A full injector of Morpheus and I'd have been dead to the world for the rest of the night. Was it really rape after all? Or murder?
I frowned down at the passed out goon on my floor. Right. Andrija Baldo, who—as far as I knew—had been with Father since Father had rescued him from some correction camp or other, had been about to drug me and . . .
My mind stopped there.
Oh, he could have raped me. And maybe I wouldn't even have known, come morning. Or he could have killed me.
But none of us, and Father's goons certainly least of all, could imagine that we had any real privacy aboard this cruiser. Father had it built to specifications. If there were no cameras and microphones covering every possible inch of every possible compartment, then Father was not the paranoid bastard we all knew him to be.
So . . . Why would Andrija do this?
Truth was this whole trip to Circum Terra stank to high heavens. Yes, Father was a member of the Earth's ruling council. But he was not one of those who interacted with the public or who gave the benighted multitudes the idea that they had any say in their governance. Father stayed behind the scenes. He planned things. He hired people. He saw that plans came to fruition. So, why go to Circum Terra? Why meet with scientists whose influence on the public opinion was slim to none? And why bring me along?
Oh, I was decorative. I'll admit that. I could be decked out and made up and—at all of five five, with long wavy dark hair and the size of breasts that make other women call you fat—I could look like the perfect young lady of patrician class. For a time at least. Before the next clash with Daddy Dearest made me tear a broad swath of rebellion and rage out of his proximity. And four days in Circum were a short enough period to allow me to pass.
But why would Father want me with him? And why the trip to Circum at all? And if he had to go there, why not use an air to space, which traveled much faster and could get us to Circum in a day? Why the huge, slow space cruiser with its full complement of personnel? I shoved the thoughts out of my mind. Nothing I could do about them now, and I MUST do something about Baldo.
Alive or dead, an inert goon made for a terrible room decoration.
I stood by Andrija's unconscious body, holding my boot in one hand. I could shove him into one of the closets around the room, under all the gowns, and then lock my door and go back to bed. And hope he didn't wake up in the night, and come after me. Or I could hope that someone had seen all this on a camera and came to my rescue.
No. I'd never before waited for someone else to rescue me. I didn't think it would work if I did so now. For one, I couldn't really believe Andrija was working on his own. Not in Father's ship. Not when Father would surely find out.
Someone knocked at the door. It was a tentative knock—the type people give when they don't want to rouse anyone else. My hair prickled at the back of my neck. If someone had spotted the attack on the security tape and had come to rescue me, the knock would be loud. They would be calling my name.
But there was only the tentative knock. Repeated. And then the doorknob shook.
I slid around to the right side of the door. The door was set on a wall with a slight angle, so that the right side formed a shallow angle with the closet. I squeezed myself against the wall there, as the knob turned completely and the door opened.
A dark head poked in, there was a muffled sound of surprise at seeing Andrija on the floor. I acted on instinct. Before the newcomer could open his mouth to call out, I reached over, and hit him hard with the heel of the boot. He went down.
As he fell, I recognized Friso Sikke, the second in command among Father's goons. What was going on? Had Father's goons all turned on me? Would all of them be coming after me?
I had to get out of this room. When under attack, a place with only one exit—through which enemies arrived—was the worst possible refuge in which to make a stand.
I could not wait here to hit them one by one as they came in. I took a quick look down at myself. I was wearing only the thigh-long silk slip in which I slept. I cast a longing look at my closet, full of all sorts of work suits which would be much better for fighting or fleeing in.
Steps approached. I couldn't take the time. I didn't have a moment. I had to get out before they blocked the door.
Boot still in hand, I ran out of the cabin. Outside a broad hallway opened. In the middle of the hallway stood two men. They weren't familiar. Servants. Or at least I assumed they were servants, hired for the trip.
Blurrily, I noticed they were pushing a gray antigrav platform between them. A stretcher, of the type used for hospitals. I ducked under it. They yelled something as I passed, but I had more important things on my mind.
My father's cabin was at the other end of the hallway from mine—presumably so that should I decide to hold a party by myself in the dark of night I wouldn't disturb him. Across from Father's cabin was the antigrav well that led to the next level. I ran towards it.
If Father wasn't in on this, then the safest thing would be to run towards him. I couldn't imagine why Father would be in on this, but all my instincts warned me off running to his room. At the very least, if Father weren't there, or if he weren't capable of stopping their coming after me, I would be stuck at another dead end. The antigrav well, and the working levels of the ship below it were the only way open.
I heard screams and running feet behind me, but I'd already jumped into the cushioning currents of the antigrav well. The landing at the other end was soft enough, and I started running immediately, faltering only slightly as I pulled free of the antigrav. I felt more than heard the two men hit the well behind me.
This corridor was the working level used by Father, not his personnel. During our time docked at Circum it had served a mobile embassy for Syracuse Seacity. Three of the doors on either side led to ballrooms and one to an office/work room. I had no idea what the other three were for. We had never opened them. At the other end of the hallway another antigrav well led to the servants' quarters and, at the end, to the lifepod bay.
In between was a hallway twice as broad as the one upstairs, with the walls covered in holo-windows that displayed sunny Mediterranean landscapes—beaches and olive groves and pastoral-looking mountains.
The ballrooms sprawled spacious, and the office had more places to hide than my cabin, but in the end they remained enclosed areas. Not a good place to get trapped in. Running full tilt on my bare feet, boot in hand, I wondered if one of the other rooms might hide an armory. Unlikely. Our home had an armory, but Father—being almost eighty years old—never used it.
Still, one of the other rooms might hold something . . . Or it might lock securely till I could figure out my next step.
In despair, I slowed enough to test the door of the first room I'd never opened. And found myself staring at a state-of-the-art operating room. Father lay on an antigrav stretcher.
I had time to register that he was clearly unconscious before a hand touched my arm. I felt more than heard movement behind me it and spun around, full tilt, in combat mode, that mode in which I felt as if I were going twice as fast as everyone around me.
The boot, clutched in my hand, caught the medtech full force on the forehead. He grunted and stepped back. This surprised him just long enough to allow me to pull my arm free and run again.
No escape there. No escape in the medical rooms. Medical rooms!
Why were there medical rooms in a space cruiser? There was no way we could take a trip longer than a week. There was nowhere to go! The moon bases didn't take visitors—not even Good Men—and even so, it only two weeks to get there. What could happen to Father in two weeks? Father was old but not that old. And he was in good health. Father. Why was Father unconscious in a medical room? There had been . . . trays of instruments. And . . . I had a vague memory of medtechs. And medical machinery. Why?
I legged it as fast as I could towards the antigrav well. A sudden shrieking alarm broke the silence, and then a strobe light effect kicked in, making the Mediterranean landscapes on the walls look like they would if the Earth was hit by a meteorite cluster.
The voices that went with the shipboard alarms came in over speakers, seemingly from everywhere at once. One of them was the fire alarm saying, "Fire, fire. Please rush to the lifepod bay." The other one was the one for piracy and it said, "There are intruders abroad. Please secure your area and do not leave." And yet another talked about a mechanical malfunction and my absolute need to rush to assist.
It seemed to me that someone had clapped his hand across all the alarm buttons. In my particular emergency—unable to understand what was going on—finding an area I could secure seemed like a really good idea. Perhaps the kitchens downstairs. Kitchens would have knives and cookers and poking implements that could cut and stab and burn. They also contained provisions.
Once, at twelve, I'd held an entire finishing school at bay and barricaded myself in the kitchen for a week, until Father had come to get me.
I threw myself down the grav well. Landed ready to run. For my money, of all the self-defense, street fighting and other offensive arts I'd taught myself, the best training of all as far as running and staying on my feet and even fighting back had been my time spent at the ballet school in Paris when I was fourteen. It helped me keep my balance now, as I landed on tiptoes and leapt out of the anti-grav field.
I loped two large steps down the hallway. And became aware of steps behind me. Coordinated steps. Large, heavy bodies on large heavy boots, hit the floor in the grav well, and fell into a run as easily as I had.
A look over my shoulder showed me what remained of my Daddy Dearest's goons. They were dressed in full dimatough armor from head to toe. At a casual glance they looked like men in black masks wearing a suit made entirely of black scales. Which they were. They were also men protected by material that nothing—not even diamond—could cut.
Nothing I might find in a kitchen could hold them at bay. It would have to be the lifepod bay.
The clump clump clump of their boots behind me cut through the mishmash of warnings, sirens and alarm bells. I wondered why no one came out of the kitchen or other dependencies. Where were they? Had some word of warning gone out? Or were most of them in their dormitories and confused by the cacophony of alarms? Of course, Father's long-time servants knew me. Not one of them would volunteer to grapple with me.
At the end of the hallway, the huge double doors led to the lifepod bay. Next to them was a panel for the palm print that would allow one to open the doors. I lay my sweaty palm against it. I was afraid it wouldn't open. The law said it had to be coded for everyone aboard. But this was Father's cruiser, and where Daddy was concerned, laws happened to other people.
Slowly, ponderously, the door started sliding open. One handspan. Two. I slid through into the opening and squeezed into the bay.
Inside, the lifepod bay was cavernous, and lifepods were set in a circle around the bay, each of them in front of its own eject lock. There were thirty five. Enough for everyone aboard. I dove towards the nearest one.
And saw one of the goons—from the bulk Narran, another of Father's favorite bodyguards—near the control panel inside the lifepod bay. He was about to press the button that would lock the lifepods. Not that I knew there was such a button, but it stood to reason. He could prevent my leaving.
Instinct is a wondrous thing. I turned around, grabbed my slip and tore it, top to bottom, exposing my naked body.
It was only a second but, if I knew the male brain—and I did—long enough to short circuit his reactions for a couple of seconds.
Enough for me to jump into the lifepod and push the red eject button. I suspected once that was done nothing could stop it. But still, relief flooded me as the pod shot out into the membrane that divided it from the airlock. The membrane opened to let it through. Then the other membrane opened.
I shot out into space in the lifepod—which was a triangular vessel made of transparent dimatough and barely large enough to hold me—in an awkward position, effectively straddling the central axis of the vehicle, with my knees and legs on the floor of it, and bent forward over controls that consisted only of a joystick and a com button.
Trembling, I took a deep breath. Whatever was going on, I was sure my father's goons would follow me as soon as they could strip off their dimatough armors and squeeze into the lifepods.
I had to get away from here. I had to get help.
Grabbing hold of the joystick, I pointed myself towards Circum Terra, which hung like a glowing doughnut in the eastern quadrant of the sky. With my free hand I pushed down the combutton.
"Help," I shouted into whatever frequency might be picking up. The cruiser for sure, but perhaps Circum Terra too. "My name is Athena Hera Sinistra. My father's space cruiser has been highjacked."