by Xenutia
Disclaimer: I'm running out of ways to say I don't own a thing. Except Eric and his ship. They're all mine. Lucky me. j/k!
Rating: Overall, this fic's a PG-13' for the surgery scenes, but there's nothing much in the rest.
Summary: Beka is now on Harper's trail...but will she be in time to save him from the butcher knife?
Spoilers: There are nods to some episodes in some chapters, mostly Fear & Loathing In The Milky Way', but not really spoilers. They just relate to background information on the characters a little bit. You'll know what I mean when you see it.
Author's Note: I've tried to make this one a bit longer, because I didn't want to break the flow too much right in the middle. You know I never thought I could write this fast, it's you guys and your feedback spurring me on.
*** 8 ***
Beka thought wistfully of her former visits here; the magnificent dinner laid on by their host, the spacious bedrooms and use of the sporting facilities (Rev attempting to understand the rules of even the simplest games had been quite an experience), and the brilliant sunshine beating down on them and the sweeping grounds, hot, pleasant, vital. Beka had felt healthier here than in months prior to it, and had been reluctant, that time, to leave.
This time, she approached the huge front door with her fingers hovering discreetly beside her open gun holster, the crunch of the loose gravel beneath her feet loud in the echoing peace of the surrounding gardens, her brain ticking rapidly with a thousand questions she might ask or be asked. She had left Rev in command of the Maru, distrustful of this woman's scruples at this point in the game, but right at this moment, she wished she hadn't come alone. If Eric was here, with his crew of five and any guards Miss Price may have on her payroll, then one pissed off cargo captain wasn't going to cut it. One Magog at her side might not seem like much, but she had seen him in action, once or twice, when there was no other way - a crew of six or sixteen would stand little chance against him when he was mad.
She had noticed a pattern, too; on each of the rare occasions when Rev had fought, it had been to protect her. Always when she landed herself in a scrape too deep to climb out of alone, although that much she would never admit to him - a Valentine, needing help? It was unheard of.
She reached the overbearing door flanked by two broad, reaching columns of flawless white marble, set in a rise of three shallow steps of the same, and took a deep breath. The door was real wood, pine if her limited knowledge of the subject could be trusted, an outward demonstration of this woman's enviable wealth. It had seemed, initially, perfectly reasonable that Ambrosia Price may pay out ludicrous amounts of money for what she professed to be a birthday present for her son. Now, it seemed painfully obvious that she had acquired this wealth by pulling just the kind of scam Beka suspected she was pulling now, with both Guldavian and Stamp.
Beka reached over with her left hand, and rang the bell, furiously depressing the button far too long and feeling an insane thrill at the incessant, trilling buzz sounding in the house.
The door inched open, revealing a thin stripe of tanned face between the wood and marble, one eye peering accusingly out at her - and down on her. The man it belonged to must be at least a head taller than her, and she wasn't short.
What do you want? that single visible corner of thin-lipped mouth demanded, in a voice as full of gravel as the noisy driveway.
Ambrosia Price. Tall woman, dark hair, so much jewellery you can hear her coming from a mile up the road? Likes cats, as I remember.
There was a murmured voice from inside, too low to distinguish gender let alone words, and the doorman stood back, pushing the door open, and allowed her to enter.
Beka nodded grimly, and stepped inside. The door closed heavily behind her.
***
Power crackled in a spitting cloud of green neon and the air (or what Harper's still rule-bound mind had substituted for air in this non-corporeal world where he existed only as data) hummed with repressed, unspent energy, purring and quivering in a faintly sensual way which made the virtual hair on his virtual arms prickle with cold. The cloud spun itself around the weapons blueprints, here represented in their assembled, fire-ready form, in a spider's web of protective encryption codes.
Harper, breathing deeply of air which didn't exist but which his mind insisted on creating, if only as a placebo, crept closer, and reaching out flinching, cautious fingertips, brushed his hand over the web of electricity-like encoding.
Well, now, let's see what's in papa's bag, he muttered, running his palm lightly over the cloud. It made his hand tingle and go numb, like a shot of Novocain had been drilled into it. He withdrew it, looking at the array of weaponry thoughtfully. He had no idea how much time he had, when or how they might instigate their forced download, or whether they really were waiting for him to complete it voluntarily, something they surely wouldn't expect him to do. He probably only had a couple of minutes, at best.
He tapped at the coding, experimentally. Come on, be nice, he said, coaxingly, peering between the threads to study the unfamiliar firearms inside. He had never seen anything like them before, but he didn't need to know any more than their size told him - these were serious super-weapons. Before the nice psychos you belong to decide it's playtime.
Behind him, the landscape bent and melted, ground and sky bowing away from each other and back, compacting and expanding, and a glow formed like a black hole in the centre, making him the only thing between that light...and the thing it was obviously intended to reclaim.
Oh no, you don't, he murmured, and got to work.
***
The doorman led Beka through a long, spotless hallway, cool with shadows, no windows letting in the furious heat. They emerged into an enormous glass sun room, light streaming in between a dozen open drapes, dappling the tiled white floor with bars of apple-white illumination between frames of shadow. The air was fresh with the scents of the tens of flower baskets hanging from the elegant archways, spilling blossoms of every colour imaginable to the thick carpet of petals on the floor beneath them.
In the middle of the room, lounging on a Chaisse-longe, was Ambrosia Price. Her ringed fingers stroked lazily along the colourful head of the tiger stretched out beside her.
Miss Price, I want a little word with you, Beka said abruptly, to the back of the woman's head, before the doorman could introduce her. He bowed low to Ambrosia, seeing he wasn't needed, and left silently. Beka wasn't fooled by the display; she knew that he and several others would be listening outside, possibly watching the room through security cameras to ensure their employer's safety.
Beka eyed the tiger warily as it eyed her. Odds were that thing was trained to go for anybody that threatened its mistress, too.
I'm looking for Guldavian, she continued, curtly. And don't give me any of your innocent crap. I know he's here and I also know he has something of mine.
Miss Price continued her absent petting of the huge cat, not deigning to grace Beka with so much as a look. Only the tiger turned its great head to watch her, those lambent yellow eyes disconcerting, following her every move, and Beka realised with a sinking feeling in her stomach that she would never make it to her gun should she reach for it; that rare and priceless cat would be on her before she could blink.
Price replied, disinterest flowing from her syrupy voice like the flowers flowed from their overhead baskets. And what something would that be?
You know damn well what that would be, Price, so save it. Stamp entrusted me with his blueprints, for your precious son's birthday if I recall, and I was kinda under the impression that, you know, I would deliver them, and get paid. Only you and Stamp never intended for me to deliver them, did you? Or to pay me. I was just a handy way of getting your dodgy cargo through the Rauros belt where there're FTA and bounty hunters in every square light-year, and then you arranged for your little pet Guldavian to intercept them, and bring them to you. You pay him, we disappear hoping you don't notice your cargo's not been delivered, and you and Stamp...well, you get your illegal prints through without any hassle from the FTA. Tell me where I've got it wrong.
Ambrosia sighed, a pretty, calculated breath that she no doubt employed to lure men to her cause when she saw fit. The woman was showing absolutely no sign of distress at her scheme being busted, and that irritated Beka.
A lot.
If I offer you thirty thousand thrones for your silence, Miss Valentine, would you kindly leave me and mine to our own affairs?
Beka bridled. What's the catch?
Even though she could see nothing but the back of Ambrosia's head, Beka knew she was smiling, and smugly. No catch. You take the money now, you get out of here. You leave us alone.
Beka stared fitfully at the fall of black hair, the sweeping fingers, the stillness of the room heavy with midday heat and pregnant with anticipation. Thirty thousand thrones! What she could do with thirty thousand, or her share of it once she had split it with Rev...she could fix up the Maru, take a vacation from these shady deals and cargo runs...
What about the kid? she asked, suddenly. Ambrosia's evident, sickly-sweet smile stayed; Beka could feel it, even if she couldn't see it. Will you let him go?
Price laughed, daintily, throwing her dark head back as if the demand were the most deliciously funny thing she had heard in a long time. I'm sure it could be arranged to send his body wherever you see fit, she said, and Beka's fingers itched to go for her gun at that vicious laughter, ached to just take it and make a nice new hole in the middle of all that glossy black hair.
But why should she care? Why should she be bargaining for a stranger, at the risk of losing so much money?
she growled, through gritted teeth. What are you talking about?
It was now, only now, that Ambrosia turned to her. The evil mirth glinting in her big green eyes, so like that of her jungle cat's, made Beka's blood run cold and her anger hot, burning its way through her arm, making her hand subconsciously stray towards her open holster.
Surely you know how much those ports cost, darling? Price purred. Why, we never had any intention of letting him keep it.
But those things can't be removed without a massive risk to the patient, Beka accused, understanding now, with mounting horror, what she was dealing with. It normally kills them.
She was dealing with mad men. And one even madder woman.
You're welcome to try and find him, if that's what you want, Ambrosia laughed. It should be quite entertaining to watch. But hurry, dear; they already started the procedure about half an hour ago.
Beka turned, cursing Ambrosia Price and Randall Stamp and especially Eric Guldavian to the stars, and bolted from the room.
***
Harper felt the inexorable pull of the real world, and resisted it as long as he could. Whatever they were doing to force the download he could even now feel streaming through him like a gale, they could force him awake, to. But he didn't want to leave, knowing what he was going back to, back to pain and weakness and...
Yeah. How could he have forgotten what would come next, for him.
Man, alright, I'm comin' already, quite pullin' me! he swore, and then the colours swept over him again, streaking past as he was pushed, this time away from them, and opened his eyes to the dim murkiness of that horribly lit operating theatre once more.
He only prayed he had worked fast enough, and had finished in time.
A face was looming over him, leering, a silhouette against the lights, a cold, cruel smile barely visible in the shadows.
How's our stowaway feeling? the captain of the Magnus asked, pleasantly.
Like I just had a spike jabbed in my brain, how about you? Harper quipped, unable to help himself. Look, guy, you got what you wanted, I downloaded your data files, they're all there. You can just...let me go, okay? Who am I gonna tell? They'd bang me up for this as fast as you could say FTA'. It'd be Hello, stowaway. You did what? With who? Well, that's just swell. Take him away'.
The man smiled still more pleasantly, indulgently, at a joke only he knew. Harper gulped.
Now, you're gettin' that look again, Harper wavered.
And what look would that be? the captain asked.
That...you know, that hungry look.
The captain laughed, richly, his shadow shaking with mirth. Well, aren't you the little wise guy? It'll be a shame to waste you, I have to say. You're a good engineer.
Then don't waste me, Harper countered eagerly. I can stay around. You know, fix up that little puppy of yours whenever she takes a hit. I can keep her in tip-top condition.
The captain leaned closer, gazing down on the helpless, bound boy with something very like regret for a moment. Then it was gone, and the amusement was back, colder and harsher than before. I wish I could believe you. The Magnus needs an engineer. But can you honestly promise me you'd never talk to people again about things which don't concern you?
The woman. The blonde woman with the long legs and the pale, determined blue eyes. The one who had brought him coffee, and had at least spoken kindly to him. He had known it was a mistake to speak to her, but he hadn't been able to help it.
It had been so long since anybody was kind to him. But that was all it had been, evidently. Kindness. It had been foolish of him, stupid, to expect her to follow the trail he had left. He had been on his own for too long now to believe in knights in shining armour anymore. He was on his own, and he always would be.
You can't kill me, he stammered, his mouth stupid and unresponsive as he tried to form the words. He tugged at the straps, knowing it was useless, unable to stop his natural instinct from doing so anyway. He hadn't wanted to play this last card, not so soon, but if ever there was a time to play hidden cards, it was now. If you kill me, you...
A blast silenced him, the bright, hot red streak of an energy weapon fired over him. It struck the crew man standing away to his left, and the man slumped against the dirty wall, and slid down it, leaving a broad, ragged smear of blood behind him.
Game's up, Eric! a female voice shouted. Another shot rang out, blasting into the wall behind the captain, who jumped in surprise. Hand him over, or you're barbecued.
Harper placed the voice instantly. The woman. The blonde.
She had followed his trail after all.
To Be Continued...
