Free The Dark Reaches by Kristin Landon Page B

acceleration stopped abruptly, and they began to drift away from the bulkhead.
    Then she recognized the whistle of atmosphere along the skin of the ship and the steadily increasing tug that meant deceleration. No— She tightened her hold on Iain and closed her eyes. They could not hope to survive a landing without any padding whatsoever.
    But again the changes in motion were strangely gentle, and the thin scream of wind against the skin of the ship never built to the roar of a landing through heavy atmosphere. After a long time, the ship settled, the engines cutting off, leaving an echoing silence. Gravity, real gravity, held them gently to the deck—so gently that the hard metal was almost comfortable, except for the cold.
    Linnea eased Iain to the floor and untwisted the wire from his wrists and ankles. It hadn’t cut in, thank God. Then she gathered him close again and fought to order her thoughts. The descent through atmosphere meant that this was a planet or moon, not a station. Thin atmosphere, light gee—it must be a moon. Not that green gas giant from her vision, of course—probably one of its satellites.
    Maybe the one who had called to her was here, on this moon. She felt a twinge of hope.
    She heard, distantly, the receding clank of suited foot-steps, then the heavy clanking slam of a hatch. The lights dimmed, and the faint hiss of circulating air stopped.
    Then came silence, silence so deep she could hear only her rasping breath, and Iain’s. Nothing else. Without life support, without heat, how long could they last?
    In her arms, Iain stirred again, still feverish. They both needed fluids, electrolytes, food, warmth. Surely their captors wouldn’t leave them to die in this cold compartment after they’d traveled so far. She’d told them she was from the Hidden Worlds. Surely that would get someone’s attention, and help and relief would come.
    And someone with answers. Someone had sent that summoning call. Why else would she and Iain have dared such a voyage—sliding past all the long, cold dark, the hard vacuum and radiation, tunneling instead through the intricate beauty of otherspace, the endless depths. . . .
     
     
     
    Second Pilot Timmon Abrakam, commander of Gold Wing Triton and chief of the Night Guard, stared at his commscreen in disbelief. Patrol Pilot Smid, his voice carefully respectful, said, “It’s more impressive up close, sir.”
    “Look at those lines,” Timmon said reverently. “Look at the size of it. I’ve never seen a ship like that. Never even dreamed of one.”
    “No, sir,” Smid said.
    “And the pilot—alive, you say?”
    “Held for testing, sir,” Smid said. “Two of them, a man and a woman.”
    Timmon pulled thoughtfully at his chin. “If they’re clean, put them in isolation. And—message First Pilot Kimura. He’s got to see this.”
    “He’s at the Residence, sir, with Madame, and he specifically ordered—”
    “For this,” Timmon said, “he will want to be waked. You may tell him the responsibility is mine, Pilot Smid.”
    Smid bowed and left, leaving Timmon alone to contemplate the mystery. A ship from nowhere.
    So was this the first happy result of the grand new strategy the First Pilot had been hinting at?
    Or was this the first sign that, like all the other grand new strategies, it had failed?
     
     
     
    An endless time later, Linnea jerked awake, instantly afraid, as the hatch of their compartment clanged open. She flung her arm over her eyes to shield them from the harsh light playing over the compartment—someone’s hand-light. Beside her, Iain made a rusty sound of protest.
    Two people entered—the same, different, she could not tell—sealed inside anti-infective barriers, their faces again invisible behind gleaming reflective visors. But this time one of them carried a medkit, the red cross shape clear and familiar. Relief washed over her, then vanished when the figure opened the case and pulled out a syringe—a syringe with a needle