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  Harry turned at the top of the ladder and helped Opal up through the hatch into the bridge. “Ten thousand.” He smiled.

  “See?” Pholus pulled himself up and advanced on Harry menacingly.

  Opal put her hand out as if to hold Pholus back. “Hold on.” She gave Harry a serious look. “Harry, don’t fool around. I’ll give you twenty thousand to bring us to Port Moresby.”

  Opal spun around at the sound of a door opening behind her. A chrome-plated sidearm glinted, grasped firmly in the hand of a sharply uniformed man. “I’m afraid your money won’t be any good here, Doctor Schild.” He had the bland midwestern accent newscasters strive for. A pair of reflective sunglasses concealed his eyes, and he had a blond crew cut. The bars on his collar proclaimed him a lieutenant; the embroidery on his uniform named him Clarke.

  She felt Pholus tense behind her.

  Lieutenant Clarke shot Pholus a glance. “Sergeant… you have a lot to answer for.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He stepped away from the door, keeping his weapon trained on Opal’s midsection. “Sergeant, restrain Doctor Schild in the cabin.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  Opal started when Pholus took a firm grip on her arms. She looked up over her shoulder, and searched for sympathy or regret in Pholus’s face.

  “Come on,” he said. “Let’s get this over with.”

  Four beds hung from the walls of the crew cabin, supported by strong stanchions anchored to the ceiling and the floor. Pholus guided Opal to the closest and firmly laid her on it as the Blackstorm officer watched from the doorway. She mouthed the word, “Please.”

  “I’m sorry,” he replied voicelessly.

  The Lieutenant Clarke tossed a cluster of handcuffs on the floor next to Pholus. “Be thorough.”

  Pholus put one pair on Opal’s wrists, and then another from the handcuff chain to the stanchion near her head. He gently stripped off her boots, and put another pair on her ankles. With a fourth pair linking those to the stanchion near her feet, it would be impossible to get out of the bed, but she wouldn’t be terribly uncomfortable.

  Pholus sighed, straightened up, and faced the lieutenant at attention.

  “Very good, Sergeant. Now come with me.”

  The gigantic mercenary ducked through the hatch and was gone. Opal heard his heavy boots on the ladder leading back down into the cargo bay, until the hatch closed, leaving her in silence.

  Alone, Opal’s mind raced through one possibility after another, none of them good. She found herself worrying more about Pholus than herself. The lieutenant seemed intent on punishing him. Would he be shot? Thrown out of the ship to fall to his death? She strained her ears.

  Audible but unintelligible voices tormented her. She pulled at her chains to try to get closer to the sound.

  She looked up to see Harry looking over his shoulder at her from the pilot’s chair. He looked away in shame.

  “Harry,” she whispered, “have you got a microphone down there?”

  He nodded.

  “Turn it on! I have to hear what they’re saying.”

  He paused. “I guess it doesn’t matter.” She heard the clicking of Harry’s keyboard as he tapped out a command on his console, and a small intercom in the crew cabin crackled.

  “—lain yourself, Sergeant.”

  “She had command, sir.”

  “Impossible. How could you have gotten her imprint?”

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  A pause. “Tell me what happened. Start from when you were injured.”

  “Sir. I woke up in a surgical recovery tent. Standard for the type. I attempted to leave and make my rendezvous, but the personnel tried to stop me. There was a fight. Op—Doctor Schild gave me an injection and I collapsed. When I woke up, Doctor Schild was lying in the bed next to me.”

  “She was in bed with you?”

  “No, sir. She was in a separate bed.”

  “Why was she there? Was she just sitting there, or was she recovering from something?”

  “She seemed to be recovering, sir. She was weak. Pale.”

  “Had she been injured in the fight?”

  “It’s possible, Sir, but not badly, if at all.”

  “Noted. Go on, Sergeant.”

  “When I woke up again, I was tied to the bed. Doctor Schild attempted to question me about my activities in the area. That was when I found that she had command. I don’t know how she got it, I hadn’t…”

  Clarke cut him off. “Did you tell her anything?”

  “No, sir!”

  “Why not? She had command. It should have been instinct for you to obey her.”

  “She was not cleared. I resisted the instinct to obey.”

  “Excellent. Go on.”

  “She left after lunch. The rest of the day they left me pretty much alone. That night, I slipped out. I was going to see if I could make my rendezvous, but...”

  “But what?”

  “I was… drawn... to Doctor Schild’s tent. I... wanted to say goodbye.”

  “I see.” The officer sounded dubious. “You went there, knowing that she was not authorized to command you, and knowing that you had her imprint.”

  “Yes, sir. I…”

  “Continue. You went to her tent.”

  “She commanded me to bring her to Port Moresby.”

  “How did she find out that she could do that?”

  Pause. “I was... advancing on her.”

  “You were going to fuck her?”

  “Yes... I…”

  “You were not to blame, Sergeant. Don’t you see? Her blood was in your veins. The reason she was recovering in the bed next to you, was that she had given you a transfusion. It’s the only logical conclusion. If she was able to command you, then you had to have her DNA in your system. And since you couldn’t have gotten it the usual way, it had to have been by means of blood. Of course you were fascinated by her. She probably saved your life. I might even have to thank her for that.”

  Another pause. “Thank you, Sir.”

  “Now we must counteract that fascination.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I don’t have a genetic sample prepared, so you’re going to get it directly from the source.” A zipper made its characteristic sound. “She probably gave you something like a liter of blood, but blood wouldn’t be as efficient. This should work nicely.”

  Harry gasped. “Bugger.”

  “What?” Opal whispered desperately.

  “The big guy’s gonna suck him off.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Got a camera down there. If they find out, I’m dead. Now quiet.”

  Opal listened to the soft, wet sounds coming from the intercom. She couldn’t see Harry’s screen, but her mind’s eye painted the picture. She imagined the lieutenant with his trousers down, Pholus kneeling before him, mouth wrapped around the officer’s hardening cock.

  Her breath came quicker. Emotions poured through her—lust at the barely restrained sexual power of the scene—horror at the means by which the officer maintained discipline—curiosity at how such a thing could be possible—jealousy that Pholus’s attentions found a target in that slimy mercenary officer. The last surprised her, but as she lay listening, she realized that she truly wished that she could be in Lieutenant Clarke’s place.

  A groan of pleasure pierced the quiet.

  “Harry,” Opal whispered again.

  “Yeah.”

  “He’s going to kill us both, you know. We know too much.”

  Harry swallowed audibly. “Yeah.”

  “Harry, you have to get me out of these cuffs.”

  “They’re going to be coming up any minute.” His desperate whisper hissed in the little cabin.

  “So hurry.”

  “It’s too risky!”

  The sound of a satisfied male emanated from the speaker, and Opal bit back her reply. She closed her eyes and steeled herself. Whatever fate awaited her, she resolved to meet it with co
urage.

  A minute or so later Opal heard the officer’s voice. “Alright, Sergeant, at ease. I’ll come get you later, after your system has had a chance to absorb my fluids.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Harry hurried to shut off the microphone.

  Chapter Three

  The hatch opened and Lieutenant Clarke stepped up onto the deck. He sauntered through the door, closed it behind him, and pulled up a chair opposite Opal. With a flourish, he pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and slapped them against his thigh.

  Opal eyed him warily.

  Clean fingers with tightly clipped fingernails drew a cigarette from the pack, lit it up, and offered it to his lips. He spoke, blowing out puffs of smoke with each word. “Now then. Doctor Schild. You examined my soldier, yes?”

  Opal fought down her panic. The officer held the cigarette between thumb and forefinger, the way one might hold a pencil, or a scalpel—or a torture instrument. The sound of Harry’s fingers tapping on his antiquated keyboard brought images of rattling bones to Opal’s mind.

  “Yes.”

  He took another drag, and tapped off the ashes onto the deck, leaving a gleaming ember-like tip. “He’s quite an unusual specimen, is he not?”

  “Yes.”

  “One might even go so far as to say he was noteworthy. One for the textbooks.”

  Opal swallowed. Clarke didn’t wait for an answer.

  “You will tell me who else knows what you found out yesterday. It would be a very, very bad idea for you to lie. When we decrypt your computer we will find out, and that will not go well for you.”

  “I don’t see why I should cooperate. You’re going to kill me anyway.”

  “Why, Doctor Schild! You shouldn’t believe everything you hear in the netcasts. We’re not barbarians.” Another drag, another tap. Another red-hot ember. “I’m sure we can work something out that doesn’t involve ending your career prematurely. A skilled trauma surgeon like you? Far too valuable a commodity to destroy—without good reason.” He flashed a predatory smile.

  Opal fought to calm the trembling that threatened to break out in her limbs. “What are you going to do if I tell you?”

  “I’m not in a position to make deals, Doctor Schild, but my superiors will be much more willing to make accommodations if you’re cooperative.” Drag. Smoke. Flick. Ember. Smile.

  “I mean to my colleagues.”

  “I don’t think you should be worrying about them right now, Doctor Schild. You should be worrying about yourself.”

  “I’d rather die than put them in danger.”

  “Well, Doctor Schild… there’s dying, and there’s dying.” Clarke looked down at the cigarette and rolled it in his fingers. When he looked up again, his face was cold and hard. “And there are things worse than dying.” He reached out and yanked the sock off her right foot.

  “You said you’re not a barbarian!”

  “Civilized men are sometimes forced to do barbaric things, Doctor Schild.” He put his hand on her leg and pushed. The chains stretched to their limit and the cuff bit into her leg. Opal struggled but she had no leverage and couldn’t shift his grip. “But I am touched at your concern for my cultural welfare.” Drag. Smoke. Ember. Lieutenant Clarke held the burning butt close to her foot, close enough for her to feel the heat radiating from it.

  “Names, Doctor Schild. Let’s not get ugly.”

  “I’ll scream.”

  “Go ahead. Your Australian friend knows what will happen if he tries to interfere. Now. Last chance, Doctor Schild. Let us avoid this unpleasantness.”

  “Go fuck yourself.”

  Lieutenant Clarke pulled the cigarette away, and for a moment Opal imagined that she had called his bluff. Then, it made contact.

  The pain burst through Opal’s brain in a rolling crescendo, and she managed to hold it back, for a second. Then it was too much, and with tears sneaking past eyelids screwed shut, she let out an agonized howl.

  Lieutenant Clarke chuckled and let go of her ankle. “Ah, will you look at this? My cigarette has gone out.”

  Opal strained at her chains, shrieking. “You’re enjoying this, motherfucker!”

  “My, I do believe that bothers you more than the humiliation of being at my mercy, or even the pain itself. I’ll tell you what... tell me what I want to know, and…”

  Lieutenant Clarke never got the opportunity to finish his offer. The door burst open and Pholus was on top of him, roaring, smashing the chair to flinders and knocking the officer to the deck. Pholus rammed his right forearm across Clarke’s throat while his left slammed into the officer’s abdomen. Gurgling and choking, Clarke drew his sidearm but before he could bring it to bear, Pholus batted it away. The pistol slid across the floor.

  The distraction was enough, however, for Clarke to pull the knife out of the sheath behind his back.

  “Pholus!” screamed Opal. “Knife!”

  Clarke brought the knife down into Pholus’ bare back. The huge man threw himself aside, releasing the officer from his deadly grip, and rolled into a crouch.

  Clarke stumbled to his feet, holding Pholus at bay with the point of the knife. “You’ll go... in front of… a firing squad... for this, Sergeant,” he croaked.

  “Maybe so, sir.” Pholus ignored the dripping wound on his back. “But I’ll see you in hell when I get there.” Pholus advanced.

  Clarke fell back. “Stop! That’s a direct order, Sergeant!”

  Pholus’s nostrils flared. Another step.

  Clarke’s back hit the wall. “Stop, damn you! Why aren’t you obeying!?” His voice quavered with the first hint of fear.

  “I may not be a man, Lieutenant Clarke, Sir, but I’m not an animal. There are feelings stronger than instinct, and loyalties higher than money.”

  Clarke lashed out desperately with his knife. The point scored a thin line of red across Pholus’ chest before his huge hand caught Clarke’s wrist.

  He twisted. There was a sharp snap. Pholus drew back and delivered a hammer-blow to Clarke’s jaw. The lieutenant slid down the bulkhead to lie in a heap at Pholus’ feet, his head twisted at an unnatural angle.

  “Well, shit,” observed Harry, from the doorway. “You didn’t have to kill him.”

  Pholus let it go. “Change course for Port Moresby. We don’t have much time. They’re watching us, and they’ll have helicopters headed our way.”

  “Aye, aye.” Harry sprang back into his chair to comply with the order.

  Opal watched in stunned silence while Pholus retrieved the keys and freed her from the handcuffs’ cold clutches. He laid the chains aside and cradled her injured foot in his hand. “Are you alright?”

  “It... hurts, but I’ll be alright. It’s a small burn. I should clean it, put on a dressing.”

  Pholus retrieved a first aid kit from the wall and handed it to her. “Here.”

  Opal took it and sat up on the bunk. “No, I should dress your wounds first. Let me see your back.”

  “It’ll keep.”

  “Pholus, I’m the doctor, and I’ll do the triage, thank you! Now turn around.”

  Immersing herself in professional detachment, Opal put the throbbing pain in her foot out of her mind and examined the wound. “Looks like it’s fairly superficial. Most of the blow just bounced off your scapula.”

  “See?”

  “Yes, you were right.” Opal slapped Pholus lightly on the back of the head. “Now quiet.” She cleaned and dressed the wound with practiced skill. “Now let me see that scrape across your chest.”

  The wound on Pholus’s chest was less severe, a mere scratch that had already stopped bleeding, but Opal inspected it anyway. Her hand traced the skin along the cut, checking for any place where the knife bit deep enough to require special attention. Her fingers lightly brushed his nipple, and it tightened under her touch.

  He cleared his throat lightly.

  She looked up into his eyes. “Why did you save me? You’ve thrown everything away for me—po
ssibly even your life.”

  “I couldn’t sit there and listen to him torture you. It’s dishonorable. Despicable.”

  “Soldiers do despicable things all the time.” Opal searched his eyes, hoping to find a reflection of the emotions that boiled up within her.

  Pholus swallowed. “There are things you need to know.”

  Opal nodded. Her foot throbbed distantly, a forgotten memory. “You said you’re not a man.”

  “I’m not.”

  “You didn’t get genemods. You were born this way.”

  He nodded. “Born to be a soldier. Made to obey. Created to win.”

  “That sounds like an advertising slogan.”

  “Something like that. Opal… we can’t be together.”

  “Don’t be silly. Why not?”

  “There’s no place for me in your world. Look at me; imagine me on the streets of Los Angeles. I’d be a freak.”

  She chuckled. “Clearly, you’ve never been to Los Angeles.”

  “Opal! Be serious. I’m not like you.” His hands found her shoulders, as if ready to push her away.

  Opal slowly raised her hands up to Pholus’s face. “I’ve seen inside you, Pholus. Your heart is human… in more ways than one.” Opal felt her own heart thumping. He let her pull his face down to hers. Their lips met in a moment of promised bliss.

  Harry’s sharp interjection sliced the moment off. “Here they come, big guy! I hope you have a plan!”

  Pholus leapt to his feet, leaving Opal to whimper at the loss of his touch. He strode into the control cabin and scanned the sky outside the windows.

  The blond pilot pointed to a display, where two angry red lights blinked. “We’re on their radar. Looks like we’re being followed by a couple of drones.”

  “Are you putting out any signals?”

  “Just air traffic control.”

  “Alright, keep it on for now. If they hail you, ignore them. We have to get out before we’re within range to get a good infrared picture. They’ll be able to see inside, and when that happens...”

  “Boom.”

  “Exactly.”

  “So what’s the plan?”

  “We’re going bungee jumping.”

  “WHAT?!”