One
AD 2364
After two standard months of duty at the Terran refugee center on Inara
Wadi, Marista could finally tolerate the sight of blood.
But the stench of charred flesh that hung heavy in the corridor still
forced sourness into her throat.
As she jogged past the human carnage in triage and tried to keep pace
with Bram Hyrek's longer strides, she worried her face had turned the same shade
of pale gray as her uniform shirt. She
had to control the squeamishness. Civilian
casua
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the chief med-tech cast her a
sideways glance. "Are you up to
this?"
Impatient with her weakness, she cleared the foul taste from her throat
and clipped her words. "I'm
fine. Just tell me what kind of
accident..."
"Not accident," Bram cut in.
"Incident. The
diplomatic kind. That's why I
alerted your Office. Where's Bierich?"
Given the uncertain nature of this emergency, Bram's preference for
Madame Bierich was understandable. Still,
she struggled to control the resentment in her voice.
"The chargé is on her way back from the embassy in Timetsuara.
However, I’m authorized to deal with the situation.
Besides, I speak the Albian dialect, and I'm well versed in the customs
of the desert dwellers."
"Don’t take this wrong, Marista," Bram replied, but I think
we need more than a linguist or the Deputy Administrator of Humanitarian
Services. Unless I miss my guess, we
need an honest-to-Creation diplomat. But,"
he added with a sigh, "I wouldn't have dragged you out of bed in the middle
of the night if I thought this could wait. The
clansmen probably won't know the difference between you and Bierich
anyway."
She raised her brow. "I'll
make sure they don’t know the difference."
They turned another corner and Bram pulled up short.
Hard on his heels, she skidded to a stop in front of Treatment Room Four.
An Albian clansman, clutching the butt and barrel of a desert rifle,
guarded the door of the self-contained unit.
The long, black cylinder of his weapon contrasted sharply with his dingy
white burnoose. The man's coba
As she stared in disbelief at the clansman, she forced herself into a
tenuous calm despite the jump of her heart.
"Bram, what in the name of holy Mother Creation is he doing with a
weapon inside the compound?"
The Albian clutched the barrel of his weapon harder.
Though she spoke to the med-tech in Terran Standard, she guessed the
clansman understood the indignant tone of her voice.
"At least he isn't pointing that thing at us," Bram muttered.
"We may have to bend the rules of wartime etiquette on this one.
The Albians don't believe our own Terran guard is adequate.
They may be right."
When she jerked her gaze back to Bram he held up his hand before she
could demand an explanation. "Check
out the treatment room, then tell me what you think."
He guided her to the smaller of two viewing windows.
Though the glare from an overhead light cast a halo around her field of
vision, she clearly saw the gurney filling one entire corner of the room and
Zhora Paxton, a nurse, working over it. Easing
out of Bram's hold, she shaded her eyes with both hands and inched up on her
toes to get a better view.
A man laid face-up on the gurney. A
few short, crisp strands of brown-black hair clung to his damp, sun-darkened
forehead above heavy brows. The
harsh white light set his face in relief and gave his defined cheekbones and
square jaw the look of solid cast bronze. His
handsome, hard-edged profile lacked any hint of animation except an occasional
blink. Neither did the man offer a
visible response to Zhora's touch.
Marista let her gaze linger on the striking features a moment longer,
then she scanned the man's length. Warmth
crept into her face when she realized he was naked except for a swatch of white
surgical drape that started at his narrow hips and extended to mid-thigh.
The thin material outlined the solid lines of his masculinity.
Aware she'd let her eyes linger too long where they shouldn't, she forced
herself to take a more clinical study of the stranger.
From the waist up, his broad shoulders and chest made a swarthy contrast
to the white linens. The muscles of
his left forearm and leg strained against security cuffs affixed to the gurney.
His heels overshot the foot of the thin mattress by a good measure.
He was tall. Taller than the
rangy clansman standing guard. Taller
than most Albians, in fact.
His stoic expression, wide classic features and powerful build resembled
the ancient Earth stone-carved renditions of Aztec warrior kings.
She dropped from the balls of her feet back onto her heels.
For the first time in two standard months, she worried about her safety
as a neutral Terran diplomat stationed on a humanitarian outpost.
The clash of cu
Now, perhaps, this "incident" breached the neutrality of Terran
soil. Anyone could see the man was
no simple desert nomad. Injured and
restrained he still exuded power and superiority.
The clansmen might have reason to be paranoid.
She turned back to Bram. "Who
is he? Where did he come from?"
Bram glanced into the treatment room.
"The clansmen found him and four others at the wreckage of an air
skimmer in the middle of the desert. Most
of the crewmembers, except for him, were outfitted in traditional clan robes.
The craft, though, wasn't Albian design."
"Are they Krillian?" She
suddenly fe
"The clansmen think so," Bram hedged.
"Their leader told me that if four of the five survivors hadn’t
needed critical medical care, he’d have taken them all to the military base at
Timetsuara. As a precaution, he
posted his own guards throughout the compound."
Apprehension slithered up her back. "These
men could be spies."
Bram shrugged. "True,
but in the past month, the worst fighting moved south and west by several
hundred kilometers. Who knows what
they were doing so close to the city."
He paused and shook his head. "Even
if they are Krillians they pose no danger to us.
One of the survivors died on the way here.
Two others suffered severe burns, and one man has massive cranial
bleeding. I'd be surprised if any of
them lasted the night." He
rubbed the furrows in his forehead. "One
of the burn cases is a boy no older than sixteen.
Damn, Marista, they're fighting this war with children."
For the first time, she saw the strain in Bram's face and laid her hand
on his arm. "I know you'll do
the best you can. I've seen the
practice drills. Your staff is one
of the best."
He tried to smile at her words, and then lifted his chin to indicate the
man in treatment room four. "At
least this one should recover. The
clan leader said he put up one hell of a fight at the crash site before they
secured him. Except for a gash in
his side he's unhurt. Unlike the
others he wore a standard flight suit that protected him from the fire.
He hasn't said a word, though. Hasn't
even groaned in pain."
Aztec warrior kings wouldn’t cry out under pain of torture, she mused.
In the next moment, she chided herself for the flight of fancy.
She was a member of the Diplomatic Corps, dedicated to finding peace
through negotiation, not brute force. She
had little patience for men like her father, the General, who made war to solve
problems.
"The clan calls him the Silent One," Bram interrupted her
thoughts. "I suppose if I were
in his place I wouldn't talk much either."
Her skin prickled. "You
do think he's Krillian."
Bram glanced at the guard, then back at her.
"I can't say for sure. The
clothing he wore beneath his flight suit didn't give us a clue to his identity. That's
why I called the Chargé's Office. Since
this outpost is neutral Terran soil, these men have a right to sanctuary under
interplanetary law."
"Which places us diplomatically between hell and a black hole if
they are Krillian spies," she finished.
"So we have a potential incident."
Bram nodded. "In the
end, that man in there may be the only survivor.
I'd say that makes him the unlucky one."
When she frowned at the odd comment, Bram cast a furtive glance at the
clansman before continuing. "Our
desert friends have notified the Albian military in Timetsuara of their find.
Lieutenant Sindri should be here with a platoon within the hour, and I
have a feeling he's going to insist we release this Silent One into his
custody."
"Sindri? Damn!"
She exhaled her frustration with the new knowledge she'd have to deal
with the arrogant, ambitious officer. In
the days after she arrived at the post on Inara Wadi, she had struck up a
cordial friendship with the Albian lieutenant.
That was before she realized Sindri wielded information, personal or
otherwise, like he wielded a deadly weapon—with cold, calculating intent and
accuracy.
"I know. Sindri complicates the situation," Bram replied with
ironic understatement. "That's
why I think our Silent One needs an impartial explanation of his options.
The problem is he won't communicate.
Whether he doesn't understand us, or he chooses not to talk..."
"Is for me to figure out," she concluded, feeling tingles of
both anticipation and foreboding.
"Marista, are you sure you have full authority to act for Bierich?"
Bram asked. "You aren’t
technically a diplomat."
Bram's concerns stiffened her resolve.
"As Bierich's deputy I’m the closest thing to a diplomat this side
of Timetsuara. I'll simply try to
conduct a basic interview, so the chargé can form a proper diplomatic response
when she returns."
Bram shrugged his agreement and turned his attention to the treatment
room. "I told Zhora to give him
a relaxant along with a hypo of antibiotics.
He should be mildly sedated, but be careful.
Remember, the Krillians shot down that Albian civilian transport to start
this war. Don't assume they have any
more regard for us because we're Terran."
Her heart give a quick double beat. She
remembered too well vidscreen images of the charred and me
Her own worst nightmare come hideously true.
"Are you sure you can handle this, Marista?"
Bram's impatient question cut through her mental lapse.
She resisted the urge to grasp the flower pendant that hung from a gold
chain inside the vee of her open collar. "Yes,
I can handle this."
The little flower talisman gave two mocking jumps with the fitful beat of
her pulse.
"Fine," Bram replied, as if he was eager to accept her word.
"A second guard is posted just inside the treatment room door.
But remember. Watch
yourself."
She nodded.
Bram smiled briefly, and then gazed down the corridor.
"I should go see if I can do anything for that boy."
Already lost in other thoughts, he turned and hurried away from her.
She pivoted toward the window and stared at the stone-like profile of the
Silent One. She should have been
more afraid. The war had finally
caught up with this remote humanitarian outpost.
Chance had deposited strangers, possibly Krillian spies, at her doorstep.
But chance also had handed her a real challenge after two long months of
bureaucratic data disk jamming, report replication, and disaster drills.
With Tessa Bierich absent, she could prove her worth in a crisis.
After today, she vowed, even Bierich wouldn't have reason to rate her
fieldwork less than excellent.
She finally touched the pendant and gave it a hopeful squeeze.
She slid her fingers down to the platinum Terran Diplomatic Corps
insignia affixed to the left lapel of her pale gray shirt.
Neither brief ritual helped steady the hammering of her heart as she
pressed the door control and took a deep breath.
Zhora glanced up from her duties when Marista strode into the treatment
room. "I thought Bram sent for
the chargé. What are you doing
here?"
Marista flinched inside, but dredged up a placid smile.
"Bierich isn’t here right now.
I'm in charge."
Zhora turned back to her patient on the gurney.
"Well, she'll be sorry she missed this one.
We have a certified mystery on our hands."
"Bram told me as much."
Marista moved closer and noted a glimmer of feminine appreciation in
Zhora's eyes as the nurse swabbed an antiseptic wash across a deep gash just
below the Silent One’s rib cage. The
sinuous motion of the Zhora's hand seemed in perfect tempo with the steady rise
and fall of the man's flat, hard abdomen as he breathed.
Though she knew little about medical procedure, she sensed Zhora let her
touch linger on the bronze flesh longer than necessary.
A twinge of envy surprised her. Only
then she realized how openly she stared at the man's beautiful naked torso.
Embarrassed by the lapse of professionalism, she shook herself mentally,
and sidled around the foot of the gurney making sure neither her shoes nor the
hem of her trousers brushed the scorched and blood-soaked clothing discarded
there. Once in position opposite
Zhora, she trained her eyes on the nurse. "That
flight suit looks as if three men bled into it."
"His wound is deep enough to have caused the bleeding."
Zhora glanced down at the wadded flight suit.
"By all standards he should be in shock.
A gash this deep and wide usually needs minor laser cauterization.
Once we strapped him down and he quieted, though, the bleeding stopped.
Even more amazing, his blood pressure and heart rate have already dropped
to normal."
Zhora smiled more of her feminine appreciation as she set about bandaging
the wound. "Of course, you can
see he's incredibly fit."
Marista did see, and she suffered a stab of gui
Zhora glanced up. "I
suppose you want to be alone with him."
"Yes, I do."
With a sigh, the nurse sealed the last corner of a synthaflesh bandage
over the bronzed skin and stepped back. "He's
yours, for the moment. When you
finish, send for an orderly to move him into isolation."
"Isolation? Why isn't he
being moved to a ward?"
Zhora gave the clansman a glance. "We
can lock the isolation room from the outside.
The choice is a comfortable bed in there or restraints worse than this.
I think our patient would prefer isolation, don't you?"
"But he's injured," Marista said, disgusted.
"Tell that to the clansmen."
Zhora stole another glance at the stranger's length.
"Besides, he may be injured, but I wouldn't bet that platinum bar of
yours he's helpless."
The nurse hurried out of the treatment room.
Immediately, the Albian guard positioned himself at the door and lowered
the barrel of his weapon a few centimeters.
Marista recoiled at the naked threat of the desert rifle.
Even if the wounded man was a suspected spy, he had a right to speak with
her in private without fear for his life. She
marched over to the sentry and, in desert tradition, nodded with formality to
display her authority. "You'll
wait outside while I speak with this man."
"No."
She expected his initial stubbornness.
Albians boasted about that particular national trait.
However, she could match her own will with the Albians any day of the
standard year.
Though impatient she smiled warmly. "I
know you're concerned for my safety. But
this man is injured, restrained, and drugged into submission.
He poses no danger to me."
The guard didn't budge. She
held her temper and widened her smile. "You've
handled your duty well. I'll tell my
superiors, and they will be grateful."
The appeal to his Albian sense of duty worked, as she knew it would.
He cocked his head as if willing to hear more.
She waved toward the gurney. "But
I have my duty as well. I must speak
with this man in private, so I can answer to my superiors with as much pride and
honor as you."
When the Albian's gaze darted between the gurney and her a half dozen
times she knew he was weighing her appeal.
He finally lowered his weapon. "I'll
wait outside. Go to your duty."
She nodded formally, the only thanks he'd expect.
When the guard left and shut the door behind him, she let out a relieved
breath and hurried over to the gurney. For
privacy, she stood at the man's shoulder with her back to the viewing window.
He'd closed his eyes and lay still. She
found herself once again struck by his male beauty.
Though flame had singed the edges of his dark hair and brows ash white,
the perfection of his angular face wanted for nothing, save a trace of
animation. She imagined a smile
lifting his full, sculpted mouth and deepening the faint lines around his eyes.
Peering at him in repose, she wondered if Bram's medicinal cocktail of
antibiotics and relaxants had worked too well.
If the Silent One had lapsed into a twilight state, dispensing with the
guard had been an exercise in futility.
A glance at the life-sign monitor quashed that worry.
She had learned enough about medical instrumentation during her brief
time at the outpost to understand he wasn't dozing.
His vitals were too strong. In
fact, his heart beat fast, and his blood pressure rose a notch while she watched
the digital readout.
Hoping he might open his eyes if he more acutely sensed her presence, she
leaned forward. He didn't twitch an
eyelid, though his chest rose and fell more rapidly.
When his arms clenched, she realized he was simply ignoring her.
His response was understandable. Despite
the life-sign readings, he was probably disoriented and terrified.
She needed to earn a measure of his trust.
Lowering
her face, she positioned herself in his direct line of vision.
"I'm Marista Kaljin, Deputy Administrator of Humanitarian Services
for this Terran outpost," she began, speaking softly and using the Krillian
dialect first. "Our chargé,
Tessa Bierich, is absent. But I can
and will exercise the authority of the diplomatic office in her stead.
This is a neutral refugee and humanitarian center.
Though you were brought here by Albian nationals, you are under Terran
protection. Do you understand?"
He no longer seemed to breathe, though the life-sign monitor indicated
his heart rate and blood pressure rose another notch.
Frowning at the disparity between outward appearance and autonomic
responses, she repeated herself in Albian just in case everyone's best guess
about these strangers was dead wrong. Besides,
if the men were infi
Still no response.
Her patience grew shorter along with her time.
"Sir, cooperating with me is in your best interest."
To emphasize her insistence, she spread her hand over his fist.
"I can guarantee your safety until...Oh!"
In spite of the restraints on his arms, the stranger jerked violently and
repulsed her comforting touch. She
stumbled back a step. Then she
caught her breath, when eyes the color of polished obsidian speared her.
The ancient warrior king had revived.
His glower struck at her soul with loathing and menace even as he lay at
her mercy.
Instinct warned her to flee. Yet,
the stranger's compelling, hate-filled glare held her rooted.
Then, his body shuddered. With
a moan and a grimace, he fell back against the pillow.
Forgetting her panic she lurched to his side.
"Lie still or you'll reopen your wound.
Do you want me to call back the nurse?"
He shook his head, and his hand flew up as far as the restraints allowed.
She glanced at his fan of fingers to make sure she stood well away from
his reach when a glint of metal riveted her attention. The
tiny gold band encircling his fifth finger winked up at her.
The ring looked too small and fragile to be masculine adornment for this
intimidating man.
Moreover, the glimpse of the ring settled her suspicions.
Albian males considered jewelry effeminate vanity.
They didn't even wear simple marriage bands.
She looked back into the stranger's face, still regal and defiant but now
beaded with perspiration. As the
Silent One struggled with his pain, she struggled with her conscience.
Images of the destroyed civilian transport crowded her mind again.
By serving the Krillian government in any wartime capacity, this man gave
his implied approval of their inhumane conduct.
Yet, as a neutral Terran diplomat, and in the absence of evidence he’d
committed any crime, she had a sworn duty to protect and preserve his rights
under interplanetary law.
He let out a trembling breath fraught with pain and frustration.
Compassion unexpectedly stirred her heart and overrode her instinctive
contempt. He might be a Krillian
spy, but he was brave and stubborn in the face of peril.
"Please,
lie still," she pleaded with him. "Thrashing
will only hurt you more."
To calm him, she laid her hand on his shoulder.
She didn't expect the charge of energy that raced up her arm at the mere
touch of his fevered flesh to her cool fingertips.
Neither did she expect the rush of blood to her head.
He flinched and gasped, as if he'd fe
Keenly embarrassed by her own reaction, she simply nodded her
satisfaction and attempted a smile. "As
a representative of the Terran government, I'll see to your welfare and
guarantee you sanctuary."
"I'm sure he feels much better now."
The voice startled her. The
sarcasm didn't. She retracted her
hand from the stranger and pivoted with as much poise as she could muster.
Mocking blue eyes assessed her up and down.
She fought a chill of revulsion, then a flash of disdain as the soldier
dipped his head in brief recognition. "How
nice to see you again, Marista Kaljin," he greeted without warmth.
She returned his nod with no more respect than he'd shown her. "I wish I could say the same, Lieutenant Sindri."
Text
Copyright 2004 by Barbara Cary
Web Site Copyright 2004 by ImaJinn Books