No Such Thing Page 8

  "Come, my dear, it’s not very far," the Chief said in his soothing voice.

  Without looking away from Declan, she started moving again, allowing him to lead her to an auto-ladder, where the energy disc dropped them past two floors worth of ladder rungs. She barely noticed. She focused very hard on Declan’s gentle clasp and his anxious features, looking for any signs of disgust or fear. She was continually amazed to find none.

  Suddenly she found herself in a suite of rooms, confronted by a small, energetic woman without any idea how she’d gotten there.

  "Ryelle, may I present my wife, Mina Sheridan, the best chef and most exquisite woman in this or any galaxy."

  Mem Sheridan sent the Chief a wink and a dimpled smile, before turning that smile on Ryelle. "I’m so pleased to finally meet you, dear. Won’t you come in?"

  "Thank you," Ryelle managed in a carefully polite voice, tightening her grip on Declan. "It’s a pleasure to meet you as well. I have very much enjoyed all of your dishes."

  The woman’s smile brightened a notch, warm brown eyes flickering to their clasped hands. "You’re sweet. Good morning, Declan. Are you behaving yourself?" Stepping close to him, she leaned up on tip-toe.

  Declan bent down to her level, allowing her to give him a peck on the cheek. "Morning, Mem. Behaving no more than I have to."

  Her laugh was like bird song as she urged them into the lounging area. "I’ll bring us some tea and nibblies. Settle in and make yourselves at home."

  She swept out of the room, her light brown hair flaring out behind her like wings. Declan pulled Ryelle to a cushiony piece of furniture and she sank down into its softness without further urging. She hadn’t let go of him, so Declan didn’t have much choice but to join her, but there was no hesitation in his movements as he sat close beside her.

  "You sure you’re okay?" he asked, a crease between his glorious eyes. "Did that rock move wipe you out?"

  "No, I’m not tired. I’m—" She paused, glancing from Declan to the Chief and swallowing hard. "Will we get word? On how the fighters are doing?"

  The Chief nodded gravely. "Would you like me to check?"

  "Yes, please," she answered, trying to keep the anxious quiver out of her voice.

  He gave her a gentle smile and left the room.

  Ryelle returned her attention to Declan to find him watching her with solemn concern. She was amazed all over again by his tolerance. The question slipped out before she could stop it. "Why aren’t you afraid of me?"

  A ghost of a bemused smile passed over his face. "Should I be?"

  "Yes!" she answered in a low, agonized tone. "Look what I did today! I terrified the rest of the crew and the worst part is—" She took a deep breath, determined not to hold out on him anymore, to hide anything. "The worst part is it was easy and I’m going to do things in battle that will make what I just did look like a parlor trick. I-I gave away the location of those GenTecs and some of our crew are fighting with them right now. The best I can hope for is that our fighters all return whole, but that still means I’m responsible for human death. They’re our enemy, I know, but I just—"

  "Ryelle," he rasped in a low voice, his blue eyes intense as he placed his other hand atop their clasped limbs and enclosed her cold hand in warmth. "It was the commander’s call to send out fighters. Even when we’re in an all out fight, whatever you do, it’ll be on his orders. So it’s his responsibility, not yours."

  She shook her head. "That’s too easy. And there will be times when I’ll have to act without his orders, to protect this ship. When I will have to k-kill. I knew I would, talked about it with my handler Grieve, but I don’t think the idea really sank in until now." She swallowed hard. "Declan, I feel sick. And I didn’t even kill those GenTecs myself. What if some of the fighters don’t make it back?"

  "They will," he responded with immediate confidence. "This is the best fighting crew in the fleet. But even if they didn’t, that wouldn’t be on you. They chose to be here, to do this. And killing…" He paused, chewing the inside of his lip as he looked down for a moment. "That’s hard for everybody. I guess…what would you do if they boarded the Odyssey, started killing the crew?"

  Ryelle frowned. "I would stop them."

  "Okay, so it’s pretty much the same thing, only on a bigger scale. The muties keep trying to come in our space and hurt people. We’re stopping them. If that comes down to killing, than I guess we do what we have to do."

  "You’re saying I just need motivation," she said, studying him.

  He gave a little awkward shrug, his expression wavering between distress and determination. "I hear anybody can kill if they’ve got reason enough. I think I could do it if somebody tried to hurt anybody on this ship. Especially you," he finished on a mumble, gaze dropping to their clasped hands as his cheekbones reddened.

  Ryelle stared at his bent head with a puzzled frown. That made no sense. She was the least vulnerable person on the Odyssey. Why would he want to protect her more than the rest of the crew? She was distracted from this mystery when he began gently stroking the back of her hand, long fingers moving with slow absorption, as if he was fascinated by the contours he found there. She twitched at the sensation, feeling a return of those strange tingles and spreading warmth from the last time he’d caressed her hand.

  He looked at her out of the corner of his eye, a covert indigo flash that made her stomach quiver. His fingers paused as he asked, "Should I stop doing that?"

  "Not ever," she blurted then felt her cheeks warm with embarrassment. But it was only the truth, even if it did make her sound like a creature every bit as abnormal as the GenTecs. She was greedy for human contact, absolutely craving it now that he’d shown her how good it felt. She wanted to touch everyone, Declan most of all. She thought she could swiftly become addicted to those stroking fingers, even if they did make her feel sort of…watery.

  He didn’t look at her strangely or act as though her comment was out of the ordinary. His lips curved in a smile that looked pleased, eyes remaining on her hand as his fingers continued their slow and gentle exploration, though they now had a faint tremor. "I wish I could do this forever," he said softly.

  The sensations grew stronger, reminding her of that peculiar weakness she’d experienced in the cavern. She frowned, not wanting to ruin this moment by getting sick. She was enjoying his touch with such a blanket of contentment that it felt as though the hazards of the rest of the world had melted completely away. Yet her heart started to increase its pace, warmth began to bloom in the oddest places, and her muscles quivered with a peculiar, lethargic weakness. If this wasn’t sickness, than what was it?

  She tried to find a distraction, tried to remember what they’d been talking about. But her mind refused to focus on anything but him. "Declan," she murmured, remembering her conversation with Commander Task, "are you my friend?"

  His head jerked up as though she’d startled him and she was disappointed when his fingers stopped moving, settling once again to confine her hand in warmth. The blue of his eyes was darker, his eyelids heavier, and his cheekbones had more color. He looked a bit feverish, but his smile was easy. "I hope so. You don’t hold hands with people you don’t like, do you?"

  She thought he might be teasing, but she answered him honestly. "No. Do you have many friends?"

  "Sure."

  "What’s it like? To have friends?"

  He stared at her for a moment, his smile fading. "What do you mean? Don’t you have friends?"

  She shook her head. "Not until you. Well, and I guess the commander. Do you suppose the Chief and Mem Sheridan would mind being my friends?" she asked in a wistful tone, looking down at their clasped hands so he wouldn’t see how much the answer meant to her.

  "Dear, we already are."

  Ryelle jumped a little and felt Declan do the same, as they both turned toward the entrance. Mem Sheridan was peeking around the doorway with a lovely smile and a shine to her eyes.

  "I’m so sorry to interrupt," she add
ed with a little grimace. "Take all the time you need, but I wanted to let you know that breakfast is ready when you are."

  At her words, Declan’s stomach rumbled so loudly that Ryelle jumped again. Mem Sheridan let out a trill of laughter as Declan turned a dull shade of red and grinned sheepishly.

  The Chief appeared behind his wife and gave Declan a wry look. "Young men are bottomless pits, my love. Of course he’s ready to eat. Shall we?"

  "I think we’d better," Ryelle said as seriously as she could, sending a pointed, wary look at Declan’s middle.

  The Chief chuckled along with his wife and Declan groaned, laughing a little as he tugged her to her feet. "Stop picking on me."

  Their hosts led them down a short hall to a round little eating area, brightly lit and full of delicious aromas. As they seated themselves around a small table, the Chief sobered and leaned toward Ryelle.

  "I’ve had word of the skirmish. Our fighters are returning victorious, no injuries or damage."

  "Thank you," Ryelle said automatically, but her stomach clenched and did a slow, sickening roll. The food smells no longer seemed appetizing, and she had to swallow hard to keep from gagging. She was now responsible for the deaths of eighty sentient beings. The room seemed to grow dim at the edges.

  "Ryelle? Are you all right?"

  "Perhaps you should put your head down," the Chief said in worried tones, touching her lightly on the shoulder.

  But it was Declan’s warm, tight grip that helped to right her world. She took a deep breath, willing light back into the edges of her vision. Swallowing hard again with determination, she told herself sternly, that’s enough. You did not start this war. You did your job and protected this ship and these people. Your friends. And you’ll do it again if you have to. Looking around at their concerned faces, she realized she’d do anything to keep them safe. Anything.

  "I’m all right," she told them, relieved to hear the even timber of her voice. She breathed deeply and let out a sigh. "I’m fine, really. I just…don’t like what I did. I don’t believe I like war."

  The Chief gave her an understanding smile and patted her on the arm, startling her, though he didn’t seem to notice. "I would be worried if you did like it, dear. You did just fine."

  His touch wasn’t on her skin, but she still thought she could feel the warmth of it through her sleeve. If not physical warmth, than the warmth of his kindness. She returned his smile and held out her hand to him impulsively. "Declan tells me I shouldn’t hold hands with people I don’t like."

  "He is a wise young man," the Chief said solemnly, though his hazel eyes twinkled at her and a dimple appeared at the edge of his smile. He clasped her hand in his and Ryelle was surprised to find that his touch was different. His hand was warm like Declan’s and she could feel a similar strength in his gentle hold, but his touch did not make her tingle or remind her of her basic femininity. His hold offered comfort and that same warm kindness she’d felt when he’d patted her arm. Fascinating.

  With a glance of amazed discovery up at the Chief, she pulled away and reached across the table to Mem Sheridan, eager to learn more. With sparkling eyes and muffled laughter, the older woman took her hand.

  "Child, you act as though you’ve never touched anyone before."

  "I haven’t," she responded absently, absorbed in the contact. The other woman’s fingers were just as delicate as Ryelle’s and cool, but no less kind than her husband’s. It reminded her of her mother’s touch and her eyes stung a little.

  The silence caught her attention, and she looked up to find both Sheridans gazing at her with thinly veiled horror. Realizing what she’d said, Ryelle quickly pulled back and tucked her hand in her lap, though she left her other hand in Declan’s secure clasp. He tightened his hold and gave her a smile when she glanced at him, but his eyes flicked to the couple warily.

  "No one…touches you?" Mem Sheridan asked in a faint voice.

  "I don’t have—family and the Institute has different, um, customs…" Ryelle said, trying to explain her upbringing in a way that sounded somewhere close to normal. She could tell by their aghast expressions that she was failing.

  "They’re afraid of her," Declan said in a harsh tone, staring at their hosts with a grim set to his mouth. "The bastards have been treating her like she was some kind of monster all her life. Sorry for the language, Mem," he added to the Chief’s wife, though she didn’t seem to notice.

  Ryelle looked down at her lap miserably. She couldn’t understand the anger in his tone. She was a monster—the Institute understood that. It was only these people that didn’t seem to be catching on.

  "No child deserves to be raised without love and especially not without simple decency," Mem Sheridan whispered and Ryelle looked up to see tears trembling on her lashes. "They are the monsters." The Chief reached for his wife and she took his hand without looking away from Ryelle. "You have been sorely mistreated, my dear. Believe me when I say they will hear of it from us." Her voice had gained strength as she spoke, ending on a note of diamond sharp anger that matched the hardening of her features. The Chief nodded, looking at his wife with a little smile and a light in his eyes.

  Before Ryelle could marshal a response, the older woman shook her head briskly, wiping her wet lashes with swift fingers. "But not without fortification. Our breakfast is getting cold and though holding hands is quite nice," she said with a wink at her husband, "it does complicate eating."

  The Chief raised her hand and brushed his lips across her knuckles before letting her go. Ryelle sent a quick glance at Declan, but though his mouth curved in a small smile, he didn’t copy the Chief’s action, giving a squeeze before letting go. She was startled by how cold and bereft her hand felt without his around it.

  The meal was odd, for Ryelle at least. The food itself was as delicious as she’d come to expect from the officer’s head chef, but she’d never experienced such relaxed conversation. They spoke of trivial, domestic matters, but there was a flow and rhythm to it that washed around her like a river of music. The Chief told his wife about his crew’s latest antics, which Declan modified and embellished with enthusiasm. Mem Sheridan spoke of her own acquaintances. There was speculation about a lover’s triangle among crew members that Ryelle didn’t know and Declan made her smile with stories of his roommate’s obnoxious sleeping habits.

  So normal. So…wonderful. Ryelle didn’t ever want to leave. But eventually the Chief sighed and sent her an apologetic grimace.

  "I’m afraid I have a confession, my dear. Your Institute tried to contact you earlier." Ryelle felt her stomach dive, but he wasn’t finished. "I referred them to the commander, who informed them of my aversion to their presence in my home and my refusal to allow them entrance. They wanted you to wear your pretty headdress again, you see. But I rather loath the thing."

  Ryelle’s hands flew to her temples and she was shocked to feel nothing but her silky hair. She had completely forgotten to return to her quarters and put the snood back on. "Oh, no," she breathed, feeling a spurt of panic at what Grieve would have to say.

  "Yes, well, the commander has graciously extended his order that you not wear it in his presence to include my wife and I, and our quarters. I can’t imagine that it will be long before the commander decides that you can’t wear it on his ship at all."

  "They won’t allow it," she contradicted, though the idea was almost as appealing as holding hands with Declan. To be free of their constant surveillance, their constant distrust and disapproval. She shivered with longing.

  "We shall see. Commander Task is somewhat stubborn. In the mean time, the Institute has accepted his order, so you are welcome to stay as long as you like."

  The temptation to do exactly that was enormous. But she was afraid of what the Institute would do if she slipped their control with such deliberation. Perhaps the commander had some power to protect her on his ship, but he couldn’t keep them from recalling her, and once she was back at the Institute, there would be hell to pay
.

  "I—can’t. I really need to report to them. Thank you so much for your offer and for the wonderful breakfast." She glanced over at Mem Sheridan as she finished with a strained smile. Both Sheridans returned her smile, but they had the exact same shadow of concern in their eyes. "I need to return to my quarters now." She rose to her feet.

  "I’ll walk you there," Declan said in a subdued voice. He had his eyes downcast as he stood, but there was a twitch in his jaw as if he was clenching his teeth.

  The Sheridans accompanied them to the door, both of them taking her hand again with murmurs of kindness that made tears sting her eyes. Filled with warm gratitude, she gave them a more natural smile and accepted their invitation to dinner in the officer’s mess that evening.

  Since she hadn’t paid attention to how they’d arrived at the Sheridan’s quarters, she was grateful that Declan was with her. He was quiet as he led her through the section of the ship that housed the higher ranking crew members. He also didn’t try to take her arm or hold her hand again. Ryelle couldn’t believe how much she missed his touch and mourned its loss. The trained part of her appreciated his discretion, since all the corridors of the ship had security systems and so they weren’t ever truly alone. She didn’t mind the rest of the crew seeing them together, but she knew the Institute wasn’t above monitoring her through the Odyssey’s eyes. Intuitively she understood how much they would disapprove of her being with Declan. They had already made veiled reference to her time spent in engineering, fishing for information with the persistence of suspicion.

  "Will they punish you?" Declan finally spoke as they reached her door.

  "No," she answered, as her mind briefly flitted to the snood with an inner shudder of loathing. But they’d never used the pain inducer for any other purpose than controlling unauthorized uses of telenetic talent. "I’ve done nothing to warrant punishment."