Sureblood Page 16

  Another painful cramp hit, front to back, and she nearly doubled over. “Help me home.”

  Reeve took her by the arm. Ferren spotted them and sprinted over. A wealth of information passed between the couple in a single wordless glance. As a raiding team, they were unbeatable. As lovers they’d have been just as good, had Ferren ever allowed the relationship to take that turn.

  “Tell Grizz,” Val gasped, “he’s in charge until I’m through. Then both of you stand guard outside the house.” She had the pair’s unfailing loyalty. They’d watch over her while she was at her most vulnerable in the coming hours. “Don’t let anyone inside but the doctor or people Sashya specifically requests,” Val instructed outside her front door. “Aye, Cap’n.”

  Wordlessly Sashya stood upon seeing Val enter the living room. The next moments were a flurry of activity with her mother getting the bed ready and myriad supplies being arranged on the tables nearby. Then she helped Val change clothes and lie down.

  Sashya dazzled Val with her calm efficiency. On a skiff out raidin’ or busting through a hatch, Val knew without question what to do. Here, her mother was the leader. This was a realm Val knew next to nothing about.

  Another contraction had Val wincing and gritting her teeth. It was happening fast. Too fast. Blast it, she wasn’t ready.

  Would she ever be?

  Sashya took over, making sure she was in the proper position, draping a cold compress over her forehead, stroking her arm with her fingertips the way she used to when Val was a child and not feeling well. The doctor joined them, and another woman Val recognized as a midwife. As the pains grew more intense and closer together, the doctor reached for her with a med injector. Val thrust out her arm, stopping her.

  “It’s your pain blocker.”

  “No… No blocker.” Val gritted her teeth until she could squeeze out more words. The pain was her punishment. She’d take it like a raider and get it over with.

  Not long after she wondered if it was the right decision. The birth proved more difficult than she’d ever imagined. Bloody hells, it hurt. She’d never had more respect for the childbearing females in the clan than now. In the past she’d dismissed them as mere hearth huggers when in fact they’d apparently endured more pain than most of the raiders.

  They yelled at her to push, female voices as demanding and confident as any of the raiders she flew with. She marveled at that, was thankful for it.

  A few moments to gasp for air, then another hit. She didn’t think she could bear another contraction, but she took it head-on. Like gripping the control stick in a hi-G turn, the ship ready to break apart, sweating and shaking to keep it from plummeting into an asteroid, you just didn’t let go until you came out the other side.

  The searing, cramping pain reached a crescendo. Gritting her teeth, she strained, welcoming the pain, crying out in anger. One…last…push.

  “Here comes the babe!” the midwife cried out in joy that Val didn’t quite share. And then, it was born.

  It’s over, she thought with relief. Over.

  A loud, impossibly indignant wail pierced the silence.

  Val lifted her head. The women huddled near her bent knees blocked her view. “Is it all right?”

  Was it a boy or a girl? She could have learned the gender from the doctor months ago, but she didn’t want to know. She didn’t want to know anything about his baby. “Is a he all right.” Sashya stepped forward, her eyes brimming with pride and joyful tears. In her arms was a naked, squirming, red-faced infant heaving mightily with each raucous howl as if the birth was the most unwelcome event in its brief existence. “You have a healthy son.”

  A son.

  Val let her head fall back on the pillow. I have a son.

  It was the end of everything.

  And the beginning.

  Sashya offered her the babe to hold and soothe. Val made shaky fists in the bedsheets and turned her head away as the doctor tended to her birth wounds. Once, she’d been like the wind, wild and free. She thought nothing could trap her.

  She had a son.

  “Valeeya!” Her mother’s voice was sharp and edged with anger. “That’s not how Conn and I raised you to be. What are you afraid of? You’re a braver girl than this. A brave woman.”

  What was she afraid of?

  “You need some fear.” Conn’s wise words floated back after being silent for so long. “Some. Too much paralyzes you, and too little makes you reckless. Arrogant.”

  Her son screeched. Screeched for her. Was that what she feared—this babe needing her?

  Or her needing him?

  Sashya waited for Val’s response. Then, with a weary, disappointed sigh, she started to turn away. “We’ll need milk,” she told a midwife.

  “No, we won’t.” Val opened her arms impatiently. “Let me see.”

  Sashya placed the angry infant in her arms. As Val stared down at the babe, her chest ached with a surge of powerful emotion. It swamped her and left her speechless. This baby, this new life, came from her.

  And Dake.

  She stiffened, hating that thoughts of the Sureblood intruded on this special, unexpectedly overwhelming moment.

  Tentatively, she touched a finger to the baby’s brow, stroking the damp, soft brown fuzz. Then she curved her entire hand around the swell of his tiny head. She’d never seen an ear so tiny or as perfect. Two equally tiny fists expressed a raider’s worth of fury. Val soaked in every detail. A storm of conflicting emotions filled her: wonder, terror and fierce protectiveness.

  “He has Conn’s features,” Sashya said, sitting on the edge of the bed.

  “Aye, he does that.” Val’s touch seemed to calm the child. Or maybe it was her voice that did it. “Well, you’ve heard me ranting for nine months,” she crooned to the babe. “You’d better know who I am.”

  The crying stopped suddenly as her son’s eyes opened wide and found hers. Two smoky gems.

  Val sucked in a breath. The babe may have her father’s features, but gods help them all, he had Dake Sureblood’s eyes.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Four Years Later

  “YOU. HALT.” VAL STORMED up the mining transport’s boarding ramp. “You are not authorized to operate this vessel.”

  The captain bristled at her order. From a female official, no less: Val could almost hear that thought going through his mind. It amused her. “You are mistaken,” he said. “This is my ship, and I’m her captain. Remove yourself and your people.”

  “Not so fast, sir. This dock is under the jurisdiction of customs authorities. All ships are subject to inspection.”

  So far, so good, she thought, tense in a way she never was while zero-G hatch busting. Some in the clan weren’t in favor of raiding dirt-side, but desperate times called for desperate measures. Dirt-side raiding required face-to-face deception. Attitude was everything. Val flashed an ID the man barely glanced at as she paced confidently forward. Her stolen customs agent uniform chafed, a tight fit even with her thinnest armor underneath. But she didn’t dare raid without protection. “You are in violation of Borderlands code,” she said.

  “Everything on this ship is up to code. Beyond code.” A stiff jaw broadcast his annoyance. “Move aside. I’ve no time for administrative antics. I’ve got a load to move and a schedule to keep.”

  “I’m afraid you will indeed have to talk to me, sir.” Calling any of Nezerihm’s company lackeys “sir” left a sour taste in her mouth. She tried not to spit out the word as she pulled out a data pad and pretended to punch in data—she had no idea how a data pad worked, but she could make a good show of it. “We’re cracking down on transporting cargo while intoxicated. We have reason to believe you and your crew are drunk.”

  “Drunk!” The captain’s eyes shone bright blue.

  “My agents observed you and your officers all night in the bar, and—”

  “Bull flarg! I am not drunk in the least. Nor are my officers.”

  She made a show of sniffing the ai
r, stinking of outpost-quality liquor wafting from the direction of the bars along the docks. Then she pretended to type in more data. “Rules forbid the command of a cargo vessel while under the influence. You’ll be allowed to submit to a blood test. Until then, consider you, your crew and this vessel detained.”

  He sputtered. “Bull—”

  “Flarg, yes,” she finished for him. “But rules are rules, and if my fellow agents and I don’t uphold them, no one will. So, Captain. Will you go aboard willingly for the blood test, or will I have to arrest you?”

  The captain’s eyes were fuming mad as they fixed on hers. His kind were usually so guilty of drinking too much that they’d surrender with little argument, happy to have the choice of an onboard test out of the spotlight and metabolizers to erase the evidence of alcohol, keeping their names off the books. This captain acted different than the usual ore hauler. Sharper. Not in the least guilty and a whole lot suspicious. He should have gone inside his ship as ordered already. He stayed where he was and studied her instead. The back of her neck prickled as the wariness in his gaze coalesced into recognition.

  “Good gods, you’re her, aren’t you?” he said. “That she-pirate.”

  Val hooked her leg around his and dropped him hard to the floor. His comm skittered away over the hardtop. As he tried to get to his knees, she shoved her boot against his rear and pushed, spending him sprawling. With dozers set to stun those who tried to resist, her raiders had the cargo crew stuffed back on board their vessel and secured with shock cuffs in moments.

  “Close ’er up,” she said and found a seat to strap into. Procedures on outlying stations like this one were lax. Even her newest flight-qualified raider was able to negotiate a blastoff without a hitch. Excitement flushed Ferren’s face and lit up her wide-set indigo-blue eyes. She still didn’t speak much, but her expression said it all: she was having the time of her life.

  As free as the wind.

  With a sudden mournful ache, Val saw in Ferren the girl she used to be, the girl she could hardly remember.

  It had been almost five years since the gathering. Five hard years of bearing the responsibility of keeping the clan together and fed. Five years of honoring Conn Blue’s name and of feeling responsible for his death. Every single successful raid since had been an emotional boot heel ground in the memory of Dake Sureblood.

  A vision of his opalescent eyes came back to haunt her now as they did on many a sleepless night. She’d toss and turn, cursing herself for missing what she should have seen that long-ago day: his treachery. Instead, she was tricked by the anguish and longing of their final moments together. She’d pined for him for a month because of that last look, wanting him, needing him, half falling in love with him in absentia. What a young little fool she’d been then, all because of what she thought she saw in his gaze. Those opal eyes would be with her forever. She saw them every day in the face of her son. Their son. Jaym.

  Val gripped the armrests and waited out the rocky departure off the outpost, wishing away the ache of exhaustion. Last night, like too many others, sleep eluded her. At times she was desperate enough to resort to drink and even occasionally to squatter’s weed but feared an addiction to both. More often than not, she gutted it out, feeling like the walking dead when she absolutely couldn’t afford to.

  At least this raid had gone well. They’d caught themselves a sweet little prize filled with a tidy load of ore. Nezerihm’s ore.

  It wasn’t stealing; it was self-help. What did Nezerihm expect she’d do? She had a clan to feed. After a thousand years of bloodshed, the Great War between the Drakken horde and the Coalition was over. They had united, along with a new world called Earth, under the banner of the Triad Alliance. With peace, hunting opportunities had dried up. There were no more ore stealers and nearly every ship was accompanied by an armed Triad escort. Their options had narrowed to starve or prey upon unsuspecting ore transporters and make thousands selling the haul on the black market. The choice had been easy. Her clan would survive feeding off Nezerihm’s mines.

  If he didn’t like their new tactics, too bad. Desperate times called for desperate measures.

  THE VILEST SHE-PIRATE in all the galaxy.

  U.S. Air Force Colonel Franklin Johnson waited in the halls of Parliament for Prime-Admiral Zaafran, the top military leader of the new Triad Alliance, to address the galaxy’s lawmakers and leaders, but his thoughts were on the private briefing Zaafran had just given him. After a thousand years of bloodshed, the Great War between the Drakken horde and the Coalition was over. Quelling piracy was to be Frank’s first order of business in his new job bringing law and order to the Borderlands. But a she-pirate? Hmm. By the sound of her lengthy record the past four years, Val Blue could qualify as the vilest pirate period, she or he.

  And now it was his job to convince her to behave.

  The sound of applause shifted Frank’s attention to the prime-admiral taking the stage. He had to admit that as an Earth-born country boy sitting amongst the most important individuals in the known galaxy he felt a bit starstruck. In the audience was the Goddess-Queen Keira and her Earth-born consort Prince Jared, both instrumental in the assassination of the Hordish warlord and the downfall of the dark empire two years prior. The eminence of those around him made him acutely aware of the Triad captain’s rank attached to his shoulders. It had been only a week since it had replaced his colonel’s silver eagles. He had a lot more than new rank riding on his forty-three-year-old shoulders, though. A helluva lot more. Like his career, his very hide, and Earth’s place in a three-way alliance with two far older and more advanced societies.

  No amount of Triad support could make him less of an outsider. He knew it, and Zaafran knew it. In fact, it was why Zaafran had chosen Frank to command the diplomatic ship Unity.

  “If anyone can accomplish this legendary ship’s new mission of dealing with rogue people like the pirates, an Earthling can,” Zaafran explained. His choice angered traditionalists, who didn’t like the prime-admiral placing Frank in such a tactically critical position. It was the first job Frank had ever taken on where the people on his side—well, theoretically his side—wanted to see him fail.

  He damn well wouldn’t fail. It would make his boss look bad. Of all the things Frank wanted to accomplish in life, tarnishing the reputation of the top military hero commander of the Triad wasn’t one of them.

  The applause finally died down enough for the prime-admiral to speak. Frank leaned forward, resting the weight of his upper body on his arms and thighs, ready to concentrate on every word. He didn’t quite trust his fluency in the queen’s tongue yet.

  “Ladies and Gentlemen of Parliament,” Zaafran began. “In celebrating the two-year anniversary of the end of the war, I join you in giving thanks for our continuing peace. It is a day to count blessings, a day to remember from where we have come, and to realize we have more work to do. Not long ago, some would have considered an agreement between sworn enemies and a new, unknown world to be an unattainable dream. Today, we enjoy the gift of peace that such an alliance has allowed us. But not all people of our great galaxy are able to live as we do. In the Channels region of the Borderlands, many have existed outside the law since before the Great Schism. The region remains dangerous and largely ungoverned to this day, loosely controlled by pirate clan chieftains who regularly commandeer our ships and strip them of their crew and cargo, most notably zelfen, which as you know is a new and militarily critical component in the construction of space-worthy vessels. In plain talk, the Channels area is infested, and we’ve got to clean it up.”

  Infested. Frank winced at the prime-admiral’s word choice. Viewing another human as something “less than” represented a fundamental difference in opinion. Yet, Zaafran was far more liberal than some who advocated a full military campaign against the pirates. The galaxy’s war-weary citizens had no stomach for more violence, and luckily the request had died in Parliament. In hope of finding a diplomatic solution to the piracy problem,
Zaafran had ordered the Unity to the region, figuring its famously mixed crew would give the appearance of fairness in the dispute.

  “Pirates get in the way and drive up costs, a major concern in a postwar economy,” Zaafran briefed the audience. “It is, ladies and gentlemen, an unacceptable situation. None of us want the public relations nightmare of exterminating an entire people. Yet as your military commander I must ensure better, safer access to all regions, no matter now remote. As such, I present to you Operation Amnesty, a campaign to neutralize the pirates by encouraging them to relocate away from the trade routes and mines. They’ll be pardoned and assimilated into mainstream life, so they can enjoy the same freedoms we do. This is a sweeping humanitarian effort. A kinder, gentler approach to ending piracy, if you will.”

  Kinder and gentler. Hmm. Frank directed a small smile at his clasped hands. Back in his Special Forces days, not too many would have called Franklin Johnson kind, and definitely not gentle. Yet, he had a real problem making others suffer what his Cherokee ancestors had when they were forcibly and traumatically torn from their land and homes in Georgia and marched a thousand miles west to Oklahoma. Over four thousand men, women and children died on the Trail of Tears. He’d do everything in his power to find a diplomatic solution to the pirate problem before resorting to removal by force. If Zaafran hadn’t given him the freedom to act within those parameters, he wouldn’t have taken the job.

  “Our goal is for them to see this not as punishment but as an opportunity. We’ll dispatch emissaries to meet with each clan and discuss our hopes for them. Now, ladies and gentlemen of Parliament, it is with great pleasure that I introduce to you the man in charge of this mission—Colonel Franklin Johnson, our newest commander of the TAS Unity.”