Heart of a Peacekeeper Page 3

  "Yes, Boss."

  "Vanished."

  "Uh ... well, fast enough to have vanished, yes."

  "Bloody hell!” Shoving upright, she stalked over to the Craft ID unit situated against the far wall and keyed in Flying Crafts. “Ships don't just vanish. Right, let's get an ID on this craft."

  The Flying Craft signal bleeped, and then a picture appeared on the screen before splitting into four sections. Each section showed the same ship from four different angles—top, bottom, side and front-on.

  Tapping the key code on the top right of the screen, she started scrolling through the different makes, going first by brand, then by size.

  The pursuit officers, including Aiken, gathered around her as the computer flicked through one craft after another, but none of them matched the one they'd seen not far from the settlement.

  "Damn!” Swinging around, she found them hovering around her, their gazes glued to the screen.

  She didn't have to shove through them, because they immediately stepped back and to the side. Crossing to the desk, she grabbed her glass and poured another drink from the urn in the corner. Tossing it back in several gulps, she lowered the glass with another brisk snap to the desk, and looked up as Marcel and Raf walked in.

  "No one knows anything,” Raf reported.

  "Oh, surprise me some more!"

  Unfazed, the peacekeepers took off their coats and hung them up on the wall hangers.

  "Well, we've got another problem,” Des stated.

  "Oh?” Marcel raised his brows at her.

  "Yeah. The craft is unknown."

  "The Flying Craft ID didn't register it?"

  "What did I just say?"

  Well used to her temper, Marcel reached up and took down his coat. “I'll see what I can find out—"

  "Forget it for now.” Des folded her arms. “Those not on shift tonight, go home. The outlaw craft is long gone, and any threat tonight looks like it's over for now. You'll be called if we need you. Meanwhile, those on shift will continue to patrol the area and keep scanners on the skies.” She took a deep breath. “This many outlaws on the attack while we have this many peacekeepers available is a little unusual."

  "Activity is picking up,” Raf agreed.

  "Too much so. Get your rest.” Abruptly she turned on her heel and headed for the door that led into the corridor from which the cells veered off.

  "What about you?” Raf queried.

  "I'm going to check up on the prisoner, see if he's awake. Then I'm going home."

  Voices broke out as the door clicked shut behind her, but Des's mind was already on the prisoner. He held answers, and she wanted them.

  The corridor dipped down slightly. The cells on either side were for minor criminals and general troublemakers, but below ground were the cells for the more serious offenders. To get to these cells, she had to stop at the end of the short corridor and rest her hand on the print lock. It scanned her palm print and slid open, and she stepped into the elevator that slid down to the next level. Stepping out of the lift, she walked down the corridor. It had six cells, three each side of the corridor. In the first cell lay the prisoner, still unconscious. The settlement medic, Moresby, was just closing his bag, and he looked up as she came to a stop at the bars. Yucel watched from where he stood guard at the door.

  "When will he wake up?” She jerked her head at the outlaw.

  "He's got concussion, so I have no real idea.” The medic stepped through the door and it slid shut behind him.

  "Is he going to die?"

  "You're concerned?” Moresby's brows rose in wry disbelief.

  "If he dies before I can get some answers, yes."

  "Don't worry, I can't detect any brain bleeds or clots or fractures."

  "In other words, we're just waiting for him to awaken from his slumber?"

  "Yes."

  "Would a bucket of cold water help?"

  Yucel laughed while the medic sighed heavily.

  "No, Desdemona, a bucket of cold water would just drown him right now."

  "Bugger."

  "You're just going to have to be patient."

  Yucel's snort of amusement earned him an angry glare from Des, and he immediately sobered.

  She looked back at the medic. “In the next twenty-four hours? Twelve? Six? You must have some idea."

  "I'd expect signs of consciousness within the next twelve hours, otherwise it might be more of a worry."

  "Right. Thanks.” She walked with him to the elevator, and he waited while she had her print scanned.

  The ride up to the ground floor was done in silence, mainly because Des was thinking hard.

  The outlaw activities were increasing, and she didn't like it. There were always attacks on the settlement—hell, any settlement on the outskirts of the Outlaw Sector copped a raid now and again, but these raids were becoming more regular, more savage.

  The medic took his leave, and Des shrugged back into her coat and nodded to the peacekeepers on the night shift. “Call me if you need me,” she instructed, as she did every night, and they nodded, as they did every night. Rolling her eyes mentally, she stepped outside and drew a deep breath of air.

  The night was chilly, damp, and the scent of rain was in the air. Walking around the building, she went to the docking bay and stepped up into her single-seater pilot vehicle and switched it on. It hummed silently, the only thing betraying the engine the little vibrations that swept through it.

  The shield closed over the top of her, it lifted five feet into the air, and she flew from behind the building and down the street, the dirt swirling beneath the vehicle.

  The taverns and other night businesses were well-lit now, the glow from the windows shining into the street. Now that the danger was past, at least for the present, everyone had returned to the business of making money and enjoying themselves.

  She flew past the tavern with the broken window, and caught a glimpse of the Daamen traders sitting at the tables against the far wall. Frowning, she hoped no drunk was dumb enough to start a brawl with them during the night. She was tired, more bad-tempered than normal, and really just wanted a shower, the quiet solitude of her home, and her bed.

  Her home was set on the outskirts of the settlement. Well on the outskirts. The stone home was set on five acres, and within a five minute walk of the settlement. She could easily see what was happening, without actually being a part of it. It was her little oasis in the sometime hellhole.

  The pilot vehicle passed through the gate of the stone fence that surrounded her property. The door of the holding bay attached to her home slid open, and she parked the pilot vehicle inside, waiting until the door slid shut before releasing the shield overhead. It slid back and she got out of the vehicle.

  Climbing the four steps up to the door leading into the house, she went inside, welcoming the quietness of her home.

  Shrugging off her coat, she allowed it to drag behind her from one hand as she went down the corridor, her boots thudding on the tiles. Entering the clothes room on the left, she grunted ‘Light’ and it lit up.

  Hanging her coat on the hook on the side of the doorframe, she crossed to the stool in the corner, but decided not to sit down, balancing on each leg in turn instead as she tugged off her boots and laid them neatly in the racket that held her shoes. Her socks she placed in the basket that stood next to the shoe rack. Stripping off her shirt, pants and underwear, she placed them in the basket as well, and then wandered into the bathroom.

  When the warm water filtered down, soaking her hair and body, she groaned in bliss. The fragrant shampoo soothed her senses, the scented soap she loved washing the dirt and blood from her skin.

  Once out and dried, she donned a short cotton nightgown that reached mid-thigh only, and padded into the bedroom.

  Fuzz and Chels, the big, hybrid lycats, looked sleepily at her from where they sprawled across the big bed, taking up more than half of it between them.

  "Hey, don't get up on my account,”
she said dryly.

  Chels yawned and closed his eyes again, while Fuzz stood, stretched, jumped down off the bed, head-butted her knee and jumped back onto the bed again.

  "You know, I'll be wanting half of that bed later,” she warned them.

  The lycats didn't move, not even to open an eye.

  Grinning, she walked back to the kitchen, poured herself a glass of water and wandered into the lounge, where she plopped down into the big armchair and stretched her legs out, propping her heels up on the ottoman.

  Music drifted through the house, providing a calm background, and she allowed herself a few minutes to close her eyes and drift along with the love ballad, humming a few bars now and again.

  The tinkle of the little fountain in the corner of the room, the breeze blowing in through the vents to rustle the plants that hung from pots in the corners of the room, and the scent of abundant flowers that grew in the courtyard attached to her lounge made her home a sanctuary, not just for herself, but her lycats as well. The sliding glass walls enabled her to see the lush gardens beyond. The sky was visible up above, the stars glittering.

  Thank goodness for safety shields which ensured her home was safe from intrusion. She was safer here than even at the Enforcer Building. Thank goodness for overprotective fathers. She laughed affectionately at the thought of her father, who'd constructed the invisible safety shield, an adaptation of those that were supplied for some of the spaceships that traveled around. Safety shields were something that not everyone could get. But Dad could.

  Then her brain clicked back into alert mode and she opened her eyes. Outlaws and a growing number of attacks and savagery. Something was going on. Something that had a real bad stench about it.

  This was the third attack in one week, and each attack had a bigger amount of outlaws. It was also the first time the peacekeepers had a clear view of an outlaw ship waiting in the distance, probably monitoring the outcome of the attack.

  But why? It couldn't have anything to do with the large number of peacekeepers she'd managed to wring out of the Peacekeeper Council. That alone should have caused a decrease in the number of hardened outlaws in the area.

  "Maybe Dad will know,” she murmured, drained the glass of drink, and getting up, she strode into the office that adjoined the lounge.

  In the middle of the room stood her desk, everything neatly set out. The viscomm was on a small side bench joined onto the desk and sitting down in the chair, Des switched on the screen. Touching the screen, she linked onto a prohibited connection and waited.

  The blank screen remained, and after several minutes she sighed and flicked the switch, turning it off once more. “Wherever you are, Dad, stay safe. I'm going to bed. Goodnight."

  * * * *

  Leaning back on the wooden bench, Simon looked at the ceiling above him while contemplating whether he would take the tavern wench up on her seductive offer, or just go back to the trading ship for the night.

  Glancing down at the little blonde who was tracing patterns on his massive pectoral muscles, he wondered why she didn't stir any lust in him. Normally he'd have taken her up on her offer and have carted her upstairs for a couple of hours of lusty bed-play, but since he'd come here to this settlement all desire to bed the pretty tavern wenches had vanished. Which was really odd, because he'd been looking forward to relaxing with some pretty wenches, good ale, friends and having a break from traveling whilst visiting a couple of old friends, and awaiting the merchants who had arranged to meet the traders here with their goods.

  The door slammed open and a group of men walked in. Well on their way to being drunk, they slurred their words and were ripe for trouble. The tavern owner scowled at them from where he and his bouncers were covering the broken window with heavy pieces of shielding.

  "If you're thinking of fighting, get the hell out,” he snarled. “I've got enough broken things here now."

  "Any more and the owner will be a touch annoyed,” one of the bouncers muttered.

  "Furious enough at the moment,” another bouncer added.

  The men who entered simply sneered and crossed to the bar, banging on it for service. The barman duly served them and took their dinnos.

  Not really interested, Simon decided not to bed the tavern wench after all, but figured he might as well head back to his ship. Aamun and Torkra decided to retire as well, and they left the tavern and started for the ship.

  The evening carried the chill of coming rain, and Simon inhaled deeply, enjoying the smell. Rain was something he enjoyed, the freshness and new life it brought with it. It also helped when the settlements, such as this one, had cobblestone streets with only a few dirt places to get muddy.

  Their boots thudded on the sidewalk then rang on the cobblestones as they made their way to the docking bay on the outskirts of the settlement.

  In the distance, almost directly opposite the docking bay, stood the Head Peacekeeper's home. All was in darkness, and Simon found himself wondering about the hardheaded wench once more. It seemed that no matter what he did, while he was here, the wench was either in his sight or in his thoughts.

  Shaking his head, he welcomed the sight of the huge trading ship.

  Once inside, he showered in his bathing cabin and padded naked to his big bunk. Easing down into it, he groaned in bliss as the soft mattress shifted comfortably under his weight. Propping his head up on a pillow, he took the book from the chest of drawers fastened to the wall and floor beside his bunk and commenced reading.

  The night hours slipped away, and Simon had drifted off into a doze when a sudden knocking on his cabin door jolted him awake. Blinking, trying to clear his sleep-fogged brain—Simon was a deep sleeper—he crossed to the door and jerked it open to see Etol and Shamon waiting for him.

  "What's wrong?” He squinted into the lit corridor.

  "Thought you might want to know,” Shamon replied. “Mikal, Heddam, Brekya, Kel, Findel and Jarack are all in the cells at the Enforcer Building."

  "What?” Simon rubbed his eyes. “All of them?"

  "Aye."

  "What for?"

  "Brawling."

  "Is that all? You woke me up because of that?” Swinging on his heel, Simon started back for his bunk. “I'll get them out in the morning."

  "Aye, well...” Etol scratched his shaggy mane of hair, dislodging the tie that bound it back at his nape. “That's the problem. The Demon reckons she's keeping them there for the rest of the week."

  That got Simon's attention. “What?"

  "Aye."

  "Why?"

  Etol shrugged. “I don't know, but the lass wasn't happy at being dragged out of bed and into the middle of the brawl."

  Instantly Simon stiffened. “She was at the brawl?"

  "She's the Head Peacekeeper, what do you think?"

  "She's got enough men to handle a brawl, surely?"

  "We were in that brawl.” Shamon rubbed his beard sheepishly. “A couple of the peacekeepers got knocked out, and so they raised the alarm and next thing, the Demon is in there firing her manblaster—"

  "Firing her manblaster?” Incredulous, Simon stared at his friend, though he shouldn't be so surprised, he'd seen her do the same thing another time.

  "Yep. Blew a damned great hole in the ceiling.” Shamon guffawed.

  Simon rolled his eyes.

  "Anyway, she zapped Heddam and Mikal with something, knocked them unconscious—"

  "Unconscious? What the hell did she use?"

  "Beats me. ‘Twas something to see, though. They dropped like rocks. She made the others carry them to the Enforcement Building."

  "They were okay?"

  "I guess so. She didn't look too perturbed, nor did her men."

  Concerned for his friends, Simon got dressed quickly. “I'll go check they're okay, and work something out for the morning."

  "Aye, well the wench looked mighty peeved,” Etol drawled.

  "The wench always looks mighty peeved.” Simon tied his hair back haphazardly.
“She needs someone to show her the lighter side of life."

  "You?"

  Simon frowned at Shamon, who was grinning from ear to ear. “Nay. Now, are you two staying or coming?"

  Shamon's grin widened. “Oh, I wouldn't miss this for anything!"

  "Nor I,” Etol added.

  They nudged each other and winked.

  Shaking his head, Simon tromped down the corridor to the platform lift, and within minutes they were striding out of the cargo hold and towards the settlement.

  Now Simon could see a light on in Des's home, and considering the lateness of the hour, he had no doubt her sour mood would be even worse. Still, he just wanted to assure himself that no real damage had come to his friends.

  Two

  Entering the Enforcement Building, Simon's gaze fell instantly on the Head Peacekeeper. Hips leaning back against the desk, she had her arms folded and was watching a medic patching up one of her men. A scowl was on her face. What a surprise. The scowl grew when she looked up at the sound of him, Shamon and Etol entering.

  "Evening, lass.” He nodded.

  "In case you haven't noticed, trader, it's bloody early morning."

  His gaze flicked to the timer on the wall. “So ‘tis."

  Silence fell as she continued to watch him narrowly.

  Never one to be cowered, Simon eyed her back just as steadily. It was obvious she'd been in bed when she'd been called out, for her hair, which he'd only ever seen in a tight braid, was pulled back into a ponytail almost as haphazard as his own, and deep red strands of hair caressed her high cheekbones. Her face was clean of all dirt and blood, the sleeves of her shirt were rolled up to her elbows, and the bottom of it was hanging out over her pants.

  I wonder if she sleeps in the nude, or wearing one of those cute little nightgowns? The sudden thought took him by surprise, and Simon mentally shook his head.

  The silence in the room continued, with Des not giving an inch, her three men watching warily, Shamon and Etol observing with interest, and Simon eyeing her steadily.

  Simon switched his attention to the matter at hand. “I understand my crew was involved in a fight."