Pirate Nemesis (Telepathic Space Pirates Book 1) (15 page)

Treon’s telepathy test produced the impossible: a perfect score. The test was designed to be adaptive, gaining in difficulty based on the individual’s response. It used an algorithm designed to go to infinity. In Doc’s words, the test did not have an end, and therefore it wasn’t possible to achieve a perfect score. It could not be beaten.

And yet, Treon had done so.

Doc was convinced he’d cheated somehow, in protest. Reaper, having grown up with Treon, wasn’t so sure. Either way, Treon’s results had put Doc’s program on temporary hold, something that had delighted more than a few pirates. Reaper was pretty sure his brother hadn’t needed to buy his own drinks since.

What do you want?
Reaper moved through the crowd beginning to spill into the hallway with little effort. People moved out of his way, always afraid to let a Killer touch them. When he moved into the lift, no one stepped inside it with him.

He remembered Mercy standing in the lift with him earlier, how she wrestled with, and overcame, her fear of him in the time it took to move from one deck to the next. Extraordinary.

I must admit, I wasn’t at all sure it was true.

Reaper frowned, his attention once again pulled to his brother. He leaned against the lift wall, crossing his arms.

That I found Pallas’ daughter?
He asked the question more to irritate Treon than anything. Reaper knew what he was really saying.

That you found a new queen. More, that you would find a queen and bring her back. I believe you once vowed to kill any such person.

Do you have a point, Treon?

Yes, I believe I am making it. I knew she had to be extraordinary if you let her live. What we just witnessed confirms it.

It was no coincidence that his brother used the very word Reaper had been thinking of only a moment ago in relation to Mercy. Those thoughts had been beneath his inner shields, hidden below the surface conversation they were sharing. Not that Treon respected such things. Reaper sighed.

You get more annoying with each conversation we have
, he said.
Go away, Treon.

I want an answer first.

Reaper sighed as the lift came to a halt, and he stepped out. A man wearing the overalls of an engineer was waiting in the hallway. He blanched when he saw Reaper, and nearly tripped over his own feet stumbling back.

You haven’t asked me a question yet,
Reaper told Treon resignedly, ignoring the man’s reaction.

Do you think she can do it?

There was a sudden seriousness to Treon’s voice that had been lacking until now. Reaper realized then that his brother had not simply contacted him in order to peck and goad. He knew what Treon was asking, but he held his silence as he weighed his answer. Long enough that his brother spoke again.

Do you think she can save us?

Yes,
Reaper said at last, turning into the doorway to his own quarters.
If she decides to stay, and embrace what she is. If she wants it badly enough.

He was somehow not surprised to see his brother already inside, standing at the bar and pouring two glasses of whiskey. He’d long ago given up on keeping either of his brothers out of his private space. In the end, they were the only two people who ever invaded it, and not so often as to be inconvenient.

They looked nothing alike, the three of them. Treon least of all.

Though not as dark as Dem, Reaper’s skin was still more brown than pale, his eyes the cold blue of a Killer, his dark hair cut almost military short. Treon was pale, his skin almost alabaster white, a fact emphasized by the sweep of black hair that brushed the neck of his shirt. His angular face held arrogance, but also an empathy and emotion that Reaper lacked. His eyes were their mother’s: a liquid, golden brown not unlike the whiskey in the glass he held. He was beautiful where Reaper was terrifying.

For the first time in his life, Reaper almost envied Treon that. It was not a feeling he wanted to analyze closely. When his brother offered him a glass, he accepted, taking a cautious sip. One never knew what to expect with Treon. He did so enjoy his little games and jokes. But only the clean burn of alcohol hit his mouth and throat, a soft and rolling flavor with it.

Treon lifted his own glass in a kind of salute.

“Then we just have to ensure it,” he said, drinking.

Reaper frowned at him.

“Ensure what?”

Sometimes Treon liked to talk in riddles. Or maybe Reaper just didn’t care enough to pay him close attention.

His brother smiled.

“That your little Queen will want to save us. Very badly, indeed.”

A
trea was alone
when Mercy reached the infirmary. She lay, still encased in the blue stasis field, on a bunk at the far end of the room. Wolfgang wasn’t here, and Mercy had to shove aside an acute sense of disappointment. Privacy screens were engaged, giving the illusion of a private room with their distortion field, but Doc’s young assistant Nayla gave Mercy the code. She slipped inside to sit with her friend.

She sat with her for a long time.

Atrea looked like she belonged in the infirmary. Her eyes were closed in peaceful sleep, thanks to whatever drug had been used to knock her out, but the stasis field kept her body, her cells frozen in exactly the condition she’d been in. Her blond hair was mussed from her struggles, and dark circles around her eyes and hollow cheeks gave her face a gaunt, unhealthy cast. She was thin, her time as a captive with Willem Frain a visible stamp on her body’s condition. Doc could do nothing to help or improve it while she was in stasis. The flip side, of course, being that she couldn’t worsen and die, either.

After a time, the silence was too much, too sad. So Mercy started telling Atrea everything that had happened. She started with the escape from the space station, moved on to waking up on the
Nemesis
, and ended with the arena. It took a surprisingly long time.

“I feel like, since the moment you and I walked into that stupid bar on Yuan-Ki, I’ve been dancing to someone else’s tune, and I’m just so tired.” Mercy stared down at her friend, wishing more than anything that she could really talk to her.

Atrea always knew what to say.

Of course, being Atrea, Mercy could well-imagine what her friend would say. Atrea never did have time for things like self-pity and regret. She was someone who took action and
did
things.

Then stop dancing. Do what
you
want, not what
they
want.

“But doing what
they
wanted saved the lives of two teenage boys,” Mercy said aloud. She leaned one elbow on the arm of her chair, and rested her chin in her hand, so she could stare into the stasis field. “I’m not against that.”

Then what are you against?

“Being manipulated. Feeling like I was maneuvered into having no choice. They want me to be their Queen, and I just want to be me.”

So why do those two things have to be exclusive? Maybe you don’t want to be Queen because you’re afraid of what it will mean.

Since her own subconscious was creating this conversation, the thought gave Mercy a moment’s pause, and she turned it over in her mind, really thinking about it.

What
would
it mean?

Staying here, probably forever. Becoming more like her grandmother – who everyone seemed to despise. Never returning to the smuggler’s life she’d lived for the past fifteen years. Never getting into another adventure with Atrea, sure to turn the old Wolf’s hair even grayer.

Never finding out what really happened to her mother.

Don’t be ridiculous
. Phantom Atrea’s voice was just as dry as real Atrea’s would be. Mercy could almost see her rolling her eyes.
You would never be like that murderous old bitch. I’m not sure you remember, but the smuggler’s life isn’t exactly living the dream. Spaceport security is
always
a pain in the ass. Who says a Queen can’t have adventures, anyway? And we will
never
give up on finding your mother. Remember?

Mercy stared down at the wrist of her left hand, at the faint shimmer of the lemniscate imprinted on her flesh with holographic ink, matching the same figure eight symbol on Atrea’s left wrist. They’d snuck out and had them done at the same time when they were fourteen. Atrea said it was a promise, a vow to keep looking for Pallas together, forever. Captain Hades had tried to interfere with that vow many times in the years since. He ordered them to drop it, kept them too busy to indulge in the search, and kept tabs on their movements. Which, since it had ultimately led to getting them off that damn space station, Mercy couldn’t be too upset about.

Wolfgang said the search was too dangerous. He wasn’t wrong, but Mercy could not turn her back on her mother. Atrea, who never had the chance to know hers, was determined to help Mercy reunite with Pallas if she still lived. Nothing Wolfgang said or did had ever made a dent in that determination.

“Right,” said Mercy softly. Something unfurled in her belly, a tension that had been filling her with anxiety since first being told what she was.

Besides, if you’re Queen, you can order them to help us, right?
Atrea would say that with a cocky half smile, hands on her hips. Mercy almost laughed.

“Maybe,” she said, smiling at the stasis field. She reached out a hand and splayed it against the surface of the field. It was cool to the touch and smooth like glass. But Mercy knew it was a million times stronger, stronger than the hardest plasteel. Nothing could penetrate a stasis field once it was created, so long as power kept feeding it.

As quickly as it had come, her amusement suddenly vanished, morphed into a crushing sadness that had her blinking back tears.

“Damn it, Atrea,” she said softly. “You better wake up and get better. I don’t think I can do this without you.”

This time, only stark silence answered her. No imaginary quips or assurances forthcoming. Maybe because deep down, Mercy’s greatest fear was that Atrea would never wake up again.

With the privacy screen open, she could hear the low thrum of the various medical machines in the background behind her, Nayla’s voice speaking softly when Doc entered the infirmary, no doubt explaining to him that Mercy was here. He better not try to examine her. Mercy was in no mood for poking and prodding, especially from a pirate. After several minutes went by and the irritable doctor didn’t try to invade the sanctity of the privacy screens, she relaxed again.

She stayed for a long time, long enough to lie against the stasis field and cradle her head in her arms, and drift half asleep. If she waited long enough, Wolfgang was sure to come back. He would never leave his daughter’s side for any prolonged length of time.

But when a voice jarred her to wakefulness, it wasn’t the low, reassuring rumble of the old Wolf. It was unfamiliar, high pitched and melodic in the way of the very young. A child’s voice.

Mercy opened her eyes to a strange sight. A small figure wearing a pink ruffled dress and barefoot, perched precariously next to her. Her arms were stretched to balance against the stasis field, and her feet stood on…nothing. Mercy’s heart leapt into her throat as she watched those tiny toes curl, dangling in the empty air. No, not dangling exactly. Her feet were flat, as though they stood on a solid surface, except there wasn’t anything for them to stand
on
.

Telekinesis. This child was using telekinesis to levitate herself as easily as most adults walked across a room.

She had creamy brown skin and a wild head of gold-touched dark curls. A purple ribbon lay askew against the curls, having clearly lost the battle to keep them contained. She was singing, her voice clear and pretty as she stumbled her way through the words of a lullaby. The melody sent a shiver of recognition through Mercy; she knew it.

Memory surfaced, faint and distant. Her mother’s voice, singing the same song. It made her throat ache.

Abruptly, the child stopped. She broke off between one word and the next, and turned to stare at Mercy. Her eyes were brightly blue and seemed familiar. She couldn’t have been older than three or four. Mercy sent a covert look over her shoulder, but no adults lingered nearby. Even Doc and Nayla weren’t in the immediate vicinity, though she could hear the low murmur of voices from the far side of the room.

“Don’t be sad.” The little girl regarded her with wide, innocent eyes. “Rasa says singing made Mercy sad.” She gave a guilty shrug. “Sorry.”

Mercy stared at her, wrestling with where to start dissecting that statement. “How do you know my name?”

The child’s mouth dropped open and a giggle escaped. “
Everyone
knows.” She leaned over and touched Mercy’s hand with a finger. “Queen.” The word held a kind of reverent respect that was almost awe.

Mercy’s heart pounded. It sent a surge of adrenaline through her to know that everyone on this ship, down to the smallest child, knew who she was. She felt vulnerable in a way that scared her to her bones. She closed her eyes and forced it away, spending a few seconds to concentrate on her breathing and remind herself that she wasn’t in hiding anymore. Her heartbeat slowed and the fear faded.

Habits formed for more than two decades were hard to break.

When she opened her eyes, the little girl was staring at her with a fascinated expression. She had plopped herself down into a sitting position. She swung her legs in the open air as though she was perched on a seat or a ledge. One arm clutched a stuffed animal that had seen better days, the fabric ragged and the mottled, brown and white fur rubbed smooth in a few spots. It was missing a nose and one ear, but Mercy was pretty sure it was supposed to be a cat. She was also pretty sure it hadn’t been there a moment ago.

Who
was
this little girl? And who was Rasa? She cast a quick look around, but it was just the two of them, and Atrea.

The child put a hand against her own chest. “I’m Tama.” She pointed at Mercy. “Queen Mercy.” She turned and looked at the stasis field, placing a gentle hand against it. “Lady. Tama help the Lady.”

“You want to help Atrea?”

To her surprise, Mercy felt a brush against her shields, the equivalent of a light knock. She struggled with herself for a moment, reluctant to expose herself in any way, but she sensed no threat in the presence. She opened her shields a crack.

Talking out loud is hard.
The petulant look on Tama’s face convinced Mercy who she was talking to as much as the sing-song sound of the voice in her head.

I think talking like this is hard,
she admitted. Another giggle from the girl made her smile.

That’s silly!

Not to me.

Tama studied her face for a long moment. It was an odd sensation. Mercy felt like she was being weighed and judged in some way.

Help you.
There was such conviction in the mental statement that Mercy couldn’t bear to argue. Despite her mood, this strange little girl brought a smile to her face. One Tama returned, looking happy.
We already help.

I suppose you did.
Her mood had definitely lightened in the past few moments.
Who is “we”?

Another of those musical laughs made Mercy smile. Tama grinned at her.
Me and Rasa. You can’t see him ‘cause he likes to be divisible.

Invisible?

That’s what I said.
Tama swung her legs harder.
Maybe later you can see him. When he knows you better.

Mercy relaxed. It wasn’t unusual for a child Tama’s age to have an imaginary friend. She turned and spread her fingers over the stasis field.
Why do you want to help Atrea?

Tama bit her lip, looking down as her fingers plucked at her cat’s remaining ear.
Wolf is sad. Queen is sad. Aunt Nayla is sad. Everyone is sad about the lady. Tama can help.

It should have surprised her that the little girl apparently knew Wolfgang, but it didn’t. Mercy had the impression this child had been here before, many times. Singing lullabies and visiting.

“You don’t need to call me Queen,” she told her. “I’m just Mercy.”

Mercy.
Tama peered up from between dark lashes, giving a shy smile.

“Tamari?” The sound of Nayla’s voice had the little girl ducking her head and peering around Mercy. The privacy shields were open just enough to give a glimpse of the rest of the infirmary, to where Nayla stood with her hands on her hips, looking straight at them. “What did I say about giving people privacy?”

Tama fiddled with her stuffed cat again. Mercy was beginning to see why it was so bedraggled in appearance.

I just sing to the lady.

Looking unimpressed with this excuse, Nayla marched past infirmary beds toward them
.
In that moment, Mercy could see the influence of Doc’s caustic nature on the young woman. There was a glint in her eyes that said her niece was about to be in trouble. Tama looked at Mercy with those wide blue eyes, pleading, and her heart melted a little.

“It’s okay,” she said aloud. “Tama was just keeping me company.”

Nayla hesitated mid-stride. “You sure?”

Mercy smiled conspiratorially at Tama, who giggled, hiding her face against her cat’s head. “I’m sure. It’s no bother.”

Nayla’s mouth twitched, and Mercy had the impression she was fighting a smile. “All right, then. But Tamari, what did I say about you coming to visit me? Or
anyone
in the infirmary?”

Tama swung her legs harder, not looking up at her aunt. She mumbled a word so quietly, Mercy almost didn’t hear it. It sounded like “mission”.

“That’s right, you ask permission. Does your Mama know where you are? Or Papa? Or any of the dogs?”

A reluctant shrug.

“I’ll take that as a no.” Nayla shook her head. “They’re probably all looking for you. You stay with Mercy, all right? I’m going to let them know where you are, and you
better
not run off!”

Mercy eyed the girl as Nayla moved away. She had to wonder who her Mama and Papa were. She didn’t look like family, so at least there was that.

She’d met enough of them for one day.

After a moment, Tamari stopped kicking her legs and looked up at Mercy with another of those shy smiles.
Friends?

Charmed, Mercy returned the smile.
I don’t know. I expect a lot out of my friends.

Tamari cocked her head.
Like what?

Honesty. Partnership. No sneaking around behind my back. Letting me know what you plan to do so I can have fun with you, or help you.
Or keep her out of trouble. But Mercy let that part remain unsaid.
Telling me when you’re in trouble or scared.

Tamari considered her for a long time. She glanced down at Atrea, and then out where Nayla was.
Will you tell Mama and Papa?