A Strangled Cry of Fear. B.A. Chepaitis
Of course. It was bound to come up sooner or later, and he knew how to meet it. “Special? You call it special, being thrown into that lion’s den? Listen, Dr. Addams, if Paul asked for any other teacher I’d forbid it out of hand. I’m only allowing it because I know you can manage it.”
Her scowl subsided into furrows on her forehead, but she wasn’t quite ready to relent. “I’m just saying I know the people and the place. I don’t think I need a team for this one.”
“I say you do. You’ll be investigating potentially explosive problems, under constant surveillance from people who may want you dead. Or at least a little less troublesome than usual. And we can’t be in touch since the bubble domes block outside empathic contact, in case you forgot. So you’ll keep it low to the ground until you have back-up, and absolutely no empathic contact with Francis until I get there. That’s a direct order from your Supervisor, who happens to be a very skilled Adept.”
She didn’t trust flattery, but when he played the Adept card she knew he meant it. “Okay,” she said, only a little grudgingly. “When do I leave?”
“First morning shuttle,” he said.
He saw her tense, then deliberately relax. She turned to him, and in her expression he read her sure knowledge of risk as well as her confidence in her own capacity to get the job done. She studied him, and put a hand to his face.
“You’re really nervous about this,” she said, quiet now, his lover rather than his co-worker. “What exactly did you see?”
He smoothed her hand under his. “Nothing specific. Just—I have to be there. That’s all I know. And the lack of contact bothers me. I don’t like being separated that way.”
“We won’t be,” she said. “Not really. My people have a chant for lovers like us.” She spoke inside him, her words moving soft as grass in the wind.
If we were robbed of time and hope and flesh, still I would find you with thoughts that move too swift for any harm to chase. In all the universe of light, I will turn to yours and follow. In all the universe of light, you will be drawn to mine, familiar and strange as your own.
He leaned over and kissed her hair, breathed a thought into it.
Wait for me. Wait for me. Wait for me.
He put his mouth on hers and kissed her, breathing the thought into her as he pulled her down onto the thick carpet at their feet. He impressed it into her body as they moved together in their pleasure, in their love for each other, which was stronger than time or distance, and which they’d found would not suffer separation for long until one of them called the other home.
In all the universe of light, she would turn to his. In all the universe of light, he would find hers.
Wait for me, he breathed. I will be there.
* * * *
After she dressed to go back to her apartment and pack, he walked her to the door and watched her lean and muscular frame recede down the hall from him. Her long dark hair, the streaks where it seemed to be dipped in honey, the particular pride of her carriage, so familiar and still so surprisingly miraculous, pulled at him, lunar and inescapable.
“Jaguar,” he called.
She stopped, her back to him, head lowered. Then she turned to face him. He could see she’d already begun focusing her concentration on the task ahead.
She tilted her head at him inquisitively. “Did you want me?”
Did he want her? Yes. Always.
“Be careful,” he said. “Wait for me to get there. I’ll find a way.”
He could feel the questions she didn’t ask as she turned away and disappeared from his view.
Chapter 4
Home Planet, Virginia, USA
The Cleaner was on permanent retainer with the military and had worked for General Matthew Durk in the past, so he was admitted into his office without delay, his retinal scan giving him priority status. When he entered the office he walked across the very good Pakistani rug, the only personal item in the room besides a photo of the General’s yellow Labrador Retriever, to the desk where the General sat. He nodded politely, took a seat in the chair on the other side, and got right to business.
“I’m on Planetoid One for a while. You want anything done there?”
Durk didn’t ask what his job was. He knew better. “Is there anything worth getting?”
“I can grab some post-mortem data from their infirmary,” the Cleaner said. “They’ve got a lot of activity.”
“Point of Death?” Durk asked. His unit was researching heavily in that area right now. They’d found that post-mortem energies carried a punch in deltas unlike the living human energy field, and they wanted to study it further, though they didn’t yet know what they’d do with the information. But much of Psi Ops was speculative, and they didn’t mind dropping a dime to add to their store of information.
“That, and long-term. They’ve got a way of keeping the energy stable and present.”
This earned the Cleaner a small frown. “How?”
“A new vent system. It works off a laser field, and seems to do the trick.”
Durk nodded. That made sense. The energy also blocked empathic contact, a similar field and range. But he had another question about it. “Why would they want to?”
“I’m looking into ways they might use it. See if they can access it to up the ante on their own energy system. They’re always interested in saving a buck on One.”
Durk’s frown deepened into a look of derision. “You think you’re dealing with lab rats?” he asked. They’d tried holding onto post-mortems in Special Ops, and got nothing but trouble. For reasons they couldn’t explain, they created turbulence in all their equipment.
“Not that different,” the Cleaner said. “I shifted my equipment to accommodate the overload, take care of the glitches. I’m guessing I can figure out the rest. You want me to bring you some data on it?”
Durk considered, tapping his wooden hand against his desk. He doubted it would work, but the Cleaner was good at that kind of thing. It was, he said, a hobby he enjoyed. Psi ops might as well look at his numbers. “Do so,” he said. “The usual rate of pay. Anything else?”
“A Dr. Addams is paying a visit,” he said. “For a Planetoid investigation. I hear she gave you some trouble once. If you want, I can do a cleaning on her.” He had no objection to getting paid twice for doing the same job.
“No,” he said, definite and without room for negotiation.
The Cleaner let it go. He never pushed these things. The client was either interested or not. “Data retrieval on her?” He could work that in somewhere between Discredited and Dead.
Durk waved his wooden hand in dismissal. She used psi capacities his unit couldn’t even name yet, and from a past incident he knew her knife could slit a throat in under a second.
“You couldn’t shine her shoes without getting a heel in your eye,” he said. “Leave her alone. Get the post-mortem data. That’s all.”
The Cleaner rose, shook down his pant legs. “Sure,” he said. He turned and walked away. He didn’t waste time, and neither did the General.
But as he put his hand on the doorknob, Durk spoke. “Wait,” he said. The Cleaner did so.
“Are you already cleaning her for someone else?” Durk asked bluntly.
The Cleaner kept his hand on the doorknob, didn’t turn around. “Do I kiss and tell?”
Durk grunted, and his wooden hand went tap tap tap on the desk. “If that’s your job, you’re in deep shit. Better men than you have tried