Cassiel Winters 1: Sky's End Page 7

  Lt. Lazarus explained that I’ll be carrying one piece of important technology I didn’t know ESE had—a decoder stealth device. You wave it over a tech system and its programming’s sent out on radiation fields to deprogram any protective shields, decode and download intel.

  I think, with a flush, about how I panicked when they decided to wrap up.

  “Is that it?” I asked, louder than I thought. I clarified, softly adding, “What about the other stuff?”

  Cora comprehended my meaning.

  “Gentleman, would you leave us please?”

  When they were gone I steadied myself, and said, “Now show me the other stuff.”

  She laughed at me.

  “My dear, teaching a virgin in the art of seduction is like teaching a child to be an adult—impossible.” Her words stung me, like a slap in the face, and left me speechless.

  “Anyway, they’ve chosen you with good reason,” she added with a ‘chin up’ kind of tone. “Your innocence will be your only advantage in all of this, I suspect. ESE Command is . . . shrewd. Have faith in that.” And with that, she took my limp hand, shook it, wished me luck, and left the officers’ mess.

  And now, here I sit, not a little stunned by the entire day’s events.

  Back to the item that bugs me the most; how frustrated I am with King for not sharing with me even the possibility that Daz is in trouble. Maybe he’s trying not to scare me. I wish I had his trust in ESE. I sure could use a praline sundae with warm caramel syrup drizzled over it.

  Just when I rise, having decided to go to my pod, but not before I rummage around for a pathetic rice pudding in the nearby food station, the door vanishes.

  King, standing at the threshold.

  My heart skips a beat as I take in his avid face, and his black pants and jacket fitted out with a gamma-shield vest and weapons. OKAY. This is very odd. He’s in full combat gear.

  His eyes don’t stray from mine as he strides into the room, stopping in front of me.

  “I’ve been waiting for them to leave,” he says quietly, staring down at me. A smile of pleasure forming on my mouth’s cut short as he continues. “You’re making a huge mistake, Cassiel. You must not go through with this mission. Even with proper training, you will be in great danger. I won’t allow it.”

  I raise my eyebrows. Allow it? But before I can say a word he continues, taking a step closer.

  “Listen to me,” he says, holding my eyes with his. His presence, his intense focus on me, is literally speeding up my pulse. “I promised Daz that I would look after you if anything ever happened to him.”

  Pop—goes the sound of my heart imploding.

  So, he is burdened with a brotherly obligation to Daz.

  King continues, oblivious or deliberately ignoring my sagging shoulders while any vestige of hope in me spills out onto the floor.

  “I thought getting you into ESE, keeping you close, would allow me to watch over you,” Shut up! I want to scream, “and help you to pursue xeno studies.”

  You’re so stupid. Of course King’s interest in you is nothing more than a sense of duty.

  “Now if Daz knew how ESE was using you, how they took advantage of you in the test today, for example,” he pauses, trying to gather some calm, “he would kill them all.”

  Uh, no. Daz is not some crazed killer.

  King adjusts his gamma gun holster, like he’s reminding himself it’s there.

  “Why did you quote that poem to me before the test anyway?” I ask sullenly, sidetracked by his mention of the test. I cross my arms and hold them tight to me. I want to build a wall up around me, and fortify it with an army of Gogols.

  “Cassiel, I am sorry about that,” he says, clearly regretting it. “I meant that you should try hard, and not sacrifice yourself for another cadet as you did the first time. I should have said what I meant. But there wasn’t time, and I didn’t want you to think I was interfering either, as I know how headstrong you are,” he adds, half-smiling as he studies my face.

  He thinks I’m upset about the stupid poem. But I’m not mad at him for confusing me during the test.

  “Look,” I say, focusing on the point that really bothers me. “I never asked for your . . . protection. And while I appreciate your help getting me into ESE, for the record, I didn’t need it.”

  He raises his eyebrows at this, which I don’t appreciate.

  I carry on, pretending not to notice, using my hands to emphasize my points. “I would have done whatever it took to get into ESE. I sensed Daz was in trouble.”

  Did King just scoff at me?

  “So Marcus has you believing in his speculation. Has it occurred to either of you that this line of inquiry could put Daz in real danger if he’s in on an operation?”

  Uh, no, actually it hadn’t. But wait . . .

  “If Daz were on a mission, why would Command admit they misplaced him?”

  “To throw everyone’s scent off the trail!” he says, exasperated, rolling his eyes at my apparent naivety. “They said they believe there are spies on ESE. It makes sense to conceal his mission,” he adds.

  Wait, maybe that’s what King was doing in Daz’s report in my déjà vu. Maybe King was concealing his mission from internal spies.

  I stare at him, trying to deny the fact that if what he says is true, then there’s no way I can help Daz. But wait, going through with this mission might help him, right?

  “Why don’t you place your trust in me?” King says, suddenly reaching forward, grabbing my hand in his. I lose focus, as the warmth of his touch glides up my arm.

  “You cannot go through with this,” he adds, his head tilting to the side slightly, his eyes staring at me imploringly. “Don’t you see, this is the last thing Daz would want you to do?”

  He’s right about that. In fact, Daz would flip if he knew I’d joined ESE, especially given the whole woman auto-scanner business. The note signed D pops into my mind.

  Was it even real?

  King’s definitely real. I know that much. Should I listen to him?

  “But . . .” I’m torn. This mission may be crazy but I also know how serious it is. It would have to be if they’re relying on me. “What about the sift?”

  “Don’t worry about that,” he says, seeming relieved. “They can send in someone else more experienced. Easily. Besides, I am convinced this sift is nothing more than a ploy by a double-crossing escapee.”

  “Anyway,” he adds, brushing aside ESE with total confidence, “they will have to substitute you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I have a plan for us to leave the station. And we have to go. Now.”

  My eyebrows shoot ceiling high. This explains the combat gear. Is he going to steal us out of ESE? He can’t be willing to risk his career to prevent me from doing this? Is this the most crazy, but totally thrilling, development ever?

  “Don’t you think you’re taking your promise to Daz, ah, a little far here?” I try to sound reluctant. “Besides, if I change my mind, I could just tell them I’m not going to do it.”

  “They will not just let you out of this! They are set on you, especially the Commandant. Our only chance is to leave. Now.”

  I think about Sato and Adm. O’Reilly. No. They probably wouldn’t just let me say no. I think about what King’s proposing. Oh, this is very serious.

  What kind of person am I? A runaway? “Then what am I supposed to do?” I ask, finishing a train of thought out loud. “Hide for the rest of my life to avoid an ESE fugitive penalty?”

  His dimples crease, even from such a slight, assured smile, and he surprises me when he grabs my other hand. They’re rough, warm, and strong. This proximity to him seems to coincide with a hum inside of me.

  Glancing up into his dark blue e
yes, like a stormy sea at dusk lit by the moon, I’m totally confused by his actions, by what he’s proposing and his intentions. Plus the humming; it’s very distracting.

  “I will take care of you,” he adds, tenderly.

  Breathe.

  “I know a place where we can go. We will . . . be safe, together,” he adds, searching my face.

  I can’t believe what I’m hearing. So, he does care for me.

  Is that what he’s saying?

  “You must know how I feel about you,” he murmurs.

  Gladness bursts from within, the long-awaited hope realized, and I have to physically resist the urge to jump on the spot. He wants you.

  Then it hits me with galvanized force. My own desire for him, long held at bay but nursed tenderly in secret deep down inside, wow that much?, is incensed. My mind fights to the foreground: You will never have enough of him. Can I claim him somehow? I would want him with this much lust and admiration and hope, forever, I swear it!

  “I guess . . . I hoped maybe . . .”

  He grasps my head with one hand, pulling me into his embrace. My heart pounds so hard I worry maybe he will feel it. Both my hands land on his chest.

  I watch his mouth near, hear him inhale sharply, and it’s too much—I have to close my eyes. His lips press down hard, instantly nudging open mine. His tongue—oh. He tastes so pure. His free arm roams down from my waist to my hips tugging me tight to him, and the humming centralizes down in my lower half. If I move just a bit to the right I would . . . I gasp, and he holds me tighter, repositioning our heads. I’ve been kissed a few times before, but never like this.

  He leans back, his hand firmly twined in my hair.

  “No . . .” I mumble, just before I regain my senses.

  When I open my eyes, he reveals a flash of pride at my entreaty for him not to stop, and then he smiles tenderly. He holds my face in his hands and leans forward until our foreheads touch. Wow. I would have done anything for him, in that moment.

  “We have to leave now,” he says hoarsely.

  Anxiety courses through me. I step back a bit.

  “King,” I say, feeling like a child. “King,” I restart, sounding firmer. “I . . . I want to be with you. Really, I do,” I admit, feeling my cheeks flush. “But, I can’t just run away, at least not the way you are proposing.” Did I really just say that?

  He releases my face and steps back. His face changes again. Adrenaline spikes, and I squeeze my hands together briefly, in order to calm myself. I did not realize he was so tempestuous.

  “I . . . I can’t back out now,” I rationalize. “I agreed to do this.” Sound firm. My senses are returning and the more I think about it the more I realize how unreal his proposition is.

  “Besides, I can’t let you ruin your career.”

  Truthfully? Also, being on the run is not how I planned my fairytale ending with him. Most importantly, how could I ever help Daz in that situation?

  As this realization decides it for me, King’s brows form a flat line of determination, and he raises himself taller, high above me, over me.

  “Listen, King, I . . . I can do this. I want to do this.”

  He’s just staring at me. Why is he acting like this? Maybe his feelings are hurt?

  “It’s not about me choosing you over ESE, or anything like— ”

  “Don’t kid yourself,” he hisses, interrupting me, scaring me with his vehemence. “You are no asset to ESE. You can’t hold your own against a warship full of Thell’eon!!”

  I step back.

  “Do you know what they will do to you? Are you prepared for what will happen? Based on that kiss, I am thinking not!”

  His words, like a gamma burst, hit my gut hard and fast. Did he . . . just . . . say that? He has gone too far, but his expression’s not one of regret. He’s reevaluating, softening, getting ready to try another strategy.

  “Cassiel, I—”

  “King!” I caution him from stepping forward or from saying anything more with my hand.

  “Consider yourself freed from Daz’s promise, from this moment forward. Forever!” I add for extra measure, my voice cracking.

  His mouth pops open but nothing comes out. He checks himself, closing it, his eyes pulling back with some of . . . pleasure.

  Is he enjoying this?

  He makes to step forward when a voice says, “Is everything all right in here?”

  Surprised, and relieved, because I feel like crying for a third time in 24 hours, I look over King’s shoulder to see Adm. O’Reilly evaluating the situation from the doorway.

  One second King’s staring at me like he’s reaching out, hoisting me over his shoulder, and shooting the Admiral all at the same time. Where did that come from? The next, his face is blank, like someone wiped it clean. He swings around, tossing out a jaunty, “Fine, Admiral,” as he walks past him right out of the room. The Admiral eyes his combat gear.

  “Cadet Winters?” he asks.

  “Ah, yes,” I say, not at all sure what I am affirming, while I watch King’s broad back disappear around the corner. I’m anything but all right. That’s it, take me out of the Synth-o-matic, I’m reconstituted.

  “I’m going to my pod to get some rest before tomorrow’s mission,” I offer.

  “That’s a good idea, Winters. We need you to be 100 per cent present tomorrow,” he says, searching my face.

  “I know. I am. I will be,” I add, walking past him, my legs somehow cooperating. There you go. One step at a time.

  I imagine ESE’s eyes on me all the way back to my pod, floating on exhaustion. It’s weird for the Admiral to have shown up, to check on me like that.

  King was right. If they weren’t concerned about me (us) being a flight risk, they will be now. There’s no way out of this, or there was, and I just missed my chance. But I don’t care about that, really. Not with these serious, near fatal wounds to my pride that I’ve got to nurse before the big mission in, oh, let’s see, less than SIX HOURS!

  Chapter 8

  Being transported is like passing out. There’s a brief moment when you’re absolutely positive you’re either going to vomit and collapse, or maybe even die, and then, instantaneous awareness in new surroundings.

  I’m thrilled to be recomposing inside a Class NP Model charger, the fastest ESE has, even if it is flying at record speed toward my pending demise.

  The officers, including Lt. Lazarus, take seats at appointed flight stations. King, who completely ignored me on the transport pad, real mature, heads straight to the pilot seat to take over from one of the officers who have been flying for the past 10 hours. Transporting Team Winters’ Storm (I have no idea who came up with that but I don’t think it is funny) the maximum allowable ID (Intersperse Distance) possible to a ship that has already been flying for hours saved us precious time, allowing for my prep. King will only have to fly for an hour or so before we reach the Thell’eon vessel, which is still hovering near the planet Taxata.

  Nervous doesn’t being to describe how I feel. I settle into a spare seat near the rear of the charger (all the seats face forward), and stare at the back of King’s head less than 10 feet in front of me.

  Of course, I questioned my decision not to leave with him, like a thousand times, after I hit the downcore. To counteract the horrible anxiety this evoked, I replayed his confession of having feelings for me, and our kissing, as many, if not more, times. I can’t believe he kissed me! It was . . . awesome. But even that couldn’t keep thoughts of his fear for my safety at bay. When I opened my eyes after a few pointless hours of something approximating dozing, I debated telling Jordanna everything.

  You know, in case I don’t make it back, because I figure ESE would just cover up my death. But after she questioned my late return to the pod, adding, “Finally get la
id?” with great mirth, I decided against it. Probably she wouldn’t believe me. Definitely she wouldn’t. Who would?

  I try to focus on the latest development. A half hour earlier, one of two engineers disabling my translocator-blocker nanochip, slipped me a weird chip under the guise of flirtation. I can’t believe anyone bought it really.

  This brainiac kept calling his colleague “Microscope,” (I have no idea what that is), and introduced himself as cadet David Hathaway. I was surprised by his youth and rank, or lack of one, but Sergeant Kevin Luttrell (a.k.a. Microscope) stepped in and reassured me that Hathaway is being fast-tracked in the engineering unit. He didn’t seem too happy about it, either.

  Hathaway sure looks the part; gangly, pale skin, and soft hands. But when he turned and set his sights on me, well, his thinly veiled naivety almost made me laugh. I took to him right away. In a way, he reminded me of Daz, though my brother never needs to try in the lady department. When Hathaway passed the newly damaged translocator blocker nanochip to the nurse, which they hope will fool the Thell’eons if an explanation of my presence is needed, he said, beaming over his own work, “There now, all set. None of them will be the wiser.” He instantly frowned. I must have been wearing my fear.

  “Yeah, very smooth,” said Sgt. Luttrell, pushing him aside. The nurse re-pulsed the damaged blocker. “Don’t mind him,” he added. “We aren’t privy to the details of your mission but apparently it takes more than an ESE prodigy,” he zeroed in on Hathaway for a moment, “to grasp its danger. Good luck,” he added, extending his hand to shake mine.