add to their collection."

Her mouth twisted into a wry grimace. "You're not going to get caught, remember?"

He had the grace to look abashed. She shook her head, her expression exasperated, before she went on. "Only the outside is alarmed. Do you know where the microbook sector is?" He nodded, his expression curious now. She went on in the tone of a formal briefing. "The Triotian exhibit is just next to it, toward the rear corner of the building. At least it was a year ago. But it appeared then to be a permanent place."

Realization crossed his face. "You don't have to"

"There is a window in the microbook sector. Go in there. The storage racks and viewers take up much room, and they're big and tall enough to provide cover. There is cover outside as well, the wall runs close along that side."

"Califa"

"Don't forget the caretaker. She lives above, and although mainly a scholar, she is also a Coalition officer. And armed. But they've had very little trouble there over the years. She may be slow to react if she discovers you. She may not even recognize you. I've heard she cares only for her museum pieces. I believe her name is Oranda. If she catches you, if you call her by name, you may be able to disconcert her enough to disarm her. That's all I can think of"

"Stop, snowfox."

That s.h.i.+ver raced through her again at the name; it stopped her outpouring as no other word could have. He saw it that time, he must have, there was no other reason for him to suddenly pull her into his arms.

"I know that wasn't easy for you to do," he said against her hair. "I thank you for it."

She leaned into him, savoring the broad, solid strength of him. It was the first time they'd touched since she'd walked out of his quarters, and all her efforts at minimizing the memories melted now before his heat.

His hands slipped up to cradle her head, to tilt it back. Her breath caught, forcing her to part her lips for the air she suddenly found in short supply. In that instant his mouth came down on hers, his lips firm and warm and coaxingand undeniable. She moaned as his tongue thrust past her lips, searching, and she heard him groan in turn when she met him with her own wet, velvet heat.

At the first taste of him she felt darts of heated sensation arrowing along her nerves. So quickly it stole her breath the heat began to pool low and deep inside her. It happened with such speed she felt the heat of mortification.

That is, she did until Dax's hands slid down her back to pull her tighter against him, and she felt the undeniable proof that his need had erupted as quickly as hers. Then, wrenching his mouth away, he muttered something under his breath. He stared down at her. He looked on the verge of saying something, but bit it back at the last second.

He released her and stepped back. "Thank you, Califa," he repeated. "It will help."

"Just come back," she said, her voice still husky with the effects of his kiss. She heard it, and struggled to regain her poise. "I don't want to have to explain to Rina what happened to you."

He smiled then, a slow, crooked smile that threatened to turn her knees to Omegan sand. And then he swung into the air rover and was gone, leaving behind a woman who was having a difficult time adjusting to being the one to sit and wait.

Chapter 17.

"d.a.m.nation," Dax muttered. He'd expected trouble, but he'd expected it at the Archive building, not in the shadowy, dingy taproom he'd been sitting in for the past couple of hours, just to prod the local telerienthat most efficient of underground intelligence networkswith some coin, to see what he could learn.

But Califa's informationproof again, if he'd needed it, that she no longer considered herself part of the Coalitionand Larcos's clever device that reflected the rays of the alarm sensors in an arc around the window she'd told him of, had given him the edge that had enabled him to get in and out without being detected.

And hidden in one side of his heavy cloak were a dulcetpipe even more ancient than his own, a holograph disk, and what Califa had told him of, a small piece of pristine white Triotian marble exquisitely carved into the lithe, graceful shape of a snowfox. He'd smiled when he'd picked up that one, thinking his comparison of Califa to the tenacious, willful, courageous, and beautiful little creature even more apt now than when he'd first made it. Then, when the second realization had come to him, he had nearly dropped the small sculpture before, shaken, he had secreted it in the pocket of his cloak.

And in the other side of his cloak was another piece that had made him shake when he picked it up. A circle of hammered metal, an odd color between silver and gold, etched with an intricate design, described on the display as simply an ornamental headband of some kind. It seemed impossible they could be so mistaken, but the Coalition was perhaps used to a more ostentatious flaunting of rank. Perhaps they had not even thought to check beyond their a.s.sumptions, thus did not know they held the Royal Circlet of the King of Trios.

King Galen. Dare's father. That wise, gentle man who had tolerated the constant presence of a boy not his own with a good-natured generosity. Dax's stomach had knotted with rage as he held the simple piece for the first time. Had they taken the crown from his head before or after they had severed it from his body?

And in that moment he had done something utterly reckless. He had pulled from his boot one of the bolts for the flashbow, and set it in the empty spot where the circlet had been. Let them label that, he had thought as he turned to make his escape.

A clean escape he was about to waste, it seemed. For across the dimly lit taproom stood two men in Coalition uniform. And one of them, unmistakably recognizable to Dax from the countless times he'd forced himself to watch the cinefilms of the destruction of Trios, featuring the bloated and victorious General Corling, was the aide who had stood importantly beside the general virtually every b.l.o.o.d.y step of the way.

"Look," said the raggedly dressed man who sat beside him, pointing surrept.i.tiously at the taller of the two officers.

Dax had long ago learned to size up the most likely sources, and the thin, blue-eyed Arellian had immediately caught his eye. The man's coloring reminded him of Califa, and he wondered briefly if that was why he had been drawn to him. but he soon decided he was a likely enough choice anyway. And after some sizing up of his own, the man had accepted Dax's coins and in return provided a wellspring of information. Including the joyous news that, several months ago, a Coalition medical officer had been carried off in chains for questioning after it had been discovered that he had performed unauthorized surgery to unband a Triotian gold-collar slave.

"Mordred," the other man grunted, eyes focused on the tall officer.

"I recognize him," Dax murmured. An understatement, if ever there was one.

"They say it was he who pulled that puling general's...o...b.. out of the twister."

"Corling?" Dax said, nearly choking on the name he hadn't spoken aloud in years.

"Who else? They say the same renegade captain who freed the Triotian slave kidnapped him."

"What?" Dax stared at the man, who grinned.

"It gets crazier. Half of it's probably not even true. But word is that she and the Triotian forced him to recall the forces sent to put down the rebellion on Trios. Then they stuffed him in his own shuttle and shooed him home to tell Legion Command their occupation of Trios was over." He laughed. "d.a.m.ned fine job, if it's true. And she's an Arellian, too, from what I hear. Of course the Coalition denies it all."

They. She and the Triotian. She's an Arellian. G.o.d, it could only be Dare and Shaylah.

He kept a wary eye on the uniformed men, but his mind was racing. Was it really possible? Could they have done it? G.o.d knew Dare was bold enough, and from what Califa had said, Shaylah had the nerve to back him, but to pull off such a miracle? He'd wondered, before, but hearing it like this...a fierce shudder rippled down Dax's spine.

"The official version is different, of course," the Arellian said. "Mordred made up that one. Said that Corling fought his way free and flew his damaged shuttle all the way from where they mercilessly abandoned him to Legion Command, to warn them. They gave him a medal for it." The man snorted in laughter. "If that arrogant windsack could fly a child's air scooter, I'd be surprised."

Dax smiled slightly; it seemed Corling had lost some of his intimidation factor. He sipped sparingly at the taproom brew. Dax knew he didn't dare draw any attention to himself, not the way Mordred and the other men were wandering around as they sipped at whatever brew they'd ordered. Fortunately the room was very dim, the only real light that of the fixture over the chaser table near the door. Still, getting up and walking out would surely draw their focus; heading for the back door would be even worse. He forced himself to stay still, to maintain an air of mild curiosity.

"What is the...status of the rebellion now?"

"Depends who you ask," the Arellian said. "Official"he drew the word out with a long 'oh'"report is the Coalition is just biding its time. Others say those crazy Triotians have held them off for nearly a year now. There's even a rumor going around that that Triotian slave was a member of the royal family, that he's pulled them all together and built some kind of major weapon that has the almighty Coalition s.h.i.+vering in their boots."

Dare. He knew it now, with a gut-deep certainty nothing could shake. Only Dare could have done this, could have pulled together whatever remnants were left of the Triotian people. Only Dare could have held off the entire Coalition with what couldn't be more than a handful of people and his wits.

"Had a bit too much of that brew?" the Arellian asked sympathetically. "You look a bit bleached."

The man's words gave him a chance. Not a good one, but the only one so far. And he didn't think he was going to find a better one.

"Ye- es," he groaned, pulling the hood of his cloak up over his head. "Hit me kind of sudden. Help me outside, will you? Think I'm going to mess up the floor."

The Arellian made a face, but good-naturedly enough helped Dax to his feet. Dax stumbled, to maneuver himself to the man's other side, where he could put his left arm over his helper's shoulder, freeing his right. His right hand slid inside the voluminous folds of the cloak, found the slit in the main pocket, and reached through to the disrupter on his belt. He gripped it, keeping his hand there as they moved slowly toward the front of the taproom.

They almost made it.

They were nearly to the door, having drawn only an amused glance from Mordred, when a raucous voice called out to the Arellian. All heads, including Mordred's, swiveled their way as the Arellian turned to call out an equally raucous answer. And in the process spun Dax directly into the light from the chaser table.

Although he quickly ducked his head, as if at the sudden glare, Dax sensed Mordred freeze, saw his now shadowy shape lean forward slightly, as if staring. The man had seen his face, lit as if by a huntlight, and something had obviously registered.

Dax hunched over even more, groaned distressingly, and the Arellian began to hurry. For a few seconds his hopes soared; perhaps the man couldn't be sure of what he'd seen. He'd been off burning Trios to the ground, perhaps he wasn't as familiar with wanted skypirates as other Coalition officers were.

And then, with one low, hissed word, Mordred shattered more than just Dax's hopes.

"Silverbrake!"

Shock rippled through Dax at the sound of his name, unheard for so long. The man knew who he was. He wasn't reacting to the unexpected discovery of a wanted skypirate, he was hunting down a Triotian to slaughter.

"You're alive," Mordred said, the eagerness of a bark-hound on the hunt in his voice.

For an instant Dax thought of simply killing the man. But if he killed a Coalition officer, the Arellian who had done nothing but give him information would be subject to the worst kind of torture to pry out all he knew about Dax. The Coalition would never believe that it was nothing.

Mordred shouted across the room to his companion.

"Sorry, my friend," Dax muttered as he whirled, grabbing his knife from his boot as he shoved the Arellian into the path of the suddenly advancing officer. As they both went down in a heap, Dax leapt to the chaser table, and with a swipe of his blade put out the light. He was across the table, down, and out the door into the dark before Mordred's first furious bellow died away.

The narrow, dead-end byway directly in front of the taproom was deserted, but there were people at the open end of the path, people who he would have to pa.s.s to get away. People who would no doubt quickly surrender his direction to an angry Coalition officer.

He glanced up, at the overhanging stone canopy that protected the doorway from the weather. This planet was a dank one, with a rainy season that lasted ten months out of the year except in the high country where the storehouse was. It was the reason for the popularity of the colony; there was little else to do here, and if not for its strategic position for the Coalition, it would have been left to the small clans of gatherers that populated it.

For an instant Dax was grateful for the climate that required protection such as that overhang; it gave him the only chance he saw right now. It wasn't much of one, but it was, he told himself, better than nothing.

He bent to pick up a sizable rock from the unkempt byway and slipped it into his pocket. Then he turned to face the canopy, set himself, and jumped. He caught the edge with one hand, then reached himself up to grasp it with the other as well. He pulled himself up and over, flattening himself in the center of the slab of stone, praying that he wasn't visible from the ground on either side.

He barely made it in time. No sooner had he settled downin a chilly puddle, he realized with a grimace then the clatter of footsteps sounded beneath him. He heard Mordred, shouting furiously.

"He can't have disappeared that fast! Lieutenant, you go that way. I'll search around to the rear. You there! Go to the Legion Club, tell them we've spotted a Triotian traitor! All you others, there's a healthy reward in it for anyone who finds him!"

Dax heard the sound of running, saw the lieutenant heading off toward the far end of the street, and Mordred around the corner of the building. The taproom owner, apparently the one deputized to carry the news to the Coalition, started slowly after the lieutenant, who was still running. Not another soul moved; either not trusting the promise of a Coalition prize, or demonstrating a little rebellion of their own, Dax didn't know. Perhaps it was simply a desire to stay out of this weather, he thought, as the mist thickened into a light rain.

Dax waited until Mordred was well out of sight around the corner, then took out the rock. With all his strength he heaved it toward a narrow pa.s.sage that ran at right angles to the byway. It landed with a satisfyingly loud clatter several yards ahead and to one side of the lieutenant, who froze, then took off running toward the sound. The taproom owner slowed down even further, and when the lieutenant dodged down the small side pa.s.sage in search of the source of the sound, he stopped, shrugged, and turned back.