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Jabal's Rage
Karen Cunningham
Copyright 2003
All Rights Reserved
Dedication:
For my husband, the man who is my hero, my inspiration, and my best friend,
and for The Creator who blesses us with
every good and precious thing.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and occurrences are either the products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.
Excerpt
From Gomerian Songs, "The Death of Havilah"
For there lies Havilah,
Edena's prosperous glory, his prison,
And, beside her, Sister Meth,
Silent to his cry.
Yet, she will see bright Havilah burn
As rage consumes my reason.
Though for me there be certain death,
Burn, Havilah, in the flames of your lie.
Chapter One
The stench was nauseating. Naamah Tiras covered her nose and mouth with a leather-gloved hand in the cold darkness, trying to ward off the smell as the door suddenly hissed shut behind her. She stood there for a moment in the chill blackness, unwilling to breathe, unable to see without the pre-dawn light of Teb-Alkein's three orbiting moons. She had come here under that light, with Aliah, her cousin, and with Adam Madai, her closest friend. Now her heart was beating so rapidly with apprehension that she wished she could run back to them, wherever they were waiting for her, wherever they were watching out for her safety.
Muffling a choke as the overwhelming odor of dead fish assaulted her senses and filled her rebelling lungs, she pressed a pad on the miniature illuminator that Aliah had given her. Soundlessly, its slender ray of concentrated light was activated, its bright beam casting ominous shadows that danced and ballooned around her eerily. She admonished herself quickly, furious that her fear was getting so deep a hold on her reason. Breathe normally. You'll get used to it after awhile. Just figure out which way you want to go and get on with it.
There were too many possible routes. Naamah's illuminator flashed quickly over row upon row of freeze-crates stacked high under the old warehouse's lofty roof, presumably filled with the products of Teb-Alkein's vast oceans, each row far enough apart from the others to create its own darkly beckoning aisle. Overhead, a maze of catwalks loomed above the crates, and an automated cable system hung heavily from reinforced segments of the ceiling. She took a cautious step away from the door, the soft tap of her boot sole startlingly loud in the cavernous silence.
Calm down, she commanded herself again, her ears prickling with alarm at the sounds of her own movement. Remember Aliah. Remember Adam. They'll be here if there's trouble. As she took another step forward, she fought the desire to touch the pendant that lay warm against her throat, the symbol of elected office in Edena Colony's government. If all was going as planned, Aliah and Adam were listening to her every move through the official jewelry that circled her neck--through the micro-transmitter hidden in its finely altered clasp and through the delicate wires threaded carefully inside its six golden chains. A soft twist of the pendant would bring them running to her aid, and its tiny inner homing cell, activated by her touch, would enable them to find her quickly. Even so, her imagination was beginning to conjure a variety of situations that could thwart their plan.
She forced herself to stop thinking about the variables and swung the illuminator beam down the first intersecting aisle. So, which way? Right or forward? Neither direction looked more promising than the other. She listened silently for any sound of motion deep inside the warehouse, but could hear nothing above the nervous pulsing of her heart. Okay, then, instinct says we go right.
Bright light suddenly streamed along the path not chosen, bursting upward from a series of plasti-glass lumi-torches that lined the floor. Naamah gasped, whirled to face the light as she dropped to a defensive crouch, her free hand reaching out for hard ground in an attempt to maintain balance. She waited for a moment, brown eyes alertly searching her surroundings, but there were no signs of movement.
Finally turning off the illuminator, she clipped it quietly onto the slender black belt strapped to her right thigh and rose warily back to her feet. So much for instinct, she mused soberly. Looks like we're going forward after all. It seemed to be the only explanation--Garrett was offering a map to his lair.
Unfortunately, that meant there were eyes watching her. Whether human or automated, it didn't really matter. Garrett was no fool, and Naamah had figured long before she arrived that the man would somehow be keeping track of her movements. Well, then, we'll give him what he wants for now, she decided coolly, resolve renewing her courage. She moved slowly down the lit path, stopping only when it dead-ended at a narrow intersection.
"Okay, Garrett," she breathed. "Now which way?"
As if the man could hear her speak, Naamah was rewarded with the lighting of the right-hand aisle. She followed his lead undaunted, moving past crate stacks that rose three and four times taller than her petite 5.2 mektons. The lumi-torches continued to guide her deeper into the heart of the expansive warehouse until, at last, they spilled out to embrace a sizable open area--most likely the facility's shipping center, if the three XL20 Series lifters were any clue. Used for moving cargo between plant and carrier vessel, the small, single-pilot lift units were not developed for long-distance flight. Thus, they were usually stationed near docking pads where they could easily access a ship's hold with a modicum of power. No doubt, behind the great, heavy closed doors that made up the far wall, there was just such a docking pad, waiting for the morning sun to bring the first crews of the day.
Naamah didn't see Garrett until he spoke.
"Assemblywoman Tiras," he greeted her formally, stepping out from his position behind a semicircular data station to the left of the XL20s. His voice was deep and clear in the stillness, his hazel eyes steady upon her as she turned, surprised, to meet his gaze. "Welcome to Oceana Enterprises."
Standing warily before him, Naamah made no move to bridge the distance between them. "General Seth Garrett," she replied evenly, matching his formality with her response. "And--" she added, glancing upward at the catwalks, "I presume, your entourage." The man had to have a team somewhere here, and the catwalks made too good a vantage point to be ignored.
Garrett smiled slightly through his rust-brown mustache and short beard. "Yes," he admitted without attempt to cover the truth. "Though, I can assure you, you're in no danger from them. They're only here to help me assess your reliability."
Naamah's dark brows arched. "My reliability?" she repeated, steeled by his choice of words. "I thought you had already figured that out, General. Your spies have apparently been recording my every move over the last five antons."
Sober once again, Seth Garrett silently studied her, his eyes lingering upon her colony-cut suede jacket, the soft leather of her gloves, the belt that encircled her right leg over black, skin-hugging work breeches. She was a beautiful woman, only twenty-seven antons compared to his forty, with short hair the richest of browns and a compelling alto voice. Her dark eyes spoke of experience beyond her age, and, in spite of her size, she had an air of strength that complemented her lithe figure.
"It's not my intention to offend you, Lady Tiras," he said at last. "I'm merely taking some necessary precautions. As an officer of Brythia's intelligence service, I've found that serving our Empire can be a deadly pastime. I'm sure you'll agree, your record of treason on behalf of Edena Colony warrants some careful handling." He paused as she eyed him distrustfully, then added, "So far, you've passed most of our tests."
"If you're referring to the fact that I've come unarmed," Naamah replied coldly, "you needn't feel too proud. Edena Colony law forbids any member of the House of Assembly to carry weapons. I certainly didn't leave them behind because of the demands in your message."
Appearing gravely thoughtful, Garrett crossed his arms, stroked his beard. "I've often wondered which of our illustrious governors was responsible for that edict," he mused grimly, "but for now, let's relegate that matter to the history books. Whatever your reasons for following my instructions, Assemblywoman, you've managed to come to the right place at the right time, unarmed, as directed. Your only failure was bringing your friends with you in spite of my warnings."
Naamah's heart stopped for an instant. Even though she had expected such an event--Oceana Enterprises was likely riddled with surveillance equipment and security accouterments--the knowledge that Adam and Aliah had been observed was still troubling. Were they safe? Did Garrett know they were listening, watching for her signal?
"I'm sorry, General," she said icily, attempting to hide her unease with a sharp, forward opposition, "but your warnings mean nothing to me. My friends are here for my protection, whether they gain your approval or not. If I fail to return to them before the closing of this hour, they'll take steps to--"
"Lady Tiras," Garrett interrupted, raising his hands with a grimace. He, too, was wearing gloves, and a heavy tan jacket and the dark labor garb under it reinforced the general ruggedness of his appearance. "I understand your desire for safety," he said, "but, the fact is their presence could jeopardize the secrecy of our meeting. Any hint of trouble could alert the authorities, and I have far too much at stake here to allow that risk."
"You have too much at stake?" Naamah questioned, suspicious. "Your message mentioned details about my unofficial work for the colonies that no one else should have known. As far as I'm concerned, General, you are the authorities. So what exactly is your game? Are you here to arrest me in the name of the emperor, or did you call me here for a more lucrative reason--blackmail, perhaps?"
With a weary sigh, Garrett walked solemnly toward the crates behind Naamah. "Neither one, Lady Tiras," he stated without looking at her. "I am merely in need of your help."
*****
In the still of Teb-Alkein's dark first hours of morning, Adawei, daughter of Mehala, lay silent within the warm, down-filled coverings of her bed pallet. Gazing distantly at the soft, breeze-tossed flames of torches that sconced her chamber's great stone walls, she had faced a sleepless night--a night of memories and turmoiled emotions that would not be soothed even by the gentle song of moonbirds flitting in the trees beyond her balcony.
There was nothing she could do. Daylight would arrive, and with it, the moment for her decision. No longer any time for questions, for seeking wisdom, for longing for the past. The choice was required of her.
Restless, Adawei brushed a rebellious welling of tears from her dark eyes, reached for the robe of white and gray furs that lay on the floor beside her. She carefully stood, slipping her arms through the garment's comforting sleeves, tugging her long, black hair out from under its curving neckline. "If only you were here, Father," she whispered into the night air, "you would tell me what must be done--how to protect our people's legacy." But, he was no longer with her, had not been with her for many antons. His body, charred and lifeless, had been recovered from the same firestorm that had taken her mother and three brothers, a firestorm created by one of the frightened, frenzied mobs of Brythian colonists her family had once tried to befriend. So long ago, and yet the wounds her heart had suffered never healed. Now she remained alone in the vast fortress her loved ones had treasured, the last of her people, keeper of their fortunes.
With bare feet stinging upon cold wood, Adawei moved across the room, extinguished the flames of all but one of the torches that had been casting light and shadows upon her bed. Removing the last one carefully from its holder, she lifted the protective latch from her door and swung it open to step through into a wide hallway. Here, the fluttering fire illuminated more of the great rock walls that had made her ancestral home a safe-haven for refuge-seekers. Mementos of adventures lined the passage, breaking the monotony of stone as she passed them, and her eyes lingered for a moment upon a collection of carved-hilt broadswords and knives. Touching one pair sadly, she remembered their history. Ancient and beyond price, her father had won them in battle from the tyrannical chief of a tribe allied to the Gihonian Empire, yet she would have cherished them as well had they been mere sticks to remind her of his victory.
Adawei forced the pain from her mind. Turning to descend the rough-hewn steps of a wide, gradually circling staircase, she gathered up the long folds of her robe in one hand to avoid stumbling. As a child, she had played upon these steps, letting her imagination run free, sometimes hiding behind their worn wood rails to listen secretly to her parents as they talked. Now she was a woman of twenty-six antons, and the feel of the steps in the silenced dwelling had turned cold and lonely.
At the base of the stairway, the fortress' vast entry chamber loomed before Adawei with its massive double doors and broad, empty fireplace. Along the left wall, two smaller doors led to her family's library and dining room, respectively. She chose to pass through the first of these and found her heart beating harder with grief. Here, among the ceiling-high shelves that lined the walls, were her last connections with the past--the books of generations of her people. The volumes were innumerable and varied--legends and history, records of lineage, poetry and arts, diaries, recipes, laws, maps, the wisdom of ancestors who had shared her dreams in their own young days.
Placing her torch in a vacant holder between two of the bookcases, tears began to well up again in her eyes, and she allowed them to roll slowly down her cinnamon-skinned cheeks. "I can't let him take this from us, Father," she whispered, gazing through the blur at the legacy of her people. "I can't let him." She stepped shakily toward a heavy table nearby and picked up the disc and scroll that had been lying upon its smooth surface. It was an official summons in duplicate form, the scroll being a mere printout of the basic contents of the disc in case the recipient had no method of computer access. The disc itself contained the personal touch, the holo-vid message recorded by Irad Ushael, Lieutenant-Governor of Edena Colony and president of its upper legislative body, the House of Councilors.
Sitting hesitantly in the sole chair that accompanied the table, Adawei considered breaking the shiny disc and shredding its partner scroll, yet she knew it would be to no avail. Instead, she pressed the palm of her right hand on a hidden scanner underneath the table's rim and watched as the polished wooden slats above it raised and separated. A small, flat holo station and disc reader arose soundlessly from inside, and she placed the disc in the reader's acceptance slot, waited for the whirring sound to stop and the message to begin playing. One more time, she thought angrily. I will hear you one more time, and you will have my answer.
Irad Ushael's image appeared suddenly before her in miniature form. He was a tall man, handsome still at the age of fifty, with whitening hair and a slender build, garbed in the expensive, extravagant attire of his office. Standing within the shade of ivory columns and hanging ivy, the lieutenant-governor bowed politely, displaying what he probably thought was charm and what she knew was merely guile.
"Lady Mehala," he began, his voice strong and accented with the graceful Imperial cant, "I hope you will not have been frightened by the official tone of this summons, but I am eager to speak with you person to person, and I did not wish to offend you by inviting myself to intrude upon your own home. Therefore, you have been welcomed to my abode on Meth as a guest of the Brythian Empire on the dates detailed in the following itinerary. As you can see, summer has arrived here, and I am sure you will enjoy the peace and beauty of my gardens. With this welcome, you will, of course, be under our complete care with no expense too great for your pleasure during your journey and stay. But, what is this great matter to be discussed, you ask?
"As is widely known in Edena Colony, Lady Mehala, I am a collector of history. My enthusiasm for the subject has led me to acquire quite an enviable collection of original documents, journals, and literature related to our colony's past, and I am still in the process of adding to my museum. My sources tell me that you also have an interest in the past, and that you have in your possession a fine library of Sabtecan writings, which have been maintained by your family for generations. I am, of course, eager to obtain this library from you at a price to be determined during the course of our meeting, and I am sure you will find my offer amply generous. As the last living member of Tribe Sabteca, you must agree that preserving these artifacts in a secure environment is the only wise choice for honoring the memory of your people.
"I will be awaiting your arrival with great anticipation. Your passage has, of course, been arranged by my agent on Teb-Alkein, and any questions you have regarding it may be brought up with him at your convenience. Again, I am pleased to be your host and will look forward to meeting you. May your journey be smooth and with speed, Lady Mehala. Good day."
The message angered Adawei. Irad Ushael--collector, museum patron, amasser of wealth and position. The Edena colonists had a name for him, "the supreme power," an appellation born of their contempt for his authority. He was a thief, using his office to further his own ambitions and to lay claim to the properties and possessions of the people he had vowed to serve. Those who stood in his way were neatly silenced in his far-reaching web of fear.
Now he wanted her library, and his enticing words of generosity and welcome were only a disguise to cover his true intentions. No matter how lavish his offer, Ushael was not asking her to consider selling her legacy, he was demanding it. The summons was dressed with congeniality, and yet it was still a summons. She would be required by law to obey it or face the penalty of a court trial. As for the possibility of refusing his offer after meeting him on Meth, there was little doubt in Adawei's mind that he would somehow obtain the books anyway--a coincidental burglary while she was away visiting his summer palace, or perhaps a retraction of her protected status among the Edena Colonists.
She touched the silver band that circled her neck, the etched symbols of her favor in the Brythian Empire. Given to her in repentance for the colony's senseless betrayal of her family, it had saved her life more than once and guaranteed her freedom to enter Brythian settlements without fear of harm. But, in her eyes, it was also a chain of bondage, for it could never be removed from sight. If ever she failed to wear it or to keep it within ready view upon her person, she would certainly face the same dangers that other members of the surrounding tribes constantly encountered. Obviously, it would be easy for Irad to revoke her special status and reclaim her neckband without a possibility of recourse. In the process, her home could be seized for Imperial military use and her belongings confiscated.
"There is nothing I can do, then, Father," Adawei said into the cold air. "There is no choice for me but to go to Meth." But I won't betray you, she promised inwardly. I won't sell my heritage, your gift to me. I only wish I could have carried on the tradition, that I could have given--
Adawei's eyes narrowed as a sudden thought--a possible alternative that she had not yet considered--flashed through her mind. "What you cannot keep," her father had once said, "give." She remembered his words as if they had been spoken only yesterday, his voice kind, his hand gentle upon her shoulder. Give? But, give to whom?
The question was answered in her heart nearly before it was a finished thought in her mind. "Yes, Father, this you would approve," she smiled. "I know you would approve."
*****
With a deft touch, Seth Garrett loosed the safety latch on the single freeze-crate that lay closed before him, began to adjust the lighted temperature controls hidden beneath its seal. Signaling a rapid thaw of the unit's inner contents, the sound of an ascending electronic scale pulsed briefly in the cold expanse of Oceana Enterprises' warehouse. When it finished, Garrett carefully removed the heavy container's lid, set it cautiously behind him upon the hard floor.
"That smell," Naamah Tiras grimaced, covering her nose and mouth once again as she backed suddenly away from the opened crate. Somehow the stench of raw fish didn't seem to bother the general as it did her, for he never so much as flinched when the malodorous air began to escape its prison. "Someone needs to check your packaging plant for defective equipment," she choked critically. "Don't you ever test the vacu-seals on these things?"
Garrett smiled, amused by her displeasure. "That would be a good idea if there were actually fish in them," he said, moving one of the plasti-pressed bundles that filled the freezer. "What you're smelling is just a tool of the trade." He retrieved what appeared to be a small, punctured canister, held the offending object up for observation. "One of these is enough to keep curious hands and eyes at bay for at least four datons."
"What?" Naamah's dark brows furrowed warily. She approached him once more, suspicious of his intentions, and he handed her the little canister. "Sheban whale attractant," she read from the black print on its tiny label. "Wonderful. I suppose I'm going to be carrying this beautiful aroma with me for the next half-septon?"
"Just don't do any deep-sea diving for awhile, Assemblywoman, and you should be fine," Garrett replied, accepting the returned item seriously. "Just for thoroughness, I've stationed a canister up in the catwalks, as well. You never know when Brythian inspectors might decide to take a little tour of the facilities, and it might just discourage them from nosing around too much. I can't afford an oversight right now."
"So, what are you hiding in here that requires such an extraordinary disguise, General? The emperor's jewels?"
"Nothing so fabulous as that," Seth denied soberly. "But, I think your Colonial Underground might find it even more valuable." He offered her one of the bundles. "I'll let you judge for yourself."
Naamah took the package from him hesitantly, and Garrett sensed her trepidation. "You have nothing to fear, Lady Tiras," he stated truthfully. "I've investigated the Underground, yes--but please believe me, I've never intended to harm you. My only purpose for hinting at your secrets in the message you received this morning was to make sure I had your attention--to make sure you would come. I've never shared my knowledge about you with anyone aside from the other members of my own team."
Naamah's brows raised at his statement. "Oh? And, I suppose you trust them completely?" Apparently, the man's confession was intended to make her feel better, but somehow it only succeeded in heightening her sense of alarm.
Garrett's reply was certain, his tone grave. "Yes, I do," he stated, his voice deep. "With my life."
A momentary silence ensued. Refusing to be assuaged, Naamah looked the package over. It was about a mekton long, shaped much like an Acadian blackfin, one of Teb-Alkein's leading exports. "And, I suppose wrappings can be deceptive?" she suggested, glancing at Garrett distrustfully.
"Of course," he answered with a nod, folding his arms. "I'm living proof." He watched as Naamah skeptically began to remove the covering plasti-press in wide strips. The material, opaque and highly moldable, was a commonly used product in the oceanic industries, lending false credence to Garrett's appearance of legitimacy. Its gel-like inner substance, designed to protect the most fragile of aquatic goods, could be manipulated to mimic any shape, its outer casing retaining the form when chilled. Even now, though no longer frozen, the coolness of the wrap kept it slightly firm, and Naamah began to discover the true identity of the object inside only after several strips were pulled away.
"An Eberian 30-class Raptor?" she breathed, shocked. She took off the last of the wrappings, set them absently on top of the freeze-crate's other contents, then checked the sleek black weapon for ammunition. "Where did you find this? The emperor has banned this make in all of the colonies. Only the Royal Guards have--"
"I know," Garrett interrupted. "That's why I had to talk to you--alone, with no outside involvement. If we're discovered here, we could both be executed."
Naamah's jaw tensed. "Executed?" she repeated. "That would be the least of our problems. How did you manage to get these? They're not even manufactured in Edena--only in the Brythian System."
"I discovered them during a mission to Resen. My men stumbled across a Gihonian scout troop by some strange quirk of circumstance. For some reason, it seemed their sole purpose in life was to hunt us down. To make a long story short, we managed to get the upper hand and when we located their base of operations, it was practically deserted. These weapons were in a storeroom there, apparently waiting for distribution. I suspect they left them behind only because they had no vessel with a hold large enough to carry them at the time of our raid. My men brought them here just two datons ago under Oceana's cover." He gestured to the rows upon rows of stacked crates behind him. "It was a huge haul. All of these--every box filled with them. Trenchants, sentinels, raptors--even some stingers, if you like the miniature styles."
Naamah folded her arms, her thoughts whirling as she considered the purport of his words. Could this be possible--every crate? But, how in the universe...? "The Gihonians must have pirated them from a Brythian supply house or warship," she surmised. "They're probably furious that you were able to steal them back."
Garrett smiled mildly. "Too bad the Gihonian and Brythian Empires are vowed enemies. I would have enjoyed hearing their half of the story over the course of a good dinner."
Naamah ignored his musings, warning herself against the prickle of interest that was beginning to creep along her skin. "Emperor Cusch must have given you quite a commendation for this little stunt," she said coolly. "These weapons are invaluable to--"
"Emperor Cusch doesn't know about this little stunt. I never mentioned the Gihonians or the weapons in my report, and I intend to keep it our secret." He paused, his eyes meeting hers. "I'm banking the rest of my life on the idea that your Colonial Underground could find them useful," he said soberly. "I want you to have them, Lady Tiras, but there is a price for you to consider."
So, here's where the hammer strikes, Naamah reflected morosely, feeling the pit of tension rise in her stomach. Just what was Garrett's plan? Was it wise to even wonder? "I'm sure there is, General," she returned levelly, unwilling to make an exhibition of her growing curiosity. "If you find the right buyer, these goods could bring you quite a fortune."
"No doubt," Seth agreed guardedly. "My men and I could live finely for many antons on the profit."
With a sigh, Naamah reasoned, "But, the Underground isn't able to make you rich, General. If you've fully investigated our operation, you know we barely have the funds to--"
"Lady Tiras," Garrett cut in gently, "I didn't bring you here to ask for your money. As I said before, I'm only seeking your help. What I really want is asylum for me and my men--and a chance to finally work for a cause I can believe in. I've seen your work, Lady Tiras. I believe in your cause."
"You're asking me to help you defect?" Naamah questioned, surprised. It was an unexpected request--enlightening, yet troubling. Garrett's record of service to the Empire was one of brilliant success as a man both respected and feared by those who knew of his talents. To think that he would change his life's work at this point in time was, at the very least, unusual. At most, it was a possible con. "I admire the notion, General," she said hesitantly, watching him for signs of untruth, "so excuse my suspicious nature when I ask you why. You're a high-ranking officer with privileges most of the populace will never obtain. What's caused this sudden desire to give it up?"
"The Empire ceased holding a place of honor in my heart long ago," Garrett replied softly, aware of her doubts. "The abuses of power I've seen--the flagrant denials of our traditional freedoms--all in the name of a man who refuses to hear the voice of his own people. I can't serve the Empire and my conscience at the same time, and I would much rather lose everything serving my conscience than lose my conscience serving the Empire. I just hope I've been able to make some good come of my work in spite of the evils our emperor has perpetrated."
For a moment, Naamah was quiet, unsure of how to respond, unsure of Garrett's veracity. If his words were false--merely a cover to win her approval and gain access to the Underground's base of operations--acceptance of his offer could mean the destruction of the sole movement aimed at restoring the rights of Brythia's citizens. It could mean the death of friends and of family--of everyone connected to the secret organization. Was it worth the risk? But, if his words were true....
"You realize I have too much at stake here to trust you, General," she said uneasily. "How can I know--"
"There's no way to know, Assemblywoman," Garrett said urgently. "All I can tell you is that, if I had ever wanted to harm the Underground, I could have done it long ago. Do you really suppose I would have to resort to a game of this magnitude in order to bring down your people's rebellion?"
Silent, Naamah lowered her gaze to the opened crate beside her. Yes, the general's words were logical--yet they hadn't evaporated the clouds of skepticism that filled her mind. Could she play so lightly with the fate of her loved ones?
"You can test us, of course," Garrett stated. "My men and I are willing to make an active demonstration of our loyalty."
Of course. And what if the test proves you have lied to us? "You have a suggestion, perhaps?" What kind of demonstration would he propose?
"No, I don't," he replied. "I have a feeling that anything I might recommend would be looked on with cynicism, so, for the sake of good faith between us, I think I'll leave the planning up to you."
"I--guess that's fair," Naamah conceded soberly. So, he wants a test? We'll give him a test. A tingle of fear swept up her spine. Lamech. Would he approve? Would he agree to help? How can I put him in such danger? "I just hope you understand that I have no power to speak for the Underground's leaders. As much as I'd like to accept your offer, my words will mean little if they choose otherwise."
"I don't believe that, Lady Tiras," Garrett argued softly. "You are a leader in your own right, and the Underground respects your decisions. If you want to debate the issue with them, that's understandable, but shouldn't I be allowed the chance to prove myself before the final verdict is registered?"
Naamah didn't respond. Inwardly she berated herself, not liking the way her thoughts were being swayed in the Imperial officer's favor. But, doubts aside, she knew Garrett was right--the only way to find the truth was to put it to a trial. And Lamech Khane was the one hope she had of doing that.
Click. It was the minutest of sounds, barely within the range of Naamah's hearing--a reminder that she was not alone with Garrett in this immense, chilly warehouse. Somehow, the little noise had managed to penetrate beyond the soft creaks and groans of straining catwalk metal and the occasional whistle of wind through broken windowpanes. Merely the movement of one of the general's agents overhead, she guessed. But Garrett was listening intently.
"There's a man I know," Naamah finally began, her voice at a hush as the general's eyes roamed Oceana's upper reaches, but he held up a hand to stop her, and she fell silent again, a sensation of dread suddenly creeping into her heart. Her ears, now overly sensitive to sound, prickled with nervous expectation, and she flinched, startled as an almo fly's distinctive buzz whizzed past overhead.
Settle down, Tiras, she chided herself, embarrassed by her reaction to the hum of the insect's wings. She glanced apologetically at Garrett, noticed the darkness of his gaze as he looked upward towards a series of hanging cables that nearly blocked the view of rusted, metal walkways above them. Footsteps were approaching from the old platform--slowly and unsteadily--and Naamah watched to see who would finally appear.
Another soft zip sounded from a further distance, perhaps nearer the door from which she had entered the facility, this time followed by an echoing clunk. Her gaze was distracted by it for a moment, and she realized that the little noise could be no almo fly, after all. Garrett grasped her right elbow suddenly with strong fingers, and she gasped, turning to look back up at the catwalk as a man's black-clothed body stumbled rigidly into view upon its track, his eyes wide in shock--or was it pain?
"Penn!" Garrett called out, stunned. As if in response, a spot of crimson began to form on the sandy-haired agent's forehead. Penn forced one more step as blood started to trickle down his nose, lips, chin, and Naamah could see the black protrusion of a huntdart at the center of his wound. She winced, watched in horror as the agent lost balance and toppled over the knee-high guardrail into the mass of cables. For a moment, he hung there, suspended through no power of his own, until his weight caused the lines to shift.
"Duck!" Garrett barked, pulling Naamah forcefully backwards into the cover of freeze-crates. Releasing her elbow as she landed hard on the floor, he slapped what must have been a control unit under the flared wrist of his left glove, the blare of warning sirens instantly responding to his command. The screaming wail drowned out the thud of Penn's body as it hit the ground, and Naamah covered one ear with her left hand to deaden the piercing din, her other hand still firmly gripping the Raptor.
Garrett suddenly had a weapon in hand, as well. Pointing the gray trenchant ceilingward, his hazel eyes searched the tracks immediately above. "Stay behind me!" he shouted at Naamah, tugging her into a safer location against his back. "And keep down! We've got trouble!"
Author's Biography
Karen Cunningham was born in Seattle, Washington, but has lived in Oregon most of her life. She's been an avid reader since childhood and can't remember a time when she didn't have either a book or a writing tablet and pencil in her hands.
Karen thrives on reading everything from mysteries to science fiction to history to the classics. Her other hobbies include quilting and cooking.
Karen discovered The Creator as a teenager, and over the years He has provided blessings and adventures beyond anything she ever could have imagined possible. She's a true believer in His hand of Providence that works everything out for the ultimate good of those who love Him.
Karen was married in February 2000. She and her husband currently live in Central Oregon, where they enjoy the beauty of the surrounding mountains and share a happy life together.
Jabal's Rage is Karen's first published book. She is working on the sequel, Seth's Challenge.
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