Beyond the Shadows (4 page)

The disc swooped down and circled Cyrus’s head, while releasing a litany of clicks, whistles, beeps, and buzzes.

“I know, I know, but you shouldn’t have shocked him,” Cyrus said to the machine.

“What is going on here?” Yara lifted the blanket toward her swinging cat, but he wouldn’t release his tail. His dark fur still stood on end as his large eyes narrowed on the chattering bot.

The swirling lights around the little disc swelled as it flew into the control center and touched the console in a series of quick taps.

“Damn it, Bug. Leave it,” Cyrus scolded as he climbed up into the control center.

The ship shuddered and lurched as the living quarters began to move. Yara leapt into the center of the bay as angrav cases emerged from the sidewalls and slid into positions at the end of each bunk and over the storage lockers.

Cyrus looked exasperated and furious as Yara stared at the transparent panels in front of each case. Art treasures floated in the center of the dark cases, gorgeous works of craftsmanship and intricate design, but she didn’t recognize what cultures they were from. They were not objects normally found in the honest trade markets, more like the collections of art thieves.

The machine landed on a small quilted pillow attached to the top of one of the cases. Six spindly legs emerged from the bottom of the glowing disc and hooked into the cushion. The metal contraption wiggled down into the pillow while fluffing it up with his spiderlike legs.

Was the machine snuggling?

The bot seemed to contemplate her with a small black “eye” protruding from the top of its smooth silver disc. It started clicking and buzzing again.

“She’s our guest, and so is her cat, so no more static discharges, understood?” Cyrus rubbed his forehead then surveyed the room, before looking up at Tuz still hanging from the ceiling by his tail. “Can you get him down?”

“Come on, Tuz.” Yara reached for Tuz with the blanket again, and this time he dropped into her arms. She wrapped him up tight, smoothing his fur as she tucked his head under her chin. “What is all this?” she asked, looking at the cases.

“Trinkets,” Cyrus dismissed as he crossed the quarters to the galley. People didn’t keep trinkets in special hidden compartments. He poured himself a drink into a dented cup and downed it before turning around. He flicked a lazy gesture at the bot on the pillow. “Bug, meet Yara. Yara, Bug.”

The disc held on tighter to the pillow as his eye sank down in a strange glare and the glowing aura of light around him turned mostly pink. He let out a grinding noise.

“That’s rude, Bug.” Cyrus walked over to the disc and stroked a finger around the front edge of the thing.

“That’s A.I., isn’t it?” Yara had a sinking feeling. Most artificial intelligence was illegal. To make matters worse, this one looked like Yeshulen tech. The Yeshulen weren’t exactly on good terms with the Union. They had a nasty tendency to fire on ships without provocation. The Union didn’t trade with them.

“Yeah, he’s artificial. Intelligent is still up for debate.”

Electricity arched out of the bot and into Cyrus’s hand.

“Ow, damn it.” Cyrus glared at the bot, then rubbed his hand as he turned back to Yara.

“So, are you going to tell me about the cases?” she asked, taking a closer look at a handcrafted vessel with intricate inlaid pictures of people gathering some sort of harvest and offering it to what looked like star gods.

“I thought you preferred not to talk.” He retreated to the control center and focused on the viewscreen, like nothing had happened. Oh, great, now he wanted to be quiet.

Yara placed Tuz on the bunk and ordered him to stay. He hissed at her and crouched, keeping his eyes fixed on Bug.

“Leave it,” she commanded. Her cat remained still, but Yara could see the tension in his shoulders and his puffy fur.

She had a bone to pick with the captain. She entered the control center and perched in the copilot’s seat.

He tilted his head to look at her, but his expression was a mask of indifference. She knew better than to believe it this time.

“Are you a shadow trader?”

He leaned back in his chair with that infuriating look in his eye, like he wanted to toy with her again. “How do you want me to answer that?”

“With the truth,” she stated. She kept her gaze locked with his, even though it made her uncomfortable. She had the feeling he could read her too easily. And there was something about the expression in his eyes that disarmed her. It was the challenge, the sheer defiance. An excited thrill of awareness tickled near her heart.

“That’s not in my best interest,” he responded, his lips turning up in the corner in his enigmatic grin. “If I am a shadow trader, I’m not going to hear the end of it for the next four days, and then I’m sure you’ll try to arrest me when we reach Gansai. If I’m not a shadow trader, you’ll be disappointed.”

“Disappointed?” She had to hear his explanation for this one.

“You want to think the worst of me.” He turned his attention back to the viewscreen and tapped on the console. “That’s the way Azralen elitists are.”

“You’re damn right.” She felt her irritation rise and the sudden need to defend herself.

“Yeah, well, don’t be surprised if I surpass your expectations.” He stood and left the control center. Ignoring her, he opened one of the storage lockers, removed a black case, and crossed the quarters into the cargo bay.

Tuz laid his ears back and growled but kept his stare fixed on Bug. The bot continued to cling to its pillow and stared back. Yara didn’t have time to police the staring contest. She wanted to get to the bottom of what Smith was hiding. Besides, Tuz always won.

She followed Cyrus into the cargo bay. He had removed a floor panel and was working on the conduits beneath.

“What do you have hidden in here?” she asked, mostly to get his attention. She didn’t like the way he dismissed her so casually.

“A cache of illegal weapons for a bunch of revolutionaries. I got a good price for them.” His voice dripped with sarcasm.

Now he was just taunting her.

“What kind of trader are you?” It was a straightforward question, and she expected an answer.

He looked up at her, his long fingers stilling on the conduit. “The kind that likes to make a profit.”

“At whose expense?” she responded.

“Is that another accusation?” He yanked hard on a wire, pulling it from its socket. “I don’t appreciate being labeled.”

“You trying to tell me you haven’t already labeled me?” She was used to men from male-dominant cultures and the names they called her behind her back.

“You mean like rankock-licking scum?” Cyrus arched one brow. “Any other colorful names running through your head?” he jabbed.

“Maybe.” She reached down and handed him his box of tools. This wasn’t getting her anywhere, and it wouldn’t make the ship go any faster or give her any peace during the journey. Perhaps she needed a different strategy when dealing with the Earthlen. “Are we going to spend the next few days verbally sparring, or should we call a truce?”

“Giving in?” He smirked.

“Never.” She lifted her chin. “Just saving myself a headache. Your company was infinitely more bearable when you weren’t speaking.”

Cyrus laughed. “I’ll call a truce, but only if we’re taking bets on how long it’s going to last.” He returned his attention to the conduit. “If you’re hungry, there are dry stores in the locker next to the galley. Make yourself at home. You should think about getting some sleep. It’s going to be a long trip.”

Yara retreated into the quarters and remade the bunk she’d messed up in her attempts to catch her cat. Tuz refused to move from the bunk in spite of her prodding, so she relented and smoothed the blanket on top of him. Even covered, the cat didn’t move, continuing the stare-down through the blanket.

Cyrus gave the lump under the covers a sidelong glance as he returned to the living quarters.

“Need some help?” he asked as he collected his tools and rubbed one of the strange black leather bracers covering his forearms.

“No.” She sat on the bunk by the galley once more, and let her hand slide over the blanket. It seemed their little sparring match was done. So be it.

He had told her to make herself at home. He had no idea that that simple statement meant nothing to her.

Home, such a simple thing, and yet she never felt like she had a place that deserved that label. She ran her hand over the blanket again, then glanced at the bot and its hand-embroidered pillow.

A distant memory floated into her mind. She had a pillow once. It had a woven cover made from ciera blossom silks.

While artisans created intricate woven designs with ciera silk, this one was chunky, rough. It was a child’s practice at an adult art. Her friend Ceeli had given it to her, and it was beautiful.

The fact that she could remember what it looked like so clearly surprised her. She hadn’t kept it very long. Her father found it and took it from her, then scolded her for befriending an inferior and forbade her from speaking with Ceeli again.

Yara lay down with her head on Cyrus’s pillow. It felt soft and comforting, but she couldn’t bring herself to take her boots off and get under the blanket.

She didn’t know if she ever could.

Cyrus returned to the control center. He sat in his captain’s chair and started scrolling through information on the viewscreen.

What sort of man kept vases and art pieces in secret compartments that no one would ever see? She glanced at the screen and noticed the text scrolling by at a very rapid pace. How did he keep up?

Maybe he had neural enhancers implanted. She wouldn’t put it past him. There was no other way an Earthlen could process information that quickly. Certain members of the Azralen population could do it, ones with the catgaa gene. She wondered if there were any of the geniuses left. Only males in the Azralen population carried the full gene, and they had been persecuted by Grand Sister Firona almost a century ago. She wanted to cleanse the male population before they became
plagued by mental illness
. Yara had her own suspicions that Firona didn’t want the men of Azra to develop an advantage over the ruling women. The catgar, as they were called, had a memory that processed information, then stored it like a computer. They never forgot anything that they learned, and their memories never faded.

Yara felt a chill tumble down her spine. What a horrible curse. If someone never forgot anything, then any pain they had ever known would still be as sharp as the day it was inflicted. How could a person survive like that?

THIRTY-ONE HOURS. IT TOOK THIRTY-ONE HOURS TO MAKE HER WANT TO KILL him.

“You have no idea what you’re talking about,” she snapped. “You’ve never even been to Azra.” She had never met anyone that had gotten so far under her skin, like a logic parasite. They’d been arguing about politics for at least three hours, and she’d had enough.

She lingered in the archway to the control center, unwilling to enter that space but feeling like she had no other escape on the modest ship. If she retreated deeper into the living quarters, he’d probably let the conversation drop, but that would be a defeat, and she’d sooner fall to filth than let go of this one.

“You know what they say about absolute power.” He shrugged as if none of this mattered to him, because it didn’t.

“That it’s efficient?” she offered. She could feel the heat burning under her skin as she crossed her arms.

He laughed at her.

“The bottom line is the Grand Sister has done more to protect Azra than she’s ever done to harm it,” Yara stated, turning the conversation back on point.

“How so?” His brow lowered, his expression subtle but lacking his earlier amusement.

“For thirty years she’s defended our autonomy from the Union’s interference. How many other planets have you seen that have become like Union drones, all hopelessly tangled in treaties and bureaucracies. They can no longer trade without the Union, no longer defend themselves without the Union. They’re all puppets. They’re losing the strength of their culture. If the Union fails, so do they.”

“And here you are, Commander.” He tucked his hands into the crooks of his arms, and kicked his feet back up on the console. The arrogant tilt of his head dared her to continue.

“I serve in the Union forces for the good of my planet, to maintain our trade agreements. For as strong as Azra is, the Grand Sister is wise enough to know we shouldn’t be completely disconnected from our neighbors.” Tuz jumped into the copilot’s seat and started sharpening his claws on the arm rest. Yara didn’t bother to stop him. Cyrus just scowled, though he looked like he was tempted to kick the cat.

“So you only isolate yourselves personally, not politically.”

Yara’s head began to throb. “What is your point?”

“I have to have a point?” He dropped his feet and leaned forward, resting his forearm on his knee.

“I’m done.” Yara headed for the galley. She needed a drink. Too bad she couldn’t dig into that bottle he hid on the third shelf.

“You admire her, don’t you?” Cyrus called after her.

“Yes.” This conversation was over. She refused to give him any more than that.

“Do you want to be like her?”

Yara turned and stared him down. “I want to do what is right for Azra.”

She didn’t speak to him again for another thirty hours or so. Each one seemed to drag, endless and unyielding, as time must have slowed down to mock her. Not even sleep was a reprieve. As soon as she fell asleep, she seemed to wake up again, those hours of peace stolen away by some trick of time.

Now with her mind feeling like a bowl of lumpy mash, Yara reclined on the bunk behind the control center, her back pressed up against the sidewall and her feet dangling over the edge. She watched the scene before her unfold with resigned attention. After three days on the ship with little mental stimulation or entertainment other than her host’s witty banter, she could no longer think clearly or find the motivation to care.