Jaci's Experiment Read online

  Perhaps she wouldn’t. The thought sent a shiver of fear straight through her. Anything could happen. Her secret could be discovered, or Mara 12 could just simply refuse to let her go for another reason. Worse, she feared that her mates would forget her in their newfound freedom and that thought brought the greatest pain.

  “What’s this?” David asked softly, gently touching her tears. “Don’t cry, sweetheart, it will all work out. You have to believe.”

  “I’m afraid I’ll never see you again. I’m afraid you’ll forget me.” Her voice was a mere whisper of fear.

  “Never gonna happen.” Mike’s arms tightened around her, sure and strong. “We love you too much.” He bent to kiss her then and it felt even better than it did in their shared dreams.

  “I love you too.” She tried desperately to get her new emotions under control. “I don’t want to mess this up for you. I’ve got to turn the monitor back on.”

  Dave turned her and swept her close, hugging her for a long, long moment before he kissed her soundly. She felt the tingle of his healing energy passing into her and suddenly she felt more in control though her heart was still breaking.

  “Remember that we love you,” he said softly, pulling back to stare down into her eyes, “and love conquers all.”

  Chapter Eight

  That night, she waited and waited, but the dreams never came. She woke in the morning with tears streaking down her face. Her mates were gone and more than likely the distance from the northern city to the southern engineering facility was too great for Mike’s dreamwalking gift to bridge.

  Jaci went about her duties with what felt like a lead weight wrapped around her heart. When she got to the cells, she found the living arrangements had been reshuffled and some of the folks who had shared more crowded cells were now given Ruth and the cousins’ old chambers. She serviced the monitors and observed the new residents as she’d been trained to do, made her reports and sought her dinner while her heart twinged with a pain so deep, she thought she just might die from it.

  But escape would not come so easily. She went to sleep that night after putting in some time preparing the life-changing experiment a few of her people were scheduled to begin in just a few days. How she wished she could warn them what was in store as their emotions began to take control. How she wished she could come forward and tell the truth, but knew she could not.

  When she woke the next morning after another dreamless sleep, she felt just as despondent as the day before and could barely find the energy to get out of bed and start her day.

  Bill Sinclair made his way out of the small town on the other side of the mountain from the O’Hara’s protected valley. He went there once in a while to trade the pelts of animals he caught and ate for other kinds of foodstuffs, and also to gather information. The people seemed to accept him for human, though more than one had asked him if he was something called Scandinavian. Bill shrugged and nodded, preferring not to speak much. Alvian voices were more mellifluous than human. It was one of the few things that could give him away, but the humans in the small encampment they called a town seemed to accept him.

  He didn’t have any psychic ability. They all seemed to have one kind of mental power or another, but many were loners, so they let him be. He guessed they thought he was keeping quiet about whatever he could do, preferring to give him a wide berth after one big, drunken fool made the mistake of challenging him to a fight. Bill had put the man down without breaking a sweat. Since then, the rest of them had looked on him with respect and more than a bit of caution.

  This had been a good trip. He came away with a sack of beans, a small wheel of cheese, and some other edibles he wouldn’t otherwise have access to. He’d supplemented his mostly meat diet with whatever he could, but to get the really good stuff—the stuff grown on the O’Hara ranch and a few other plots of land scattered throughout the mountains—he had to barter.

  Bill was over the first ridge, on a circuitous route that would lead him eventually to his small camp up in the high ground when he smelled smoke. It wasn’t all that unusual, since others preferred to live out in the woods, but most were careful about campfires, fearing discovery by Alvian patrols. The quantity of smoke grew as he moved on, growing to alarming proportions. Bill feared it might be signs of a forest fire. Out here, that could be a major problem.

  He made his way more quickly now, though he kept to his stealthy ways. If it was a forest fire, he needed to know where it was and how big before he decided which way to move. If it wasn’t a forest fire, he needed to know exactly what—and who—it was.

  Before long, he came upon a small lean-to. Sure enough, it had caught on fire from an untended campfire. Scouting quickly, Bill advanced into the deserted camp, using two buckets of water that were placed near the lean-to to douse the worst of the flames. The rest he kicked out with dirt.

  Only then did he see the arm sticking out of the dilapidated structure that had somehow kept its shape, even while burning. Bill had caught the blaze before it could truly get out of control, but whoever was inside would be in bad shape from the smoke, if not from other injuries that stopped the man from tending the fire in the first place.

  Bill dragged the body out, discovering a man in his middle years, dirty and smelling of disease to his sensitive Alvian nose. Some kind of infection had weakened the man to the point that he’d been unable to properly keep watch over his campfire, though he’d laid in supplies—the buckets of water—before succumbing to whatever bug had laid him low. He was only slightly burned, but he was unconscious and his lungs wheezed as he tried to draw breath. Who was he?

  Bill set him against a tree while he searched through the man’s few possessions. There was a small book near where he’d lain and Bill took a cursory glance through it. Inside, he found the blank pages had been filled in with hand-drawn images of a woman, drawn with such intense emotion, they leapt off the page. Whoever this man was, he’d loved this woman deeply. Turning pages, Bill found diary entries that detailed this man’s escape from the northern city and subsequent life on the run.

  He’d been a prisoner, then. Instantly, Bill’s newfound heart went out to the man. He pocketed the book and looked around for a few sturdy branches. He fashioned a frame he could pull behind him, knowing he’d have to break cover and bring this man to the one place he knew he could find help…the O’Hara ranch.

  Bill saw the tripwire and leaned down to deliberately make it trigger. He then sat down to wait.

  Before long, Justin O’Hara showed up, as Bill had known he would. The two warriors eyed each other with wary respect.

  “Sinclair Prime, isn’t it? Though you look like a mountain man now.” Justin held a shotgun perched against his hip, pointing upwards, but still ready. “What brings you here?”

  Bill stood and moved aside to reveal his burden. “I found this man in a burning lean-to not far from here. He’s human. An escaped prisoner from the northern city, judging by this.” Bill brought out the book and threw it to Justin, who caught it single-handedly. “That’s rare enough I thought he might be worth saving. He’s very ill and a little crispy. I thought maybe your brother could take a look at him.”

  Justin’s eyes narrowed. “I’ll get him. If this man is infectious, I don’t want to bring disease near the children.”

  “A wise precaution.” Bill nodded and turned to go. “I’ll leave him in your hands.”

  “Wait.” The single word made him pause and turn back. “I didn’t know you were still in the area.” Measuring eyes made Bill feel uncomfortable.

  “You weren’t meant to know.” Bill sighed, knowing he had to come clean, at least in part. This warrior was as tenacious as he was himself. “I’ve been watching over your valley from above. I like this land and I owe your family. I figured this was as good a place to be as any other.”

  Justin eased back, his shoulders going from tense to guarded, only a slight improvement. “You have the high ground?”

  Bill liked Justin
’s quick grasp of the situation. Here was a soldier who understood tactics. He’d missed that in his isolation. Missed talking with others who shared his avocation. “Always. I always seek the high ground.”

  Justin actually smiled and Bill found his own lips quirking up, though he’d had precious little practice at the expression since he’d gained emotions.

  “What have we here?” Mick O’Hara moved up from the lower slope behind some trees, having come at his brother’s telepathic call, no doubt. These brothers had strong psychic powers. Bill had to remember they could communicate over great distances, unlike most human telepaths. “Sinclair Prime, as I live and breathe.”

  His former name made him flinch. “Call me Bill. That Alvian Prime is dead.”

  “Are you sure about that?” Justin asked, a challenge in his tone.

  “Absolutely certain,” Bill replied, holding the other soldier’s gaze. “He’s better left dead. He wasn’t a good man.”

  Mick O’Hara examined the man and all three carried him back to a small outbuilding on the ranch where they’d once housed Sinclair as a prisoner. He remembered the small room with fondness, though his future had been uncertain in those early days. But this was also the place he’d talked with the female empaths of this family—Jane and her daughter Callie—who had helped him so much in those difficult times. They were truly special women.

  “He had pneumonia even before the smoke inhalation,” Mick said after a thorough examination of the still-unconscious patient. “I can bring out some breathing apparatus, but we’re running low on oxygen. I was saving it for emergencies.”

  “I think this qualifies,” Justin observed.

  “If you are concerned you will not have sufficient supplies for your family, perhaps I can be of some assistance.” Sinclair wasn’t sure they’d take his help, but he owed this family. “I know where most of the Alvian supply stations are. I’ve been making a crude map of them in case I ever needed anything, but have so far left them alone. However, I do know the basic resupply stations have compressed oxygen canisters I could get easily, should you need them.”

  “Are you sure?” Justin asked. “I don’t want to bring down the Alvian army on our heads over a few canisters of O-2.”

  Sinclair considered his response. “If I liberated a few tanks tonight, you could refill your tanks from them and I could return them tomorrow, leaving the valves slightly open. It would look like careless handling caused leakage. As long as nobody needs oxygen between tonight and tomorrow—which is highly unlikely anyway—you should be in the clear.”

  “It’s a sound plan,” Justin agreed. “I’ll go with you, if you don’t mind. I’d like to get a look at one of these resupply stations. We didn’t know they had anything like that out here.”

  “It’s standard operation when they’re flying patrols in an area. They put in a few way stations so patrols can stay out longer.”

  “Good.” Mick stood. “I’ll get our tanks and start treating this guy. With some care, he should pull through. You guys go do your ninja thing.”

  Justin was a good soldier. Sinclair was impressed by his stealth and the way he moved in the wilderness. Here was a soldier who had trained hard and well. Sinclair respected that and the man who had been both tough and compassionate, when needed.

  This man had once held Sinclair’s life in his hands. Sinclair wouldn’t be alive except for his leniency and willingness to give a reformed assassin with newly awakened emotions a chance. They watched a small two-man patrol ship packing up as they prepared to leave the resupply station. Crouching in the underbrush, they watched from afar, waiting for the Alvians to leave.

  “I miss this.”

  “I hear ya, brother.”

  Sinclair hadn’t realized he’d spoken aloud, but was glad he did when the quiet comment elicited a grin of comradeship from Justin O’Hara.

  “My real job was a solitary one,” Sinclair went on, testing the conversational waters. “But I had battalions under my command and a special team of operatives whom I trained with for covert work. They were my brothers. I miss them, though I’m sure they can’t even begin to understand how to miss me.”

  Justin chewed the end of a weed stalk. “It’s lonely being a hermit, eh?”

  “I thought I understood being solitary, but it’s very different with emotions. I’ve never before felt alone, but now I find it very disturbing. And I miss the action, but I don’t miss the killing. It was good to have a job, to be useful. Now I just take up space and oxygen.”

  “That’s not entirely true.” Justin turned to face him. “You watch over the ranch. That’s something I, personally, consider very important. Of course, I wish I’d known you were up there.”

  Sinclair went further out on the limb he’d scaled. “I wasn’t sure you’d want me around, but I owe a debt to your family I can never repay. It’s a debt of honor and of blood. For my kind, there are no greater obligations.”

  “I understand honor, Bill.”

  Sinclair liked hearing the name he’d adopted. He didn’t feel like an Alvian Prime anymore. No, more and more, he was becoming the wild man, Bill Sinclair.

  “I thought you might.” Sinclair nodded toward the ship they were watching. “They’ll move soon. See the hatch the taller one just closed? They’re finished recharging.”

  Justin got ready to move. “Just for the record, I’m glad you’ve got the high ground and I don’t think anyone would mind if you checked in with us at the ranch from time to time. I saw the sacks of supplies you had. You don’t have to trade in town if you don’t want to. We’ll supply you direct, now that we know you’re there. You run a risk, going into town. Those folks could string you up without a second thought if they knew you were Alvian.”

  “They could.” Sinclair accepted that fact. “But so far, they seem to think I’m something called Scandinavian.”

  Justin shook with laughter. “Damn, I’m sorry. That just took me by surprise.” Justin’s eyes were trained on the ship, still being packed up by two very slow moving soldiers. “Come to think of it, you do look a bit like a Viking, especially if your hair was longer. But you still don’t have any psychic abilities. A couple of telepaths could run circles around you, even with all your training. And there are other powers that could stop you in your tracks.”

  “Like what?”

  “Try and move your left arm.” Justin turned away from the ship to watch him again, a grin on his face. Sinclair tried to lift his arm, but found his left arm pinned down by…something. There was no sign of any kind of physical impediment, but suddenly his arm was totally immobile.

  “Shards! What is that?”

  “Telekinesis. I can move things—and stop things—with my mind. And I’m not the only one out there, so be wary in your dealings with humans. A big enough group, with the right mix of abilities could kill you. Stop struggling, I’m going to release you now.”

  Sinclair felt the weight lift and his arm was free to move again. It had been a most enlightening—and frightening—demonstration. A minute later, while Sinclair was still rubbing his arm, the ship moved off. Finally.

  When Sinclair and Justin got back to the ranch, Justin stayed outside the small outbuilding, as Mick had directed, sending Sinclair in to let Mick know they were back. The patient was doing much better. He was awake and responding well, Mick said, to the mixture of Alvian and human medicines he’d administered.

  “I hear you saved my life.” The man took a moment away from his oxygen mask to speak in a raspy voice. “Thank you.”

  “I’m glad I was in time,” Sinclair said, uncomfortable with the man’s gratitude.

  “Don’t talk, Sam.” Mick reapplied the oxygen mask. The man he’d called Sam was visibly tired and his eyes closed as Mick stepped back from the bed. “Just rest.”

  Mick signaled Sinclair to be quiet as he went outside with him. Justin was already across the field, heading back toward the main house. He waved to his brother, the two no doubt speaking tele
pathically as Sinclair watched.

  “Jane’s back at the house,” Mick said as Sinclair assisted him in refilling the ranch’s depleted oxygen tanks, which he’d lined up outside. “I don’t want her exposed to Sam. He’s contagious, but the good news is, with your Alvian constitution, you can’t catch the bug. Justin and I will take precautions. I’m going to keep him away from Sam and do the doctoring myself.”

  “I will do it, Mick. Your family needs you and if I cannot catch the disease, it only makes sense.”

  Mick stopped and looked at him, as if considering his words. “I’m not too proud to admit I could use your help. Doctoring pneumonia like this takes more than one person and if I get too run down, I could easily catch the bug myself.”

  “Then I must help you.”

  “You’re a good man, Bill.” Mick went back to filling canisters, a small smile on his face.

  The words touched Sinclair deeply, but he didn’t feel like a good man. There was too much ugliness in his past he still had to make up for. Perhaps in time, he might yet live up to the sentiment he’d read in Mick O’Hara’s eyes.

  After a few days, Sam took a turn for the better. A week after Sinclair had dragged him to the O’Hara ranch, he was mobile and well on the mend. Sinclair had aided Mick in caring for the man at the height of his illness, but now he felt superfluous.

  “I should go now,” he said to Mick as they watched the sun set. Jane had sent out a delicious dinner the three men had eaten together in the small outbuilding. Sam, still weak, had fallen asleep right after the meal, leaving Mick and Sinclair to enjoy the quiet evening air as they sat outside in the dusky light.

  “You could,” Mick agreed noncommittally.

  “I can’t stay here. My people still monitor you. I’ve seen their patrols going over your land, even when you were unaware of it. If they saw me here…”