Chapter Twenty-Five
Engine vibrations subsided to a barely discernible thrum, an indication they were in orbit. Fear rocketed as the door slid open to admit Lamani, armed with a blaster. He’s come to send me to Katnia.
She would fight him with all her might. Better to be killed by a blaster shot than ripped apart by the Ka-Tȇ. How much resistance could she offer, though? After being immobilized for an entire day, maybe a day and a half, her limbs had gone dead. She doubted she could lift her hand, let alone strike him.
“Change in plans.” He fiddled with his wrist comm and then aimed it at her. She flinched as a familiar pain shot into her head. Lamani pivoted and left.
Head throbbing, stomach churning, she stared at the door. Change in plans? What did that mean? He wasn’t going to send her Katnia? He couldn’t let her go—not with what she knew. She had reached the conclusion that Benson was Lamani.
Her hand felt like a dead weight as she brushed away a tear trickling from her eye.
Her hand! She’d lifted her hand! She tried both arms. They’d gone limp from disuse, but she was able to raise them. She shifted her legs. I can move! I can move!
She stood up, took a step forward, and crumpled to the floor when her legs gave out. Awakening nerves sent jabs of pain through her body.
Get up! Get up! Something was happening for Lamani to have released her. Stretching her limbs, she exercised the feeling back into her arms and legs then dragged herself to the small head. After using it, she stumbled to the door. Sealed shut. Of course.
She marched and swung her arms to restore circulation. She had to be prepared for the terrorist’s return. The cabin offered nothing she could use to defend herself; the small chair was secured to the floor. Adrenalin surged through her, pumping her up with energy even though she’d been given nothing to eat or drink since boarding the ship. Thirst and hunger were the least of her worries.
Footsteps thudded outside. Before she could react, the door slid open, and a blaster was thrust inside and pointed at her chest.
“Beth O’Shea, you’re under arrest,” shouted a male voice in perfect Terran. “Throw down your weapon!” He remained hidden behind the wall; she couldn’t see him.
“I-I’m not armed.” She held her arms away from her body.
“On the floor. Hands over your head!” he barked. “Do it! Now!”
She dropped and stretched out. Who was he with? Galactic police, she hoped. She would be taken into custody, tried and convicted for two murders, and incarcerated for the rest of her life, but that beat being ripped apart by Ka-Tȇ.
She couldn’t see, but heard the heavy thud as two men charged into the room. They wrenched her arms behind her back and wound electrocuffs around her wrist. They hauled her to her feet and frisked her for weapons.
Her rescuers/new captors were huge and muscular, their nondescript uniforms revealing nothing about their identity. Other than the order they’d shouted at her, they didn’t speak, just nodded at one another.
They’re communicating telepathically. Only cyborgs can do that. Were they with Cyber Operations? “Are—are you with Cy—” she broke off to avoid naming the organization in case they weren’t with Cy-Ops. “Are you with Carter’s company?” she asked instead.
They ignored her.
One of them holstered his blaster and seized her arm. “You’re coming with us.”
“Mikala is on board. Did you find her? Is she okay?”
She got no answer from either of them. Instead, they dragged her toward the exit.
“Don’t hurt her! Please. She needs help.” Lamani, transformed back into Benson Vincere, appeared. A worried frown creased his forehead.
“You’ll have to stand back, Secretary General,” one of the cyborgs said.
Lamani! He’s Lamani! “La-L-L—” The warning screamed in her head, but her tongue refused to form the letters to utter it. Lamani. Lamis-Odg. “T-t-t.” Terrorist. Tears of fear and frustration slid down her face as she struggled to speak. She’d lost control over her own body. Lamani, the most notorious criminal of the galaxy, stood right there, and she couldn’t say a word. Why was this happening?
She looked up at one of the agents. “Help me,” she whispered. “I have to tell you…”
“Tell me what?” he said.
“Benson is—is—” She worked her mouth, trying to force out the name. She shifted her gaze to Lamani, trying to communicate with her eyes.
“Yeah?” the cyborg asked.
She couldn’t say the name.
“Let’s go.” He grabbed her arm and shoved her toward the corridor.
Triumph flashed in Lamani’s eyes before he masked it with a show of concern. “I hope she’ll get the help she needs.”
“Not for me to decide,” the cyborg replied.
* * * *
Why did you do it? How could you?
Carter watched through the observation window. Appearing shaken, scared, and defenseless Beth was led into the interrogation room. She’d been held in solitary for three days to wear down her resistance before questioning. He kicked himself for the pangs of sympathy that bit at him. She’s a criminal. A terrorist.
Anger and disgust. That’s what he’d expected to feel when he set eyes on her again.
Not a sharp sadness and loss tearing at his insides, a wrenching longing for what he thought they’d had, worry and concern for how frightened and defeated she appeared. She’d premeditatedly attempted to kill him and one of his cyborgs. She’d kidnapped the president and the secretary general and set the ship on a course to Katnia. If a headache hadn’t caused her to black out, there was no telling what she might have done. Roarke and another field agent had found the hostages locked up in a makeshift brig. Vincere had filled them in on what had happened.
“Sure you don’t want me to question her?” Brock asked.
“No, I want to see her reaction,” Carter ground out.
They hadn’t enlightened her that her homicide attempt had failed. No one outside of Cy-Ops knew he was alive. Not Vincere. Not the Aym-Sec staff. Not Brock’s wife, Penelope. Not Mikala. He regretted deceiving people who might mourn him, but until they discovered what her plan had been, who she was working with, they had to operate on the hunch he’d been one of her targets. So, as far as anyone in the galaxy was concerned, Beth had succeeded in killing him.
She started to sit with her back to the observation pane, but her cyborg guard motioned for her to move around to the other side so she’d be facing the window. Obediently, she moved and dropped awkwardly into a chair, her hands bound by electrocuffs. Unarmed, she posed no danger to his cyborgs, but after what had happened, they weren’t going to take chances.
Carter had been informed she’d been a model prisoner, although she’d called out in her solitary cell, asking to speak to Brock. Request denied. She was in no position to issue any requests. None would be granted.
Solia entered the observation room. “Sorry, I’m late. I came as fast as I could. I had a consult on the other side of the facility.”
“Technically, you’re two minutes early.” The microprocessor in his brain kept perfect time.
“Ah, but I know how you like to get a jump on things.” She smiled. “Anything in particular you want me to listen for?”
“Lies and dissembling,” he said. He and Brock were pretty good at reading people, but Solia was a living, breathing lie detector. He blew out a huff of air. “Let’s do this.”
As he entered the interrogation room, Beth turned. Her jaw dropped. Her eyes went wide then flooded with tears. “Carter…Carter…Oh stars. You’re not dead! You’re not dead!” She launched herself out of the chair and rushed at him. “Carter!” Her face lit with a joy he would have sworn was genuine if he didn’t know the truth. “I th-thought—”
“Don’t touch me!” He seized her wrists before she could plant her hands on his chest. Despite his resolve, her faked emotion gave a kick to his heart. Disgust with his vulnerability made him less than gentle as he shoved her back into the chair. He wiped his hands on his trousers, but he couldn’t brush off the sensation of her soft skin, the wetness of her tears that had fallen, the white marks on her wrists that would turn to bruises later, or her devastated expression.
Harder than necessary, he kicked out a chair and sat.
Anguish swam in her eyes. “I’m so sorry—”
An apology? Anger spiked, soothing the ache of seeing her. You apologized for stepping on someone’s foot, for arriving late—not for kidnapping, assault, and attempted murder. Sorry I tried to kill you—my mistake.
“Suppose we start by you telling me who you are,” he said coldly. Déjà vu. Wasn’t this how they’d begun? If only he’d followed his first instincts.
She blinked as if she didn’t understand the question. “I’m Beth. Beth O’Shea.”
“Who are you?” He would keep asking until he got the right answer, until he understood why she’d come, why she’d done what she had.
She rested her bound hands on the conference console. “I have to tell you something.” She took a breath. “Benson is L…Benson is…” Her face contorted as her mouth twisted. “On the ship—h-he—l.” She closed her hands into fists and slammed them down on the desk. “Why can’t I speak?” she cried out. “I need a PerComm, please. I need to send you a message.”
A PerComm? So she could contact her accomplices? Fat chance.
“Paper and pen.”
“No. If you have something to say to me, just tell me.”
“I can’t. Something is wrong!” She had that right, he thought bitterly.
“I need help. Swain—I have to see Swain. Maybe he can help.”
“Who are you?”
Her gaze, pleading and urgent, met his. “Please, listen…” Her facial contortions increased. Her knuckles whitened as she squeezed her fists. Then she froze, stared at her hands then began to scrub erratic patterns on the console with an index finger. “My hand. Look at my hand,” she cried. “Benson is—”
He narrowed his eyes. “What about Vincere?”
“He’s—h-h-he’s—” Her head jerked so hard, he half feared she’d give herself whiplash.
“Who are you? Who sent you?”
“Look at my hand!” Tears streamed from her eyes. “Please…please…Carter.” Her mouth contorted while her finger worked spasmodically.
Maybe you should get Swain? Brock asked him.
Her crazy behavior was a pretense to throw them off guard. He’d fallen for her little-girl-lost act; he wouldn’t be fooled by this, too. No, he pinged back.
“Why did you try to kill me?” His cyborg vision and microprocessor recorded every facial twitch, every blink, every curl of her finger that continued to scratch the table. Maybe he’d transmit a vid to Swain for a consult later. The Cybermed doc wasn’t a psychologist, but it wouldn’t hurt to get his opinion.
“I couldn’t stop myself. I don’t know why I did those things.”
“So you’re pleading insanity?” he scoffed.
“No—maybe…I don’t know.” She moaned. “It’s happening now, too. I need to tell you something important, but the words won’t come!”
“Maybe the truth would come easier.”
“Something is happening to me. I’m doing things I don’t want to do.” Her lower lip wobbled. “I didn’t want to shoot you or the Cy-Ops agent—is—is he alive, too?”
Her confessions of regret were as false as her identity. Would she be disappointed Andros still lived? That her plan had failed? Mikala was safe in her office at the capital of Terra United, Vincere in his at the AOP towers. Security for both had been heightened. Andros and the two Aym-Sec officers had returned to duty.
He was the one suffering lasting effects. The agony of betrayal never ceased.
“Yes,” he finally answered her question.
She buried her face in her hands and wept. “Thank the stars. Thank the stars. I didn’t kill anybody.”
Anger at the charade burned red-hot. Clap. Clap. Clap. He applauded with deliberation. “Well done. Your act is worthy of a theatrical award, but I’m not impressed.
“It will go a lot easier on you if you cooperate. As it stands now”—he lifted a shoulder—“you’re looking at a life sentence. Your incarceration can go relatively easy here on Terra—or it can be very, very hard on one of the mining colony penitentiaries.”
All color drained from her face.
He’d never send her there—she wouldn’t survive to live out her sentence—but he’d ensure she paid for her crimes. He leaned forward. “Who sent you? Who are you working with?”
“Nobody. I swear it. I don’t know why I did those things. I’m so sorry—” Tears slid into the corners of her mouth.
Thoughts of kissing away those tears, pulling her into his arms, promising to help her flooded him. Damn her.
He shoved away and stalked out before he did something he regretted.
* * * *
Carter rejoined the others. Grooves bracketed Brock’s mouth, and Solia frowned with concern. They watched as the cyborg guard returned to escort Beth from interrogation to her solitary cell.
Was she warm enough? Was she eating? Conditions in solitary were deliberately ascetic, but he’d given orders to mitigate the harshness. Why couldn’t he get her out of his head? Why couldn’t he treat her like another enemy combatant?
“I didn’t expect a confession, but her story didn’t waver. What was she doing with her hand?” Brock asked.
“An affectation to convince us she’s crazy?” He hadn’t been serious when he’d asked her if she was pleading insanity, but maybe she was. Perhaps she hoped to get transferred to a mental facility where it would be easier to escape than from Cy-Ops custody.
“I believe she’s telling the truth,” Solia said quietly.
“What truth?” He narrowed his eyes. “All she would say is she didn’t know why she tried to kill me.”
“That’s the true part. She genuinely doesn’t know. I sensed a lot of confusion, a lot of remorse, and tremendous anxiety, frustration, and fear. She’s terrified of something.”
“Being arrested and incarcerated.” He’d asked for Solia’s opinion, but it contradicted what he’d seen with his own eyes. What he’d heard. Just before Beth had shot him, she’d called him her adversary.
The Faria shook her head. “I was there when she snapped. The read I got was that her actions horrified her.”
He’d been there, too. “Then somebody put her up to it. Maybe she’s being blackmailed.” Beth had tried to conceal her cloning origins. He hadn’t thought she’d kill to keep the secret, but as the attack had proven, he didn’t know her as well as he’d assumed.
Solia pursed her lips. “Um…maybe, but I don’t think so. Perhaps I should talk to her? She might be more receptive to me.”
“I’ll consider it,” he said. If conventional questioning didn’t work, they could try it Solia’s way, maybe double team Beth with a good cop, bad cop approach.
The Faria tightened her wings. Her glance slid to Brock before meeting Carter’s gaze again. “Permission to speak freely?”
“Of course.” He motioned.
“I detect conflict and ambivalence in you where Beth is concerned. This is obviously very personal…”
“And maybe somebody else would be better to conduct the interrogation?” He finished her sentence.
She nodded.
“Point noted. I’ll take that under advisement, too,” he said. Solia wasn’t wrong, but she wasn’t right, either. He could handle the questioning. Seeing Beth had been harder than anticipated, but he would get his emotions under control. Personal feelings would not interfere with running Cyber Operations.
“If there’s nothing else…” Solia said.
“No, not right now. Thank you,” he said.
Solia had no sooner left when Illumina, the other Faria in his employ, shot him a message. We need to talk right away.
Is it about Beth? he replied to her PerComm.
Yes—and more.
What is it?
Better I tell you in person.
I’ll meet you in my office.
Carter motioned to Brock. “We have to go. Illumina found something.”
The Faria was seated in a chair, waiting in his office when they arrived. She was so tiny her feet didn’t touch the floor. His best computer person—the best in the galaxy—looked like a pixie. Except for her somber expression.
“What did you find out?” He skipped the preliminaries and took his seat in the Sensa-chair behind his console. Brock sat next to Illumina.
She took a deep breath and exhaled. “Clo-Ventures and ReGenCo are owned by Lamis-Odg.”