The Key (3 page)

She sat back, crossing her legs. She started tapping her fingers again.

“So, you must have pulled me out of my bird?” She hesitated. “Was it …trashed?”

Her bird must be her ship. Trashed? That would be crashed, maybe? He looked at her, not sure how to tell her.

“That bad? Tactically, the gomers sucked, but they were everywhere. It was a real furball and then I took a double hit to the six. Thought I was going to have to pull my loud handle—you know, punch out—but I didn’t want to lose my bird, or be hanging in space in a freaking pod with everyone bumping heads around me.” She sighed. “Man, Briggs is so going to bust my chops. He keeps telling me I fly like a girl. Now he’s got proof.”

Fyn blinked a little at this, but managed to figure out the essential point.

“You were attacked by the Dusan.” It wasn’t really a question.

“The gomers didn’t stop to introduce themselves, just dived in and started shooting.”

He noticed that she’d started to relax, now that they were talking. He should have remembered that about women. It hadn’t been that long.

“Did they see you come here?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. Probably. I think one of them started to follow me, but the colonel made him go away.”

“The kernel?”

“Lieutenant Colonel Carey, our squadron commander.”

Worry danced across her face.

“They’ll be worried about me.”

“You think they will come?”

Her chin lifted. “We don’t leave our people behind.”

If they survived the attack.

“The Dusan will probably come, too,” he said. “They don’t like to leave people alive.”

“Really.” Her gaze narrowed as she thought about this. “Then I’ll need my weapons back.”

Her chin lifted, as if she expected him to argue about it. He reached behind him, extracted them one at a time, and handed them to her. She stuck the knife in the sheath he’d removed it from, but not the other two.

“I had some spare magazines—long things that hold my bullets?”

“Everything else is right there,” he said, nodding toward the pack, with her stuff scattered around it.

She ejected something that he figured was the magazine from the smaller gun, checked it, shoved it back in, then stowed it back in its holder at her hip.

Warmth stirred in his mid-section. He’d never seen a woman with any weapon. He liked the way she handled them and how she looked wearing them. They…suited her.

She noticed him looking.

“Nine mil, for close shooting.”

She held up the larger weapon.

“And this is a P-90 for the distance shots.”

She checked it the way she had the nine mil, then set it down beside her, as she knelt by her scattered belongings. She stowed most of it back in the pack, including her outer suit, but he noticed she put a few more of the magazines in her pockets.

She looked up at him. “We probably won’t be coming back here, so you should get your stuff together—if you want a lift off this rock? You do, don’t you?”

He looked at her warily.

“I know you’ll miss the food and these charming digs, but try to buck up.” She grinned again.

He had to grin back. “Not much to take with me.”

Most of his gear had been destroyed when his ship caught fire. He’d been lucky to get himself out.

She couldn’t be right about help coming, but she was hard to resist. There was something basically upbeat about her, a resilience that impressed him—even if he didn’t understand more than half of what she said.

“So, what’s the plan?”

Plan? There was a plan?

“I was thinking we should do some recon. Are they likely to be covert? Or do the gomers like to strut around being big and bad?”

He sorted through this. “Probably covert.”

“Well, since you know the terrain—and where we’re going—you should take point and I’ll get your six.”

“My six?”

“I’ll follow you? Watch your back? Clock? Twelve o’clock at the top, six at the bottom.” She tipped her head to the side. “Odd that we seem to have a similar language, but different stuff, too. Is your language pretty common around here?”

“Some worlds have their own language, but they also speak the Common language.” She was right, though. It was strange.

“Interesting.” She looked at him for a moment longer. “We should figure out some hand signals.”

He blinked a couple of times. Hand signals? She didn’t seem to notice.

“Usually we do this when we need to stop and be quiet.” She held her fist up at a right angle to her body. “How many Dusan are we likely to be dealing with?”

Fyn shrugged. “For a small craft, they’ll send a scout ship, between five and six?” He hesitated. “Even when they use stun, their weapons can kill.”

“Okay. Don’t get shot. Anything else?”

“They’ll have two positions, overlooking your ship. We’ll need to hit them at the same time. If they get a chance to send a warning, more will come.”

Did she understand what he was telling her?

Her mouth thinned and her eyes narrowed. “So, we make them go away.”

He hoped that meant kill them.

She showed him some more signals and then she pulled out a hat of the same mottled material as her clothing and put it on her head. She tucked her hair up out of sight. Next she picked up a small round box. She opened it. The contents looked dark and sticky. She proceeded to rub it on her skin.

“Did I miss anywhere?” she asked. She did a half turn, so he could see the back of her neck.

He pointed to his temple, fascinated by how efficiently she prepared herself for battle. She was obviously well trained. Was that part of what made her different?

“Oh, right.” She smeared the brown stuff on the dressing covering her head wound. “How long until it’s light?”

“Not long.”

When everything was stowed but a small rectangular box, she picked it up and turned a knob on the top. It emitted a crackle. Maybe she saw him looking at it, because she said, “Radio. For communication.”

He’d had something similar in his craft, though not so…portable. A useful innovation.

She listened for a moment, then pressed the side, stopping the crackle and spoke into it.

“Home plate, this is outfield5. Do you copy?” Only crackling silence. “Come in, home plate.”

Again, no response.

With a slight sigh, she stowed this in a pocket, too, one near her face. “No joy. The cave might be blocking the transmission, though.”

There was a small silence. He should say something.

“So, do you have a name or should I just call you Chewie?” Her lips curved, as if inviting him to share a joke.

“Chewie?”

“Sorry, Earth joke.”

Earth?

“I’m Fyn. Kiernan Fyn.”

“So, do you like to be called Kiernan, Kier, or Fyn? I could call you, sir, if you’d rather? Or Mr. Fyn-”

“Fyn. That’s what most…people call me.” Probably. Been awhile since anyone called him anything. Though no one had found so many different things to call him in such a short time.

“Everyone on the
Doolittle
calls me Donovan, but I answer to Sara, too. At least I think I do. It’s been a while.”

Her eyes were big and serious in her blackened face. She grinned suddenly, her teeth white against her darkened skin.

“A long while.” She held out her hand. “Nice to meet you, Fyn.”

He took her hand. She seemed to expect it. It felt narrow and soft inside his, but her grip was surprisingly strong. She lifted their hands up and down, then took her hand back.

“That’s called ‘shaking on it’ where I come from. It’s a friendly greeting.” Her tone was educational, but her eyes still smiled.

“Okay.” He realized he sounded rude. “Nice to meet you.”

Her brows arched. He smiled.

“Donovan.” Using her last name seemed…safer, though he couldn’t have said how. In his head, he was already calling her Sara. “Earth?”

“That’s my home planet. Third rock from the sun.”

He frowned. “Never heard of it.”

Her eyes got slightly wary. “So, you know this galaxy pretty well?”

He nodded.
This galaxy?

“You’re from another galaxy.”

It wasn’t a question and she didn’t answer it. She didn’t have to. Her eyes gave her away, too. Maybe she realized that, because she looked away, toward the cave’s entrance.

“So what’s out there at night?”

“Nothing you want to see.”

She was from another galaxy.
No one he knew had been able to travel between galaxies. That explained why she was so different.

“What keeps them from coming in here?”

“This.” He pulled his weapon, spun it, at the same time activating it. He fired it out the opening and one of the little biters squealed. There was a sort of patter of retreat. He noticed she took a step closer to him and wondered if she realized it. “And the biters don’t like light.”

“Oh.” She was quiet a moment. “Biters…because…they…”

“Bite.”

“Bummer.”

He turned his weapon off and started to shove it back in its holster. Her hand on his arm stopped him.

“Can I look?”

He held it out. She didn’t take it, just studied it carefully.

“How does it work?”

“Overloads the system with an energy surge.”

“Fatal?”

“If it’s not set to stun.”

“Sweet. My first ray gun.”

She released his arm and he stowed it again. He’d never seen a woman so excited over a weapon. He liked it. He…liked her.

She was quiet for a few moments until she started that tapping fingers thing again. Then she started to hum. The tune seemed odd, but he liked it, too, particularly liked the way she looked doing it.

She softly sang something about a bad moon, until she realized he was looking at her and stopped.

“Sorry, it’s a bad habit.”

“Not so bad.”

He got a smile for that.

If her people did come, if they did leave this place, what would they do with him? He looked at Sara and felt something stir inside him…like feeling returning to a cramped leg. He’d lived with death for the turning of many seasons, almost too many to count. It was the only companion he’d desired since Fiona...but now…

“What do you think?” Sara looked at him a bit anxiously. “I need to get there before my people do.”

He looked out. “It’s light enough now.”

“Right.” She grabbed her sack, sliding her arms through straps and then picked up her P-90.

He looked at her, wanting to say…something, but an odd smile curved her mouth, drying his throat. She put a hand on his chest and reached up, pressing a quick, soft kiss to cheek.

“For luck.”

“That’s not much…luck.” Before she could step back, he slid his arm around her waist, and pulled her close. He covered her mouth with his. He only meant to touch and go, but it had been a long time and she tasted good. He felt her shiver and almost respond, before she pushed against his chest.

Her lashes hid her expression, but a small smile flickered across her mouth.

He pulled his weapon, activated it and set it to kill.

“Let’s go.”

“Right.” She readied her weapon with a snapping sound, pressed the hilt to her shoulder, and put her finger on the trigger. “I’m ready.”

It was…good to have someone at his back for a change.

* * * *

Sara wasn’t sure why she’d kissed his cheek. Maybe to see if he’d flinch back. Dang, the caveman had
so
not flinched. And he could kiss. Not that she had a lot to compare it to, but it had made her foot pop up. Wasn’t that the universal sign of a toe-curling kiss? She knew hers were still trying to uncurl…

He looked grubby, but he smelled surprisingly good. Kind of fresh and earthy. Heady stuff for a homely girl.

Fyn slipped out of the cave first. She shook her head, to clear her thoughts and get focused, then followed him out into what passed for sunlight.

She wasn’t a botanist, so all she saw was lots of green crap. There were vine things hanging down and lots of exotic looking…crap—buckets of it. She did recognize trees. Big trees. Small trees. And flowers.

The ground was spongy under foot and cushioned their footsteps, which was a plus. Mostly they moved through foliage so dense, she couldn’t see the sky, but she did catch occasional glimpses. It was blue, but seemed a different shade than on earth, more on the green spectrum, maybe.

It felt cold in the cave, which one would expect, but she’d thought it would be cooler outside. Instead it grew steadily warmer. It was humid, not surprising so close to water, but it made her glad she wasn’t wearing her zoombag.

Once Fyn stopped and looked back at her, as if he wasn’t sure she was still there. Maybe he thought she’d be noisy. She grinned. You didn’t grow up in foster care without learning how to be quiet.

Other than the occasional crackle as one of them brushed past a twig, all Sara heard was the soft buzz of insects until she realized that she could hear the ocean waves hitting the shoreline. Fyn moved more slowly now, stopping often.

Having his six wasn’t a bad place to be, though Sara made an effort not to study his very fine, leather covered tush, and to stay alert. He moved like a lethal ghost through green shadows and his long legs covered the ground efficiently.

He stopped suddenly, going into a crouch, his fist raised in the stop and quiet signal. Sara crouched behind him, trying to hear what he’d heard. He raised two fingers and pointed to the left, then pointed to her.

She did a thumbs up, then remembered she hadn’t told him about that and nodded.

He signaled three, and pointed in the other direction, then to himself. She nodded again. She eased up next to him and started to slide past him, when he leaned close, his mouth to her ear.

“I’ll wait until you’re in position.”

She nodded once more, peered through the foliage, and spotted her two targets. Beyond them she caught a glimpse of water. She was too high to see the beach or her bird. The Dusan had chosen this bluff carefully, clearly hoping to catch her in the crossfire when she returned to her bird—or her people came to find her.

She inched along the ground, careful to not let even a stray sound give her away. Just above the Dusan position, she found a big bush with a depression under it. She worked her way into it. She should be completely hidden. She couldn’t see Fyn, but she didn’t have to. She just had to see the Dusan well enough to make them go away.