The WindDemon Trilogy Book One
Bloodwind
By
Charlotte Boyett-Compo
(c) copyright by Charlotte Boyett-Compo
Published by New Concepts Publishing
Smashwords Edition
NCP Release September 2006
Cover art by Jesse Palon, (c) copyright September 2006
ISBN 1-58608-961-7
New Concepts Publishing
Lake Park, GA 31636
www.newconceptspublishing.com
This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, and places are of the author’s imagination and not to be confused with fact. Any resemblance to living persons or events is merely coincidence.
Dedication:
To GJB:
Not all Americans are worse than dragons.
REAPER GLOSSARY
THE BEGINNING:
A scientist on Rysalia Prime named Dr. Dearing Noah Jarl took his pet dog, Brídín with him on a botany expedition to the rainforests of Resuello deep in the mountains of the planet Meiriceá in the Aneas Quadrant. Once amid the lush tropical flora and fauna, the dog became attracted to a certain plant growing there. It was a fern-like growth, low to the ground, with several spiky stalks jutting up from the center of spiky, serrated-edged fronds. Upon each stalk was a large round seedpod with what resembled a small crown sitting atop a pale green inverted bowl. Upon disturbance of this pod, a cloud-like mist of spores arose from the plant. The dog inhaled these spores and a violent sneezing erupted in the animal. Blood began seeping from its eyes and nostrils.
Rushing his pet back to the shuttle craft, Dr. Jarl returned to Rysalia Prime and took the dog to his lab. The animal exhibited signs of acute distress. A scan of the canine’s internal organs revealed a shocking discovery. The unknown spores had invaded his bloodstream and were multiplying at a rapid rate. It soon became obvious the spores were of a virulent variety and the inhalation of them by humanoids might have devastating consequences. Later that evening, the animal began to change.
According to Dr. Jarl’s statement: “He started to convulse, falling to his side, howling in agony, his paws flailing the air. His bones began to crack, to elongate, his flesh turning to a leathery consistency, and his canine shape evolving into that more of a lupine creature. What had once been a very tame, gentle animal became a ravaging beast with glowing red eyes, sharp claws, and even sharper fangs. The enraged animal tried savagely to get out through the bars of the secure environment. I had no doubt had Brídín been able to break free of his enclosure he would have attacked me without fail.
Feeling great remorse at what had become of my beloved pet, I knew the best thing to do was to put Brídín out of his misery. Taking up my laser rifle, I shot him, crying the entire time I attempted to put him down. But the canine did not die. Seven times I shot him at close range but I could not kill the beast. I did manage to knock him out with a high-powered narcotic dart and as he lay unconscious I made the most devastating decision of my life. I decided to spray him with a quick-acting combustible and set fire to it. I was in agony as I was forced to end my pet’s life. I sat by his cage until his body was nothing but a charred husk.
But Brídín--at least a part of my beloved Brídín--was still not dead. From out of the smoldering carcass of the canine something crawled and lay there slithering on the floor.
What came from the canine was a revenant worm (see Parasite).
Note: It would later be discovered that the highly toxic spores that had infected Brídín were from a strange fungus that grew upon those seedpods on Resuello and not from the pods themselves as originally thought. The fungus growing on the plants was unlike anything known to science at that time. This fungi--like all fungi--reproduced by scattering thousands of spores. Upon each spore, there was a strange microscopic growth and it was this growth that had infected Brídín and that had grown to maturity inside him. The plant was given a name: lycant and warnings were sent out that the plant was deadly and all traces of it should be eradicated.
With the arrival on Rysalia Prime of two scientists named Coden Sejm and Barriq Cean (see Ceannus)--both of whom were genetic engineers--Dr. Karl began experimenting with the parasite’s DNA. Sejm had been carrying on stem cell research in Diabolusia…which is against the laws of that world…and had fled before he could be sent to prison for what he was doing. It appears Cean had a hand in helping Sejm escape though it is unknown from where Cean had come. It is believed Sejm and Cean were lovers.
Apparently Cean was not unfamiliar with the spores although he was unaware of the parasite that could result. The team worked with mice at first, genetically modifying the embryonic stem cells. The altered cells were implanted into a blastocyst--an embryo--which was in turn then implanted into the uterus of a mouse. A mouse was created that was stronger, more intelligent, more cunning, and far more vicious than the other mice. It was also capable of transforming into something no man could adequately describe. They moved on to dogs then apes, genetically modifying the DNA of the animals, eliminating traits they felt did not enhance the creature and magnifying traits they found acceptable.
It was only a matter of time before Jarl, Sejm, and Cean began experimenting on humans.
REAPERS
Also known as deargs duls. There are numerous tribes of these beings scattered all over the megaverse. It is known there were colonies on Chale, Theristes, Rysalia Prime, and Ghaoithe, but many colonies exist that are unknown to all but their inhabitants.
Characteristics of a Reaper:
(1. Possesses superb mental and physical abilities beyond the range of humans
(2. Psychic abilities to send and receive thoughts to and from humans and animals alike
(3. The strength of twenty men
(4. The ability to live ten to twenty times longer than a normal humanoid
(5. The ability to shapeshift at will
(6. The ability to track any being through DNA taken from the target's blood
(7. Illness, wounds, etc. are healed automatically by the parasite. Appendages that have been torn or cut off will regenerate.
THE PARASITE or REVENANT WORM:
The Queen--also called the Hellion--is about a foot in length although She can grow longer. She is coiled around Her hive (see Hive) of about four-dozen nestlings. She is an eel-like abomination with green flesh covered in hard scales and a triangular head that has warts protruding from it. The tip of Her tail is forked and covered with sharp spines. She has red eyes that are elliptical in shape like a viper’s. In the triangular maw of Her mouth are rows of sharp teeth. Between Her fangs drips a slimy, milky, threadlike acidic fluid that can eat through any material except glass; the smell of this acid is extremely noxious.
Each time She lays her eggs She gives off a hemotoxin which destroys human blood cells. This happens about four times a year. This is when Reapers Transition.
She has a psychic bond--a symbiotic relationship--with Her host, the Reaper. She feeds off his blood and controls him with painful scrapes of Her spines upon his organs. She will bunch Her body against his back to create agonizing probes into his flesh.
She can cure illness, regenerate growth of organs or appendages that have been damaged or removed. Unless She suffers catastrophic harm such as massive ghoret bites (see below) or removal, She will heal Herself and Her Reaper indefinitely.
It is possible for Her to go into an extended state of hibernation if necessary to protect the life of Her host.
THE HIVE or NEST:
The hive of fledglings or nestlings (also called leeches) is a grayish-green honeycomb of wriggling bodies that are produced by the Queen without need for fertilization. The worm-like beings are in a sac that is attached to the Reaper’s kidney. Most are no larger than a man’s little fingernail.
The adult leech can store up to six months of Sustenance before it needs to be fed again. The pupae--its young in the cocoons--are in a non-feeding state of development so they have no need of nourishment until they hatch. Once they do, they attach themselves to the underside of the Queen until they can break free and live independently in the sac.
Fledglings are harvested once they reach maturity and stored for implantation into Reaper candidates.
SUSTENANCE:
A Reaper must consume blood on a daily basis in order to maintain a normal existence. The lack of Sustenance causes discomfort and hunger that can only be assuaged with drinking the blood. Withholding Sustenance for a long period of time will result in the Reaper Transitioning to his lupine state and remaining that way until Sustenance and a large dose of Tenerse is supplied to him. Usually taken from donors and stored for the Reaper’s use, the most effective Sustenance would be, of course his own or that from another Reaper. Such blood is black so thus contaminated with the parasitic spores that make him what he is. 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.
TENERSE or TRISOMODINE:
This drug is a very powerful chemical. It is a neuroleptic which controls the nerve pathways of the brain that utilize the tissue chemical dopamine for the transmission of nerve impulses. Developed to control severe psychotic behavior, it is made from distilling the alkaloid in the Clavicepts purpurea fungi that infects grains of rye wheat and related grasses. When distilled it is purple in color with a cherry taste but is odorless. It is given to a Reaper to keep him on cycle, to regulate his cycles and to control him since the drug is highly addictive. It is also given to him to help the severe headaches Reapers are prone to experiencing. The drug is so potent, however, it can cause bad headaches and acute nausea in susceptible humans.
When mixed with a variety of other liquids, tenerse produces various other effects:
(1. Milk: strong sexual arousal; aphrodisiac
(2. Ale: severe, irrational anger
(3. Water: potent sedative; hangover cure
(4. Wine: stupor, hallucinations, ear ringing
(5. Brandy: Uncontrollable anger
(6. Taro root:severe heightening of pain
(7. Vinegar: severe lessening of pain
(8. Fruit juice: poison
(9. Mead: madness, irrational behavior (depending on amount)
(10. Distilled Water: what Reapers take to control Transitions
By itself it can be a strong soporific which causes deep sleep. If used over a long period of time, it can cause blindness in a human. This is not the case with Reapers whose parasites would prevent such a thing from occurring.
TRANSITION:
When the time of the male’s puberty comes upon him, a Reaper will undergo his first Transition. It is the increase in the levels of testosterone that causes this. Excessive levels of testosterone can bring on Transition outside a Reaper’s cycle and this is why when he is extremely angry, Transition will generally occur.
Transition occurs roughly quarterly.
The sequence of Transition begins with the Reaper’s body heat increasing. He will sweat profusely, his face and body slick with perspiration. Manifestation of the cycle beginning are: sweating, shuddering violently, pacing, groaning, raking his fingers through his hair, bending over the growing pain in his abdomen as his body begins to change. His eyes will begin to glow red and then the actual physical changes will begin.
Physical changes: His cheekbones will flare, become elevated, jawbone thrust out with a shriek, and his head will sweep back to form sharp, pointed ears. His nose will elongate to a wrinkled snout with wet, sucking sounds. His nostrils will widen and flare--the better to inhale scents. Sharp, yellowed fangs will erupt from his gums and protrude from leathery lips dripping thick streams of saliva. With a netherworldly howl of frustration and pain he will hunker down and turn his head from side to side in his agony, his chatoyant eyes seeking out any trace of warmth from which he can feed. He will drop to all fours and his torso will shorten as bones and cartilage move. Legs will shorten, hips and shoulders re-joint until there is no longer anything even vaguely human about his appearance. In undulating waves, his body will compact with the grinding, stretching, and popping sounds of bones separating, changing and organs rearranging themselves inside his body. Bristling fur will push outward all over his body to form a thick coat, his arms and legs will become those of a lupine-like creature, and his hands will become paws. His fingernails will grow at an alarming rate to become thick, horny plates that will eventually transform into curved claws as sharp as a dagger’s blade. His thirst will cause him to lurch like a drunken man as his parched throat demands Sustenance. All ability to speak will have left him and his human control will vanish as the parasites inside him whisper vile demands he can no longer ignore.
Transitions last anywhere from an hour to several weeks. This depends on the Reaper, how much Tenerse and Sustenance he has had before the cycle begins, and the levels of Testosterone in his body. It also depends upon whether or not the Reaper has mated. Mated Reapers will not endure Transition as lengthily as though who are not mated since mated Reapers regularly use up their high levels of testosterone.
Reapers can Transition out of cycle if there is need to but doing so will alter the natural cycle and could conceivably be dangerous for any human they are near.
CONTAINMENT CELLS:
Since Transition is a highly volatile state of being and therefore by its own state dangerous to humans and animal alike, a Reaper should be confined during Transition. A cell or otherwise strong building should be provided for his/her use. Traditionally, a containment cell is seven feet by seven feet in diameter; twenty feet in height; there are no windows. Embedded in the stainless steel wall are two horizontal iron beams upon which is welded a solid sheet of metal six feet long by four feet wide; this serves as a bed although it has no padding, no covers. In the northeast corner of the cell is a four-inch wide waste removal hole; in the southwest corner of the cell, is a showerhead set flush against the stainless steel ceiling. A wire-encased light is recessed into the center of the ceiling and the light is never extinguished but always set at a very low level since Reapers are highly photophobic during Transition. The walls are stainless steel and the ceiling and flooring are re-enforced concrete with titanium rebars.
TRANSFERENCE:
If at all possible, a small amount of Sustenance should be given to the candidate prior to the Transference. If this is not possible, Sustenance must be given shortly upon the candidate's reversal to human shape after the initial Transition. Reaper blood is preferable for this procedure.
If it is a simple Transference (meaning one in which a Queen is not exchanged), the donor lays on his/her belly and the back is bared. A six inch slit is made over the right kidney and a fledgling is extracted through the wound. The Queen will have instructed one of the parasites to donate itself. The parasite is placed in a glass receptacle. The candidate is laid on his/her back, the back is bared and a duplicate incision is made. The donated parasite is then dropped onto the recipient's back and will burrow down into the wound. The wound will close almost instantly. If there is to be an exchange of Queens (with the recipient's Queen already dead or dying), the incision needs to be roughly one foot in length to accommodate the larger size of the hellion.
BEHAVORIAL MODIFICATION:
Whenever his trainers believe a Reaper is ‘throwing off’ or ignoring his conditioning, he is remanded to the Be-Mod 9 for therapy. This is a facility where physical torture and psychotropic drugs are used to re-enforced the Reaper’s all-consuming loyalty to the Empire. It is believed that only extreme pain, mental torment, and a broad spectrum of intense drug therapies can break through the Reaper’s natural defenses and thus take him down to his lowest point so he can be re-programmed. Through this extreme regimen the scientist hope to eventually abolish the human part of the Reaper. The stronger the Reaper, the more intense the therapy. Some warriors do not survive the regimen intact.
PROLOGUE
In the barren reaches of space, through a wormhole deep in the blackness, across billions and billions of miles of emptiness lies the Cairghrian Galaxy and in that vast expanse are the Federated Moons of Rysalia.
While Earth was still staggering from the assassination of the greatest political leader their 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 which 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 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 whom 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, his 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 that was feared the most. It was these men who struck fear into the heart of every woman brought to FSK-14. They were called Reapers, cold-blooded killing machines bred without conscience, compassion or regard for human life. Programmed to repress all gentle emotions, they were shapeshifting vampires who bled black blood and had the strength of twenty men. Not only were the Reapers feared by their enemies, they were feared by their own society.
‘Run and the Reapers will find you,’ it was said.
‘Disobey and the Reapers will punish you,’ they 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, a killer among killers.
His name was Kamerone Cree.
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 an 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, and 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 was 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 sides, 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 that Bridget had once heard described as colder than the glaciers on Mount Serenia locked with her eyes. “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, and then came from behind the desk. “If you will follow me--”
“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 though inside she was quaking with terror. 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, and 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. “Did you think otherwise?”
“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 of picking 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. Those who have not handled the therapy well were those who were not as fit. 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, Captain, 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, and then spoke on a rush of breath. “And I’m afraid I cannot 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 or a Diabolusian warthog’s pecker about your fucking qualifications. You have no idea what going one night without the chemical will do to me!”
The Director drew in a long, steadying breath. She knew the Reapers were addicted to the strong drug and could not function adequately without it. To deny Cree the drug was a punishment unto itself. 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 highly psychologically and physically addictive. Developed to control severe psychotic behavior, it was routinely given to warriors of the Reaper caste to prolong the intervals between Transition cycles. It also helped them to sleep--something they had great difficulty doing for their active minds were programmed to resist shutting down and thus dulling the sharp edge of anger that habitually controlled them.
“I have seen the effects of trisomidine withdrawal, Captain, and I assure you I know
the--”
“Get the hell 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.
“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 that 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.
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, and 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 that 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.
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 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 phase 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. If looks could kill, though, Beryla Dean would have been decapitated.
“I think we understand one another, don’t you, Captain?” Dr. Dean inquired. She moved back, out of his reach.
“You just remember one thing, woman. 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, woman!” he sneered.
“Not even that I am General Drae Cree’s consort and thus under his protection?”
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 mumbled.
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, and 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.”