Perfect Specimen: Brietta (4 page)

What
wasn’t
imaginable was the lack of extraneous material. Tools. Weapons. Pottery shards. Zero context. Which made no sense, considering the era in which these bodies had been entombed.

“So?” Taggert’s form loomed above her. “What do you think?”

“I think we’re in business,” she confirmed with a cool smile. “At least twenty bodies. Maybe twenty-four.”

“I was thinking twenty-five.”

She laughed lightly. “Good thing
I’m
in charge. Whoever these folks are, they put great stock in certain numbers. Twenty, twenty-one, twenty-five. So let’s say twenty-five for now, okay?”

Taggert grinned. “Welcome aboard, Ryerson.”

“Oh!” She grabbed her face, shocked by a stab of pain that actually seemed to emanate from his mention of her last name. How crazy was
that
? Especially since the Ryerson name was so cool—at least to her.

Wincing up at Taggert in apology, she explained, “Damned dust.”

“Right.” He knelt beside her. “I checked the medical supplies, and they gave us some sort of uber-strong antibiotic called
azithromycin. Maybe you should switch to it, since yours doesn’t seem to be working.”

“It’s working,” she assured him, trying not to notice how close his body was. Almost intimate. Definitely protective. Maybe even seductive. Edging away, she murmured, “It just takes time. Aren’t you the guy who claimed to be patient?”

“Actually, I said I’m
im
patient.”

“Whatever.” She licked her lips, torn between a need to insult him and an equally strong urge to touch his suntanned cheek. To thank him for bringing her to this amazing spot. To—

The sound of hoofbeats in the distance distracted her from dangerous thoughts, and she turned to see a magnificent figure galloping toward them on a beautiful chestnut horse with a flaxen mane and tail. “Wow.”

“That’s Hannan.”

The bodyguard? Yum
.

He was at least six feet seven. Probably more. Broad shoulders, bulging muscles, bright red headband holding back shoulder-length black hair. Jeans and a tan leather vest—but no shirt to obscure his glistening chest.

And the widest, most engaging smile Brietta had ever seen, telling her he knew he was making a dramatic entrance designed to intimidate men and make women weak in the knees.

“He looks like Rambo on steroids,” she murmured without thinking as she stood to welcome the newcomer. “Where did you find him?”

“You’re drooling,” Taggert informed her cheerfully. “Try not to embarrass me, okay?”

“Huh?” She turned back to him and laughed in embarrassment. “He’s just so big.”

“Yeah, I get it.” His tone now dripped with sarcasm. “Pull yourself together.”

“It’s nothing like that. He’s just so—”

“Big?”

“Shut
up.
” She laughed at herself then assured her employer teasingly, “You’ve got good taste in hiring, that’s for sure.”

“I do my best.” He jumped to his feet. “Want to meet him?”

“In a minute.” She watched as Hannan dismounted and strode over to the four security guards. After greeting each in turn by slapping them on the backs, he handed them envelopes and motioned to a vehicle in the distance—another SUV, even more beaten up than the one Taggert had driven. Within seconds, the guards were speeding away, leaving just one vehicle, a horse, Taggert’s team, and a valley full of ancient bones.

“And so it begins,” she murmured.

“Exactly. He’ll take good care of us. That’s why I hired him.”

“You made the right decision. About
all
of us, I mean. I can’t wait to get my grid on with this cemetery.” She touched his forearm. “I know I haven’t thanked you, Taggert, so let me do it now. We’re going to make history together. I just know it.”

Chapter Three

As the day wore on, it became clearer and clearer to Taggert that his assistant was suffering from some sort of bizarre sinus infection, and while he felt sorry for her, it also annoyed the hell out of him. She should have stayed home. Or in Istanbul. Or at least she should have allowed a village doctor to take a look up her nose, or down her throat, or however the hell they diagnosed these things.

But she was too stubborn for any of that. Even when he tried to pamper her by offering up the largest tent, she just glared at him as though he’d either insulted her or hit on her. It was all he could do to get her to take the second-largest one, and she only agreed to
that
when he implied it had been originally intended for “the paleontologist.”

Fortunately, Hannan established a rapport with her right from the start, so Tagg left it to the big man to convince her to take it easy until she adjusted to the altitude; to eat some stew, even though she clearly had no appetite; and to settle down early that first evening at the fire pit Tagg had dug for them. She had wanted to do some test digging around the presumed perimeter of the graveyard, but Hannan tempted her with a promise to share legends that had been handed down on this plateau—
his
plateau—for millennia.

Taggert forced himself to sit and listen too, even though he had heard most of Hannan’s crazy stories during his last visit to this area. He was pretty sure the bodyguard had invented most of them, weaving bits and pieces from various cultures and blending them with suspiciously familiar modern ghost stories. No way would Brietta Ryerson have fallen for them if she were on her game, but she was just sick enough—and definitely drugged enough—to sit dutifully through tale after tale.

Sometimes she winced then quickly tried to cover it up. Other more troubling times her entire body seemed to recoil from some unseen attack. He knew better than to offer comfort—she really seemed to despise that, at least from him. So he decided to give her twenty-four hours, and if it was still going on after that he’d toss her in the SUV and force her to seek medical attention.

In the meantime, he decided to postpone his first trip back to the mysterious cavern that was the true purpose for this expedition. He needed to stick around—to be sure she was improving. And he wanted to learn as much as he could about her gridding technique in case she had to leave, sticking
him
with the grad students. It would screw up his timeline and put him in a foul mood, but it couldn’t be helped, so he made up his mind to try and make the best of it.

* * * *

Brietta was surprised when Taggert stayed around the camp during their first full day on the site. Wasn’t he supposed to be exploring? And wasn’t
she
supposed to be in charge? There was no way Melody and Vince would see her in that role as long as their professor was in the mix. Vince in particular was so shaken up by Taggert’s furious reaction to the pot smuggling, he spent every waking minute trying to get back into his good graces.

Rather than try to fight it, Brietta decided to just start digging. She loved this part of the job, and surprisingly, it didn’t make her head feel worse. Just the opposite, in fact, which worried her, because she didn’t need any more signs that her pain might be related to stress rather than congestion.

Still, the more she dug, the better she felt, especially when Hannan grabbed a shovel too. He seemed amused to learn they weren’t digging to
find
something, but rather to confirm that there was nothing there—that they had correctly identified the outer edges of the burial ground, and could confidently begin gridding it.

“You are a strange girl,” the bodyguard assured her. “But very likeable.”

“Thanks. You’re strange but likeable too.”

He grinned. “You enjoyed my stories last night?”

“I loved them.”

“Did you believe them?”

She shrugged. “They’re legends. So who can know for sure?”

Hannan arched an eyebrow. “I mean, do you believe they
are
truly legends? Taggert thinks I made them up.”

Leaning on her shovel, she pretended to think about it, even though she absolutely agreed with her new boss on this one. The stories were fun but a little
too
eclectic to be believable. More like
Gollum Meets Dracula
than any self-respecting Anatolian myth.

Finally, she said, “Luckily, I’m not as judgmental as Taggert. I just know a good story when I hear it, and yours are great.”

Hannan continued to study her. “You don’t like him? Tell me why.”

“I like him.”

“But you like
me
better?” Before she could do anything but stare, he burst into laughter. “Of course you do! How can you not?”

Brietta rolled her eyes. “Very funny. Oh, now look what you’ve done. He’s coming over here.” She gave Taggert a friendly glare. “Hannan is picking on me.”

“I’m cheering her up,” Hannan protested. “Because of her bad head.”

Taggert’s green eyes studied her. “I thought the digging would make it worse, but you look a little better.”

“I’m doing well, thanks. So if you want to go off on a junket, feel free.”

“Good idea. How about it, Hannan? Can I borrow Kasha for a few hours?”

“Yes. I will enjoy having this beautiful woman all to myself.”

“Apparently he didn’t get the harassment memo,” Brietta said with a laugh. “Luckily, I think he was kidding. Right, Hannan?”

“Absolutely. I was making a joke.”

Taggart slapped him on the back. “Walk with me, buddy. I want to be sure I get that saddle on right.”

Brietta watched in amusement as the two men walked away together. Taggert was clearly giving Hannan a piece of his mind—she recognized the expression from when he had chewed Vince out. And she was grateful for it. Not that she was worried about Hannan. Nor had she consciously been flirting with him. But she had let her guard down a little, probably because of the Vicodin, forgetting the first rule of sexual politics, dig-style. Don’t send out a signal unless you really, really mean it.

Ten weeks was a long time for a small party in such close quarters and such a remote location, but it would feel even longer if social issues started popping up.

And so she watched in relief as the two men shook hands, then Taggert swung himself up onto the golden brown horse and galloped westward, while Hannan strode back to Brietta.

“I apologize,” he told her immediately.

“Me too. I knew you were joking, but still—Taggert’s right.”

Hannan shrugged. “He wants you for himself. Who can blame him? Anyway, the subject is closed. Yes?”

“No! I mean, yes, it’s closed, but not because Taggert—oh, never mind. Let’s just dig.”

“Digging in the hot sun for nothing,” Hannan agreed with a chuckle. “What more could a man want?”

“Well, at least it keeps my headache away,” she quipped, lifting her shovel and stabbing it into semi-arid soil. The impact jolted through her, first as a nasty vibration, then waves of hot pain that sent her staggering backward, confused and alarmed as her spine began to spasm.

“Brietta?”

Falling to her knees, she struggled for a breath, but the wrenching stabs came too quickly. Then to her horror, her sinuses exploded again, just as they had that awful night earlier that week. “Oh, God, Hannan, not again!”

He knelt and grabbed her by the shoulders. “Tell me what this is.”

“I don’t know, I don’t know. Don’t tell Taggert,
please
?”

“You need a doctor—”

“No, I’m fine.” She grabbed his shirt in her fist, struggling to maintain consciousness. “Promise me you won’t tell him. Promise me . . . Oh . . .”

A curtain of darkness descended over her, isolating her in a world of pain and confusion, and then there was nothing at all.

Chapter Four

Orbit: Earth

Specimen: Brietta Ryerson

Day: 5 of 12

Emerging from his quarters aboard his clone-son’s science vessel, the Axa’gag overlord stepped noiselessly into the laboratory. Immediately he recoiled in disgust from the image generated by the specimen monitor: the Ryerson female, grabbing her head with both hands, writhing in pain and collapsing in a heap.

“Ga'rag!”

“Father?”

“Do not
dare
address me as such. I am ashamed to be your donor. Ashamed to have anything to do with a wretch like you.”

Dislodging a whip from his belt, the overlord rained brutal lashes across Ga’rag’s face and shoulders, forcing him to his knees.

“Forgive me, Overlord,” Ga’rag gasped, keeping his eyes and head lowered in submissive apology. “Tell me what I’ve done to disappoint you this way.”

“You are killing the specimen,” he hissed. “I’ve warned you to keep your emotions in check, but you seem incapable of rational thought where she is concerned.”

When Ga’rag looked up, the overlord saw a hint of defiance still shining in his eyes, and he considered lashing him again, then shrugged and said, “Explain yourself.”

“I need to document her pain threshold. It is a valid parameter of the experiment.”

“And it has been thoroughly documented. You need to move on to something more productive. Low-level but chronic pain, perhaps. The kind that will be used on her in our world. If it renders her submissive, we’ll know she’s perfect for our purposes. If she cannot tolerate it—if it undermines her mental stability—then we’ll know she’s unsuitable.”

“
Nothing
makes this one submissive,” Ga’rag muttered. Then he dared to stand and face his overlord. “She cannot be the answer to our problem, Father. We should dispose of her and find another.”

“You would allow your petty need for revenge to jeopardize our race’s survival?” The overlord glared in warning. “It shames me to think you were created in
my
image, and the image of my illustrious ancestor Axa’rag.”

Ga’rag’s gills vibrated with emotion, but he said nothing.

And so the overlord continued. “For sixty-five generations, our line of clones has been the shining light of Ra-ahlian civilization. What do you think the Genetic Overseers would do if they saw what you’ve become?”

“You gave me permission—”

“Yes, permission to exact vengeance against the Ryerson clan. And also to take pleasure in the specimen’s pain. They deserve all this and more. But if you cannot learn to control your justifiable sadism, you will invalidate the results of the experiment.”

Ga’rag’s tone warmed. “I will do better, Father. I promise.”

The overlord studied his expression—a blend of contrition and determination. Excellent. He had no wish to break this clone. Ga’rag had brought great honor to their line, and if Brietta Ryerson proved to be the donor Ra-ahl needed, that honor would be infinite. Perhaps even greater than the fame earned by their original donor, Axa’rag, whose leadership in cloning had led to a purer and more successful Ra-ahlian race.

“You are very much like Axa’rag, did you know that?”

“Thank you, Father.”

“He was our greatest scientist. Our greatest hero. But he was not perfect. Like you, he had a troubling flaw.” Ignoring Ga’rag’s shocked expression, he continued coolly. “His faith in cloning was so absolute, he never allowed for the possibility that we might one day need our females.”

“He
had
to destroy the females,” Ga’rag protested. “Are you forgetting the lessons of history? Axa’rag was willing to allow the females to exist—he wanted to clone the best of
them
too. But they were too reactionary, too combative. They couldn’t accept the Great Leap Forward, and when they rose up against us, we had no choice.”

“And yet?”

Ga’rag’s gills were now flapping wildly. “You’re saying he should have anticipated this genetic disaster?”

“No. I’m saying he should have maintained a supply of females. Not as slaves, because you are correct, they would have sabotaged our efforts again and again. But perhaps on a remote moon, cut off from us and from technology. Like farm animals.”

“Our females were too rebellious even for that.”

“No, not rebellious. Primitive.” The overlord studied his clone son for a long moment. “I have been rereading Axa’rag’s journals for the first time in many years. He made an interesting observation on this subject. He said cloning was the next logical step in natural evolution, because it didn’t just ensure the survival of the race as a whole. It satisfied our most basic
individual
craving—the need for immortality.”

“Every schoolboy knows that.”

“And every schoolboy
understands
it. Because every male wants to live forever. But according to Axa’rag, the females were different. They didn’t desire immortality for themselves. They wanted their
children
to live forever.”

“Fascinating.” Ga’rag nodded slowly. “I have seen this weakness in the females of many species. It is troubling to think we will be reintroducing it into our genetic matter.”

“But this time, it will be more easily dominated by our superior Ra-ahlian nature and by our evolved male instincts.” He raised his claw to forbid interruption. “I am particularly impressed by this Ryerson specimen, Ga’rag. She is isolated and in pain, yet still functions well. It seems she has the resilience of a Ra-ahlian female, but is more easily subdued and controlled. She is just what we need.”

“My other specimens could be subdued, yes. But this one is willful—”

“And hopefully that is environmental, not genetic. I believe she can be controlled. Prove to me you can accomplish that. This is
your
experiment, Ga’rag. When we present this evidence to the Genetic Overseers, I want it to be irrefutable. I want them to
beg
us to use this specimen to infuse our magnificent race with new vigor and resilience—“

“And then the Ryersons will be immortal,” Ga’rag muttered. “I wanted to punish them.
Annihilate
them. But instead, I am gifting them with eternal life.”

The overlord felt his patience snap. “Do I need to complete this experiment myself? I could send you to assist your brother—“

“No! I can do it. Give me another chance, Father. Please?”

The overlord glared for a long moment, then chuckled. “Do not think of it as making them immortal. Think of it as enslaving them for all eternity. Because that’s what it will be. Slave specimens bred on prison farms, never allowed to socialize or travel or educate themselves. Forced to perform backbreaking yet menial tasks while serving as living incubators in which to develop cures for our genetic setbacks.”

He paused for a moment, enjoying the rapt look on his clone-son’s face. Then he gave him a confident grin. “Immortality? We will make them
pray
for death.”