Bloodwind

BloodWind [First Book in WindDemon Trilogy] by Charlotte Boyett-Compo Hard Shell Word Factory - Science Fiction/Fantasy/Romance Hard Shell Word Factory www.hardshell.com Copyright © 1999 Charlotte Boyett-Compo October 2002 Hard Shell Word Factory [Named one of the Best Books of 1999 at eBook Connections] NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines and/or imprisonment. PART I Chapter 1 KAMERONE Cree ignored the gasps of surprise. He felt the uneasy gazes watching his every move; smelled the terror as people stepped aside, plastering themselves against the corridor wall rather than risk touching him. Whenever any of his kind appeared on Frontier Station Khamsin-14, the arrival was reported at once and people reacted by locking their doors. Women were kept securely behind the closed portals and men found reason to sequester themselves inside their quarters. His kind was feared and he liked it that way. No one dared intrude on his privacy and no one dared to deny him what he wanted. Along with the other six Elite warriors like himself, he enjoyed autonomy unprecedented in Rysalian history. What he desired, he received. What he said was declared law. What he did was never questioned. Until now. On this morning, of all mornings, no one would want to admit they had seen him standing outside the closed doors of the Court of Military Inquiry. No one would dare discuss either him or the reason one of his kind would have been called to the Court. “I will let them know you are here, Captain Cree,” the guard on his right commented. He glanced disdainfully at the guard, his clenched jaw the only outward sign the Reaper Captain was agitated. Actually, Cree was infuriated. His hands itched to reach out and tear the heads from the two Security Officers who had been sent, just after dawn, to escort him to the Court. A powerful bloodlust built inside him and it was all he could do to stand still as he waited for permission to enter the judicial chambers. It was imperative that not one flicker of his eyelid; one tremor of his hand; one involuntary tensing of his muscles; one quiver of his voice betray him to those bastards behind the door. He knew if he showed the slightest weakness, they would crucify him. “They are ready for you, Sir,” the guard informed him. Cree let out an annoyed breath as the thick doors to the judicial chamber opened. He was not guilty of the charges that had been leveled against him, but he knew that would make no difference to the Tribunal. The Court of Military Inquiry had been out for his blood for more than a year and today, he was sure they would get it.

Striding to the Bench, Cree executed a sharp salute, his boot heels clicking together. “Captain Kamerone Cree reporting as ordered!” he barked, his attention steady at a point somewhere just above, and to the left, of the Chief Justice's head. The five elderly Rysalian Lords who sat on the Bench of the Court of Military Inquiry stared at him, their sharp gazes traveling down his tall form. They examined the press of his shirt, the straightness of his tie, the cleanliness of his pants; the high sheen of his black boots, then passed judgment on the gleam of his insignia and the shine of his belt buckle. They paid close attention to the steady rise and fall of his chest as he breathed, searching for fear, watching for nervousness. They made note of the unwavering steadiness of his gaze, the impassivity of his face, the rigidity of his posture frozen in salute. “At ease, Captain,” the Chief Justice finally ordered. Cree's right hand came down sharply. He placed his hands behind him and clasped his wrists at the small of his back. Shifting his legs apart, he lowered his gaze to the Chief Justice, blinked to rid his eyes of dryness, swallowed casually, then respectfully directed his full attention to the man seated before him on the Bench. “You know why you are here,” the Chief Justice stated formally. “Aye, Your Grace, I do,” Cree answered. “How do you plead?” Cree knew it did not matter what plea he entered. He had already been tried, convicted, and sentenced long before he had been summoned to the Court. The fact that he was there was proof of his guilt in the eyes of the Empire. The Minister of Acquisitions would have made sure of it. Trying to keep the bitterness and anger from creeping into his voice, he replied, “Not guilty, Your Grace.” The Chief Justice's mouth twisted. “No more than we expected from one of your kind,” he snorted contemptuously. The old man shuffled some papers in front of him and without glancing either to his right or his left, asked for comments from the rest of the Bench. “At the request of the Minister of Acquisitions, we have no choice but to recommend disciplinary action,” Justice Largus Cul stated. “I agree,” Chief Justice Ilya Ruan concurred. “May I be permitted to speak?” Cree asked. “No, you may not!” the Chief Justice snapped. Cree had to bite his tongue to keep from lashing out at the old man. A muscle bunched in his jaw, narrowing his eyes with the tightness. His countenance took on a belligerence that did not escape one Justice's notice. “Wipe that disrespectful look from your face, Captain!” warned Justice Cul. Not daring to look at the man who had spoken for fear Cul would see his fury Cree blanked his expression. He returned his gaze to a spot above the row of men and waited for whatever punishment was going to be meted out to him. “Recommendations?” the Chief Justice asked the others. “Whatever we decide in regard to his punishment must be sufficiently harsh enough to discourage further rebellion,” offered Justice Ruan. Cree's hands clenched into fists behind his back. He wished he knew who was responsible for him being here. If it were the last thing he ever did, he would find that person, rip off her head, and drain the blood from her worthless body! “I agree,” Justice Cul concurred. “A year on Helios Twelve would not be amiss. The Captain needs to be taught humility.” “It will take more than a year at hard labor on a penal colony to teach this fool humility, Cul,” muttered Justice Traye Onar. “That is true,” agreed the Chief Justice. “Well, then,” Justice Ryda Lona drawled as he threaded his fingers together and sat forward to glare at Cree. “I vote for Active Reinforcement.” The dark brown gaze of Captain Kamerone Cree widened, then shifted incredulously to the wizened old man. He spoke before he thought of the consequences of doing so. “For what?” Cree demanded. “I

have done nothing wrong! I…” “Silence!” the Chief Justice barked. “Did you receive permission to speak, Cree?” Cree shook his head. “No, Your Grace, but…” “Then be quiet!” came the sharp rebuke. “But Your Grace, I…” “Silence!” The single word was a dire threat left hanging. Cree came to precise military attention: shoulders squared, arms rigid at his side, gaze straight ahead. His lips were clamped shut, but his eyes blazed with fury. A muscle began to tick noticeably in his lean jaw and his breathing became audible to even the most hard of hearing among the elderly men. Justice Vuin Barif pointed an arthritic finger at Cree. “Do you see what I mean, Milords? It is for that very look of disrespect on his face right now that I am seconding the recommendation for Active Reinforcement!” “I agree,” Justice Onar nodded. “This is not the first time his insubordination has been brought to the attention of the Tribunal.” The elderly man smiled hatefully. “I think it is time the Captain was taught he is a servant of the Empire and not the other way around.” Cree swung his narrowed eyes to Onar and saw triumph blazing on the wrinkled face. Of all the Lords in the room, Cree knew Onar was his worst enemy. “Active Reinforcement is the recommendation, then,” the Chief Justice pronounced. “Are there any objections?” He swiveled his shaggy white head from right to left. When no one objected to the recommendation, he trained his hawk-like glower on Cree. “Do you have anything to say in your defense before judgment is passed, Captain?” Cree held the old man's stare. “What can I say?” he asked bitterly. “What, indeed?” Onar scoffed and grinned as the young man's attention shifted to him. “You brought this upon yourself, Cree.” “Other recommendations?” the Chief Justice inquired. Justice Barif smiled viciously. “Since he is the highest ranking warrior in the Ministry of Acquisitions, I believe we have to make an example of him to the others.” “What do you suggest?” Justice Onar inquired. “A month on Helios Twelve after Reinforcement,” Barif declared. “I will agree to that,” Justice Lona put in, nodding thoughtfully. “That should be enough to curb our wayward Reaper's insubordination.” “It should,” the Chief Justice proclaimed. He looked once more around him. “Objections?” “None from me,” Justice Ruan grunted. “If anything, such a sentence is too lenient for our headstrong Captain.” Cree's bloodlust rose and the venom inside his veins scalded him. He would have liked nothing better than to fly across the Bench and attack his tormentors, mutilating each in turn until there was nothing left but a heap of yellowed bones and tufts of wiry white hair. The vision of such a massacre was a red haze before his vision, but he knew he would never be able to exact the revenge upon them they so richly deserved. “Then it is the recommendation of this Court that Captain Cree present himself to the Ministry of Behavioral Modification no later than oh nine hundred hours today to begin his sessions with them.” “Do you understand the punishment as it was given to you, Cree?” asked Justice Ruan. Cree nodded, not trusting himself to speak. If the old men took that as another sign of his insubordination, then let them add another month or two of hard labor on top of his unjust sentence. “Then you are dismissed,” the Chief Justice proclaimed. Cree managed a halfway decent salute before taking one step back, pivoting and, with shoulders straight, spine erect, he marched from the room. **** LIEUTENANT Drewe Lona, the nephew of Justice Ryda Lona, found his commanding officer sitting

beside the Reflecting Pool of Alel's Force. Cree was staring morosely into the crystal waters and didn't bother to look up as Lona joined him. “I just heard, Sir,” Lona said quietly. There was no reaction from the Reaper. “Are you going to appeal?” Cree slowly turned his head and looked up at his second in command. “Appeal what?” His eyebrows shot up. “To whom, Drewe?” He looked away again. “They had me sentenced before I ever stepped foot in that gods-be-damned room!” Lona brushed some imaginary lint from the leg of his uniform. “When do you have to report to Be-Mod 9, Sir?” The Reaper snorted. “In one hour.” “One hour?” Lona gasped. “You're joking!” With a tired sigh, Cree turned once more to the man. “Do I look like I'm joking?” Shocked acceptance settled across the Lieutenant's face. “Why so soon?” Cree shrugged. “They have to make sure I'm physically capable of undergoing reinforcement,” he said in a flat voice. “Once they're convinced I'm healthy and not liable to die during the session, they can torture me all they want.” “Don't say that!” Lona jammed his hands into the pocket of his light brown windbreaker. “Why not?” Cree inquired, looking up at him. “'That's what it is, Drewe, and we both know it.” Lona heard the unease in his Captain's voice and pulled one of his hands out of his pocket to run it through his crop of sandy-blond hair. “I wish this wasn't happening.” Cree laughed sourly. “So do I.” “Do you have any idea how long it will take?” Cree stood up. “If I know Onar, he'll have made gods-be-damned sure the session will be as brutal as possible and last as long as it is possible for me to stand it without going mad.” “I can't believe this is happening!” Lona ground out. “Not to you! Not to a Reaper!” He shook his head savagely. “Of all the Reapers, least of all to you!” “Even the mighty can fall, Drewe,” he scoffed. He turned away. “And I've fallen smack on my ass this time, but I know who to blame.” Drewe nodded. “The Resistance.” “Aye, the Resistance,” Cree repeated. “And when I find out who authored this latest disruption of my life, I'll take great pleasure in ending her miserable life!” Chapter 2 DR. BRIDGET Dunne heard the woman sitting beside her gasp as the doors to the Behavioral Modification unit crashed open. The receptionist, Ivonne O'Malley, came hurriedly to her feet. “Oh, God!” Ivonne whispered. “It's him! It's the Iceman!” Bridget looked up as the Empire's Prime Reaper came marching toward the main desk where she sat. She knew the Elite warrior wasn't looking at her-his entire attention was focused on the woman sitting beside Bridget-but she felt the force of his fury anyway. “I am expected,” he ground out, passing his glower from Ivonne's terrified face to the papers rattling in her hand. “Where am I to go?” Bridget stood up slowly. “We are ready for you, Captain.” The demon-dark eyes Bridget had once heard described as colder than the glaciers on Mount Serenia snapped to her own and locked. “Really?” he asked sarcastically. “Well, here I am.” Bridget flinched at the harsh tone and swallowed back a nasty reply. She reached for the papers in Ivonne's trembling hand, then came from behind the desk. “If you will follow me…” She began, but he cut her off. “Show me where to go. I can get there on my own!” Ivonne risked a glance at Bridget's angry face and gave her head a slight warning shake. This was not one of the troops routinely sent here for reinforcement. This was a Reaper and the most deadly of his

kind at that. Irritating him might well be the last thing Bridget ever did. “I'm afraid you can't enter the Be-Mod 9 Unit unless you are accompanied by one of us, Sir,” Bridget said firmly. She felt the Captain's lethal disdain flicker over her for just an instant before he pushed away from the reception desk and headed toward the black doors marked Behavioral Modification Unit Nine. “Captain Cree?!” Ivonne called out, glancing nervously at Bridget. “Sir, you can't…” “I want this crap over with,” came the brusque reply. The slap of his palm against the panel as he pushed through into the inner sanctum of the Be-Mod 9 Unit made it clear to everyone that he had no intention of waiting. “Son of a bitch!” Bridget hissed. She jerked up his papers and started after him. “Bridget, please don't anger him,” Ivonne whispered. “He's a…” “I know what he is, Ivonne” When Bridget entered the Be-Mod Unit, he was standing just on the other side of the doors, his gaze missing nothing. He glanced at her then away as though she was little more than a fly buzzing too near him. “What now?” he demanded. “You tell me. You seem to think you're in charge here.” His head snapped toward her and a fierce frown formed between his penetrating eyes. “Don't,” was all he said. Bridget held his stare. “Don't what?” she countered. That demon gaze held her in its grip, but he didn't answer. If it was his intention to unnerve her with his silent regard, it didn't work. Bridget stood her ground, staring back at him, never breaking eye contact. When it became clear to him she was not going to back down, he seemed to lose interest in the standoff. A tiny movement, a flick of the muscle, in his right cheek was the only indication that the matter was settled. “Where to?” he asked, but his voice was less gruff. She led him to a room, opened the door for him to enter and then followed him inside. “Please remove your uniform and put on the pajama bottoms we have provided for you.” Cree's fingers were already tugging at his shirt. “How long is this going to take?” he demanded, jerking the tails of his shirt from his trousers. “I can't say,” Bridget replied. “You won't say,” he corrected in a hateful tone then began to unbuckle his belt. “No matter.” The last words were hissed through tightly clenched teeth. “As soon as you are finished, the doctor will be in to speak to you. She'll know you're ready for her.” He looked up from unbuttoning his trousers. “How will she know?” When Bridget pointed to a camera situated at the top of the wall, he snorted. “She's watching me undress?” Bridget shrugged with more nonchalance than she felt. “You will be watched the entire time you are with us, Captain,” she told him. “You should be used to that.” His hands stilled as he was about to push the trousers from his hips. “All the time?” “Yes, Sir.” For a moment he didn't say anything, then he spat out a vulgar word and continued undressing, ignoring Bridget. “If you have any questions-” Bridget stopped for he had pushed his trousers down and was standing before her completely nude. His hands were on his hips, his legs spread, and he seemed to be relishing the red flush that spread over Bridget's face. She was staring straight at his crotch as though unable to tear her attention away. “Reapers have the same anatomy as human men,” he sneered and his words enabled her to tear her shocked gaze from his nakedness. “Get dressed, Captain Cree,” she managed to say before heading for the door. She felt his gaze raking her and she turned to find his smirk had been replaced by a look that scared the hell out of her. Freezing with her hand on the entry pad, she half-expected him to lunge at her, but he turned away, dismissing her with his action, and picked up the pajama bottoms. Once outside his cell, Bridget leaned against the wall, feeling sweat dripping down her cleavage. Her hands were trembling and her head felt light. “I can't do this,” she whispered and closed her eyes. “I

can't!” “Bridie?” Bridget jumped, her nerves already taut. Dr. Beryla Dean, the Director of Be-Mod 9, was standing a few feet away. She smiled apologetically. “I didn't mean to give you a heart attack, dear.” “He has a way of setting your nerves on end, doesn't he?” “He's a Reaper,” Dr. Dean replied, knowing that was explanation enough for her assistant's nervousness. “Do you want me to go in with you?” The Director shook her head. “No need. I can handle him. Just make sure everything is set for tomorrow.” A worried look passed over Bridget's face. “I hope we're doing the right thing.” Dr. Dean smiled grimly. “He's our only chance, Bridie.” She reached out and put a motherly hand on her assistant's shoulder. “And so are you.” **** “DO YOU have any questions?” Dr. Beryla Dean, the Director of the Behavioral Modification Unit asked. A look of annoyance passed over Cree's face. “Questions about what? Whether I will survive or not?” The Director's smile slipped a notch. “That isn't in the equation, Captain. You are in top physical shape.” “Lucky me.” He folded his arms over his massive chest. “What now?” “They told you that you would be spending the night here, didn't they?” “They didn't tell me anything,” he ground out. “When are you going to start the session?” “Tomorrow morning,” Dr. Dean answered. “The chemicals we use must be administered when you have an empty stomach to keep you from aspirating food into…” “I have eaten nothing today,” he interrupted her. “I am ready now.” Dean shook her head. “I have to abide by the Court's mandate and it states the sessions must begin tomorrow at oh six hundred hours.” Cree snorted. “We can't have you disobeying the Court's mandate, now, can we, Madame Director?” Dr. Dean looked down at his medical records then at him, paused then spoke on a rush of breath. “And I'm afraid I can not order your nightly medications, because it might interact with the chemicals I am to administer to you tomorrow.” For the first time, Cree faltered. He seemed to lose some of his bravura. “I am to be denied the med?” “I am afraid so, Captain,” she replied. “I have spoken with your Controller and he assures me there is no chance you-” “I cannot sleep without it! Am I expected to stay awake all night worrying about what torture you've planned for me come morning?” “I'm sorry,” she told him. “I know it will be hard for you, but-” “You are a gods-be-damned Terran, aren't you?” His eyes were pinpoints of dark hell-fire. Dr. Dean's chin came up. “I am,” she stated. “I was a medical student when I was abducted, but I finished my medical training at the University of Medical Research on Rysalia Prime if you are concerned about my qualifications.” “I don't give a crap where you trained. You have no idea what going one night without the chemical will do to me!” The Director drew in a long, steadying breath. “I have seen the effects of trisomidine withdrawal, Captain, and I assure you I know the-” “Get out,” he said, his voice a low growl. “Captain…” “Get out!” he bellowed and took a threatening step toward her. Dr. Dean spun around and hurried to the door, barely closing it behind her before it rattled beneath the

pounding of a heavy fist. “Lock it!” the Director commanded an orderly. She plastered herself against the far wall of the corridor, watching with wide eyes as the pneumatic lock slipped into place, keeping the Reaper inside. The pounding went on for several seconds then abruptly stopped. Hurrying to her office, Dr. Dean went to the monitor that looked into Cree's room and turned it on. Sitting on the floor, his knees drawn up to his chest, the Reaper was staring fixedly up at the camera. He seemed to know she was watching him for he snarled at her, his lips skinned back from his teeth. “I'm not so sure you are going to be able to handle him without physical restraints,” someone said from the door and Dr. Dean looked away from the monitor. “He'll calm down,” Beryla said with more confidence than she felt. “You'd better hope so,” her visitor cautioned. “You know what his kind is capable of doing.” A shudder ran down the Director's spine and she nodded. “Yes, I do.” “Be careful tomorrow, Beryla. I would suggest you have extra security on hand and heavy tranquilizer darts at the ready.” “Yes,” the Director agreed. “I think that would be wise.” She sat down behind her desk and let out a long sigh. “Everything hinges on tomorrow, doesn't it?” When there was no answer to her question, she looked around and found her visitor had left. Beryla Dean turned back to her monitor and stared at the warrior sitting perfectly still in the corner of his room. It was only noontime. By the time night fell, he would begin to feel the symptoms of trisomidine withdrawal and would become agitated, restless and potentially dangerous. Not unlike the potent Class Three narcotics of her home world, trisomidine was a very powerful chemical. The neuroleptic drug controlled the nerve pathways of the brain that utilized the tissue chemical dopamine for the transmission of nerve impulses. Triso, as it was commonly known, was both psychologically and physically addictive. Developed to control severe psychotic behavior, it was routinely given to warriors of the Reaper caste to prolong the intervals in between Transition cycles. The Vid-Com clicked on with a pleasant chime then a well-modulated female voice announced a visitor to the Director's office. “Enter,” Dr. Dean commanded. She looked up to find Ivonne O'Malley standing in the doorway. “What is it?” Ivonne came into the room and closed the door behind her. She was pale, her eyes haunted. “We're having a slight problem with Bridie, Dr. Dean.” The Director sighed. “I know. I've spoken to her.” There was a slight twist of irritation on the older woman's face. “Is she carrying on again?” “She offered fifty thousand credits to anyone who would take her place,” answered Ivonne. “Oh, for the love of Christ! You'd think we were asking her to sacrifice her virginity on an altar slab!” Despite her obvious unease, Ivonne smiled. “If it were anyone else but him…” She shrugged. “She's terrified of him.” “Who isn't?” Beryla drummed her fingers on her desk, thinking then shrugged fatalistically. “It's too late to change recipients now.” Her expression hardened. “She'll just have to understand that.” “Will you tell her or do you want me to?” The Director swore beneath her breath. “I'll tell her.” She got up from her desk, glanced at the monitor then instructed Ivonne to stay and monitor their patient. “If anything drastic changes with Cree, call me immediately.” Ivonne settled into the Director's chair. She focused on the monitor and felt a chill go down her spine. The Reaper was pacing his cell, stopping now and then to glare murderously at the camera. The sound wasn't on so she leaned forward and flipped on the volume, but there wasn't anything to hear save Kamerone Cree's angry breath. It was easy to see why the Reapers were so feared she thought as she watched him pace. He posed a threat although he was secured in a Maximum Four holding cell. The fury etched across his broad face only served to underline the tenseness of his powerful body. As he moved, there was a lethal grace Ivonne knew would be all stealth and unrelenting purpose when needed. When he stopped and glared

intently at the camera, she imagined he could see right through the instrument and into her own troubled gaze. Reapers were born psychic, enhanced with the keen instincts of a predatory beast. Often able to read minds, they posed a very real threat to their human counterparts when they used that preternatural talent. Almost nothing could be kept secret from them. “Stop staring at me, bitch!” Cree snarled, spitting at the camera. Ivonne jumped, her hand going to her throat. The harsh words were flung at the camera like laser blasts and were punctuated with a growl that left no doubt in her mind the warrior was infuriated beyond his ability to conceal it. She gasped as he made a leap for the camera, swatting a heavy hand at the apparatus, before crashing to the floor. He tried again, failed, and let out a howl of frustration that made the hairs on her arm stir. Ivonne flicked on the Vid-Com beside the Director's chair. “Yes, Miss O'Malley?” the computer answered the call. “Find Dr. Dean and let her know Captain Cree is quite agitated.” “Certainly, Ma'am.” Ivonne returned her attention to the monitor and was surprised to see the Reaper standing still staring at the camera. For a moment or two, he seemed to study the camera's position, then as she watched in awe, he leapt again and this time managed to grab the camera housing. On the monitor, there were a series of squiggly gray lines overlapping his angry face then the screen went black. “Oh my God!” Ivonne breathed. She knew that an ordinary man could not leap high enough to grab the camera. But then again, Reapers were not ordinary men. Ivonne thought back to the indoctrination she received secretly from a Resistance fighter her first week on FSK-14, some fifteen years earlier… While Earth was still staggering from the assassination of the greatest political leader our world had ever known, the Rysalians were systematically eliminating anyone they considered a threat to their multi-world domination; not even newborns of the ruling classes escaped the Rysalian sickle of destruction. To that end, Dr. Piev Jale, the head research scientist on board frontier station Khamsin-14, had engineered a new retrovirus that caused instantaneous infertility in his female lab specimens. The retrovirus, codename V-7, attacked the ova and destroyed all the egg cells, thereby rendering the female unable to conceive. The inability of enemy females to bear offspring would mean no future enemies about whom Rysalia would need to worry. Therefore, V-7 was developed as part of a huge stockpile of biological weapons to be added to the Rysalian Empire's war arsenal for use in future conflicts. If Rysalia could simply stop their enemies from reproducing, ultimately, there would be no more enemies with whom to share their part of the universe. It had the full endorsement of all high-ranking members of the fleet command. Once the retrovirus was deemed safe for transport, two hundred titanium canisters were sent via three long-range cruisers to the holding facility on Rysalia Prime. Each of the other fifteen space stations was to receive a dozen canisters each to be incorporated into the weapon's array of that station's assigned warship. While FSK-14's own warship, The Whirlwind, was having her cache of V-7 installed, the canisters of the retrovirus suddenly exploded in the cargo bay. The pressurized contents were forced out of the ship's forward hold and sucked into one of the space station's air registers and from there into FSK-14's ventilation system. The bacteria invaded every chamber, every corridor, and the respiratory system of every living thing aboard. The results were disastrous. What had been harmless in lab animals became lethal to the females of FSK-14. Every woman who breathed in the odorless, colorless gas drew deep into her lungs the live bacteria and was dead in less than one hour from massive hemorrhage of the uterine blood vessels. Before news of the disaster could reach Rysalia Prime-and before the other fourteen space stations could be warned of the potential danger-each of the poorly manufactured pressurized canisters exploded,

sending clouds of deadly gas into the lungs of every Rysalian female in the empire. Within two hours, all the women were dead. Such a tragedy stunned the men of the Rysalian Empire. To have lost their mothers and wives, their lovers and sisters and daughters, was a crippling blow. Humbled by their grief, the Rysalian's accepted peace terms from their enemies and set about to re-populate their world with willing women from among their former enemies. But the gods had frowned darkly upon the Rysalian warriors and their attempt to rule their part of the universe. The retrovirus, while harmless when inhaled by Rysalian males, nevertheless attached itself to the reproductive system of its victim and began to mutate amongst the spermatozoa. While no longer lethal, V-7 still carried with it devastating results: the instantaneous infertility of any female who engaged in sexual relations with a Rysalian male. And there was no way to reverse the contamination of the spermatozoa. As their male population began to decline, the Rysalians ranged farther and farther afield from their home world, seeking out carbon-based humanoids with which they might successfully mate and repopulate their dying world. The search within their own galaxy had proved futile; the females they found were just as susceptible to the bacteria as were their own. Then, when their race was on the very brink of extinction, captain Kyrish Brell of the Rysalian Fleet Command encountered an anomaly while on a routine run of the gamma quadrant. The long-range cruiser was sucked into a massive wormhole and jettisoned out into an area of space widely thought to be uninhabited. After ascertaining he could make the return trip through the wormhole without endangering his ship and crew, he tried his luck in the solar system into which he had been thrust. Passing planets that showed no signs of sustaining life, as he knew it, the captain finally arrived at a small, blue-green, pear-shaped ovoid. What he had found was Earth, or Terra as he named it in his own Rysalian high speech. Captain Brell and his men transported to the surface of this undiscovered world and encountered a female species that was not unlike their own. With methodical intent, twenty young women of childbearing age were abducted, taken on board Brell's ship, The Windlass, and examined for their ability to conceive. Only one was rejected and she was soon replaced with another fertile female. Satisfied with his human cargo, Brell returned to FSK-14. Once there, the women were handed over to specially selected males of the elite warrior caste whose task it was to impregnate them. When the first female conceived, there was uncontrolled jubilation throughout the empire, but the jubilation soon turned to abject disappointment. Though all twenty females conceived and bore offspring of the Terran-Rysalian union-twelve females and nine males-the female children were born without reproductive organs; the males with contaminated spermatozoa. Such news was bitterly disappointing to the Rysalian males. If these females’ children could not reproduce, what good were they? It was decided by the high council of scientists that from that time forward, all female fetuses growing in Terran wombs would be aborted while the male fetuses would be left to term. It did not matter that these male children could not reproduce. After all, Terran women could easily be harvested from their backward world to be used to re-populate the Rysalian Empire. What Rysalia needed were more Terran women to bring forth Terran-Rysalian males who would become fierce warriors over time. In order to advance this Rysalian objective, special sections of the Rysalian Fleet Command were formed for the sole purpose of extracting suitable females from Terra. They were called Retrieval units. The men of the first section were called Hunters. They were transported to earth and left there to blend in with the inhabitants. Their job was to seek out young females of exceptional intelligence, maximum physical heath, and arresting beauty: all attributes thought to be necessary for optimum breeding ability. The second section, the Shepherds, were assigned the job of ‘herding’ those women who were selected to a pre-arranged spot where the third section, the Harvester, picked them up and brought them to Rysalia. Once on FSK-14, the women were turned over to the fourth section, the Breeders, who assigned them to their mates.

But it was the infamous fifth section we feared the most. It was these men who struck fear into the heart of every woman brought to FSK-14. 'Run and the Reapers will find you,’ they told us. 'Disobey and the Reapers will punish you,’ we were warned. 'Harm your mate and the Reapers will kill you,’ they promised. The Reapers were the demons of every Terran woman's nightmare. And one in particular was a nightmare in his own right. His name was Kamerone Cree. Chapter 3 CREE NEITHER glanced at the women standing in the doorways of the other Treatment Suites, nor paid heed to the whispers that followed in his wake; he was used to it. His full attention was on the two people who awaited him at the end of the long hallway down which he passed. The guards escorting him to the Director's office-two in front, two to either side of him, and two bringing up the rear-held charged phasers set on heavy stun at the ready. Such elaborate security precautions irritated Cree more than he would have thought possible. To be unceremoniously ordered from his cell and told to report to the woman's office like an errant schoolboy did nothing to lighten his black mood. “You destroyed Imperial property, Captain,” the Director informed him as he walked up to her. “Our budget is quite small and repairing it will be expensive, never mind the annoyance of requisitioning a technician in here to install a new one before you return to your cell.” “So take it out of my credits.” He swept the woman standing beside the Director with an insulting glower, then folded his arms over his chest. “Is there anything else?” Bridget almost smiled at the look that came over Beryla Dean's face. Had this been any other warrior, the Director might well have had him slapped in irons until time for his session. “You seem to forget that you have been placed under my authority, Captain Cree,” Dr. Dean reminded him. “I will no more tolerate your insubordination than would your Commanding Officer!” Cree's left brow crooked. “You have no control over me,” he challenged. “I don't have to do a gods-be-damned thing you say if I don't want to.” What happened next shocked Bridget. One moment the Reaper was standing in front of Dr. Dean, a smirk on his dark face, and the next he had been flung back against the far wall of the corridor, where he crashed into it and slid down to land with a heavy thud on his rump. Even the guards were amazed at what happened and took a few steps back, eyes wide and weapons at the ready. “At ease,” Dr. Dean instructed the guards. She walked to where Cree sat, stunned and shaking his head. “I have all the control I need right here.” Groggily, Cree looked at the weapon in the Director's hand. “Do that again and I'll tear out your miserable throat, woman!” The threat didn't seem to faze Beryla Dean. Instead, she leaned over him, knowing he was still too stunned to come after her. “You forget, also, that your life is in my hands tomorrow. The wrong chemical injected at the wrong time could turn you into a gibbering idiot. Terran women have no love in them for Reapers, Captain.” A low warning growl came from the Reaper, but he made no attempt to either get up or harm the Director. But if looks could kill, Beryla Dean would have been decapitated. “I think we understand one another, don't we, Captain?” Dr. Dean inquired. She moved back, out of his reach. “I won't always be locked in here,” he told her, struggling for a moment until he could gain his feet. He stood there and glared at the doctor, but did not try to touch her. “That's true, but I think you need to be told something very important about me.” “There's nothing you can tell me that I would give a gods-be-damned shit about!” he sneered. “Not even that I am General Drae Cree's consort?” If anyone other than Bridget knew that particular secret, they concealed it well. The expression on the

guards’ faces did not alter nor did Cree's. He simply chose to ignore the statement, but Bridget could tell he had filed it away for future use. Beryla smiled. “As I said, I think we understand one another.” “It would seem so,” Cree replied. Bridget's brows flew upward at the soft, capitulating agreement. The man hadn't given in but he had admitted he dared do nothing to Dr. Dean. That, in itself, was a victory of sorts for Beryla. “Then I suggest you go back to your room and rest,” the Director told him. “Tomorrow will be long and tiring for you.” When he started to turn, Beryla cleared her throat, gaining his attention again. “And please do not vent your anger on the man who comes to fix the camera, Captain.” Cree's jaw clenched. He glanced at Bridget, let his hawk-like scrutiny rake down her once again, then spun on his heel with military precision. The guards barely had time to move out of his way and fall into step with him as he marched toward his cell. “I wish he wouldn't do that!” Bridget hissed. “I hate the way he looks at me!” “It was just that kind of look that caught our attention a year ago, Bridie,” the Director reminded her in a whisper, lowering her head so the camera just above their heads would not see her lips moving. “Otherwise, he wouldn't be here.” “I don't like it,” Bridget said. She nodded at the engineer who passed them on the way to repair the camera in Cree's cell. “You don't have to like it, dear,” the Director suggested. Her own attention was caught and held by the guards accompanying the engineer. No one wanted to take a chance of the Reaper attacking the poor technician as he replaced the broken camera. “He gives me the chills,” Bridget shuddered, crossing her arms over her chest. Beryla Dean smiled. “They don't call him the Iceman for nothing!” **** “HE LOOKS exhausted,” Bridget commented as she watched the Reaper walk toward them. “He is,” the Director answered. “He's had no sleep and the anxiety which is usually controlled by the triso has put him in an even worse mood.” Cree didn't acknowledge the good morning from the Director as he joined her and Bridget at the door to Treatment Suite Seven. He ignored Bridget entirely and fixed his unwavering attention on the red enamel door leading into TS-7. “Ready, Captain?” Dr. Dean asked. When she received no answer, she nodded and Bridget punched in the access code to the suite. When the door slid open, Cree faltered. The room beyond was darkly lit and smelled of chemicals that made his flesh crawl. An X-shaped metal table sat in the center of the room; several carts holding strange-looking instruments were grouped around the table. An odd buzzing sound waxed and waned as a door shushed open and four women technicians entered the suite. At the far end of the room was a Siliplex viewing box filled with onlookers. “I wasn't aware there was going to be an audience to my torture.” “Ignore them, Captain,” the Director advised. “They are Court-appointed witnesses and should not concern you.” “The more the merrier.” Bridget exchanged a look with Dr. Dean. They both knew the man was jittery as hell, but trying his best to conceal his nervousness. Reapers were not allowed to show weakness of any kind. “If you will lay down on the table, Captain, we can begin,” Dr. Dean told him. Cree had a wild urge to turn and run, to get as far away from the room as he could. It wasn't just the way the other women-the ones he had never seen before-were staring so avidly and expectantly at him, it was the very atmosphere inside the treatment suite that seemed to pose a threat. From the huge cauldron-like lights over the table to the rolling carts with their gleaming instruments, he felt the emanations of danger. “Captain?” He turned and looked at Dr. Dean. Behind the tortoise-shell frames of her glasses, the

woman's eyes were kind, gentle, and for some reason that infuriated him. “What is it you want me to do?” he snapped. “Lie down on the table,” the Director repeated. Cree looked at the table, hesitated for a fraction of a second before going to it and hopping up. The stainless steel platform was ice-cold beneath the thin fabric of the pajama's bottoms, colder still on his naked back. As he stretched out-made even more uneasy since his arms and legs were spread-eagle on the table-he felt a quiver of dread tighten his groin. “We are going to restrain you, now, Sir,” one of the women said. Cree lifted his head as two of the women snapped wide metal bands in place around each of his ankles. Moving up the table like mirror images of one another, they clasped more bands across his knees and upper thighs. He sat up. “Is this necessary?” he asked but neither woman answered. “I'm afraid it is. Please lie down, Captain,” Bridget told him. For just a moment he considered refusing, but he knew gods-be-damned well it would not do him any good if he did. He was already trapped, his legs bolted to the table like twin jet propulsion units. With his jaw set, his teeth grinding, he lay down and had to keep from howling out his frustration when the same two women imprisoned his wrists and forearms to the table. “Where the hell do you women think I can go?” he bellowed, his temper rising. He didn't like being restrained. No Reaper did. To be restrained was to be helpless and Reapers could not afford to be helpless. “I know this seems excessive, Captain,” Dr. Dean agreed, “but assault therapy causes severe convulsions. We don't want you to break an arm or a leg.” She looked at Bridget. “Will you attach the monitor leads, Bridie?” Cree stared at Bridget as she came to stand beside him. He felt her hands on him and flinched as she snapped a metal band into place across his chest. The band was tight, too tight, but he would be damned if he'd tell her so. He realized she was looking intently at his chest, at the spot beneath which his heart lay, and he snorted angrily. “Worried I'll have a heart attack and ruin your fun?” Bridget had been staring at the Reaper insignia tattooed on his left pectoral. The crimson drawing of a stylized scythe had been made with a laser brush and had to have been extremely painful. Burned into Cree's chest, there would be no way to remove it other than by shaving off a layer of flesh. “I wouldn't worry about having a heart attack, Captain,” Dr. Dean answered for Bridget. She could tell the younger woman was troubled by the tattoo. “You aren't the one who'd be having it, now, are you?” Bridget laughed softly. Being restrained as he was, not knowing what to expect, already so tense and jittery the graph on the monitor attached to his chest was fluttering like crazy, the man was still trying to maintain the aura of his invincibility, displaying his disdain for what was going to be done to him. “I'm glad you find this so gods-be-damned funny!” Cree glared at the one called Bridget as she leaned over him. He could smell her perfume and found it disturbing. Had he tried, he could have looked down the front of her uniform top, but her hands were at his throat, buckling into place another infernal restraint. “Take your places ladies,” the Director ordered, “so we can begin.” Cree clamped his teeth together and tried to breathe slowly and easily through his nose, but he felt the terror mounting. He heard his heartbeat pounding in his ears and felt the sweat oozing down his breastbone despite the chill of the treatment suite. When Bridget moved to the head of the table and rested her hands to either side of his head, he strained to look up at her, but the pressure on his throat would not allow him. He cursed and wished he hadn't for the weight of the restraint on his larynx was painful. Bridget felt an inexplicable urge to stroke the shiny thickness of the Captain's hair to try to calm the anxiety that was making the EKG traces leap across the monitor screen. His sleek dark curls intrigued her. His hair looked soft as a kitten's fur and just as lush; it gleamed in the glow cast from the overhead operating light. The DNA mix that had created this warrior had done an excellent job of arranging the

Reaper's genes. “We will begin now,” Dr. Dean said and nodded at Bridget. “I know you aren't going to like this, but I'm only trying to prevent you from swallowing your tongue or biting through it when the convulsions begin.” Before he could demand to know what she was talking about, Bridget thrust something between his lips, into his mouth, and partway down his throat before anchoring his jaw closed, pressing his chin upward as she braced his head against her belly. He grunted with fury, his eyes flashing brown fire, but she shook her head. “It's necessary, Captain. I'm sorry.” She shrugged at his snort of contempt. “You'll have to endure it.” “This is an artificial neurotransmitter being inserted in the hypothalamus,” the Director explained, furthering unsettling him. He felt something cool on the skin just below his elbow then the sting of a needle being inserted into his taut arm. “Do you have him, Bridie?” one of the women asked. “Yes.” “He's all yours then.” The women stepped back from the table. **** The first thing Cree felt was the heat. Intense, invading, blistering heat. It flashed across his face, curled along his neck and lapped at his chest. It ran down his outstretched arms, scorched his fingertips, pulsed down his chest, spread to his abdomen, then shot down his legs, singeing the hair. Felt the blood inside his veins boiling, his skin peeling away, exposing cartilage and bone, heard the very marrow inside him breaking open and sizzling. So instantaneous was the sensation, so penetrating, it felt as though he had been dropped into the gaping maw of an inferno. The pain was unlike anything he could have imagined. The heat took his breath away as his lungs began to bake inside his chest. “Stage One complete,” he heard the computer announce. After the heat came the most frightening feeling he had ever had in his life. Along with the suffocating feel pressing in on his lungs, he began to experience a sensation of impending doom. He was being drawn toward a precipice over which he knew he would be thrown, tumbling, pleading, screaming to his death, his body broken and exposed on the jagged rocks below as it hit, laying the very core of him open to view. The imminent sureness of his death came lunging up at him with the speed of an asteroid hurtling through space and he screamed behind the constriction of the mouthpiece stuck between his teeth. “Stage Two complete.” He was drowning, water flowing down his nose, his air cut off by the invading thickness. He was sinking beneath a wavering, frigid surface, ice floes hovering just beyond his reach. The water was filling his lungs, inflating them to bursting, filling his body cavities with the freezing liquid. The harder he fought to reach the surface and the cleansing air that would free his blocked lungs, the deeper he plunged beneath the white surface until all light was blocked out. He screamed again, his eyes wide and bulging, yet seeing nothing. “Stage Three complete.” "Blood dripped from wounds on his arms and legs. His jugular had been ripped open and the dark crimson arterial blood shot out in pulsing jets. Flesh ripped from his body, teeth clamped down into bone, grated, then the lower part of his right leg was torn away. He was growing weaker by the moment as fangs sank into his organs, spreading poison, killing him. Claws ripped into his belly, drawing out his intestines and his bloodcurdling scream was only matched by the howl of the monster that was devouring him, inch by bloody, painful inch. Something pulled free of his lower torso and he watched in horror as his manhood disappeared behind the wicked teeth of his killer. His eyes rolled back in his head and he pitched into darkness. “Stage Four complete.” Bridget eased her hand from Cree's chin and gently removed the wedge of rubber. There were teeth

marks deep in the surface, strings of phlegm clinging to the wedge. She took a cloth from Dorrie Burkhart, one of the techs, and wiped the thin stream of saliva that had dribbled from the corner of the Reaper's mouth. Cree came awake almost as quickly as he had passed out. He stared blindly up at the woman bending over him checking the reaction of his pupils. The light hurt his eyes, sent jagged bursts of pain through his head. He tried to turn away from it, but found he could not. “He's stable,” Dr. Dean pronounced after checking the computer readings. She straightened and looked toward the gallery. “No intracranial bleeding.” “Then proceed!” a woman from the viewing box commanded. Dr. Dean frowned. “Second syringe.” Cree's eyes went wide. Were they going to put him through that hell a second time? He opened his mouth to protest, but Bridget's cool, efficient hands were once more at his mouth and the rubber wedge being inserted. “Don't!” was all he got out before his jaw was pressed shut around the bitter rubber. Then Hell came up to greet him. Kamerone Cree's whole life, such as it had been, passed before his eyes and he tried to spit out the wedge that was jammed so tightly between his lips. He tried to get up, irrational fury and terror filling him as he realized he could not. He felt the cold swab of the disinfectant, the prick of the needle and the ungodly heat washing over him with blinding speed. Bridget's brows met as the convulsions began so quickly she barely had time to brace the Reaper's head. She saw his eyes roll back until only the whites could be seen. His body went absolutely rigid as though he was in the throes of electroshock. He shuddered violently as he passed quickly from one state of assault therapy to the other. She felt the intense heat of his high fever, the sweat pouring down his temples. The convulsions that wracked his body-despite the security of the thick metal restraints-lifted him partially off the treatment table. His groans and muted shrieks gave evidence of the absolute terror under which he was existing. She could only imagine the horrors that were invading his mind, driving him to the brink of madness. “Stage Three complete.” Cree's body shook and he came crashing down, falling past the jutting rocks toward which he had been plunging. Vaguely, in some sane part of his jumbled mind, he realized the sequence of impending destruction had been altered: the drowning came before the falling this time. His mental processes were so scrambled, he had trouble latching onto a single coherent thought even as it entered his mind. “Stage Four complete.” Bridget re-wet the cloth and wiped his face, his neck, under his arms where the thick brown hair was matted with perspiration. She put the cloth in the water again, noticing that he had awakened and was watching her. He followed her movements so blindly, he reminded her of a little lost dog trailing hopefully behind someone who had been kind to it. “Third syringe.” Cree whimpered: a lost, hopeless, pitiful thrust of breath from his tortured mouth. He cringed away from the wedge as it was brought to his lips, but he didn't have the strength to deny it entrance. He tasted the cold slime of his own saliva clinging to it, gagged at the feel of it between his teeth and down his throat. The gentle hand that cupped his chin protectively was cool against his heated flesh as once more the needle pierced his flesh. Dr. Dean did not have the needle all the way out of his arm before the convulsions started again. She stepped back, her face filled with concern as a trickle of blood eased down Cree's neck. “Left ear drum rupture,” Dorrie remarked, noting it in the computer. “Both,” one of the other women corrected. She gasped. “My god! His blood is black!” Bridget looked down at the thick ebony blood dripping to the stainless steel table beneath the Reaper's head. She was having a hard time keeping his head still and was aware that he had bitten entirely through the protective wedge as the computer announced: “Stage Two complete. Flat line!”

Cree felt something sharp drive deeply through his breastbone and shrieked like a madman beneath Bridget's hold. Pain rocketed, exploded in his chest and chilling fluid flooded into his heart. “That has to be a real bummer for him.” Dorrie chuckled. “Shut up, Burkhart!” ordered Dr. Dean. He was jolted from the table, slammed down and the shrill shriek of some horrible monster roared after him as he experienced a sudden, blinding white light. “He's not breathing, ladies!” Dorrie told them. “Move it, Dunne!” Bridget fumbled the wedge from between the Reaper's teeth then moved quickly out of Dorrie's way as the tech hurried to drop an airline down Cree's throat to intubate him. The monster was crawling down his throat, plunging into his lungs. He could feel it laying its insidious eggs inside him. “Syringe!” How many times were they going to stake him? he thought. Hadn't they already killed him? Why were they tormenting him still? He was thrown upwards against his restraints, then seemed to melt into the table for a moment as the blinding white light seared through his brain and brought intense, sickening pain. “We've got a hitch!” The shrill shriek of the monster seemed to cough, then cough again, before finally settling down to a piercing succession of hiccups. Cree wondered it if had bitten off more of him than it could chew and choked. The thought made him giggle. “Captain Cree?” Bridget asked, seeing the fixed stare leap back to life. “Are you with us, Captain Cree?” He had never seen such beautiful eyes in his life as the ones that were staring down at him with such compassion. They were the most delicate shade of green: pale and soothing. They looked at him with so much tenderness, such overwhelming sympathy, he knew he could trust their owner. “Three,” Dr. Dean stated firmly. “That's it. No more today.” There was a long pause then the woman in the viewing gallery agreed. “Three it is.” “Onar demanded five,” Dr. Dean told her treatment team. “Five and he would be fodder for the Ionarian worms,” Dorrie scoffed, reaching for the tube. Cree gagged as she pulled the airway from his throat. He coughed and felt dribble running down his chin until the woman with the beautiful eyes moved over him and wiped it away. “It's over,” she told him gently. “We're through.” “S…stay,” he whispered, his throat an agony. “What?” Even as the orderlies lifted him, moving him to a gurney, Cree found he could not look away from the woman's beautiful green eyes. He tried to lift his hand, to touch the hand of the woman whose eyes held him so enthralled, but his muscles wouldn't cooperate. “W…with me,” he asked. “What is he babbling about?” Dorrie snapped. “I don't know,” Bridget answered. Following behind the gurney, she watched the intense shivering that had taken hold of the Reaper. His body was quivering, his teeth chattering. He stared fixedly at the lights running by overhead as the gurney rolled down the corridor. “Get me some blankets for him, Dorrie,” Bridget ordered. She walked ahead of the gurney, opened Cree's cell door for the orderlies to roll him inside. “There you go, Sir,” the taller of the two orderlies said as he and the other man shifted Cree from the gurney to the bare cot. He glanced at Bridget. “Should we strap him down, Doc?” “Wouldn't hurt,” Bridget replied. She was watching the vague smile trembling on her patient's face and wondered where his mind had taken him for the moment. “Green,” she heard him say. “So green.” The orderlies tugged the webbed restraints into place around the Reaper's wrists and ankles, then wheeled the gurney from the room. Bridget walked to Cree's bed and leaned over him. “Captain?” she questioned. When he didn't switch his attention from the light above him to her, she repeated his name. Still there was no response. She sighed, then reached out to tilt his head toward her.

“Captain Cree?” There they are again, he thought, his lips pulling back in a slow, confused smile. There are those beautiful, understanding eyes. He tried to lift his hand to touch their owner's cheek, but could not. “How do you feel?” Bridget asked him. “What's your name?” he croaked. “Dr. Dunne,” she replied. When he frowned, she amended her answer. “Bridget. Bridget Dunne.” “Bridget,” he repeated. “Are you cold?” “Aye,” he sighed. Her voice was so soft, so incredibly gentle. It filled him with a need to which he could not put a name. “We're getting you a blanket.” She reached out to smooth away a lock of dark hair from his forehead. Cree closed his eyes, the effects of the synthetic neurotransmitter making the smell of her flesh a vivid sensation in his nostrils. Like the caress of her voice, her touch was infinitely desirable and completely calming. “I understand what you are trying to do,” he muttered. Bridget straightened up as though an unseen puppeteer had jerked her strings. “You do?” she gasped. He opened his eyes and looked up at her, his awareness returning in bits and pieces. There was no recollection of what had actually happened to him in the treatment suite-there never would be-but the emotions he had experienced in that hellish place were slipping back to him slowly. He knew whatever had been done to him had been extremely unpleasant, excruciatingly painful, and not something he'd care to ever repeat again. “What was I saying?” he asked, blinking. Bridget stepped back from the bed. “Do you know where you are?” she asked. Cree frowned. “In my room,” he said, looking about him. He tried to move his arms and legs and when he found himself restrained, the softness evaporated from his expression and the belligerent, arrogant mask that was the Reaper's face settled into place once more. “When can I leave?” “Captain, you-” “Answer me!” he ordered. “You bitches have had your fun with me so unbuckled these gods-be-damned restraints and let me leave!” He pulled on the restraints, livid that he was shackled in the first place. “I hate being the one to tell you…” “Tell me what?” he exploded. Unease was poking a cold finger at his spine and he jerked viciously on the restraints. “Unbuckle these things!” Bridget shook her head, thankful for the confinement the webbed belts provided. “I can't, Captain.” She took another step back from the bed. “We aren't through with you yet.” Cree had been about to shout at her, but her words stopped him cold. He stared at her, his face going rigid. “What are you talking about?” “There's another session right after lunch,” Bridget answered. “Another…” Cree stopped, shook his head. “No, you are mistaken.” When the woman remained silent, looking down at him with what he knew could only be pity, he blinked, his lips parting in confusion. “I'm sorry, Captain,” Bridget said and was surprised to realize she meant it. “What are they going to do to me after lunch?” he forced himself to ask. Bridget bit her lips before replying. “There are to be three sessions like the one this morning every day you are here, Captain.” Shock flashed over Kamerone Cree's pale face. “Every day I'm here?” he questioned in a disbelieving tone. He tried to sit up, became enraged that he couldn't. He pulled furiously on his restraints. “What the hell are you talking about?” Bridget could hear the fear closing his throat. She amazed herself again when she began to feel true sympathy for the man. He had no idea what sentence he had been given, but was just now realizing it was far more brutal than he had expected it to be. “How long am I supposed to be here?” Cree saw her hesitate and knew a moment of abject terror. He couldn't remember what they had done

to him in that room, but the residual anxiety of it was still thick in his mind. Whatever had been done had been the worst kind of torture that much he understood, and he didn't want to go through it again. “Answer me!” he bellowed. “How long?” He might be a Reaper, she thought, the most vicious of his kind if rumors were true, but he was also part human and the human part of him was staring back at her with a fear that had a sentience of its own. “How long?” “Two weeks.” He stared at her, stunned. Surely he had not heard her correctly. He shook his head, wanting to clear way the buzzing that had suddenly filled his hearing. “How long?” he whispered, hoping against hope that he had not really heard what he knew he had. “You will be with us for two weeks, Captain,” Bridget replied and almost reached out to touch him for she saw a little boy's expression of fear pass quickly over his face before his features relaxed with hopelessness. “Two weeks,” he repeated in a dull, lifeless voice, understanding there if not acceptance. Slowly he shifted his gaze from her, turning his head so that he could stare up at the glaring white light overhead. “Two weeks of that hell?” “Yes,” she answered, her pity growing even though she knew she should feel no such emotion for this man. “Three times a day for two weeks.” He flinched. “Three times a day,” he whispered. “I'm afraid so.” Cree closed his eyes. “Go away.” “I will as soon as Dorrie brings your blanket,” Bridget replied, wondering why it was taking the woman so long. “I don't want a blanket,” he said. “But you said you were cold,” she protested. He turned his eyes to her. “Go…away,” he repeated. Bridget hesitated, thinking she saw a shimmer of tears in the Reaper's eyes, then decided she could not possibly have since they were not programmed for any emotion other than anger. “I'll see you after lunch then.” Cree looked away from her. Bridget never saw the tear that formed in his left eye and rolled down his clenched cheek. Chapter 4 THEY CAME for him at 1300 hours, obviously expecting him to give them trouble. The six Security guards and the two orderlies had been prepared neither for his docility nor his cooperation as they unbuckled his restraints. He had surprised them even more when he swung his legs off the bed and preceded them calmly to the door “We are sorry about this, Sir,” one of the guards apologized. “Don't be,” was all the Reaper said, reinforcing the nickname the Fleet had given him long ago. “I am told he did not resist,” Justice Vuin Barif grumbled as he seated himself in the viewing gallery. “He would not dare,” the only woman in the gallery remarked. “He has too much pride to allow anyone to see how truly afraid he is.” She watched Cree enter the treatment room and lie down on the table. “I would venture to say it will take several days of treatment before he begins to balk at being brought here.” Bridget glanced down at him as she came to the table. Dorrie and Tina Portas were closing the restraints on his upper arms as she took her place at the head of the treatment table. He barely acknowledged her before fixing his attention on the overhead light. “Are you ready, Madame Director?” the woman in the gallery inquired. “Yes.” “You may proceed.” Cree shot a look to the gallery, narrowed his gaze at the shadow of the person speaking, then allowed

the woman behind him to place the hellish rubber wedge between his teeth. “You are going to feel a sting, Captain,” Dr. Dean said. Water…Fangs…Fire…Falling… The sensations shot over him with blinding speed, alternating with one another for a root in his terrified mind. He convulsed. "Where is she?” his mind demanded. He whimpered. “Where IS she?” He screamed. “WHERE IS SHE?" His eyes rolled back in his head and he passed out, came to just as quickly. “Captain?” The light was piercing white, filing his head with the worst pain he could ever remember experiencing. "Why wasn't she here?" “Captain?” He tried to focus. Someone shook him gently, spoke his given name. Fog, thick and numbing was clouding his vision and he couldn't move, couldn't find his way out of the mist. "Why wouldn't she come to him? “Captain Cree!” The voice was more insistent, but it was not her voice. He could smell his own sour sweat. It was distasteful to him and it filled him with shame. Reapers did not sweat. He had never smelled like this and it offended his sense of honor. “Captain Cree!” His vision cleared and he found himself looking up into the beautiful green eyes of the woman for whom he had been searching in his nightmare world. She was leaning over him, her face concerned, those beautiful green eyes filled with tears. “You are back in your room, Sir,” she told him. He turned his head away. “What time is it?” he mumbled. “Fourteen hundred hours,” she replied. An hour? He'd been in that demonic place only an hour? It had seemed like an eternity that he was lost there. Despite his inability to remember what had happened in the treatment suite, he instinctively knew it had been much worse this time. “When?” he forced himself to ask. Bridget reached out to push a lock of hair from his forehead. “Eighteen hundred,” she said gently. “Every five hours,” he whispered. “I'll stay with you until-” “Go away.” The command was bitter. “You weren't there when I needed you and I don't want you here now!” “I beg your pardon?” “Go away, woman!” When the door shushed to behind her, Cree's face crinkled with hopelessness. He had never once doubted his bravery, his ability to withstand whatever the world, or the Empire, threw at him, but this? This unspeakable torture was beyond his understanding and he found himself dreading every ticking minute, every passing nanosecond that brought him closer to the room at the end of the hall. Falling…water…fangs…fire. Helpless…hopeless…defenseless…useless. "Why had she left him alone?" “He is experiencing the four most primitive, primal fears there are,” the woman in the gallery explained to the others. “From deep within the human part of his subconscious, all those elemental emotions dredged up to frighten and violate a man's mind have survived civilization, breeding, education, and conditioning. No amount of neuro-manipulation can either erase or negate them. The drug invading his system is simply magnifying those emotions Reapers have been conditioned to ignore.” “What exactly are we talking about here?” Barif asked. “He is experiencing his imminent death in a variety of forms. That is the one thing every human man fears most, for it is the end of self, the end of existence. To a Reaper, death is an enemy to be overcome;

to a human male, it is something more meaningful. It is the human part of him the drug is attacking.” **** CREE'S SILENT scream filled his head. The pain-he thought as his flesh split and sloughed off, his bones turning black as they charred-the pain was so horrific, so invasive, so utterly intense, he longed for the surcease of life. But just as soon as the flames had enveloped him, blistering his flesh, then burning deep through the epidermis, past the coris, into the muscles and nerve bundles, dissolving capillaries, splitting open veins and arteries and flashing into the very marrow of his bones; just as the pain became so terrifying that he had began to beg for death, she was there holding out her hand to him. "Come, Kam,” she whispered. “Come to me and the pain will stop." He held out his hand, striving to touch hers, hopeful, ecstatic, then she began to fade from his sight. "No!” he cried out, but she was gone, leaving him lost, desperate, so totally without hope. “No more today,” Bridget told him as he came flying up through the ashes of his own disintegration. “You can rest, Captain.” He found her eyes, those wonderful, pitying eyes and he drew comfort, small as it was, from those precious, friendly eyes. “Bridget,” he sighed, remembering her name and very proud of his ability to do so. “Yes, Captain,” she agreed, stroking his cheek. They lifted him onto the gurney and his head lolled. His weary, grainy vision caught sight of the people in the gallery observing him, pointing at him, wanting him to break. “Damn you to the Abyss,” he thought he told them, but later, he could not remember if he had or not. As he lay in his bed, once more strapped down despite the fact that he could not seem to get his muscles to maintain any semblance of strength, he decided he had not said anything at all. He might have dozed, but he did not think he had for he was bone-tired and unable to sleep without the triso. He came to himself, feeling her cool fingers on him again. She was smiling gently at him, sorrowfully it seemed to him, and he had to look away, unable to bear the sight of her. “Make a fist for me, Captain,” she told him. He swiveled his head back around and saw the syringe in her hand. His gaze shifted to hers and held although he didn't say anything. “Make a fist, please,” she repeated. He slowly clenched his hand. “That isn't my triso.” “No, Sir, it isn't.” “Then what is it?” She explained it to him and he nearly howled with outrage. The drug was part of his punishment: an excruciating stimulant that would race to the somatomotor area of his cerebral cortex; an emotional roller coaster that would cause intense hyperactivity. Being strapped down as he was, there would be no way for him to get up to pace his cell to wear the agitation from his body. It was an exquisite torture, designed to drive him mad. “I am sorry, Captain,” she told him for what must have been the tenth time since he had made her acquaintance. “I truly am sorry; you don't deserve this, Sir.” The drug raced through his veins and he began to itch in a hundred places, his arms and legs an agony of tingling. With no way to scratch, no way to relieve the maddening sensations washing over him, he threw back his head and bellowed with rage. “Damn you!” he shouted, glaring at the camera. “Damn all of you!” All, he thought with a pang of true regret, except the woman with the beautiful green eyes. **** CREE LAY there calmly enough the next morning as Bridget locked into place the band across his chest. She smelled of flowers, a scent that was clean and fresh. He studied her face and for the first time

in his life the word sensuous had meaning for him. She moved to the table to place the rubber wedge between his teeth. She smiled at him and he obediently opened his mouth. When the drug entered his body, he knew something was wrong. The feeling-one of acute anxiety coupled with emotions he couldn't have explained with words-flooded through him and in rapid succession, the fire dissolved him, the water invaded his lungs, the rocks crushed him and the fangs ripped him apart with such swiftness, he barely had time to register the godsawful pain. "Kamerone! This way, beloved. Come this way!" He turned away from the darkness and saw her standing at the top of a small rise. His hope soared and he started to climb to her, striving to keep her beautiful face before him; but then the all-encompassing terror of impending death loomed up out of the darkness and sprung, catching him unaware with a hemp noose that dropped over his head and jerked him off his feet, away from her. "Noooooooooooo!" Bridget saw his eyes snap open wide, watched his face turn red. She looked at the Director, but Dr. Dean was staring at the floor. The woman never liked watching her handiwork. “Dr. Dean?” Bridget questioned. “He's all right,” the Director said dully. “Unless he goes into cardiac arrest again, there's no need to be concerned.” The noose pulled him away from her outstretched hand and tightened around his throat. His legs went out from under him and he was hanging, the hemp gouging into the flesh of his neck, cutting off his breath. He couldn't even call out to her; couldn't even beg her to help him. Everything around him was turning red and then became speckled with stars. He couldn't breathe; he couldn't swallow; he couldn't say her beautiful name. He was choking to death, the blood filling his head, making it feel as though it would burst. His windpipe was being crushed and he began to gag, clawing frantically at the rope to get it from around his throat. “Dr. Dean?” Bridget called out, watching the man on the table go rigid as stone. His fingers were curled into claws and were digging at the table. His face was turning black and his throat was working as though he couldn't draw breath. “Stage Four complete,” the computer announced. “Bring him up, Tina,” Dr. Dean told the anesthesiologist and moved out of the way as Tina injected an epinephrine-based drug into Cree's arm. Bridget had to pry the wedge from his mouth. Once more, he had bitten through the rubber. A portion of the back end of the appliance was gone: he had swallowed it. Dr. Dean looked toward the gallery. “I want your permission to discontinue the neurotransmitter this evening.” “No,” Onar denied. Dean's face hardened. “Is it your intent to kill him?” “We are attempting to teach him a lesson he has needed to be taught for a long time, Madame Director,” Onar answered in a warning tone. “Do not question us.” The Director turned around, looked straight at Bridget. “Get him back to his room.” She spun on her heel and stormed from the treatment room. He whimpered as they shifted him onto his bed. His neck was sore, his throat hurt to swallow; he was shivering with cold, his teeth clattering so hard he had to clamp his jaw tight to keep from biting his tongue. When he opened his eyes, he found Bridget bent over him, covering his naked chest with a blanket. “You have a fever,” she told him, feeling his forehead. “Sometimes the synthetic neurotransmitter does that.” A wet cloth seemed to materialize out of nowhere and she ran it over his flushed face. “That's a good sign, though.” “W…why?” he managed to ask. “It means you're flushing the drug out of your system more quickly.” She wrinkled her nose. “But it does give off a rather rancid odor as you sweat.” He could smell that ‘rather rancid odor’ of which she spoke and thought it had to be the vilest stench

he had ever encountered. He fairly reeked of it and with his senses heightened from the drugs they were forcing into him, he was acutely ashamed of the way he smelled. Not even a Serenian tugmyte smelled as gods-be-damned bad as the aroma clinging to his body. “They will bring you some food,” she said. Food was the last thing he either wanted or needed. What he wanted was a bath. What he needed was to be set free. What he was going to get was more pain and torment. Bridget turned to leave but he stopped her with a near-shout of anxiety. “Don't go!” he called out. “Don't leave me again, Bridget!” “I can't stay, but I'll be back with them when they come for you at thirteen hundred hours.” And they had been on time. Fangs…water…noose…fire…falling. Sweet merciful Alel, why wouldn't she come for him? **** THE SUPPER had been watery, tasteless broth, weak tea, and a gelatin without noticeable flavor: some Terran concoction that wiggled when he poked at it. The syn-neu had made him twitch and grunt all night, his third without either sleep or the triso to which he was acutely addicted. When they came for him the next morning, he was utterly exhausted, too weak to move on his own and too keyed-up to even react to what was happening to him. Until the nightmare began again. On the third day, he had frozen to death on a frigid tundra where no other living soul had ever walked or drawn breath. She had tried to help him; he had actually touched her precious hand before sinking down into the snow, falling beneath the ice as his extremities turned black with frostbite, then fell off, one by one. He had finally lain there, welcoming the cold, whispering her name, knowing they would not let her help him. Knowing that, yearning for her as he did, he allowed the cold to have him for it had put out the fire that had claimed him earlier. On the fourth day, he had been crushed beneath layers of blocks tumbling down on him from an exploding building. She had knelt over him, frantically trying to roll the rocks away, calling his name, wanting him as no woman ever had. But then someone had jerked her away, taken her from him even as he screamed out her name and he had gone down, his body buried beneath smoking rubble. On the fifth day, he had been poisoned. His belly had cramped so badly he thought it would implode. She had come to him, held his head at he tried to vomit the poison from his body. "Hold on, beloved,” she had cried, tears falling from her eyes. “I will find a cure." Not even the water that later came rushing down his lungs and into his belly could wash away the poison as it spread through his system, taking his life, but it had swept her away from him, her terrified eyes beseeching him to help her this time. On the sixth day, he had become lost in a vast, arid wasteland where water and food were only faint memories. He was searching for her, trying to find her, needing to hold her as he had never been allowed to do. Scorpions and vipers struck at him and stung his flesh, sank their fangs into his body as he stumbled through the sand. He fell, gasping for air in the horrific heat, his tongue swollen, his eyes burning. She called to him from on top of one of the burning dunes and he struggled to get up, to go to her, but the hunger pangs and the great desire for water ended his existence before he could tell her what he had come millions of miles through space to say. On the seventh day, disease had riddled his body, growing inside him, festering, eating away at his innards, spreading to every organ and every hidden niche within him. She had sat at his bedside, caring for him, stroking his forehead and calling him her beloved. The stench of his own rotting was so terrible, not even the fire could burn it away; the waters wash it away; or the ice cold of the frozen tundra freeze it. But the stench had brought the wild bloodbeasts to him faster, to feast on his decaying flesh. On the eighth day, he had been electrocuted, his body convulsing as wave after wave of electric current passed through him. She had been sitting in the gallery, watching them strap him to the chair and

she had been crying. Her eyes pleaded with him for forgiveness for being a part of this and he yearned to tell her… On the ninth day, he had been paralyzed then utterly destroyed with nerve gas. He had alternated between choking and gasping, his lungs burning from the inside out. She had not come to him and somehow he understood that his tormentors had saved her life for some vile purpose of their own. He woke screaming: “why?” On the tenth day, he suffocated beneath tons of sand as he dropped through an arid desert floor. As the earth swallowed him up, he had screamed for her, but the sand had flowed down his mouth, killing him. She never came. On the eleventh day, as he met his death in the black, airless voice of space, he saw her passing by through the porthole of a giant white ship. He reached out to her, then screamed in frustration as a faceless male enfolded her in his arms and pulled her from the porthole. “Bridget!" he screamed, his body pulled farther and farther into the vacuum of space. When he awoke, there was precious little left of the proud man who had been brought into the Behavioral Modification Unit. Chapter 5 “CAPTAIN?” she asked as the orderlies unstrapped him. “How are you feeling, Sir?” He looked groggily at her, barely recognizing her, but when he did, his voice was lost, so terribly sad. “Why did you go with him?” “Sir?” Bridget questioned, her brows drawing together. “Go with whom, Captain?” The day before, he had screamed and screamed and screamed until they had had to gag him. He could not remember why he had felt the need to scream. Not that it had helped. It had only strained his throat. It hurt him to speak, so he stopped trying. Bridget put her hand on his shoulder. “Do you know who I am, Sir?” He nodded, wishing she would never take her hand away. It was the only comfort he had in this hellish world in which he was trapped. He turned his face so that his cheek nestled her hand like a puppy seeking attention. “Only two more days left, Captain,” one of the orderlies remarked as they lifted him gently and placed him on the gurney. “That isn't so long.” Bridget removed her hand from his face and was surprised to see acute longing filling his eyes as he gazed up at her. The helplessness, the pleading on his face had been growing each day. He was beginning to depend on her for every scrap of humanity that came his way and while that was exactly what they wanted; what they had hoped would happen; it sickened her and made her feel unclean. Dorrie waved her hand under her nose as the orderlies placed Cree on the treatment table. “God Almighty, he stinks worse today than he did yesterday!” Bridget looked down as Cree whimpered and they were all astonished to see his eyes well with tears. A single tear eased from the corner of his right eye and fell down his cheek. “He's crying!” Dorrie gasped. “My God, the Iceman is actually crying!” “Shut up!” Bridget snapped. She shoved the other woman out of the way. Before she could say something to Cree, to apologize for the thoughtless remark, Dr. Dean was at the table, being informed of what had happened. The Director nodded as though that were a great accomplishment for the Reaper. “Are you ready, Captain?” Dr. Dean asked, laying a hand on his bare shoulder. Cree half-giggled at her question. What choice did he have? He was too weak to do anything except lay there. There had been a time, several days back, when he had begun to fight them. He had lashed out at the orderlies-blackening one's eye-and it had taken eight Security guards to drag him to the treatment room; and all of the women, as well, to lash him to the gods-be-damned table. Three days of that routine had taught him it was useless to resist. Now, he couldn't have fought them if his life depended on it. Dorrie moved to the table to check on the EKG band across his chest. He looked at her and tried to

smile, although she had never smiled at him. Barely looked at him, in fact. Her hands were not gentle as Bridget's and she didn't smell as nicely as Bridget smelled. Dorrie had an antiseptic smell that bothered him, but he needed comfort so badly at that moment that he greeted her. “Good morning, Dorrie,” he said softly. Dorrie glanced at him with surprise. She took in the look on his face that hinted of a man on the brink of madness. “Good morning,” she mumbled. “Let's get started, ladies,” Dr. Dean said. Bridget found Cree craning his neck to look up at her. She caught a fleeting look of pleading and made a mental note to increase the sedative she had been secretly slipping him in the syn-neu at night. “Listen to me,” she had told him on the evening of his fifth day. “I switched syringes and this one contains a mild sleep-inducer.” “They will know,” he had protested, lowering his voice as she had. “Bridget, you can't. They'll…” “You need to sleep,” she'd stated, cutting him off. “Make a fist.” “I can't let you…” he'd tried to say, but she had leaned down and shushed him with her fingertips. “You don't have a say in the matter,” she'd insisted. “You need to sleep!” He had been grateful. She had seen it in his eyes and she had wondered if he had ever shown anyone gratitude in his entire life. She doubted that he had ever said thank you, and if he had, actually meant it. She wasn't surprised when he didn't say it then. “Bridie? Are you ready?” “Yes.” Bridget bent down to put the wedge between Cree's lips. She watched his eyes close in anticipation of what was to come. ****

NOOSE…FIRE…Disease…Poison…Space…Rocks…Cold…Water…Electricity…Desert…Falling block…Suffocating sand…Fangs…Gas…Drewe! Bridget heard the moan of heart-rending agony trying to push free of the mouth she held clamped together. It was a sound of mortal pain, of complete betrayal, of awful agony being endured. She looked at the other women and saw tears in Dr. Dean's eyes, something she didn't think she would ever see during reinforcement sessions. “What he is experiencing now is the ultimate vulnerability,” the woman in the gallery reported. “Since his first intense conditioning at age seven, he has been taught that there is an unbreakable bond among the warrior caste: a code by which the Elite must live. Never in the history of these warriors has a Reaper been betrayed. He is finding that premise to be somewhat erroneous.” Drewe was stabbing him. Over and over again, his dagger biting deep into Cree's belly: ripping, tearing, slicing into the very essence of him. "I am death, Cree!” Drewe told him. “I am your death!" “Betrayal by those you consider to be your allies, those to whom you have entrusted your life, is one of the worst agonies imaginable for a warrior. To have that person attack and attempt to kill you, is a defeat so unexpected and shocking as to make you question your own competence, your own ability to perceive the correctness of things,” the woman behind the siliplex stated. “Flatline!” Dorrie shouted, snatching up a syringe and slapping it into Dr. Dean's hand. "Die, traitor!” Drewe bellowed and his dagger pierced the very heart inside Kamerone Cree's dying body. Bridget's hand tensed on Cree's chin. He was sweating profusely and the stench had become overpowering. She watched the others working on him, trying to jump-start his heart as he was lifted and slammed repeatedly down upon the treatment table. “Hang in there, Captain,” she whispered in his ear. “Hang in there!” "Stay with me, beloved!” She whispered to him. “Stay with me!" “I don't have a pulse!” Tina shouted.

Bridget looked up, saw all the observers in the gallery standing, their hands pressed against the siliplex wall. She turned to the computer monitor and bit her lip for the line remained flat across the screen, it's harsh, prolonged beep sounding ominous in the treatment room. “Come on, Cree,” she said urgently. “Don't check out on us now!” "Do not leave me, beloved!” He heard her pleading with him. “I need you!" Once more Drewe thrust his dagger into Cree's chest and icy fluid filled his heart. He stumbled away from the shepherd lieutenant and held out his hand to her, straining to touch the fingers she stretched toward him. "Come, beloved! Come with me!" “Blood pressure is falling!” Dorrie yelled. “We're losing him!” He had almost reached her hand; he could feel the coolness of her fingertips. He saw her smile and answered it with one of his own. "Beloved,” she sighed. “I am here for you." The monster was closing on him. He could hear its metallic scream. He knew he had to get to her, touch her. If he did, he would be safe. “I have a hitch!” Tina shouted. Who is that man? He asked, tearing his gaze from her to the faceless being who had appeared behind her. He opened his mouth to demand that the male leave, but before he could, the mysterious being had swooped down and taken the woman, Cree's woman, into his arm and was flying away with her! "No!” Cree pleaded. “Don't take her away from me! For the love of the gods, don't take her away from me!" Dr. Dean spun around and strode to the gallery. “Once a day!” she shouted at those assembled behind the Siliplex barrier. “Once a day and no more than that!” “Three times a day was what the Tribunal ordered.” Onar hissed. “Once a day and no more than that!” the Director shrieked like a madwoman. “I will not allow you to kill Drae Cree's son!” There was a long pause as the people in the gallery stood and stared. Finally, the lone woman spoke for them all. “Twice a day will be sufficient, Madame Director.” “No. Not acceptable! Once and once only!” came the enraged reply. Again there was a long pause, then the people in the gallery huddled together, seemed to be discussing the problem. One or two seemed to be arguing strenuously, most of all the woman, but when Onar stormed from the gallery, another man flung up his hands as though in surrender. Eventually, he shrugged, turned away and motioned the others out. The woman looked at Dr. Dean and nodded slightly, inferring agreement with the Director's demand. Dr. Dean swore beneath her breath, turned and strode angrily to the table. “Get that thing out of his mouth, Dunne!” she ordered Bridget. Bridget eased the wedge from between Cree's lips and wiped away the black flecks of blood from the corner of his mouth. He came awake with a start, coughed, gagged, and strained to get up. He was trembling, his body wracked with desperate shivers. “Remove these!” Bridget demanded, leaning over to begin unbuckled the restraint bands. When the one anchored across his chest came off, he turned partially over on his side, gagging violently. Dorrie, who was wringing out the cloth Bridget had used to wipe his mouth, noticed the look of helplessness on his pained face. “It's all over for today,” she said, wondering at the gentleness in her voice. “They're just going to do one session a day from now on. More sessions than that are just too much for your heart.” “One?” came the pained gasp. His tone said such news could not possibly be true; that the promise of only one torment a day was a torture in itself. “Just one,” Tina reiterated. “You can handle that, can't you, Captain?” “Where did she go?” he whispered. “Who, Captain?” Tina inquired. “Why does she keep leaving me? What have I done to make her leave me?”

Dorrie exchanged a look with Tina. “Stop talking and let's get him back to his room,” Bridget ordered. For the first time since he had begun the reinforcement treatments, Dorrie and Tina walked behind Cree's gurney and helped Bridget settle him in his cot. Dorrie pursed her lips in irritation as Bridget drew a syringe from her pocket. “What is that, Doctor?” Bridget ignored the tech. “I'll stay with him until he falls asleep,” was all she said. “If that's a sedative, you could be further endangering his life.” “He needs to sleep,” Bridget snapped, already preparing to give the injection to their patient, but Dorrie snaked out a hand and grabbed her wrist. With fury leaping in her green eyes, Bridie turned on the tech, but Tina stepped between them. “Dorrie's right. You'd better damned well know what you're going to give him isn't going to stop his heart again!” Bridget hesitated. She really hadn't thought of that. She looked from Dorrie to Cree. “He is near burnout. We need-” “He needs triso,” Dorrie interrupted. “That's the only safe thing to give him right now.” “And just where the hell am I supposed to get that?” Bridget countered. Dorrie smiled. “I think I can find some.” With that, she turned and left the room. Cree had been listening intently to the exchange between the women. He felt as though he had been standing at ground zero when a megaton plasma bomb had exploded. His entire being hurt and he was having trouble focusing. When Dorrie returned, and pushed Bridget aside, he stared up at her blankly, unable to remember who she was. “Make a fist for me, baby,” Dorrie said. When he couldn't comply, she pulled a length of elastic tubing from her lab coat, lifted his limp arm and tied the elastic just above his elbow, then slapped the vein in his arm until it rose. Satisfied with the accessibility of his vein, she uncapped the syringe with her teeth and proceeded to inject the purple-tinted chemical into his vein. “Don't let her leave me,” Cree begged, trying to push up from the bed. He was too weak and fell back. “Bridie will stay with you,” Dorrie told him. By the time Bridget moved into place by the bed, he was fast asleep, his tired, pale face even more heart wrenching. So innocent-looking, she thought with a pang of regret. So vulnerable and so helpless lying there. As dangerous as he was, in this condition, he looked defenseless. Idly, she wondered if Reapers were allowed to dream or if they had been programmed not to. Her gaze roamed over his face, taking in his finely sculpted features: the firm jaw and high cheekbones; the dark brown eyes which-when not glaring murderously-were beautiful and soft. The length of his thick lashes played a part in mellowing those demon eyes and she knew of at least a hundred women who would kill to have lashes as long and sooty as his. He had very sensuous lips, she realized, behind which startling white teeth hid. A fine, straight nose gave his face a boyish cast that was very endearing. A wide chest, firmly muscled and thick with a crisp pelt of dark curls. A rock hard, flat belly with rippled abdominal muscles. Long legs, lean hips, a neatly curved rump and slender, aristocratic feet. All in all, a very handsome man. But a man no woman on FSK-14 would ever dare want. He was a Reaper, after all, and the most deadly of his kind. His kills were rumored to be numbered in the thousands. When he went into Transition… “Bridget.” She jumped, staring down at Cree as he whispered her name again. She watched him turn over to his side and draw his knees up, looking more like a little boy than ever as he flung his left hand off the edge of the cot. She took his hand and laid it on the cot beside him. He was warm, too warm, and she realized he was feverish again. Leaning forward, she stroked his lank hair back and felt his forehead. His sweat made her palm slick. Studying his shoulder-length brown hair, she envied him the thickness and sheen although at the moment, because it had not been washed in nearly two weeks, it was oily and in dire need of a good

combing. “Bridget, don't leave me,” he whispered again and she was intrigued with the slight Chalean brogue that reminded her so vividly of the Highland brogues of Scotland. “I'm here, Captain,” she answered though she knew he was talking in his sleep. Her hand moved down his lean jaw. Had she thought no woman would want him? She caressed his cheek and acknowledged that there just might be one. **** SUICIDE! “The taking of one's own life is the ultimate betrayal, you understand,” the woman in the gallery was instructing. “It is the ultimate shame for a warrior. The ultimate guilt.” He ran the sharp edge of the dagger blade over his left wrist and watched the black blood pumping furiously from the wound. It dripped down his forearm, pooled on the floor and continued to spread in rivulets around his feet. "Why, beloved? Why?” She cried, her sobbing loud in his ears. He transferred the blade to his other hand and slashed at his right wrist, smiling grimly as the flesh gaped open, blood welled, the spurted. "Kamerone, why?" "You left me,” he told her sadly. “I could not bear the loneliness." Shame, such overpowering shame, at his own weakness, his inability to control his life, washed over him as his life's blood began to drain away. Guilt, soul-wrenching guilt, had gripped him, embraced him, brought him into the waiting arms of death. He was pressed against that carrion body like an abandoned lover. Death's perfume of the grave filled his nostrils and blotted out the lemony scent of her hair. "Oh, Kamerone!” She sighed so forlornly. Defeat, crushing, sustained defeated had tripped him up; had brought to him the startling realization that he was a coward dying a coward's death. Fire…noose. “Stage One complete.” SPACE…POISON…WATER. “Stage Two complete.” ROCKS…DREWE…DISEASE. “Stage Three complete.” SAND…COLD…BLOCKS. “Stage Four complete.” He hardly knew he was sobbing as Bridget removed the wedge from his lips. Tina was stroking his arm, saying something he could not hear. Dorrie was unclipping his restraints, letting her hands linger on his thigh; actually smiling at him. Dr. Dean patted his shoulder and told him he would be able to sleep again; reminding him that it wouldn't be long now. The orderlies rolled him back to his cell. The injection. The soft touch of Bridget's hand on his brow. Her intoxicating scent easing him into sleep, blessed sleep.

Chapter 6 DR. BERYLA Dean and Dr. Hael Sejm sat across from one another as they ate. The two women had known one another for many years and were the best of friends. Having graduated University together, they shared a common bond not only in their love of science and medicine, but in their steadfast devotion to the Resistance. Both were leaders of the primarily female force that fully intended to free all women from the Rysalian Empire's subjugating yoke. They often came to Rysalia Prime to spend an afternoon in this safe house sat up by the Resistance, where the walls did not have eyes and ears; where they could speak freely without having to fear their words and actions would be reported. “There was nothing I could do, Beryla,” Hael stated. “I argued until I was blue in the face, but Onar would not relent.” Dr. Dean made an undignified snort and took up her goblet of Ionarian wine. She took a healthy swallow then set the crystal goblet down. “I am not blaming you, Hael.” “Unfortunately, I have not been allowed access to the final treatment medications,” Dr. Sejm told her. “I can't guarantee what Sorn will do.” Once more Dr. Dean snorted. “That bitch would double the dose if she could get away with it!” “We can only hope and pray she does not,” Hael responded. The mention of Delyn Sorn took away Beryla's appetite and she picked up her napkin, wiped her lips, then threw the linen on the table. “Of all the physicians he could have chosen, why in God's name did he pick that bitch?” Hael had no love for the Diabolusian doctor, either, and said as much. “Because he knows she'll do exactly as he says. You, on the other hand, infuriated him yesterday and since you did it in front of other Tribunal members, this is his way of punishing you.” “That bitch was in the gallery every day watching us,” the Director hissed. “Enjoying the whole sordid mess!” Hael shrugged. “She watches all the reinforcements; you know that. The woman is not only a voyeur, she's a perverted voyeur.” “Let's hope she isn't a murderous voyeur.” Hael toyed with the remainder of her Chalean brandy. “How dangerous could it be for him tomorrow?” Beryla Dean released a heavy sigh. “Since he has never been given a full 100 milligrams of the drug the Tribunal ordered, I don't really know. I made damned sure the neuro-boosters required for full reinforcement assault therapy were minimal. Otherwise, he would have had a full-blown psychotic episode. Thankfully, the psychotropic suggestionaries we administered instead have produced similar results without undermining our original intent.” Hael smiled nastily. “I'd give my right teat to see the expression on Onar's face when he learns the Resistance was re-programming his Prime Reaper the entire time he thought you were reinforcing Cree's training!” “Torturing the man, don't you mean?” Dean corrected. “That's all the assault therapy is and you know it. Reinforcement my ass!” Hael spread her hands in sympathy. “True, but he's a Reaper, Beryla. They were engineered to withstand massive amounts of pain.” “Yes, but the psychological pain I gave that man will haunt me for as long as I live. It was brutal and it's damned near driven him insane!” “He is a Reaper,” Hael repeated with a touch of annoyance. “A beast. Nothing more.” Dr. Dean shook her head. “You keep forgetting he is half human, Hael! His father is my lover!” “True, but his mother was a Morrígú!” Beryla shivered. “I have not forgotten,” she said. “And when he is in full Transition; when he is Dearg-Duls…” “Yes!” the Director hissed. “I know!” Hael sat back in her chair. “Then stop worrying. We know the suggestionaries worked. How could

they not? Bridget is in no danger of being harmed; I have seen to that. I designed the subliminals you gave him and there is no way he could ever harm her even while in full Transition.” A worried look entered Dr. Dean's eyes. “She doesn't know the whole of it, Hael.” Hael's eyes narrowed. “And you had better be gods-be-damned glad she doesn't!” **** CREE WAS wide-awake when Bridget entered his cell to check on him. “Can't sleep?” she asked. “It does not appear that I can,” he replied a little more sharply than he had intended. He scooted up on the cot. “I thought you had gone back to your quarters.” “I had a lot of work to get done.” “What? Sharpening your pendulum and oiling the hinges of the iron maiden?” Bridget laughed. “You've been reading Earth history.” He laced his fingers together and put them behind his head. “An interesting period of history; your Inquisition.” She cocked her head to one side. “Is that how you feel when you're in the treatment suite?” “I never can remember what went on although I have an intense feeling of anxiety when I leave there and even more anxiety when I'm being taken back. What happens to me when I'm being treated?” “I don't know,” she answered truthfully. “The drugs stimulate all the hidden, subconscious fears for survival and brings them up in such a fashion you can't negate them. That much I do know. As for how it does that or what you actually feel, I can't say. I've been told that no amount of conditioning will forestall the onset of whatever catalyst is biologically engineered into your subconscious.” He looked at her for a long moment then nodded slowly. “So what I'm undergoing is an intensification of any primal fears encoded into my DNA at my conception.” “I believe so.” He thought about that for a moment. “And this” he paused, trying to think of another word short of torture, then decided there was no other word. “…torture. What purpose does it serve?” Bridge sighed. “I'm not sure it serves any purpose other than to punish you.” Cree had to agree with her. As punishments went, it sure as hell got his attention. And if Onar had wanted him humbled, the reinforcement had achieved that purpose. There was a chime and the Vid-Com clicked on. “Dr. Dunne?” “Yes?” “I was asked to remind you that you have a dinner engagement with Commander Rhye.” “Thank you. I'm on my way.” Cree frowned sharply. “You have an engagement?” “With Commander Konnor Rhye. Do you know him?” “No,” came the brittle reply. “I don't suppose there's any reason you should. I'd better get going. He doesn't like to be kept waiting. Have I answered your questions?” Cree lifted one shoulder with disdain and his voice was wintry when he answered. “It appears you have.” Bridget did not miss the coldness in his tone and wondered why he wasn't as friendly as he had become of late. Finally deciding it was nerves, anticipation of his last day of treatment come morning, she thought it best that she leave. “Then I'll see you in the morning,” she told him. When he didn't respond, she left, a little concerned with the look he had given her. Only one thought kept running through Cree's head that night: The faceless man in his nightmares now had a name. ****

EVERY ONE of the people in the treatment suite was a stranger to him. Even the orderlies who had brought him to the room had been unknown. As Cree looked at the unfamiliar faces of the four women techs-faces that held no warmth, no compassion, no interest in him-he felt a shiver of apprehension run down his spine. He glanced at the physician who was standing off to one side and became even more uneasy when he realized it wasn't Dr. Dean. This woman had a brutal, anticipatory look that made the hairs stand up on his arms. “Get on the table, Cree,” Onar ordered from the gallery. “We don't have all day.” Cree glared at the man, but before he could say anything, the new doctor was almost toe to toe with him. “Do as you are told. Get on the table! Now!” she demanded, her spittle hitting him in the face. He wanted to reach out and grab the woman's throat, squeeze until her eyes popped out. He wondered what they would do to him if he did. Dr. Delyn Sorn jabbed a stiff finger into Cree's chest. “If you don't get on that gods-be-damned table right this minute, I promise you I will keep you on it the entire day!” Cree looked down at the finger poking into his bare chest then reached up, took the woman's hand and bent the finger back almost to the point of breaking. “Gawwwwwwwh!” the woman shrieked. Her eyes bulged and her knees buckled. “Cree!” Onar shouted from the gallery. “Guards! Restrain him!” Once he had his tormentress on her knees on the floor, Cree let go of her hand, turned-and with a vicious smile on his face-hopped up on the treatment table, lay down, and spread his arms and legs. He ignored the doctor's plaintive wails as she cradled her injured hand. “You will regret that,” Onar promised him. “Yes, he will,” the doctor blubbered. Cree could have cared less. Even when she came to stand over him, gloating as her techs clicked his restraints into place over his arms and legs and throat, he managed to ignore her threats. She was glaring down at him and he thought she had to be the most butt-ugly Diabolusian he had ever seen. Her fierce stare told him she could be as cruel as any Defense Academy DI and was probably twice as perverted. “I am going to hurt you, Cree,” he heard her whisper. “Give it your best shot,” he muttered. One of the techs stepped up to the table to fasten the EKG monitor band across his chest. Her hands were rough as she made sure it was tight enough. “Fine specimen,” she remarked to no one in particular and ran her hands over his pectorals, down his belly. “Get your gods-be-damned hands off me, bitch!” he hissed. The woman's face was without expression. Her eyes were steady on his, devoid of emotion. Then a nasty, unhealthy smile settled on her face and her hand slid from his belly to the spread juncture of his thighs and she caressed him. Cree stared up at her incredulously, not believing she had dared to do something so blatantly immoral. Hating her with every fiber of his being as she fondled him, his lips pulled back over his teeth and he snarled. “I don't believe our Reaper likes that, Jean.” Dr. Sorn laughed. “As I said,” the tech whispered. “A fine specimen.” Her hand tightened-painfully so-then came away. “You will pay for that,” Cree grated. “You won't even remember she did it.” Delyn Sorn looked away from him. “Let's begin!” Cree had been about to curse the physician but before he could, his jaw was taken in a brutal grasp and the awful rubber wedge was jammed between his lips, going so deeply down his throat, he gagged on it. His furious glare impaled the woman standing behind his head, but she merely smiled at him: an evil smile that held no pity at all. The chill of the disinfectant on the inside of his elbow seemed much more intense than usual. Even the sting of the needle was more painful, more noticeable. He felt the drug race through the veins of arm, lapping at his nerve endings as it spread liquid fire all the way up to his shoulder. Then he felt a second injection-even more painful than the first-and barely had time to wonder why

before the crushing sense of doom slammed down on him with the force of an avalanche. Hael Sejm tucked her lower lip between her teeth as she watched what was happening to Kamerone Cree. Her attention kept straying to a new visitor to the gallery: the Admiral of the Fleet, Drae Cree. “It will take a good five minutes for him to adapt to the drug before the sensations take full effect,” Onar was explaining to the Admiral. “What is happening now?” “A very intense perception of impending destruction,” Onar answered. “No fear, as yet, but a very real sense of deep, unrelenting finality racing toward him out of the unknown.” The Admiral glanced at Dr. Hael Sejm. “Is there any pain?” “A tremendous amount,” Hael acknowledged. Drae Cree's jaw tightened, but he didn't comment on her answer. Instead, he returned his attention to the man lying spread-eagled on the treatment table. “He's going into Stage One now,” Onar informed them a split second before the computer announced it. **** CREE STRUGGLED against the ropes wound around his wrists. He was lying on top of a vast expanse of barren rock, tied hand and foot to a jagged plateau whose jutting points were gouging into his bare back. He stared up at the blazing overhead dual suns beating down on him with merciless brilliance and licked at his dry lips, wanting water so badly. Not that he was hot, he thought, confused by the sensation of frigid cold that was washing over him. If anything, he was freezing beneath those fiercely shining orbs. The cold was pressing down on him, growing in weight, pushing the air from his lungs and denying him the ability to draw fresh air into his body. He felt sick, his belly cramping him and he wondered if that was caused by the lack of food in his gut or the foul tasting water he'd been forced to drink before Drewe had tied him to the rock out here in this barren wasteland of fire and ice. "Hold on, beloved. I will save you,” she said, but he could not see her. "Why did you go to him? Bridget, why?” But she did not answer. Off in the distance, something wicked moved steadily toward him. The faceless being had claws that scratched against the rocks as it crept stealthily upward. Even the smell, rivaling the vile stench of his own unwashed body, reached his nostrils and made his eyes water with the godsawful stink of the encroaching beast. "He is jealous of you, beloved,” she warned Cree. “He will kill me if he finds out I have come to you." "Why didn't you stay with me?” he asked. I could have protected you." “Stage One complete.” “Remove the wedge,” the doctor ordered. The shadow spread over him and Cree squinted to see the face of the being hovering over him. With a sigh of relief, he realized it was Drewe, and although the man didn't speak, Cree knew the thoughts running through Lona's mind: “I hate you, Cree. I have always hated you and now, I am going to rid the elite of our traitor!" "I didn't betray you!” Cree heard himself deny. Hael risked a look at the Admiral and saw that he was listening intently to the voice coming to them over the Vid-Com. "I am a reaper. I am no traitor!" Drewe hunkered down beside him and the young lieutenant's face became clear beneath the halo of sunlight framing his head. “You aided the resistance. For that you have to pay." Cree shook his head as best he could. “No, I did not. I have never had contact with the resistance. I am a reaper. I would not dare disobey the empire." The Admiral smiled. “Even under such torture, he knows where his obligations lie,” he said proudly. "You have not only disobeyed the empire, you have turned on it,” Drewe challenged. “You have gone

over to the resistance." "No!” Cree shouted. The heat of shame was so powerful it was stripping the very flesh from his bones. I am a reaper! I am honor-bound to do my duty as the empire has decreed it!" "You are nothing,” Drewe laughed at him, placing the razor-sharp blade of his ceremonial dagger to Cree's jugular. “You are filth beneath the boot heels of the empire, traitor!" “I am a reaper!” Cree bellowed. “I will uphold and defend the purpose of the empire. I will protect and defend the person of the empire. I will…” “You have betrayed your masters, Kamerone Cree!” Drewe snarled, pressing the blade against his flesh. “You did what you did, against the wishes of the Empire.” “I will put aside all personal desires for the good of the empire.” “Not only did you disobey, you fought against the therapy that was ordered as your punishment, didn't you, Cree?” “I will allow any and all constraints to be placed upon me as seen fit by the Empire!” The dagger at his throat drew blood as the lieutenant pressed down on it. “You were afraid of what the behavioral modification might do to you, weren't you, Cree? You didn't know if you were man enough, warrior enough, to withstand it. Isn't that true?” "I will not allow fear of torture or death to deter my objective to promote the welfare of the empire!" Hael frowned as she listened to Cree's repetition of the Reaper's oath of Allegiance pouring out of the Vid-com. "You were trying to help the resistance, weren't you, Cree? Trying to help them win in their evil war against your masters?" “I will place the good of the Empire before any and all family and friends. I will obediently follow the commands I am given at the discretion of my commanding officers.” “You were afraid,” Drewe cooed to him as he dug the dagger deeper into Cree's flesh. “You were scared shitless to come to this room, weren't you, Cree? The thought of being tortured nearly drove you mad, didn't it?” “I will obey the directives of the Empire without regard to my personal safety.” “You turned on us, Cree,” Drewe accused. “You turned on us and joined the Resistance. You have harmed the Empire!” “I will destroy any and all who take arms against the Empire! It is my duty to protect the person of the Empire!” He was cold. So very, very cold, and yet he was being burned alive, his skin sloughing off as it split and crackled. He was choking, his throat tightening with the rope. He was falling, through barren space and limitless darkness, thirsty and hungry, dying of disease and the poisons that raced through his system. He was being crushed, suffocated beneath the onslaught of guilt electrocuting his mind with currents of accusation from the only friend he had ever known. He was being accused by a man he had trusted, respected. “Where are you, Bridget? Why aren't you here? Why have you fallen silent? I need you!” “You are guilty, Cree,” Drewe declared. “You failed and Reapers do not fail, do they, Cree?” "No” he shouted, jerking his arms free of the ropes. He put his hand on the dagger at his throat. “Reapers do not fail!" "What will you do then, Cree?” Drewe asked. “What will you do to atone for your many sins against the Empire? To assure them you are not a traitor to our cause. To insure them you will not fail again?" Hael sat forward in her chair, sensing the moment of reckoning for the Admiral had tensed, his hands on the siliplex, fingers splayed out as he watched the scene unfolding below. “Say it, Kamerone,” she heard the Admiral whisper. “Say it!" "I am a Reaper. I can not fail!" “Then what must you do, Cree?” Drewe demanded. “What must you be prepared to do to show the Empire you are loyal to them?” “Where are you, Bridget? Why won't you answer me? Beloved, please!” “What must you do, Cree? What must you do? What must you do? What must you do?”

Cree clutched the dagger tightly and in a voice that was filled with fierce, brutal assurance, he shouted out the last line of the reaper's oath of allegiance he had taken many years before: “I will give my life for the Empire!” He dragged the knife across his own throat and blood gushed over him and his tormentor. His life's blood pulsed out of him, spraying the rocks, geysers pumping into the air in scarlet waves of purification. "I am a Reaper!” He confirmed as he began to choke to death on his own blood. “I will die a Reaper!" Admiral Drae Cree exhaled a long sigh of relief. He let his head rest momentarily against the glass. “The therapy worked,” Onar proclaimed. Hael turned her attention from the man who had donated his seed to create this new breed of warrior and stared at Bridget Dunne. The girl's face was pale. Knowing the Terran woman had never heard the Reaper's Oath before, she couldn't help wondering what Bridget thought of such blind obedience. From the look in the young woman's green eyes, she did not think Bridie was as much impressed as she was revolted. “Dr. Dunne?” she questioned. Bridget seemed to shake herself and her gaze slid slowly from the man being unshackled on the treatment table to Dr. Sejm. “You will accompany me to Dr. Dean's office,” Hael Sejm requested and at Bridget's silent nod, Hael bid the Justices and the Admiral a good day. Preceding Bridget from the gallery, she did not once look back at the man upon whom they had pinned all their hopes. Dr. Dean was watching the monitor when Hael and Bridget entered her office. “He is back in his cell,” she announced. “Are his vital signs stable?” Bridget asked. “Yes,” the Director confirmed. “There will be no side effects. Perhaps a sore throat and fever, but those are natural occurrences with the artificial neurotransmitters as you both know.” “How long do you think it will be before he'll send for her?” Hael asked. “There's no way of telling,” the Director replied, drawing Bridget's worried look to her. “Kamerone's conditioning will reassert itself now and he will go back to being the way he was before the treatment. Perhaps with even more commitment.” “But if the sublims took…” “They took,” Dr. Dean stressed. “He will not be able to get Bridget out of his mind. He will eventually send for her. He won't be able to stop himself. The obsession will build until he will have to do something about it.” “God help me,” Bridget whispered. She leaned forward and buried her face in her hands. Hael and Beryla exchanged a look. Their hopes, and the hopes of the Resistance, were not only resting on Kamerone Cree's wide shoulders, they were resting on the fragile-and unpredictable-shoulders of a young Terran woman. Chapter 7 SYMPATHY, Hael Sejm thought as she walked down the corridor between the medical and science wings of FSK-14, was the most effective means by which an individual untouched by the psychological restraints of behavioral control could be reinforced. Conversely, a reassuring smile, a kind word, a gentle touch, could be devastating to the psyche of a man who had never been allowed to experience visual, verbal, or physical support during times of hardship. Such stimulus was capable of instigating a chain reaction within that deprived man's soul that would create a burning need to re-experience, to recreate the sensation the smile, the kind word, the touch could bring to a mind tumbling with turmoil. If sympathy were given at the precise moment an individual's resistance was at its lowest ebb, the reinforcement would be assimilated, embedded, remembered. And like any addiction-either physical or psychological-the need to experience that smile, that kind word, and that touch would remain. That, Hael knew, was human nature and all the external and internal catalysts ever applied would not be able to dislodge the need from the subconscious. It was there to stay. Turning down the long corridor marked Defense Unit, she called to mind the face of the woman she

and Beryla had chosen to be their catalyst in the plan to bring Kamerone Cree to the Resistance. Neither of them doubted Bridget Dunne would succeed at the task that had been given her. The young doctor had all the qualities needed and a few that were absolutely vital. Compassion was just such a quality and Hael had seen it in abundance in the young woman's face when Cree had been reciting the Reaper's Oath. “You have to understand, Bridget,” Beryla had explained many months before all this began, “this warrior is quite different from any of the young men with whom you have had contact since being brought to FSK-14. This man has been conditioned since he was a toddler. From the moment he was born, he spent the next seven years of his life in a nursery operated by cybots. His mother never held him, never nursed him, or sang lullabies to him. His first encounter with humans was on the day he was brought to the Ministry of Indoctrination and began his training as an Elite. You cannot begin to understand the harsh conditions under which he was instructed. Severe mental and physical abuse are mandatory in order to make the warrior strong, invincible, emotionless.” “But he was just a child!” Bridget had protested, her eyes filling with tears. “You must remember,” Heal had injected, “he wasn't a human child.” Bridget had rounded on the Director. “What difference does that make? He was a child and no child should be treated like that!” Yes, Hael thought as she went into her office: Sympathy had to be the most important part in the seduction of Kamerone Cree. And the most powerful form of sympathy, the most empathetic form, had to be love. “Not that Drae's son is capable of either conceiving or giving love,” Hael scoffed as she opened a desk drawer and took out a bottle of Chalean brandy. Pouring herself a glass of the fiery brew, she settled back in her chair, put her feet up, and sipped the potent liquor. It burned a calming pathway down her throat and spread like gentle wildfire in her belly. Love, she knew, reinforced the ego and its pleasures. The emotional manifestation, of course, was happiness, peace, a sense of belonging. The physical manifestation was sex. Sex-was an instant gratification of the body-had been used for eons as a source of control; as a potent reward for a job well done; as a means of getting what one might not have gotten otherwise. It was power and pleasure combined. But it could also be punishment. Hael frowned and took a long swallow of the fiery brandy. She knew all too well the punishing aspect of sex. Had she not been taken by a raiding party of Rysalian warriors and brought to this godsforsaken hunk of metal orbiting Rysalia Prime? Had she not been raped, impregnated by an Elite then abandoned to her fate? Was not the child taken from her at the moment of its birth, never to be held or nursed or have lullabies sung to him to calm his fears? Hael Sejm had been born in the Chalean Highlands. She had dreamed of becoming a scientist; of marrying her childhood sweetheart, Sean Ruhl; of bearing many healthy sons and lovely daughters to fill their home with laughter and joy; of growing old with Sean. The abduction had destroyed her dreams and made Hael Sejm a bitter, vengeful woman: A woman obsessed with destroying the Rysalian Empire and the men who had brutalized her and all the other helpless women imprisoned by the Rysalians. “You are our only hope, Bridget,” she said. “He has fallen into the trap, now we must close it around him so he cannot escape.” Hael tossed back the remainder of her brandy and poured another glass. Brooding, she laid her head along her chair and stared at the ceiling. "Sex," Admiral Drae Cree often quoted from one of his Academy classes, "empowers the male and reinforces his belief in his manhood. Sex enslaves a woman and reinforces her identity as a female." “Crap,” Hael snorted. One of the most effective ways the Empire had of controlling its warriors was through the use of sex. The Ministries made it readily available to their male population. Sex was a reward for a job well done. Sex was a stress reliever after a long mission. Sex was physical relief without emotion for ninety percent of the Elite caste. Consequently, to Hael's way of thinking, sex was meaningless.

“Meaningless crap,” she said, her voice slightly slurred. That was why men like Kamerone Cree shunned having female companions. Why buy the cow when you can have the milk for free? Sex to a Reaper was a strictly impersonal act without emotion, without true enjoyment, without purpose; something to be done to relieve the stress in between Transition cycles. “Meaningless and worthless crap,” Hael mumbled. She closed her eyes and the empty glass in her hand slipped out of her fingers and hit the floor, rolled along the lush Ionarian carpet. “We have you, Cree,” she whispered. “And I promise you, you will not escape!” **** CREE CAME awake feeling as though he had been pushed rudely from a nightmare. He sat up and looked about him for whatever had torn him from his sleep. His heart was pounding, his palms wet as he ran them down his sheet. His groin was tight, his testicles drawn up as though danger had been right at his bedside. When he found himself alone in the semi-dark room, he laid back down, trying to understand what had alarmed him. The silence was threatening, encroaching, and he felt anxious about the stillness surrounding him. It made him nervous. “Lights on,” he instructed the Vid-Com. The lights came up slowly and with them, the gentle sound of rain. The rain had been programmed into the lighting system by one of Cree's Controllers. The soothing sound was meant to calm him when he was distressed and there must have been something in his voice that registered that emotion. Closing his eyes, he tried to concentrate on the rhythm of the rain as he had been taught, knowing there were subliminal messages hidden beneath the soft patter of the falling water: messages meant to decelerate his heartbeat and allay his fears. He ran a hand through his night-tousled hair and looked down at the black edged paper on his night table. His transportation to Helios Twelve was going to be delayed awhile due to solar storms in that quadrant. The thought of having to spend time in that hellish place flickered across his mind and he wondered if perhaps that was not what had brought on his anxiety. “Captain Cree?” The Vid-Com's pleasant rain faded into the background as the computer's female voice intruded softly. “Aye?” he replied. “You have a visitor, Sir,” the Vid-Com informed him. “Lieutenant Drewe Lona.” A dark frown creased Cree's face. Normally he would not be displeased to have Drewe come calling, but inexplicably, he felt threatened by Lona's presence at his door this time. He stared at the Vid-Com, trying to decide if he wanted to send the young man away or not. “Captain?” the Vid-Com pressed. “Shall I admit him, Sir?” Sighing heavily, Cree swung his legs off the bed. “Aye.” He went into the toilet area of his suite. Drewe was standing in the living area when Cree came out a few minutes later. There was a hesitant, unsure smile on the young man's face. “Are you all right?” “Why wouldn't I be?” came the snarled reply. Reapers in general-Cree in particular-did not like to be questioned, especially by men they considered far beneath them in status. Drewe ducked his head, embarrassed by his blunder. “Forgive me, Sir, but it's just that you were in the Be-Mod Unit so long I was beginning to worry.” Cree waved aside his second in command's concern. “You hungry?” he asked as he headed for the food preparation center. Drewe followed him. “No, Sir. I've already eaten.” He looked about him, amazed at the havoc within his superior's food preparation center. There were dirty utensils and dishes piled everywhere. For such an otherwise ordered and disciplined man, Cree's living quarters were a disaster. Shoving a stack of encrusted glass bowls aside, Cree found one that looked reasonably clean and stuck in under the replicator. “Viragonian mushroom soup,” he said, leaning against the counter as the replicator prepared his food.

Drewe wondered why his commander was glaring at him and why anyone would want Viragonian mushroom soup for their morning meal. Or at any time, for that matter. When the foul-smelling soup was dispensed, Drewe wrinkled his nose and turned away. One look at the things floating around inside that grayish-green broth would surely bring up his recent meal. “I want you,” Cree said in between large spoonfuls of the soup, “to get The Revenant ready for a trip to Terra the first thing in the morning. I want to leave no later than sixteen hundred hours tomorrow.” Drewe's eyebrows shot up. “Tomorrow?” His brows came down in confusion. “But aren't you going to Hell-12?” Cree slurped down the remaining soup, then stacked the dirty bowl on top of another. “When we get back,” he said, straddling a chair and sitting down, “They've got solar storms in Gamma quad.” Drewe nodded. “That's good, I guess. Is there anything else you want done before we go?” Cree looked up. “Aye. I want you to locate a woman in the Be-Mod Unit.” He narrowed his eyes. “Dunne. Bridget Dunne.” “Did she offend you in some way, Sir?” “Offend me?” Lona swallowed. “Aye, Sir. Are you going to terminate her? If so, I need to get an order of extermination from the Ministry of Corrections and…” “I want you to buy her for me,” Cree interrupted. If Drewe Lona was astonished at that request, to his credit, he hid it well. He carried on with the conversation without missing a beat. “Are you allowed to do that, Captain?” A hiss of contempt exploded from Cree. “I am a Reaper, Lona; I can do whatever the hell I want!” Drewe knew that was true enough. Even if the man had been severely censured by the Court of Military Inquiry and faced a month of hard labor at the Helios Twelve penal colony, his reputation had not been sullied by the stigma of his punishment. If anything, it had been enhanced. “What if the Ministry of Science won't sell her to you?” Drewe questioned, doubting that was a possibility though feeling he would be remiss in his duties if he did not mention it. Cree waved a dismissive hand at his second in command. “Offer the bastards an ungodly amount of money, Lona,” he snapped with irritation. “They're always bitching about not having a big enough cut of the budget pie.” “How high do you wish me to go?” Drewe asked and wasn't prepared for the reaction his innocent question caused. “Just buy me the gods-be-damned female, Lona!” came the enraged shout. Bowls, spoons, and glasses flew off the table as Cree's arm swept a pathway across them. “Don't make me have to repeat myself, Sailor!” Drewe's mouth sagged open and his eyes flared with shock. He flinched as another thunderous bellow of absolute rage poured from Cree, “I don't give a shit what you have to pay for her! I want her and I will have her! Do you understand me?” All the pent-up anger and repressed hostility Cree had always felt had reasserted itself just as the Director had predicted it would. Kamerone Cree-a very complex man with a precise intellect, a personality that denied opposition, and an ironclad will that prohibited any-glared up at his 2/IC with such brutal fierceness of purpose, the young man took a fearful step back. “Get the hell out of my sight, Lona, and do as I ordered you! I want her in my quarters by the end of the day. Is that gods-be-damned clear?” “Aye-aye, SIR!” Drewe barked, snapping a smart salute into place. “Right away, Sir!” Drewe exited the Captain's quarters with as much dignity as his flaming face would allow. Cree stared moodily at the clutter of dishes on the counters of his food preparation center. “What a gods-be-damned mess!” he grumbled. He hated such mundane, boring, female work as cleaning, and since he was not adapted all that well to doing it and did not trust strangers into his quarters to do it for him, his pigheadedness made it his personal chore. Dishes and linens would pile up to the ceiling before he finally broke down and sent them through the sonic cleaners. Everything was allowed to go to rack and ruin until he could stand it no longer and rolled up his sleeves to tackle the job. If the chore seemed

too vast-as it did at that moment-or he was in a particularly foul mood-as he was on most days he noticed the mess-he would simply throw out the old and buy new. Since he couldn't do that with his Ministry of Fleet Operations issued uniforms, he had to bundle them up and cart them off to the station cleaners so he would have clean clothing to wear. If he had his way, he thought, spying a pile of rumpled uniforms lying in the sonic sink, he'd go air-clad as his Chalean ancestors had. The thought of running around FSK-14 with his manhood swinging free brought a smile to his lips. “That would certainly scare the hell out of the Resistance.” He chuckled. Sweeping aside a pile of laundry, he flopped down in a chair. He had always thought that if someone wanted to really torture him into giving away Empire secrets, all they had to do was make him do mindless cleaning. “Torture cleaning,” he muttered. How the hell did females endure it? How could they sweep and dust and mop and wash and scrub and scour and fold and stack then start it all over again day after day after day? The mere thought of that repetitive agony made him practically tremble with frustration. “I have to leave early today. I'm right in the middle of spring cleaning and I want to get the bookshelves dusted before my new research manuals come." “Bridget,” he whispered, remembering hearing her talking to Tina outside his cell door one afternoon. He would bet a month's credits she liked to clean. Maybe she even thrived on the organization of doing such repetitious idiocy. Most women did. “What are you doing right now, Bridget?” he asked, then frowned heavily. Why hadn't she been there that last day? Had she been reassigned? Handed over to another warrior whose punishment had just begun? Was she even at that moment giving another man solace and comfort and the sweetness of her gentle touch on his fevered flesh? Was another man looking into her beautiful green eyes? Cree grimaced. He didn't like to think of her smiling eyes looking down on another man. The thought of her soft voice speaking gently to some other warrior to calm his anxiety made the Reaper acutely uncomfortable and not a little angry. He squirmed in his chair. “Bridget.” And he sure as hell didn't like the notion of her touching any man other than himself. "His name is Konnor Rhye. Do you know him?" “Bridget,” he growled and it was more a curse than anything else. His natural competitiveness asserted itself and he shifted in the chair again, his eyes narrowed into dangerous slits. "He doesn't like to be kept waiting." “Oh, yeah?” Cree growled. The image of Bridget with the faceless man made his lip curl. That he would put a stop to ASAP! He pictured her sitting across the room from him and almost smiled, although smiling was not something he did very often or had ever done well. He was unaware that his right hand was caressing the chair arm, his thumb moving sensually over the edge, until the faint sensation started in his groin and he wiggled, trying to ignore it. “Captain Cree?” the Vid-Com interrupted with a pleasant chime. Cree's mouth turned vicious. “What?” he barked. “Shall I send for a surrogate, Sir?” “What?” he repeated, suddenly realizing what he was doing with his hand. He jerked his fingers away from the chair arm. “No, I don't want a surrogate! Did I ask for a surrogate?” “No, you did not, Captain,” the Vid-Com answered in its polite, reasonable tone, “but you appear to be experiencing sexual excitement and Article 26 of the Ministry of Defense Code of Elite Conduct states…” “I know what it states!” Cree shouted. He reached out, grabbed a pair of dirty underwear and threw it at the Vid-Com screen. “Sir,” the Vid-Com stated in a slightly miffed tone, “you seem agitated as well as sexually excited. Perhaps you would like to take an extra injection of triso.”

“What I would like is to take you apart and leave you that way!” the Reaper spat, throwing another piece of dirty laundry at the screen. “You have neither the authority nor the expertise to do that, Captain,” the Vid-Com insulted him. “I suggest you take something to eliminate the uncharacteristic behavior you are exhibiting; it does not compute.” The Vid-Com clicked off with a squelch. “Compute this, you piece of shit!” he suggested, grabbing his crotch, but there was no answer to his vulgarity. He glowered at the intercom plate thinking how much he loathed the monitor that kept tabs on him for his Controllers. Every facet of his life was probed by the men in the Defense Lab. He could undergo no sensation, no stimulation, nothing without his Controllers being aware of it. They monitored him more closely than they did the others of his kind and kept precise logs of his activities. They even monitored him in his sleep with a specially designed implant that had been given to him when he reached puberty. The implant had been designed to block dreams-pleasant or otherwise-the moment the forbidden vision began a switch on some Controller's board shut down the sensation. Unless he missed his guess, a similar device was used to prevent the type of forbidden sensation he was experiencing at that moment and was too proud to ask the Vid-Com to rectify with the paging of a surrogate. For the first time in his life, he wondered if the tumescence that had become acutely uncomfortable would dissipate without female intervention. “Captain?” the Vid-Com intruded once again. “What?” he bellowed, swinging his head angrily toward the offending intercom. “Please do not use that tone with me,” the Vid-Com chastised him. “You have a visitor.” Cree cursed beneath his breath. “Who the hell is it now?” he demanded as he stalked to the screen and punched the unit into operation. Drewe Lona was standing outside his quarters and looking intensely uneasy. “Your visitor is Lieutenant Lona,” the Vid-Com said in a cold, mechanical voice. Cree ground his teeth together. “I can see that you worthless piece of wiring interface!” he spat. “Admit him!” Drewe flinched as the doors to the Captain's quarters slid airily open to him. He looked up from his keep inspection of the floor and into the angry eyes of his commander. “Well?” Cree demanded. Dull red infused Lona's face. “I ran into a slight problem, Sir.” His young face scrunched into an apologetic half-smile. “I was told you had to have permission from the D.O. before I can put in the paperwork for you.” Cree glared at his second in command for a brief, raging moment before spitting out a vile Diabolusian vulgarity. Spinning around, he stomped to the Vid-Com. “Computer!” he shouted. “Captain Cree, I must insist: If you do not stop shouting at me, Sir, I will not answer,” the Vid-Com warned him. “Who is the Duty Officer today?” Cree snapped, ignoring the threat. There was a moment's hesitation as the computer checked the daily log, then the ominous answer slid insidiously into the room. “Admiral Drae Cree is on duty today, Captain.” Drewe glanced at his commander's face and saw the wariness settling across Cree's tight features. He watched as those cold dark eyes shifted from side to side in furious thought then winced at the enraged explosion of contempt that shot out of his Captain's mouth. “Why the hell did it have to be my gods-be-damned sire?” “Captain?” the Vid-Com pressed. “Do you wish me to contact the Admiral's office?” “Aye,” Cree seethed. “Make an appointment for me with him.” “Do you have a time preference or shall it be at his pleasure?” “ASAP!” Cree yelled. “I will see what I can do,” the Vid-Com replied, it's tone even more chill. “Bitch,” Cree muttered as he swung away from the screen and slammed his powerful body onto the sofa.

“Do you think he will give you permission?” Drewe asked, wishing he hadn't when the Reaper turned his full, annoyed attention on his 2/IC. “Why would he not?” Cree countered, his eyes flashing brown fire. “After I spent two weeks in that gods-be-damned…” “Captain Cree?” the Vid-Com injected. “Aye?” Cree's voice was a song of contempt. “The Admiral will see you at 1330, Sir.” Drewe barely had time to move out of the Captain's way as the man jumped up and stormed into his bedsuite. He followed slowly, his long-standing connection to Kamerone Cree giving him certain privileges no other man would dare exercise. “Have you thought about quarters for her once you have purchased her, Cree?” Drewe asked, thinking it best to assume a positive outlook rather than consider a negative one. “She won't be allowed to remain in the Women's Quarters once…” “She will be living here with me,” Cree snapped. Drewe blinked. “Do you think they will allow that?” “Why the hell do you keep inferring that I will not get what I want, Lona? They've never denied me anything before so why should they start now?” “This is different,” Drewe reminded him. “You are a Reaper and what you are doing has never been done before. To my knowledge, no Elite has ever asked permission to have a female live with him. You would be setting a precedent I'm not convinced the Tribunal will allow.” Cree straightened up from the bottom of his wardrobe where he had found his uniform tie lying in a coil at the very back. He stood there with the black leather tie dangling from his hand. “What makes you think they might not let me keep her here?” he asked quietly. For the first time in his nine-year acquaintance with Kamerone Cree, Drewe saw an emotion so alien, so totally un-Cree like on the man's face, it threw him for a second. Never would he have imagined his commander capable of exhibiting uncertainty and doubt, but there it was emblazoned on Cree's still face. It made Drewe uncomfortable. “Answer me! Why wouldn't they let me keep her here with me?” Drewe shifted from one foot to the other. “I don't know that they won't, Sir. I just think you should prepare yourself in case they refuse your request.” “They'd better not refuse me,” Cree said, turning back to snatch up his uniform belt. Drewe had no answer for that bold statement. With what passed for nonchalance for the young man, he folded his arms over his chest and leaned against the wall as Cree stripped down to his underwear. Sitting down on his bed, Cree jammed his long, muscular legs into the black leather uniform trousers then stood up to jerk them over his lean hips. He bent over to retrieve his black silk uniform blouse then thrust his arms through the sleeves. “I want you to make sure there is extra triso on board when we leave tomorrow morning,” he said as he buttoned the uniform blouse with irritated little movements of his powerful fingers. Drewe tensed. “You aren't close to Transition, are you, Sir?” “No,” Cree answered, “but I wouldn't like to need it and not have it.” He threaded his black leather belt through the belt loops of his trousers, snapped up his fly, and cast his 2/IC an arch look. “Would you like to be with me when I needed it and didn't have it, Drewe?” “No, Sir!” Drewe admitted, knowing full well he was being teased and astonished that another un-Cree like thing was happening here. “Look in that top drawer and give me my collar insignia,” Cree ordered as he turned to the full-length mirror on his bathing suite door and looped his tie over his head. Drewe found the set of silver Raven insignia then extended them on his palm to his commander. As Cree snapped the insignia into place, Drewe reached out to brush away a piece of lint from the Reaper patch on his Captain's left shoulder. The scarlet red triangle with the twin silver slashes bisecting the center were an emblem very few people on board the station liked to see. Even touching it made Drewe's fingers tingle.

“How do I look?” Cree asked, heading for the door. “Sharp enough to pass even Admiral Kahn's inspection,” Drewe commented, “but I really think you should put on your boots before you leave.” Cree looked down and cursed. He stomped back to his bed, sat down, and began to pull on his boots. He is as nervous as a raw recruit, Drewe thought, but he would cut out his own tongue before making such a statement to Kamerone Cree. “Well?” Cree barked as he stood up. “Do I pass muster, now?” “Very professional, Sir,” Drewe agreed. “And very intimidating.” He knew from experience that whoever passed the Captain in the corridors would step aside when they saw that black uniform advancing on them and no one would dare look up into the face of the man wearing it. “Good luck, Sir.” For just a moment, Cree hesitated. He met Drewe's encouraging look, then told the Vid-Com to open the door, darting out of his quarters before he could rationalize what he was about to do. Chapter 8 YEOMAN Djarl looked up as the door to his office shushed open. He stood up immediately, executing a crisp salute. “The Admiral is expecting you, Captain,” he said. “You may go right in, Sir!” Cree nodded, acknowledging the salute. He walked to the Duty Officer's door and stood there for a second, adjusting his tie, his belt. He squared his shoulders then pushed the entry pad into the D.O.'s office. “Captain,” the Admiral greeted him as Cree marched into the room and snapped off a perfect salute. “Thank you for seeing me, Sir!” Cree barked. He threw his shoulders back in a rigid stance of attention, his palms curved along the side seams of his trousers. “At ease, Kamerone,” the Admiral said in a friendly tone as he leaned back in his chair. He watched his biological son take a parade-rest stance with military precision and was very impressed with the young man standing before him. Father and son had never been this close before. “Thank you, Sir,” Cree stated. “I take it you suffered no ill effects from your recent disciplinary sojourn?” Cree's attention shifted from a point just above the Admiral's head to the man's dark gaze. “No, Sir,” he replied. “Thank you, Sir.” His gaze lifted once more to that obscure point in the distance. “The solar storm wrecking havoc over Hell-12 was a lucky break for you, don't you agree?” Cree's right check jumped in what often passed for a smile for him. “Aye, Sir.” The Admiral picked up a ceremonial dagger from his desktop and began tapping its blade on the desk's surface. “What exactly did you want to see me about, Kamerone?” Cree cleared his throat. “I came in to make a request, Sir. One I hope you will look upon with favor.” Draw lifted one thick white brow. “And that is?” There was a fraction of a second's hesitation before the Reaper blurted out: “I wish to take a live-in companion, Sir.” The Admiral nodded, continued to tap the dagger blade on the desktop. “You wish to have Lieutenant Lona move in with you?” Cree's brows drew together sharply in confusion. “Lona, Sir?” he asked, caught off guard by the question. He risked a look at the Admiral and when he saw the man was frowning, he looked away. “It is no secret that you and your 2/IC are close,” the Admiral put forth. “The Empire is aware you have been very circumspect in your dealings with the young man. I do not believe any untoward charges of fraternization could be leveled against you, but if you have decided you wish to exercise living privileges with him, I have no objection as long as you remain discreet.” Cree flinched, automatically lowering his gaze to his biological father and keeping it there. “Sir,” he stressed, finding his voice. “While I have, indeed, a measure of respect for the Lieutenant, I have no desire to have him move in with me.” The very thought of such a thing was distasteful to Cree though he knew a few of the Reaper caste-not all that fond of the opposite sex-were more apt to seek out their

own kind for companionship. He shuddered at the thought, color creeping into his cheeks. “Sir, I do not lean in that direction.” The Admiral's lips twitched. “No offense was intended, Captain.” “None taken, Sir,” Cree was quick to answer. “So, then,” the admiral said, tossing the dagger onto his desk. “It is a female you are here to request.” “Aye, Sir,” Cree acknowledged. “I do not believe this has ever come up before now,” the Admiral stated, drawing Cree's uneasy attention once more. “You realize, of course, that such a request is highly unusual?” “Aye, Sir,” Cree said. His stomach felt as though maggots were crawling around inside it and he was beginning to wish himself as far away from this office as time and space would allow. “And that female live-in companions are discouraged among the Retrieval Units?” “Aye, Sir.” Cree's voice was dull, lifeless. “This female is a Terran?” Cree nodded then mentally kicked himself for his momentary lack of respect. “Aye, Sir.” Admiral Cree tapped his right index finger along his nose. “One of your therapists, I take it,” he asked for clarification. He swiveled in his chair and pulled the keyboard of his computer toward him. “She was, Sir.” Cree's uneasy eyes followed the Admiral's fingers as they began to type something into the computer. When the Admiral glanced up at him, Cree quickly returned his attention to that point above Drae Cree's head. “Her name?” the Admiral inquired, his fingers flying across the keys. Once more those demon dark orbs lowered to the Admiral with confusion. “Dunne, Sir. Dr. Bridget Dunne.” “Excellent choice, Kamerone,” the Admiral stated. “She's quite lovely, isn't she?” “Excuse me, Sir?” Cree asked, more confused than ever. He stared into the Admiral's lined face as the man lifted his head and looked at him. “Bridget?” the Admiral stressed the name. “She is very lovely. I met her after your last therapy sessions, which, by the way, appeared to distress her deeply. I believe I saw tears in her eyes when she turned away.” He pressed one last key then leaned back in his chair. “I wouldn't mind having her as my own companion if I didn't already have Dr. Dean. Of course, men in my position may have more than one consort, but who needs the aggravation, eh?” Cree's jaw clenched and a muscle jumped in his left cheek. He didn't know how to answer that question so he remained silent. “Although I am not inclined to agree with the Ministry of Defense mandates concerning a man's sexual needs…” “I have no intention of having sex with her!” Cree blurted out, wincing as the Admiral raised one thick white brow at his outburst. “What I meant to say, Sir, was…” Admiral Cree cut him off. “Why would you want such a lovely woman as a live-in companion if you do not wish to have sex with her, Captain?” Cree looked as if he was about to throw up. His face was a most unbecoming shade of red. “Sir,” he said, having to clear his throat to get the words out, “I need a housekeeper.” The Admiral stared at him. “A housekeeper?” “Aye,” Cree said on a long sigh. “Someone to clean my quarters, prepare meals.” He flung his hand out. “That sort of thing.” “A housekeeper,” the Admiral stated flatly, his voice devoid of inflection. “Aye, Sir,” Cree agreed. The Reaper's smile of relief at having stated his intent almost shocked the Admiral, who had not been expecting it. “I see,” he said, unnerved by that unholy smile. “In that case, Kamerone, I see no reason why you shouldn't have what you want.” He leaned over his keyboard once more. “I will grant your request.” Cree had to stop himself from shouting with glee. He bit his tongue to keep from breaking into another ridiculous smile he knew made him look more evil than happy.

“Do you know just how much her acquisition will cost you?” the Admiral asked, not looking up at the Reaper. Cree shook his head. “No, Sir, but whatever it is, I will pay it.” Yes, the Admiral thought, as he typed in an amount on the line that asked for purchase price, I know you will. Drae's lips stretched into a faint grimace as he plucked the page from the printer and laid it on his desk. He picked up a pen to sign his name, but stopped. He looked up. “Who will look after her while you are away, Captain?” Cree's brows drew together again, but this time with thought. He cocked his head to one side, considering for a moment, then his face tightened. “I will have to consider that further, Sir.” He locked eyes with the Admiral. “Will that present a problem?” Drae shook his head. “I should think not. If I were you, I'd simply keep her in my quarters until my return.” He arched a brow at his subordinate. “That way, she can't run around getting into mischief, now, can she?” What kind of mischief? “No, Sir. Thank you for your advice, Sir.” “Any time,” the Admiral muttered. He scrawled his signature at the bottom of the request form, folded the paper, then slipped it into an envelope and sealed it. He extended the envelope toward the Reaper. “Present this at Requisitions then have Lona take the purchase price to the Bursar's office.” He sat back in his chair, pressed his fingertips together and smiled. “No need for you to have to make a trip way over to Finance for something like this. They can simply transfer the necessary credits from your account to the Ministry of Science.” Cree glanced down at the envelope, a little distrustful of the ease with which he had accomplished his acquisition of Bridget Dunne. He looked up at the Admiral's blank face. “That's all there is to it?” “What more do you want?” the Admiral asked. He leaned forward, bracing his arms on the desk. “You are a Reaper, Kamerone.” The right side of his mouth lifted in a quirk. “And the offspring of a very important man. Your requests should not be delayed nor challenged if they hold merit. Should they?” Cree drew in a long breath. Never had anyone admitted within his hearing his connection to the man seated across from him. He had known, of course, who had donated the seed for his conception, but had never dared boast of it. He was more than aware of the strong resemblance between them, a resemblance he found he both resented, and inexplicably, took pride in. Although they had never met face to face before today, he had often caught himself searching for the man's face in a crowd, watching for him, wishing for something to which he could not put a name. Staring at the man's slicked-back white hair, he wondered if his own thick hair would turn such a becoming shade of silver when he, himself, was in his late fifties. “Well?” Admiral Cree repeated. “Should they?” Cree had to shake himself to get rid of the thoughts tumbling around inside his head. “I suppose not, Sir,” he replied. “You should know not,” the Admiral said. “You, above any of your kind, should be given whatever you desire. Nothing should stand in the way of you getting what you want, when you want it. Do not let the petty jealousies of your inferiors keep you from obtaining anything you set your mind to, Kamerone.” He slapped his hands lightly on the tops of his desk then pushed himself up from his chair. “Unless you another request, you may go.” Before anything could happen to alter or disrupt what had just transpired, Cree threw his hand up and saluted. “No, Sir. Thank you, Sir!” he snapped. Pivoting, he spun around and marched to the door, barely breaking stride as the portal shushed open. Drae Cree bent over and pressed a button on his Vid-Com. As Dr. Dean's face came into view on the monitor, the Admiral smiled at her. “My son is on his way to Requisitions, Madame Director,” he told her. “He has the request chit in hand.” The Director smiled a sigh of relief. “Thank you for letting me know, Admiral,” she said, her image fading to black as she disengaged the Vid-Com connection from her end of the link. Sitting down in his chair again, the Admiral exhaled a long, cleansing breath. The trap had been set in the therapy unit of the Be-Mod 9 Unit and now the jaws had sprung shut. Only time would tell if they had

caught their prey in its inescapable maw. **** DREWE FELL into step with his Captain as Cree headed for the office of Requisitions. “There is something I think you should know,” said Lona. “It can wait,” Cree growled as he tapped the envelope with his permission to purchase Bridget Dunne against the palm of his left hand. “No, Sir, I do not think it can,” Drewe disagreed and stumbled to a stop as the Reaper came up short. “All right,” Cree sighed. “What is so gods-be-damned important that you had to come looking for me, Drewe?” Both embarrassment and apology-laced with a hint of worry-passed over Lona's face. “You are not going to like it.” Cree suspected he wouldn't. “Just tell me,” he breathed in exasperation. “It's about the female. Dunne,” Drewe answered and watched as immediate suspicion clouded his Captain's hard face. “Well?” Cree thundered, annoyed that his heart was suddenly pounding in his chest. “What of her?” The Lieutenant sucked in a breath and spoke on an explosion of sound before he could lose his nerve. “You aren't the only one who has put in a Requisition chit for her.” Sensing the fury he thought was going to erupt, he took a step back, but the quiet inquiry that met his words baffled him. “Who else?” Cree asked in an unnaturally soft voice that was as alien to the man as was the look of uncertainty that had been there earlier that morning. “Commander Konnor Rhye,” Drewe answered. “He's one of the Keepers on Captain Symthian Kullen's-” “I know Kullen's crew roster,” Cree cut him off. “And I am aware of Rhye.” A smug smile lifted the right corner of Cree's mouth. “But it doesn't matter.” He resumed his swagger down the long corridor. “It doesn't?” Cree shook his head. “Nope.” “May I ask why not?” Cree's evil grin grew wider. “I outrank him and someone reminded me just this morning that I should not let my inferiors keep me from having what I want.” Drewe hurried to catch up with him. “Commander Rhye has been saving for over four years to purchase the Terran female, Sir,” he said, having to increase his pace to keep up with Cree. “He's been courting her and-” Cree stopped, putting out a hand to halt Drew, as well. Slowly, he turned his head and stared hard at his second in command. One thick, dark brown brow quirked upward. “He's been doing what?” he asked in a cold tone. Drewe coughed. He stepped back from the look that had formed on the Reaper's lean face. “He is courting her. Courting means-” “I know what the hell it means! Explain in what context you suggest he is ‘courting’ her?” Drewe hurried with his explanation. “I was told he plans on Joining with her at the end of this month.” Drewe did not like the thunderclouds that were building across the plains of Cree's countenance; sparks of dangerous lightning leapt in the dark expanse of his demon's eyes. “Joining with her?” Cree's voice was deceptively polite. “Joining as in taking her to wife?” Drewe nodded, alarmed at the frigid wind that had suddenly sprung up in the storm-ready voice of his Captain. “How is that possible?” “She is a Class Five female. I was told Class Fives are automatically excused from having to serve in the Breeding Units because of their usefulness in the science departments. As for the Keeper, his caste is encouraged to take live-in companions; it keeps them happier. Some have actually Joined with their companions and have started families. Our High Priests have found nothing objectionable in regard to this particular Joining and have deemed the woman fit to breed. Since the Behavioral Mod Unit agreed to her

Bride Price…” “What about him?” Cree snarled, loathing the notion of Bridget breeding offspring. He shuddered. “Does he want her simply to bear his…his…” He flung out his hand in disgust. “…his get?” “From all accounts, he cares very deeply for her. They've been seeing one another for four years now and I am told they are lovers.” “Lovers?” the single word was a mere breath of sound. “As in he has sexual relations with her?” “Aye,” Drewe acknowledged with a red face. He wanted to ask what Cree thought the two of them did together. Cree stood there, staring at Drewe, assimilating the information his 2/IC had given him. He tapped the envelope against his thigh, then looked down at it. For a long moment, he simply studied the buff colored paper then the thunderclouds began to disperse from his face. The lightning faded from his stare. “It doesn't matter,” he said, grinning evilly. He pushed Drewe aside. “It doesn't?” Drewe repeated, nearly running to catch up. **** CREE WASN'T surprised to see Konnor Rhye standing at the Bursar's desk when he entered the Office of Requisitions. He had made Drewe stay outside. He nodded in acknowledgment of the Commander's nod of respect before the Keeper moved out of Cree's way. Cree handed his Requisition chit to the man behind the counter. Konnor Rhye glanced uneasily at the Reaper standing beside him. Despite being on a friendly enough basis with his own Reaper, Captain Kullen, Rhye found himself tense, on edge, in the presence of Rysalia's Prime Reaper. Scanning the form before him, the Bursar drew in a harsh breath. He looked at the Commander, glanced nervously at Cree, then returned his troubled attention to the form, hoping against hope that he had either read the chit wrong or it had changed since he had last looked at it. “I understand the Mistral brought back forty females on her last trip to Terra,” Cree said. He put his forearms on the counter top and leaned against it. He turned his head to look at Rhye. “That's very impressive. My compliments to your team.” Rhye smiled nervously. You never spoke to a Reaper unless he spoke to you first. To have Kamerone Cree open a conversation was thrilling, if not a tad uncomfortable. “Thank you, Sir,” Rhye said. “I will give Captain Kullen your regards.” “When do you go again?” Cree asked. He was ignoring the Bursar who was trying to gain his attention. Rhye didn't notice the coldness in his inquisitor's eyes or the lack of warmth in his polite query. He was eager to impress the man, wanted to be able to tell his shipmates that he had conversed with the Prime Reaper, himself. “We leave at the end of next week, Sir.” He stood up a bit straighter. “We are going to Ionary for a shipment of domestic females.” A twinkle entered Cree's brown eyes. “That's what I am here for today.” He looked away from the Commander and settled his sharp gaze on the Bursar. “I take it everything is in order?” The Bursar swallowed hard. “Sir, I think there's been a mistake.” Cree's brow lifted. “How so?” “This is a live-in companion chit, Sir,” the Bursar replied in a choked voice. His gaze pleaded with Cree to tell him there had been a mistake. Not only with the classification of the female requested, but the identity of her, as well. “Aye, I know that.” “Then perhaps there was a mix up in the names?” the Bursar asked hopefully. When the Reaper's fierce gaze remained steady, vengeful, the Bursar swung an apologetic gaze to the Commander. Rhye felt a wiggle of worry slither down his spine at the look the Bursar gave him. “No mistake has been made,” Cree stated. He turned his head and stared right at Rhye. “I came here

personally to handle the matter since the female in question now belongs to me.” Konnor Rhye looked into those demon eyes and knew. “Who is the lady you have come to buy, Sir?” The Bursar moved back from the counter. The Keeper knew better than to question Kamerone Cree! “Do I know her, Captain?” Rhye insisted, feeling his insides tearing. Cree smirked at Rhye and turned his attention to the Bursar. “I asked you if everything was in order?” “Ah, Captain Cree,” the Bursar whined, feeling the hard, piercing cold of those dark orbs impaling him, “this particular female has already been purchased. She's…” “Then, un-purchase her,” Cree said pleasantly. The Bursar whimpered. He cast Rhye one last look and took up the Keeper's chit and ripped it down the middle. “No,” Rhye whispered. “I bought her! We are to be Joined.” Cree never straightened from where he leaned against the counter, didn't look at Rhye as he spoke. “You are dismissed, Commander.” “I have already bought her,” Rhye said again. “I have permission to take her to wife.” “Not any more you don't.” For one wild, undisciplined moment, Konnor Rhye thought about slamming his fist into that sneering, smug face. He made one last attempt to make the Reaper see reason. “Captain, we are in love. I know you don't understand what that means, but-” “If you do not dismiss yourself, Commander,” Cree interrupted, “you are going to spend the rest of your days incarcerated on a penal outpost in the nether regions of the galaxy.” Rhye knew it wouldn't do him any good to plead with this man. The Iceman had no heart. He would not understand the feelings Konnor and Bridget shared. “This isn't over.” “Aye, but it is,” Cree assured him, taking the Requisition form from the trembling hand of the Bursar. The Bursar winced as Commander Rhye spun around and rushed from the office. He glanced uncertainly at Captain Cree and found the Reaper smiling: A physical manifestation of pure revenge. As the Captain's eyes met him, the Bursar could have sworn the Iceman was actually enjoying himself. **** “WELL,” DREWE said, placing a packet of forms on Cree's desk, “you've got her. It's been entered into the Registry at the data bank. These are the print outs if you want to read them.” He let out a long breath through his pursed lips. “I hope you know what you're doing, Sir. She cost you a bundle.” “How much?” Cree asked as he folded an extra jumpsuit to take with him the next morning. “You're not going to like it.” In their many years of working together, Cree had heard that same six-word phrase so many times he fancied he sometimes heard it in his controlled sleep. He sighed. “Just tell me how much, Drewe.” Lona shrugged, knowing this would be one time that Cree wasn't going to be able to either sneer away or shout away the consequences of something that was going to upset him and upset him badly. “Nine pay periods of credit.” Cree went rigid as stone. Slowly, he straightened and turned to face Drewe. “Say again?” “Nine pay periods of credit.” Drewe watched the full realization set in on Cree's shocked face. He nodded. “Aye, you heard me correctly. That is why it took Rhye so long to purchase her. Even for you, with all your termination bonuses, that's a hell of a lot of money, Sir.” “Why didn't you tell me this before?” Cree demanded. Not that it made any difference. He would have paid anything to get what he wanted. “I tried to, but you weren't listening,” Drewe reminded him. “And the Bursar wanted me to make sure you understand that you won't be receiving any pay until the female is paid for out of your account.” His face scrunched up. “You do have that much in your account, don't you?” Shock had turned Cree speechless. He sat down heavily on his bed. “Cree?” Drewe asked. “You do have that much, don't you?” The Reaper nodded absently. Nine pay periods? Three-quarters of a year's salary. Mentally, he calculated the amount in Terran funds, thinking it only right since it was a Terran he had bought.

“Seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars,” he muttered, glancing up at Drewe. “That's seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars!” He was shocked at the amount. “Why so much?” “I told you: she's a Class Five female.” “Meaning?” “Highly educated, highly trained medical personnel,” Drewe explained. “The only thing higher is a Class Six like the Director of the Be-Mod 9 Unit.” “Sweet Merciful Alel,” Cree whispered, missing the surprised look on his 2/IC's face. “I told the Bursar you would pick up the woman when we return from Terra.” Cree looked up, still reeling from the price. “Huh?” “The woman,” Drewe said. “You did mean for her to stay in her present quarters until you returned, didn't you?” The thought of Bridget free to continue seeing Konnor Rhye shot through Cree's brain like a laser blast. “Hell, no, I don't!” he snapped. “I want her here! In my quarters where she can't get into mischief! “I was afraid you would say that.” “See to it, Lona!” **** “HIS SECOND in command will be here any moment,” the Director said. She put a calming hand on Bridget's shoulder. “If you remember nothing else, Bridie, remember this: Under no circumstances will he ever hurt you. We made sure that prohibition was instilled irrevocably in his subliminals. He can no more do you harm that a cybot can harm its master. Do not forget that.” Bridget nodded. She looked down, her heart racing in her chest. She could not remember ever being this afraid of anything in her life. Not even when she had found herself aboard the Rysalian starship. “He will not harm you,” Dr. Dean stressed. She folded Bridget in her arms and held her, uneasy with the young woman's violent tremors. “Do you think we would send you to him if we thought there was a snowball's chance in Hell that he would hurt you, Bridie?” Bridget didn't reply because she knew to some of the women of the Resistance, any means to gain their end might well be used. Up to and including sacrificing her life. Though she, herself, had formed an alliance with Konnor Rhye-and to some extent had feelings for the man-she had reluctantly accepted the Resistance's dictate of what now had become the plan to bring Kamerone Cree to their way of thinking. What was at stake here was more important than any possible future happiness with Rhye. She would do as had been suggested and bear the consequences. “Dr. Dean?” Ivonne announced over the Vid-Com. “Lieutenant Lona is here.” “Jesus, Mary and Joseph!” Bridget whispered, her eyes going wide with fear. “Bridget,” the Director said, sternly, pushing the young woman away. “You have to do this. There isn't time for us to put him in a position to be brought before the Tribunal again. It has to be now.” “I…know,” Bridget answered. She lifted a hand to her face. “It's just…” “Go,” Dr. Dean advised, “before you can think about it any further.” She pushed Bridget toward her office door. The women of the Behavioral Modification Unit were gathered around the reception desk as Bridget came out of the black double doors. A few were visibly nervous, casting sidelong glances at Drewe Lona, but most were resigned, their faces stoic, if not happy. Each knew the importance of what Bridget Dunne was about to do and, although they wished her well, not a one of them would have traded places with her for all the gold on Ionary. “You will come back and see us, won't you?” Ivonne asked, risking a worried look at Lona. “I would think the Captain will allow that,” Lona said magnanimously. He had no doubt in his mind that the woman he was taking to Cree would be returned to Be-Mod Nine once the attraction wore off. He reached out and lightly took Bridget's arm. “Are you ready?” Bridget nodded, hating the feel of the Lieutenant's hand on her flesh. Already she felt imprisoned. Her freedom a thing of the past. Her future unknown. She didn't dare look at Dorrie, Helen, or Tina and

especially not Ivonne, who sobbed openly. “You appear well-liked here,” Drewe said, escorting her through the opened door to the corridor beyond. “It has been my home for five years,” Bridget said quietly. “And probably will be again.” Bridget glanced at him. “This isn't permanent?” Drewe laughed. “I'd hardly think so.” He glanced her, thinking the young woman quite pretty. No wonder Cree found her intriguing. “You know him better than most. I hope you're right.” “Oh, he will be good to you.” “So I've been told.” “He will lose interest quickly, though,” Drewe prophesied, nodding. Bridget looked at him, a stunned look on her pretty face. Pray God, not too soon! At least not before she had accomplished what she had been sent to do! What would happen to her if she should fail? Drewe noticed the woman's sudden pallor; saw that she was trembling. By the gods! If he brought a hysterical female to Cree's quarters, the Reaper might lop off his head. Lona swallowed. “He certainly won't harm you and when he's through, I'm sure he'll return you to the Director.” “When he's through?” Bridget questioned, her voice quivering. “Well, you know,” he said lamely, flinging out a hand. “No,” Bridget denied. “I don't know.” Lona grimaced. Why was it left to him to explain things to this Terran female? He shrugged. “You know. When he's through with you. When he's…After he's…” He stopped. “Why don't you just wait and see, okay?” Bridget studied the Shepherd's profile for a long time, but when it became clear he would say nothing more, she looked at the long corridor down which they walked. When they arrived at the elevator, several Keepers and a Shepherd or two nodded politely at Lona and looked quizzically at Bridget. “This is the one?” one of the Keepers asked. Keepers were low in the hierarchy of Rysalian military. Glorified military police, their main job was to keep the females in line. “Aye,” Drewe acknowledged. “Not to my taste,” a Shepherd remarked. “Too thin.” His was the task of ‘herding’ the females to pre-arranged pickup spots during retrieval operations. Shepherds tended to be rather full of their own importance. “Too tall,” another Keeper decided. “I hear Rhye is…” another of the Keepers started to say, but Lona sent him a quelling look and the man coughed, pretended to find something extraordinary about the titanium wall beside him. “He is all right, isn't he?” Bridget questioned and had to repeat her question for Lona had pretended not to hear her. “Who?” Lona finally asked, though he knew well enough who she meant. “Commander Rhye,” she said softly. Drewe met the eyes of one of the Shepherds and the two men exchanged superior smiles. “Aye, as far as I know.” Bridget lowered her head. It would not do to let these warriors see how angry she was. Or how hopeless she felt. She walked ahead of Lona into the elevator and felt even more imprisoned as the other five warriors filed in and seemed to take up all the room in the cage. “Would it be permissible for me to render the captain my compliments when the time comes?” the oldest of the two Shepherds inquired. “I shall tell him, Wynth.” “My thanks, Lieutenant.” Bridget felt the Shepherd's eyes roaming down her, but refused to look at him. When the elevator stopped on E deck, the other five men got off, on their way to the chow hall, and the elevator door closed again.

“What did he mean?” Bridget asked. “That Shepherd.” Drewe sighed. Did he have to explain everything to this female? He turned and looked down at her, a smug male look on his face. “He was telling me to make sure the Captain understands that when he tires of you, Wynth would appreciate the chance to bid on you if Cree does not mind.” Bridget stared at the Lieutenant. Over my dead body! Chapter 9 AS THE door to his quarters slid open, Cree stood facing her: this woman he could not get out of his mind. He was not surprised to find her looking at him with wariness in her beautiful green eyes. Not the welcoming look he had hoped for or the tender look he found himself yearning for, but a look of unease tinged with animosity. “Where are her belongings?” “I ordered one of the Watchers to bring them over,” Lona replied. “She didn't have that much.” Bridget turned to glare at him. “You went through my things?” “I ordered him to do so,” Cree informed her and when she swung her angry attention to him, he winced at the command in his tone. He hadn't meant to sound so military or demanding. He had wanted to put her at ease, but instead, he had offended her. He tried to think of something to say, but nothing came to mind. He looked at Lona and found him staring at the floor. “Is there anything else, Captain?” Lona asked. “No,” Cree answered. He shifted, feeling sweat running down his back and could not imagine why he felt so nervous or why his heart seemed to be beating so fast in his chest, he could hear the sound in his ears. “Go on, Drewe,” ordered Cree. “Make sure I am not disturbed this evening.” Drewe grinned, nodded, and after casting one last look at the Captain's concubine, took his leave. “Captain Cree?” the Vid-Com chimed on. “Would you like something to calm you, Sir?” Bridget almost felt sorry for him as the red stain of embarrassment tinged the Reaper's face; but his harsh denial of the computer's offer and his rigidly held posture made her remember who and what he was and why she was there. She lowered her head and waited for him to speak. Cree felt like pulling the intercom unit out of the wall, stripping it of its wires and stomping it to dust. If it had been physically possible to do so, he would have grabbed the interfering, interrupting feminine smirk of a voice by its electronic throat and squeezed until there was no artificial life left in it. The gods-be-damned thing had to have been reprogrammed by one of the Resistance and he made a mental note to have an Electronic Tech check it over first thing the next morning. But the damage had already been done: it had irritated him and he took his irritation out on Bridget. “You know I bought you,” he blurted and could have bitten off his tongue when she looked up at him with annoyance. “I was informed this morning that you had,” she answered. “I understand I had no say in the matter.” There was bitterness in her soft voice. At a loss for anything soothing to say to her, he said what he hoped she wanted to hear. “I will be good to you,” he stated. “I have no intention of abusing you.” Bridget lifted her head and locked her gaze with his. “Since I will be completely at your mercy, Captain Cree, and I know you to be a man of your word, I will be grateful for any kindness you choose to show me.” This was not going as he had planned, Cree thought as he watched the disinterest linger in her pretty eyes. He had hoped she would be pleased that he had freed her from the Behavioral Mod Unit. Something had told him she did not like being a party to the torture of those admitted there for therapy. “Your duties will be to see to my comfort,” he said and saw her wince. He hurried on with what he would expect from her. “To cook, clean, and maintain my personal belongings.” He swept an arm around the room. “As you can see, I do not like cleaning.” She looked around her with the same disinterest then nodded her understanding of his demands.

“I will be leaving tomorrow morning…” “You are returning to Earth?” she inquired, showing the first interest since her arrival. He let it pass that she had dared to interrupt him and had spoken without permission. He wanted to put her at ease so he made an effort to keep the annoyance out of his voice when he answered. “The United States.” Bridget's face crinkled and she looked away from him. Any mention of home never failed to make her bitterly regret where she was. He sensed her unhappiness although emotional reactions were not something he would have thought himself capable of defining before his trip to the therapy room in Be-Mod Nine. That he seemed to be aware of the feelings of others both surprised and worried him. He sat down on the edge of the sofa, pushing these new sensations out of his mind. “While I am away,” he said, testing her reaction to what he was about to say, “you will be confined to my quarters.” Bridget's head snapped up. “Why? For what purpose?” He stiffened. “Because that is what I wish.” He had no intention of telling her that he meant to make sure she did not see Konnor Rhye while he was gone. He had no concern that he could keep them apart when he was on station, but being able to do so when he was a thousand or more light years away would be difficult at best if she were where Rhye could have access to her. He made another mental note to have the gods-be-damned Keeper shipped as far away from FSK-14 as he could get him. “I am to be a prisoner, then?” she challenged, her hazel eyes turning dark as sin. Cree looked down to see that she was squeezing her hands together, her nails digging into her palms. The look she gave him could have scalded the pinfeathers from a Viragonian waterfowl. He found he did not like her regarding him in such a fashion. “Will you sit your ass down, woman?” Bridget's gaze narrowed, but she kept her mouth closed. Her chin came up and she glared at him before sitting. “And wipe that mutinous look off your face!” he ordered, heaving himself from the sofa. “You were a very expensive acquisition and I aim to protect my investment. I meant no insult to you.” Bridget's pursed lips relaxed, but the look did not dissolve as he had expected it to. This was not going at all as he had intended and he raked a hand through his hair. “I only meant to assure you that I hold you in the highest regard, Bridget. I wanted to repay you for the kindness you showed me in the therapy room.” She mumbled something he didn't hear and he stopped, cocked his head to one side. “What?” he barked. Bridget shrugged. “I said it was part of my job.” He blinked, stung by her remark. “Do you treat all those of my kind the way you treated me?” he demanded. “There had never been any of your kind to pass through the Be-Mod Nine Unit before you were sent to us, Captain.” “You know what I meant. Do you treat the rest of them as I was treated?” She looked into his hostile eyes. “No, Captain,” she replied quietly. “You were very special.” Kamerone Cree's facial expression softened and the daggers were sheathed in his gaze. Before he knew what he was doing, he reached out to touch her, to lay his hand on her arm, then shuddered violently and drew his hand back as though he'd been stung. He folded his hands under his arms and put distance between them, wincing with pain. “Captain?” She saw him glance toward the Vid-Com unit. “Are you all right?” “Give me a moment,” he hissed through his teeth. He felt the sharp pain go through his temple again and tried to shut down, to block his thoughts before his Controllers could lock on to the emotions that had been building in him since Bridget's arrival. He could feel the implants in his brain tingling as each area was probed and resented the intrusion more than ever. "If you become aware they are scanning him, take his mind from it. Do not give them anything they can use against him to make him give you up,” the Director had insisted. “What exactly is it you expect of me, Captain?” Bridget said loudly, drawing his attention to her.

“Expect?” he repeated. He looked around the room, seeming not to have an answer for her question. He put up a hand to rub absently at his left temple. “I don't understand your meaning.” “What am I to do here?” she emphasized. “You said I was to take care of your needs. What exactly does that entail?” “My laundry. “Anything else?” “Like what?” Hadn't he made himself clear about what he expected of her? The Vid-Com chimed on. “Captain Cree?” “Aye!” he snapped with irritation. “Lieutenant Lona is here with the doctor's belongings, Sir.” “Then bring them in!” Bridget stood up as Drewe and two young men entered the quarters. “Is that my room?” Cree glanced at the closed door. “Aye.” “Put her things in there,” Drewe ordered his helpers. He glanced at Bridget, smiled hesitantly then accompanied the men into her room. He waited until her clothing was in the closet and the box of personal possessions was laid on the bed then ushered out the men. He smiled again at Bridget in passing then left with his helpers without saying a single word to his commander. Cree nodded at Bridget's look of inquiry. “You may unpack.” When she went into her new room, he followed. “You have very little in the way of possessions.” “I don't need much.” She opened the box on her bed and took out a toiletry case, a few books and an antiquated CD player and a few disks, then moaned. “What is it?” Cree demanded as he watched her reach in the box and pull out a crumpled magazine photo. “Of all the things they could have damaged, this I would not have had them harm,” she whispered, her eyes filling with tears. She clasped the slick page to her chest. “Not this.” Curious to see whose photograph she cherished so deeply, the Reaper stepped forward and held out his hand. “Let me see.” She hesitated, meeting his challenging gaze, then held the magazine page out for him to take. “Please be careful with it. I found it in a trash bin and I doubt there's another like it anywhere on FSK-14.” Cree looked at the page and frowned. It was a photograph of a white marble statue depicting a robed woman with outspread arms. The statue's face was lovely, serene, and under her feet was a coiled serpent. He lifted his head and stared at Bridget. “Who is this?” “The Virgin Mary. The mother of Christ, Our Lord. I am a Catholic and I pray to her.” The Reaper's face relaxed. “I have heard of your religion.” He looked down at the statue. “This comforts you?” “It reminds me of home. And yes, it comforts me.” He handed it back. “Then you may keep it.” He found her watching him with what could only have been anticipation, and not pleasant anticipation at that. “What?” “You didn't finish telling me about my other duties.” Her mouth was tight; her expression wary. Cree's brows drew together in confusion then straightened as he realized what she meant. “I bought a companion, Bridget.” “I will not be your whore, Captain Cree.” Cree folded his arms and looked at her, liking the way her eyes flashed and her face had colored with a faint tint of rose. He cocked his head to one side in what she would learn was a habit when he was assessing a situation newly presented to him. Almost in a teasing fashion he regarded her from beneath thick brown lashes and one side of his mouth quirked in what might have been a smile on a lesser man. “Have I asked you to whore for me, Bridget?” “I will cook for you.” She glanced around, disgusted by the mess and aching to put things to rights. “I will clean your home and try to make it as pleasant as possible for you.” Her mouth tightened. “But I will not play the whore for you or any other man.”

“Not even Konnor Rhye?” he asked before he thought and could have kicked himself for doing so. Bridget's nails drew blood in the palm of her hand. “What is between Konnor and me is-” “Over,” he said quietly, “What ever was between the two of you is over.” “Konnor and I are-” “Were,” he stressed. “Captain, I don't think you understand how the two of us feel toward…” He waved aside her words. “I do not wish to hear anything about the Keeper,” he snapped. “You will not speak of him to me again. Is that clear?” “Konnor and I…” “Do not say his name!” She tried again to make him understand. “We are in…” “I will hear no more!” he shouted at her, cutting off the one phrase he would be damned if he would let her say. “Be very careful how you tread,” Dr. Dean had warned her. “He is the most dangerous when he feels threatened.” Bridget lowered her gaze. Not only because she was angry and did not want to give away her feelings, but because the fury in the Reaper's face was awful to behold. “Sit down. Bridget sat down on the bed and folded her hands in her lap. She waited for him to stop pacing, not looking at him as he ranged to and fro across the room. When finally he stopped, she risked a glimpse at him and found him studying her. She tensed, holding his gaze, refusing to cower before the thunderclouds still sweeping across his face. “Tell me about yourself.” Bridget let out a breath she didn't know she'd been holding. “I doubt there is anything I can tell you that you haven't already read and memorized from my dossier.” He snorted. “I read only the Retrieval report. All that tells me is from where you were extracted, when, and who did the Retrieval.” He squinted at her. “Captain Kullen, was it not?” Bridget's jaw clenched. “Yes.” “A son of a bitch,” he stated. “Not worth the triso it takes to keep him from Transitioning.” A cold chill ran down Bridget's spine. He spoke so nonchalantly of something that was a horror unto itself. “Go on.” “With what? I don't understand what you want to know.” Cree sighed with irritation. “Who you were. How you were Retrieved. What you felt about it.” Bridget suspected he knew more than he was letting on that he did, but she had been instructed to humor him. She was to cater to his every wish. “I was in college.” “Grinnell College, Grinnell, Iowa,” he supplied. “I believe the year was 1994 or thereabouts.” “Yes.” She looked down at her lap. “I had been working in the research lab…” “Biology.” She nodded. “It was late and I was tired. I was on my way back to the dorm when this man I had been seeing was suddenly there beside me. He nearly gave me a heart attack. He said he'd been waiting for me to walk me to my room. I didn't question him. When he put his arm around me, I didn't try to stop him. It wasn't until I felt the sting on my shoulder that I knew something was wrong.” Cree watched her as she sat there, her mouth quivering. He waited for her to speak and when she did not, he prompted her. “He was a Hunter. You woke on a Rysalian transport.” “Months later,” she replied. “The first thing I remember hearing was the seal breaking on the E.S.U.” She stared across the room, seeming to see the Extended Sleep Unit sitting there. “I remember watching the lid fold back and this…thing staring down at me.” “The ship's cybot,” he said, amused. Bridget nodded. “I think I screamed, but I'm not sure. Somehow I knew where I was.” She laughed

sardonically. “Or rather I knew where I wasn't!” “There was a problem with some of the women taken with you.” “Yes,” she answered, recalling that terrible moment. “They didn't believe we were in a spaceship until one of the Keepers opened the shield and we saw nothing but empty space.” She laughed again, this time almost tearfully. “'The Final Frontier.’ Margot and Denise had not wanted to boldly go where no ob-gyn students had gone before.” Cree had read the report. He knew two of the nine women extracted with Bridget had been terminated by Kullen, the Reaper on whose ship Bridget had been taken. He wondered if Bridget had any idea what had happened to the women. Her next words told him she did. “He killed them,” she said quietly. She looked up. “The Reaper. He took them away and killed them.” “And he was censured for it.” “Censured for it? With what? A slap on the wrist? How do you Rysalians punish a Reaper for murder?” “Reapers are seldom punished for anything we do. We were designed to kill, Bridget. That is our primary function.” “You kill women, too, do you?” He was stunned by the venom in her voice. “No,” he replied. “I have never taken the life of a woman. I rarely interact with females. There is one on my ship, but I think of her as a member of the crew; nothing more.” “And the surrogates? Don't you ‘interact’ with them?” Had he not known better, he would have thought her jealous. She was looking at him with what he thought might well be possessiveness. Women were strange creatures; contradictions that bewildered the most intelligent of men. Understanding them, knowing what they meant, was difficult at best. “Reapers have needs just as other men do,” he responded. “Lust is a need that is easily satisfied by the surrogates. You do not need to interact with the plumber who comes to unclog your drain.” Bridget blushed to the roots of her hair, his words hitting her like slaps in the face. She could not meet his gaze and knew he was smirking at her, having put her on the defensive with his lewd comparison. “You kill,” she whispered, trying to blot out the image he had so graphically instilled in her mind. “Aye,” he agreed. “I have admitted as much, but you knew that before you came here.” She steeled herself to look up at him. “So who do you kill?” “Whomever the Empire decides must be terminated. “Enemies of the Empire,” she scoffed. “Aye.” “Women of the Resistance?” He frowned. “I have told you I do not terminate females.” “Only males.” “Certain males, aye.” He held her gaze. “Such as?” She was doing something he would never have allowed any other being-male or female-to do: question him. It was almost as though she was trying to provoke him, to anger him. She was not openly insulting him, but she might as well have been. Her words were harsh and were flung at him with a great deal of anger and loathing. She tried to hide her feelings, but her face was too expressive, her eyes too easy to read. He decided he liked the mental exercise of sparring with her. “I go after rogue Retrieval Unit personnel,” he explained. “Those who have decided they prefer living on Terra and mating with Terran females there rather than doing the job they were sent to do. We must terminate them because they hold secrets your Terran military should never learn. The most moronic of our Hunters and Gatherers are hundreds of years ahead of your most gifted scientists when it comes to the rudiments of space travel. A slip of the tongue to the wrong scientist could be disastrous. Likewise, they provide counterfeit documents and identities for Hunters and Gatherers stationed on Terra. Knowledge of how they do this, and the ease with which they manufacture Terran monies would cause planet-wide panic.” He shook his head. “Not good to allow that to happen.” Bridget thought of the brilliant man who had cultivated her friendship; the man she had dated for

several weeks, thinking she knew him, only to find out he wasn't even of her world. Lin, wasn't it? Lin Charles? She couldn't remember. How many more like him were there on earth? He had seemed to fit right in and often spoke of how much he liked to visit Florida, told her of his hometown in Indiana. She wondered if he might one day go ‘'rogue’ and have a Reaper come for him. “You didn't take into consideration that they might like Earth when you sent them there? Might fall in love with the women they were sent to abduct? Or prefer Earth's freedoms to the restrictions most Rysalians suffer?” He began to pace once more. He kept glancing at her room's Vid-Com and Bridget wondered if he was being probed again or if the conversation was starting to bore him. “When you are sent to perform a mission, you perform it to the best of your ability. Personal feelings are not to get in the way.” “Do Reapers have feelings?” He stopped, turned and glared at her. “We are programmed for certain kinds of emotions. Love is not one of them.” “Anger? Hatred? Violent emotions?” “Aye,” he replied, uneasy with the turn the conversation had taken. She saw him staring at the Vid-com. “What of envy? Jealousy? Possessiveness?” Cree snorted. “Those are not violent emotions.” “They can be,” she reminded him. “Only with Terrans.” She sighed. The genetically engineered warrior standing before her would be a harder nut to crack than the Resistance thought. Obviously the subliminals had not been as effective as they were designed to be. “I need to rest. You may retire whenever you wish. I will most likely have left before you rise in the morning.” Bridget stood up. “Will you require a meal before-” “No,” he cut her off. “Captain Cree?” the Vid-Com chimed. “Aye?” he said, obviously relieved. “Your med is here, Sir.” “Enter!” he ordered, striding briskly from Bridget's room. Bridget followed and shuddered as the cybot entered the Captain's quarters. It was one of the same faceless, sexless entities she had awakened to see hovering over her on Captain Kullen's starship. She found the thing hideous and unnerving to look at. “You are three cycles away from Transition,” the cybot pronounced. “I know how close I am!” Cree snapped. He stood still as the cybot injected the triso into his jugular. Bridget saw the Reaper wince and knew the neuroleptic drug was thick and had a terrible sting to it. If it made a warrior bred to withstand vast amounts of pain flinch, what must it do to a normal being? The cybot left as quickly as it had come. Cree stood were he was, rubbing at the place on his neck where the drug had been injected. “It must be very painful.” “You get used to it.” He drew in a long breath. “I bid you a good night, Bridget.” Bridget noticed his last words were slurred and knew that was due to the drug's interaction with his genetically -altered DNA. She watched him stumble as he went to his door and the last she saw of him, he was falling across his bed. “They sleep very little,” Dr. Dean had told her. “When they do, it is a sleep like that of the dead. I think part of their legend has to do with that deep sleep.” Long into the night, Bridget sat in the living area of the Captain's quarters and stared fearfully at his door. Now and again, she could hear him moaning then listened as he paced about the room like a caged animal. For a half hour or so, all sound would cease then the moaning would start again, then the pacing. She fell asleep curled up in a chair, her hands tucked beneath her cheek. She never felt him cover her

with a blanket nor did she feel the gentle touch on her hair before he left. **** CREE ROLLED up his the sleeve of his jumpsuit and allowed the Ministry of Medicine physician to inject the hypersleep drug into his vein. The drug was thick and it stung as it traveled up his arm. “That burned worse that usual,” he complained as he reached over to massage his arm. “You need to be out at least twenty minutes for the programming to be downloaded, Captain,” the medical officer reminded him. Cree's lips tightened. He was still smarting over the extra assignment he had been given earlier that morning when he had reported to Operations. “I am not a gods-be-damned Shepherd!” he had snarled as he was being briefed. “This is a target Admiral Kahn wishes to be retrieved by our best team,” the briefing officer had explained nervously. It didn't do to have a Reaper glaring at you as Captain Cree was glaring at him. “The female is to be treated with the utmost respect.” “Female!” Cree had grunted. “I don't need another gods-be-damned female on board my ship, either! One is enough with that prissy-assed Med Off you foisted on me!” The briefing officer had backed away. “Well, Sir, there will be more than just the one female you will have to r-retrieve.” “What?” Cree had thundered. He'd grabbed the poor man by the lapels of his uniform. “How many more?” “F-five.” “Gods-be-damned Kahn and his sniveling female targets,” Cree mumbled under his breath as he settled himself more comfortably in his E.S.U. The Medical Officer knew Cree was already feeling the effects of the sleeping drug careening through his system. Within a matter of moments, the Reaper would be fast asleep, the information needed for him to perform his mission beginning to be downloaded to the terminals implanted in his brain. “How close to Transition are you, Sir?” “Not close enough for you to have to concern yourself about it,” he responded. Already his eyes were closing and a soft black mist was shutting down his world. He forced his eyelids open again and glanced over at the cybot that would monitor the ship while he and the crew were in Extended Sleep. “Make sure Dr. Yul's compression tank is activated,” Cree instructed the ‘bot. “'For some must watch, while some must sleep; so runs the world away,'” the cybot agreed. It waved a gallant arm toward Dr. Yul's sleeping compartment for she was the last one to enter the E.S.U. “'Good night, good night! Parting is such sweet sorrow, that I shall say good night ‘till it be morrow.'” Dr. Yul pursed her lips and climbed into her E.S.U. Whoever had programmed the cybot's responses and personality had a wicked sense of humor. She liked to read Terran literature, herself, and the quotations from the playwright, Shakespeare, never failed to amuse her since they were always right on target with whatever the duty the ‘bot needed to perform. “'To sleep perchance to dream: aye, there's the rub',” the ‘bot sighed as he ran a swab over the Med Off's arm in preparation to injecting her hyper-sleep. “I don't dream,” said Dr. Yul. “'True, I talk of dreams which are the children of an idle brain, begot of nothing but vain fantasy',” agreed the cybot. As the Siliplex hatch of her sleep unit clicked into place, Dr. Yul wondered again who had programmed the AIU. She would have been astounded to learn that it had been Kamerone Cree who had given the ‘bot its distinctive personality. Troilus, as the ‘bot had been named, ambled over to the ship's computer, checked the readouts, punched in a few commands, sighed as heavily as any human ever had, then hunched its shoulders as it strolled to the Captain's E.S.U. It stared down through the Siliplex for a moment or two, sighed again as though the weight of a world was on its shoulders, then released the lock on the sleep unit. As soon as

the rush of the vacuum seal broke, the Reaper came fully awake. “'So every bondman in his own hand bears the power to cancel his captivity',” the cybot said sagely, holding out its hand. “'This is the short and long of it.'” Cree grasped the steel-like hand and climbed out of the unit. He stretched then glanced around. “Everything working properly? Everyone sleeping?” “'As quiet as a lamb',” the ‘bot pronounced. It ambled off, taking its place at the console. “You found nothing wrong, did you, Troi?” Cree asked. “'But yet I'll make assurance double sure, and take a bond of fate.'” “Someone sabotaged the guidance system the last time out,” Cree muttered as he sat down in his command module. “'Something is rotten in the state of Denmark,'” Troilus agreed, nodding. “'Thou can'st not say I did it: never shake thy gory locks at me.'” Cree snorted. “I know the Resistance was responsible, Troi.” “'Things without all remedy should be without regard: what's done is done,'” the ‘bot advised. “I intend to make gods-be-damned sure it doesn't happen again.” “'Lay on, MacDuff, and damn'd be him that first cries, “Hold, enough!",'” the cybot declared dramatically. “Aye,” Cree snarled. “And the gods help her when I find out who she is!” **** THE TERMINATION of the four rogue Gatherers he had been assigned to find and eliminate went as it was meant to: with precision and with as little trouble as possible. The retrieval of the targets that were his secondary assignment, however, did not go quite as well as planned. The five women had simply stared with horror at the tall man in the black jumpsuit when he had appeared out of thin air. When he advanced toward their leader, all but the oldest of the five had scattered like chickens before a hawk. She held her ground, looking at him with something more like amazement than horror. “Who the divil are you?” she'd demanded. “Don't give me any trouble and I won't harm you,” Cree had responded. He had lifted his hand and a high-pitched buzzing sound erupted uncomfortably in the women's ears. A light so bright it momentarily blinded them, so piercing, they had to squeeze their eyes shut against the pain. When next the women opened their eyelids, they had been greeted with a sight that had rendered even the youngest one speechless. “You are under my authority now, and you will do as you are told or I promise you, you will regret it,” said Cree. “I knew good and damn well you were a divil, young man!” the youngest one piped up. She looked around them. “Where the hell have you brought me and me chums?” “Leave off, Mary Francis,” the oldest of the group said with exasperation. She took in the huge circular room, the banks of twinkling lights on the computer consoles, the uniformed crew watching her, and grinned. “It's a bloody UFO!” she said in awe. “Like hell it is!” Mary Francis pronounced. She walked up to Cree and punched him in the chest with a stiff finger. “What kind of harebrained piece of shit is this?” “I've read about these kinds of abductions,” the oldest said, gazing about her with obvious excitement. “Where are we going, then, lad?” “Right back where we were!” Mary Francis declared. She jabbed Cree again. “And right this minute, too!” Cree reached up, took the finger poking him and pulled the woman against him. “Do that again and I will take it as an invitation to what you'd like me to do to you except I won't use my finger!” Mary Francis gasped, her mouth sagging open. She jerked her hand back and scuttled away from him, joining the other four women who were huddled together near the E.S.U.'s. “Where did you say you was taking us, boy?” the oldest asked.

Cree flung her a glance. “I didn't, but you are going to my home world. Rysalia Prime.” The old woman nodded knowingly as though she had heard of it. “And how far from our home is this Rysalia place and how come I can understand you?” Cree scowled. “Because I am speaking to you in Terran English,” he grated. “While you are asleep, you will assimilate Rysalian High Speech so you will be able to communicate with us in our language.” “I will not be doing any sleeping!” Mary Francis hissed. She folded her arms over her skinny chest. “I can assure you of that, young man! I will stay awake until we get there!” The Reaper's face split into a nasty grin. “I'd like to see that,” he threw at her. “It will take us a little less than two and a half months to reach FSK-14.” The oldest woman's eyes leapt with speculation. “That's a few million miles away, ain't it, lad?” “Over three billion miles,” he corrected. “I think I'm going to enjoy this,” the oldest woman said. “I'll do my best to see that you do,” Cree was shocked to hear himself say. “What's your name, lad?” she asked, smiling at him. “Cree,” he replied. He surprised himself again when he realized he was smiling back at her. “Cree what?” “Kamerone Cree,” he replied. “That sounds like a good Celtic name,” she concluded. “I like it. Cree laughed. “I'll tell my father you approve,” he responded and ignored the stunned looks of his crew. He held out his hand. “Now, let's get you settled in the sleep unit.” The old woman put her hand in his. “I guess it would be too much trouble to let me sit by the window and watch the stars go by,” she lamented. Cree shook his head. “We'll be going into warp drive and your body wouldn't be able to handle it.” “I'm not going anywhere!” Mary Francis barked. “Oh, shut the hell up, Mary Francis McGivern!” the older woman spat. “I'm so bloody tired of your bellyachin'!” Cree chuckled, further shocking his crew, then swept the little old lady up into his arms and laid her gently in the E.S.U. The genuine laughter, if shocking to his crew, confused him even more. He moved out of the Med Off's way as she leaned over the old woman to inject the hypersleep drug. “This will sting a little, but not for long,” Dr. Yul told her. “Oh, my!” the old woman exclaimed as the drug started racing through her frail body. “That's a bit like good Irish whiskey, huh, lad?” “I wouldn't know,” he answered, bringing down the lid on her sleep unit. He smiled at her through the Siliplex, then placed his fingertips on the surface in what he hoped would be conveyed as a gesture of comfort. It pleased him as she lifted her hand and placed it beneath his before letting it drop heavily to her side Sister Mary Joseph Kelly looked up into the handsome, Gaelic-looking face hovering above her own and winked. The lad had the look of a black Irish rogue if she'd ever seen one! she thought as she drifted away. “A bonny Irish outlaw, is that one,” she whispered as she succumbed to the Extended Sleep. **** CREE LAY awake in his sleep unit, his hands behind his head. He was unaware that he was smiling softly or that his thoughts had been consistently on Bridget Dunne since leaving Docking Bay 9 two and a half months earlier. Idly, he wondered what she was doing; how she was spending her confinement in his quarters. He knew there was plenty to do, a myriad of entertainment in his Vid-Com unit to keep her occupied. And with one exception, he had not denied entrance to any visitors who wished to see her, although he had made sure the Vid-Com would not allow Bridget, herself, to leave his quarters. There had been plenty of Terran food programmed into the replicator. She would not lack for nourishment. Even staple goods, vegetables, meats or the like which she wished to cook for herself could be brought in from the Ministry's warehouses.

He turned his head and looked at the old woman lying across from him. She, like Bridget, was from a Terran race called the Irish. As best he could ascertain, the Irish were a race not unlike his own dam's: Chalean. Some of the words, and their meanings, in the Irish Gaelic language were identical to Chalean High Speech. No one had been able to explain to him how that could have happened, but he suspected that many generations before the catastrophe that killed Rysalia's female population, the Chaleans had found a way to Terra and had left behind a part of their culture. Lying there, watching the old nun sleep, he wondered why-after the targets’ safe retrieval-he had risked capture one more time to return to the convent from which he had extracted Sister Mary Joseph and her little staff. His reason bothered him and he sat up in his unit. “I can't sleep,” he told the ‘bot as the Artificial Intelligence Unit shot him a curious glance. “'There is occasions and causes why and wherefore in all things.'” Troilus told Cree. “Aye.” Cree sighed. “'A poor lone woman,'” he quoted. Chapter 10 “YOU WOKE me earlier than usual,” Dr. Yul complained. “'Better three hours too soon than a minute too late,'” the cybot giggled. Dr. Yul waved the ‘bot away and climbed out of her unit on her own. She went immediately to the Terrans’ units and checked the readouts. “I've already checked,” Cree told her. Dr. Yul nodded. “The AIU woke me too soon.” “'I'll use you for my mirth, yea, for my laughter, when you are waspish.'” Troilus pouted. “Stupid ‘bot,” Dr. Yul accused him. “'Your wit's too hot, it speeds too fast, ‘twill tire,'” the cybot insulted her. “That's enough, Troi,” warned Cree. “Leave her alone.” Troilus sniffed and began to amble away from the Med Off, moving its mouth as though it were a cow chewing a cud. “What are you doing, Troi?” Drewe called out. “'Eating the bitter bread of banishment,'” it replied sorrowfully. Dr. Yul checked on Sister Mary Joseph last. She looked down at the old woman for a long moment then turned to look at Cree. “I'm afraid I don't understand altruism in the Terran race, but you do have to respect those who are willing to give their lives for others, don't you?” “Aye,” Cree replied. Thinking that was the main reason the Empire had sent for this particular target, he wondered if they had not done wrong in taking the old woman from where she was needed most. “We will be able to prolong her life another fifty to sixty years on Rysalia Prime,” Dr. Yul stated. “Think of all the good she will do for the Terrans of her faith who are despondent.” Think of all the good she could have done on her own world, Cree found himself thinking. He mentally shook himself, astounded at his line of thought. Such rationalizing was becoming worrisome for he had never before allowed himself to consider the feelings of the Terran females on FSK-14 or anywhere else for that matter. Women were to be used and discarded, certainly not worried over. That he did so now, concerned him greatly. A Reaper could not afford to think of things like that. A Reaper had to detach himself from his mission, from his surroundings, and never, never form attachments of any kind. “Captain?” Drewe called out. “I'm getting fluctuation readings on the LRP. Have you changed the modulations on the navigational system?” “'Zounds! I was never so bethump'd with words since I first call'd my brother's father dad,'” snapped the cybot. Cree looked around at the AIU. The ‘bot was limping along, dragging its left leg and hiccuping. The program was malfunctioning again. There had only been a few minor glitches in Troilus’ programming since the cybot had been put on-line ten years earlier, but when one occurred, it was usually complicated to repair. “That moronic ‘bot is dancing,” Dr. Yul remarked, staring at the AIU as it headed for one the

Keeper's sleep unit. “I can see what he is doing. There is no need to tell me.” “'I have very poor and unhappy brains for drinking,'” Troilus commented. “'Potations pottle deep.'” Drewe snorted. “I wish you hadn't programmed him from that gods-awful Terran writer, Cree. I don't understand half of what he says.” “You programmed the ‘bot?” Dr. Yul asked, turning a surprised face to Cree. “I can deprogram him, too.” “'The daintiest last, to make the end most sweet.'” The cybot chuckled as he threw the pressure lid up on the Keeper's unit. The Keeper opened his eyes and looked up into the smirking face of the AIU. “Get stuffed, you hunk of molded plastic,” he groused. “'Sell what you can, you are not for all markets,'” Troilus swapped insults with him. It reached into the sleep unit and tickled Lt. Alexi Noll, the ranking Keeper, who let out a string of obscenities that made the Med Off blush. “Has he been infected with a virus?” the Keeper inquired. “Maybe you should run a diagnostic, Lona.” “I don't have time to worry about that right now,” Drewe ground out. “I've lost the navigational beacon!” “Repeat?” Cree asked. “I've lost-” The ‘bot started giggling madly then shouted at the top of it's voice: “Kam and Bridie, Sitting in a tree! K…I…S…S…” Cree's brows shot up into his hair. “I…N…G", the cybot yelled. “First comes love, then come marriage, then comes Bridie…” “That is enough!” Cree thundered, pushing away from the command module. He reached for the plastiform, but the ‘bot skipped away. “Pushing a baby carriage!” it finished. It hopped across the floor, twirled twice, burped, then collapsed in a heap on the floor. “What the hell is wrong with our ‘bot?” Ensign Shepherd Paegan Thorne, the Communicators Officer, asked as he climbed out of his sleep unit. “Ah, Cree,” Drewe said softly. “That's not our only problem.” He looked around, his face pale. “I'm getting a systems-error in the Navigational console. My monitor is down.” “And there is a warning light on the life support systems array,” Dr. Yul warned. The Keeper, Alexi Noll, saw the flashing warning signal on his screen and spun around. “Captain! There's a system-error blip on our landing thrusters. They are disengaged.” “They're doing it again,” Thorne, the Com Officer whispered. “The Resistance is at it again.” He tried hailing FSK-14, but all he got in return was deep space static. Cree's head snapped around. “Say again, Thorne!” Thorne looked at him. “I said the Resistance-” “That's what I thought you said!” Cree ground out. He shot up from the command console. “There's nothing wrong with this ship.” “Sir, I have complete navigational console shutdown!” Drewe cried out. “We're going to crash and burn,” Dr. Yul muttered. “They're not going to let us crash and burn with Terran women on board!” “Type in the commands you know you need to get us back to the station.” “Our oxygen level is-” “There is nothing wrong with the oxy level. Continue to monitor the targets and don't worry about it!” “I've lost everything,” Drewe whispered. “Everything!” “It's there,” Cree growled. “I don't know how they sabotaged the screens, but the data is getting through. Just input what you know is correct and stop worrying about it!” “How am I to know where we are?” “Just set your course as you always do.” “Sir, I've got no visuals,” advised Thorne.

“You will,” Cree told him. “Nothing is responding,” Drewe breathed. “I can't-” “Give me back control of this ship or I will start feeding on your gods-be-damned penguins!” Cree bellowed. He glared at the Vid-Com screen closest to him. “Do you doubt that I will?” Nothing happened for a moment or two then the computer screens returned to normal. Lona found out the ship was exactly where it should be; Thorne began intercepting long-range communications; Noll test fired the landing thrusters and ascertained they were functional. Cree glared at the Vid-Com and made a vow to slaughter the woman responsible for what had happened. **** THE TWO Ensigns slammed themselves against the corridor wall as the Prime Reaper stormed past them. They had gotten a good look at Kamerone Cree's face and neither would forget what true, deadly fury looked like. Both were silent as they moved on toward the Defense Strategy classroom, but each kept looking behind them, watching the enraged Reaper bulldozing his way to the Office of Operations. They saw others scurry out of the Captain's way, as well, and hoped they never had the misfortune to be assigned to one of Cree's missions. Cree barged into the Ops Office and shoved a Shepherd Commander out of his way before reaching across the counter and grabbing the Duty Ops Controller by the collar of his blue uniform and dragging him over the top of the counter. “I asked for a Defense Investigative Team to meet me in Bay 3 when I docked! You had better have a good reason why one wasn't there waiting!” bellowed Cree. The Duty Ops Controller's face began turning purple for he could not breathe. His larynx was being crushed in the powerful hand of the Prime Reaper and he wet himself as he stared into infuriated eyes that bore little resemblance to a sane man's. “P…please, C…Captain,” the terrified man gasped. “T…they will b…be…there!” “Why the hell weren't they waiting for me as I ordered?” “Your ship has been put off-limits, Cree,” injected a calm voice. Cree spun around, dropping the Duty Ops Controller, leaving the man coughing and gagging his way back to the world of the living. The Defense Minister, himself, was standing in the open doorway off the Office of Operations. “My crew could have been killed.” Cree walked up to the Defense Minister. He had about as much respect for politicians as he did for the Resistance. “Someone tampered with the monitors.” “Yes, we are aware of that, Captain,” the Defense Minister conceded. “That is why no one will be allowed on Docking Bay 3 until Admiral Cree has personally hand-picked an expert team to do the investigation. No one is even allowed down that corridor, as I am sure you noticed on your way here.” “I sent instructions-” The Defense Minister held up a hand to forestall his words. “We did not ignore your request for a team to meet you, Captain. It was Admiral Kahn's decision to put the Docking Bay off-limits.” The older man narrowed his eyes. “Do you question Admiral Kahn's command decisions, Captain Cree?” Cree ground his teeth together and a muscle spasm began in his left jaw. He held the politician's oily gaze, then pushed past him and stomped from the room. “Cree is the most arrogant, self-important son of a bitch I've ever known,” the Shepherd Commander declared. “One of these days he's going to meet a tougher bastard who will put his ass down!” The Defense Minister nodded. “I've no doubt that will happen, Commander Inse.” The older man smiled nastily. “No doubt at all.” **** BRIDGET JUMPED as the door to Cree's quarters slid open and she looked up to see the man

himself framed in the archway, his flight bag clutched in his right fist. Slowly, she stood up, closing the book she held. His sudden, unannounced presence had caught her off guard and she had no idea what to say to him. But from the look on his face, he didn't appear to be in any mood to talk. “Bridget,” he acknowledged her in a tight voice before striding past her and disappearing into his bedsuite. The door shushed to behind him with a finality that told her he did not want to be disturbed. She barely had time to put the book she had been reading back on the shelf when his quarters door shushed open again and a cybot hurried through, injection jet in hand. Cree's bedsuite door opened, the ‘bot swooped in, and the door closed. When the AIU came out again, one of its plastiform arms was missing and its head was twisted backwards on its neck. Obviously, Cree had taken out his anger on the cybot. “Better it than me,” Bridget mumbled as she started for the food preparation center. “Where are you going?” Bridget jumped again; annoyed that he could appear so suddenly to unnerve her. She turned, swallowed the lump in her throat. “I was hungry,” she explained. “Would you like-” “Food is the last thing I need right now,” he snapped. He was stripped down to the waist, his hair slicked back and wet. He was holding a wrapped package in his hand that he lay down on the bar that separated the food prep center from the living area. “Did you have lunch?” She knew he'd been on the station since early morning. Dr. Dean had called to warn her. Cree's mouth turned hard and he had to catch himself before he told her that it was none of her business if he had or not. Instead, he shook his head then pushed the wrapped package toward her. “I brought this back for you,” he told her. He pulled out one of the two barstools at the counter and straddled it. He laced his fingers together and fixed his gaze on her face. “Go ahead,” he said irritably. “Open it.” Bridget walked to the bar and picked up the package. It was heavier than she had expected it to be and she looked up at him with curiosity. “Open the gods-be-damned thing, woman,” he grated. “It's not a bomb!” A faint smile tugged at her lips. He was more anxious for her to see what he had brought her than she was to see it. She unwrapped the crumbled brown paper she suspected was a grocery bag from Earth. As the layers of paper came unraveled, she realized what it was she held in her hand. When she removed the last of the paper, she drew in her lower lip between her teeth and a little groan escaped. Cree's brows lifted with expectation. “Well?” She looked up from what was in her trembling hand to the dark face of Kamerone Cree. There was a childlike expression there that told of his fear of rejection. “You don't like it,” he said on a long, tired breath. He held out his hand. “Give it back and I'll-” She ran out of the room, tightly clutching his gift to her bosom. He heard her sobbing before the door to her bedsuite closed to shut out the sound. Staring after her, Cree sat there for a moment, unsure what to do, knowing he had hurt her in some way he didn't understand. “Captain?” the Vid-Com intruded. Cree closed his eyes. “What?” he asked in a weary tone. “Do you require anything, Sir?” “No,” he said in the same defeated voice. He pushed himself from the stool and headed for his bedsuite. His shoulders sagged beneath his tiredness and the day's disappointments and he became aware of a niggling headache just over his right eye. As he was about to enter his bedsuite, Bridget's door shushed open and she came out, clutching his present to her. Her eyes were red and there were tear marks down her cheeks. Although her lips trembled, she smiled at him, then walked up to him, stood on tiptoe to place her lips on his unshaven cheek. Completely unprepared for what she had done, he stood there gawking at her, the place where she had kissed him burning, the blood in his veins pulsing faster than he thought it ever had. “Thank you, Captain,” she said. She looked down at the delicate bisque statue of the Virgin Mary in her hand. “Thank you so much.” Here voice broke as fresh tears pooled in her eyes. “You have no idea

what this means to me.” Even with her eyes puffy and red, her cheeks streaked with tears, he thought her the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. He ached to touch her, to draw her into his arms as he had seen some of the Keeper crews do with their companions and mates upon their returns from Terra. He longed to know what it felt like to press his mouth to hers, to taste her, to experience the forbidden sensation of true sexual pleasure. “Did you have a good trip?” he heard her asking him and had to dig his nails into the palms of his hands to tear his mind from the image of her lying beneath him, their naked bodies entwined. “We had computer problems,” he found himself answering. “Nothing serious, I hope.” Cree shrugged away the anger that had gripped him for the last eight hours. Looking at Bridget's gentle face, he only wanted to impress her. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his trousers. “It was touch and go for a few minutes, but everything came out all right.” “I'm glad,” she said. She caressed the statue and he wished with all his being that it was his body being stroked by her hands. He had to bite his tongue to force the thought away. “You were not too bored here?” “I would have preferred to go out now and again, but…” Her voice trailed off. She knew perfectly well why he had imprisoned her in his quarters while he was away. “I had an additional mission this time out.” Bridget had no desire to hear about the executions he had carried out. Her face revealed that thought and he shook his head. “We brought back five Carmelite nuns from Ireland.” Her mouth dropped open. “They're here? On FSK-14?” she gasped. At his nod, her face paled. “Oh, my God! You can't use nuns for procreation!” Cree held up his hand. “They were brought here to please the women, not the men. We can abide by your religious restrictions, Bridget.” She drew in a quick breath. “May I see them?” “I see no reason why you cannot.” “Are you sure?” she asked breathlessly. “They are here to perform your religious rites,” he said. “One will stay here and the others will be assigned to Rysalia Prime. Eventually, the religious will be on each station as well as the homeworld.” “When can I meet them?” she asked, her face aglow. He shrugged. “Tomorrow morning?” As much as he had been unprepared for her gentle kiss on the cheek, he was devastated when she threw her arms around his neck, unaware that the head of the little statue was gouging his right cheek as she hugged him. The press of her body against his own was intoxicating and something he had never in his life felt before that moment. He found himself growing hard beneath the contact of her lower body to his, her breasts pressed into his naked chest, the scent of her body filling his senses. For one wild moment, he wanted to encircle her in his arms, crush her to him and fall with her to the floor, to cover her mouth with his and“I'm sorry!” she told him, feeling the iron-hard push of his manhood against her belly. She stepped back, her face beet red. “I should not have done that!” “No,” he mumbled, his body heat making his face feel as though he had stepped inside an active volcano. “You shouldn't have.” Bridget took another step back “It won't happen again, Captain.” He said nothing, not knowing what to say. “I just wanted to thank you and tell you how much I appreciate you bringing this to me.” “It was nothing,” he said, wondering why he was lying because he had been at great risk of being caught when he'd stolen the statue she held. “You thought of me,” she said, her eyes warm and gentle, “and that means a lot to me.” Thought of you? Woman I could not keep from thinking of you! You were with me every mile I flew.

Long after she had left him, Cree stood beside his bed and felt again the touch of her body, the softness of her lips, his own body's reaction to her closeness, her touch, her scent. Once more he felt his shaft growing hard and uncomfortable. “Computer?” he asked, his voice tight. “Yes, Captain.” He hesitated then clenched his jaw. “I need a Serenian capsule.” “No, Sir,” the Vid-Com disagreed. “You need a surrogate.” “No, I do not!” “You are aroused, Captain. Sexual release is necessary at this time.” “Screw you!” There was a slight pause, then the computer's silky voice flowed through the room: “You are not wired to perform that function, Sir.” “Just leave me the hell alone,” he said in frustration. “I am sending you a pleasure female, Captain,” the Vid-Com reported then clicked off. Cree knew it was no use. The Controller would send a surrogate to mount him and drain him whether he wanted it or not. Bridget was pouring herself a glass of juice when the door shushed open and a woman walked into the Captain's quarters. She blinked. “May I help you?” The woman would not look at her. Instead, she walked to the Reaper's door and tapped lightly on the panel. It slid open almost immediately and she walked inside. The door closed. "They pick the ugliest women they can find to use for sexual surrogates,” Dr. Dean had explained. "The intent, of course, is to be a handy receptacle for the Reaper's release and not to instill in him lust. Sometimes the men are horny and they use the woman in the standard way. Most of the time, though, it is a simple matter of the surrogate mounting the warrior and relieving him. Either way, it can't be pleasurable for the female." “She didn't look happy to be here,” Bridget said softly. When the woman left, she risked a commiserating look at Bridget. She paused in the doorway, then turned to look back at Bridget. “He never hurts me,” the woman said as though to comfort her. “Well, that's good,” Bridget said. “Yes,” the woman replied. “Yes, it is.” She half-smiled then left. **** “WHAT ARE you making?” he asked. His curly hair was tousled from what little sleep he had gotten the night before and was bleary-eyed as he peered down into the pot Bridget was stirring. “Beef stew,” she answered, ladling up some of the thick broth. “Would you like to try it?” Cree stepped back from the ladle. “Dead cow meat?” He shook his head. “I think not.” “It also has corn, peas, green beans, carrots and potatoes in it. You know, the usual stuff?” He looked up at her suspiciously. “The usual what?” “Spices, water, tomato sauce.” She extended the ladle toward him again, her free hand under it to catch any drips. He looked as though he would refuse, but then allowed her to place the ladle to his lips. “Well?” she encouraged. “No meat. Just the broth and vegetables,” he declared, sitting down at the counter. A warm smile of pleasure crossed her face. “Would you like some crackers?” “Crackers?” he echoed, his brows drawing together. “Never mind.” She laughed. She took out a bowl, filled it, then set it down before him. She went to the cupboard and took out a box of saltines. Even before she could open the box, Cree snatched it up and was reading the label. “Sodium,” he sneered, putting it down again. “No sodium.” “A little sodium never hurt anyone, Captain,” she chided.

“Cree,” he said. When she glanced over at him while crumbling crackers into her bowl, he ducked his head much as a shy teenage boy would do. “I am called Cree.” “Does anyone call you Kam?” she asked and was surprised when his head snapped up. “No one would dare!” he said sharply. He thought of Troilus’ silly rhyme and looked away. “I am never called that.” She dropped the subject. Lifting her napkin to wipe her lips, she peered at him over the cloth. “May I ask you something?” Cree paused with the spoon halfway to his lips. “What?” he asked, suspicion clouding his gaze. “Now that you are home, will I have to remain here in your quarters or may I have time to myself to visit about the station?” “Visit with whom?” he growled, his gaze turning black as sin. “Dr. Dean, for one,” she replied. “I have missed seeing her every day.” He put his spoon down. “I kept you here because I did not want anything to happen to you while I was gone, Bridget.” He brought his own napkin up and blotted at his mouth. “Who else is it you wish to see?” “Just the women at Be-Mod Nine,” she answered. “They are the only friends I have.” He stared at her for a long, long time and then narrowed his eyes. “I see no reason why you can not have access beyond these quarters now that I am here to protect you.” It was on the tip of her tongue to ask him from what he thought she needed protection, but she had a pretty good idea it wasn't a ‘what', but a ‘whom'. “Dr. Dean has asked me to have supper with her this coming Fourth Night.” She pushed her bowl away, her nerves making her hands tremble. She hid them in her lap. “Would you have any objections if she and I spent those nights together?” She smiled shyly. “Fourth Nights, I mean. Sort of a girl's night out?” He thought about it for a moment and could think of no logical reason why she should not. Besides, he had plans to make sure Konnor Rhye was reassigned before Cree was transported to Hell-12 for the remainder of his punishment. “How long would you be gone on these nights?” Bridget clenched her hands together. “One or two hours, I would think.” He mulled that over for a moment then took up his spoon. “I don't suppose that would be a problem.” He ladled the stew into his mouth, chewed thoughtfully then nodded. “I will allow it.” Bridget smiled uneasily. Another trap had been set for Kamerone Cree and he had walked blindly inside. Chapter 11 “DID YOU send her the recording, Beryla?” asked Dr. Amala Dayle. “Yes,” the Director acknowledged. “She told me she enjoyed the music tremendously.” “Chalean music is not all that different from Celtic music,” Hael Sejm conceded. “I knew she would like it.” Dr. Dayle, a bioengineer with the Ministry of Public Education, arched a thick white brow at the Chalean chemist. “We could have used Ionarian chants and the results would have been the same. The subliminals encoded within the music was the important thing.” Hael Sejm snorted. “You may enjoy your heathenish Ionarian chants, Dayle, but they are certainly not conducive to a person's listening enjoyment as Chalean harp and pipe music is!” “That is a matter of opinion,” the Ionarian scientist sniffed. Dr. Dean went to her bar and poured herself another Viragonian cocktail. Over the years, she had developed a fondness for the sweet liqueur. Perhaps too much of a fondness for the lime-flavored brew. “You know,” she said, coming back to her chair and sitting down, “I really think we should push for Bridget to sleep with him before he leaves for Helios Twelve.” Hael frowned. “And why would that be?” “Consider this,” the Director suggested. “We know his sublims are working. He could not get her out

of his mind so he bought her, moved her into his quarters, and has shown he has become extremely possessive of her when he locked her in while he was gone. He has also shown he is becoming increasingly fond of her by bringing home the statue of the Blessed Mother to please her. Now, he is allowing her to visit me and…” She looked at her watch. “She should be along shortly, by the way. So that proves the subliminals of trust are in place and working on him.” “So you need to give him a little reward for being such a good little test subject by allowing him to screw her.” Hael snorted. “No.” Dr. Dean sighed. “Our problem at the moment isn't with him. It's with Bridget.” “In what way?” Hael demanded. The Director set her glass down on the end table. “Bridget is the only weak link in our chain and we all know it. If she cannot put aside her fear and loathing of Kamerone, we will never be able to win him over to our side. The subliminals are working, yes, but he is a very intelligent man. He knows she's afraid of him. She has told him she will not be his whore so he knows she doesn't want to willingly give herself to him.” “What woman would?” The Director ignored the hateful remark. “He also knows she is at his mercy yet he would never force her because, well for one, the subliminals would not allow it, and two, he has far too much pride to take a woman who does not want him.” “Since when?” Hael injected. “There isn't a Rysalian warrior alive who would hesitate to rape anything on two legs if the mood struck him! They think womankind was placed here for their personal enjoyment!” “Don't you think your experiences might have clouded the issue for you, Hael?” “No, I do not!” Hael answered. “I understand perfectly Bridget's abhorrence of meekly spreading her legs for Kamerone Cree. I think it was vulgar of you to suggest it in the first place!” “She has to fall in love with him,” Amala stated. “He has to feel her love. He has to be taken so deeply by that love that he will do anything, even go up against the Empire, to keep her at his side.” “Love has nothing to do with sex!” Hael snapped. “I fail to see what her being debased by that jackal has to do with anything.” “You do not want to see,” said Amala. “If you can't inject it, swallow it, or rub it on, it doesn't have meaning for you.” Hael stood, her lower lip thrust forward in challenge. “Why, you scrawny Ionarian cow, if you can't…” “Ladies, please!” Dr. Dean cut in. “We don't need to engage in personalities here!” “I do not agree that you need to have Bridget Dunne prostitute herself to Kamerone Cree in order for our plan to work.” Hael exclaimed. “Madame Director?” Dr. Dean's Vid-Com interrupted. “Yes?” “Dr. Dunne is here, Madame.” Beryla Dean looked hard at Hael Sejm. “I was chosen as the leader of our little group, Sejm. When you joined, you agreed to abide by my decisions in all matters.” She stood, as well, and placed her hands on her hips. “My decision is that Bridget has to be just as obsessed with Cree as he is becoming with her in order for our plan to work. If you are not happy about it, that's too damned bad. That is the way it is going to be.” “You are either with us or against us,” Amala added. She looked up. “Which is it to be?” Hael glared at the two women then pointedly looked away. She lifted her snifter of Chalean brandy and drained it. “By all means do as the two of you see fit.” Bridget could sense the hostility in the room as soon as she entered and seated herself on the sofa across from Doctors Dean and Dayle. She accepted the glass of sherry the Director poured for her and sat twirling it between her palms, waiting to be told why she was there. “I don't suppose he's let down his guard with you yet,” commented Dr. Dean. “Not that I have noticed,” replied Bridget. “We knew it was going to take time to win him over to a way of life he has never known existed,” Dr.

Dayle reminded them. “What has been his mood since his return?” asked Beryla. “He's been very jittery for the last two days.” She looked up from the swirls of sherry in her glass. “He's still furious about the sabotage of his ‘bot and the problems he had on re-entry.” “For which no definitive cause was found.” Amala Dayle grinned. Bridget shrugged. “Yes, but he knows the Resistance is behind it.” “He can't prove it.” Dr. Dean chuckled. “And the official review states: ‘No suggestion of outside interference.'” “There was no danger was there?” Hael Sejm spoke up for the first time since Bridget had arrived. “Concerned for the Iceman's safety, Bridie?” Bridget glanced at the Chalean chemist. “With the targets, Dr. Sejm.” “Ah, yes, the good Sisters!” Amala Dayle exclaimed. “How are they, Bridie?” “Sister Mary Joseph is fascinated by everything she sees here,” answered Bridget. “I think she considers it all high adventure. The others, with the exception of Sister Mary Francis, are meek and have accepted their situation.” “What of this Mary Francis person?” Hael queried. “Will she prove to be a problem?” She sincerely hoped so. Bridget shook her head. “She's just one of those women who complains about everything. Frankly, I can't imagine why they allowed her in the Order.” “Is he beginning to show any sexual interest in you?” the Director asked, drawing everyone's immediate attention to her by the abrupt change in the subject. Bridget blushed. “Yes and no,” she said. She took in a long breath, exhaled, then set her glass down on the table in front of her. “There are times when I find him staring at me with this odd expression on his face.” “I know it well,” the Director commented. “It's the old ‘I have no idea what the hell to do with her’ look.” She rested her arm along the back of her chair. “What I've come to expect about that expression when I see it on Drae's face is a prelude to him finding out what just exactly the hell to do with me.” “I didn't think there was a man alive who didn't know what to do with a woman under his control,” Hael suggested. She cast Bridget a soft look. “At least he hasn't thrown you to the floor and ravaged you yet.” A bright red flame of embarrassment spread over Bridget's face. “Not yet,” she breathed. “We were discussing the situation before you arrived,” Amala piped up. “Beryla thinks you should press the matter with him.” Bridget's head turned toward the Director. “I thought you said I should just let matters take their natural course.” She had turned pale. “Has something changed?” Beryla smiled gently. “We know that whatever Kamerone Cree does, so will the other Reapers do. What the Reapers do, so, too, will the Keepers and Shepherds and all the little fish swimming around under them.” She repositioned herself in the her chair and sat forward, her body language saying what she was about to impart was of vital importance. “Kamerone is the Alpha Male among the Reaper caste. That alone would be cause for the others to pay close attention to his desires. You couple that with the fact that he is of the Royal House of Brell and there is no way the other six Ry-Chalean warriors will not side with him when the time comes.” “He is the last of the Brells,” Amala put in, glancing at Sejm before continuing. “His mother was the seventh daughter of a seventh daughter of the House of Brell. There will be no more if something happens to Kamerone.” “I don't see-” Hael Sejm cut Bridget off. “Neither do I.” “Kamerone will not go up against the Empire unless he has a damned good reason for doing it. The plan we have set into motion will give him the impetus he needs to start the revolution. As soon as he makes the first strike against his masters, the Reapers will join him, then seventy-five to eighty percent of

the warriors will fall behind them like dominoes.” The Director shrugged. “The other twenty to twenty-five percent will be easily vanquished. The Reapers will take charge of the space stations and it will only be a matter of hours before Rysalia Prime falls into the hands of the Resistance.” “So tell the girl why she has to whore for Kamerone Cree in order to have all that take place!” snarled Hael. Beryla Dean turned a frosty look to her old friend. “Hael, I really wish you would push that chip off your shoulder. You, better than any woman alive, should know that the best way to capture a man's interest is straight through that damned piece of flesh dangling between his legs! Get hold of that and I can guarantee you will get his attention and keep it!” “I am not saying I will not sleep with him,” Bridget said and the other three women turned to her with elevated brows and parted lips. “I am just asking why it has to be before he goes to Helios Twelve. He is due to Transition soon and he's already informed me he will be gone the entire day while that happens.” She shuddered, looked down at the hands clutched in her lap. “I am told excessive levels of testosterone can bring on Transition. I have no desire to be beneath him when that happens.” “You are absolutely correct!” Hael flung Beryla a triumphant look. “Right there is reason enough not to press the issue until a better time can be found!” If Hael Sejm had her way, that evil time would never come. “All right,” the Director agreed. “I can see where his Transition cycle might present a problem.” She exchanged a look with Amala Dayle. “We'll hold off until he returns from the penal colony.” Bridget flinched, unaware that she had, but the other three women were quick to note it. The subliminals in the Chalean pipe music had made powerful suggestions to the young woman that she should care what happened to Cree. Other suggestionaries had been encoded within the music to make her less afraid of the Reaper and more receptive to any advances he might make. Still others had been designed to influence her perception of him as a male: his darkly handsome face, his intriguing brogue, his powerful body and stature among the warrior caste. “What you are doing is very important, Bridget,” the Director stated, drawing the young woman's gaze to her. “He is a strong man and fully capable of taking care of himself on Helios Twelve. There is no need for you to worry.” “She's not so much concerned about his safety as she is about what is going to happen next week,” Amala said softly. “Am I right, dear?” Bridget nodded. “I am terrified of what he might do.” “Don't be,” Hael snapped. “The subliminals will not allow him to do any more harm than what we will allow.” “He won't ever hurt you,” the Director assured her. “I know,” Bridget agreed, the subliminals used on her surfacing. “I wasn't worried about me.” Hael frowned heavily. Had they accidentally included something in the sublims that should have been left out? She thought back to the encoded messages and mentally shook her head. No, the correct wording had been there. She looked at Bridget and pursed her lips. Bridget had not been her choice for this assignment; Dorrie had. Dorrie did not have the tender heart Dunne had and, to Sejm's way of thinking, Dorrie would have been the better choice. “It's close to twenty-one hundred hours, Bridie,” the Director advised. “You'd better get back to him. A long sigh escaped Bridget Dunne and she nodded her agreement. “I hate going back.” “We know,” Amala commiserated. “When things get tattered around the edges, just remember what our goal is. That should help.” **** HER FOOTSTEPS slowed the closer she got to the elevator that would take her to Level Ten, the deck on which the highest-ranking Reaper lived. Three weeks. He had allowed her to go unescorted to Dr. Dean's quarters for three weeks now. The first week, he'd walked her there himself, depositing her at the Director's door and waiting until she was

safely inside before leaving. He was there precisely at 2100 hours, waiting to escort her home. The second week, he had gone down with her in the elevator to Level Eight, but had not walked her to Dr. Dean's door, only stood between the opened elevator doors and watched her. But at 2100 hours, he had been there to take her back. “I do not need a crossing guard!” she had told him somewhat angrily tonight when it had been time to leave. “I think I can remember to look both ways before I cross the corridor! I've no desire to get run over by a speeding cybot!” Cree had stared at her for a long time, his eyebrows drawn together over his nose, then a slight quirk of his lips had told her he was amused by her show of pique. The amusement had fled his eyes replaced with a stern, fatherly look. “I will see you to Level Eight,” was his answer. When Bridget had exited Dr. Dean's quarters tonight, she had been surprised to find both the corridor and the elevator empty. It was this new measure of trust that worried Bridget the most. What, she thought with a cold shiver, would he do next week when he finds that trust had been betrayed? Chapter 12 BECAUSE OF what he was, the moment Kamerone Cree was thrust rudely into the world from between his mother's bloody thighs he became a scientific experiment. He was taken, placed in an incubator, carried to a specially designed bioengineering lab and kept away from all human contact, as well as the companionship of the six others of his kind who were born after him. Faceless, sexless, impersonal cybots took care of him as an infant; trained him as a toddler; instructed him never to cry, to smile, to do any of the normal things little boys do. He stayed with the AIUs until he was five, at which time he was handed over to the Ministry of Science where every test known at that time was run on the child. At age six, he was handed over to the Ministry of Behavioral Modification. It was here that the micro-receivers had been surgically implanted into his brain. At the age of ten, he was sent to the Fleet Academy where, for the first time, he met the other boys like himself: Kullen, Tohre, Kiel, Coure, Gehdrin, and Belial. His informative years were spent with the other Reapers: warriors with the same deadly characteristics as his own. He was taught never to rely on anyone but his own kind. To distrust all outsiders. To consider lesser men-men without his unique abilities-beneath him. And to think of females-and Terran females in particular-as worthless. At the time Kamerone Cree purchased Bridget Dunne, there were forty-eight women to every man of the Rysalian Empire. Overpopulated with women, the warriors considered females expendable and no female under the age of eighteen could be found anywhere on the fifteen space stations or Rysalia Prime. Each and every female fetus conceived was terminated while the males were allowed to live. The incubators were filled to overflowing with male infants culled from Reaper sperm; Kamerone Cree, alone, had more than forty male children-all destined to be Reapers-being trained on Khamsin Proper by cybot nannies. Another five were ensconced at the Ministry of Science. The women of the Resistance had long endured the dictatorial demands of the Rysalians. The time had come to put an end to the abortions and the slavery; the abductions from Earth. Nurturers by nature, the women wanted to pair off and mate with men of their own choosing. They wanted to have children they could raise to maturity. They wanted to live with the man they loved and see their children's children born. They wanted to live in a peaceful world free of male domination. The only way for them to achieve their goal was to stop the Empire's spread of influence. To halt the genetic programs designed to create blindly obedient males who obeyed Empire mandates with cold-blooded precision. To stop the harvesting of females from which came males who did not question the insanity of faceless, emotionless breeding. To stamp out the notion that emotional attachment to one's offspring was a bad thing. But the women of the Resistance were not the only ones who thought this way. Among those who wished for a drastic change in Empire policy were numerous high-ranking officers who saw the folly of a continuation of indiscriminate breeding. Who had the wisdom and foresight to

understand that things had gone way beyond Confederation control and intent. The other worlds of the Confederation: Serenia, Ionary, Chale, Virago, Oceania, and Necroman, did not treat their females in the way Rysalia had subjugated theirs. Kinsmen of some of the women held by the Empire were beginning to speak of war. The tide of complacency that had endured for more than forty years was now turning against Rysalia and those who understood this, sided with the Resistance. **** “HE WILL receive orders to report to the Ministry of Science for transportation in just a few minutes. He will be ordered to leave in the morning,” Beryla told Hael. “I am glad I won't be in his quarters when he finds out the transport to Hell-12 has finally come through,” replied Amala Dayle. “Bridget says he got angry with her when she requested an additional hour away tonight,” said the Director. “Did he grant his permission?” asked Hael, knowing the man would not. “I don't need to answer that,” Beryla snapped. “He is not going to be happy when she stays anyway,” said Amala. “Is she worried about tonight?” “I explained to Bridget he wasn't angry at her, but at himself for not understanding the emotions ripping through him right now. He knows the time is getting close for him to leave her. He isn't dreading the punishment; he's dreading not being with her.” “He's never known jealousy before,” Amala reminded her. “Or felt overwhelming attraction that is as alien to him.” “Attraction, hell. You mean lust.” Hael snorted. She was standing at the bank of windows in Beryla's quarters that overlooked a black expanse of space. “The implant he has in his hypothalamus was placed there to control his sex drive. I have used a synthetic neurotransmitter to counteract the damage done when he was ten. Now he has the same sexual function as a normal male.” She closed her eyes and leaned her head against the glass. “And I am sorry I ever got involved in this.” Dr. Dean rolled her eyes. She was getting tired of Hael Sejm's attitude. The woman was becoming increasingly vocal in her disagreement with the Resistance's goals. If Sejm had her oddball way, every man ever born would be strangled at birth and sex would become a thing of the past. As much as Beryla understood the dark moods into which her friend often fell, she could not help wonder if the rape of Hael Sejm so many years earlier had slightly unhinged the biochemist. Her intense distrust and dislike of men were not good things. In fact, it was becoming clear to most of the levelheaded members of the Resistance that Hael Sejm would have to be watched if they didn't want disaster to strike. Amala, too, was worried about the Chalean scientist. The two women had taken an instant dislike to one another upon meeting many years before and that dislike had grown steadily worse since Amala had become the consort of Commodore Lexis, the OIC of the Ministry of Public Education. “No matter your feelings, Hael,” Amala said, her attention glued to the despondent chemist, “you must say your prayers to Alel for Bridget's safety tonight.” Hael looked around, her face concealing her innermost thoughts. “Oh, I have already done that. I have also prayed to the Great Lady.” Beryla Dean felt a cold finger of dread go down her spine. She had heard of the Great Lady, the Prophetess of the Daughters of the Multitude. The sect had a sanctuary on Rysalia Prime left over from the days before the catastrophe that had killed all the Rysalian women. Not even the Empire dared venture inside the sacred grounds of the religious order for it was rumored the Daughters were sorceresses of the deadliest power. She had never met a woman who professed to be a part of the religion, but she wasn't surprised Sejm would be. “The Great Lady will provide for us,” Hael said, turning back to stare once more out the window. “She will see us free of our enslavers. I promise you that.”

**** THE SUMMONS to the Ministry of Science came at a little past 1900 hours. The message was clear and to the point: He was to report to the transporter room the following morning at 0700 hours for transport to Hell-12. Cree slammed his fist against the wall, denting the metal. He crumpled the summons in his hand and pitched it across his living area, stalked to a chair, overturned it, then righted it with several heavy slams that should have cracked the frame. He sat down heavily in it, a deep scowl etched across his handsome face. “Why now?” he seethed, pounding his fist on the chair. “Why the hell now?” He'd thought he had at least another week before having to go to that living hell Another week to spend with Bridget; to try to understand why his every thought was of her; to make some sense of why he couldn't wait to see her each morning; why he needed to see her each night before he turned in to lie sleepless and miserable in his bed; to calm the raging sexual yearning that caused that sleepless, miserable condition. Shoving himself out of the chair, he stalked across the living area, kicking aside any offending obstruction in his path. He plowed his hand through his hair and, grabbing a handful, tugged brutally at his scalp in an effort to drag his mind from her. “Hell!” he snarled, searching out the digital time display above the Vid-Com screen. 1948 hours. It would be more than an hour before she was due to return. The thought infuriated him beyond endurance. He wanted her here, now! He needed her here, now! Why did he agree to let her go tonight anyway? Something had told him not to do so. Had he sensed this evil was coming? “Captain?” the Vid-Com broke in on his static thoughts. “Shut the hell up!” he ordered it. “I have…” “I told you to shut up!” he roared. The Vid-Com clicked off with a snappish little blip of sound. Cree threw his head back and howled with frustration. If it was the last thing he did, he was going to dismantle that interfering piece of electronics. He sat down and locked his attention on the digital time dial across the room. The longer he watched the numbers change, the more irritated he became. At 2015, he got up and started pacing, throwing savage looks at the numbers that, to him, seemed to be crawling. At 2045, he began to calm down just a little. Only fifteen minutes left before Bridget left Dr. Dean's quarters and another five for her to reach their quarters-he could control himself that long. “I will tell her that I will miss her,” he heard himself saying. “I need her to know I will miss her.” He stopped, thought about that then nodded. There was no harm in Bridget knowing he would miss her. He looked at the digital readout: 2147. How could only two minutes have passed when it felt like twenty? He began to pace again. “I must tell her I will be thinking of her.” He stopped again, this time abruptly and with a frown. Where had that thought come from? If he told her such a thing, what would she think? He sat on the arm of his chair, propped his chin in his hand and mulled over his own question. Coming to no definite answer, he glanced up only to find the digital readout seemed to be stuck at 2047. “Move, you gods-be-damned thing!” he yelled at the readout and the number 8 shifted into view. Once more he hopped up and paced. “I need to tell her it will be hell while I am away from her.” That thought could not be construed as anything abnormal. After all, Hell-12 was a penal colony. He was not going to enjoy himself there. Another look at the readout said 2053. Cree forced himself to calm down. He went to the sofa, sat down, laid his head back, and closed his eyes. He willed his heartbeat to slow, his nerves to smooth out. He used every technique he had

mastered over the years to force his body to relax. One technique was to place his palms on his thighs and to rub gently until he became aware of nothing but the friction of flesh against fabric. He concentrated on the motion, unaware that his hands were moving to the insides of his thigh. Without even knowing he was doing it, his right hand shifted over and began a movement of its own. “Captain!” the Vid-Com admonished. “Leave me alone,” he whispered. “You must stop doing what you are doing. It is forbidden.” The Vid-Com's voice held a strong warning. Cree stopped, aware of where his hand had strayed. He lifted his head, looked down at the rigid shaft straining against his trousers and snatched his hand away. “I have sent for a surrogate.” The Reaper shook his head. “You can just send her back!” “I am not going to argue with you, Captain. Your actions have made it necessary for sperm release and-” Irrational fury blazed across Cree's face and before he knew what he was saying, his words came out with enough force to shatter crystal: "The only place my sperm is going to go from now on is inside Bridget Dunne, you meddling hot-wired bitch!" Shocked by his own words, Kamerone Cree's eyes flared wide and he slapped a hand over his mouth as though by doing so he could keep anything else of a forbidden nature from coming out. “You do not have permission to empty your seed into that particular Terran female at this time, Captain,” the Vid-Com said smugly. “And even if you did have permission to mate with her, she would be inaccessible to you for the prescribed twenty-four hour period.” His voice had dropped to a near-whisper. “What are you saying?” he'd asked so quietly his words barely moved the air. The Vid-Com's smirk was mocking. “At the present time, twenty-one thirty hours…” “Twenty-one thirty?” he demanded, his attention flying to the digital readout. “As I was saying,” the Vid-Com snapped. “At the present time, the Terran female known as Dunne is preparing to engage in sexual intercourse with another male. Ministry of Public Health regulations clearly state that she may not have sexual intercourse with a different male for twenty-four hours.” Cree walked to the Vid-Com screen, staring at it with disbelief, slowing shaking his head in denial “The Terran female I mean is having supper with Dr. Dean in the Director's quarters,” he said in a quiet, no-argument voice. “No, Captain, she is not,” the Vid-Com informed him. “Your live-in companion, Dr. Bridget Siobhan Dunne is at this moment with Commander-” “Get me Dr. Dean's quarters!” he demanded. “Now!” Almost immediately his order was obeyed. Dr. Dean's cheerful face appeared on screen. Behind her were two other women. “Good evening, Captain. How may I help you?” asked the Director. “Let me speak to her,” Cree ordered. “Who, Sir?” Dr. Dean asked, her face a study in puzzlement. She turned away, then looked back at him. “Dr. Sejm? Dr. Dayle?” “Bridget, damn you!” he bellowed. “It's…” He glared up at the digital readout then returned his hateful glower to the Director. “It is 2140 and she is not home yet!” Dr. Dean stepped back from the Vid-Com as though he might reach through it and grab her by the jugular. “Captain,” she said, blinking with trepidation. “Dr. Dunne is not here. I haven't seen her all day.” “All day?” he repeated. “No, Sir,” the Director replied. “Was she-” Hot rage exploded in him like a pulsar cannon's blast. His fist went through the Siliplex on the Vid-Com, cutting him deeply across his knuckles, cutting off the concerned face of the Director. A growl

worse than that of a were-tiger in full pounce erupted from behind lips drawn back over gnashing teeth and he stormed from his quarters with only one thought in mind: To find Konnor Rhye's quarters! **** BRIDGET LOOKED down at her watch: 2215 hours. She shuddered, wondering how long it would take for Cree to find them. “Stop worrying,” Konnor advised. He pulled her tighter against him. “By the time he realizes where you are it will be too late. He'll have to report for transport.” She felt bad about using Konnor. Basically, he was a good man; with a promising career in the Ministry of Acquisitions that she knew tonight would effectively be put to an end. He was a patient man and she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he loved her. She hated to hurt him, possibly cost him more than his position at the Ministry; but most importantly of all, she feared making him a sworn enemy of a man as powerful as Kamerone Cree. “I am not afraid of him,” Konnor had told her when she voiced her worries to him. Konnor knew nothing of the Resistance's plans for Cree. He had no idea he was a part, an integral and absolutely vital part, of those plans. There was no way he could know he was being used to turn the Iceman into a green-eyed monster. Bridget liked Rhye. He was a sweet, endearing man whom she knew truly loved her. She hated to use him. His was a gentle soul, so unlike the monster that had been created within Kamerone Cree. “A monster,” she whispered. “Don't,” Konnor advised. “I can protect you.” No, you can't. You can't even protect yourself, sweet man that you are. She buried her face against his shoulder and began to cry. “Sweeting, please don't cry,” Konnor pleaded with her. “We will be together. I promise you that. You belong with me. He might have been able to buy you out from under me, but he can't buy what you'd already given to me.” He kissed her forehead. “I love you, Bridie.” Although she didn't love Konnor Rhye, she did have some tender feelings toward him. He had been the Keeper on board the ship that had brought Bridget to FSK-14. He had shown immediate interest in her and had kept Captain Kullen from attacking her on more than one occasion. She had been only too glad to use him early on in their relationship to keep from being sent to the breeding pens. He had even been useful in getting her the assignment to Be-Mod 9. But as the years had passed, and she had become part of the Resistance, the role Konnor was to play in her life diminished in lieu of snaring a man of Cree's power. Guilt at misusing Konnor Rhye had begun to set in Bridget's mind and she had begun to feel sorry for him. Feeling his lips on her forehead once more, that guilt became harder to bear. “You're trembling,” he told her, bringing her back from her guilt-ridden memories. He drew her naked body closer to his own. “Should I have the Vid-Com turn up the heat?” Bridget burrowed her fingers possessively through the wiry curls that covered Konnor's chest. It wouldn't be long now before Cree found her and she wanted to hold on to this fiercely protective male as long as she could. “Just hold me, Koni,” she begged. “Please just hold me.” “Gladly, milady!” Rhye was a handsome man, Bridget thought as she inhaled his warm scent. Although his dark hair was receding and thinning on top, it did not detract from his overall sensuality. His brown eyes were soft and friendly, prone to sparkling with wry humor; and the twin dimples that indented his cheeks gave him a playful, boyish look that belied the steely strength Bridget had often glimpsed. In his middle thirties, he would never stretch beyond the rank of Commander for he was a Keeper, but he had the intelligence and savvy to go well above that meager rank. His frustration at not being able to advance was one of the reasons the Resistance had okayed him for their purpose. The man obviously had issues with the Empire's mandates. Bridget worried that her betrayal of him would destroy the good man he was and make him hate her, as well as every other female.

**** FOUR HARD-FACED men strode behind the Reaper as he came like an avalanche down the corridors of Level Three. People moved out of their way; hurriedly entered their quarters and locked the doors behind their passing. The grim look on the black-clad warrior's face; the meaty fists doubled at his side; the determined, deadly, and brutal glint in his dark eyes were all evidence of the man's rage. “Which room?” Cree's tight voice was a death knell as he walked, his boot heels drumming sharply on the metal floor. “307, Sir,” answered Ensign Hascom, the Chief Security Guard. He glanced at number 301-his own quarters-as they passed and was glad it was not him the Iceman was after. Only two people out and about in the Level Three corridor at that time of the evening stopped to stare as the quintet of steely-eyed men halted before number 307. The Reaper did not bother to order the men with him to attempt to seek legal entry of the quarters in front of which they had stopped. Instead, he had stepped aside and ordered phasers to blast through the titanium door. Konnor Rhye instinctively threw himself over Bridget as the blast rumbled through the living quarters beyond his bedsuite door. The smell of charred titanium and the purposeful thud of stamping feet advancing on the bedsuite were proof enough that Bridie needed his protection. He would gladly give his life to save hers and never stop to think twice about doing so. If there was any way he could keep the Reaper from hurting her, he would try. He was reaching for his phaser, fully intending to cut the bastard down, when hard, unrelenting hands took hold of his arms and dragged him-naked and struggling-up out of the bed and off Bridget. “You are under arrest, Commander Rhye,” Ensign Hascom told him. “For what?” Konnor flung his head around, found Bridget staring at him with terror. “It's going to be all right, Bridie. I promise you. I won't let him-” Konnor yelped as his arms were savagely twisted behind his back. “Don't hurt him!” Bridget cried out, coming to her knees on the bed. “Please, I beg you. Don't hurt him!” The two Security Guards averted their eyes from the nude woman kneeling on the bed as she grabbed frantically for the sheet that had been pulled from the bed by her lover's removal. Wrestling the Keeper between them, they dragged him back, away from the bed, and held him as the other two guards manacled his hands behind him. “This isn't necessary,” Konnor insisted. “I'll go willingly with you, Hascom.” “I would not be you at this moment for all the gold in Ionary, Rhye,” Ensign Hascom snapped. “Have you lost your mind, man?” A grimace of pain shot over Konnor's face as the manacles snapped into place too tightly around his wrists. The S.G.s forced him to his knees in preparation for manacles to be locked onto his ankles. “He is not a criminal,” Bridget yelled at them. “For God's sake, don't do that to him!” It was her words that brought Cree into the bedsuite. He had hoped beyond all hope that the scream he had heard when they had blasted into Rhye's quarters had not come from his female's throat. When he had heard her cry out, begging the Security Guards not to hurt the treacherous bastard, he had lost that hope. Hearing her defend her lover had sent a red, hazy film of red fury seeping over his vision and when he had entered the room to find her naked in the Keeper's bed, that fury had turned to murderous intent. “Cree!” Bridget gasped, reaching out a hand to him. “Please don't let them hurt him! I beg you. He-” “What do you want us to do with him, Captain?” Hascom asked, deliberately cutting off the frightened woman's words. He liked Konnor Rhye and did not want to see the man's blood shed there and then. “Cree, please?” Bridget whimpered for the Reaper had advanced on Konnor. The man they called the Iceman reached out and grabbed a handful of the Keeper's hair. He brutally dragged Rhye's head back until the cords stood out in Konnor's neck. “You will regret this night, Konnor Rhye,” he seethed. “I swear to you, you will regret it for as long as I let you live!” “I don't give a damn what you do to me,” Rhye answered. “But don't you dare hurt her. If you hurt my

woman, Cree, so help me-” Konnor's head snapped back as the Reaper backhanded him across the mouth. The return motion of the Reaper's hand sprayed blood as it connected with Konnor's lips. “Cree, please!” Bridget shouted. She scrambled off the bed, trailing the end of the sheet behind her. She put out a restraining hand and hooked it on the Reaper's biceps. “He's not to blame…” The Reaper rounded on her, his hand drawn back to hit her. His amber eyes flashed with lethal intent as his lips skinned back from his gleaming teeth. “No!” Konnor screamed, his own eyes flaring wide with fear for Bridget's safety. Bridget flinched, turning her head. She put up her arm to ward off the blow. In the moment before she had flinched away from him, Cree had seen the terror in her eyes. He had seen her fear of him. It drove a shaft of bitter ice through his melting heart and his hand came down, clamped painfully around her wrist, instead, then jerked her toward him. “You are my woman!” he hissed from between clenched teeth. “My woman! Do you understand that?” “Yes, Cree,” she answered quickly. “Yes! Yes!” “Not his!” the Reaper denied. “You will never be his again! Do you understand that?” “Yes,” she replied, nodding. The Keeper's mouth was torn and bleeding and he had to spit blood before he could speak. “Hurt her and I will kill you, your heartless bastard!” He thrashed savagely against his captors, but the guards held him securely, Hascom urgently whispering for him to hold his tongue. Cree ignored the threat. His hand tightened on Bridget's arm. “Come!” he ordered in a freezing tone and started to drag her from the room. “What are you going to do to him, Cree?” she asked, stumbling along in his wake. “Be quiet,” he ordered. “She will never be yours!” Konnor dared to throw at the Reaper. “As much as you want her, you will never have her! Her heart belongs to me!” Cree stopped, turned, and fixed the Keeper with a look that should have dropped the man dead where he knelt. “Be careful,” he said in a deadly quiet voice, “that I do not remove your heart with my bare hands for her to keep as a reminder of this night's folly, Rhye.” “Please don't let them hurt him, Cree,” Bridget begged. “I'll do anything you want. I will-” “Shut up!” the Reaper shouted at her. He didn't want to know what she was willing to do to save her lover's life. Without another word, blocking out the Keeper's venomous curses being heaped down upon his head, Cree turned, jerked Bridget behind him, his fingers clenched around her wrist, and exited Rhye's quarters. He pulled her to the elevator, his hand so tight around her wrist she tried with her free hand to pry it off while attempting to hold onto the sheet in which she had wrapped herself. Stepping on the end of the sheet, she stumbled against him and he had to jerk on her arm to keep her from falling. “You are hurting me,” she whimpered, feeling the bones in her wrist grating together. “Good!” he ground out. “Are you going to beat me?” Fear turned her face white as the sheet she struggled to keep it around her nakedness. “I have every right to do whatever the hell I want with you, bitch!” he snarled. There were two Keepers on the elevator when the doors opened. Cree's own S.G., Lt. Alexi Noll was one of them. Seeing his commanding officer standing in the corridor, he snapped to attention. “SIR!” he barked. “Get the hell out of my way, Noll!” “Sir! Aye, Sir!” Noll shoved his companion off the elevator and stood watching with open-mouthed surprise as the Reaper got on the elevator, yanking the half-naked woman in behind him. “Who the hell was the female?” Noll's fellow Keeper asked in a shocked voice as the elevator doors shushed closed. “Didn't you recognize her? That was Koni's woman.” He winced. “Oh, Sweet Merciful Alel!” Noll breathed. “'Kam and Bridie sitting in a…'” He winced again. “This ain't good!”

Bridget was trembling violently as she stood next to Cree in the elevator. The back of her hand was slick with his blood and she looked down nervously at the brutal cuts on his knuckles. “You are bleeding,” she said then bent over as his fingers tensed around her wrist. “What the hell do you care?” he growled, not bothering to look at her. “Captain, I-” “Shut up,” he ordered in a hiss of a whisper that brooked no argument. “I don't want to listen to any more of your lies.” “I haven't lied to you.” “Twenty-one hundred hours,” he said, as though to himself. “Not twenty-two hundred. Not twenty-three hundred. Twenty-one hundred means twenty-one hundred.” “I lost track of the time,” she said foolishly and was rewarded by a narrowed, dangerous gaze. The look on his face was purely satanic. The elevator stopped and the doors opened to reveal several people waiting to get on. One of them, insensitive to the charged atmosphere and not really having seen who was already in the cage, made to enter. “Don't even think about it!” Cree warned. The man glanced up, saw who had spoken, and scrambled to get back as far away from the Reaper as the far corridor wall would allow. Bridget caught just a glimpse of Amala Dayle's smiling face beyond the stunned man's shoulder as the door slid closed again. Chapter 13 “COMPUTER!” Cree bellowed as he dragged Bridget into his quarters and sent her careening across the room. He was oblivious to her yelp of pain as she hit the wall and slid down it to land in a heap on the floor. “Yes, Captain?” the Vid-Com answered and for once its voice was subdued, respectful. “This woman is not to leave these quarters while I am away. She is not to receive visitors nor Vid-Coms nor is to be allowed to make them.” “What of a case of an emergency, Captain?” the Vid-Com inquired in a defensive tone. “Not even then!” “Sir, that is not logical. Suppose she gets-” “Fuck your logic!” “You language of late has become offensive, Captain,” the computer chastised him. “If this continues-” “One more word out of you and I will pull out your guts!” he roared and took a step toward the Vid-Com, intent on doing just that. “That is not necessary. Your orders are understood and will be acted upon accordingly, Sir.” The machine clicked off. Bridget shook violently as she crouched on the floor, rubbing her bruised wrist. When the Reaper turned toward her, his intent mirrored in the coldness of his demon dark eyes, she crossed her arms over her face, allowing the sheet to fall from her heaving breasts. “Don't beat me!” Cree went as still as a deer frozen in the sweep of a ship's landing lights. His eyes dropped to Bridget's naked chest and held. He stood there staring at her breasts as they rose and fell with her agitation, then his gaze lifted to her face. What he saw made him want to pull Konnor Rhye's head clean off his body. Bridget's lips were swollen from the Keeper's kisses. There was high color in her otherwise ashen cheeks that echoed the rosy flush of her full breasts when he looked down at them again. His jaw clenched. “Cover yourself, woman!” Bridget retrieved the sheet and brought it up to her chin. Her hair was tumbled about her face as though it had been caught in a whirlwind. She risked a glance at the tall man towering above her, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides, and thought she well might not survive this night's work despite Dr. Dean's assurances otherwise. “Faithless bitch,” she heard her master whisper and flinched as he moved. Hunkering down before his captive, Cree almost smiled as the Terran female cowered back from him,

plastering herself to the wall. He held her terrified attention, not speaking, and allowed her to feel the depth of his fury. When her eyes filled with tears, the right side of his mouth lifted in a parody of a grin. “You should cry, Bridget,” he told her. “It is only fitting that you should shed tears for your lover.” Bridget's mouth trembled. “What are you going to do to him?” she asked, afraid of his answer. Cree's left eyebrow twitched upward in disdain. “I can do whatever the hell I fell like to him, Bridget,” he replied. “He is a lowly Keeper. What is your Earth saying? A dime a dozen? He is expendable and easily replaced.” “Don't hurt him,” she pleaded. “I beg you, Captain. He's a good man. He-” She stopped as he reached for her, squeezing her eyes shut as his hand came toward her face. When she did not receive the slap she expected, but a whisper-soft touch on her cheek instead, she opened her eyes and looked at him. “You lied to me,” he accused in a soft, tender voice. He traced the back of his hand down her cheek. “You betrayed me and took advantage of my trust.” “Blame me, then,” she begged. “Do what you will to me, but don't go after Kon-” “Do not say his name, Bridget,” he warned her in the same quiet voice. He turned his hand over and cupped her cheek. “Not ever again.” He rolled forward to his knees before her. “Do you understand?” “Yes.” she nodded. “Anything you say, Captain. Anything you want.” He cocked his head to one side. “Did he take you?” Bridget felt a shudder go all the way through her soul. She felt the sweat form on her upper lip, saw him look down at her mouth as she flicked out her tongue to wipe away the salty moisture. “Captain…” “Did he take you?” he interrupted, stressing each word. She tore his gaze from his. “Yes,” she whispered. “This night,” he wanted clarified. “Yes,” was her soft-as-a-breath reply. “Did you enjoy what he did to you?” “Captain, please, I…” “Did you enjoy what he did to you?” Once more each word was stressed individually, tiny poison darts coming at her: She drew in a hitching sob. “Yes.” “Say it,” he ordered softly. Bridget moaned. “No, please don't make me do that.” “Say it,” he repeated in a gentle encouragement. “Tell me you enjoyed what he did to you this night.” She hung her head, shaking it from side to side, moaning. Her shoulders hunched forward as she sobbed. “I can't.” “Shall I go ask him if he enjoyed it or not?” Her head snapped up and she saw deadly purpose stamped on his dark countenance. “No. Please no!” “Then tell me.” Bridget lowered her head once more. “Yes, Captain, I enjoyed it.” He didn't speak again for some time then he drew in a long breath, let it out slowly, and moved his hand to her chin where he caressed her, his thumb stroking the point. “Do you want him to die, Bridget?” “No!” she denied, her eyes wide. “A horrible, agonizing death?” he continued as though she had not answered his first question. “Please, no.” “I can arrange for him to be with me at my next Transition.” She saw his willingness to put Konnor Rhye to death and she tried to shake her head, but couldn't for his grip tightened about her chin. “I would tear out his jugular and drain the bastard dry,” he said in a matter of fact tone. “Is that what you want?” “No,” she cried, tears falling down her cheeks. “No.” “What,” he asked in a silky, sultry-low voice, “are you willing to do to keep him from such a fate,

Bridget?” A cold shiver ran down Bridget's spine, struck in the deepest regions of her belly. “W-what do you mean?” she counted. The whisper was as soft as a fledgling's down when he answered: “What are you willing to do to convince me not to mutilate your lover?” She was shocked as he bent forward and pressed his lips knowingly, expectantly to her forehead, but Bridget schooled herself not to show it. She watched as he pulled back and felt his hot breath on her face. She searched the fevered sparks dancing in his dark orbs-those demonic windows on a dark-stained soul. “What will you do?” he breathed. The intense sexual longing she saw leaping at her from his searing gaze fascinated her. The heat from his body, the smell of his arousal was intoxicating, and she found herself drowning in the brown abyss of his need. She had no way of knowing the subliminals encoded in the music she listened to daily were sending silent messages to her to respond to that sexual need vibrating in Kamerone Cree. “Whatever you w-want, Captain,” she managed to say. His smile was slow, lazy, and infinitely victorious. His hand moved from her neck to her left breast and molded itself around the warm flesh. Bridget sucked in a breath, caught in the web of longing that had entangled them both as he hefted the weight of it in his palm and squeezed. When he leaned forward, laying his cheek against hers, his hand tightened on her swollen breast and she groaned. His breath against her ear sent shivers all the way to her toes. He took her hand and placed it against the front of his uniform trousers. “Do you feel my need, milady?” “Yes,” she gasped, her hand shaking. He withdrew slightly and when his mouth slanted toward her own and his velvet-firm lips briefly touched hers, she felt a wild quiver of longing stab through her womb. His tongue parted her lips and slipped between them, flicked along each corner of her mouth, then stabbed deep in the warm recesses. Bridget was lost, reveling in the feel of his lips on hers, her hand beneath his pressed to the bulge of his flesh. He was molding her fingers to him, making her rub his erection. She growled deep in her throat as he leapt against her palm. “What will you do to satisfy my need, Bridget?” he whispered against her mouth. “Anything you desire.” Cree pulled back from her, removed his hand from hers though he kept her breast captive with his other hand. “Anything?” “Yes, Cree,” she answered, her body on fire wanting his. He stared deeply into her eyes for a long, long time, judging the truth of her answer, the depth of her own need. Her nipple was a hard little nub against his palm and he circled it with his hand. “Please.” She strained forward to plaster his hand to her chest once more. “I will do whatever pleases you!” He smiled at her, watching her answering, hopeful smile, then his became brutally predatory. “That's good to know,” he said, removing his hand from her. He came slowly to his feet then reached out a hand to her. Bridget stared up at him in confusion then settled her hand in his. He helped her to her feet, then pulled her-unresisting and more than compliant-into the strength of his powerful arms. She nestled against him, hearing the thunderous tattoo of his heart beneath her cheek; reveling in the musky scent of him; thrilling to the hand on her hair, gently stroking her head. Her arms went about his hard waist, held him to her. He held her that way for a long time then he spoke, his voice a purr of victory. “I want you…” he began and when she tilted her head to look up at him with breathless expectancy, his smile turned brittle. “Yes?” she asked Cree eased her out of his arms and held her by the shoulders, looking down into her face. “I want you to go bathe.”

Bridget's brows came together. “Bathe?” “Aye,” Cree answered. “You have his scent on you and it offends me.” He dropped his hands. “I will not lie with you until you are rid of the stench of him.” A tremulous, relieved look came over the Terran woman's face and he wondered why, but she was quick to smile at him, quick to agree and obey. He watched her go, felt a sliver of doubt drive under the flesh of his heart. When the door to the bathing chamber closed behind her, the smile slipped from his face. “Computer?” “Yes, Captain?” came the hesitant reply. “Should an emergency arise while I am gone, you may allow help to enter my quarters. See that nothing happens to her.” “Of course, Captain,” the Vid-Com said with what could have passed for relief from a human. “No visitors and no calls,” he reminded the computer. “Duly noted, Sir.” “And I want a list of anyone who tries to contact her. Is that clear?” “Yes, Captain.” “Now, lock the sauna for exactly five minutes.” “But Dr. Dunne is in the unit at this time, Captain.” The Vid-Com sounded puzzled. “Do you still wish me to lock it?” Cree took one last look at the closed door of the unit. “Aye,” he answered. When Bridget was finally able to get out of the sauna, Kamerone Cree was gone. **** JUSTICE ONAR was in the transporter room when Cree reported there the next morning. He took note that the Reaper was bleary-eyed and looked tired as though he had not slept. Greatly pleased with what he considered to be Kamerone Cree's fear of being sent to Helios Twelve for punishment, the Justice wished to prolong the moment. “I want him shackled,” pronounced Onar. The technicians turned shocked faces to the old man. Not a one of them was willing to put irons on the Reaper. They risked a glance at Cree and found him standing perfectly still, a murderous look on his tired face. But not a one of them there would have laid money on what the Prime Reaper did next. “If that is what His Grace wants,” Cree said, holding out his arms, palms up, “then do it.” He locked his gaze on the old man “You would not want to disappoint him.” Onar's chin came up. “Be careful, Captain. I can just as easily make it two months, you know.” “Oh, I know you can, Your Grace,” Cree replied. “That is why I am not fighting.” He turned and looked at the Captain of the Guard. “And I want it noted in your report that I went willingly to my punishment, Commander Wynth.” The Keeper nodded. Justice Onar's lips tightened. He had wanted to see the Reaper manhandled into the Transporter. He had been looking forward to laughing at the raging fury on Cree's face as he was sent to the penal colony. Realizing there would be no more entertainment, he lost interest. “Get this over with,” he demanded. Cree smiled sardonically. He would not give the old man any satisfaction at all if he could help it. After all: the punishment wasn't in being sent to Hell-12. The punishment was in being separated from Bridget. And that pain was worse than anything the Empire's penal colony could throw at him. **** BRIDGET LAY in a fetal position on Cree's bed, her hands beneath his pillow. The scent of him still clung to the sheets though he had not slept in his quarters the night before. His flight bag was gone and she knew he would not be returning to this room before being sent to Helios 12. Neither would he call to

bid her goodbye. She knew this was her punishment for betraying him. He would be gone a month and in that time she would be alone. Not like the last time when at least she could speak with Dr. Dean and the other women of the Be-Mod Unit. This time, she would be isolated with plenty of opportunity to consider what had happened here last night. There would be ample time to analyze the emotions that had ripped through her; to dissect and put back together again the meanings of his words, his actions, his touches, the feel of his mouth on hers. And to wonder why she missed him so very, very much. Chapter 14 THE MAN was larger than Cree, broader in the shoulder and thicker in the waist and at least two inches taller. His arms were like massive oak branches; his thighs like the trunk of that mighty tree; his fists gnarled tap roots. His ebony skin glistened in the heat of Helios 12 and carried with it a musky scent that was as unpleasant to the men with whom he worked as theirs was to him. The voice that thundered from his barrel-like chest was deep and resonant and made men of a lesser ilk shiver in trepidation. Raine McGregor looked up from where he rested in the shade of the roof overhang of his barracks and viewed the dark man's approach with something less than enthusiasm. “Lares,” he acknowledged. The dark man ducked his head once sharply in greeting. He pointed to Kamerone Cree. “Who is that one?” Lares Taborn demanded. “He's a Reaper,” Raine cautioned. “Don't mess with him, Lares.” “I fear no man, son of the McGregor! Especially not that one!” Lares thundered and was pleased when the target of his stare halted in mid-swing, pickax over his head, and glanced their way. “Lares,” Raine warned. “Don't start.” He might as well have saved his breath, for the dark man was reaching up to pull off the necklace of multicolored reeds he always wore. “Lares, please!” The dark man's gaze passed insultingly down Cree's sweaty naked chest and over the dusty blue prison trousers that hung low on his lean hips. “Puny!” Lares pronounced. “He has the muscles of a boy-child!” He handed his precious necklace to Raine, who took it resignedly. The object of Lares’ scorn lowered his pickax to the rocky ground and braced his forearms on the wooden handle. He did not take his eyes off the dark man, only seemed to issue a challenge in the very stance of unconcern he had taken as he stared back. “He mocks me!” Lares grunted, a wide smile of joy lifting his thick lips to reveal dual rows of ultra-white teeth. “No, he doesn't,” Raine groaned. He risked a look at the Reaper and groaned again for that man had dropped his pickax and was heading their way. “Who's your ugly friend, McGregor?” Cree called out. Lares stiffened, his bull-like neck inflating with outrage. “Ugly?” he whispered on a long exhalation. “Lares, please,” Raine pleaded. “You don't want to fight this one. He is an assassin and-” “Ugly?” Lares repeated. He started toward Cree, shoving Raine aside as that man attempted to stay him from his intention. McGregor stumbled and fell, spinning around on his knees as the dark man and Reaper headed for one another. “That was easy,” Cree snorted. “What?” Lares shouted. “Pushing down a young boy.” Cree stopped, hands on his hips. “How are you with a man, darkling?” Shocked gasps crackled through the work yard as men halted what they were doing. What the men knew would happen, did: Lares Taborn, taking exception to the vulgar nickname, roared and charged like an enraged bull. Cree tensed, anticipating the forward momentum of the destructive force stampeding his way. Unfortunately, he miscalculated both the fury and the power of that force and went down under it. The wind was knocked out of his lung and his head slammed down on the ground hard enough to bring the stars down from the heavens. He felt scree from the nearby bluffs digging deep furrows into his bare

back as he slid backwards under the impetus of the dark man's massive body. “I will make you scream for mercy, you Rysalian pup!” Lares thundered. “Ry-Chalean,” Raine called out. “He's Ry-Chalean, Lares!” “Worse yet!” the Necromanian warrior stated. “He has the traits of two inferior races in his puny body!” The weight crushing down on Cree was more than he had anticipated; the wicked knee that wedged between his thighs to drive unmercifully into his groin brought bile to his throat. Even the removal of the ton of outraged male that rolled easily off him as he twisted to the side to gag out his agony, did nothing to relieve Cree. “Puke on me and die, Ry-Chalean jackal!” Cree curled up in a tight ball, clutching his battered manhood and squeezed his eyes shut to blot out the pain. “Puny!” Lares flung at him. He came to his feet and stood with his legs straddling Cree's prone body. He spat, his spittle landing near Cree's face then he started to unbutton the fly of his work pants. “I piss on you! I am still champi-” Without a hint of warning, Kamerone Cree flipped to his back and, with his knees still drawn up, shot his legs straight upward into the unprotected V of Lares Taborn's open legs. Cree grunted with fierce satisfaction as the dark man was for one moment impaled on the soles of Cree's dirty boots before being propelled backwards to land in a gasping heap three feet away. Raine McGregor's mouth fell open. Neither he nor any of the other men watching could credit what they were seeing. Was that Lares bellowing in pain? Lares, who now lay on his side in the dirt, protectively covering his balls? The young Serenian nobleman shifted his stare to the Reaper as that one came unsteadily to his feet. He watched as Cree stumbled, then forced himself to straighten despite the obvious agony wracking his lower body. “Get up, darkling!” Cree ordered in a husky rasp. “I'm not through with you, you black sonofabitch!” Lares moaned beneath his breath as he pushed to his feet. He kept bent over for a moment until the nausea passed. He raised his head of thick coarse black hair and lifted his hand to fling his waist-length braid over his shoulder. Narrowing his cinnamon eyes, he locked his glower on the Reaper. “A mistake, that, you Ry-Chalean mongrel,” he managed to say. “We will see,” came the reply. The two men closed on one another, circling, crouched low in wrestler's stances; each looking for an opening in the defense of his opponent. Lares snaked out a sweeping arm, not so much in an attempt to sag his adversary's leg as it was in taunt; Cree made a half-hearted grab for the dark man's head, his hand sliding off. After a moment or two of testing one another in a like manner, they came together with a meaty clash of naked chests that made every man watching them wince. Raine sat on the ground, drew his knees up into the arch of his arms, and was in awe of the spectacle unfolding. Both men were evenly matched despite the fact that Lares weighed a good forty to fifty pounds more than Rysalia's Prime Reaper. Their skills were on an even par, as was their strength. When Lares pulled Cree down on top of him and flipped the Reaper head-over-heels behind him, Raine could do no more than grunt with wonder as the Rysalian rolled to his feet, and without thought, spun around and dropped down on the dark man like a boulder. Commandant Jahannum came out of his office and stood with his warden, Jona, to watch the spectacle. Neither man would interfere. The Commandant was amused at the prisoners rolling about in the sharp shards of the rock pile, their naked chests and backs bleeding from numerous cuts. He nodded when the Reaper lashed out with a spinning drop kick that felled the dark man as easily as blowing fluff from a dandelion. “He may well kill the darkling, Commandant,” suggested Jona. “Does it matter?” replied the Commandant. He silently applauded the Reaper as a well-timed left hook sent the Necromanian crashing to the ground. He frowned when Taborn came back with a brutal jab to the Reaper's kidney that dropped Cree to his knees. When black blood flew from an equally brutal right cross that broke Cree's nose, the Commandant began to worry.

“Shall I stop it?” Jona asked. “One moment more.” His worry turned to anticipation as the Reaper thrust out his left leg and swept Lares from his feet. Before the dark man could react to the fall, the Reaper was up and over him, straddling him with a jagged chunk of rock that he dug into the bigger man's glistening throat. “Do you beg quarter?” the men heard Cree asking in a grating near-whisper. “I…” the dark man said, his breath coming in heaves of breathlessness, “beg…for…no…man!” Cree pressed the edge of his makeshift weapon down on the windpipe of his adversary. “Then ask for quarter, fool!” “I will not,” Lares responded, his eyes widening as he saw pure rage leap into the white man's demon orbs. He braced himself for the killing blow. “Hell!” Cree shouted and flung the rock away from him as hard as he could throw it. After one final, damning look at his opponent, he thrust himself up, dragging tired breaths into his bruised lungs. He straddled the dark man, then shocked every one there by holding out his hand to his enemy to help him up. Lares looked from the Reaper's hand to his dirty face to the proffered hand again. Having never been beaten in a fight before, the dark man did not know how to accept defeat gracefully. He was willing to die before admitting he had lost the fray so he shook his head. “Finish it,” he demanded. “I deserve death.” “Do not be a fool,” Cree warned him in a low voice. “You lost the fight, you ugly sot, not the war.” He jabbed his hand closer to Lares. “Take my hand.” “No.” “Is it not better to live and fight me another day than to die an ignominious death in a shithole like this? Take my hand!” The Necromanian's eyes narrowed. “I told you no.” Cree shook his hand at Lares. “Take my gods-be-damned hand or accept defeat as it was handed to you for I will turn my back in contempt leaving no doubt my regard of you.” He leaned forward, lowered his voice once more so only Lares might hear. “Reapers do not offer their hand lightly, you ugly bastard; to warrant such an honor, the man on the receiving end must be found worthy.” He straightened up although he did not withdraw his hand. “I have tested you and found you worthy.” He looked around them. “These men know that, else I would have slit your stinking throat and been done with it.” He narrowed his own eyes. “Are you man enough to accept the compliment or not?” Lares thought about that for a moment. His big face screwed up with the effort, then relaxed, the deep crinkles smoothing out. A lopsided grin widened his mouth. “Worthy, eh?” he asked, bringing up his own hand. “Aye,” Cree answered, slapping his hand against Lares’ and gripping it with a strength that surprised his opponent. He stepped back and jerked the Necromanian to his feet, grunting with the effort of lifting so heavy a man. The dark man in turn surprised, if not shocked, Cree by draping a companionable arm across the Reaper's dirty shoulder and drawing him close. “You are not as puny as I first thought, Ry-Chalean jackal.” No man had ever dared put an arm around the Reaper before and he damned sure did not like it. He pushed the dark man away. “Never do that again.” Lares threw back his head and roared with laughter. “Come, jackal,” he said. “I think we both need a bath!” **** “I WILL BE pissing blood for a week,” Cree complained as he brought his knees up and sat with his arms draped across them. He leaned against the bathhouse wall. “You loosened my front teeth.” Lares wiggled his central incisors with his thumb. “Too bad. I meant to knock them out.”

Lares chuckled. “You are not bad for a white man, I suppose. Do you get to spar like that often?” Cree shook his head. “Not since I was at the Fleet Academy. We were only allowed to fight our own kind because ordinary men can not withstand the blows.” “Ordinary men. I like that.” He thumped his chest. “I am not an ordinary man.” Cree snorted. “No, you are a conceited buffoon.” Lares grinned widely. “So you have not used your fists for anything other than playing with yourself then?” “I did not say that,” Cree snapped, ignoring the vulgar insult. “As a matter of fact, the last man I hit, couldn't hit back and I regret that very much.” “Why did you do it, then?” Lares didn't think much of men who picked on weaklings. Cree stared off across the compound. “I found the prick in bed with my woman,” was the terse reply. “Ah,” Lares said, understanding. “Being cuckolded makes a man do strange things I'm told.” “I should have killed him,” Cree said, “but she would never have forgiven me had I done so.” “And it means much to you for her not to think ill of you,” Lares stated. “I am familiar with the predicament.” “I am not.” Lares shifted his position so he could better see the Reaper in the gathering darkness. “You are the one they call the Iceman, are you not?” “Not to my face, they don't.” “Why do they call you this?” Cree shrugged. “Who the hell knows? Or cares?” He thought about it for the first time in his life, and then shrugged again. “I suppose it is because I have no warmth in me. My soul is as cold as the glaciers of Chrystallus.” “You have more fire in you than most of your race. But there's warmth and then there's warmth, eh, Jackal?” “Aye,” Cree agreed, thinking of Bridget. The dark man sensed where Cree's mind had gone by the look on his face. “Are you warm with your woman or do you treat her the way those Rysalian pigs treat their womenfolk?” The Reaper flinched. “I have yet to find out,” he admitted, surprising himself that he would say such a thing to a complete stranger. Lares nudged his companion with a heavy shoulder. “I have a woman,” he whispered. “A fine woman.” He put up his hands and drew lush curves in the air. “Big breasts; small waist; superb ass; and legs that go all the way up to that shapely ass!” Cree grinned. “And are you warm with your woman, Taborn?” Lares put his right hand in his lap and cupped his member. “I am as hot as, and have the cutting edge of, Ionarian steel with my J'Bai!” “Her name is J'Bai?” The dark man shook his head. “No, Jackal, no. A J'Bai is a man's betrothed.” He held up his reed necklace. “She made this for me when we were but bantlings. It is dear to me and I am never without it. I would rather die than allow it to be broken. She and I will be joined-” He stopped, his face clouding. He corrected himself. “I was to be joined with her one week before I was sent to this hellhole.” “What did you do to be sent here?” “A small matter,” Lares complained. “Only murder. I shall be here two years.” “Who did you swat?” Cree asked in the terminology of his kind. Lares scowled. “A pesky priest of that gods-be-damned order that sent my great-grandfather here when this pest hole was called Labyrinth. They call themselves the Brotherhood of the Domination.” He ground his teeth. “They are a damnably hard insect to squash, those bastards.” “Those bastards of whom you speak are a branch of the Empire, the rulers of my homeworld.” “More's the pity for you, then.” Lares looked the Reaper in the eye. “And just like Necroman, the Rysalian Empire has resistance fighters who are trying to swat their own insects.” Cree tore his gaze from the big man. “Aye,” he sneered. “I've the Resistance to thank for being in this

pest hole as you call it. They've singled me out to torment.” Lares smiled, rubbing his hands together as though he were about to be given a juicy bit of gossip. “And what did we do to be sent here, Jackal?” The Prime Reaper let out a long breath. “I did nothing but garner their gods-be-damned notice, is all.” He jerked his head around and fixed Lares with a steely glare. “They've been trying to get my ass for the last year. Thanks to their tender mercies I spent two weeks of a living hell inside a Behavioral Modification Unit having my mind altered!” He clenched his jaw. “When I find out who is responsible for that piece of work, I'm going to strangle her.” “The Multitude,” Lares mumbled. “The Multitude?” “You have never heard of them?” “Aye, I have heard of them, but what have they to do with what we're talking about?” “I believe the Resistance on both our worlds are being run by them.” “It does not matter,” Cree drawled. “I am sworn to fight any and all enemies of the Empire, sorceresses or not, and the women of the Rysalian Resistance have gained my undivided attention!” “What if your woman is one of them?” Cree's eyes widened and he turned a fierce face to his companion. “She would not be!” “How do you know she is not?” “I know!” Lares looked at him for a long moment, and then lowered his voice to a forceful whisper. “But how do you know?” The Reaper opened his mouth to defend Bridget, and then snapped it shut. The Necromanian was right; how did he know? **** SWEAT RAN down Cree's face and salt trickled into his eyes, blinding him. He stopped, rested the handle of his pickax against his thigh and armed away the sweat, leaving long dirty streaks on his forehead and right cheek. Breathing raggedly from his work breaking rocks, he hunkered down on his haunches and let his head drop from the sheer exhaustion. He was hotter than he could ever remember being; tanned as deeply bonze as the three Diabolusian prisoners who were glaring at him from the entrance to the cave. It hadn't taken him long to discard his black jumpsuit that first day three weeks earlier. Aye, he thought tiredly: he was hotter than he had ever been, but in far better shape, too. He had developed muscle groups that he had not even known he possessed. His biceps were rock-hard, bulging, from the steady day-to-day application of pickax to rock. You could bounce a Serenian gold piece off his thighs, they were so tight with firm muscle tone. The thick calluses on the palms of his hands were the only drawback to the hard labor, but he had earned them; worked through the blisters that had formed, broken, ran, dug deep into the tender flesh, then formed again until there was a horny layer covering the once-soft pads of his palm heel and fingers. His chest had begun to bulge after the second week and he doubted seriously if he could even fit into the jumpsuit when it was time to leave this hellhole. The stealthy crunch of rock nearby brought Cree's head up and set off an alarm in the back of his killer's mind. He looked behind him, saw no one, but realized there were no longer three Diabolusians glaring at him. He pushed up to his feet and reached for the pickax. The worn smoothness of the thick handle was comforting. “On your left,” he heard Raine say in a low voice as the young man sidled toward him from the other side of the garden plot where he had been pulling weeds. The young Serenian nobleman was carrying a hoe in a practiced grip; fighting for his chance to be left alone among the murderers and rapists of Helios 12 was nothing new to the handsome political prisoner. “What the hell do they want?” “Who knows?” Raine returned in a bored voice. “Do those dogs have to want something, Cree?” As the three Diabolusians began moving toward the rock pile, Lares showed up as if by dark magic.

Oblivious to the Necromanian's presence, the Diabolusians parted: one heading for Raine, two making their way toward Cree. “I do love a fight,” Lares said beneath his breath and smiled. The white of his teeth against the ebony of his skin looked like the gaping maw of a Viragonian. His opponent never knew what hit him. Raine held his own against a Diabolusian knife-wielder who did his level best to skewer the Serenian. McGregor danced just out of reach of the gutting blade. A well-aimed and savage swing of the Serenian's hoe handle nearly caved in the man's chest and left him in agony, gasping for breath where he fell. Raine hawked up a gob of phlegm and spat on the man then stood back to watch Cree. “I kill you, Iceman!” the Diabolusian hissed in broken Rysalian. “You can try.” Lares joined Raine and draped a friendly arm over the young man's shoulder. “I like the way this Ry-Chalean jackal fights, son of the McGregor!” “He's good. There's no doubt about that,” Raine agreed, flinching as a particularly brutal uppercut caught the Diabolusian under the chin and slammed him against the wall of the Indoctrination Hut. “And he enjoys it, too.” “Men were born to fight, my child,” Lares sighed dramatically. “If not for our little pissing contests, where would we be? We must size our cocks against one another else we-” “McGregor! Taborn!” Raine and Lares turned to find the Warden waving them to work. They thought of ignoring him, but Cree was only moments away from defeating his opponent. It was a foregone conclusion. With a look and shrug at one another, they headed to their assigned tasks. Neither of them saw Raine's adversary come slyly to his feet, his dagger clutched in his fist. From the window of his quarters, the Commandant watched with appreciation as the Reaper crashed a powerful fist into his enemy's face to send the hapless man tumbling to the hard-packed ground; but out of the corner of his eye, he spied movement and swung his gaze that way. His eyes widened. Frantically, he rapped on the window. “Cree!” he shouted, not realizing he couldn't be heard through the thick solar reflective glass. “Cree, behind you!” Having been absorbed with the fight up until then, Cree did not hear or see the man sneaking up on him. He had no idea of the danger he was in until it was too late. Commandant Jahannum saw the Reaper start to turn, finally sensing something was not quite right. It was at that moment-already far too late for Cree to save himself-that the wicked six-inch long serrated blade of the stiletto drove deep into the Reaper's back, barely missing the spinal cord, but slicing open Cree's right kidney, and the warrior collapsed like a broken toy. **** REAPERS NEVER dream; they are programmed not to. Dreams can be deadly enemies to a warrior, for in that unconscious state in which a day's, a year's, a lifetime's mistakes and worries dwell, lay mystical answers the Empire would rather the Reapers’ not have. The symbolic nature of a dream-with its hidden meanings and vague, ambiguous inferences-can undo the strictest regimen of Behavioral Modification. Even in drug-induced nightmares-the substances of which are part and parcel of what happens during reinforcement therapy-the relevance and implications are controlled so the warrior experiences only what he has been instructed to experience. His dreams, in other words, are controlled. In reinforcement therapy, those controlled dreams mirror only the warrior's worst fears; there are no pleasant thoughts allowed to interfere with the protocol. But in uncontrolled dreams, one of which at that very moment Kamerone Cree was passing through on his way back to consciousness, the relevance and implications were being stimulated by the Resistance implanted device in his hypothalamus. ****

SHE WAS waiting for him at the door when he returned home. She was smiling, her arms open wide to welcome him. Her body was warm and soft and infinitely satisfying as she slipped into his arms and pressed her cheek to his. "I have missed you, Kam,” she whispered. Her arms went around his waist and she held him tightly to her. “I have been so lonely without you." He heard himself groan: a savage, possessive sound meant to convey to her his urgent need. Swinging her up into his arms, holding her high against his chest, his mouth came down on hers in a kiss that took away both their breaths. He plundered her mouth with his tongue; she met his thrust for thrust with her own. "You are my beloved,” she breathed against his mouth. “The only man I shall ever need." Though he had traveled the universe over many times; sped through the stars to distant worlds and returned unscathed; the few steps into the bedsuite were the longest trip he had ever taken. He could hear his ragged, excited breathing; listened with blatant male pride to hers. Her body in his arms was an exquisite torture, the likes of which he would gladly suffer for the rest of his life. “Kam.” she spoke his name over and over again as he laid her on their bed. Her green eyes were liquid emeralds as he tore away his jumpsuit to reveal to her the extent of his need. “Make me truly your woman, Milord,” she begged him. “Lay claim to what you want.” It made the blood pound in his temples to rip the silky transparent gown from her shapely body; the sound of the material ripping in his hands excited him and he threw back his head and howled in triumph. “Kam!” she pleaded with him. “Please!” Her hips writhed on the bed in a wanton display of her own arousal. Her arms came up to receive him. He fell on her, splaying her legs wide with his knees. His jutting member stabbed unerringly upward into the moist center of her, striving for the core of her internal heat and she closed around him: imprisoning his cock inside her body. With a brutal thrust that sent them both over the edge of sanity, he rammed into her as far as his shaft would go and his world burst around him like a nova. His seed spurted deep into her and took hold: he had claimed her as his own. Throwing back his head, he bellowed with the release of his passion, feeling her nails drag wickedly down his bare back. "Mine!” He shouted to the heavens and all the gods who had denied him this pleasure for so long. When he lowered his head, he saw her staring up at him with rapt wonder and knew beyond any shadow of a doubt that he had fulfilled and sated his woman as he had been meant to do. And he knew she would be his forever; that he would move heaven and hell to keep her at his side; that he would do whatever it took to make her his. "I love you, Kam,” she whispered to him. He lowered his head and took her mouth, plying feather-soft kisses on her bruised lips. "I love you, too, Bridget,” he whispered back. **** THE HEALER reluctantly put her hand on her patient's forehead and pushed aside his sweat-dampened hair. His devastating handsomeness was not lost on Dr. Imogene Mathis nor was the sharpness of his gaze as his lids suddenly snapped open. She snatched away her hand as though he had tried to bite her. “D-don't try moving,” she told him “You were stabbed and I had to remove one of your kidneys.” Cree felt as though a red-hot poker was pressing into his lower right side. The pain was excruciating, but there was a deeper, rawer agony lapping at his consciousness that made him try to push himself up. When he did, agony rocketed through his body and he gasped with the force of it. Every muscle in his body was cramping and every bone throbbed deep in its marrow. “I said not to move, Captain,” the Healer snapped. “Try that again and I'll have you clamped to the table!”

“What did you do to me, woman?” he gasped. He gripped the edges of the table. “How long have I been out?” “Two days,” she answered and watched the disbelief cloud his eyes. “I have to get up,” he said and tried again only to find he was too weak and in too much pain. Why can't I block out this pain? I should be able to block it out. “You aren't going anywhere,” Dr. Mathis informed him. “As a matter of fact, I doubt you will be able to be transported back to FSK-14 at the designated time.” “You have no idea what you've done to me,” he grated. “What you've set in motion!” “I saved your life.” “Leave me,” he ordered. “Now!” “I most certainly will not! I have to-” Cree swung his head toward her and his eyes were wild. “I am going into Transition, bitch! Do you want to be in here with me when that happens?” The Healer gawked at him, saw him begin to transform right before her eyes and barely made it out the door before the most godsawful sound she would ever hear sent her screaming for help. “Lock him in!” she shrieked. “Lock him in! He's going through Transition!” The guards made no move toward the medical hut door. Not a one of them wanted to be anywhere near a Reaper going into Transition. To a man, they ran in the opposite direction, shoving each other aside as they made for safety. Lares grabbed Raine's arm as the young man made to go to Cree. “We may have developed a friendship with the Reaper, but he would not know that now.” He cast a look toward the medical hut from which an undulating howl came. “He would not know us now.” “Listen to him!” Raine breathed. “It sounds as though he is dying. We have to help him!” The dark man shook his head. “He is transforming from human to beast, son of the McGregor. He has done it many times and will continue to do so as long as he draws breath.” He shuddered. “There is no help for him in this world.” Raine hung his head. “How can he bear it?” he asked, his voice breaking. The hopeless howl of an animal in extreme agony pierced the hot solar wind around them and made men put their hands to their ears to blot out the sound. It was a tormented cry, filled with loneliness and burden, rife with bleak acceptance of its own strangeness. Lares returned his attention to the medical hut. “I don't think he can.” Part II Chapter 15 SHE WAS not at the door awaiting him with open arms when he returned to FSK-14 two months later; he had been gone a month longer than planned and she had had no way of knowing why or when he would return. She did not hear him enter his quarters for she was occupied with, and his arrival drowned out by, the sounds coming from the antique music device she so cherished. He flung his flight bag on the sofa and walked to her door. She was lying across the bed on her back, the earphones of the old CD player clapped over her ears. Her eyes were closed and she was gripping one of his old utility shirts to her chest. He was stunned to see tears running down her cheeks. The sight of her sorrow cut right through his soul. “Bridget?” he called out, but she did not hear him. He called again and when she still did not respond, he looked around for the CD player, spied it, and then walked over to turn it off. When he did, she opened her eyes, saw him and gasped. The look on her face hurt him deeply. As she scrambled off the bed, putting distance between them, her hand going up to ward him off, the pain deepened. “How long have you been standing there?” Cree started toward her, wanting desperately to take her in his arms, but when he took that first step, she whimpered. He would have had to be deaf not to hear the terror in the sound. “When did you get back?” she asked, tossing his old utility shirt to the bed.

He shook his head in answer, turned and walked to his bedsuite. Bridget reached up to take the earphones from her head. She put them aside and, with her heart thudding like a trip hammer in her chest, she looked down to see her hands shaking. Clenching her fists, she stood there, waiting for him to call to her, to make good on the bargain they had made before he left, but he didn't. An hour passed. Two. She heard nothing from his bedsuite. Going to her door, she listened, heart in her throat, but heard no sound from behind his closed door. Hesitantly, thinking perhaps he meant for her to come to him, she went to his door, and after a long moment of indecision, rapped lightly. “Captain?” “Go away, Bridget.” She had spent two months wondering what would happen when he returned to FSK-14. Since she had had no outside contact with those on board the station, she had no way of knowing why he was staying away longer than the one month he had been ordered to serve. When the time for him to return came and went, she began to wonder if he hadn't been detained for some infraction of Hell-12 regulations; knowing Cree, that was entirely possible. When the second month had nearly passed, she began to worry about him. There were brutal men on Hell-12 and she had found herself fearing for his safety. Only the night before, she had dreamed of him lying in a medical ward: hurt and alone, calling out her name, needing her. She had awakened with a sense of unease and had gone to his room where she had found an old shirt that still bore the scent of him. She had taken the black garment back to her room, turned on the CD player to try to take her mind off her concern for him, and took to her bed. As she lay there wondering where he was at that moment, she had entertained the notion that he might never return. That knowledge had hurt her more than she had been prepared to accept and she had begun to cry. When had she lost her fear of him? When had she begun to see him as a man instead of a Reaper? Was it the night he had found her with Konnor Rhye and she had seen such deep hurt in his eyes? The night she thought sure he would beat her, but had kissed her instead? Yes. Of course it had to have been that night. What woman would not be thrilled to have two handsome men fighting over her-the victor drag her home to his lair, his intent clear? To see the wild possessiveness stamped across her captor's handsome face? Wasn't that a fantasy of every woman: to be dominated by a male capable of claiming-and holding-her in so dramatic a fashion? It was as ego satisfying to a woman as it was a victory for the man. That had been a part of it, she reasoned, the fierce possessiveness he'd shown that night. But it had been more than that, too. It had been his gentleness, the way he had touched her had sealed her own fate. It had been his tender kiss; the way his lips had plied hers, brooking no denial that she was his to do with as he pleased. It had been the way he had looked at her, lust smoldering in his dark eyes, that had made her cling to him like a wanton. Standing at his door, her hand on the smooth metal expanse, she leaned her forehead against the coolness and called to him again. “Are you all right?” “Aye.” He sounded tired. Tired and so infinitely lost. Had he misunderstood the alarm on her face when she'd found him standing over her bed? Had he mistaken her look of surprise as fear of him? Had he thought when she reached out to him that she was denying him? And had he taken her whimper as one of fear instead of relief that he was well? Surely not. But with a man like Cree… “I have missed you,” she told him through the door. There was no answer. “Captain?” Again, there was no answer. Perhaps he had fallen asleep. **** CREE LAY with his hands behind his head, listening to Bridget finally move away from his door. No

doubt she had expected him to rush out and fall on her like a crazed beast, raping her into submission. “Captain?” He ignored the Vid-Com, annoyed more than ever by its interfering and-to his ears-nagging voice. “You are in pain, Sir,” the computer said softly. He turned his head and looked at the screen, but didn't answer. He knew his Controllers were aware of his condition. When he had arrived back at FSK-14, he had been whisked off immediately to the Ministry of Science and they had poked and prodded and pried until they had assessed the damage caused by the loss of his kidney. “We can not allow indiscriminate Transitions, Captain,” one scientist had told him. “That is exceptionally dangerous for anyone with whom you come into contact.” “A new kidney must be found for transplant,” another had remarked. “Until then, he must be transfused frequently.” “When was the last time you were given blood, Captain?” “An hour ago,” Cree had lied. “Just before I left Hell-12.” “Good,” they had all nodded. Smiling and making notations, they had concurred that he would not need to be transfused again until morning. Or so they-and he-had thought. Now the pain was driving him mad. He turned over on his side, drew his legs up and clasped them in the perimeter of his arms, deliberately trying to quash the growing thirst in his gut. “When was the last time you were given blood, Captain?” the Vid-Com inquired. “Two hours ago,” he lied. The Vid-Com was silent for a moment and he knew it was checking with his Controllers, and then it spoke again. “You are required to go to the Ancillary at this time, Sir.” “Go to hell,” he ground out. There was a change in the Vid-Com's tone. “Captain, you would not want to awaken in the middle of the night in such pain that you mistakenly take from the Terran female what you should not,” it warned. “In that condition, you would have no control over the damage you could do to her.” The very thought of that happening brought Cree upright in the bed. That was the one thing he had been worried would happen since he'd set foot back on the station. He had made a vow to himself to fight the godsawful urges that were now running rampant through his body for he was undergoing a drastic change that concerned him deeply. “Captain?” the Vid-Com insisted. Aye, he thought bitterly as he got up from the bed. There were changes, all right. Now he could smell Bridget through the solidity of a titanium door. He could hear her heart beating from twenty feet away. Sense the heat of her blood pounding through her veins. Almost taste the saltiness of that red liquid coursing through her jugular“Computer?” he grated, reaching for his shirt. He flung it around his shoulder and jabbed his arms into the black sleeves. “Call the Ancillary and tell them I'm on my way.” “Yes, Sir,” the Vid-Com agree and he could have sworn the vile thing had actually sighed with relief. “Where is Bridget?” he demanded. “She is in her room.” “Lock her in until I get back.” **** BRIDGET PUT down the book she was reading and listened to him moving about in the eating area. She stood, went to the door. “Captain?” she called to him and was surprised when her door shushed open and she found him standing in the opening, his hands braced to either side of the frame. “Aye?” he asked, his expression blank. She thought he looked none the worse for wear for having spent two months in a penal colony. If

anything, he looked more powerful than when he had left. His complexion was deeply tanned, although there was an unnatural ruddy glow to his cheeks and lips. Involuntarily, her gaze traveled over his thick chest and down the heavier muscled area of his thighs before crawling back up to his astonishingly beautiful male face. Her scrutiny settled on the hungry glow in his dark chocolate eyes. “Like what you see?” “What if I do?” That stopped him cold. He stared at her, unable to believe he had heard her correctly. She smiled at him. What the hell? “Want what you see?” Bridget felt a quiver deep in her womb and her knees went weak. When she ran her tongue over her suddenly dry lips and watched his heated gaze fall automatically to them, she let out a little moan that snapped his attention straight back to her eyes. “Yes, Captain,” she whispered. She held out her arms to him. “I want-” She got no further for he swept her up in his arms with such force, with such powerful intent, he crushed the very breath from her body. Her arms went around his neck, his head swooped down, and their mouths came together with a bruising fusion. His tongue invading her mouth was all she remembered until she felt his body pressed heavily atop her own on her bed, the stabbing steel of his manhood straining to be free of his trousers. “Cree,” she groaned against his mouth, taking his kiss, tasting his tongue, wanting much, much more. “I want you,” he mumbled against her throat where his tongue was lapping at the salty moisture of her flesh, striking at the spiral of her inner ear, slipping inside to send shivers of delight throughout her body. “I want you,” she returned, burying her fingers in the sleek darkness of his unbound hair and dragging his mouth back to her own. She raped him with her tongue: thrusting into his mouth, claiming him as possessively as he had claimed her. She ran the tip of it over his teeth, across his lips, probing at the sensitive corners and felt him shudder violently. “By the gods, woman, don't!” he begged, jerking himself off her as though he were being sucked out of an air lock. Bridget started to protest, thinking he meant to put a stop to this dangerous business, but then she realized he was ripping off his uniform, tearing the material when it resisted his efforts. “Hurry.” “You don't think I am?” he growled, rending his trousers. She held her arms up to him. “Come here!” A snarl of pure animal lust erupted from Kamerone Cree's throat and he bent over her, putting his hands on the front of her blouse. The silk ripped as he dragged it from her body, half lifting her from the bed as he jerked it free. Her skirt followed, the sound of the material being rent making her quiver. Her silken panties and lace bra were no obstacles to him at all and came away with a satisfying zip of sound that made his avid gaze widen with appreciation. “Sweet Merciful Alel,” he whispered, looking at her nakedness. “You are beautiful.” “Kam, please!” He fell on her, although he kept most of his weight from crushing her. The possessing knee that wedged between her legs and thrust her thighs apart-its mate driving her legs wider still in preparation of his penetration-made her cry out with mindless arousal. “Say it again,” he ordered, his shaft paused at the hot center of her. “Say what?” she moaned, wiggling her hips, needing the hot steel of him buried inside her. “My name,” he insisted, not about to give her what she wanted until he got what he needed. “Say my name again!” “Kam,” she rasped, bringing her legs up to clasp his lean hips. “Again!” “Kam!” She arched toward him. He drove the tip of his penis into her body. “Again!” “Kam” Cree rammed the shaft of his blade to the hilt inside her and held it there: deep, lodged tightly against her womb.

“Again,” he whispered, straining to keep the seed from spewing forth until he heard her just once more. His arms were trembling as he held himself above her. “Say it again.” “Kam,” she whispered. She met his look. “Kam.” She felt the quivers beginning. “My Kam.” Hot spurts of semen shot from him and flooded into his woman: branding her, claiming her, making her his for as long as they both lived. His mate. His woman. His love. The acute sensation that he had never fully experienced; the complete fulfillment of burying himself in the warm, loving body of a woman whose body and soul needed his as much as he needed hers, drove him into the realms of purely physical pleasure. Not just physical relief. Not just the satisfying of his lust. But the pure, unadulterated release of all the pent-up sexual frustrations he had ever known. When it was over and he lay spent against her bosom, his lips gently drawing on one rosy nipple, she stroked the long brown hair from his forehead and planted the softest kiss on his brow. “Can we do it again?” he asked. “I certainly hope so,” she answered and smiled as he lifted his head and looked up her. He smiled, too. Chapter 16 “YOU LOOKED pleased with yourself, Captain,” she told him the next morning as she woke to find him lying on his side in her bed, his head propped on his fist as he stared down at her. Cree grinned. “Exceedingly pleased, milady.” Bridget stretched, allowing the sheet to pull away from her breasts. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw his gaze drop automatically to where she had intended it go and was rewarded by a soft chuckle from her companion. “You are shameless, woman.” She turned her head and smiled. “I know.” Cree reached out to tug the sheet lower. He studied the perfection of her right breast, leaned forward to study the other one then placed his hand on the mound of her left breast. “This one is larger,” he declared. “Why is that?” “It's just the way a woman is made,” she replied and sighed softly as he stretched his fingers out so that only the center of his palm was in contact with her breast as he ran it delicately over her nipple. When she frowned, he stopped, thinking he was hurting her in some way. “What is wrong?” he inquired. She took his hand in hers and turned it, looked down at the thick calluses then ran her thumb over the horny protrusions. “I am sorry, Kam.” “For what?” “For what you had to suffer on-” Cree shushed her with a finger. “Something good came of my stay on Helios Twelve.” “Really?” “I brought two warriors back with me: a Necromanian and a Serenian. Though both noblemen had been given long sentences, I freed them.” Bridget blinked. “How did you manage that?” His grin became predatory. “You know better than to ask.” Before she could comment, the Vid-Com clicked on. “Captain, Lord Anthos Korr from the Ministry of Justice is demanding to speak with you.” Cree sat up in the bed. “Demanding?” he echoed. “Also, Dr. Dean, the Director of the Behavioral Modification Unit is requesting a moment of your time, as well,” added the Vid-Com. Cree felt Bridget stiffen beside him. “What does she want?” he asked Bridget. “I have no idea,” she replied and also sat up, reaching for her robe. “Did she say what she wanted?” Cree asked. “A moment of your time,” the computer repeated with just a hint of exasperation in its clipped voice.

“You gods-be-damned-” Cree began, but Bridget calmed him with a gentle touch on his cheek. Despite her growing unease, Bridget laughed. “You really need to have a little talk with Helen.” “Helen?” Cree questioned. “The Vid-Com.” His brows drew together thunderously. “You named that acid-tongued bitch?” “I named her after my best friend back home: Helen Louise Portas.” Cree snorted. “You did not compliment the lady, Bridget!” “Captain!” the Vid-Com intruded, seemingly insulted by his remark. “Lord Korr is growing impatient and Dr. Dean is waiting for you answer.” “Did she ask a question, Helen?” he sneered, putting emphasis on the name his lady had given the interfering AIU. “Captain,” the Vid-Com sighed, “your attitude does not compute. Should I schedule you for a visit with Admiral Kahn's office?” At the mention of the Commanding Officer of the Rysalian Fleet Academy, the OIC for all military assignments, Cree sobered. “I do not believe that will be necessary,” he answered, somewhat chastened. “Tell Dr. Dean I will call her back and connect Lord Korr.” The stern visage of a man in his late eighties flashed immediately onto the Vid-Com screen. “I do not like to be kept waiting, Captain,” Lord Korr snapped. “My apologies,” Cree forced himself to say. “What can I do for you, Your Grace?” Anthos Korr appeared to be looking past Cree, into the expanse of Bridget's bedsuite. When Cree realized the old man was trying to get a look at Bridget, he moved to block the view. As he did, Lord Korr scowled. “Did you enjoy yourself last eve, Captain Cree?” Cree felt a warning shudder go down his spine. “I received permission to have a live-in companion, Your Grace.” There was a snort of derision from Korr. “Aye, but I can not find anywhere in our records where it states you were granted permission to mate with this female or any other not sanctioned by the Ministry.” The Reaper had to grit his teeth. “I believe the permission was implied, Your Grace.” “Not so! And because you have once again flagrantly disobeyed orders, you are hereby ordered to report to Be-Mod 9 within the hour!” “Disobeyed orders?” Cree shouted, forgetting to whom he was speaking. “What gods-be-damned orders? What the hell have I done wrong now?” “Do not use that tone with me, boy!” Lord Korr thundered. “You will do as you are told or I will have you dragged into Be-Mod 9 in shackles!” The Vid-Com disconnected. Irrational fear shot through Cree and he turned to face Bridget. “What did I do that was so wrong?” he whispered. Before she could tell him he had done nothing to warrant such treatment, the Vid-Com clicked on again. “Captain? Dr. Dean insists on speaking to you, now.” “Put her on,” Bridget commanded. She slipped her hand into Cree's and when Dr. Dean's face appeared on screen, it was Bridget who wanted to know what was happening. “They have informed me that we are to do active reinforcement on the Captain this morning,” Dr. Dean reported. “Merciful Alel, no,” Cree breathed. He hung his head, shaking it from side to side in denial. “Why are they doing this to him?” Bridget hissed. Dr. Dean did not answer. Instead, she turned her attention to Cree. “Captain,” she stated, “if you would like, and if she is willing, I can arrange for Bridie to assist with the therapy.” “I most certainly am not willing!” Bridget snarled. “And there is no reason for him to have to be put through that torment again!” “We have no choice, Bridget,” Dr. Dean stressed. “This has been ordered by the Tribunal. The instructions come from-” “Onar,” Cree whispered. “Lord Onar,” Dr. Dean finished and saw Cree nodding as though he already knew the culprit's name.

“It will only be three sessions, Captain. We can accomplish that in one day.” Cree looked up at this woman whose lover had provided half the equation for his existence and wondered what she thought of him. “Bring him in, Bridget,” the Director said. “He will need you with him.” **** IT WAS THE longest fifteen minutes of Bridget's life as she accompanied Cree to the Be-Mod 9 Unit. She had resisted the urge to take his hand in the elevator although they had been alone. He was calm, now, resigned to what was going to be done to him; but Bridget could sense the unease in him as they got off the elevator and headed for the black double doors at the end of the corridor. He had not so much as glanced her way since leaving his quarters and had said nothing at all, but she wasn't sure he could have made the trip without her. “Do you want me in the therapy room with you?” she asked as they reached the doors. Although she would prefer not to watch the man she loved being tortured again, she would accompany him into his own private hell if that were what he wished. “Aye,” he said, quietly. He still did not look at her, but she saw the hand nearest her jerk as though he had wanted to grasp her own, then realized he should not. Those gathered at the reception desk became quiet as the Reaper and Bridget entered Be-Mod 9. Ivonne's tremulous smile of greeting slid away as the imposing man in the black uniform halted before her. “We are expected,” he said. Not ‘I am expected', thought Bridget, seeing the same understanding washing over those at the desk. “Yes, Captain,” Ivonne replied. She handed a sheet of paper to Bridget. “You know where to take him.” Cree shocked them all when he suddenly reached for Bridget's hand. “Come,” was all he said, but not one of the women gathered there missed the meaning of his action: Kamerone Cree, the Rysalian Empire's Prime Reaper, needed help to enter the therapy suites this time. Dr. Dean came out of her office. “I am sorry about this, Bridget.” Cree let go of Bridget's hand. “In there?” he asked, indicating the room where he had gone the first time had had been processed into the Unit. “Yes.” He pushed on the keypad and started to enter. When he realized Bridget was not following him, he snaked out a hand and took her arm. “Come with me. They know you are my woman.” He shut the door in the Director's face. “I didn't know if you wanted me to show any familiarity around-” “They know you are my woman!” he stressed again as he began to jerk at the buttons of his uniform blouse, flick the cuffs open. He yanked the opened shirt from his trousers, and then bent over to tug off his boots. “They know I have had sex with you, Bridget,” he groused. “I would venture to say everyone on FSK-14 knows by now!” A bright infusion of color spread over Bridget's face. She shrugged helplessly, not knowing how to answer. She picked up the uniform shirt he threw savagely to the floor. “I would even go so far to say most people know how many times we had sex last eve!” She watched him flick open the buttons of his fly then kick off his trousers. She picked those up as well. “Kam…” she began only to have him fix her with a warning glance. “I am a Reaper, Bridget,” he snapped. “I will be all right. No matter what they do to me, I will be all right!” “Of course you will,” she agreed. Coming to him, she cupped his cheek. “Remember that I love you.” He blinked-the only acknowledgment he gave that he understood. “Let's get this over with,” he said. Dr. Dean was waiting at the end of the hall for them. Beside her was the same team of women who had taken part in his first reinforcement sessions. He swept his gaze among them. “Ladies,” he said. “We will make this as easy for you as we can, Captain,” Tina said.

Cree nodded, then walked into the therapy suite. He was already stretched out on the table when they entered behind him. “I hope it was worth it,” came an amused voice from the gallery. Everyone looked up to see Justice Onar at the glass. “What do you mean?” Dr. Dean asked. “He knows,” Onar grunted. “Don't you, Cree?” A nasty grin crinkled the old man's face. “Was she worth being punished for, Captain?” Dr. Dean glanced at Bridget, wondering if she had guessed, as everyone else had, that this was the reason her lover was being tortured. One look at the horror stamped on Bridie's face told the Director the news had devastated the younger woman. “Answer me, Cree!” Onar shouted. “Was she worth it?” From the position in which he lay, Cree couldn't see the old man's face, but it didn't matter. He wasn't even looking toward the gallery. “Aye,” he bit out. “She was!” “Oh, Kam,” Bridget sobbed, hurrying to her lover. “I am sorry. I-” “Bridget, take your place and let's get this business finished,” Dr. Dean insisted. “I can't!” Bridget cried. “I won't be a part of hurting him again!” “Do what you have to do, woman,” Cree snapped at her. “Don't shame me in front of that bastard!” “I did this to you.” “I know who to blame and it isn't you!” Cree barked. “Get your ass where you belong so I can get the hell out of here!” “Bridget, take your place,” said Dr. Dean. They worked over him: attaching leads, clamping down restraints. Bridget moved to the head of the table and placed her hands lovingly on Cree's temples. “Do not let me swallow my tongue,” he instructed and was relieved when he saw her smile just a little. She nodded and bent over him. “Remember what I told you,” she whispered in his ear. “I love you, Kamerone Cree.” She straightened up and locked her eyes with his. “I love you with all my heart.” There was a flicker of his eyelids, nothing more, to indicate he had heard her. “Are you ready, Bridget?” the Director asked. Bridget nodded, still holding Cree's stare. She placed the rubber wedge between the Reaper's lips. The needle was driven into Cree's vein and almost instantly the drug flooded his body. The last thing he heard before the nightmarish hell began all over again was her voice: “I am here, Kam. I am here.” **** “KAM.” He was swimming up through a white-hot fog that was sluicing away the very flesh from his body. “Kam?” There was that godsawful pain in his back again: the dagger slicing in, sending waves of agony through his spine. “Kamerone!” Running his tongue over his canines, he felt the sharp edges forming, tasted his own blood as they cut through his flesh. Smelled the fresh blood scent and body heat of some animal close to him. He growled. His hands arched into claws. “Kamerone, wake up!” Brought abruptly out of his torment, Cree stared fixedly at the wavering image hovering him. “Here. Drink.” His head was lifted and he felt the cool rim of a metal container against his lips, then salty warmth flowed into his thirsty mouth. He swallowed convulsively, drawing in the liquid; drowning in the taste and

feel of it; reveling in the slackening of the pain in his body. “More,” he rasped. “I know, baby.” Once again the container was brought to his mouth and he drank greedily until the torment was relieved. “Are you warm enough?” “Too warm,” he muttered, mentally trying to fan away the hot fog in which he was lying. He felt hands on him, then blessedly cool water easing over his naked chest. “When you're able, we'll go home.” Home? He shifted his head on the pillow and blinked to rid his vision of the haze. What he saw when he was finally able to focus was the most comforting sight in all the universe to him. “Bridget?” he whispered. “I'm here, sweetheart.” She sat down in a chair beside his cot, took his hand in hers, and brought it to her lips. She kissed his knuckles. “Is it-?” He found he could not ask. “It's over,” she told him and nestled his hand against her cheek. A long, relieved sigh came from his very core. He tried to smile, but the canines cut into his lower lip and he saw her look away. Mortally ashamed of what he was for the first time in his life, he turned his face from her. “Don't,” she ordered, reaching over to turn his face toward her again. “It'll just take some getting used to, that's all.” He had no intention of her ‘getting used to’ seeing him in any part of his Transition. Had his face altered just now? Was that why she had looked away? Or had those wickedly sharp fangs frightened her? Either way, he did not intend to let her witness any more changes in him. Already the sharpness was leaving his teeth-along with the hunger and the extreme body temperature. If he was lucky, and he took transfusions as needed, he would not go into Transition again for another cycle and he would make gods-be-damned sure he was nowhere near her when that happened. “Just rest, okay?” she asked. She used her free hand to smooth the hair from his eyes. “When you feel up to it, I'll help you dress and we'll go home.” Home. There it was again: that wonderful, sharing word. Before Bridget had come into his life, his quarters had been just a place to eat and sleep and exist in between assignments. Now, it was a glorious place where he could rest and find peace. He dozed off with her holding his hand and stroking his hair. When he woke, she was standing at the door, speaking quietly to Dr. Dean. “I think it's the rain I miss most,” he heard Bridget saying. Her back was to him and she had no idea he was listening. “Rain,” the Director sighed. “Sweet spring rain on an Oregon hillside.” “One of my favorite things was to sit on our porch and watch the rain falling on the corn,” Bridget said. “I remember the smell of it on the grass; the sound of it hitting the gutters and roof, the air conditioner in my bedroom window. At night, it would plink against the air conditioner and I thought that the most soothing sound.” “What about snow?” someone beyond his sight asked and he thought the voice might belong to Tina. “I miss that, too,” Bridget sighed. “I don't!” Dr. Dean grumbled. “I hated shoveling snow to get my damned car out of the driveway!” “I miss the light.” Cree was sure that was Ivonne's voice. “Sunlight on a Miami beach. Lying there, getting a tan on the chaise lounge.” She sighed. “I really miss that. “The light,” Bridget repeated. “I have almost forgotten what it is to see daylight.” Dr. Dean looked past Bridget's shoulder and saw Cree watching them. She smiled. “How are you feeling, Captain?”

He shrugged. “Bridget?” he asked, putting out a hand for her to come to him. She came, took his hand and bent over to place a light kiss on his forehead. “I am ready to leave,” he told her. “Then we'll go home,” she replied. As she was helping him put on his uniform, he stopped and looked at her. “Isn't there a Vid-Com outside the door there?” he asked. “Yes.” He stepped around her, walked into the hallway and stood before the Vid-Com screen. “Computer?” “Yes, Captain Cree?” “Where is my 2/IC?” “One moment, Sir,” the computer. Then, “He is having his evening meal, Sir.” “Tell him I wish to see him in my quarters ASAP.” “Yes, Sir.” “Can't he finish his meal?” Bridget asked. Cree glanced at her, frowned, and then shrugged. “After he finishes eating,” he corrected. “I shall so inform Lt. Lona, Sir,” the Vid-Com reported. He came back to Bridget, turned away from her so he could thrust his arms through the shirt she was holding for him. He smiled when her arms went around his waist and she pressed herself against his back. “Thank you,” Cree heard her say. “You are going to be my ruin, woman,” he sighed as he removed her hands and began to button his shirt. He stopped when she came around in front of him, pushed his hands away and began buttoning the shirt herself. When she was finished, she waited until he had stuffed the shirt in his trousers before she slipped her arms around him once more and lay her head against his chest. He wrapped his own arms around her and held her loosely. “I am glad you were with me today,” he said softly. She didn't respond so he put up a hand to hook his index finger under her chin and lift her head. He looked down into her eyes, his thumb rubbing across the point of her chin. “I want with you me for all time.” Bridget's lips parted but before she could say anything, his head came down and his mouth took hers in a sweet, intoxicating kiss. When his lips released hers, he slowly smiled. “Let's go home, milady.” She felt him stir against her lower belly. “Aye, milord,” she agreed. “I think we'd better!” **** DREWE LONA gaped at him. “But you have never taken leave in your entire career!” he protested. “What will you do?” Cree looked at Bridget who was staring at him from the sofa. He winked, a crooked grin on his face, then turned to Lona. “Spend time with my lady,” he replied. He turned to Bridget. “Where should we go for the day?” Bridget's face lit up. “Can we visit Rysalia Prime?” “We can.” Lona slumped against the chair in which he was seated. “Do you know how hard it will be to get a visa for her to visit Rysalia Prime?” “I don't care. Just see to it, Lona,” ordered Cree. **** ADMIRAL DRAE Cree handed the computer printout to his mistress then leaned back in his chair. “I had a hell of a time getting him leave after that re-enforcement, but here it is. It was approved less than an hour ago.” He frowned. “I let Onar know I was extremely displeased with his actions. I let him know Kamerone and I had discussed him having sex with Dr. Dunne.” Dr. Dean arched a brow at him. “I didn't lie,” Drae insisted. “Kamerone and I did discuss it.”

Beryla smiled at her lover then looked down at the leave papers. “I wasn't sure if he would take the bait or not.” Drae snorted. “Beryla, you know gods-be-damned well the man had no choice but to ‘take the bait’ as you so eloquently phrase it.” The Director tucked her feet under her on the sofa and sipped her liqueur. “I hate using Bridget like this. She had no idea what we were about when I brought up the subject of home. She didn't know he was listening.” “She didn't need to know,” the Admiral replied. “All she had to do was play her part in getting him to Rysalia Prime.” Beryla Dean frowned. “You are sure there is no danger?” Drae Cree's smile faltered. “We don't believe so, but just to be on the safe side, we will have a transporter locked on her and waiting should the need arise.” “Good,” Dr. Dean breathed. She took another sip of her lemony brew. “Good.” Chapter 17 SHE HAD taken away the cold; she had taken away the darkness; she had taken away even the deafening silences so that he now existed in sheer, uplifting joy. He knew true happiness for the very first time in his life and it was a knowing that had set his soul free. “Catch me!” Cree watched her run across the meadow, scattering multi-hued butterflies in her wake. She looked back, teasing him, and he took off after her, zigzagging his way around clumps of brightly colored wildflowers, knee deep in waving, shimmering grass as he ran. He almost caught her, but she darted away, leaving him clutching thin air. “Is that the best you can do, Reaper?” she taunted him, sticking out her tongue. A sinister smile etched his tanned face and he stopped, watching her enter a copse of trees; saw her peeking at him from the bole of a grandfather oak, jerking back so he wouldn't see her. But he did not need to see her. He could sense her. Smell her. Hear the blood pumping strongly through her veins. His visual perceptions had changed so that he could actually ‘see’ the warmth of her as she stood there. She did not know he held such an unfair advantage over her or that he easily could have caught her the moment before if he had really tried. He was faster than her; more cunning; with animal instincts she could not begin to understand. **** BRIDGET PEEKED out from behind the tree again and the teasing smile slipped from her face. Where had he gone? She was about to slip away when his arm encircled her waist and she was lifted free of the ground. “Gotcha!” he whispered in her ear. She turned in his arms, then like the wanton he had named her, stood on her tiptoes and plastered her mouth firmly to his, thrusting her tongue past his lips and into the warm recesses of his mouth. Before he knew what she was doing, she wiggled free of his hold and was off running across the meadow again, her skirts flying behind her. Cree shook his head, grinned, then went after her, but came up short when he saw her intent. “Don't you do it!” he yelled to her, When she began to pull off her blouse, he started running after her again, increasing his speed. “Bridget, I said no!” “I'm hot!” He was almost to her when she turned and dove into the fast moving rush of the river. “Bridget!” he bellowed. “Get the hell out of there right now!” “Come on in!” she called out to him as she backstroked through the water. “It's wonderful.” The warrior shook his head sharply. “No!” he said firmly. “And you come out of there, now!” He put

extra emphasis on the last word. “There are no boogers in the water,” she threw at him. “I checked with the Ministry of the Interior before we left this morning.” Boogers? Then he realized she must mean dangerous beasts. No, there were no dangerous insects or reptiles in the water; not even rapids or whirlpools or the like. But he wanted her out of the river, nevertheless. “Get your ass out of there like I told you, woman!” “Join me!” she invited him. “I told you no!” he barked. He scanned the waters, frowning. “What are you looking for? Piranha?” “Get out, I said!” He stepped closer to the stream and held out his hand. “Come on.” He sighed with relief as she headed toward him. She reached up as though to take his outstretched hand, then drew back. “Come and get me!” she challenged, then turned and dove out into the deeper part of the river, disappearing beneath the moving water. “Bridget!” He howled, his voice shrill with pure, unadulterated terror. He started forward, stopped, staring at the moving water and let out an animalistic whimper of fear. He raced along the riverbank, scanning the waters for her and saw nothing. He took another step toward the fast-moving water, and then shrieked in frustration. When Bridget's head popped, he jabbed a finger at the ground beside him and his voice shook the leaves from the surrounding trees. “Get your gods-be-damned ass back here right this minute, woman, or I swear before all the gods in the megaverse that I will beat you black and blue when I get my hands on you!” Bridget's smile vanished. There was a thunderous look on his handsome face; fire glowing brightly in his angry eyes. He was absolutely enraged and she knew it. And not only that, he was shaking like a dog with a chill. “All right,” she said, striking out for the bank. When she waded through the shallows and was almost on dry land, she gasped as he snaked out a purposeful hand and yanked her up against him, half carrying her on his hip as he swung her up and well away from the running water. “Don't you ever do that again!” he ordered, putting her down, clasping her shoulders in his hard hands and shaking her soundly. “Do you understand me, Bridget Dunne?” Bridget's head bobbed back and forth until she managed to wrench away from his brutal hold. “I won't,” she said. “Promise me, Bridget!” he shouted, reaching for her again, but she moved out of his reach. “All right!” she yelled back at him. “I promise!” He glared at her for a moment, and then let out a long breath. “Come away from that gods-be-damned water, woman,” he commanded, then turned and headed back toward the meadow. Sullenly-for the laughing moments had passed-she followed behind him. **** THEY WERE sitting under the sweeping shelter of one of the ancient oaks, Bridget with her back to the tree, Cree with his head in her lap. She had forgiven him for his earlier outburst and was running her fingers through the dark curl of his shoulder length hair. “What scared you so badly this morning, Kam?” she asked, glancing up as a distant spear of lightning stitched through the sky to the north of them. She was surprised to see that portion of the sky turning black. Cree had been almost asleep, reveling in the feel of her hands in his hair, thinking how he had been able of late to sleep the night through as long as she was lying at his side. He pried his lids open and tilted his head back just a little so he could look up at her. “Don't you know?” “No,” she drawled. “If I had, I wouldn't have gone swimming.” He studied her a moment then realized she was serious. Had she known he was going to react as he

had, she would not have dove into the river. He relaxed in her lap. “I am Dearg-Duls, Bridget. Do you not know what that means?” Bridget's hand stilled in his hair. “The Druids of ancient Ireland believed the Dearg-Duls to be vampires,” she said. “But there is no such thing.” He craned his neck to look up at her again. “Are you sure?” She tugged at his thick curls. “Aye, Reaper, I'm sure!” “Do you not realize your ancestors and mine must have met at some point? The cultures are too similar for there to be any other explanation.” “So Dearg-Duls came from Chale?” “Aye, I would imagine so,” he answered. “But like most folklore, some of their true nature was corrupted in the tales. There is a place not unlike your Stonehenge on Chale Prime.” Bridget let that pass. “So how are you like the vampires of Earth?” “I can not enter running water. None of my kind can.” “So you can't swim. You aren't the only ones who can't.” “We can not tolerate the smell of garlic. Reapers shun it like the plague.” “I don't like curry, myself.” “When we Transition, we shapeshift.” “Vampires of Earth did, too,” she responded. “Go on. What other vampiric traits do you have, Reaper? I know you don't have an aversion to sunlight otherwise we wouldn't be sitting here.” Before he could answer, she held up her hand. “And you can see yourself in mirrors so that let's that out. You eat food; you don't sleep in coffins; you brought me the statue of the Blessed Mother so I know you aren't affected by touching holy objects. You don't go around baying at the moon.” She stopped. “Do you?” “Not likely,” he said dryly. “So if you don't do any of the traditional things that make vampires vampires, what do you do?” “We drink blood.” Bridget shivered. “I know,” she said quietly. “I fed you some, remember?” “I remember,” he replied just as quietly. They were silent for awhile then he reached up to take her hand and hold it on his chest. “Don't go into the water, again, Bridget. If you had gotten into trouble, there was no way I could have helped you.” “I'm a good swimmer.” “Don't do it again,” he said firmly. “I like to swim.” “Too bad. When we come here, you won't be coming to swim.” “Cree-” “This place is a little like your Earth, isn't it?” She sighed, understanding that the matter of the swimming was settled in his mind. She glanced around them. “Yes, I guess it is.” “Once,” he said, sitting up and stretching, “when I had to go after a Hunter, I transported down to a place in your Iowa. This valley reminds me of that place.” “Excluding the good Sisters, how many women have you brought back from your visits?” she asked. “None.” Bridget arched a brow at him. “None?” He shook his head. “That wasn't part of my job,” he replied. He stopped, and then frowned. “I take that back. I brought one back when Kryn Kiel's ship had warp drive failure and he hailed us to help him. The female was an important scientist and they needed to get her to the station ASAP. MacCorkingdale was her name. Sada MacCorkingdale.” He thought about that for a moment, and then snorted. “By the gods, but that woman fought me!” “Can you blame her?” she asked. “Blame her?” “I can assure you that being plucked up from the only life you have ever known, by a strange intimidating man, then trekked half-way around the universe to an alien world where you are enslaved-”

“Enslaved?” he questioned, offended. “Yes, Reaper! Enslaved. What do you call the buying and selling of human flesh if not slavery?” He stared at her. “You are not enslaved to me, Bridget.” “You bought me,” she accused. He had the grace to look sheepish, “True, but-” “Can I return home?” He shook his head firmly. “No, you cannot.” “Leave you to live on my own?” “You'd better not try!” “See other men-” She didn't get that hypothetical question out before he twisted sideways and had her beneath him before she could roll away. “Try seeing another man, Bridget, my love, and I will make you watch while I tear out his throat and drain every drop of blood from his screaming body!” The memory of seeing her naked in Konnor Rhye's bed still twisted his gut. “Get off me, you oaf!” she hissed, pushing with all her might, but an enraged Kamerone Cree was not an easy obstacle to move. “You are mine,” he said simply and his mouth came down to drown out her protests. Before long, his kisses became less punishing and more urgent until, once more, Bridget was without clothing. **** “I BELIEVE I've created a monster,” she complained as she buttoned her blouse. “You started it,” he said. She glared at him. “How did I start it?” “By ogling me the day I came home.” “I was not ogling you,” she snapped, casting her attention to his naked chest for he was scratching the thick pelt of hair over his breastbone. “You were ogling me,” he stated. “Just as you are ogling me now. Keep your eyes off me, woman. I am taken.” Bridget grinned. “I know you are.” She reached out and touched the Reaper insignia tattooed on his left pectoral. The insignia stood out sharply against the tan of his bare flesh and she found herself drawn to it as she always was. “Did this hurt when they did it?” He glanced down at the stylized crimson scythe and shrugged. “Aye, but it was part of the Initiation into the Warrior Caste and was an honor to endure.” She traced it with her fingertip. “The thought of you suffering for any reason hurts me.” She stopped for he had reached up to take her hand. She smiled as he brought her fingertips to his lips and kissed them. “Perhaps you were right,” he said releasing her hand. He got to his feet. “Right about what?” She watched him jump up until he had caught the lowest hanging branch of the oak tree. The powerful muscles of his arms and chest contracted and released as he settled his hands comfortably around the tree's limb. Swinging his legs up and back several times-going higher each time-he did a back flip from the branch, landing lithely on his feet. “Show off,” she sniffed. “What was I right about?” He strolled back to her, dusting away the loose bark from his callused palms. “About there being slavery in the Empire.” A jagged line of lightning veered across the northern sky and he noticed it, turning to stare in that direction. “How long has the sky been darkening?” he asked. “For awhile now. Why?” He bent over, scooped up his uniform shirt, and dragged it over his shoulders. “We resent it, you know,” she told him as she watched him button his shirt.

“Resent what?” he asked, his eyes still on the occasional lightning. “Being brought here and enslaved to you men,” she said. “Many of us are trying to find ways to stop the Retrievals.” “Us?” he queried, tucking the shirt into his leather uniform pants. He put his hands on his hips. “You mean the Resistance is trying to find ways to stop the Retrievals?” He did not want to entertain the notion-such as the one Lares Taborn had put into his mind-that his woman could belong to the infamous group that was intent on driving him crazy and destroying the world as he knew it. “You say the word ‘Resistance’ like it's evil. They are only trying to help their own.” “They play a deadly game.” He cast another worried look toward the lightning in the distance. “In what way?” “In many ways, Bridget,” he said with exasperation. “They think they can overturn a system of government that has been established for thousands of years. Under the Empire, not only Rysalia, but also its neighbors, have flourished. After the Disruption, the Tribes were scattered all over the galaxy.” He swept his arm toward the forest. “There was no organized effort to get food, provide shelter, to defend themselves. There were no towns, no law; crime was rampant; murder and thievery, a way of life. Until a few men of clear purpose banded together and formed the Tribunal.” She shook her head. “I know Rysalian history, Kam. The Brotherhood re-organized the Tribunal from before the Disruption. Brotherhood by its own definition excludes women, now, doesn't it?” “Women have to be protected,” he explained. “They are weaker than men; unable to defend themselves from harm and invading marauders.” “Saying that to a woman of Celtic ancestry will get you a swift kick in the family jewels, Reaper. The Celts had women warriors far more savage than their men were. And American Indian braves turned over their captives to the women of the tribe because the women were better at torture. Even during the Afghanistan war, the tribesmen let their women have Russian prisoners to torment.” “I know how well women can torture a man, Bridget,” he said quietly. “I have experienced it first hand.” Bridget looked away. “That is not what I meant.” “The Brotherhood brought law and order to the tribes, Bridget. At least give them credit for that. They made provisions for their womenfolk, too, and established schools for the children. Civilization was re-born from the ashes of the Disruption.” “So they've only done good in your world?” He shook his head. “No, it hasn't always been good, but you should know what absolute power left unchecked can do. Your world learned that during your Gulf War.” “I won't argue that with you.” She came to her knees before him. “Kamerone, your world is much worse than mine has ever been. Even in 1968 when it looked as though the entire planet would explode! Here, at the same time, Jarl was designing that insidious little retrovirus so that those few men of clear purpose could rule their little corner of the universe. Not improve it, mind you, or bring civilization to it, but to dominate it. Isn't that what they are called: The Brotherhood of the Domination? Is that not government run amok, Kam? Government left unchecked?” “Aye, I see your point.” “And when the women of your world became sterile, when your scientists threw up their hands and said they guessed they'd made a terrible mistake, where were the next generation of Rysalian warmongers going to come from? Not Chale. Not Ionary. Not Serenia or Chrystallus or Virago or Diabolusia. Nor from Necroman or Oceania.” She shook her head. “That damned virus made sure of that!” “I know, but-” “So you came to my little corner of the universe: a place you had no goddamned right to be!” she said bitterly. “You stole from my world. You took from my world and you brought our women here against their will. You bought and sold them and used them like breeding sows. You kidnapped our brightest, prettiest scientists and physicians, regardless of whether or not that woman had a husband, a family she left behind to always wonder what terrible fate had befallen her. You took our best to re-populate your

world and those you could not breed or who had no skills, you used as domestic help or as common trollops for your lower caste warriors!” “All that is true,” he agreed, “but that is the way life is here. I have no more say in how things are done here than you do.” “What happens when a half-Terran, half-Rysalian female is created? It is vacuumed out of its mother's womb and tossed in the incinerator because some faceless male bureaucrat deemed it useless!” “That is enough,” he said, uneasy with her argument. It sounded too much like Resistance babble. “I don't want to hear anymore about this.” “Can't you understand how terrible a thing it is to be used like that, Kam?” she asked quietly. “How terrified I felt when I looked up and saw that cybot leaning over me. How degraded and humiliated I felt when I was paraded naked before a committee of Breeders who decided the Empire would best be served if I was handed over to the Ministry of Behavioral Modification instead of going to the pens?” “I said that's enough, Bridget.” He turned to stare at the lightning that had crept closer as they spoke. A dark scowl formed on his face. “There is a storm coming.” “You'd better believe there is,” Bridget agreed. “The Resistance-” “I mean weather-wise,” he snapped. “What if I should conceive, Kamerone?” The quiet question gained his full attention. “Have you thought of that?” He looked at her for a moment then turned away. “You must not allow that to happen.” “That's easier said than done. I am fertile. Tests were done when Kon-” His head jerked around and his hand came up to keep her from finishing her sentence. “Don't you dare,” he warned, his eyes flashing, Bridget bit her lip, watching him as he turned back to the study the increasing flashes of lightning on the horizon. “You know that I love you,” she said softly. “I know.” “Don't you want me to have your child?” “You can't.” “Why not?” He sighed deeply, put his hands on her shoulders and shook her gently. “Because I am a Reaper, Bridget. My seed is tainted; virulent with the spores of a parasite that makes others of my kind. Every child conceived of my sperm is infected with it. Any egg carrying female DNA is automatically devoured by the parasite.” He searched her eyes. “Do you want your child to be born a monster like his father?” “You are not a monster.” “I am the closest thing to it on my world or yours.” He looked over his shoulder as the wind kicked up and blew his hair across his eyes. “The winds have shifted and we have to go. Rysalian windstorms can be deadly.” He reached for the mini Vid-Com on his utility jacket. “Cree to engineering.” There was only a crackle of static. “Cree to engineering. Two to transport to FSK-14.” Once more the crackle of static was the only sound from the Vid-Com. “We've waited too long.” He looked about them and looked for the dense darkness beyond the trees he had discovered earlier. “There is a cave beyond the oaks. We'll shelter there until the storm passes.” “I don't like storms,” Bridget said soberly as they began their trek toward the cave. “Thunder and lightning terrify me.” “You'd better learn to like them because we've got a serious one on the way.” Chapter 18 FIRE SNAPPED in the dried twigs he had found. Outside, the wind howled fiercely against the cave's entrance. Murderous cracks of lightning and the ominous reverberation of thunder shook the cave walls and rumbled beneath their feet as Cree and Bridget sat huddled around the meager light of the small fire.

“How long do you think it will last?” Cree was watching the last flickering afterglow from a lightning hit close by. His gaze was uneasy, worried, and he shrugged his answer without speaking. Bridget pulled his utility jacket closer around her shoulders. “Will we have to spend another night here?” She saw him shudder. “I pray to the gods we do not. One night was enough.” “Do you really do that?” The Reaper turned his attention from the cave's entrance to her. “Do what?” “Pray?” He grunted and looked away again. “It is just an expression. If any gods exist, they exist only in your little corner of the Universe.” He shuddered again. “Are you cold?” “Not at all,” he stressed. “If anything, I am too warm.” He swung his head around and fixed her with a demanding look. “Move away from me.” “You don't want me to sit next to you?” she asked, hurt. “No, I do not.” He fanned her way. “Go on; move.” Bridget pursed her lips tightly, but did as he ordered. Ever since they had entered the cave the afternoon before, he had been getting more and more sharp with her; less and less civil. He had lain down beside her the first night, holding her in his arms, but she knew he had not slept; had not closed his eyes. When she had awakened that morning-aching from a night on the hard ground and hungry-he had been watching her. As he was watching her now, his eyes haunted and his mouth tight. “If I didn't know any better,” she said, “I'd think you didn't even want me in the cave with you.” “I wish to every deity in the megaverse that you were nowhere near me right now!” he hissed as he came to his feet. His harsh words shocked Bridget. What had she done to anger him? “I have never taken leave,” he was mumbling to himself. “There was a reason I had never taken leave.” He paced the small area in front of the fire, repeatedly running his hands through his dark curls. “I never should have taken leave!” “Then why did you?” she asked in a defensive voice. “Because I wanted to please you!” His voice turned waspish. “I wanted to give you the sunshine. I wanted to give you the flowers and the grass and the trees and the gods-be-damned butterflies!” Bridget blinked. “And now you regret bringing me here?” “Aye, I regret it!” he thundered. “Why?” “Why?” he repeated with a snarl. “Why?! Not only am I AWOL now and will more than likely pay for that with another session with your beloved Be-Mod 9 Unit, and I am-” He stopped, shivered, then walked as far away from her as he could. “Damn, damn, damn, damn, damn!” “What is wrong with you, Cree?” she asked, getting to her feet. A brittle laugh escaped Kamerone Cree. “Wrong?” he questioned, snorting with apparent disgust. “Everything is wrong, woman!” She watched him wrap his arms around himself as though he were in terrible pain. He was sweating profusely, his face slick with perspiration. Even as she watched, he put up an arm to wipe away the sweat. He shuddered violently, then groaned deep in his throat. “Are you sick?” She went to him and reached out a hand. She was stunned when he batted it away. “The gods-be-damned Healer took out one of my kidneys!” he answered through clenched teeth. Bridget stared at him. “What Healer? When?” “On Helios Twelve,” he snarled. “There was a fight; I was stabbed and the bitch took out my kidney.” As he said the last word, he doubled over, hunkering down on the cave floor. “Oh, Kam! Tell me what I can do!” “You can get the hell away from me!” he yelled, looking up at her with a wild look in his eyes.

“Let me help you.” She put a hand on his shoulder and was shocked when he sprang to his feet, his lips drawn back over his gleaming teeth. “Don't touch me, woman, unless you are prepared to feed me from your veins!” He took a step toward her, grinning malevolently as she stumbled out of his reach. Cree's feral eyes narrowed and his voice was a husky growl. “I didn't think so.” He turned away, pacing the restrictive confines of the small cave like a caged beast. Now and again, he looked past Bridget to the lethal lightning still spearing the ground beyond the cave's entrance and growled with frustration. “How soon?” She understood what was going to happen. Being well versed in Reaper anatomy, she knew the loss of an organ could alter the Transition cycles. “An hour,” he spat. “Maybe two. No more than that.” He raked his fingers through his hair, armed the sweat from his brow, and then bent over the growing pain in his abdomen. “You need a transfusion,” she said quietly and saw his head come up. “And just where the hell do you think I'll get it out here?” “Kamerone, you can-” “They did this to me.” “Who?” “The gods-be-damned Resistance, woman!” he shouted. He bent forward, his gut on fire, and a small groan of growing frustration pushed from between his tightly clenched teeth. “It's always them!” “The storm stranded us, Kamerone.” He turned on her. “Don't you think the weather station on FSK-9 knew we were going to have a storm today? Don't you think they would have alerted my own station to warn me to get my ass back to FSK-14 before it was too late?” “I don't understand.” “There are female weather techs on FSK-9,” he seethed. “Females who belong to the Resistance!” “No,” Bridget said before she thought. “We haven't been able to convince them to join us. We-” She stopped, eyes flaring, as she realized what she had said. Cree nodded as though he had been expecting her to admit her connection to the infernal witches who had been tormenting him for more than a year. “By the gods,” he said quietly, fiercely, “I had hoped Taborn was wrong. I should have known better.” “It isn't what you think,” she said, starting toward him only to have his hand shoot out to point a rigid, denying finger at her. “Stay the hell away from me, Bridget!” “Let me help you,” she pleaded. “You have done enough! It was a trap, wasn't it?” He looked at her, his face filled with hurt. “They used you to get to me. They-” He slumped against the cave wall, his body arching with the excruciating pain ripping through it. “Oh, god!” “Kamerone, please,” she said, going to him. “At least let me hold you.” A part of him wanted desperately to be held, to feel the gentle comfort only she could give him. In her arms, perhaps the pain would not be so great; but the danger of him hurting her would increase tenfold so he shook his head, denying them both. “I am not afraid of you,” she insisted and reached out but he put up a stiff arm to keep her at bay. “You should be!” he spat. He started to tell her why but his words were cut off by a sudden surge of torment that made him hide his face against the stone. “Sweet Merciful Alel!” he whimpered and dropped to the ground, his body jackknifing. “I can't stand to see you like this!” Despite his warning growl, she came to him, knelt down only a foot away. “Kam, please let me help you!” He lifted his head and looked at her. A slow, menacing grin creased his face when he watched hers lose its coloring. Her lips parted in shock and began to tremble. “What's wrong, Bridget?” he growled, holding her in the grip of his savage gaze. Bridget felt the cold shudder go down her body as she stared at the altered condition of his face. She

knew the wetness that appeared between her legs was not sweat from being too close to the small fire. Gone was the dark brown of his eyes; gone was the bold, clean line of his nose; the handsome planes of his face; the white gleam of his teeth. “Like what you see?” His eyes were glowing red behind the wrinkled advance of his snout. His cheekbones had flared, become elevated, and swept back to sharp, pointed ears. The yellowed fangs protruding from his leathery lips and dripping thick streams of saliva were like needles as he grinned at her. “Want what you see?” he taunted. It took every ounce of Bridget Dunne's courage and compassion to hold her arms out to him. “I love you, Kamerone Cree,” she whispered. Like the bloodbeast he was rapidly becoming, the Reaper cocked his head to one side in question, looking up at her through the dark brush of his hair. “Let me hold you.” She put a trembling hand to his rough cheek. “Let me hold you, sweetheart.” A moan of despair came from the very depths of his being and he ducked his head in abject shame. “How can you bear to touch me?” he whimpered and his voice was barely recognizable as human. Bridget could feel her fury rising. She knew who was to blame for this. Kam had been right: the Resistance had set this evil plan into motion. They had known full well what terrible pain-both physical and mental-having her see him like this would do to Cree. “Come here!” she bit out, drawing him into her arms and holding him even when he tried to break free. “You are my heart. Do you think I care what is on the outside of the man? It is what is inside that matters!” “There is a beast inside me, Bridget!” “Be quiet,” she insisted. It wasn't her words, but the descent of her lips with protective fierceness on his savage brow that finally calmed his struggles. “Do not look at me,” he pleaded, his heavy claw of a hand wrapped around her wrist as she held him to her. “I can not bear you to see this!” “I am watching the lightning,” she answered and resolutely looked toward the cave entrance. Bridget became lost in her raging thoughts of vengeance against the Resistance for the deliberate torment of this man yet again. Cree was sunk as low into the quagmire of beasthood as he could go and was completely unable to comprehend time or space in his pain. She whispered words she doubted he could understand, but knew the sound of her voice soothed him. He held on to her, his face pressed tightly against her bosom so she could not see the full transition that had taken place. She hummed to him, trying with all her might to ignore the rank odor of his body and the sharp nails grazing her wrists as he gripped her. He panted with his pain, trying with all his might to ignore the smell of sweet, rich blood flowing through her arteries and the warm flesh so close to his jaws. It wasn't until his need became an undeniable agony that he tore loose from her hold and rolled away, drawing his knees up to his chest. His netherworldly howl of frustration and pain brought tears to her eyes. “Tell me what to do for you.” “I will let you do nothing!” he rasped, the words more snarl than speech. Bridget began to unbutton the cuff of her blouse and roll up the sleeve. A low growl of denial came from the Reaper as he realized what she intended to do. He felt as though he were being eaten alive-as his victims always were-yet the relief that was only three feet away, he refused to take. He knew he would rather die than feed on Bridget's blood. It took the very last bit of the human ability to speak left in him to form the single word: “No!” “I am not going to argue with you.” She crawled to him and put her wrist against his lips. “You don't have any choice. I'm not giving you one!” He tried to move his head away. “Reaper! You have to!” Cree was horror-stricken to find he had no control over the beast within him. The monster flicked out a tongue to taste the warm skin. The salty flavor overwhelmed it and its strong jaws clamped around Bridget's wrist, but with the first touch of fang to soft flesh, the humanoid still struggling to maintain control of the Dearg-Dul's body, froze.

“Do it,” Bridget demanded, seeing his hesitation. A helpless groan came from Kamerone Cree. His tongue slavered over her flesh, but even though he held her fragile wrist in his mouth, he would not sink his fangs into her flesh. “Do it, Kam. Do it now!” The thought of feeding on the mate he loved was repellent even to the beast in him. He should protect her; not cause her pain. She was the dam who would birth his whelp. He must not let anything harm her. With a hiss of fury, he thrust away her arm, shook his head wildly, then scrambled to his feet to bolt out into the raging storm. “Kam!” Bridget screamed, running after him. Once outside the cave, he loped across the crest of the hill by the stream. The rain lashed at him as he ran; the wind whipped through his pelt. Now and again he stopped, sniffed the air for possible prey to ease the burgeoning hunger in his belly, then threw back his head and howl for the only blood he smelled was his mate's. “Kam!?” Bridget leaned into the onslaught of the hard rain and harsh wind. Her face was soon numb from the cold that tore at her hair and whipped it to a froth about her head. She called out to him, but her words were flung back at her, lost in the thunderous rumble and sizzle of the storm. With grim determination, she headed toward the eerie baying she knew came from the Reaper. He stopped, hunkered down and turned his head from side to side, his chatoyant eyes seeking out any trace of warmth from which he could feed. There was nothing. “Kam!” He hung his head between his paws. The temptation of her warm blood was becoming too much for him. His strength was ebbing and the parasites inside him were whispering vile demands he could no longer ignore. Bridget almost stumbled over him as she came around a tall pine. He was squatting there, making strange sounds that were part growl and part groan. “Kam, let me help you.” He resolutely shook his head, his tangled mane spraying droplets of water. She knelt beside him, her heart thudding as she heard his low, menacing growl. “I love you,” she said. “No matter what you are, no matter what you have to do in order to survive, I love you.” In the last embers of humanity alive in his brain, he knew he must not allow her to help him. He had to atone one day for the sin of his very existence-this abomination of nature that was his life-and here and now, in her presence, was just as good a time as any. He turned his head toward the river that overflowed its banks. Bridget saw where he was looking and took one final tack; made one last-ditch effort to make him see reason. “Have you given any thought to what will become of me if you die, Reaper?” He turned his head away from the river and looked up at her. His gaze locked on hers. “I will go back to Konnor Rhye.” Fierce, savage possession filled his eyes and a low, warning growl came from his throat. “Is that what you want?” He shook his head violently. “Then drink!” she insisted, holding out her arm to him. Still he resisted. As furious as she knew him to be at the thought of another male infringing on his territory, he was still trying to protect her. “Either drink or let me go back to Koni!” she flung at him. “Which is it going to be?” Which was worse, he wondered as he fixed his brutal attention on her flesh: To leap into the moving water and drown or live and endure the shame of what she wanted him to do? He would be damned-and her along with him-if he did this, but the thought of another male leaving his mark on her brought out a bloodlust like none he had ever known. As he hunkered there, he thought of the Keeper touching his mate, thrusting into her, seeding her with his litters, and he howled with despair. Bridget extended her arm to his lips once more, her free hand to the back of his head and pressed him

toward her wrist. “Drink, Kamerone. Drink so we can be together.” He closed his eyes in surrender and sank his teeth into her willing flesh. He felt her flinch, heard her slight gasp of pain, and worked his mouth over her flesh, his tongue swirling around the punctures, easing the discomfort. Bridget stroked his wet fur, pushing the matted strands from his jaw. She leaned her chilled body into the fierce heat of his, accustomed now to the rank smell. “There is an old Scottish blood vow,” she said, wincing as he became a bit overzealous in feeding. She eased his head back a little to let him know he was hurting her and saw him look up through his bushy brow. She smiled for his eyes were once more brown, not glowing red, and his ears were back to normal. “It says: ‘Ye are Blood of my Blood, and Bone of my Bone. I give ye my Body, that we Two might be One. I give ye my Spirit, til our Life shall be done.'” She heard him growl his agreement to the words and ran her hands through the dark wet curls that were once more sleek and human. “You are heart of my heart, Kamerone Cree,” she whispered. “There is nothing I have that I will not share with you.” As he drank, she became lightheaded and when he sensed it, he withdrew his teeth. He put his thumb over the puncture wounds and pressed firmly to stanch the flow of blood. Before she could say anything to him, he was lithely on his feet, lifting her high against his warm chest and carrying her back to the cave. “I am sleepy.” “Aye,” he answered. “You must rest now.” The last thing she saw before she drifted into a deep, healing sleep, was his worried face-so handsome yet so infinitely sad-peering down at her as he lowered her to the cave floor. “I love you,” she whispered. Cree lay down beside her, gathered her to him, and drew her head to his shoulder. “I love you, too, Bridget,” she could have sworn she heard him say. Chapter 19 CREE STOOD rigidly at attention as Admiral Tylan Kahn reviewed the papers that had been sent to him from the desk of the OIC of the Reaper Unit that morning. There was a deep frown on Kahn's face and that usually boded ill for whoever had caused it. He grunted once, snorted twice, and then let out a long exhalation of breath to indicate his irritation. Looking up with his infamous scowl in place, the Admiral tossed the papers aside then sat back into the comfort of his thickly padded chair to glare at the Reaper. “I am not pleased with you, Commander,” the Admiral said. “Not pleased at all. At ease!” Cree shifted to parade rest, his attention locked just over the Admiral's head. His jaw worked. “You have something to say, Commander?” Kahn snapped. “I beg the Admiral's pardon, but I am a Captain.” “Not anymore you aren't,” Kahn grated, daring the Reaper to contradict him. He watched a momentarily spark of fury shoot through Cree's dark orbs as they lowered to his. He held that murderous stare for a moment before Cree snapped his attention back to the wall. “Aye, Sir!” Admiral Kahn drew in a long, cleansing breath then reached out to tap the papers he had been sent. “And I am not the only one experiencing displeasure at your recent conduct,” he stated. “Captain Kullen has signed a formal complaint against you concerning the reprimand you gave his Keeper. The Captain, who, by the way outranks you as of this morning, is understandably upset that you did not come to him with the matter since it is his responsibility, not yours, to punish his crew.” Cree blinked, his rage barely held in check. It was bad enough to be reduced in rank, but something else entirely to have an imbecile like Symthian Kullen outrank him. He did not dare look at the Admiral for fear the man would see the murderous intent forming. “I want an explanation from you, Mister!” Kahn hissed. “Why the hell did you not go to Kullen with this matter concerning Konnor Rhye?”

At the mention of Konnor Rhye's hated name, Cree's jaw tightened and a muscle jumped in his lean cheek. “Sir, I could not find Captain Kullen when I was forced to reprimand Commander…” He nearly choked on the name. “Rhye.” The Admiral's left brow cocked upward. “Really? And just where exactly did you try looking for him, Cree?” Cree's forehead creased. “I didn't exactly go looking for him since there wasn't time-” “And then there is the other reason for Kullen's displeasure,” the Admiral informed him The Reaper lowered his attention from the wall. “I do not follow, sir.” “The female,” the Admiral snorted with disgust. “If what Kullen tells me is true-and I have no reason to doubt his word since he has never lied to me-both you and Rhye are after the same woman.” “She is mine,” Cree ground out. He raised his chin. “I purchased her legally.” The Admiral smiled nastily. “Aye, right out from under Rhye's nose, too, didn't you, Cree?” When the Reaper did not respond, the Admiral shot up from his chair, his eyes furious. “Didn't you, Cree?” “Aye, Sir!” the Reaper shouted back. Kahn said nothing for a long time, then he put his hands on his desk and leaned forward. “To knowingly commandeer another warrior's intended simply because you outrank him is a serious breach of military ethics. I am appalled that you were allowed to do it.” For the first time, Cree felt a shaft of wariness lodge against his spine. Kahn was known for his strict adherence to military protocol and any warrior who did not abide by those strict regulations and mandates, often found himself billeted aboard a mining station in the middle of hell. “Despite the fact that he is your biological father, I can not understand why Drae Cree saw fit to allow you to take another man's bride-to-be away from him.” A hateful look settled on Kahn's face. “At least, Konnor Rhye had honorable intentions in regard to the Terran female. What were your intentions, Commander?” Once more Cree's eyes met the Admiral. “I purchased her as a domestic. To see to-” “You had sexual relations with her,” the Admiral cut in. Cree's chin came up. “It was not my intention to take her as a concubine when I purchased her. It was only later that-” “If I had been on duty that day, I can assure you, I would have denied your request and censured you for making it!” It was on the tip of Cree's unruly tongue to say it was a gods-be-damned good thing Kahn had not been OIC that day for there would have been serious trouble had the request been turned down. Serious trouble and one dead Keeper! The Admiral straightened, reading Cree's mind easily. “And you would have hanged for it, Mister.” Cautioning himself to control his wayward thoughts around this psychic warrior, Cree resumed his scrutiny of the wall above the Admiral's head. Kahn folded his arms over his chest. “You not only had sexual relations with this female without obtaining permission from my office, you did so without authorization from the Ministry of Public Health.” He grunted irritably. “Is there no end to your insubordination, Cree?” The Reaper knew better than to attempt to answer that charge unless he wanted to end up flat on his back on Dr. Dean's torture table again. He clenched his jaw and strove hard to think about anything other than his dislike of Kahn and the very real possibly that if the Admiral attempted to return Bridget to Konnor Rhye, there was going to be a murder. “Oh, I think not,” Kahn grated, watching Cree flinch. “Computer!” “Yes, Admiral Kahn?” “Send my orderly to bring Commander Cree's concubine to my office.” Cree's gaze flew to the Admiral. “Why?” he asked and could have bitten off his tongue when he saw the glitter of satisfaction flit through Kahn's frigid brown glower. “Do you dare to question me, Lieutenant?” Shock puckered Cree's face. He squeezed his eyes shut with helplessness, wincing at the further reduction in rank. If he didn't mind his tongue and his wayward thoughts, he was going to wind up“On a garbage scowl in the Epsilon Quadrant,” Kahn finished the thought for him.

Cree opened his eyes, letting out a sigh of defeat. “Why are you doing this to me?” Kahn smiled brutally, and then sat down at his desk. “You have brought all of this upon yourself, Cree,” he stated. He leaned back, threaded his fingers together and put them behind his head to brace his neck. Stretching out in his chair, he observed the unease and the hopelessness settling in on Kamerone Cree. “You have no one to blame for your predicament, but you. I find it interesting that you do not realize that, Kamerone.” Once more the muscle bunched in Cree's cheek. Khan was six years Cree's senior and had risen quickly through the ranks with a brutal agenda of his own. Those who had dared to oppose Tylan Kahn, did so either from a lack of understanding of the man's lethal nature, or else they had nothing to lose by pitting themselves against him. It was said that when Tylan Kahn found something ‘interesting’ while disciplining one of his men, that man suffered the ignominy of a crushing defeat. So what was there to lose? “Dr. Dunne and I have formed a relationship, Admiral,” Cree heard himself explain. He stared right into the other man's face. “One such as I have heard you enjoy with a certain Chrystallusian noblewoman.” The Admiral's smile faded. “Do you dare compare your situation with mine, Cree?” Cree shook his head. “Not at all, Sir. I am merely making an observation.” Before the Admiral could reprimand Cree for his blatant lack of respect, the Vid-Com interrupted, announcing Bridget's arrival. “Send her in!” Cree heard the door shush open behind him and the soft swish of footsteps on the Admiral's thick carpeting. He did not dare look at Bridget as she came to stand beside him although he was more than aware of her body heat and the pleasant scent of her perfume. The hands clasped behind his back tensed, wanting to grab her and run before their lives could be torn apart by Tylan Kahn. “Dr. Dunne,” Kahn said, rising. He extended his hand to her in the time-honored Terran fashion. “Please, sit.” He indicated a chair to the right of his desk. Bridget glanced at Cree before graciously declining the offer. “Have I caused a problem for Captain Cree, Sir?” she asked and wondered why Cree flinched at her question. “Let me assure you, dear lady,” the Admiral smiled. “Any problems he has, Cree has created all on his own.” He came around the desk and held the chair. “Now, please. I insist you sit.” Bridget knew she had no choice and took a seat. She cast another concerned look to Cree, but he was staring at the wall, his body as rigid as stone. There was a white line along his jaw and she knew he was grinding his teeth. Something had happened and she heard alarm bells going off in her head. Be careful of this man, she reminded herself; Kahn is dangerous. “There is no reason to be afraid of me, Bridie,” the Admiral said gently, drawing both Bridget's and Cree's attentions immediately to him. “I am told you are from the Midwest. Iowa, is it?” Bridget nodded slowly, hesitantly. “Yes, Sir.” “Ah, the Heartland,” he sighed. “Isn't that what they call it on Terra?” “Ah, yes. Yes, it is,” she replied, glancing up at Cree, but he had yet to look at her. “I would like to visit your world one day.” He spread his hands. “Unfortunately, I have to leave such conquests of space to my men for the time being. Perhaps when I retire?” He walked behind his desk and sat, leaning back comfortably in his chair. “I am told you are a biochemist.” “Yes, Sir.” “Fascinating work,” Kahn remarked. “Had I not been destined for the military, I would have liked to have worked in that field, but, it was not to be since males are not allowed in the scientific fields now.” “I wonder why?” Cree mumbled, causing Bridget to glance warily at his tone. “You may go, Lieutenant.” Bridget looked around, but there was no one else in the room except for the three of them. She frowned, then when the significance of what she'd heard registered, she gasped, her head snapping toward Cree, her lips parting in shock. “Aye,” Kahn sighed. “I am afraid his little outing yesterday has caused Cree a bit of a problem.”

“Sir,” Bridget said, standing. “We were caught in the storm without means of communications. Captain Cree tried to raise engineering, but-” “Did I not tell you that you were dismissed, Lieutenant?” Kahn interrupted, swinging a brittle look at Cree. Sensing more than just Cree's fury building in the room, Bridget put a calming hand on her lover's arm. “It's all right. I'll explain everything to him.” For the first time, he looked at her. “You cannot.” He searched her face. “Get the hell out of here, Cree!” the Admiral bellowed. When the Reaper looked at him, and the Admiral saw sheer malice staring at him from murderous brown orbs, he stood up slowly, his voice as soft as down. “Or do you want to spend another two weeks on Dr. Dean's torture table?” “Go!” Bridget was quick to say, pushing Cree. “Now, Kam. Go!” Cree swallowed the bitter retort he had been about to make, snapped off a crisp salute, then spun on his heel and marched to the door, barely breaking stride as it shushed open then shut behind him. The room was utterly still, as silent as the tomb, then Kahn let out a long, tired breath. “That sonofabitch is one very stubborn man.” When Bridget looked uneasily at him, he smiled. “Come, Bridie. Sit down. We must talk.” “Excuse me, Admiral?” the Vid-Com clicked on. “Aye?” “Doctors Dean and Sejm are here as requested, Sir.” Bridget turned to stare at the Admiral. At his nod and pleasant smile, she felt her heart thump hard against her ribcage. “Why are they here?” she asked. “Be patient, Bridget,” he advised. When the older women entered, he ushered them to the small conversation area off to one side of his desk and sat down with them, Bridget seated beside him on the sofa. “Have you told her?” Sejm inquired. Bridget looked around. “Told me what?” She looked from one to the other. “What are you doing to him, now?” “Nothing that isn't absolutely necessary,” Sejm reported. “I don't believe that!” She turned her anger on Kahn. “Tell me!” “I am going to take you away from him.” Bridget's eyes widened. “You can't do that!” “My adopted son outranks Cree,” Dr. Hael Sejm snorted. “He can do whatever he feels like doing.” If she was surprised at the connection between the Empire's most influential warrior and the Chalean chemist sitting across the way from her, Bridget hid it well. She turned toward Dr. Dean. “This isn't necessary. He knows I'm part of the Resistance.” “He would have to be the imbecile he thinks Kullen is if he did not know by now.” Kahn chuckled. Bridget looked at him. “Give me a few more days. I can-” She stopped for Kahn was shaking his head. “He took you away from Konnor Rhye; I am taking you away from him,” Kahn informed her. “That should be the final push to send him straight into the arms of the Resistance.” “He has to be made to understand that he is nothing more than a pawn controlled at the whim of the Empire. He no longer has any rank or privilege with them now that he has been demoted. He has to see himself, and you, as being expendable, at the mercy of men who have no regard for love or happiness or morality. I know how that feels; now Cree will know, too!” “I will return you to him when the war is over. Have no fear of that.” “And what if we don't win?” asked Bridget. “We will,” Kahn said emphatically. “There are more of us than you can imagine, Bridie. We need Cree only because where he goes, the other Reapers will go. Especially now that I have humiliated him and they learn that one they think of as invincible can tumble off his pedestal. They won't like it.” “And where the other Reapers go, so go the Shepherds and Keepers,” Dr. Dean put in. “Once we have taken over the Empire, there will no longer be a need for such men,” Dr. Sejm

declared. “Then what happens to Cree?” Bridget demanded. “When this is over, the two of you can do whatever you like,” Kahn replied. “What if he is arrested by the Tribunal before all this comes to a happy end?” Bridget sneered. “Then what?” Her eyes grew wide. “What if he is killed during the takeover?” “That is not going to happen and there is no need for you to be worrying that it will!” Kahn stated. “He is the most powerful warrior our worlds have even known. He's not about to allow himself to be caught, Bridget.” “I know we've asked a lot of you before now,” Dr. Dean said, coming to kneel in front of Bridget. She put a comforting hand on Bridget's knee. “And you have risked so much to help us. We understand your hesitation; but we can't finish this without your help.” “You have come this far, Bridie,” Kahn told her. “Can't you go a few steps further? Don't worry about Cree. I'll do everything in my power to keep him out of harm's way.” “Tylan has considerable authority with the Empire, Bridget,” bragged Sejm. “And there are other considerations you do not need to know about at the moment that will insure Cree is alive and in good health when the war is over.” Dr. Dean glanced at Hael, but didn't question her odd statement. Instead, she patted Bridget's knee. “Do you think I would allow Drae's son to be harmed, Bridget?” “You will have a few more months in which to decide,” Sejm put forth, standing. “He leaves the first thing tomorrow morning.” Bridget swung her head toward Kahn. “What is she talking about?” “I am sending him to Terra on a Retrieval team,” Kahn replied. “As a lowly Shepherd.” “He'll kill you,” Bridget whispered. Tylan Kahn chuckled. “He can try, Bridie. He can try.” **** HE LOOKED up as she came into his quarters and sighed deeply with relief. Before she could speak, he shot to her and grabbed her in his arms, crushing her to him. “By the gods, Bridget, I thought he was going to take you away from me!” His mouth crushed hers in a bruising kiss that took away her breath. She clung to him as he swept her up in his arms and carried her to his bed. Neither spoke as they tore at the other's clothing until they were naked and entwined. “Hold me!” she begged. “Kamerone, please hold me!” “Always!” he swore and thrust his claim of her to the hilt. Their lovemaking-and he wasn't even sure he could call what they did by so gentle a name-was frenzied, animalistic and he was left with long bloody scratches down his back where she had raked him with her nails. The Reaper tattoo on his chest had a double row of teeth marks through its center. Their bodies were soon slick with perspiration as they strained against one another. The deep growls that rumbled from the back of his throat only underscored the soft whimpers coming from hers. Together, they reached the summit of their lust, then fell gasping back to sanity, their bodies pressed so tightly along one another it was hard to tell where one left off and the other began. “Lieutenant?” Cree ignored the Vid-Com's smug voice. His hands flexed around Bridget's body. “Lieutenant, you are wanted at the door to your quarters.” Cree let out a vulgar curse then eased his arms from around Bridget. He swung his legs off the bed and snatched up his uniform trousers. He wasn't aware of Bridget's tenseness or the tears falling onto his pillow as he stepped into the leather pants and stomped to the door. “Aye?” he snapped, slapping at the control panel. “Who is it?” “Yeoman Dants, Sir,” the voice on the other side of the Vid-Com screen announced. “I have your orders, Lieutenant.” “Orders?” Cree questioned. He pushed the button to open the door and before the yeoman had time

to step back, Cree slammed his fist against the wall. “These are transport orders!” He swept his angry glower from the black-edged papers to the messenger. “What the gods-be-damned hell are they trying to do to me?” A little yelp of terror was the only answer the messenger was capable of giving. The last Cree saw of him, he was fleeing down the corridor, his hands in the air. With another vulgar curse, Cree slammed his fist against the control panel, shutting the door, then stalked back into his bedsuite. “The bastard is sending me to Terra tomorrow!” he raged. Slowly, Bridget turned over in his bed and looked up at him. “I am so sorry,” she said and her shoulders began to tremble. She buried her face in her hands and the sobs came in waves. “Ah, Bridget, don't!” he pleaded, coming to sit on the bed and take her in his arms. “I am the cause of this.” “No, you are not,” he denied, unnerved by the tears that wetted his bare chest. “Don't cry, Sweeting.” “I love you!” He was lost in her misery, unmanned by it, and for the first time in his life, felt another person's pain. That it was his mate's made it worse for him and he gathered her to him, lifted her onto his lap. “Make love to me,” she insisted, her voice full of an emotion he'd never heard before. “Now, Kamerone. Make love to me now!” She didn't give him time to either agree or disagree. Her hands tore at him, jerked him to her trembling body. He had no notion what had set her off, but whatever it was, it turned her into a mindless she-beast in heat. When her climax came, she stunned him by throwing back her head and screaming with the release. “My god!” he breathed, shaken to his very core by her reaction. Almost as soon as the scream died away, she was asleep, lying exhausted in his arms, her sweat-drenched body clinging to his. He held her all night, never closing his eyes, just watching her sleep, studying the tearstains on her cheeks. Never would he have imagined his departure would create such an intense reaction in her. If he had ever doubted her feelings for him, he doubted them no longer. “Lieutenant?” Cree signed. “Aye, Helen. I'm getting up.” He hated to leave. The sight of his mate sleeping so peacefully made him long to stay with her. Tenderly, trying not to awaken her, thinking it best he be gone before she woke, he placed a light kiss on her brow then extricated his arm from beneath her head. He dressed quickly in one of the black serge jumpsuits and was gone before he could make any noise to disturb her sleep. **** “KAMERONE!” The Reaper turned and saw her running along the platform toward him. He looked at the men on the gangway, frowning at them until they looked away, then stepped away from the Sirroco's hatch. “What are you doing here?” he asked only to grunt as Bridget flung herself into his arms. Had the night before never happened, Cree might well have been embarrassed by her show of affection, but this morning, all he felt was supreme satisfaction that this woman was entirely his and that she loved him. “You left without kissing me goodbye,” she accused. “I did not want to wake you.” She lifted her hands to his cheeks, brought his face down to hr level and took his mouth in a brazen kiss that left nothing to the imagination of those watching. It also produced a much loved, but at the moment, much unwanted response in her lover. He pulled his mouth from beneath her assault and took her by the upper arms to set her away from him. “This is not the place to be doing this.” “I don't want you to go!” “I don't want to go, but I have orders, Bridget.” “Kam, please!” she pleaded with him, her hands digging into his forearms. “Tell them to send someone else!”

“I can't do that,” he said sternly. He slid his hands down to hers and gripped them tightly. “You know I can't.” “If you go, he will-” she started to say but a harsh voice cut her off. “What the hell is the meaning of this, Cree?” Cree stiffened, cursing under his breath. He let go of Bridget's hands and turned to face Admiral Kahn as he strode toward them. He put Bridget behind him, protecting her with his body. “Dr. Dunne came down to see me off, Sir,” explained the Reaper. “How touching,” the Admiral sneered. “Stand aside, Cree.” A low warning growl issued from the Reaper's throat. Instinctively, he reached down for Bridget's hand, not surprised when she clutched his as though he had thrown her a lifeline. “I will not let you harm my woman, Sir.” There were gasps from those gathered both inside the airlock and on the gangway. Men backed away from the confrontation and scurried off, not wanting to be a part of this. Kahn's eyebrow quirked upward. “Have I given you any indication that it was my intention to harm the lady?” Cree held the Admiral's stare then, not seeing any danger to Bridget in the man's gaze, shook his head. “No, Sir.” “Then stand aside.” Cree hated backing down, but he had no choice. Not only did this man outrank him, Kahn would send him to the nether reaches of space if he did not stop provoking him. With his jaw firmly set, Cree stepped away from Bridget, their fingers lingering until all contact was broken by the separation. “Now,” Kahn said in a reasonable voice. “You have said your goodbye, Dr. Dunne. Lieutenant Cree has a mission to perform and he cannot perform it while standing on this gangway. I want you to go back to his quarters and remain there until he returns.” Bridget knew why Tylan Kahn had come this morning: he hadn't trusted her to do what she had sworn to do. That she had proved him right had turned his gaze dark with irritation. She turned to Cree, wanting to tell him what the Admiral had planned, but found her lover looking down at the metal floor. “Do as he says, Bridget,” Cree said without looking up. “Kam…” Cree lowered his voice so that only she could hear him. “Will you shame me by arguing with me when I tell you to do something, woman?” She knew he would believe he had lost face with Kahn if she did, so she ducked her head. “No.” “Then go back to our quarters.” “You will be careful?” His head came up and he locked his eyes with hers. “I am always careful.” Kahn folded his arms, wondering if Bridget would say anything else. When she didn't, but turned and ran as fast as she could away from them, he turned the full force of his displeasure on Cree. “We will discuss your unseemly behavior when you return, Lieutenant. Dismissed!” Cree nodded, spun on his heel, and entered the ship. If he stayed one nanosecond more, he knew he'd either wind up in the brig or swinging from a stanchion in the air lock. Once inside Captain Feis Coure's ship, he slammed into the Shepherd's chair and turned so that no one on board could see the hopelessness on his face. He listened without interest or comment as the other five members of this strange crew went down the list of pre-flight checks. When it was his turn, he gave his readings in a monotone, and then slumped down in the chair, tuning out everything around him. Something wasn't right, he told himself later as the Med Off injected him with hypersleep. He could sense it. And he knew Bridget could, too. That was what worried him most of all. Chapter 20 THINGS DID not go well on Cree's last mission to Earth. Everything that could possibly go wrong,

did. From the moment they entered Terran orbit, one thing after another caused delays that put them weeks behind in the Retrievals. Solar flares drove them out of orbit and behind the protection of Terra's satellite moon before they could be detected by Terran radar. Malfunctions in the ship's sensory probes caused further headaches. The communication console went haywire and started blaring some hideous Terran music called bluegrass. The warp drives shut down. The ship's cybot developed a virus and kept banging into the ship's hull. “Can't you turn off that gods-be-damning screeching?” bellowed Captain Coure. Lieutenant Saur shrugged. “I wish to the gods I could, Sir,” he said, sick of the twanging string instruments. “Does anyone have a notion what an orange blossom special is?” Cree could have told them it was a train, but he doubted anyone really cared. He resumed his watch on the sonar and kept his mouth shut. “Cree?” Commander Hesar asked, scooting his chair over to the Reaper. “Do you think the Resistance is behind this because you're on board?” He wagged his brows at Cree. Kamerone Cree stared at the Keeper for a long time, then slowly smiled. He lowered his voice. “I'm sure you'd know more about that than I would, Commander.” Tealson Hesar grinned in return. “Good man,” he stated, and then rolled his chair back to his console. “'Company, villainous company, hath been the spoil of me,'” Cree quoted. He heard Hesar chuckling. “I do not need this now!” Every eye turned to Captain Coure who sweated profusely. Faces paled and eyes grew round in their sockets. All except Cree's. He ducked his head, grinning maniacally. “Cree!” The Reaper pushed back from his console. “Aye, Captain?” “I am in Transition!” the Captain of the Sirocco screamed. “Aye, Sir, I believe you are,” Cree agreed. He knew there was no one else on board the ship capable of handling an enraged Reaper except him. He reached out, took Coure's arm. “Let's go.” “This can not be happening!” Feis Coure exclaimed. “Keep telling yourself that.” Cree tightened his grip for his Reaper brother was altering rapidly. Tealson Hesar watched until Cree had their captain tucked safely away in one of the containment cells. The loud thumps and shrieks set everyone's hair on end and he was grateful Cree was on board. But, he thought, as he returned to his communication console, if Cree hadn't been on board, Coure would not have gone into Transition in the first place. In the nine years he'd been on Coure's crew, he'd never once seen the Reaper alter. And he never wanted to see it again. Cree returned to his console and sat down. “How far are we from home, Commander?” he asked Hesar. “Roughly sixteen hours. Why?” “We've got a slight problem.” “Oh, god!” Hesar gasped. “Don't tell me you're going into-” Cree shook his head. “No.” Hesar sighed heavily. “Thank Alel for that! Then what's wrong?” Cree ran a hand through his thick curls. “We had approximately eight pints of blood left on board when we left Terran orbit. That should have been enough for both of us. Feis and I were both transfused before we left the station.” Hesar frowned. “And?” “Someone miscalculated, Teal. Two Reapers, five months? There should have been around a dozen or more pints left upon return. No one counted on one of us going into Transition.” “Damn,” Hesar breathed. He looked toward the sleep units where four very important Terran females were lying. “Are you going to have to…” “I hope not. It will be necessary for me to give the Captain at least five of those remaining pints to keep him from going insane with hunger. Just keep your fingers crossed that I won't need any more than two pints to see me home to FSK-14.”

Hesar shuddered. What the hell would he do if Cree went into Transition, too? The Reaper turned away from the worried look on the Keeper's face. He stared blankly at his navigational screen. It wasn't necessary for Hesar to know that he would remand himself into one of the containment cells where recalcitrant Retrievals were kept should he feel the telltale signs of Transition coming on. That he was willing to subject himself to certain misery and possible lingering death to prevent even one drop of blood from being taken from the Terran women amused him. Ah, Bridget. Look what you've done to me, woman. **** BRIDGET SAT before the magnificent sweep of Tylan Kahn's port windows and stared out at the array of passing asteroids beyond the thick Siliplex. Behind her, the soothing sounds of David Arkenstone's Spirit Wind played. “Extraordinary,” she heard Kahn say. “Our Rysalian music pales in comparison.” She swiveled away from the lonely view, glancing only cursorily at a ship coming in for docking. “It's more than twenty years old.” “Music, though, is timeless,” he replied and closed his eyes, waving his hand in the air as though he were conducting an invisible orchestra. Bridget couldn't help but admire the man as he lay sprawled in his chair. He looked deviously handsome in a white Chrystallusian silk shirt that he had left unbuttoned to the waist. With his tight black leather pants and boots, the golden Chalean hoop in his left ear, all the man needed was a red scarf around his thick mop of black curls and an eye patch to make him look every inch the pirate. “Pirate?” he questioned, opening one eye. She blushed to the tips of her toes. Even after five months of living with the man and his uncanny psychic powers, he still unnerved her. “I don't mean to,” he saw, drawing in his long legs. “Forgive me. It's a political habit I have. My surrogate mother taught me well. She mistrusts everything and everyone.” Bridget understood. “Know your enemies?” He grinned. “I try not to do it when I'm with you, but the truth is: your thoughts are so distinct they just come at me like laser blasts.” He sat up in his chair. “Most people shield what they are thinking when they're around men like me.” “I had no trouble hiding my thoughts from Cree. Why not you?” “I don't know,” Kahn replied. “Maybe my powers are more advanced than his.” “Or you've had less tampering with your mind,” she observed. “Now that is a distinct possibility,” Kahn agreed. He took a sip of his Chalean brandy, then swirled the remainder around in his glass. “You know, of course, what they did to him when he was a boy?” “The implants?” “Aye.” “I was told we had to be extremely careful not to dislodge one of them when he was undergoing reinforcement.” “I doubt you could have.” Bridget played with a loose thread on her skirt. “What happens to all the Reaper cadets if the Resistance wins?” “When we win,” he corrected. He shrugged. “They will be rounded up and confined until we can deal with them. The platinum implants will be deactivated since it would be dangerous to try to remove them. Their parasites will have to be terminated by whatever means the Ministry of Public Health has devised. But most important of all, their minds must be wiped clean of Empire teaching.” “Cree included?” Kahn nodded. “In order for him and the other Reaper caste to exist in harmony with the rest of us, they have to be like the rest of us. All those merciless tendencies and brutal instincts have to be purged. If not, they will be as great a danger to us after the rebellion as they are now.”

**** DR. HAEL Sejm straightened up from the microscan and shivered. “Ugly little thing, isn't it?” Dr. LeJong Kym acknowledged the remark with a slight inclination of her elegant head. The Chrystallusian biochemist removed the culture from beneath the microscan and placed it carefully inside the containment field. “Is it safe in there?” Admiral Cree asked. Beryla Dean put a reassuring hand on her lover's shoulder. “Do you think we would take a chance of it not being?” “Please roll up your sleeve, Admiral,” Dr. Kym asked. The vacuum needle pierced Drae's flesh and he winced as the thick liquid spread. “By the gods, that hurts!” “But think of the benefits,” Dr. Sejm suggested. “The alternative to injection has an even more painful sting, I am told.” “Precisely so,” Dr. Kym agreed as she withdrew the needle. “You should retire to your quarters and rest. The antitoxin will take full effect within the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours. In the meantime, you will no doubt experience some nausea, headache perhaps and mild fever. Nothing to worry about.” She put her hands into the pockets of her lab coat and cocked her head to one side. “There might possibly be a touch of joint discomfort. Nothing that you haven't experienced before during your yearly viral inoculations.” She glanced at Sejm. “Is there anything you would add?” “Consume plenty of liquids,” advised Sejm. Drae Cree rolled down his sleeve, frowning at the continued string that had raised a good-sized lump on his upper arm. He nodded absently at Hael Sejm's suggestion. “Who is next on your list?” “Tylan Kahn,” Dr. Kym replied. “After him, the five Reapers and each of their four man crews.” “The five Reapers and their crews who just happened to dock on FSK-14 within an hour of one another.” Beryla laughed. “And who have been ordered to report for their annual antiviral injections.” “Ninety percent of station personnel are cowering in their quarters with that many Reapers on board,” said Drae. “Once Kamerone and Coure arrive, there should be little or no one about to see what we're doing.” He rubbed his arm and felt a wave of nausea leap up his throat. “I think I'd better get you to bed,” Beryla told him. “Good idea,” Sejm agreed. “I'll take the injection to my son. We won't need you until the Sirocco docks, Beryla.” Once Beryla and her lover left the lab, Hael Sejm went to the refrigeration unit and removed thirty-two vials of antitoxin, placing them on a tray with just that many syringes. She began loading the syringes with a dark tyrilian liquid. Dr. Kym watched her intently. “I will take these with me,” Sejm suggested. “You can do the others when they arrive, if you will.” Dr. Kym nodded, mentally calculating the amount of syringes she needed. “Kamerone Cree's crew as well as Coure's. That's ten.” “Nine,” Sejm corrected. “Nine?” Kym calculated again, then shook her head. “I make it ten, Hael.” “Kamerone Cree is to be given the same inoculation you gave his father,” said Hael. Dr. Kym froze. She lifted her head and one think black brow arched upward. “What do you mean?” A murderous glint sparked in Hael Sejm's eyes. “Did you think I would let that monster live? I wish for the son what I have set into motion for the father!” LeJong stared at her. “You can't kill Kamerone. We need him!” “No, we don't,” Hael snapped. “Once we start, there will be no obstacles in our path. We don't need Kamerone Cree to win this war!” She picked up her tray and left the lab. LeJong sat down behind her desk and stared at the remaining vials of antitoxin in the refrigeration unit.

Ten vials, ten lives, she mused. Not counting Kamerone Cree, only forty-one chosen men were to be left virus-free after the rebellion was over and the retrovirus had been spread through the exhaust systems of all fifteen space stations and leaked into the atmosphere over Rysalia Prime. Only forty-one men among the eight hundred and seventy-nine thousand Rysalian men and boys. R4V7, she had named it: Revenge for the V-7. Kym glanced up at the memorial plaque that the Daughters of the Multitude had commissioned after the Plague had destroyed the entire female population of the Rysalian Empire more than forty years ago. “Two hundred twenty-three thousand, six hundred and fourteen,” whispered Dr. LeJong Kym. Every woman from eleven worlds knew that total. “The men of Rysalia condemned us to a lifetime of hell,” Hael Sejm had once said. “They made us pay for their mistakes. Their desire to be the masters of the universe! If we, in turn, can find a way to sterilize them without them knowing it, then we can stop this insane program of warrior making! We can stop the forced abortion of innocent children! We can stop the killing of men who want to stay on Earth and live with the women they have come to love! We can stop the heartache of our Terran sisters who are brought here against their wills!” “We can fashion a retrovirus similar to V-7, but with safer results,” Dr. Dean had suggested. “Our virus will sterilize the males, not kill them as theirs did the Rysalian women. Wouldn't you call that tit for tat?” LeJong lowered her head. Tit for tat wasn't how she would describe the retrovirus that had come out of Dr. Sejm's lab. The virus that was about to be released on the Empire was even more destructive than V-7. It did not sterilize; it destroyed. The virus Hael Sejm had designed in her lab of horrors would kill within a matter of minutes. Men would drop like flies and neither Beryla Dean nor any of the other men and women involved in the Resistance knew that. “I wish for the son what I have set in motion for the father!” Dr. Kym looked down at the syringe that had shot its payload into Drae Cree's body. The liquid inside the syringe was lethal. It would take several hours to thoroughly saturate the Admiral's body but when it did, there would be no antidote for the virulent poison that had been given to him. It would appear as though there had been an intense reaction to the antitoxin; there would be no telltale signs that the man had been murdered. “Drae Cree must not survive the Rebellion,” Sejm had declared months before. “He can and will cause us great trouble if he is not put out of commission early on. We will inoculate him first and he will die in agony, Beryla at his side to keep her out of our way!” “I wish for the son what I have set in motion for the father!” Kamerone. The name invoked a shiver of delight through Kym's body. For years, she had studied the Empire's Prime Reaper and lusted after his strong body and dark good looks. Once, she had even taken the place of one of his sexual surrogates just to know the feel of him inside her. The experience had been all that she had imagined it would be although he had barely glanced at her. Just having her hands on his body as briefly as she had, would sustain her for a lifetime. Her dreams were filled with fantasies of what she wished could be; she envied Bridget Dunne. LeJong shook her head. “I will not let you harm him, Sejm. I would rather die myself than see him hurt!” Getting up from her desk, she went to the refrigeration unit and took out a vial of the antitoxin. She loaded a syringe and placed it in her pocket before loading nine more. Let the world disintegrate around her. Let the mighty fall and the worlds collide. If it was the last thing she ever did, she would save Kamerone Cree from the end Hael Sejm wished for him. **** “MASSAGE HIS arm, Bridget,” Hael instructed. “Work the liquid into his muscle.” “How sick is this going to make me, Lady?” Tylan had always feared his mother and had given her the

title long ago. “You should feel nothing at all,” Hael replied. “If you do, call me immediately.” Bridget saw Kahn's head snap up sharply. She stopped rubbing his arm. “What's wrong?” “He's back,” Tylan said suddenly. “He landed twenty minutes ago,” Hael confirmed, taking pleasure in her son's psychic ability. “Cree?” Bridget breathed. “It's almost over,” Hael said, smiling. “In a matter of hours, we will be free.” Bridget turned away from the others and went to stand in front of the port windows. She stared sightlessly out into the black void and hoped with all her heart that the only thing that would be over would be the Empire's power. **** “WELCOME HOME, Lieutenant,” the Vid-Com greeted him. “Did you have a pleasant trip?” “Get purged,” Cree grumbled. Why the hell hadn't Bridget been at the door to meet him? Stalking through the living area, he rapped on her door, then slapped his hand against the control panel. She wasn't in her room or his or the bathing unit. He stomped back through the food preparation center, and then went to the Vid-Com. “Where is Bridget?” “She's not here, Lieutenant.” “I can see that, Helen!” he snapped, irritated that he had used Bridget's name for the AIU. “Where is she?” “With Admiral Kahn.” Stepping closer to the Vid-Com screen, he stared straight into the photophase filament. “Why is she there?” “He outranks you and she had no choice.” A chill passed down Cree's spine. He knew beyond any doubt what had happened. He put his hands to either side of the screen and hung his head. “Why is she there?” he repeated in a soft, hurt whisper. “The Admiral revoked your ownership of her and has sought permission-” “Where is Konnor Rhye?” There was a hesitation as the Vid-Com checked on the Keeper's whereabouts. “Commander Rhye is at this moment being given his yearly antiviral inoculations.” “When is Kahn planning on giving her to him?” “He isn't, Sir.” Cree's head came up. “But you said-” “You did not give me a chance to finish what I was saying,” the Vid-Com chastened. “I was going to say that the Admiral sought permission from the Tribunal to Join with Dr. Dunne, himself. The paperwork went through this morning.” His world screeched to a halt and his knees nearly buckled from under him. He had to grab hold of the screen's edge to keep from collapsing. “When did he do this?” “The day you left for Terra, Sir.” “Five months ago?” he whispered. His heart was beginning to shatter in his chest. “Did she go willingly?” “She objected most strenuously to leaving these quarters, Sir, but Dr. Dean-” Cree pounded the wall with his fist. “What about Dr. Dean?” “The Director advised her not to cause any more trouble for you. If Dr. Dunne had refused to do as the Admiral commanded, you would have been targeted for another reinforcement. Dr. Dunne did not want that to happen, Sir.” Burning rage put a fissure straight down the middle of Cree's being and he spun around, jerked up his utility jacket and ran from the room. The Resistance wanted him? Well, they had him! All they had to do was give him back his

gods-be-damned woman and he'd tear the Empire down with his bare hands! **** THE SIGHT that greeted Dr. LeJong Kym as she stepped off the private elevator onto Level Twelve where the Ranking Staff were quartered was one that would stay with her forever; it brought her up short “Kym!” she heard Beryla Dean shout to be heard over the commotion. “Over here!” Dr. Kym stepped over the prone body of a Keeper, flung herself back to avoid being bowled over by a stumbling Shepherd, and reached Dr. Dean's side. “Did you bring it?” Beryla asked, holding out her hand. LeJong nodded. “And this also.” She placed two objects in Beryla's palm. “It's the antitoxin.” “Good. I had forgotten about it.” “I had not,” LeJong said firmly. She pointed to the melee before her. “He is certainly unhappy.” She stared as twelve Keepers, and just as many lower-ranking Shepherds did their best to keep an enraged Kamerone Cree from making his way down the corridor to Tylan Kahn's private quarters. Three men lay on the floor with broken jaws slung to one side; two nursed broken wrists, one a twice-broken arm; and three more were bent over, retching on the floor as they gingerly cradled their private parts in trembling hands. Not one of the security enforcers had been left unscathed by the swinging feet and punishing fists of the Reaper. Blood was splattered on the walls from smashed noses and broken teeth and the floor was slick with sweat and something the chemist didn't want to name. Even as she gaped at the ruckus taking place before her, Kym saw four men attempting to bring down the enraged warrior with their energy prods. “He is very impressive,” Kym whispered. “Yes, but I have to put a stop to this before he kills someone,” the Director stressed. It was unthinkable to her that two dozen men couldn't bring down one. She uncapped the two syringes, gripped them in her fists-needles pointed toward the floor, her thumb over the two plungers. She waited until Cree had been driven to his knees from a dual jolt of two energy prods then stepped forward and drove the needles deep into the flesh between his shoulder and his neck. Cree felt the sting, slapped a hand up to his injured neck and bellowed with rage as he twisted beneath three quick jolts of electricity going through him. He saw Dr. Dean standing over him, he saw the syringes in her hand, looked up into her eyes with surprise. He shuddered and began to go numb all over. “What did you do to me?” he asked before the lights went off and the floor dropped out from under him. Chapter 21 CREE CAME to on Dr. Dean's couch. His head was splitting and there was a sickening taste in his mouth that left him afraid to move lest he puke on the pristine white carpet at which he found himself staring. Not that he cared if he did, but he thought if he were to start heaving, he would bring up his guts. “The symptoms will pass, Kamerone,” he heard a female voice tell him. “Here, drink this.” He was unable to prevent the cool hand from lifting his head and unable to stop the too-sweet liquid from oozing into his mouth. The taste wasn't as bad as what was already lingering there, but never let it be said the brew was palatable, either. He promptly gagged on it. “Help him to sit up before he throws up.” The Director chuckled. Rough hands dragged him up from his prone position on the couch, swung his legs down until he was slumped in the middle of the plush cushions. His head lolled along the back, then swung down to his chest, his dark curls hiding his tightly shut eyes. A grim laugh bubbled out of his dry throat as he thought about his helplessness: He felt like a bird with a broken neck. “At least he finds his predicament humorous,” said a woman with a Chrystallusian accent. “Gods-be-damned bitches,” Cree muttered, trying to lift his head and failing. “We could strip him and mount him and he wouldn't be able to lift a finger to stop us,” another said. He knew that voice! Dorrie Burkhart! “Would you, Cree?”

“Try it,” Cree growled. Once more he strove to raise his head, but only managed to make the world tilt away from him again. “Poor baby,” the Director said as she lifted his head and placed it where he could see her blurred face hovering above him. “Is that better?” “Dean-” he mumbled and was humiliated as drool dribbled unchecked from the corner of his mouth. “Here, Beryla. Let me,” the Chrystallusian woman suggested. A wet cloth was dabbed at his chin; a cool hand smoothed the hair back from his sweaty forehead, lingered as it stroked his cheek. “Bridget?” The one word was both an accusation and a plea for help. “We'll get to that in a moment,” the Director answered. “Get him to drink some more of this, LeJong.” The glass was placed to his lips once more. The taste still left him with an urge to vomit, but at least his vision was beginning to clear as the liquid slid down his unwilling throat. He looked up into the flat face of the little woman sitting on the couch beside him, tried to lift his hand to push the glass away, and found he couldn't. “I think he's had enough,” the Director remarked. She came to hunker down in front of him, putting her hands on his spread knees. When he tried his best to grab her, she shook her head. “Temporary paralysis, thank goodness!” “Good for you,” he snarled. “Not for me.” She smiled at the effort it took for him to lift his head enough to see her. “You are such a stubborn man, Kam.” “Determined.” Dr. Dean nodded. “That, too.” “You are going to be the death of me,” he said flatly. “Does Bridget know what you have done to me?” Sensation was returning to his fingers and toes and he flexed his hands. “She knows you had to be subdued outside Kahn's quarters.” The Director turned her head. “What did you hope to accomplish?” “I wanted my woman back!” he grumbled. “Haven't you tormented me enough, yet?” Dr. Dean pushed up from the floor and sat at his other side; she kept a firm hand on his left knee. “It was Tylan Kahn's idea to buy Bridget, Kamerone. We had nothing to do with that.” “He had no right! You should not have let her go with him!” “We Terran women have no choice but to do as we are bid by Rysalian warriors; you know that. He wanted her and he took her.” “She belongs to me!” he thundered, striving uselessly to lift his left hand. A sound of utter disgust rippled through his broad chest. “She was Konnor Rhye's, too, but you took her from him,” she reminded him. Instant fury sparked in Cree's demon eyes and he glared at her. “That is beside the point! I outranked him!” “And Kahn outranks you,” replied Beryla. “She is mine!” he said stubbornly and tried his best to move his arm enough to grab her, but all he managed to do was swing it into his lap where it lay like a limp noodle. “You have crippled me for life, bitch!” “LeJong, give him some more of the-” “No! I won't drink any more of that crap!” “Suit yourself,” Beryla sighed. “I do not feel good,” he complained. “That stuff makes it worse.” LeJong put a hand to his forehead. “He is feverish. The antitoxin is taking effect.” He managed to swing his head toward the woman with the flat face. “What gods-be-damned antitoxin? Who authorized you to give me…?” “We were speaking of Bridget,” the Director interrupted, frowning a warning at LeJong to hold her tongue. “Aye. I want her back.” “And just how will you do that?”

“I will get her back! I have a plan.” “Like the one you had this afternoon?” she snorted. “That worked out well, didn't it?” “I would have gotten in if you hadn't-” “You were up against two dozen men with another dozen on their way. I'd say those were rather formidable odds even for a Reaper. There was no way they would ever have let you breach Kahn's door. You would have been arrested, jailed, tried, and wound up right back at Be-Mod 9.” When he flinched, she drove the needle deeper. “I would imagine your next session of reinforcement therapy will be of longer duration and far more intense.” “Far more intense?” he bellowed at her. “You damned well drove me mad the last time you had me in your hands, woman!” “I don't really think he has to worry about a next time, Madame Director,” a fourth woman piped up. “I vote we move on to another Reaper. I have already chosen a Terran female to be linked to Kryn Kiel. He showed a marked interest in her when he saw her on the promenade this morning.” Something clicked in Cree's brain and he swung his head to the unknown woman looking back at him from the far side of the room. It was all there before him, now-neatly aligning itself like the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. He had been trying for two years to understand why they had singled him out to annoy; now he knew. Had he watched Bridget as Kiel had watched the female this woman mentioned? He could not remember doing so; could not remember ever having seen Bridget before that first day in Be-Mod 9, but that was not to say he hadn't. Had he followed her with eyes so hungry some woman had taken note of it and mentioned it to another? Had he shown ‘marked interest’ in Bridget and in the doing, sealed his fate? “You orchestrated this whole thing, didn't you? Making me want her; allowing me to purchase her; making me so jealous…” He stopped and turned to look directly at Beryla. “There were subliminals in the therapy, weren't there?” “Yes.” A horrible thought entered his mind. “And Bridget?” He was afraid to ask, but Dorrie saved him the trouble. “Did you really think she would fall in love with you without a little help from us, Cree?” Sitting there, movement finally returning to his weak legs and leaden arms, Cree did not respond to her callous words, although they had cut him deeper than any laser lash ever could. He just looked at the Technician, his face filled with hurt. “She doesn't know you used them on her, does she?” “No. I doubt she would have agreed to it had she known what we would do.” Cree lowered his head. “Is it reversible?” “If you are asking if the suggestionaries will wear off,” the Director answered, “No, they won't. What she feels, she will feel for as long as she lives.” “Even if she should find out what you did?” “It won't matter to her.” Cree closed his eyes. “You had it all planned, didn't you?” “Yes. Down to the last detail. We left nothing to chance.” “The only way you will ever get Bridget back is if you help us,” the unknown woman across the room said. “Help us put responsible women in the seats of power.” Cree opened his eyes and looked at her. “I will get her back.” “How?” she challenged. He shook his head. “I don't know yet, but I will.” “We are your only way!” the woman snapped. “Fight us and I swear the Resistance will not lift one finger to help you. Bridget will stay with Tylan Kahn and we will make gods-be-damned sure you are transported back to Helios Twelve where you can not do harm to our cause!” “Who are you, woman?” “That isn't important,” the Director broke in. “Aye, it is!” he spat. “You are Chalean.” The woman nodded. “I am.” She lifted her head. “I am Hael Sejm of the Royal House of Brell.”

Cree's brows drew together. “My dam-” The Reaper gaped at her. This woman staring at him with such loathing was his kin! His aunt! The sister of the woman who had given him life. “Aye,” Hael spat. “Analeis Brell was my sister.” Her eyes narrowed dangerously. “And now you know why I despise you!” “He had no hand in what was done to his mother, Hael,” LeJong said softly. She was sitting closer to the Reaper than Beryla was and she knew his full strength had returned; yet he had made no move to get up. “Had we been left on our world,” Hael spat. “Had we not been ravaged, she would still be alive and that-” she pointed a trembling finger at Cree. “-monstrosity would never have been born!” Cree had often wondered about the female who had given birth to him. He knew she had died at the hands of his own sire, but he did not know the particulars. There was no one who either could, or would, tell him about his dam. He wanted to know. “Tell me.” “With pleasure.” Hael smirked. “No!” Beryla snapped. “It is not something he needs to know.” “Why not? We need his help to crush the Empire. Let him know what the Empire did to his mother!” “You are not telling him this to further our cause,” LeJong accused. “You are telling him this to hurt him.” “Let her talk. Hael stood up, her body fairly quivering with rage. She was furious at LeJong for not having given the Reaper the poison she had intended he receive. When she had entered Beryla's office to find Kamerone Cree sleeping on the Director's couch, her hand had gone to the dagger at her belt and she had stepped forward, wanting nothing more than to plunge the blade into his black heart. She would have had LeJong not stepped forward to stop her. “Go on,” Cree insisted. “I want to hear what you have to say.” “Oh, you shall, Reaper,” Hael sneered. “You shall.” She took a long breath, then began her tale. “The Empire sent a military envoy to Chale to bring back women for their warriors. Our father, the King, had signed an agreement with the Rysalian Tribunal and word had gone out for interested women to appear at the court the next day. Hundreds came for we were a poor kingdom and many had empty bellies and empty pockets. Drae Cree was only a lieutenant then and he was the Keeper in charge of transporting the women back to Rysalia Prime. The ships were loaded with eager brides for the Rysalian warriors, yet Cree had not found a woman among the throng who interested him.” Hael threw Beryla a damning look. “I suppose it takes a special woman for a man like him!” “Get on with your tale, Sejm.” Hael locked her eyes on the Reaper. “Our father had kept us hidden from the envoy, for he did not want any daughters of the Royal House to be seen by men he considered to be evil beyond words. My sisters and I, seven of us, had been taken to the Shadowlands, the sanctuary of the Daughters of the Multitude by our mother and aunts. There, we would be safe until the Rysalians left.” She stopped, her jaw hardening as she glared at him. “We thought they were gone. We had seen five Class Nine transport ships streaking toward Rysalia. Eager to be back with our parents, we left the Sanctuary and headed home. Little did we know there was a Keeper and his crew lurking about the forest, searching for the seven daughters of King Rian Brell.” “The crew,” Cree said. “Coure, Kullen, Kiel…” “Tohre, Gehdrin, and Belial,” Hael Sejm finished for him. “They raped us. Each of them took turns raping the rest of us, but Analeis, the youngest and prettiest, had been claimed by the Keeper, by Commander Drae Cree, and no one dared touch her.” “He saved her to make her his Bride-mate,” Beryla put in. “He loved her very much.” “He lusted after her!” Hael sneered. “She wanted nothing to do with him, was terrified of him, and pleaded with the bastard to return her to our father, but he would not. It was already too late for my other sisters and myself. We were damaged goods and under Chalean law, unfit to marry. We could never go home!”

“Even though you were raped?” Dorrie gasped. Hael lifted her head. “Our Tribunal was strict in those days. Women whose virginity had been taken by a man other than her legal mate were considered whores, sluts, and unworthy to bear a legitimate child of a good household. It mattered not at all that she had had no say in the loss of her purity. That was the law and all, even the King, had to abide by it.” “That is why he never sent warriors to reclaim you,” LeJong remarked. “That is why,” Hael spat. “The Rysalians thought he had accomplished a great feat when Drae Cree brought home the fabled Seven Sisters of Swords as the daughters of the Royal House of Brell were called. Not one member of the Tribunal questioned the crew's claim to the women and all but one of us became concubines to those bastards.” “All but you,” Cree said, beginning to understand more than he knew his aunt would ever admit. “I was the oldest and I fought like a banshee! None could tame me!” Her mouth twisted. “They feared coming to my bed for I had sworn to slay them when they slept!” “It's a wonder they didn't slit your throat and be done with it,” Beryla commented. “Analeis would not have allowed that to happen,” Hael responded. She came closer to Cree, her eyes wild with fury. “She was the Seventh Daughter of a Seventh Daughter and was born with a cowl. Do you know what that means, Reaper?” He nodded. “She was Morrígú. I know that.” “Aye,” she mimicked. “You know that!” She regarded him with a venomous look. “She was a witch. A very powerful witch and on her Joining Day, she laid a curse on the Rysalians that not even the gods, Themselves, could break!” She came within two feet of him. “She told Drae Cree that despite the impotence of his seed, the inability to impregnate other females, there would be children born of the evil unions forced upon her and her sisters. She warned them the children would be tainted with beastly blood, black blood. The children would become jackals like the fathers who had sired them!” Her vicious eyes narrowed. “But Cree and his men did not listen! They did not believe in the power of the Morrigú! They thought no issue would come from their foul deed.” “But it was not only the children of those unions she cursed, Hael. She cursed herself and her sisters, as well, and that is where the real tragedy in this lies.” “Aye, she cursed herself!” Hael thundered. “She did not want Drae Cree to have joy in the act he would force upon her. She wanted him to suffer for what he had set into motion! He wanted pleasure? He received pleasure, but he reaped well what he sowed!” “He has suffered, Hael,” Beryla agreed. “More than you know.” “Not enough!” Hael seethed. “Not nearly enough! But he will!” LeJong looked down at her hands. “The sons even more than the fathers.” “So we were born Dearg-Duls. I was cursed by my own dam-” “Your mother!” Hael Sejm shouted at him. “Your mother! Not your dam, fool. Your mother!” Cree held her raging glower. “Aye, my mother.” “And because of you,” Hael jeered, “she was murdered! You were the cause of her death!” “Hael,” the Director said, “if you do not calm down, you will have a stroke.” Hael was now toe to toe with him, her hands clenching and unclenching at her sides. She glared at him, her face an ugly mask of hatred. When she lowered her voice, every one, save one, had to strain to hear what she said. “She had just given birth to you. She had just thrust you out of her womb. She looked down to see you struggling on the floor and was horrified at what she saw. The thing she had delivered wasn't human. It was a beast, a jackal pup embedded in a thick membrane, attached to her by a long rope of black as pitch afterbirth. She screamed and I came running to help her. Just as I arrived, she began to change, to alter right before my eyes; at the same moment the thing on the floor began to change from beast to human child.” Cree stared up into Hael Sejm's mad eyes and knew the woman no longer saw him. She was seeing her sister, the woman who had given him life, and the memory must have been gruesome for there was horror stamped on her face.

“She was so lovely. Her hair was jet black and soft as silk. Her eyes were the color of the sky in summer and her face was so lovely it would take your breath away just looking at her.” She shook herself. “But what lay on that floor, struggling to tear the membrane off its whelp with its teeth, was not beautiful. It was beastly. The most horrific sight I would ever see in my lifetime. It was when she was in full Transition, suffering the curse she had placed upon herself, that Drae Cree came running in. He stopped, his eyes wide with shock. I saw his hand go to the phaser at his waist and I tried to stop him, but it was too late. He drew the weapon and fired. Analeis was flung backwards against the wall and her body burst into flames.” Hael put her hands over her ears. “I shall hear her agonized howls on my deathbed!” “He thought she was a jackal trying to devour his child,” Beryla explained. “He did not know it was Analeis else he never would have fired.” “It doesn't matter! It was best she died!” “Why? Because you wanted Drae Cree and he wanted her, instead?” Cree's head snapped to the side as Hael's hand connected with his cheek. The hit had had enough force behind it to split his lip and a thin trickle of black blood dribbled down his chin. He put up a hand to wipe away the seepage. He looked around to see Beryla and Dorrie dragging the enraged Hael away from him. “Why isn't he dead?” the woman was screaming. “Why isn't he dead? I want this bastard dead!” LeJong said nothing as Beryla and Dorrie pulled Hael out of the office and down the hall. “What do I need to do?” she heard him ask in a soft voice. She turned so she could look at him and was stunned to see a tear rolling unchecked down his right cheek. She ached to reach out and touch it with her fingertip, to taste the saltiness of it on her tongue. “None of this was done to make you suffer needlessly, Cree. A bitter laugh underscored his words. “It was done to help me, was it?” He let his head drop to the back of the couch; he stared up at the ceiling. “I fancy I wouldn't care to have you women extend any more help to me, if this is your idea of not making me suffer.” She forced her hand to his knee and took comfort that he did not demand she remove it. “You have found love,” she said gently. “And love has found you. Isn't that worth-” “You have me where you want me,” he interrupted her. “You will get what you desire.” He swiveled his head toward her. “Stop trying to convince me. The moment you women let Tylan Kahn have my mate, you gave me no choice but to help you.” LeJong searched his face for a moment. She nodded. “All right. I won't insult your any further. I believe we understand one another.” “Aye,” he bit out. “That we do.” Chapter 22 THE DIRECTOR came back into her office frowning. “We had to sedate her.” LeJong was not surprised. “I fear all this is taking a toll on Hael.” “She's unhinged,” Beryla Dean said. She glanced at Cree who was still seated on her couch. “Have you decided to help us, then?” Cree was staring at his hands and did not look at her as he spoke. “Is Kahn part of your Resistance?” “Admiral Kahn is not a Terran.” The Reaper sighed deeply. She had not answered his question, but there was no need for her to do so. Considering Kahn was Sejm's adopted son, he was as much a part of this nefarious business as she was; but he realized it didn't matter. Slowly, he lifted his head. “I want to speak to Bridget.” “Bridget is perfectly-” “I want to speak to Bridget!” he yelled at her. “Fine!” the Director yelled back. “Computer! Get me Admiral Kahn!” Tylan Kahn motioned Bridget out of the range of the Vid-Com's screen when he learned his caller was Dr. Dean. “To what do I owe the honor, Madame Director?”

“I apologize for the interruption, Admiral Kahn, but may I have just a moment of your time?” Tylan Kahn could see Cree seated in the Director's office. “How may I help you, Dr. Dean?” “As I'm sure you know, there was a commotion on Level Twelve this morning.” “Aye. The Iceman made an ass of himself.” Cree lunged from the couch, but Beryla put out a hand, warning him back. “No!” “He called me-” “Be quiet or I will terminate this conversation!” she warned. She pointed a rigid finger at the couch. “Sit down. Now!” Kahn grinned as Cree plopped back on the couch, snapped his mouth shut, and looked away from the camera. He was tempted to insult the man again-just to see what Cree would do-but thought better of it. “I assume he wants to speak to Bridie.” “Bridie!” came a hiss of contempt from the couch. Dr. Dean turned and gave her companion another warning look before looking back at the Vid-Com. “Would it be too much of an imposition for you to allow him to do so, Sir? As you can see, Captain Cree-” “Lieutenant Cree,” the Admiral corrected. “Go to hell. You are going to re-instate my rank you asshole!” The Director let out an annoyed breath. “Kamerone is quite upset about losing Dr. Dunne, Admiral. He has strongly objected to you purchasing Bridget.” “I understand Commander Rhye objected, too, yet I seem to recall the Iceman made it impossible for him to speak to Bridie. Why should I allow him to do something he would not allow Konnor to do?” Cree was staring straight at the Vid-Com with a murderous look that told Tylan Kahn he would like to tear out his throat. The growl of hatred that passed over the link between them merely punctuated the thought. “We have assured Captain Cree-” “Lieutenant!” Kahn said again. Beryla rolled her eyes. “We can discuss this later. Will you allow him to speak with Bridget?” Kahn shrugged. “Given the circumstances, I suppose I can. Even though the Iceman refused Rhye, I won't since I am the better man.” “You gods-be-damned Diabolusian wartslug!” Cree bellowed as he leapt from the couch. “You want to see which of us is the better man?” “Cree!” Dr. Dean roared. She hurried to the Reaper. Kahn could not hear what was being said in the Director's office, but from the mulish expression that was stamped over Cree's face, she must be getting her point across. “Aye, but that bastard is gloating and I will not…” he heard Cree thunder. “And I told you…” Kahn crossed his arms over his chest and watched mutinous emotion enveloping Cree. Finally, the Director gave the Reaper a stern shake, and then came back to the screen. “I am sorry you were insulted, Admiral. Kamerone has assured me he will behave.” Tylan Kahn's left brow quirked. “I find that hard to believe.” He looked away from the screen. “Bridie? Do you wish to speak to this ass?” “Cree-” Dr. Dean warned, not even bothering to look behind her. Bridget moved into camera range. “Kam?” “Aye, Bridget,” Cree responded. He moved past the Director. “I am here.” He let his hungry gaze pass over her worried face. “Are you well, milady?” “Yes,” she said in a broken voice, her misery very real and lay bare for any and all to see. Cree saw the tears forming and felt like ripping the room apart in his fury. “Has he hurt you?” Bridget shook her head. “No. He's been very good to me.” “Has he…” Cree could not ask. His attention shifted from his woman to the man standing too near to her. “Did he…” He swallowed. “I wanted to be sure he had not done anything to you,” was all he could say.

“What the hell are you implying, Cree?” Kahn snapped. “What was it you thought I would do?” “You know your reputation better than I do, Kahn,” Cree shot back. Their eyes locked and he thought he could see a smirk in the Admiral's; it drove him absolutely insane. “If you have dared use my woman…” “Just what do you think you could do about it if I have?” Dr. Dean moved to grab Cree's arm and keep him from tearing out of her office. She shook him, spoke low and urgently to him in harsh, warning words. “Don't tell me what to do, bitch!” Cree shouted and then staggered beneath the blow the Director aimed at his cheek. “You stop this right now! Do you hear me, young man? Behaving like a spoiled child is not going to help! And don't you ever call me that vicious name again! Do you understand me, Kamerone?” No woman had ever dared raise a hand to him before today and now he'd been slapped twice in one afternoon. Cree was so infuriated, he didn't consider what he was doing. He lifted his right hand and swung it back over his shoulder with every intention of sending the woman reeling across the room. “You do and I swear to you, Kamerone Cree,” the Director warned him, “I will have them come in here and take you to my lab and I promise you you'll be strapped to my therapy table for an entire month!” She came toe to toe with him. “Do you doubt I will?” Bridget had grabbed Tylan Kahn's arm in her fear for Beryla's safety. She could see the rage flashing in Cree's dark eyes. She stood rooted in place, holding her breath-as Kahn was doing-until Cree lowered his hand, backing down from the challenge the Director had thrown at him. “Do not ever hit me again,” they heard Cree growl. “The next time you do, I will rip out your heart and eat it in front of you.” Beryla pursed her lips. “No, you will not,” she snapped then turned back to the screen. “Now that we have that settled, I am going to terminate this link.” “No” Cree bellowed. “Beryla, don't!” Bridget cried. “Can't you see what you are doing to him?” Her tears were flowing unnoticed down her pale cheeks. “When he learns to do as he is told, I will contact you again. Terminate the link!” the Director snapped. “Bridget!” Cree's heart-breaking howl of pain made the hair stands up on the back of Beryla Dean's neck. She shuddered violently and backed away from the man who had dropped to his knees, pummeling the floor with his clenched fists. “I want my woman!” “You know what you have to do before that can happen,” the Director reminded him. She almost had a heart attack as he shot to his feet, grabbed her, and shook her so hard her teeth clicked together. “No more!” he roared in her face. “No…more! Just give me the gods-be-damned list of the men you've already turned and let me get on with it!” Beryla jerked out of his grip. “You hurt me like that again and I swear I'll make you wish you'd never met me!” “I already wish I'd never met you,” he said in a tone that relayed he was beyond controlling his temper and less and less inclined to do so. Rubbing her bruised arms, Beryla went to her safe and withdrew a sheaf of papers. She was about to hand them over when he snatched them out of her grip. Cree scanned the names on the sheet. “Drewe Lona! I should have known!” he memorized the names of the others, then crumpled the paper and threw it in the waste bin. “I'll need more muscle that just Tealson Hesar and a handful of Keepers!” “Recruit who you need; they'll follow you.” “You'd better hope they will.” He turned away. It was going to be a very dangerous thing trying to recruit competent men to help him sabotage the Empire. “There's one more thing,” Dr. Dean said as she watched him rubbing his right temple. “You were inoculated, as was all but one of your crew. We couldn't find him, but we will. The other Reapers and their crews have been vaccinated as well.” “Vaccinated for what?” he exploded, remembering his own inoculation.

“It is too complicated to go into right. Can't you at least trust me on this?” He snorted. “I would sooner trust a Diabolusian wharf rat than trust you!” “Will you listen?” she asked, exasperated. “I'm only telling you because the antitoxin has made your father very ill. He is…” She stopped and watched the stunned surprise take shape on Cree's face. He read it in her mind: what the Resistance had planned for the men of Rysalia. His lips parted in shock and he stared at her for a long time, before shaking his head in disgust. “You evil conniving bitches.” Dr. Dean's chin came up. “We want our freedom. And we will get it!” He nodded. “Aye,” he replied. “I believe you will.” He turned to leave. “Cree!” she asked even though he didn't break his stride and never looked back. “Please be careful.” “A little late to be worried about my welfare, isn't it?” He slammed the palm of his hand against the door pad. The panel shushed open and he was gone. **** BERYLA HURRIED into the isolation ward, her face ashen. “Where is he?” LeJong Kym was hovering over her patient as the Director barged in. The biochemist could not look at her. “He's had an adverse reaction to the vaccine, Beryla.” “What went wrong?” the Director demanded as she bent over her unconscious lover. “I cannot say,” LeJong admitted. The Director spun around and shoved the smaller woman. “What went wrong?” “None of the others have reported more than a simple headache and upset bellies.” “I gave that stuff to Cree,” cried Beryla. “Will it make him this ill?” LeJong shook her head. “His parasite will not allow him to have an adverse reaction to the antitoxin.” “Kamerone must not become ill from this!” Beryla shouted. “He won't,” LeJong stated firmly. “There may be some muscle aches. Nothing more.” “I have a headache from hell. Does that constitute ‘nothing more'?” The Director flung her head around to find Cree leaning against the doorway, his arms folded across his wide chest, watching her. He nodded toward the bed. “Is he going to be all right?” “Yes,” Beryla snapped. She turned back to her lover. The Reaper looked at his father, glanced at LeJong, and read the truth in the Chrystallusian woman's mind before she blocked out his probing. LeJong flicked her gaze to him, stared into his demon orbs. He gave her a strange, penetrating look before he turned and walked away. Drae Cree was going to die, he thought as he strode briskly down the corridor. His father was going to die and there was nothing he could do to prevent it. **** “HAVE YOU lost your mind?” Alexi Noll gasped. “I need you and my Keepers with me.” “To do what? Hang alongside you? No, thank you!” “To fight alongside me, Alexi,” Cree stressed. “Do you think I will lose?” “This is treason. You are talking treason here, Cree!” “We won't be alone. Every station has at least twenty Resistance fighters among the men there. They are waiting for FSK-14 to fall before they begin their own takeover.” He locked his eyes with Noll's. “All it will take here is a handful of men who know just what to do; where to go; how to disable the communications, sabotage the energy plant and cripple the armaments.” “Rysalia Prime will send-” “Think, Alexi!” Cree ordered. “The com-link will be down between here and there. They won't know what hit them. The planet gets its protection from the stations. There aren't even any weapons stored on Rysalia Prime. It is against Tribunal law!”

“There are three long-range cruisers, two runabouts, and two transports, including the prison ship Vortex, sitting in our docking bays at this moment! What do you think the crews of those ships will be doing while the rest of the station is rebelling?” Noll challenged. “The warp engines are being disabled right now,” Cree snapped with irritation. “Tealson Hesar is seeing to that.” “The Simoom is due back any moment from FSK-5 Do you really think Captain Belial will sit idly by and-” “As soon as she is in harness, she'll be put off-line,” Cree stated. “And Belial will do whatever the hell I tell him to do!” “You are mad.” “Probably, but once the last station is under the control of the Resistance and we've taken Rysalia Prime, we'll go after the old men of the Tribunal and-” “You will go after them. Cree sighed. “You won't help?” “I can't,” Noll said, pleading in his eyes. “I took an Oath to preserve the Empire.” He looked accusingly at Cree. “Just as you did.” The Reaper felt a moment's betrayal, but shrugged it away. “Do I have to worry about you going to the Tribunal?” Alexi Noll reacted as though he'd been slapped. “Don't ask such a thing!” he snapped. “You know better.” “What about Belvoir and Arbra?” the Reaper asked, referring to the other two Keepers assigned to his ship, The Revenant. “I would imagine they'll do whatever you ask of them. You'll have to ask them. I can't be a part of this, Cree.” “Then I wish you well, my friend.” Cree hold out his hand. “You will take care?” Noll gripped the Reaper's forearm. “I hope you win, Cree. By the gods, I do.” He held Cree's gaze. “And I will make myself scarce during the takeover. I'll not take sides against a man I admire.” Cree smiled. “That's all I wanted to hear.” He released Noll's arm. “By the way, were you given an injection earlier?” At Noll's nod, Cree breathed a sigh of relief. “Good. It may make you a little ill. I've got a bitch of a headache.” “What was it for?” Noll questioned. Cree shrugged. “Let's just say you'll be happy you got it once this is over.” **** BRIDGET LOOKED up as the lights went off in Kahn's quarters. “They've hit the generator.” “It appears so,” Kahn was able to say before once more he bent over his bed and threw up into the basin Bridget was holding for him. “If you'll just take the tenerse, you won't have to suffer this pain, Tylan,” she said with exasperation. “I am not going to take that crap!” “No, you'd rather lie there and suffer.” An explosion ripped through the walls, shaking the room, and Kahn's groan of pain punctuated the bright flare that lit the room. “Armaments,” Bridget said needlessly. She set the basin of noxious fluid on the floor beside his bed and walked into the living area. Beyond the port windows, the heavens lit momentarily in silent explosions all across the velvet darkness. A grim smile tugged at her lips. Cree had begun his war with the Empire. **** FOR MORE than two hours, the women of the Resistance joined their handful of male counterparts in

sabotaging and bringing to a standstill Frontier Station Khamsin-14. Outnumbering the men by four to one, the women fought as hard as the men and some died just as valiantly for the cause in which they believed. From the Vid-Com screen in her tightly locked quarters in the Ministry of Science, Hael Sejm viewed the destruction of FSK-14 with grim satisfaction. The station had been seriously crippled and it was only a matter of time before every man outside the influence of the Resistance would be breathing his last. “Where are you, Cree?” Sejm muttered as she switched from one monitor to another in search of her hated nephew. It greatly angered Hael that LeJong had not inoculated Cree with the same virus that had only moments before taken the life of Drae Cree. Now, the younger of Sejm's targets would have to be dealt with in the same manner as the other Reapers. Though knowing what fate lay in store for Kullen, Coure, and the rest of his jackal brethren, Hael would rather have seen Cree perish in the agony that had claimed his father. “But you will die, Kamerone Cree,” Sejm promised as she turned her glazed stare to a monitor where one of Symthian Kullen's crew was defending himself against a Resistance fighter. She leaned toward the monitor and smiled. Even one woman's death was unacceptable and the sight sickened her, but the Keeper who had driven his sword into the unknown woman's belly was not to be harmed. Orders had been given to bring him to Sejm as soon as he was found. She sat back in her chair. “Cree will die screaming in agony, but you?” She watched the Keeper glance up at the camera that monitored every corridor aboard FSK-14. When he saluted his watcher with his laser sword, Hael Sejm grinned. “You, little one, will live.” **** KONNOR RHYE looked away from the camera. He knew someone, somewhere was watching him and he hoped it was a member of the Tribunal who had taken note that Commander Rhye was not a part of this insane rebellion. He grinned, glanced at the woman who was kneeling on the floor, steaming innards spilling out of her abdominal cavity. “F…finish it!” the woman pleaded. “With pleasure,” Konnor agreed. With one practiced snap of his wrist, he beheaded her. His smile grew as the woman's head rolled down the corridor and stopped almost at Deon Inse's feet. “Careful where you throw your toys, Koni,” Inse chuckled. “How are the upper levels?” “Still ours,” Inse reported. “As soon as we get the generator back online, we should make quick work of these traitors.” Konnor nodded. “Aye, and when I find Kamerone Cree, I'll make quick work of him, as well.” Inse smiled. “Would you care to know where our glorious leader is at the moment?” The Keeper's face hardened. “You've found him? Where is the bastard?” Jerking his thumb toward the elevator banks, Inse snorted in response. “Trying to make his way to his woman,” he reported. “Where else?” “My woman!” Konnor corrected. He grabbed the front of Inse's uniform. “Where? Show me!” Overhead, the lights flickered back on, went off, and then came on again full force. Scattered along the walls, the emergency globes of phospho light that had given off only enough feeble light to keep the station from being plunged into total stygian darkness, faded away. “Show me!” Konnor repeated. Inse nodded. “It will be my honor.” **** THE RETROVIRUS Hael Sejm had created in her lab had been placed in the ventilation system of all fifteen space stations’ months in advance of that night. A complex system of relay switches designed by

Dr. Aurora Burds of Terra's MIT had been installed in the base of one hundred and eighty stainless steel cylinders that contained the virus: one cylinder for each of the twelve floors of each station. Well hidden in the ductwork, the canisters sat waiting for the signal that would engage its deadly payload. “The fans are back on,” Teve Tulloch, Burd's Shepherd lover, reported. Dr. Burds was a woman of few words and she saw no need to waste them even on this momentous occasion. Her gaze went to the digital time readout and she noted the exact time: 2059 hours. She made a notation in her protocol book then placed her finger on the terminal switch that was connected to all the others. At exactly 2100 hours, she began to depress the switch. Upon depression of the switch at the Ministry of Bioengineering, an electric impulse traveled from switch to switch along the hundreds of miles of ductwork in the space station. In turn, each switch sent activation signals to minute motors in the base of each container. A tiny air valve at the top of the canisters opened to release a steady, forceful stream of colorless gas which carried the live bacteria through the station's twelve thousand air vents. Airborne, the bacterium floated out of the vent registers and was drawn deep into the lungs of every living being on FSK-14. The scent of lavender was the only sign there was something unusual wafting in the air. For some-those inoculated with the antitoxin-it would be only a headache and upset stomach, a few muscle aches, perhaps. For most, it would mean excruciating death. Aurora Burds smiled, thinking she had just paid the men of Rysalia back for having taken her away from her home so many years before. She had no way of knowing she had just murdered nine hundred men. Including her own lover. **** CREE STABBED the elevator's control panel once more but the cage seemed to have a mind of its own and kept stopping at every floor. Ever since the lights had come back on, he had wasted precious minutes trying to make his way up to Level Twelve. The lower levels were in the control of the Resistance, but the disposition of the top three levels had not been ascertained. Cursing heatedly under his breath as the cage stopped but the doors would not open, Cree stamped his foot like a petulant child. He tried to pry open the portals. “Having trouble?” The Reaper's hand went automatically to his weapon before he recognized the voice. “I can't get the gods-be-damned thing to open!” he complained to his 2/IC. “You never were good with machinery,” Drewe said softly. “Do I have to act as your navigator this one last time?” Cree grinned. “I'm glad to see you've come through this unscathed so far.” “I've been looking for you,” Lona replied. “I knew you'd head up here as soon as the elevators came back on line.” “We're winning, Drewe.” “Did you doubt we would?” Drewe challenged. The Shepherd wavered, put his hand up to his forehead and stumbled back from the elevator, his face registering pain. “Drewe?” Cree questioned, reaching for him. “What's wrong?” The Shepherd swung his head to the left, saw something that alarmed him and turned his already pale face ghastly white. He put his arm out, shoved Cree back. “Go!” he ordered. “Get the hell out of here!” He took out his phaser and blasted the elevator door; the panels slid obediently open. Cree stared in horror as blood bubbled over Lona's lips. “By the gods, you're hurt! What happened?” He reached for Lona, but the Keeper waved him away. “Go, Cree!” Drew grated. “Get in the gods-be-damned cage. They are-” Agony suddenly caved in the young man's face and he twisted sideways, away from Cree. The Reaper made a grab for him then went down under the inert weight of Lona's body. Blood was gushing from Drewe's mouth and nose as the two men crashed to the floor.

“Drewe!” Cree stared in horror as the front of Lona's brown uniform tunic became slick with blood. Lona's head fell back over his friend's arm and a gurgling bubble was expelled from his lungs. “I believe he's dead.” The arrogant voice brought Cree's head around only a fraction of a second before something hard and unyielding slammed into his temple and the lights were shut off again. Chapter 23 “I'VE JUST received word,” Dr. Burds said softly as she stood beside her friend, “the others stations are fully engaged. Too soon, I think, but we'll see. At least there is one piece of good news: The Stormwind and her sister ship, The Whirlwind, are in orbit over Rysalia Prime. They will be dropping their payload within the next half hour.” Beryla never took her eyes from the man she had loved more than her own life. To see him so still in death was almost more than she could bear. She sighed from the bottom of her weary soul. “Can you abort the delivery?” “Abort?” Aurora questioned. “Why should we…?” “How is Teve feeling?” the Director interrupted. “Sick as a dog,” Aurora said, frowning. “He had an adverse reaction to the antitoxin. Why?” Beryla ran her fingertips over Drae Cree's cold lips. “Because they lied to us, Ro-Ro,” she said, calling the woman by the nickname from long ago. Aurora put a comforting hand on her friend's shoulder. “Who lied to us, dear? About what?” “Hael Sejm and LeJong Kym.” “I don't understand.” “Look at him,” the Director whispered. “He is fifty-six years old. Does he look to you to be a man who would succumb to an antitoxin meant to keep him out of harm's way?” Aurora looked down at Drae's silky white hair and imagined the dark, sparkling eyes that had always tried to hide a glimmer of merriment despite the horrendous job he had. “No,” she admitted, thinking of his deep voice and robust laughter. “He has always been in the best of health, I thought.” “You thought correctly,” Beryla acknowledged. “I, myself, gave him a thorough physical only a month ago.” She smiled wistfully. “And enjoyed doing it, too.” “You don't believe he had a reaction to the vaccine, is that what you are telling me?” Dr. Burds asked, suddenly worried. “The virus will not sterilize the men, Aurora,” Dr. Dean answered in a fierce voice. “It will kill them.” Aurora stared at her. “How do you know this?” The thought of her own lover experiencing the horrible death Drae Cree had suffered made her weak with fear. “Does this mean-” “You have killed the man you loved.” Aurora slumped against the wall, stunned. “The others?” Her eyes flared. “Kahn? He is Hael's adopted child! The bitch raised him, taught him! How could she…?” “He is safe, as far as I know,” Beryla answered. “Why they wanted to keep the Reapers and their crews alive, I have no idea, but I can imagine it wasn't out of the goodness of their hearts!” “Dr. Dean?” Beryla looked around and found a smut-smeared Ivonne standing tiredly in the doorway. “Yes?” “I've got terrible news,” Ivonne said. She put a shaky hand to her straggly hair. “News I wish I didn't have to relay.” Fearing the worst, the Director stood up. “We've lost?” “No,” Ivonne was quick to answer. “We are winning, but I'm afraid the ships carrying the virus to Rysalia Prime have been destroyed. FSK-9 managed to get off two long-range missiles before being overrun by our people. They shot down the sister ships.” “The gas?” Beryla asked, her face anxious. “The sister ships weren't close enough to Rysalia Prime for the gas to do any good. It was destroyed with the ships.”

“That may be the best news we've heard all day.” Aurora held up a hand before Ivonne could question that statement. “Is there anything else?” Ivonne nodded grimly. “I'm afraid so.” She glanced at the body of the dead man, then away. Looking back at Dr. Burds, she cocked her head toward the corridor. “Whatever you have to say, you can say in front of me, Ivonne O'Malley,” said Beryla. “What is one more thing gone wrong today when I have lost my lover and possibly our savior in one fell swoop.” “Then you know already?” Ivonne asked, relieved that she would not have to be the one to bear such news to the Director. “Know what?” Aurora asked. Ivonne looked puzzled for a moment. “But from what Dr. Dean said, I thought she must know about Cree. He-” “What of him?” Beryla shouted. Ivonne looked from the Director to the bioengineer and back again. “That he was arrested,” she replied. “They took him into custody an hour ago.” **** THIS TIME when he woke, Cree was in worse condition than the last time. Much worse. He could barely see through the swelling of his eyes. His ears were ringing from the repeated open-handed cuffing Konnor Rhye had taken great delight in administering and his gut felt on fire from the brutal jabs that had finally driven him to his knees. “Wake up, Iceman,” Rhye sneered. “I'm not through with you!” Konnor Rhye wiped Cree's black blood from his hands on a rag then threw the rag on the floor. He nodded to Inse and another man and between them, they hoisted the Reaper up straighter. Inse grabbed a handful of Cree's long hair and drew the semi-conscious man's head back. The sound of Rhye's fist driving unmercifully into Kamerone Cree's jaw bored the fourth man in the Inquisition cell. He hid a yawn behind a delicate hand and shifted his lean body more comfortably in his chair. “He isn't going to talk, Commander.” Rhye buried his fist in Cree's belly and took an almost sexual pleasure from the gasp of pain that drove the defenseless man forward over the savage hit. Another vicious jab rocked Cree's head to the side and sprayed black blood on the wall. When he put all his force behind a punch to the place where Cree's kidney had been removed, the Reaper could not stop the scream of agony that shot from his torn lips. “Pray do not kill him, Commander,” the man in the corner clucked. “The Tribunal would not like being denied the pleasure of seeing him hanged.” “Hear that, Iceman?” Inse chuckled, his fingers tightening on Cree's scalp as he shook the beaten man's head. “They are going to stretch that thick neck of yours.” “Go to hell,” Cree forced out through his battered lips. Blood dribbled down his chin. “You will be there long before me!” Inse retorted. “This is getting us nowhere,” the man in the corner sighed. “Guards!” He stood up, stretched, then watched as two burly interrogation guards entered the chamber. “Take this scum back to his cell until I am ready for him.” Cree was passed from one pair of captors to another. His sweat-matted hair was plastered to his forehead and his nose and chin dripped black blood. His head hung down against his bare chest as the interrogation guards hefted him between them. As they dragged him along, pain rocketed through his lower right side and he groaned, slipping once more over the edge of consciousness. When he awoke for the third time that day, he was laying spread eagle on a table, Lord Traye Onar standing above him. “You will, of course, tell me everything I wish to know about the Resistance,” Onar said pleasantly. “I have a much more persuasive manner than our barbaric young Keeper.” “I won't tell you anything,” Cree said, slurring his words. “You're wasting your time.” Onar smiled. “When was the last time you fed?” he asked conversationally.

Feeding had been the last thing on Cree's mind, he realized with a start. The other aches and pains shooting through his body had all but blocked out the fierce headache and nausea brought on by the antitoxin. His temperature had shot up so high at one point; he fancied he could feel the blood boiling in his veins. He hadn't thought to take sustenance before all this began…when?…four hours earlier. “Answer me, boy!” A sharp pain entered Cree's shoulder and his swollen eyes widened just enough to see Onar withdrawing a thin six-inch long copper wire from his flesh. Before he could curse the old man, the wire was driven into him again, this time in the tender flesh under his armpit. The searing pathway the probe left made him writhe in an effort to get away from another stabbing. He rolled as far away as the manacles on his hands and legs would allow. “You don't like that, do you, Cree?” Onar chuckled. “You know you can not escape me.” He pierced Cree's lower right side with the wire. “When did you feed?” “Twelve hundred hours!” Cree gasped. The places where the probe had entered his body were stinging with a bone-deep pain. “See?” Onar sighed. “You can answer questions when they are put to you in the correct manner.” He put the probe in his lab coat pocket then reached out to smooth the tangled, sweat-dampened hair from Cree's forehead. “You have an extremely high temperature.” He ran the back of his hand down Cree's cheek. “Is this a normal reaction when you need to feed?” “I don't need to-” The old man's hand snaked out to grab a fistful of Cree's hair and tug brutally. “I didn't ask if you wanted to feed, Kamerone. I asked if this is a normal reaction.” “No,” Cree answered through clenched teeth. Onar frowned. “No?” he questioned. “I am sick,” Cree said and knew he was telling the truth. The antitoxin had killed his father and he feared it was killing him. His headache was worse-and it wasn't just because of Konnor Rhye's powerful fists-and his body felt as though he were steeping inside a cauldron. “You are lying, of course,” Onar pronounced. He reached inside his lab coat pocket and took out the probe. He drew it across Cree's cheek, down his neck and onto his bare shoulder. “I have your personal Controller's data records. Reapers do not get sick, Kamerone. You have never been sick a day in your miserable life. Your parasite would not allow it.” “ I'm sick now,” Cree grunted, half-expecting the sick old bastard to stick him again. “I am so sorry to hear that,” Onar giggled. He considered a moment. “If that is true, then, the questioning will go that much harder on you. In either case, I intend to give you more pain that you ever received during assault therapy.” “Lucky me,” Cree mumbled The Tribunal Justice leaned over him. “Since I have your Controller's records, I know where each of the receptors are in your brain, Cree,” he whispered. “I am most interested in number three which is located in the frontal cortex. That is where pain perception occurs.” He ran the probe across Cree's chest. “Where the rational faculties of man exist. Once there, with this…” He held up the probe. “I can turn your brain functions on and off at will. A little nudge here; a stick there. A deep probe elsewhere.” He lowered his voice as though he were speaking to a lover. “I can cripple you mentally and physically.” “Yeah?” Cree snorted. “And I bet you'll like doing it, won't you, you sick bastard?” He winced as Onar's fingers closed cruelly around his upper arm and the old man dug his nails into the tender flesh. “Oh, I take great delight in doing my job well, Kamerone,” Onar replied, applying even more pressure. “And I shall take even greater delight in showing you just how well!” **** ENSIGN PAEGAN Thorne, the Communications Officer of Cree's cruiser, The Revenant, squatted down with the other seven men and drew a grimy forearm over his face. “He's been taken to Rysalia

Prime.” “How the hell did they get him there?” Kahn roared. “I was told all the ships would be off-line!” “He got there on my bloody ship!” Symthian Kullen spat. “Rhye must have found Cree and decided to take him down to the Tribunal in the hopes of getting the woman back.” “Enterprising little bastard, isn't he?” sneered Commander Tealson Hesar. “He'll wish he'd never slimed from his sire's sword when I lay my hands on him!” the Reaper Captain swore. “He'll die in far more agony that poor Drewe Lona did.” “How many men have we lost, now?” Alexi Noll asked. As soon as he had heard of Cree's capture, he had come to Kullen to join his fellow crewmembers. Kahn shook his head. “We've lost two hundred thousand just in the last hour and a half.” He looked about the main concourse where bodies lay scattered. “If I had known-” “There is something I don't think you've considered,” Hesar interrupted him. “You are now the highest-ranking officer in the Empire.” Kahn was silent a moment, then he shrugged. “I may be the only staff officer left.” “By the gods, how many will this thing kill?” Kullen demanded. “What concerns me,” Kahn put in, “is if it is contagious.” He swept his arm before him. “All these bodies will have to be incinerated before we do anything else. We can't take any chances.” “If it is contagious-” Noll stopped, his eyes going wide. “Inse and Rhye were vaccinated at the same time as Thorne and me. If they are on Rysalia Prime, could they have carried the virus with them even though it didn't harm them? Is it lethal to the men of other races?” “Surely not,” Kullen gasped. “Why would the Resistance wish to kill innocent men? Men who played no part in the deaths caused by the V-7?” “I haven't said anything because I hadn't had time, but I have reason to believe the virus won't harm anyone but Rysalian males,” Hesar stated. “Why do you say this?” Kullen asked. “Remember when Cree went to Hell-12?” At the other men's nods, he shrugged. “He brought back a Necromanian and a Serenian, princes of the royal houses there.” “So that's who those men are,” Noll said. “Where are they now?” Kahn asked. “The last I saw of them, they were with the search party looking for Doctors Sejm and Kym.” A horrible feeling closed in around Tylan Kahn. “We've got to get to Cree before they hang him.” He looked at the dead bodies then turned to Noll. “Alexi? Organize a party of men and start incinerating.” “Merciful Alel, Admiral!” Noll exclaimed. “It will take us days to take these bodies to the incineration unit.” Kahn shook his head. “Use your phasers, son.” At the other man's flinch of disapproval, he reached out and put a hand on the young man's shoulder. “We have no choice, Lieutenant. It has to be done.” “Where are you going?” Kullen asked. “To the lab,” Kahn replied. He crooked a finger at Cree's Keepers, Hern Belvoir and Andre Arbra. “You two come with me. I want you to guard our womenfolk. I've asked Dr. Dean and Bridget to locate LeJong Kym's protocol book. If they can find her notes on the vaccine, maybe they can make enough to inoculate Rysalia Prime and we can save some lives.” “The way this thing moved through here, it was worse than an Ionarian firestorm!” Hesar reminded the Admiral. “We can't even begin to have time to vaccinate five or six hundred thousand men!” “We have to pray to the gods that it can't be passed on by casual contact, then,” Kullen put in. “If it's just this gas that was shot through the ventilation system, we're doing okay. According to Dr. Burds, all the canisters on each station have been expended.” He frowned. “But if it can pass from one man to another, I fear our world is doomed.” **** BERYLA SAT on a lab stool and hung her head. “I can not believe they did this,” she whispered.

“Do we have to worry about it being spread from one man to another?” Kahn asked. “I don't think so, but I'm not sure,” Beryla stated flatly. “Until I find that bitch's lab notes, I'll have no way of being sure.” “Have they found Dr. Kym or Hael yet?” asked Amala Dayle. “No,” Kahn answered. “But we will. And when we find them, I doubt they'll survive the trip to Rysalia Prime.” “If they aren't already there,” Bridget said softly. She had cried until her face was swollen. Her worry over Cree had turned her ashen and she shook as though she had the ague. When Kahn had come into the lab, he had tried to comfort her, but she had rebuffed him. “I am going after Cree,” Kahn announced. “I want that vaccine brewed by the time I get back.” “LeJong might have taken them with her or else destroyed them,” Dorrie put in. “By the gods, woman, I don't want to hear that!” he thundered, glaring at her. He had slept with this woman many times-as had a lot of other men on FSK-14-but at that moment, he despised her. “I am sorry, Admiral,” Dorrie replied, “but you have to consider it.” “I don't have to consider squat!” He put a hand to his head and rubbed. “How is your headache?” Bridget inquired. “There,” he snapped. He was more concerned with her pale face and trembling than with his own pain. He marched over to her and took her arm. “Come with me.” Bridget tried to shrug off his hold. “Where are we going?” “Home for the moment,” he growled, dragging her along in his wake. “I am not going-” Kahn didn't say another word. He merely stopped, hefted Bridget over his shoulder, and left the lab with her beating on his back with useless fists. “That man is falling in love,” Tina remarked. “I've known that for the last five months,” Beryla sighed. “I wish to God I hadn't let it happen.” “How could you have prevented it?” Amala inquired. “Love comes of its own accord at times.” “What will happen to us if only a hundred or so men are left on our world, Dr. Dean?” Ivonne asked, putting forth the one question that was uppermost in the minds of every woman in the room. “We can make do without them,” said Dr. Burds. “Who will fight for us?” Ivonne pressed. “Take care of us?” “We can take care of ourselves,” Dorrie spat. “We learned here today that we can fight.” “But we need men!” Ivonne protested. “Defenseless women are targets for ruthless men!” “What we need,” Beryla interrupted their argument, “is to find those damned lab books. Everything else can wait!” **** BRIDGET SLAPPED him as hard as she could, putting her full weight behind the hit. The blazing red imprint of her palm on his cheek when his head snapped to the side and the satisfying sound of flesh to flesh brought her out of her self-imposed inertia. “Don't you ever manhandle me like that again!” She slapped him again for good measure before going to a chair and slumping into it. Kahn fingered his stinging cheek and sighed. He no doubt deserved her anger for his highhanded manner, but he didn't deserve to have his jaw broken. He worked his aching chin from side to side, testing for breakage and winced at the pain still throbbing in his temple. “What will they do to him?” she asked. He didn't want to tell her that at that very moment, Cree was more than likely being tortured for the information locked inside his mind. He doubted very much that she could take such knowledge. So he lied. “There will be a trial, but they can't start that until the Chief of Fleet Operations arrives and, I'm sorry to say, that's now my new job title” “You said you were going after him,” she accused.

Kahn nodded. “As soon as Coure has The Sirocco on line. I'll be taking the Reapers with me. I'll insist Cree be brought back here for execution.” Bridget's eyes flared but before she could speak, he put his hand on her knee. “Bridie,” he said. “You have to understand. They will want to hang him.” “No!” she shouted. “You can't let them!” “I am not going to let them,” he said firmly. “I will bring him back. Don't worry about that.” “You promise?” “I promise,” he said and stood. He looked down at her for a moment then leaned over and placed a light kiss on her forehead. “You stay here. There are still pockets of Tribunal devotees running around lose. Taking Cree's woman would be a real coup for them.” He turned to go. “Tylan?” Kahn looked around. “Be careful.” He did not need to read her mind to know it wasn't his safety that concerned her, but Cree's. **** “YOU SHOULD not have promised her what you can not hope to deliver, Admiral,” Symthian Kullen said as he joined Kahn in the corridor. “That nasty little habit of listening in on other people's conversation is very rude,” Kahn snapped. Kullen snorted. “Even if Cree is still alive when we get there and he has survived the questioning, there won’ t be anything left of the man she knew.” “Shut up,” the Admiral hissed. “It would be a blessing for them to end his life if they have downloaded his memory. I, for one, would rather see him hanged than spend the rest of his life as a mental cripple.” “I said shut up!” Kullen's jaw tightened. “There are five Reapers waiting on board The Mistrial, Admiral,” he said. “Six Reapers, seven Shepherds, and nineteen Keepers. Between us, we will get Kamerone Cree back, but at what price to the man?” Kahn thought of the six Shepherds left behind who were cleaning up the bodies on FSK-14. There should have been seven, but Lona was gone. Out of the twenty-one Keepers assigned to Reaper crews, two were also staying behind to protect the women in Dr. Kym's lab who were desperately looking for a vaccine. Forty-one men“Forty-three,” Kullen corrected, further annoying the Admiral. Aye, Kahn reasoned. With the Serenian and Necroman there were forty-three. The gods help us. “Amen to that,” Kullen agreed. Chapter 24 HE DWELT in darkness so complete, so cold, so silent, it was almost like already being dead. They had taken away the warmth; they had taken away the light; they had taken away the slightest sound, condemning him to utter silence. His body was one massive welt of pain; blood and body fluids oozed onto the cold stone floor so that he was forced to lay in the vile mess and shiver. The stench was unbearable and his fever had gone way beyond his ability to comprehend it. He wondered that he still drew breath. There was only one thing keeping him alive and he whispered her name: “Bridget…” Her precious name on his torn lips was a soothing balm. Her lovely face a beacon in the otherwise ebony darkness of his existence. Not even the intense hunger ravaging his insides could keep him from seeing that beloved face floating in the darkness before him. It staved off the thirst that was threatening to turn his flesh to cinders.

The Hunger. Sweet Merciful Alel, the Hunger! It was feeding on him, eating him alive. The parasite striving to survive was cannibalizing Cree's body. Voices from far away drifted to him and he stopping dragging the gurgling breaths into his battered lungs. With the voices came the smell of fresh blood rushing through full, healthy veins. The smell was intoxicating and he licked his split lips like the starving man he was. His nostrils flared as he sniffed. “No one is going to know. Open the gods-be-damned door!” “I'll give you two five minutes and not a minute more!” The door slid back into its wall niche and light from the corridor flowed dimly into Cree's cell. Konnor Rhye and Deon Inse moved past the guard and came to stand over the Reaper. “How are you feeling, Iceman?” Rhye sneered. “Up to another go ‘round with your good buddy?” “Don't underestimate a Reaper, Koni,” the guard warned. “He hasn't fed since-” “Look at him!” Inse laughed. “Does he look like he's something even you would be afraid of, Hein?” The guard shrugged. “Do what you want; Lord Onar won't care. I can't stay to watch, as much as I'd like to.” The guard left, leaving the door open behind him. Cree licked his lips again. The salty pulse of fluid that was Konnor Rhye's life essence was bombarding his senses and he was giddy with the smell of it. He heard the two human hearts beating: Rhye's a bit faster than Inse's; heard the blood swooshing through their veins. Rhye was saying something about Bridget, but Cree wasn't listening. He had tuned in on the tha-tump, tha-tump, tha-tump of Rhye's beating heart pushing rich red sustenance through miles of elastic veins. “Kahn will tire of her soon enough,” Rhye was telling him. “Then I will bring her home where she should have been all along; where she would have been if it hadn't been for you!” The thirst was lurching like a drunken man up his parched throat. It begged to be sated and the scent drove the thirst wilder still. He felt his fangs pushing outward from his face; heard the furtive wet, sucking sounds they made as his nostrils widened and enlarged to draw in more of the aroma that threatened to drive him into a state of ecstasy. He moved his head deeper into the shadows so the men could not see the Transition beginning. “She'll forget all about you,” Rhye snarled. “Once she's in my bed again, beneath me where she belongs, I'll make her forget you ever put your filthy, bestial hands on her.” The Reaper flexed those bestial hands and was pleased to find the claws already extended. The talons were drawing inward as his fingers curled and he ticked the long, sharp points softly on the stone floor, one after the other as though drumming his fingers in boredom. “She loves me,” Konnor stated. “I know she loves me. We were to be married until you took her from me.” Inse drew back his boot and kicked Cree hard, delighted with the sound he thought to be a moan of pain. “Are you listening to him, Iceman?” The Reaper groaned with unholy delight as the heat began to glow in his demon eyes. Daring not open the lids lest the humans see the piercing red light that would shine like an inferno in this dark room, Cree kept his eyes shut, the better to expand his other senses. He braced his right heel against the floor and began to gather his strength. Saliva dripped in a long thin string down his leathery chin. “I asked to be there when they hang you,” Rhye bragged. “I want to see what they do to you, you arrogant bastard. I want to be there when you start to choke.” “I want to see him piss his pants. When that noose starts tightening around his neck, he's going to-” The thing came at Inse like a whirlwind out of the darkness; he never had a chance to cry out his surprise or horror. It flowed up and over him, driving him down to the stone floor with a speed that could not possibly have been of this world. It enveloped him in ape-like arms that crushed his lungs and burst organs. Konnor Rhye shrieked and jumped back as the Reaper sprang. There would be no help for Inse. Bolting for the corridor, Rhye began screaming for Hein, for anyone to help him. He slapped viciously at the door pad and then ran as fast as he could from the death screams of his friend, hoping the portal would lock before the creature could get out and come after him.

The last thing Deon Inse saw before he died was the unbelievable width of the gaping jaw coming toward his face from behind double rows of razor-sharp teeth. The last thing Inse felt was the piercing agony that exploded in his throat as those steel-like jaws closed over his neck, severing his jugulars, ripping out chunks of flesh before it clamped down on his spine and crunched the fragile cartilage between its massive jaws. The last thing Inse ever heard was the slurping sounds the beast made as it fed. **** THEY HAD reached the outer hatchway of The Vortex. The new Chief of Space Fleet Operations looked at the black prison ship sitting in her docking harness alongside Feis Coure's ship, The Sirocco. He hated the sight of that massive long-range cruiser. She was ugly and she bore the unmistakable stamp of the Tribunal on her. Many men had died on that hell ship, but if he had anything to say about it, there would be no more torture and death inside her matte black hull. He meant to have her de-commissioned when this was all over. “That thing gives me the creeps,” Kullen remarked. “Aye,” Hesar agreed. “You and me both, Cap'n.” “Can you fly a LRC, McGregor?” Kahn asked the young man who had appeared in the hatchway. “Aye,” Raine McGregor admitted. Kullen looked past the young man to the dark hulk who stood behind the Serenian prince. He frowned, having a particular dislike for darklings, but he kept his mouth shut. If this man had had his life saved by Cree, there was something to be said for continuing to preserve that life, worthless as Kullen deemed it to be. Kahn studied the ship a minute then turned to Hesar. “Get Noll on the horn and tell him I want the bodies of our fighters brought out to the Vortex.” “Why?” Kullen asked, tearing his attention from the dark man who was glaring back at him none-too kindly. “We were going to bury them in a mass grave on Rysalia Prime, but I think it might be best to take them to Haelstrom Point and send them into the Hole.” “What the hell for?” Kullen demanded. Kahn looked at the ship. “We'll send her in with them. Set them both free of Tribunal evil.” “I get your meaning,” McGregor agreed. He looked over at the Vortex. “How many bodies are you taking about?” “About thirty,” Hesar spoke for the Admiral. “We were lucky. Twenty-nine women and one man.” “The lone male was one of Cree's,” Kahn said. “One of his Shepherds.” “Not the young one, I pray. Not the one called Lona,” Lares Taborn spoke up. Kahn looked at the massive man. “I'm afraid so.” “Bad,” Lares pronounced. “Very bad.” He had met the boy and liked him very much. “Take Thorne and Noll,” Kahn told McGregor. “You shouldn't need any more crew than that should you?” Raine thought a moment. “For an LRC? I'll need three beside myself.” Kahn nodded. He looked at Hesar. “Go with him, Teal.” His attention shifted to the Necromanian giant. “I go where the son of the McGregor goes,” Lares stated and headed with the young Serenian prince toward the black ship. Kullen rubbed his hands together. “Shall we go get our Prime Reaper, then, before he grows any taller?” The men were silent as they filed on board Symthian Kullen's ship. The other five Reapers: Coure and Kiel, who were twins; Tohre; Belial; and Gehdrin were already on board with their men. Kahn took his seat at the Captain's console and thought of the last words Dr. Dean had said to him before he left for the docking bays.

“With over ninety-eight percent of the population being women now, there won't be a need for Retrieval Units.” “Unless,” she had answered quietly, “you go after men this time.” Kahn shuddered. With three hundred thousand men dead on fifteen space stations, that left a little more than five hundred thousand on Rysalia Prime. With a ratio of 48 women to every man before this all beganHe shuddered again. It was too terrifying to think about. Thank God the men of Rysalia Prime had been spared the evil that had been visited upon the men of the Frontier Stations. **** HAEL SEJM and Sada MacCorkingdale, one of her followers, did not speak as they walked along the Boulevard of Tears. Their faces were hidden within the deep cowls of their dark blue postulant's robes and they walked stooped, the better to hide their features. The leather sandals they wore made slapping sounds on the cobblestones as they made their way to the religious center of Tethys, The Mother. “Good morning, Daughters,” they were greeted by the Guardess of the Gate, who manned the tall verdigris portal behind which lay the octagonal-shaped grounds of the center. Silently lifting one hand in greeting, Hael made good use of the rules of the Order, which forbade its members to speak until they were once more behind the twelve-foot high bronze perimeter of the compound. As the gate was unlocked for them to enter, Hael raised her head only high enough to allow her to get a glimpse of the center. A grim smile touched her pursed lips as she swept her eyes along the cluster of seven 600 foot tall black marble towers which circled the soaring majesty of the center's main building: the 1400 foot tall amethyst-sheathed obelisk called the Titaness. Hael's furtive gaze moved over the immaculately groomed grounds with their six oval fountains; the cobblestone courtyard which encircled the Reflecting Pool at the base of the Titaness. Her heart began to accelerate. She was with her own kind. Her sisters. The Daughters of the Multitude, at last! She and the other woman were safely within the protective arms of the Order and no man was allowed on these sacred grounds. A sigh of relief came from both women as they pushed back the hoods of their robes to reveal their faces. The Guardess of the Gate smiled at them as the massive portal closed and locked. “We have been expecting you, Sister,” she said. **** THE BIOENGINEER breathed a sigh of relief. “Then it isn't contagious,” she said. Beryla held up the test tube of pale blue liquid. She had cloned the original retrovirus and had then set to work on a vaccine. Working around the clock for the past thirteen hours, she believed she was only an hour or two away from success. “The only way the virus can be contracted is through breathing in the living bacterium,” Beryla explained. “Once it's in the lungs, it attaches itself to the air sacs. It isn't expelled so it can't be passed from one person to another.” She was exhausted and her voice hoarse. “Once the bacteria is inhaled, it starts to destroy the immune system at such a rapid pace, we could never administer an antigen fast enough to stop it.” “Like the old Ebola virus from the late nineties,” suggested Dorrie. “Yes,” the Director agreed. “It, too, was a hemorrhagic virus.” “Can we safely conclude this horror won't repeat itself?” asked Amala. The Director held up the test tube containing the lethal virus. “I am going to destroy this as soon as the vaccine is developed.” She stared with fascination at the innocuous-looking liquid. “I want to make sure this demonic product of Sejm's warped mind is never unleashed on the men of any world ever again!”

**** THE PROPHETESS-Mother's hands were folded into the loose sleeves of her purple gown as she led her flock up the serpentine stairway of the Titaness. Twelve women in lavender silk robes followed silently in the Prophetess-Mother's wake. The flickering lights of lavender candles lit up the circular stairwell and cast long shadows on the gilded plaster walls. It was evening; the time for Vespers. The women were heading for the vertex of the obelisk upon which rested a hundred foot wide circular platform. Opened to the evening air, protected only by an intricate fretwork railing around the outer perimeter, the Chanting Dais was a focal point of more than two thousand blue-clad women of the Order of Oceania who were gathered in a circle around the Reflecting Pool far below, their faces lit by the shifting lights of torches set in high stanchions. Cyle Acet, the spiritual leader of these women, gained the platform just as the last melodic tone came from the Vespers Bell. She stood aside as her Court fanned out around the platform and took their places facing the statue of Tethys, The Mother. When everyone was in her assigned place, the Prophetess-Mother walked to the statue of their beloved Creatoress and knelt; the women on the platform, as well as those on the ground far below, knelt with her. “Oh, Majesty of the Multitude, Fruitful Mother of us all: Hear out prayer!” Cyle chanted. “Hear our prayer!” came the united response from the women. Sejm spoke the words almost absently as she stood high atop the pinnacle of their Order's power. She closed her eyes to the stirring of the brisk wind that whipped her robes around her ankles and breathed in the smell of frangipani borne on the air from the botanical gardens a mile away. She stood with her Sisters then turned with them to face the four arcs of the heavens, the wind pushing at their backs. The Prophetess-Mother lifted her arms to the evening sky. “Lead us from our misery, oh, Mother of us all!” she cried out. “Lead us!” “Teach us the pathways to peace and prosperity!” “Teach us!” “Grant us the fulfillment of our bodies and souls!” “Grant us!” “Grace us with the wisdom to rule our world with a just hand and a pure heart!” “Grace us!” “Protect us from the savagery of the male who would abuse us and enslave us; who would murder our Sisters with impunity and slay our offspring!” “Protect us!” “And give us your Majestic help to set right the wrong that was done to our Sisters on this very night so long ago!” “Help us!” Cyle Acet brought her arms down from the heavens to which she had cast her prayer and extended a hand to her Court. “May the Wind be with you,” she said softly. Hael Sejm moved as one with her sisters as each woman reached into the pocket of her robe and withdrew a vial of pale blue liquid. Uncorking the vials, the women released the live bacterium into the wind that swept over Rysalia Prime. Chapter 25 THERE WAS a noxious smell coming from the Reaper's cell as the group of five men made their way down the poorly lit corridor. Onar, already infuriated to find the guard absent from his post, drew a clean handkerchief from the pocket of his tunic and held it over his quivering nostrils. “Put Hein on report, Ensign,” he ordered. “Sixty lashes for dereliction of duty.”

The four Interrogation Guards-ranged two in front, two behind Onar-felt a distinct uneasiness as they neared the prisoner's cell. It was an intricate part of their training: the interception of alarming currents floating through the ether around them. The implants buried deep within their brains were giving off danger signals. They looked at one another, delving the depths of each other's discomfort, then, almost in unison, their hands strayed to the phasers on their utility belts; they switched the settings to heavy stun. Onar came to an abrupt halt about four feet from the door when one of the Guards held out a barricading arm into which the old man walked. “What are you doing? Get out of my way, you imbecile!” “Your pardon, Lord Onar, but we are concerned,” the Chief Guard answered. He nudged his chin toward the door and the three other men moved into defensive positions to either side of the cell opening. The Chief Guard unhooked a phospho light from his utility belt and thumbed on the switch. Onar stayed where he was as the greenish-yellow light bobbled at the threshold of the cell door. He trusted his guards; their psychic abilities were something he never questioned. At the Chief Guard's nod, the man on the far side of the door reached up to slap a hand at the door pad entry button. The door shushed back. Ensign Graz shifted the phospho light from his right hand to his left, then drew his phaser. So far, there had been no movement from the cell, no sound, and it was now obvious to all five men that something was very wrong. Graz pointed the light into the cell and nodded. His men raced in: one to either side of the door, one straight into the space between. “What the hell was that?” one man cursed. He had tripped and fallen, his hand sliding into something sticky and thick. Graz stepped through the door with his light and the beam fell on the thing over which his man had tripped. The Ensign could not stop himself from gagging any more than his Sergeant could keep from turning and puking up his morning meal when he found what he had landed in. “By the gods!” Onar heard a guard gasp then there were more sounds of retching. “Graz?” Onar questioned. “Don't you move!” a guard roared. “Don't you fucking move or I'll fry you, Cree!” Onar, more concerned that he would be denied the exquisite pleasure of hanging Kamerone Cree than with his own personal safety, rushed through the cell opening, but was brought up short by the horrific sight that met him. The missing guard's body was lying just beyond the opening; his head, trailing torn arteries and ragged chunks of flesh, was lying about two feet away. The eyes were gone, as were the ears, and the dead man's gaping mouth was an obscene hole where two rats played hide and seek. “Urghhhhhh!” Graz groaned, no longer able to keep the hot surge of vomit from erupting. The contents of his stomach splashed against the wall on which he leaned, his light still trained on what was left of another dead man's body. The other body-Onar thought it might well be Deon Inse-was propped against one wall, his head tilted impossibly flush with one shoulder. His glazed, milky-white eyes would stare forever at whatever horror they had last seen. Where his throat should have been, there was a ragged, gaping hole; the upper portion of spine was missing, allowing the head to recline at its grotesque angle. Also missing were his hands, snapped off at the forearms. Onar shuddered. He wasn't so much affected by the sights upon which he gazed as he was by the brute strength it had taken to rip Inse's hands from his body. “Where is Cree?” he asked. “He's there,” Graz croaked, swinging an arm behind him to the dark shadows of the cell. He gagged, then convulsed as more bile left him. Slipping the phospho light from Graz's rigid grip, Onar swept it over the damp walls until it came to rest on the thing hunkered down in the corner of the far wall. For once in his life, Traye Onar was speechless and he took a step back. “Hungry, old man?” A throaty gurgle of laughter erupted from the Reaper. “Here, try this!” A yelp of disgust piped from the Justice as he leapt back from the grizzly offering that was thrown at his feet. He stared down at one of Inse's missing hands, stripped of its flesh all the way down to the bone on all but the ring finger where the Keeper's signet ring still banded the flesh.

“Too lean?” Kamerone Cree chortled. “Try this one!” Inse's other arm-chunks of flesh chewed away-was flung at Onar's head. “God!” a guard breathed as the horrible missile hit him in the chest, and then plopped to the floor. The guard's eyes rolled up in his head and he slumped to the floor in a dead faint, his head hitting the stone with a meaty thud. Cree howled with laughter and the blood-curdling sound echoed through the nine by twelve cell, sending chills of terror through the other men. Slowly, he began to rise, his gaze riveted on Traye Onar. “G-Graz!” Onar screeched. “D-do something!” Graz armed the vomit from his mouth and turned. He stared at the Reaper who was on his feet, his lips skinned back from sharp, wicked fangs. “Graazzzzzz!” Still trying to swallow the bitter vetch lingering in his throat, Graz aimed his phaser and ordered his men to fire. The shrill tones of four phasers set on heavy stun pierced the space of the small room, nearly deafening those gathered inside. Cree was picked up by the quadruple blasts and flung back against the wall, his arms to either side of his body as though he were being crucified. He slid down the wall, and then fell to the floor. What would have killed a human man merely rendered the Reaper unconscious. **** KULLEN WAS the first off the ship, his long red hair blowing in the crisp wind. He sniffed the air, frowned at the heavy scent of lavender, and then turned to Feis Coure. “Do you smell that?” Coure lifted his head, inhaled. “Aye. Not an unpleasant scent, but very thick.” Kahn came off The Sirocco behind its Captain. He stopped. “Merciful Alel,” he whispered. “That must be the gas we're smelling.” “But how?” Kullen growled. “My surrogate mother is here,” Kahn replied, knowing it as surely as he stood in the deserted loading bay. Feis Coure put a hand on Kahn's shoulder. “If that is the case, perhaps Cree is safe.” “If Dr. Dean was correct, the Retrieval crews and those men loyal to the Resistance were the only ones inoculated against the death virus,” Kahn replied. “But does that mean the Tribunal and its guards are dead?” He shook his head. “We can't be sure.” “Then we go on to the Interrogation Center,” said Kullen. The Keepers and Shepherds preceded their six Reaper captains and Kahn. With phasers set to kill, they moved down the corrugated corridor into the main docking station, the hub from which eight docking bays projected. An eerie silence hung over the station and their footsteps rang out on the metal flooring. “Where the hell is everybody?” grumbled Kullen. “Smythian,” Coure said quietly, pointing. Beyond the Ops counter, there were bodies lying scattered on the floor in pools of drying blood. From the agonized expressions on the dead men's faces, the passage from their world to the next had not been an easy one. The men counted twenty-nine corpses. “The gods be good to them,” Tohre, the Reaper captain of The Chinook, sighed. Kahn looked away from the bodies, his face set, his fists clenched. The woman who had given him life was responsible for this mass atrocity. At that moment, he hated her more than he had ever hated anyone in his entire life and he vowed to find her if it was the last thing he ever did. Her and her vile partner, LeJong Kym. “They will go to the Titaness,” Kullen stated, reading Kahn's mind just as the other Reapers had. “There is protection for them there.” “There will never be protection for them,” Tylan Kahn snapped. Tohre and Belial, the most superstitious of the Reapers, exchanged a look, but it was Belial who

spoke. “These women are magi, Admiral. They can-” “Die just as other women can,” Kamahl Gehdrin, the Captain of The Levanter, barked. He swept an arm around the room. “Look at this! Is this not to be avenged? Does no one pay for this obscenity?” “We didn't say that,” Tohre put in. “But to attack the stronghold of the Multitude? That is folly, Kamahl!” “Stow the argument!” Kahn ordered. “We have more important matters at hand.” He cast one final look at the dead, then turned resolutely away and headed for the transporter room. There were more bodies lying juxtaposed on the floor of the Ministry of Engineering. Unlike the docking bay where the smell of death had dissipated quickly with the opening of the air lock, the stench of blood was thick here and the Reapers growled, their generic hunger goading them. “Are any of you near Transition?” Kahn grated, his hard gaze shifting over the dark warriors. “By the gods, I hope not!” one of the Shepherds grimaced. “I think I speak for us all,” Kullen stated. “It is safe for a few days more.” He pointed at Belial. “He is close.” Kahn nodded. “All right, then. Let's get the hell off this floating graveyard.” He looked at one of the Keepers. “Wynth, isn't it?” At the Keeper's nod, the Admiral asked him to stay behind to operate the transporter. “Should there be the first sign of danger, get us out of there ASAP. Understood?” “Aye, sir!” Kahn looked around him. “How many of us are there?” “Thirty-two,” Tohre replied. “We'll transport down in four groups then,” Kahn suggested. He pointed at eight Keepers. “You will be First Team. Once down, move into position to secure the transport site.” “We'll go next,” Tohre put in, indicating Belial, Gehdrin and himself. “Just in case.” “Kiel, you and Coure will follow Kullen and myself as fourth team,” Kahn said, waiting for the first three Reapers to leave. He stepped onto the platform as soon as the beam came back then nodded at Wynth. “Let's do it, Ensign.” By the time Kryn Kiel and Feis Coure transported down to Rysalia Prime's Fleet Ops center, the area had been secured and scouted. Hundreds of bodies-some lying on top of one another-littered Ops. The stench was nearly unbearable and the floors were sticky with congealing blood. The men had to wade through the gory mess to leave the Ops center for the doorway that would lead them to the outside. “Why don't we take the tram from Ops to the Tribunal Hall?” Tohre inquired, moving so that he was walking in pace with the Admiral. “I don't want to signal our coming, Tohre, just in case any Empire warriors are left standing,” Kahn said. Kullen snorted as he swept his hawk-like gaze over the masses of bodies lying everywhere around them. “I don't believe we have to worry about that, Admiral.” “Where are the women?” Belial queried. “I haven't seen the first gods-be-damned woman since we docked.” He hunched his massive shoulders. “I don't like it.” He glanced around. “I don't like it one gods-be-damned bit!” Kahn had to agree; the silence was uncanny and the absence of the women was beginning to concern him. He looked up at the cameras that were cosmetically hidden on trees and lamp posts and wondered if anyone was watching their approach. He didn't have long to wonder. As soon as the men moved onto the Boulevard of Tears, the wide thoroughfare that ringed the religious center of Tethys, the women began to filter out from the surrounding buildings. The verdigris gates of the center swung open and more women began to filter out, moving into position to line the cobblestone walkway that lead into the compound. The women were silent, their attention riveted on Kahn and his companions. Everywhere the men looked, there were women, standing five and six deep in the circle that was forming around them. Kiel looked behind them. “They have cut off any escape,” he said softly. The men turned to find themselves hemmed in from behind, the women closing the cordon around

them. Looking in every direction, they could see no way to escape the throng short of firing their phasers and even then there were far too many women. At full capacity, the phasers could take out no more than a fourth of the silently shuffling females. Tylan Kahn's mouth became dry. He felt the animosity-as he knew the Reapers did-that was coming off the women in waves. As he scanned the crowd, he could see hate in many colors glaring back at him from eyes that were hard and brittle. He swallowed, knowing they had walked into a trap. “I don't think this is a welcoming committee,” said Coure. “I will take as many of them with me as my belly will hold,” Tohre announced. He despised females and took great pleasure in slaughtering them when the need arose. The only reason he was with the traitor Kahn and the Resistance was because of Cree. At the thought of the Prime Reaper, Tohre put out a hand and stopped Kahn. “What of Cree?” “If they have him, he's in as much danger as the rest of us,” Kahn replied. “More so,” Kullen corrected. “He is our leader.” “I believe-” Kahn started to say, but cut himself off as a small, dark-haired woman appeared at the gates of the religious center. She stood there, her hands tucked into the voluminous sleeves of her purple robe, with her unfriendly gaze locked on Tylan Kahn. “The Prophetess-Mother,” Tohre informed Kahn needlessly. “Stay here,” Kahn said. “I'll see what she wants.” “Our hides,” muttered Kullen. Cyle Acet smiled slightly, her unfathomable attention shifting to Symthian Kullen. She held his glare for a moment, and then looked away, dismissing him. She focused on the Chief of Space Fleet Operations as he walked to within four feet of where she stood. “Lady,” Kahn acknowledged. “I take it we are your prisoners.” Cyle inclined her head. “Yes, Admiral, you are.” “And what do you intend to do with us?” The Prophetess-Mother's smile was brutal. “We intend to execute you, Admiral.” She removed one hand from her robe and pointed to her left. The women gathered there moved back, fanning out to form a gauntlet at the end of which was a platform. On the top of the platform, there was a scaffold. On the scaffold, a noose wrapped around his neck, stood Kamerone Cree, his hands tied behind his back. “As you can see,” Cyle said, “your hero has been taken.” Even from the distance at which he stood from Cree, Kahn could tell the Reaper was barely alive. There were welts and cuts on his once-handsome face and two Amazeen women were having to hold him erect to keep him from hanging himself. Kahn swung his furious stare at the Prophetess-Mother. “Did you have to beat him first?” “This was not our doing,” someone said and the women parted as Hael Sejm walked forward. “Onar did that to him.” She grinned at her son. “He allowed Konnor Rhye the pleasure. It will be our pleasure to hang him slowly as he watches his men burn to death before him.” Once more the women parted to reveal a round wire cage, the floor of which was covered with dried twigs and branches. A tall woman stood beside the cage's entry, a burning torch in her hand. Kahn's eyes flared. “NO!” he bellowed, the thought of being burned alive brought a fear to end all fears. A red-hot fog of murderous rage closed in on Kahn and he leapt toward his mother with every intention of strangling her. He went down under the fists of a dozen women before he ever reached her. Hael Sejm looked out over the heads of the crowd and watched with satisfaction as the men were first surrounded, then beaten to the ground before being rendered unconscious. A few women were killed, some hurt seriously, but the men had stood no chance against the superior numbers and the savage glee with which the women had attacked them. Before many minutes had passed, all the men, except for Kahn and Cree, were locked into the wire cage. Kahn was dragged away by two muscled Diabolusian warrioresses and carried to the Titaness. “Your son will be a very angry man when he comes to, Hael,” the Prophetess-Mother predicted.

Hael nodded. “True, but he can be controlled.” “You have made a deadly enemy of him.” Hael shrugged. “It could not be helped.” She looked toward the scaffold, her eyes gleaming. “I have not forgotten,” Cyle told her. A commotion near the back of the crowd drew the women's attention. A young man was being pulled kicking and cursing toward them. “We found him,” the Guardess of the Gate announced. “Good,” Hael proclaimed. “Bring him here. I want him to see this.” She looked around her. “Where is Kym?” No one answered. The Chrystallusian woman had not been seen for several hours. “It does not matter,” said Hael. “I fear she has turned against us. Let her go her own way. We do not need her.” She lifted her head. “Bring the bastard to me. It is time he atoned for the sin of his existence!” **** ENSIGN RYLAN Wynth looked down as a request for transport came in on his console. He flicked on the Vid-Com to find a ravaged, bloody face staring back at him. “Get me up there!” the man pleaded. “Hurry!” Jittery as he already was, Wynth hit the transport button before he realized that the man he was beaming up to the docking station had not been with the original thirty-two that had gone down to Rysalia Prime. By the time the man materialized on the transporter pad, it was too late. Wynth headed toward him, with every intention of killing him. He hadn't counted on the man wanting to kill him. A phaser aimed right at Wynth's heart, picked him up and threw him against the far wall where the Keeper Ensign landed with a loud thud. He slid sideways, careening into a jumble of dead bodies and lay still as his murderer ran for one of the runabouts docked at the station. As the engine of the runabout engaged, Wynth pushed himself up from the floor and staggered toward the Vid-Com. After trying to raise Admiral Kahn and his men, Wynth did the only thing he could think to do before he died. He radioed the Vortex. **** SHE GRABBED a handful of his thick hair and jerked his head back until the cords in his neck stood out in sharp relief. The rope around his neck dragged painfully across his windpipe and became tighter still. “I want you to watch this, Cree,” Hael Sejm snarled. “Open your eyes and watch!” She pulled brutally on his hair, forcing him to pry his eyelids open, and anchoring his head so that he could not turn away from the sight to which she pointed him. When she was certain the Reaper was alert enough to understand what was happening, she looked toward the cage. “Burn them!” Cree was panting for breath, trying to draw air into lungs that were badly bruised and aching from the restriction of the air allowed into them by the tight noose. He was barely conscious, but he heard the bellows of rage from the Reapers, the shrieks of agony from the Shepherds, the pleas for mercy from the Keepers, and his eyes shifted wearily to the place were the men with whom he had lived and trained and fought were being burned alive. Just as he had been unable to help his father, he was unable to help these men, some of them his own cousins. He watched helplessly as they scrambled over one another, trying to escape the encroaching flames. He saw fingers curled around the wire mesh of the cage and hands desperately pulled at the obstacle to freedom and life. He caught the first faint smells of crisping flesh and watched as Kullen, and then Coure burst into flames and staggered back. “Oh, god,” he whispered, slowly closing his eyes. “You have no god, Reaper!” Hael Sejm spit. She flung his head away from her and took great delight in the gasp of pain that came from Cree's bloody lips. She turned and walked for the lever that would

release the platform on which the Reaper stood. The Amazeen women holding Kamerone Cree stepped back, making sure they were not on that portion of the wooden platform that would drop. Cree sagged when the women released their hold on him, but he managed to force his knees to hold him erect to keep from being strangled. He staggered, felt the pull of the noose, and had almost made up his mind to bring his knees up quickly and get it over with. He knew this platform well for he'd been witness to many Tribunal executions. The infernal device was made to drop slowly, the trapdoor descending inch by inch. As the prisoner's feet slipped out from under him, the noose draped around his neck slowly tightening. Far more evil and brutal that the quick-release hanging platforms used on Terra that snapped the neck when activated, this instrument of torture ensured a slow, suffocating death that gave its victim time to know he was being executed. He didn't want to die that way. With one last look at the men who had come to rescue him, wondering if Kahn was one of those being fried inside the cage, he took one last, desperate breath and started to jerk his knees up. Hael didn't give him time. She released the lever and his feet slid from under him, down the incline, and he lost the ability to push. He tried levering himself up the slowly lowering platform, but could gain no purchase with his boot heels. The fear of dying in such a gruesome way terrified him, sending a rush of adrenaline through his system. With the adrenaline came a momentary spurt of strength and he used it to break his wrists free of the hemp that bound them behind his back. His hands came up to his throat, clawing at the constriction, and he hooked his fingers under the noose, trying to pull it away from his throat. Hael watched her enemy struggling to breathe, to live. She smiled as his weight began to descend down the slanted platform, his body pulling on the rope, tightening the hold of the noose. “Die you worthless bastard,” she whispered. “Die and your mother will be avenged!” His fingers lost their grip on the rope and the noose tightened. He dug at his flesh, rending it, dragging long bloody furrows down his throat as he sought to draw air into his depleted lungs. He was strangling, gagging, desperately trying to save himself, but the platform increased it's slant until he was hanging from the noose, all hope of breathing gone. **** BRIDGET TURNED as the door to Tylan Kahn's quarters opened. She blinked, unable to credit what she was seeing. “Koni?” she questioned, her brows drawing together. Konnor Rhye was filthy, his uniform torn in a dozen places and one sleeve was splattered with blood. His hair was tousled, his face streaked with dirt, and he was trembling violently. “What happened to you?” Bridget asked, going to him for he looked as though he would collapse at any moment. “You…” He stopped, seeming to catch his breath. “You have to come with me, now, Bridget.” “You're hurt,” she said. There was blood dripping from the fingertips of his right hand to the pale green carpet. “I have a ship,” he said. “A runabout.” He looked about him and she realized his eyes were glazed. “It can get us to Terra.” Bridget's lips parted. “Terra?” she repeated. “I don't understand. What-” “There are hundreds of thousands dead on Rysalia Prime. Lying in the streets. Blood everywhere,” he said, shuddering. “When I got to the transport center, there were hundreds of women waiting for Kahn and his men. They were taken into custody.” “Kahn was captured?” she whispered, her eyes filling with tears. “You have to come with me, now,” he said again. She reached out and took his arm. “Where is Kahn?” she said, shaking him. “Where is he?” Konnor was staring at her but she doubted very much that he was actually seeing her. His voice was robotic, chilling in its lack of emotion. “The Reapers and their crews were herded into the square and-” He shuddered, his entire body convulsing.

“Where is Kahn?” Bridget demanded. “Did he find Cree?” At the mention of his hated enemy's name, Rhye seemed to snap out of the daze into which he had fallen. His vision focused and he looked around at Bridget. “They burned them, Bridget. Those gods-be-damned bitches burned the Reapers and their crews in the public square. They are all dead.” “Cree?” she whispered, her eyes filling with tears. “What of Cree?” “They hanged Cree. They-” He got no further for Bridget let out an ungodly scream of grief and fainted into his grimy arms. Konnor caught her, staggering beneath the weight of her inert body. He grunted, lifting her higher against him then turned and started for the Admiral's private elevator that would take them to Docking Bay 2, where the Admiral's starcruiser, The Khamsin, was waiting. In the elevator, he stared ahead of him, seeing the destruction, the fury of the women on Rysalia Prime. He could still hear their cries of ecstasy as Kullen and the rest of them were burned to death in a bonfire that could be seen for miles. He could smell the horrific stench of the frying flesh, the hideous fumes bubbling up from the Reapers’ black blood. His ears still rang with the agonized death screams of the Keepers and the Shepherds. And he would feel ‘til his dying day the hands that had grabbed him and taken him down, pulling at his hair and clothing, scratching and pinching his flesh, tearing at his body with nails and teeth until one woman had intervened. “This is Rhye!” He shuddered, thinking about how the crazed women had moved back from him, their bloody nails packed with his flesh. There had been fury in their eyes until his name began to repeat from one mouth to another to another until they were all silent. He had cringed on the ground, bleeding and torn, and waited for them to kill him. “You are a lucky man, Konnor Rhye,” the Prophetess-Mother had said as she pushed through the crowd. “Don't burn me,” he pleaded, coming to his knees, his hands clasped as though in prayer. “I beg you, please don't burn!” The woman had come to him and stood over him, smiling down at him. “You are Bridget's betrothed,” she said. For the first time Konnor felt a faint glimmer of hope. “I was,” he said. “And will be again,” the woman assured him. “Do you still want her?” “With all my heart,” he swore for it was the gods’ truth. He flinched as whispers started from mouth to mouth to mouth among the women. “Then rise, Konnor Rhye,” the woman ordered. “And go to her while you still can.” “You are going to let me go?” “There is a ship ready for you on FSK-14. I will send four of my best warrioresses to help you. Take Bridget and leave this place.” She stroked his dirty hair. “Take her back to Earth where she belongs. She is responsible for us gaining our freedom and we will grant hers.” As Konnor Rhye placed Bridget's unconscious body into one of the Khamsin's E.S.U.'s and injected her with hypersleep, he could not believe his good fortune. There were four women waiting for him on the ship and they would help him fly the starcruiser to Terra. They were looking at him with respect and admiration and he basked in their warm, friendly smiles. He realized they considered him a hero. “Where are we going, milord?” one of the women asked. Konnor thought about that for a moment. Should anyone ever come looking for Bridget, they would surely go first to her home in Iowa. That would be the most logical place to begin. He picked a name at random. “Georgia,” he said, his decision made. No one would ever think to look there. Chapter 26

RAINE MCGREGOR had turned over the controls of the Vortex to Tealson Hesar with the stern admonition that the man not fly them into hell. Scrambling aboard The Tempest, The Vortex's runabout, the young Serenian nobleman had no time to brief the second man who joined him. Together, they got the ship out of its docking pod and were arcing away from the prison ship before bothering to introduce themselves. “McGregor,” Raine said. “Noll,” Alexi responded. “Cree's 2/IC now.” Raine grimaced. “Not unless we get his ass off that scaffold!” The third man of their little crew grunted and began to type in coordinates on his transporter console. “I am Taborn, Prince of Necroman,” the dark man stated. “I have the jackal locked in.” “I would suggest you hurry then,” Noll advised. “Vortex to Tempest.” Thorne, the last member of the crew, flicked on the Vid-Com. “Tempest,” he greeted. “We have Kahn inside the obelisk. Repeat: inside the obelisk.” “I read you, Commander,” Thorne acknowledged. “Do you have numbers?” “Aye.” Lares Taborn's fingers danced over his keyboard as Tealson Hesar gave him the exact position of the Admiral. “Got it,” he said. “Bring them aboard, Your Grace,” Raine ordered. Lares grinned at the title he had not heard in a long time. Not that he cared that much for titles. He glanced at his screen, made sure what he had typed was what he wanted, then hit the enter key. “Tempest?” “Aye, Commander?” “FYI, gentlemen,” Hesar announced. “We have all but one of our targets on board the Vortex.” Raine and Alexi exchanged a look. “Which one don't you have?” Raine asked. There was a pause, then: “His lady.” Before Raine McGregor could reply, the transport beam clicked on and the cabin filled with icy blue light. Two figures-one standing, one reclining-appeared on the transporter pad. “Got them!” Lares shouted and he reached out to shut the transporter down immediately should someone try to beam on board. He shoved his chair back and rushed toward the pad, drawing his dagger as he ran. Kahn was dazed, staring about him as though he couldn't quite comprehend what had happened. One moment he had been sitting in a locked room inside the Titaness, the next he was standing in a runabout. He opened his mouth to speak, but never got the chance for a bull of a man shoved him off the transporter pad and Kahn went crashing into a chair and fell over it. His head slammed into a console and he went out like a light. Cree was struggling to breathe, his hands digging at the noose that was constricted so tightly around his neck, the hemp was embedding itself in his flesh. He was gasping, heaving, his legs pushing at the floor as his nails gouged into his throat. He couldn't pull the rope loose and he was turning blue as he jerked with all his waning strength to free his windpipe. Choking sounds came from his tortured throat and his eyes were wide with fear and hopelessness. “Get that gods-be-damned rope off him!” Noll bellowed. Lares dropped down beside Cree, jammed the handle of his dagger between his teeth and reached out to pull Cree's hands away from the rope. He was fighting Cree's hands, trying to push them away so he could get to the rope; but Cree was beyond realizing there was help at hand. He was suffocating, strangling to death, and he was aware of nothing but the encroaching blackness that was spiraling around the edges of his vision and the crushing pain lodged over his windpipe. “Cut it off him, Lares!” Raine shouted. Taborn threw a leg over Cree, straddling him, and was valiantly trying to pull Cree's hands away. He looked up, his own eyes wild. “Someone help me!” he grated around the dagger clenched between his teeth.

Thorne moved with the speed of a weretiger, skidding to his knees at Cree's head and reaching out to grab the man's clawing hands. It took all his strength to pull the Reaper's arms up and over his head and anchor them to the floor so Taborn could slip his knife under the hemp and cut it away. Kahn came to, shook his head, and sat up slowly, putting a hand to the growing knot on his left temple. He winced at the touch, and then groaned. Instant fury filled him for he realized the headache he'd had all day and had finally gotten rid of was now back full force. He looked up, fully intending to mutilate whoever had brought the gods-be-damned thing back to him and saw what he thought were two men trying to murder Kamerone Cree. With a bellow of rage, the Admiral threw himself at the man holding a knife to the Reaper's throat and they went crashing against the bulkhead. “What the…?” Raine shouted. Thorne looked down at Cree and thought he saw the man breathing as well as could be expected. He got up to pull the enraged Admiral off the dark man. “Tempest?” Raine ignored the hail from the Vortex. He was watching Cree struggling to breathe. The Reaper had turned over on his side, his hands to his throat, and desperately gasped for air. The horrible choking sounds told the young Serenian, Cree was not getting air into his lungs. His face was still blue and he was so weak from lack of oxygen, his movements were becoming feeble as he kicked at the floor. Even as Raine watched, the Reaper went limp. “Tempest? What is your status?” “Noll!” Raine yelled. “Take over!” “Tempest! What is your status?” Alexi took the flight controls and reached over to switch on his Vid-Com screen. “We've got a situation, Vortex. Hold your gods-be-damned water!” He flicked off the Vid-Com. Thorne had managed to pull Kahn off Lares before McGregor reached Cree. The dark man was snarling, his meaty fists bunched, and he was about to charge his opponent before he realized Raine was kneeling beside Cree and doing the unthinkable: he was kissing the man! The sight brought Lares Taborn to a shocked standstill. Cree wasn't moving and the Serenian bantling was kissing him! “There will be none of that!” the Necromanian roared. He started forward only to be brought up short again, by the fool who had attacked him. “He's trying to save his life, darkling!” Kahn bellowed, shoving Lares away. “Darkling!” Lares thundered, his eyes narrowing. “We'll discuss it later,” Kahn threw at him before dropping down beside Raine. “We will discuss it later!” Lares said emphatically. Raine breathed into Cree's mouth again and realized there had to be an obstruction to the airway. He didn't even look up as he held out his hand. “Give me your blade, Lares!” he demanded. “For what?” Thorne reacted just as quickly as he had before. He snatched his own dagger from his belt and flipped the blade over, extending the handle to McGregor. “What else?” he asked instinctively knowing more was required. “Something hollow,” Raine replied, putting the blade to Cree's throat. “A breathing tube?” Kahn asked, wincing as Raine drove the tip of his blade into the hollow at the base of Cree's throat. “Aye.” “Will this do?” Lares asked. He pulled at the necklace he wore, broke the string and pulled off one of the reeds. He held it out to Raine. Raine looked down at the reed, glanced up at Lares, who shrugged, then inserted the bamboo tube into Cree's windpipe. Black blood bubbled around the incision as the Serenian bent over his patient and breathed air into the reed, clearing it. There was a gurgling sound then a whistle as air flowed into Cree's lungs. Every man there held his breath, waiting for Cree to draw his. When he did, there was a collective sigh of relief.

“Tell Hesar…” Raine stopped, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth, not surprised to find his hand trembling. “Let The Vortex know we need a Healer ASAP.” He took off his jacket, rolled it up, and lifted Cree's head to place the jacket beneath it so the unconscious Reaper could breathe better. “Tell him to hurry.” “You can beam one of the women from FSK-” Kahn started to say, but Lares cut him off. “We have it under control, you Rysalian stinkcat!” The dark man resumed his seat at the transporter and activated the signal. Kahn glanced at Taborn, knew he'd have to fight the Necromanian eventually if there was ever to be peace between them. He looked down at the huge hands and wondered if he'd survive the meeting. “Vortex? We need a Healer stat,” Noll radioed. “She's on her way,” came the reply. Kahn's brows drew together. “There are women on the Vortex?” “Aye,” Raine acknowledged. “As soon as we heard there was a problem on Rysalia Prime, we snatched them up.” He sighed. “There was nothing more they could do anyway. There is no longer a need for the vaccine. The only Rysalian men left alive are on these two ships.” “No, you're mistaken. There is one more,” Kahn snarled. “Who?” Thorne queried, hoping against hope it was his best friend, Brelan Hascom. Before Kahn could answer, the beam clicked on and Dr. Dean was standing there, Dorrie Burkhart beside her. The women hurried to their patient and began to assess the damage done to him. “We've got a little bit of a problem here,” Noll remarked, looking around. “McGregor would you care to join me?” “What kind of problem?” Kahn demanded. “We've a starfighter in pursuit,” Noll replied. “Weapons armed and locked in on us.” “Get us the hell out of here, then!” Kahn thundered. Raine McGregor slid into his console chair and began typing in commands as fast as his fingers could move. “Shields up!” he yelled. “Tempest!?” “We see ‘em!” Noll responded to Hesar's worried inquiry. “Get ‘em off our tail!” The ship was jolted with a hit from an energy blast before the shields could drop into place. The Tempest cantered to port with a sickening lurch that slammed Kahn, Thorne, and the two women into the bulkhead. “Gods-be-damned hell!” Kahn shrieked, his head colliding hard with a light array. He staggered, caught Dorrie before she could crash into him and swung her into a chair. “STRAP IN!” he ordered. Dr. Dean pushed away from the wall and scrambled to her patient, nearly falling over him as the ship was righted and another energy blast punched against the hull. “Get that bitch off my ass!” Noll screamed into the Vid-Com. “Hold your water, Tempest,” came the amused reply from the Vortex. “We've locked on.” There was an explosion aft that shot The Tempest forward about forty meters. The runabout tilted from side to side slightly in the wake of the concussion wave until McGregor got her under control. “Ah, Tempest? We suggest you get back to Mother as fast as your little legs will run. They are sending up two more fighters.” “We need to get Cree on board the other ship,” Dr. Dean insisted. “Vortex, we are sending you some company,” Lares stated. He punched into the numbers, then stood up. “You, warthog!” he said, grabbing Kahn and pushing him toward the transporter console. “Make yourself useful.” Kahn fell into the chair, snarling, but had sense enough not to protest. It wouldn't have done him any good anyway for the dark man had scooped Cree into his arms and was carrying the Reaper to the transporter pad. “Activate,” Kahn heard the Necroman order as he, Dorrie, and the Director stepped onto the transporter pad. “Tempest! Hard to starboard!” came Hesar's urgent warning. Raine McGregor rolled the runabout, heard Kahn cursing vehemently. “You okay, Admiral?”

Tylan Kahn didn't reply. He wanted to make sure Cree had arrived safely on board the Vortex. “Vortex, did you get them?” “Affirmative, Tempest.” There was a pause, then: “Get your ass up here, Sir! Those gods-be-damned woman have got an arsenal coming after you!” “Noll! Thorne! McGregor!” Kahn demanded. “On the pad!” He barely looked up as the three men did as they were told. He activated the transporter and sent them to the prison ship. “Vortex, I'm leading them away from the ship. How about bringing me on board at your earliest convenience?” “Will consider your request, Sir.” Tealson Hesar chuckled. From his console, he watched Tylan Kahn execute a perfect rollout and veer sharply to port. “He hasn't lost his punches,” the Keeper remarked. He used the sleeve of his royal blue uniform shirt to wipe away the perspiration on his face. Glancing up as Raine joined him, Hesar grinned. “Think you can handle this for a moment?” “I've been known to take a turn at the controls on occasion,” replied McGregor. “I want to make sure Cree's all right,” Hesar told him. By the time Kahn had led his pursers a safe distance from the Vortex and had beamed on board The Vortex, the pilotless runabout heading into deep space, Dr. Dean and her technicians were making Cree as comfortable as they could in the ship's sick bay. The Reaper was still unconscious, but his vital signs were stable. “His parasite will be working over time to repair all this damage as quickly as possible,” Dr. Dayle remarked. She wiped away some of the dried blood from Cree's face. “Whoever did this certainly enjoyed themselves.” “I would venture to say it was Lord Onar's men,” said Beryla Dean. She was laser stitching closed the tracheal incision made by the young Serenian nobleman now that Cree was breathing on his own. Tealson Hesar walked up to the surgical table. He was relieved to see the Reaper's normal ruddy color had returned. “He'll be all right, won't he?” “He's healing at a remarkable rate due to the parasitic intervention,” Dr. Dean acknowledged, “but I don't like the fact that he's still unconscious. He was without oxygen for a long time.” Hesar frowned. “Why does that concern you, Lady?” “There could be brain damage,” Dorrie answered for the Director. The Keeper shook his head vehemently. “The parasite would not allow it.” “How is he?” Tylan Kahn drew their attention as he came hurrying into the sick bay. “As well as can be expected under the circumstances,” Dr. Dean reported. “It's a wait-and-see at this point.” “Keep me informed,” Kahn said. He took one last look at Cree, and then cocked his head for Hesar to leave with him. There were nine men on the flight deck of the prison ship Vortex: Admiral Tylan Kahn, Commander Tealson Hesar, Lieutenant Alexi Noll, Ensign Paegan Thorne, Sergeants André Arbra and Hern Belvoir, and the two Princes, Raine McGregor and Lares Taborn. In sick bay, there were six women: Doctors Beryla Dean, Amala Dayle, and Aurora Burds and technicians Dorrie Burkhart, Ivonne O'Malley and Tina Portas. In all, sixteen survivors making a run for their lives to avoid the plasma missiles aimed their way. “No matter where we go in this galaxy, they'll follow,” Kahn was telling the men. “As long as they know Cree is alive, they'll keep coming.” “What do you suggest?” asked Raine. Kahn drew in a long breath, and then exhaled slowly. “We make for Terra.” Raine blinked. “Earth?” Kahn shrugged. “What choice do we have?” “You do not think they will follow us there, warthog?” snarled Lares. Tylan Kahn slowly turned his head and glared at the dark man. “Don't call me that again or I can promise you I will have you jettisoned out one of the gods-be-damned air locks!” Lares grinned. “Warthog,” he replied. “Lares,” Raine sighed. “Now is not the time.”

“I can see a few problems with that plan, Admiral,” Hesar put in, wanting to postpone the confrontation every man there knew would take place between Kahn and Taborn. “Let's hear them,” Kahn growled, snapping his attention away from the dark man. “For one thing,” Hesar said, holding up his hand and counting the reasons on his fingers. “We need a cybot to fly this baby while we're in ES.” “Make a run by FSK-14 and pick up Troilus,” Noll suggested. “Or get one off The Sirocco, Teal.” Hesar thought a moment. “Our ‘bot was off-line when we landed.” He looked worried. “What are our chances of snatching yours before we get blasted into dust?” “Computer!” Noll snapped. “Status on C-051468/040771.” The Vid-Com clicked on. “One moment, Lieutenant.” After a five-second pause, the computer reported: “Cybot 051468/040771 is in hard stasis on board The Revenant.” “Are there guards near The Revenant?” “Negative, Lieutenant.” “Is the cybot being monitored?” “No, Sir.” Noll exchanged a grin with Thorne. “Activate cybot 071468/040771 and have it ready for transport in 30 seconds.” “Understood, Lieutenant.” “Take us in range, Mr. Hesar,” Noll requested, “and we'll pluck Troi off the tree like an overripe lemon!” Thorne winced at the analogy. “By the gods, I hope he isn't carrying fruit blight, then!” “A virus, you mean?” Lares grunted. At Thorne's nod, the Necromanian smiled. “I am very good at curing viruses.” “A veritable whiz when it comes to computers,” pronounced Raine McGregor. “Any more concerns, Tealson?” Admiral Kahn asked as the men prepared to fly over FSK-14 to retrieve the cybot. “I'm sure there's enough hypersleep chambers aboard, but what about sustenance for Cree?” The other men paled. Noll looked up from his navigational console. “Sweet Merciful Alel,” he whispered. “There is none on board!” “Then we'll have to make a run on the ancillary-” “They will be expecting us to try that.” The Admiral shook his head. “We can't risk it.” “We've a sick bay,” Thorne reminded them. “We'll just have to donate-” McGregor shook his head. “Why not?” Thorne demanded. “When he was on Hell-12 and had to have blood during Transition, the Healer wouldn't take it from anyone there,” Raine explained. “She sent offworld for it.” He held up his hand, forestalling anyone's questions. “The reason she gave is that any blood a Reaper consumes is encrypted into his genetic makeup. It is bookmarked and stored for retrieval just as any data is. That is how a Reaper can find his target when he's on a termination mission. He's given a vial of the target's blood and he will home in on that scent.” “So?” “Under normal circumstances, I'd say that wouldn't be a problem because every man here is connected to him in a good way, but, now?” He shrugged. “He was without oxygen a long time. If he can't remember who we are and he goes into Transition and gets loose…” “We can't keep him in the sick bay!” Kahn broke in. “We'd never be able to keep him there if he does cycle!” “Then we have no choice but to place him in one of the containment cells,” Lares pointed out. “We will make him comfortable there.” “That still doesn't solve the problem of sustenance for him,” Thorne reminded them. “If we can't donate and we can't lift it from FSK-14, what the hell do we do? Have any of you seen a Reaper in Transition?” “I have,” Hesar said quietly, “and I don't care to see it again.”

“So what do we do?” Thorne demanded. “We can't let him suffer like that for two and half months. If he isn't…” He couldn't say the word ‘brain damaged'. “…hasn't been affected by the loss of oxygen, he'll be stark raving mad by the time we get to Terra!” “There is an alternative,” Noll said quietly and everyone looked at him. The Keeper hesitated. “Go on,” Kahn said. Noll let out a long breath before saying: “There are the bodies.” Kahn looked as though he might throw up. He stared at Noll, swallowed convulsively, and then tore his eyes from the man. The others were as revolted by the suggestion and shocked silence settled like a blanket over the flight deck. For a long time, no one said anything, but each of their thoughts centered on the thirty corpses that still rested in the cargo bay. “Can he…” Lares cleared his throat, tried again, although he, himself, felt acutely nauseous. “Can he eat…” He fanned out his hands, waved them in circles, unable to finish. “You know,” he finished lamely. “I believe the word is carrion,” Belvoir supplied and looked ill as well. Kahn flinched at the word and felt bile rush up his throat. He sat down at the Captain's console and put his hand over his mouth. “As I said, it is a consideration,” Noll told them. “There is no…” Kahn swallowed. “…blood in…” He gagged and had to stop. “Not fresh blood,” Noll agreed, “but dried blood has…” “Please!” Thorne insisted, looking green. “I don't like the thought of it anymore than you do, Paegan,” Noll snapped, “but what choice do we have?” “None,” Dr. Dean said and the men looked around at her. “I would suggest if you are planning on putting Cree where he can not harm us, you do it now. He is waking.” “Admiral?” Noll questioned. Tylan Kahn looked at the Keeper, considered him for a moment. “Tylan,” he corrected. “There is no need for a Chief of Space Fleet Ops, now.” “All right, Tylan,” Noll said. “What do you suggest we do?” Kahn squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, then made up his mind. “We move the bodies to the containment cells.” **** TROILUS PEEKED through the Siliplex window of the main room of the containment cell holding facility. It put its hands on the wall to either side of the rectangle. “'My mind is troubled, like a fountain stirr'd; And I myself see not the bottom of it.'” When there was no answer to his words, the cybot banged its head on the glass. “'Why should a man, whose blood is warm within, sit like his grandsire cut in alabaster?'” Cree looked up from the place where he knelt on the floor. A sad smile touched his lips. “Perhaps he's dead in his own mind, Troi,” he answered quietly. “'These words are razors to my heart,'” Troilus sighed. “How are the others?” The cybot laid its head on the Siliplex. “'The rest is silence,'” he reported, having injected the other travelers with hypersleep. Cree stood and walked to the secured door of the holding facility. “Did they find my lady?” Troilus shook its head. “'O mistress mine! Where are you roaming?'” Deep, abiding hurt flitted through Cree's eyes. “He has her, Troi.” “'The day will come when thou shalt wish for me to help thee curse this pois'nous hunch-backed toad,'” the cybot declared. “I'll do more than curse him,” Cree swore. He pushed away from the door and slid down the wall to sit with his legs splayed out. “Go back on deck,” he commanded. “I'm all right.” He looked out over the bodies lying in the containment cells and hung his head.

“'All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players: They have their exits and their entrances,'” the cybot reminded him. “Aye, and there is no greater sin to be committed but than to defile the dead,” answered Cree. Troilus made an almost human sound, its voice a whimper of pain. “'Are not these woods more free from peril than the envious court?'” Cree flinched. He looked down at his hands, saw the nails elongating, the coarse fur sprouting from the backs of his hands. “No,” he whispered. “'If it were done when ‘tis done, then ‘twere well it were done quickly,'” Troilus warned him. “Find my lady,” Cree snarled. “Go, Troi. Find her! I can smell her blood. We're not that far away.” The cybot stood for a moment longer at the window, then, turned. “'The attempt and not the deed confounds us,'” it replied. A long, low snarl came from the Reaper. He dug his claws into the holes of the corrugated metal floor and refused to acknowledge the scent of the bodies only a few feet away. His hunger was immense and his thirst a desert in his mouth. He tried to settle his mind on the words he had heard when he was being carried to this hellish place. Only partially awake, he had been unable to speak, to ask questions, but he knew where he was. His psychic mind had probed the ether and found another even more powerful mind at work. He had heard the man's words, but it was his unfettered thoughts that had stayed with Cree. “You said there was another survivor,” Thorne questioned. “Who is it?” “Konnor Rhye.” They allowed the sonofabitch to live! Even in his semi-conscious state, that gods-be-damned evil name had penetrated Cree's mind like a poisonous dart. “Could that be why we didn't find her?” “They sent him to get her. I have to assume he did.” There's no doubt in my mind he took her! The words had made no sense in his scrambled thoughts, but the powerful psychic mind that was not bothering to block out its signals gave Cree all the information he needed: The Resistance had set Rhye free and he had taken Bridget. “Where would he have taken her?” “I have no idea.” Earth, where else? Aye, Cree thought. If he were Rhye, that would be where he would run. Savage, brutal hunger was driving him insane. He had been in this fiendish place for three days now as the rest of the ship went into Extended Sleep, but he had refused to consider doing what Kahn had obviously intended he do to stay alive. Even now, more beast than human, he would not. “Bridget,” he sighed with the last sound his human throat could speak. When he tried to say her name again, only an animalistic growl came from his leathery lips. He threw back his head and howled: misery and intense longing making the sound pitiable. “He won't hurt her, will he?” Thorne had asked. “I hope not.” He'd better not! Cree knew that wherever Rhye had taken her, she would be safe with him. The man loved her, of that much Cree could be sure. The Keeper would give his life for her and, once, almost had. No harm would come to Cree's mate, but the Keeper would lie with her. He would eventually mate with her and it was that thought that brought on another prolonged howl of agony. “He'll kill Rhye,” Thorne had stated. “He's got to survive this trip first,” Kahn had replied. And there is only one way for him to do that, the gods help him! I will find Konnor Rhye, Cree thought with the last electrical impulses in his brain that were still human. I will find him and I will drain him dry! But I have to survive first.

His red-glowing eyes shifted beneath thick brows to the bodies and held. Chapter 27 KONNOR RHYE felt the hand on his throat and slowly opened his eyes. The sight that greeted his arousal from ES brought a shriek of fear from his lips. His hands shot up to pry at the horny flesh grasping his neck and he felt hot urine spreading across the seat of his torn uniform trousers. His larynx was being crushed in the grip of the monster bending over his E.S.U.; oxygen could not get past the tight restriction, turning his face blue. Sharp claws were gouging into his carotid arteries and he felt the warmth of his own blood gushing down his throat, pooling beneath his head. As the monster grinned at Konnor Rhye, opening it's maw to reveal row upon row of sharp, glittering teeth advancing toward his face, Rhye sat bolt upright in his E.S.U., screeching like a wounded animal. “A dream,” he whispered, shivering violently. “Just a dream.” There was no need to wonder whom the monster stalking his dream had been. Konnor sat rigid inside his E.S.U., his heart thundering in his chest, sweat dripping down his temples, his body shuddering as though he were in the sub-arctic climes of Serenia. “Just a dream.” A dream or a portent? “No,” he said firmly. “Just a dream.” At least he hoped and prayed it had been merely a subconscious thought left circulating in his past. One last hard shudder waved through his body and he reached up a shaking hand to wipe at the sweat beading his face. Had he a mirror, he was sure he would see a ghastly pale visage staring back at him with fearful, haunted eyes. “He's dead,” Rhye muttered to himself, disengaging the side panel of the clear Siliplex E.S.U. so he could swing his legs out. “He's dead.” The litany was not as comforting as he wished it to be and shuddered again. Rhye walked to Bridget's E.S.U. and was surprised to find the cover was still engaged and her sleeping soundly. But soon, the drug he had used to place her in Extended Sleep would leave her system and she would awaken, just as he had. Obviously, they were very close to the Terran star else he would not have been awakened by the ship's monitoring system. He stared down at her for a moment, taking in the fragile beauty of her face and frowned. There were dirty streaks down her cheeks and he knew but one cause for that: tears. But not tears for him, he reminded himself grimly. The tears had been for Cree. “Cree,” Rhye spat, his lips pealing back over his teeth. Even the name was loathsome to Konnor Rhye; an abomination that had needed to be eradicated. Thank the gods the Resistance had done just that. Or had they? “Gods-be-damned hell!” Rhye snarled, irritated at himself that the thought of Cree coming after them would not leave him alone. An unbidden, niggling worry started in Rhye's brain and would not be ignored: What if Cree had somehow survived? If he had escaped the hanging, the Reaper would come after his woman. “His woman,” Rhye growled. Bridget belonged to him, not to Cree. She had been destined to be his bride; not Cree's concubine. A warning chime sounded from the ship's console and Rhye turned, his forehead crinkling with concern. Walking to the console, he was stunned to see a light flashing on the proximity screen. “What the hell?” he gasped, sliding into the console seat and engaging the computer, typing in a query concerning the warning: “Ship's class and origin.” “Rysalian LRC,” the computer replied. Rhye froze, his fingers hovering over the keyboard. “Rysalian,” he whispered, the hair on the back of his neck standing up. He swallowed, then attacked the keyboard with a vengeance: “Where away?” “Twenty kilometers off the starboard bow and closing rapidly.”

Konnor Rhye swallowed hard again, sensing bile hovering at the back of his constricted throat. “Ship's name?” he asked aloud. There was a slight pause, then: “The Vortex.” “A Reaper ship!” Rhye breathed. “How can that be?” “Do you wish me to hail the Vortex, Sir?” “No!” Rhye gasped, alarm rushing through him like Labyrinthine lava. He turned, looking at Bridget's E.S.U. Kamerone Cree had survived, Konnor thought with shock. There was no other explanation for the psychic nudge of doom he was feeling. The Reaper had survived and he was coming after Bridget! “You will not have her,” Rhye vowed. “Not as long as there is life in my body.” His own life was forfeit, Rhye knew, but protecting Bridget was uppermost in his mind; keeping her from Kamerone Cree at all costs was imperative. Even if it meant taking her life to keep her out of the Reaper's clutches. A stab of intense pain went through Rhye's chest, but he wouldn't give himself time to think. Pushing up from the console chair, he rushed to Bridget's E.S.U., punching in the code that would engage the external lock. “I'm sorry,” he said with a hitching sob as his fingers skipped over the command to suck all the oxygen from the unit. “Warning!” the computer intoned. “Human life is within the E.S.U.!” “Aye,” Konnor whispered. “Do you still wish to evacuate the oxygen supply?” Rhye closed his eyes, his index finger poised above the ‘enter’ key. He drew a quick steadying breath, and then tapped the key. As the whirl of the motor drawing all the oxygen from the unit began, he sank to his knees beside the E.S.U. and pressed his forehead to the Siliplex. He could not watch her die, but he would be at her side when she did. He caressed the cool Siliplex, tears sliding unheeded down his cheeks. She was sleeping soundly; would not feel her life being drawn away; would never know he had ended her life. So intent was he on his own misery, he failed to see the soft pulse of light behind him. Very slowly, Konnor Rhye turned his head and looked up to find himself staring into the hideous face of death. He opened his mouth and screamed. Epilogue BRIDGET'S EYELIDS fluttered open, her pupils adjusting to the harsh light surrounding her. She blinked, trying to rid herself of the dream she knew she must be in for standing above her was the Director, smiling tiredly at her. “How do you feel?” Dr. Dean asked softly. Confusion showed in Bridget's eyes and the older woman reached out a hand to stroke the younger one's face. “You are home, dear,” Beryla Dean informed her. “In the home of the Hunter who marked you for Retrieval.” “What?” Bridget was more confused than ever. She turned her head, taking in the room around her and realized she was neither in Rysalia nor on board Konnor Rhye's ship. She sat up, a bit too fast, and the blood rushed to her head, making her dizzy; she put up a trembling hand. “I don't understand,” she whispered. “You are safe, Bridie,” Dr. Dean assured her. “We all are.” She sat down on the bed beside Bridget. “Tina, Ivonne, Dorrie,” she named some of the others. “They are here with us.” Bridget stared at her mentor. “I'm dreaming,” she said flatly. Beryla Dean chuckled. “No, you're wide awake.” She turned and called out. “Lares?” When the bedroom door opened, Bridget blinked in shock as the dark man walked in. Given his large

stature and attire, he could be none other than a Necromanian. “Lady,” Lares Taborn intoned in his deep, bass voice. He gave a slight bow of respect. “I would be honored to be considered your friend.” He turned his cinnamon eyes to Beryla and his wide face lit up. “As I am your friend's friend.” The looks exchanged between Beryla and the dark man could neither be ignored nor misinterpreted and Bridget leaned against the oak headboard. “Someone please explain to me how I came to be here,” she asked. She held up her hands in an attitude of total helplessness. “How any of us happen to be here!” “I don't have time to explain it all to you, dear,” Beryla told her, standing. “Lin Charles, the Hunter who lives here, has-” “Here, where?” Bridget interrupted. “Kell log, Ioway,” Lares said with a grin. Beryla laughed. “He loves to say the words,” she told Bridget. “I am from Kell log, Ioway,” Lares boomed. “No,” Beryla corrected, with an admonishing shake of her head. “You live in Kellogg, Iowa, but you are from Colquitt, Georgia.” Lares frowned. “I do not like that name,” he grunted. “It has no poetry to it.” “Nevertheless, that is where you are from and you will just have to deal with it, Taborn,” warned Dr. Dean. Lares’ upper lips thrust out, but he did not argue. Instead, he stomped to the door and flung it open, removing himself from the room with a regal air. Beryla sighed, looking after him. “He is of the Royal House of Necroman, a prince, and he will not go gently into cotton farming.” “Cotton farming?” Bridget felt as though she had slipped down the rabbit hole and wound up in Wonderland. “Hunters provided very detailed identities for the Gatherers who came to abduct our women,” Beryla explained. “They are very good at creating backgrounds for the Rysalians, counterfeiting birth certificates, drivers’ licenses, even university degrees.” She smiled. “Now, they will be providing new identities for not only the Rysalians who accompanied us home, but the Serenian and Necromanian, who-” “Serenian?” Bridget questioned, latching on to the word and putting it together with the darkman's nationality. “These were the men Cree brought back from Helios Twelve, weren't they?” “Yes,” Beryla acknowledged. “The same ones.” A dark look of intense pain slipped over Bridget's face and she slumped against the headboard. “Why could they not have-” She lowered her head, unable to go on. Beryla looked behind her, smiled gently, then reached out to pat Bridget's hand. “Everything is going to be all right, sweetie.” Without looking up, Bridget shook her head, putting her hands up to cover her face. “No, no, it's not. What year is it here?” Beryla had to think. “2062, I believe. Why?” Before she received her answer, she thought she knew the reason Bridget was asking. “Don't worry, Bridie. Just as the Hunter will provide identities for our warrior friends, they will provide new identities for us.” She thought of her own abduction in 1973 and realized with a pang, she would never be able to go to her family, be welcomed home by them, and knew that was what was bothering Bridget. She started to reassure her, but stopped when a hand was laid on her shoulder. She looked up into the concerned face before her, nodded at the gentle look in the eyes of the man standing there, then quietly walked away, closing the door to the bedroom behind her. Bridget's shoulders began to tremble, indicating she was crying. Even when the bed dipped beside her, she did not respond. But when the arms encircled her, she leaned into the warm body, so immersed in her own grief, she did not realize the rock-solid body and encompassing strong arms did not belong to Dr. Dean. “How can I live without him?” she sobbed against a shoulder that went suddenly rigid, then relaxed at her next words. “How can I ever live without Cree?” A gentle hand came up to stroke her hair and for the first time she took in the smell of the crisp, cotton

fabric beneath her cheek; the fabric smelled vividly of ozone, bringing back memories of fluttering percale sheets left drying on a clothesline. The memory brought a heartfelt moan, then heartbreaking sobs. “Shush,” came the low, throaty command as the arms tightened protectively around her. “Shush.” “Kamerone,” Bridget cried, her entire being aching. “I am here.” Bridget stilled, her last sob catching in her throat as she jerked her head up, not daring to believe her own ears. When she saw him there before her, his crooked smile and amber eyes welcoming, she thought she would pass out from the sheer joy of seeing him. “Cree?” she questioned, her hands pushing them apart so she could reach up to cup his face. “Kam,” he corrected. “How?” she asked, her whole body beginning to throb. “That is not important for now,” he answered. “What is important is that we are together and will remain together for as long as you will have me.” His eyes softened and he bent forward to plant a light kiss on her brow. When he straightened, he locked his gaze with hers. “Will you have me, Beloved?” “Yes,” Bridget whispered, throwing her arms around his neck. “You'd better believe I will!” He eased her back just enough to fasten his lips to hers to seal their bargain. He knew there would be many obstacles to overcome in the years ahead of them. His cycles of transition would make it necessary to stay near one of the medical technicians who would get a job at a blood center in order to provide him with the substance necessary to maintain his life. Dorrie had already volunteered for the assignment, surprising him. “I love you,” Bridget said, as he released her mouth. “I love you,” he answered. Bridget snuggled against him, wondering when she should tell him about the life he had planted within her that day on Rysalia Prime. “There is time,” she said and she felt his nod. “Aye,” he replied. “There is time.” Afterward THERE ARE two things you should know about me: (1) I have a great affinity with the Wind as you can tell from the titles of the novels I write and; (2) I am a very visual person. The sweeping grandeur of a pink lemonade sunset will stop me in my tracks. The sunburst leaves of a red maple in the Fall will take away my breath. And a brown-eyed, handsome man dressed entirely in black will make my heart skip a beat every time. It was from one intriguing moment in cinema history that the Reaper Kamerone Cree was born. That experience was a truly visual one that leapt right off the screen, took on a sentience of its own, grabbed me by the throat, and shook me to the tips of my curling toes. Although the farthest thing from my mind at that moment in time in the late seventies was the creation of a novel, what I saw on the screen before me did to me what lemonade sunsets and fiery red-gold leaves had always done: caught and held me with rapt attention. The life-changing image I saw emblazoned on the movie screen in the little town of Rantoul, Illinois that evening as I sat watching with my young sons, was the introduction of the Darth Vader character in Star Wars. Here was intense evil, striding arrogantly, purposefully, and with menace toward the camera. The music swelled, the cape fluttered out behind him, and the tattoo of his booted heels on the space station floor was riveting. Flanking this black-clad apparition was a cadre of Stormtroopers, his personal guard, and in that one, awe-inspiring moment, Kamerone Cree came into being. In my mind, the scene where the Reaper confronts Bridget and her lover is so powerful, so full of imagery, it takes away my breath and makes me squirm in my seat. Here is the true essence of the anti-hero of BloodWind: a being intent on having what he wants, when he wants it, never realizing that it will ultimately destroy him. I hope you enjoyed Cree as much as I enjoyed bringing him to life. I also hope you will want to spend time with him again in DarkWind and be introduced to his Reaper son, Khiershon.

May the Wind be always at your back, Charlee Charlotte Boyett-Compo CHARLOTTE ‘CHARLEE’ Boyett-Compo is the author of over 30 award-winning speculative fiction novels. Married for 36 years to her high school sweetheart, Tom, she is the mother of two grown sons and the grandmother of two. She is owned and operated by six demanding felines for whom she must have a day job in order to buy catnip and cat litter. Her hobbies include reading, writing, and staying as far away from arithmetic as space will allow. Visit www.hardshell.com for information on additional titles by this and other great authors. This file was created with BookDesigner program [email protected] 11/11/2004