We’ll see, Amaranthe thought. She glanced toward the fire baton. It had gone out when it hit the deck, but maybe she could turn it on again. And maybe one artifact could fight another.
She dropped to one knee, pretending defeat—it wasn’t much of a pretense—and rested her hand near the torch. She gripped the smooth material, using her body to hide the action.
Involuntary gasps for air tore through her, but they were ineffective and nothing could pass her constricted throat. She did not have long. If her attack failed...
Another charge exploded near by, and the corridor rocked. The lights flickered. For an instant, the pressure on Amaranthe’s throat disappeared.
She gasped and jumped to her feet, forcing air-deprived legs to support her. She thumbed the only thing that felt like a switch on the smooth baton, and a six-inch flame streamed from the tip. Amaranthe jabbed it at the invisible shield.
The baton didn’t pierce the barrier, but the flame flared in a brilliant flash, startling the woman. She backpedaled, tripped over a fallen comrade, and crashed to the deck. Something crunched beneath her. The tool?
Amaranthe dove in, hoping the shield had failed. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted a dark shape arcing toward her—the male practitioner’s boot.
She flung herself to her belly, but hurried to find her feet again as soon as the kick whispered overhead. She dropped the baton and caught the man’s boot as he was retracting it. She sprang up, heaving his leg into the air. The man tumbled onto his back.
“Maldynado,” Amaranthe rasped through her aching throat. “Keep that one busy.”
He was on his back, panting, but he rolled onto his side to obey.
The woman had found her knees and was trying to rise. Amaranthe planted a foot on her back—the barrier had disappeared—and forced her flat on the deck. She snatched the baton and raised it, but paused. Maybe she need not kill anyone else.
She spotted the vial Maldynado had dropped, grabbed it, and held it to the woman’s nose. Already the practitioner’s eyes were glazing and her struggles were weak, so the effects of the powder must not have faded yet.
A thump sounded behind Amaranthe. She leaped to her feet and whirled, baton in hand, ready to thrust the flame up an attacker’s nose.
“Easy, lady grimbal.” Maldynado raised his hands over his head. The male practitioner lay at his feet, gasping—and inhaling—the lingering odor from the other vial. “You’ll need that for getting in if Sicarius won’t answer the door.”
“True.” Amaranthe lowered her hand, but she did not relax until she had ensured nobody was in a position to trouble them. The practitioners all lay prone. One was snoring. Good.
“You might want to do it before this stuff wears off and these magic-spewing people wake up,” Maldynado said.
“Yes, but how do we know when the air is clear? We don’t want our men to walk out and pitch over, snoring.”
“I wouldn’t mind seeing Sicarius snore,” Maldynado said.
“Do you want to sling him and Basilard over your shoulders and tote them out of here?”
“I could. I’ve carried many women on these broad shoulders.”
“Many women at the same time?”
“On occasion, yes.” He winked.
“Just watch them, please.” Amaranthe nodded to the slumbering people and knocked on the hatch. “Sicarius? Basilard? You can come out now. We’re pushing the unconscious people into neat piles.”
The clomp of footsteps came from around the corner, and she winced. Maybe calling out had been foolish. If there were still guards around, someone must have heard that brawl....
The people who tromped around the corner were not guards however. Books and Akstyr led the way, wearing their suits but not their helmets. Seven, no, eight nude men and women trailed them. More than one naked body sported smears of blood, and several people gripped knives or pistols. Books carried a familiar black belt full of daggers.
Amaranthe lifted a hand, intending to warn everyone to stay back, but she did need to know if the air was still tainted. Nobody dropped to the ground and started snoring.
“What took you so long, Booksie?” Maldynado asked.
“We took the tour and beat some heads in.” Akstyr grinned at one of the girls, but she showed no inclination toward returning it.
“Why are you wearing...?” Books started, but stopped to study the inert forms. “Should we all be wearing helmets?”
“I think it’s worn off.” Amaranthe unfastened her helmet. “Tie these people up, will you? No, we need more than that. They can use their minds to choke us—as I have reason to know. Akstyr, is there a way to keep them unconscious?”
“Shoot them?” Akstyr said.
“You’re supposed to be a Science advisor,” Books told him, “not a Sicarius acolyte.”
Maldynado cleared his throat. “For the record, that would have been my response, too.”
“How surprising.” Books handed Sicarius’s knife collection to Amaranthe.
She struggled to hold all the blades and the baton, so she settled for dumping them into her helmet.
“We can strap these bastards to the tables and sedate them the way they did us,” one young man said.
“Can we cut them open, too?” another growled.
Amaranthe grimaced, wondering what manner of experiments the practitioners had been conducting to create those future warrior-caste babies. Thoughts for another time.
One of the young women caught her eye, a tall blonde with facial features similar to Fasha’s. She must be Keisha, the athlete whose disappearance had started everything for Amaranthe and her team. Keisha would need to know about her sister’s death, but now wasn’t the time.
She knocked on the hatch again. “Sicarius, if you don’t come out, we’re leaving you here.”
The athletes stirred and traded whispers of, “Sicarius?”
Something scraped on the other side of the hatch. Equipment or furniture being moved? Bangs, thumps, and more scrapes followed. A light poked through the perforations in the hatch.
Amaranthe crouched and peered through only to find herself staring into a dark eye that gazed back from the other side. She twitched in surprise, but did not draw back. Was that—
“Basilard believes we should have code words you could speak so we would know if you were giving us legitimate orders or talking under duress.” Sicarius spoke the words as blandly as if they were discussing the men’s training regimen, and no hint that he had missed her or was relieved to see her seeped into his tone.
By now, Amaranthe should have known better than to feel stung, but the emotion encroached upon her nonetheless. She pushed it aside and conjured a smile. “Basilard is a wise fellow. We’ll schedule it for discussion during the next team meeting.”
The eye disappeared, metal squealed, and the hatch tottered open on wobbly hinges.
Basilard exited first, his legs and feet bare, though he wore some guard’s fatigue shirt. He grinned and stopped to give Amaranthe a one-armed hug before moving on to greet the others. Blood stained the back of his shirt.
“Basilard, did you get shot?” she asked.
Yes. I fashioned a bandage. It is fine for now.
The pain lines creasing the corners of his eyes belied the statement, but they did not have time to perform more extensive first aid, so Amaranthe let it go.
Sicarius strode out, utterly naked except for a technical manual in his hands. He didn’t bother to wield it strategically to hide...anything.
Amaranthe gaped at him. After a startled moment of surprise, she forced herself to keep her eyes focused on his face. Mostly. “Sicarius. I, ah...” Have always wanted to see you like this, she thought. No, she couldn’t say that. Was wondering if you were blond all over. No, definitely not that. “I hope that’s not your suggestion for the team uniform,” she decided on as she handed him his gear.
“The lack of a place to hold weapons makes it impractical,” he said in his usual mo
notone.
Behind Amaranthe, Maldynado leaned close to Books and whispered, “So many jokes the man could have made, and he goes with that.”
Sicarius strapped on his weapons belt, which, combined with the throwing knives sheathed on his forearm, created a style that would have earned anyone else a round of mocking. Nobody made a comment.
Sicarius lifted the manual. “If the way is clear, we can adjust the ballast tanks to bring this craft to the surface.” He opened the manual to a diagram. “They’re located here, here, here and here.”
Straight to business. No hug or, “Thanks for coming for us.” Professional as always. But then, she was the one who had sent him on a task that resulted in his capture. Maybe he was holding a grudge.
“Do you know how to do it, or do you need Books?” Amaranthe asked him.
“I can do it,” Sicarius said.
“All right. Books, do you want to take your team to handle the practitioners?”
“My team?” Books eyed the young, bloodthirsty athletes. “How lovely.”
“Akstyr and Basilard, go with him, please. Maldynado, you’re with Sicarius and me.”
“Double lovely,” Maldynado said after a glance at Sicarius’s nude state, or perhaps at the streaks of dried blood smearing his arm and shoulder.
“Wait,” Books said. “The plan is to go to the surface in this? The enemy vessel? With the marines sitting up there with all their weapons firing?”
“We’ll surrender,” Amaranthe said.
“We could swim out before we get to the top,” Maldynado said.
“With the kraken waiting out there?” Books asked.
“Kraken?” Sicarius asked mildly.
“Er, yes,” Amaranthe said. “Did you not know about that?”
“I thought you’d have to slay it to get in here.”
“No, the kraken-slaying is still on my to-do list.”
Sicarius’s eyebrow twitched.
“Don’t worry. We have a plan. Sort of. Books, meet us back at the transition chamber once you have these people secured. Sicarius, let’s go see to these tanks.”
CHAPTER 17
Basilard led the way to the laboratory from which he and Sicarius had escaped mere hours earlier. Books, Akstyr, and the athletes followed, grunting and panting as they toted the unconscious practitioners. Clunks and thumps sounded as limbs—or heads—collided with pipes and bulkheads. Despite the damage the vessel had taken, the barrier remained in place, blocking the laboratory entrance.
“Do you know how to get past?” Books asked.
Basilard stared at the eyeball-reader thoughtfully. He had no desire to try Sicarius’s method.
“Akstyr, do you know how to get past?” Books asked over his shoulder.
“That work’s beyond me,” he said.
“Can we hurry up?” a man asked at the rear. “This bloke’s stirring. I think they’re going to wake up soon.”
Basilard pointed at an unconscious woman strung between Books and Akstyr. Lift her up, pry her eyelid open, and wave her face in front of that device.
“That’ll work?” Books asked skeptically.
The alternative is to gouge her eyeball out and wave it on a stick.
“Let’s...make the first thing work,” Books said. “And please don’t tell me if you know for a fact the other method works.”
He and Akstyr jostled the woman into place. Basilard used his good arm to pry her eyelid back and held his breath. Nothing happened. The iris was rolled back in her head. Grimacing—and worried she would wake up—he used his finger to slide her eyeball downward.
The barrier winked out.
Before he could let his breath out in relief, something tinkled to the deck inside. Basilard had no idea how many of the crew had been accounted for. Not everybody, apparently.
He drew his knife and motioned for the rest of the team to wait inside the threshold.
Only tables and equipment occupied the first aisle. Basilard tiptoed toward the second and paused at a tank on the end.
In case someone waited around the corner with a pistol, he stuck his hand out as a decoy, then whipped it back. No shots fired. He listened but heard nothing. Knife in hand, he peeked around the corner....
Only to find it empty. He ducked to see if someone might be hiding beneath the beds. Nothing. The hairs rose on the back of his neck, and some instinct told him to look up.
A pair of black boots swung toward his face.
Basilard dropped into a crouch so low, his rump smacked the deck. He bounced up instantly, whirling as a gray-haired soldier hanging from the ceiling pipes swung past him. Taloncrest. Before he could release the pipes and drop down, Basilard jammed his knife into the man’s kidney.
Taloncrest snarled as his boots hit the deck, and he whirled, a pistol in hand.
Basilard dropped again, this time hurling himself onto his back. He kicked up, sending the pistol flying with surprising ease. Taloncrest stood there, face slack, a bulky tote slung over one shoulder, papers fighting to escape the flap.
His eyes grew glazed, and he toppled forward.
Basilard scrambled backward in the tight aisle and barely avoided having the man land on top of him. A second knife protruded from his back.
Akstyr stepped forward and removed it. “You’re welcome.”
Thank you, Basilard signed.
“This goon’s waking up,” someone said.
A loud thump sounded.
“Never mind,” someone else said.
Let’s get these people strapped to the beds, Basilard signed.
Books stuck his head around the corner in time to see the message. “Do you know how to sedate them?”
Basilard pointed to one of the globes that perched beside each table. I saw it done.
“So, that’s a yes?” Books asked.
Basilard hesitated. Not really.
“This should prove interesting then.”
* * * * *
After retrieving their swords, Amaranthe and Maldynado wound through the corridors, following Sicarius. She focused on carrying her helmet, not tripping over her oversized boots, and watching for guards; she most definitely did not focus on Sicarius’s bare rear end as he jogged ahead of them.
“If Deret’s on board the Saberfist,” Maldynado said, “he might be able to keep the marines from shooting us when we pop up.”
“Why would Mancrest be there?” Sicarius asked, his tone as friendly as the edge of that black knife of his.
“His brother is the captain of the marine salvage and rescue vessel dropping explosives on us,” Amaranthe said. “I had to chat with Deret to make that happen.” Another charge blew nearby, and the corridor trembled. “Which has been a boon and a bane, I’ll admit.”
A second blast went off, this time right outside the wall. The floor heaved, pitching her sideways. A light on the wall bounced out of its holder and shattered on the deck. Sicarius caught Amaranthe before she smashed against the bulkhead—nothing so mundane as a shock wave would throw him off his feet—and she nodded a thank you. It was good to have him back even if the return look he gave her was on the cool and disapproving side. She hoped it was because of Deret and not due to her own clumsiness.
“Don’t worry about Mancrest,” she said. “You were right about that meeting at Pyramid Park being a bad idea, but we’ve come to an agreement since then.”
If anything Sicarius’s gaze grew cooler.
“He gave me his word,” Amaranthe said. “He’s not trying to turn me over to the military any more.”
“No.” Maldynado snickered. “He’s just trying to date you now.”
Sicarius threw a sharp look at him.
A snap sounded, and a hairline crack formed in a wall seam next to Amaranthe. A bead of water appeared at the bottom.
“We better go.” She grabbed Maldynado and Sicarius by the elbows, trying to hustle everyone down the corridor. “There’s a lot of pressure down here. I don’t want to be around if anything imp
lodes.”
Sicarius strode forward, breaking free of her grip. He led them around two corners and past a massive bulkhead sealing off a corridor. Water pooled on the floor before it.
“Must be that wing they closed down,” Amaranthe said. Too bad nobody was left in the navigation room to drop more doors in case other sections flooded. “Is it possible these ballast tanks won’t be enough to lift us if too much of the interior has taken on water?”
“Very possible.” Sicarius stopped before a panel filled with levers and smaller versions of the wheels that opened the hatches. Though it looked like Turgonian technology, the words etched on plaques were nothing she could read.
Sicarius handed her the manual, turned a wheel, and twisted one of the levers in a half circle. A grinding noise came from behind the wall, followed by a muffled hissing. Air being forced into the tanks? Her thoughts tangled as she tried to grasp the science—or perhaps Science—behind the system.
“It’s working.” Sicarius tapped a gauge. “But there’s another tank along the other main corridor, and then two more used for leveling the ship. We may need to open the flood valves on those, too.”
Before he finished talking, he was jogging again. Amaranthe and Maldynado hustled to catch up.
“What happens if we’ve taken on too much water and this doesn’t get us off the bottom?” Maldynado asked. “Everyone without diving suits drowns down here?” He seemed to realize he was talking to someone without a suit, for he added, “And, er, just so you know, this wouldn’t fit you, Sicarius, so there’s no need to stab me in the back for it.”
“I wouldn’t do that,” Sicarius said as they turned into another corridor.
“That’s a relief,” Maldynado said.
“It would compromise the suit.”
Maldynado grew pale, as if he were imagining Sicarius forcing him out of the suit at knife point and then stabbing him.
Amaranthe elbowed him. “I think that was a joke.”
Maldynado shook his head. “Given the source, I doubt it.”
They reached a set of controls identical to the first.