“I was wrong,” she said. “No comfort now, but—you were right, and I was wrong. I should have jumped right back out.”
“No matter, milady,” said Calvaro. “We’ll do what we can.”
Which was nothing. They could die defending her . . . or be killed without fighting; she did not believe the raiders would spare them.
“I think we should surrender,” she said. “Perhaps—”
“Not an option, milady,” Calvaro said. “That’s not a choice you can make; we’re sworn to your father to protect you. Go to your cabin, milady.”
She didn’t want to. She knew what was coming, and it was not death she feared, but having forced these men into a position where they had to die—would die—in a futile effort to protect her. I’m not worth it, she wanted to say . . . to admit . . . and she knew she must not say that. She must not take their honor from them. They thought her father was worth it, or—again Esmay’s words rang in her head—they thought they were worth it. She said their names, to each of them: Giles Barrican, Hubert Calvaro, Savoy Ardenil, Basil and Seren Verenci, Kaspar and Klara Pronoth, Pirs Slavus, Netenya Biagrin, Charan Devois. She could find no words for them beyond naming them, recognizing their lives. She gave them all she had, a last smile, then went meekly to her cabin as they wished. It wouldn’t work; she would die at the end, but . . . they would not have to see her dead or captive. They could die remembering that smile, for all the good it did . . . and she did not even know if they believed in an afterlife where such a memory might be comforting. She wrote their names, over and over, on many scraps of paper and tucked them in places she hoped the raiders would not find. They deserved more, but that was all she could do.
When the cabin hatch gave at last, she faced the intruders with her personal weapons, and the first one to try the opening fell twitching. But the small sphere they tossed in burst in a spray of needles . . . and she felt the fine stinging all up her body. Her hand relaxed, her sidearm fell, she felt her knees sagging, and the deck came up to meet her.
She woke with a feeling of choking, tried to cough loose the obstruction, and then realized it was a wad of cloth tied in her mouth. A gag, like something out of an ancient story. Ridiculous. She blinked, and glared up at the men standing over her. They were in p-suits, helmets dangling in back. Her body still felt heavy and limp, but she could just move her legs when she tried. Then they spoke to each other in an accent so heavy that she could hardly understand it, and reached for her. She tried to struggle, but the drug made it impossible. They dragged her upright, then out through the twisted hatch into the main passage of the yacht . . . over the bodies of her guardsmen . . . through the tube they’d rigged between the yacht and their ship, whatever it was.
They pushed her into a seat and strapped her in, then walked off. Brun wiggled as much as she could. Her arms, then her legs, began to itch, and then tingle. So . . . the drug was wearing off, but she didn’t see how she could get away. Yet. Your first duty is to stay alive.
Several more men came through the tube . . . was that all? Or had some stayed aboard the yacht, and if so, why? She felt her ears throb as they shut the exterior lock, then the interior lock. They must have cast off the yacht . . . someone would find it. Someday. If another Boros ship came this way, if another Boros ship even noticed a minor bit of space debris . . .
The ship she was on shuddered uneasily—jump?—then steadied again. Three of the men were still back by the airlock. Now they went to work . . . Brun craned her head, trying to see. Her ears popped again. Something clanked; the ship made a noise like a tuning fork dragged on concrete, then stopped. The men moved on into the airlock, and—judging by the sounds—undogged the outer hatch. Colder air gushed in, chilling her ankles. She heard loud voices from the other—ship, it must be—and those men leaving.
The ones who’d originally brought her aboard reappeared, now in some sort of tan uniform instead of p-suits, unstrapped her, and hauled her upright. If she could break loose, while they thought she was still weakened—but three more appeared at the airlock. Too many, her mind decided, even as her body tried to twist. Too much drug, she realized, as her muscles refused to give her the speed she was used to. Well, if she couldn’t fight, she could at least observe. Tan uniforms, snug-fitted shirts over slightly looser slacks, over boots. Brown leather boots, she noticed when she looked down. On the collar, insignia of a five-pointed star in a circle.
Once she was through the airlock, she saw the Boros Consortium logo on the bulkhead . . . so she must be on the Elias Madero. The men hustled her down the passage—wide enough for a small robot loader—past hatches with symbols and labels she felt she should recognize. Past a galley with its programmable food processor humming, past a gymnasium . . . to the bridge, which reminded her instantly of the bridge where she’d stood when she’d broken the second mate’s nose . . .
But the man who stood in the center of the bridge was no merchant captain.
He had to be the commander. He wore the same uniform as the others, but the star-in-circle insignia on his collar was larger, and gold instead of silver. She met his gaze with all the defiance she could muster. He looked past her to her escort.
“Got the papers?” He had the same accent as the others.
“Yep.” One of the other men came forward with her ID packet. “She’s the one, all right. We checked the retinal scans and everything.”
“You done good, boys.” The commander glanced at her papers, then at her. “Not a single shred of decency, but what can you expect of that sort?” The other men chuckled. Brun struggled to spit out the gag; she knew exactly what she wanted to say to this . . . this person. The commander came closer. “You’re that so-called Speaker’s daughter. You’re used to having your own way, just like your daddy. Well, all things come to an end.” He waited a moment, then went on. “You probably think your daddy will get you out of this, like he’s gotten you out of all your other scrapes. You may think he’s going to send that Regular Space Service”—he made a mockery of Fleet with that tone—“to rescue you. But it ain’t gonna happen that way. We don’t want your daddy’s money. We aren’t scared of your daddy’s power. They won’t find you. No one’s gonna find you. You’re ours, now.”
He grinned past her, and the other men chuckled.
“Your daddy and that Council of Families, they think they got a right to make the laws for everbody, but they don’t. They think they got a right to set fees and taxes on everbody comes through their so-called territory, but they don’t. Free men don’t have to pay any mind to what perverts and women say. That’s not the way God made the universe. We’re free men, we are, and our laws come from the word of God as set forth by the prophets.”
Brun wanted to scream at him: They will destroy you, but she could not make a sound. She thought it at him anyway: You can’t do this; you won’t get away with it; they will come after me and blow you to bits.
He reached out to her face, and when she turned away he grabbed her ears with both hands and forced her to face him. “Now your daddy may try—or maybe, because he’ll know we’ve got you, he’ll have the good sense to let us alone if he doesn’t want to see his little girl in pieces. But he’s not gonna get you back. No one is. Your life just changed forever. You’re gonna obey, like the prophets said women should, and the sooner you start the easier it will be on you.”
Never. She threw that at him with her eyes, with every fiber of her body. Maybe she couldn’t do anything now, but now was not forever. She would get free, because she always did come out on top. She was lucky; she had abilities they didn’t know about.