Free The Dark Reaches by Kristin Landon Page A

breathing sounded normal. But still he was unconscious, even after the programmed dose of postjump stimulants—not a good sign.
    Sick as Linnea was, she had to think, and fight, for both of them. She took a breath to speak again.
    Armored hands gripped her arms, pulled her away. The other person took hold of the braid, jerked Iain into a sitting position, and she cried out, “No! The shiplinks, don’t pull them out, you’ll hurt him!”
    “One of them ,” the voice said, the tone deep, ugly. The other one said nothing, but the grip on Linnea’s arms tightened.
    The reflective visor turned toward her. The voice spoke one more time, one finger jabbing at Iain. “Out,” it said clearly. “Now.”
    With fumbling hands Linnea disconnected Iain from the linkages that had joined him to the ship, kept him alive. He seemed deeply unconscious, floating loosely as she tugged him around to reach the links and tubing. As soon as he was free, the suited man pushed her aside and bound Iain’s wrists, then his ankles with wire twisted tight. The helmeted head swung around to face her again. Spoke again, clearly and slowly. “This pilot will be sorry he came.”
    “But we’re—” She fought to speak clearly. “We’re the ones you sent for.”
    For the first time the figure holding her spoke, the voice deep and distorted. “We sent for no one.”
    “In otherspace,” Linnea said, dizzy and sick. “I heard you. You sent me the jump point. That’s how we came here.”
    “Not possible,” the man said stubbornly. “No one sent for you. Maybe a trick, maybe the Cold Minds.” He tugged Linnea forward. “Move.”
    Linnea closed her eyes, helpless in the man’s strong grip. No answers here, no answers yet.
    But she would find them.
    Their captors manhandled them through a chilly boarding tube and a cramped air-lock into the docked ship. Linnea’s grip on awareness was wavering as her thirst and fever increased. The lock cycled, and her thoughts revolved uselessly: Who were these people? Not infested, she kept assuring herself—but how could she know?
    Their captors slung them into a small metal compartment, barely two meters in any direction. This was like no ship Linnea had ever seen: the crudely finished metal plates that formed the bulkheads were joined by roughly welded seams, and the hatch was merely a swinging metal plug with a hand-wheel in the center. Nothing like the refined, beautifully machined Line ships Linnea had known.
    The suited men backed out through the hatch and pulled it closed. The wheel turned with a screech, then latches clanked shut outside.
    Clutching Iain’s slack body against her with one arm, hanging on to a metal loop with the other, she looked around the bare, dirty compartment. Its old gray paint was scraped and scuffed in the way of a ship used to carry cargo. Faint light gleamed from a recessed panel covered with yellowed plastic. There were no acceleration couches, no padding of any kind. And she realized, with a jolt of fear, that this ship would be moving at any moment.
    Which way would be “down”? She looked around, made a frantic guess based on the positions of the light and hatch—tugged Iain with her into a corner, where she braced them both in place as best she could, pressing her bare back, her bare feet against the metal. Then waited, her heart beating hard.
    But the acceleration, when it came, was gentle, prolonged—nothing like the quick fiery maneuvers of a well-handled Line ship. And she’d guessed right: They were lying against the bulkhead that was “down.” The compartment was cold, the metal rough against her bare skin, but she could do nothing about that but endure it.
    And wait. Someone would help them soon. Otherwise, these people would simply have killed them.
    During the acceleration, Iain stirred and muttered but did not open his eyes. She held him close against her, feeling his quick, feverish heartbeat against her own. After an indefinite time, the