Page 60 of Hooded

He makes a face I never expected, eyes wide, mouth a tiny O of surprise.

“You have bred?” His voice has also gone up a couple of octaves.

How in the galaxy is this such a shock?

“Yes, I have…bred. And I need to find the father.”

This time, his face resumes his usual mask of a Habosu in search of a credit.

“The father is the Gryn?”

“Not your business,” I say as I terminate the comm.

I don’t need to discuss anything with him, and he certainly isn’t going to be a godfather to my baby. Markus has his uses, and this is it.

I work quickly to download the information I need before cutting off any links which would allow him, or anyone, to track the ship.

I have a couple of nova-days to find Klynn, and I will find him. I might have been a pretty terrible bounty hunter, but this is one mark I can’t afford to lose.

KLYNN

I’m dumped into a container which slides away from the two Varangy into a tube. Given one of my legs has started to cramp with inaction, as much as being in a tube is not an improvement in my situation, at least I can stretch it out with a groan.

I probably should have eaten the paraxio laced food. I wouldn’t feel quite as bad about not doing something unspeakable to my Varangy captors.

But the information I got out of them is valuable and makes up for the lack of violence. They are working for another, one who seems to have an unhealthy interest in Gryn.

Unhealthy because it will result in the creature’s demise. My job, long before the dome, was to find single Gryn scattered across the universe by Proto. And there is no way I’m allowing any other species to pick up where it left off.

I shift around in the container, pulling free of the straps which have automatically deployed. The thing is sliding slowly through what appears to be some sort of delivery system within the ship. I’ve already decided continuing to play unconscious has become boring. Wherever this tube ends, I will be ready to deal with the Varangy.

The container speeds up, lights flickering all around me. The temperature drops, and as I duck down, I’m fired out into space. The outside of the container ices instantly, and I do my best not to allow any part of me to touch the clear exterior. I grasp at the straps and pull myself down onto the padded lower area to combat the loss of gravity, clamping my wings against my body to guard against the chill. The container is clearly designed for an unconscious occupant.

My choices regarding the paraxio are yet again called into question. It’s not like I disliked the drug after all. Only I need to get back to my mate, and being drugged and at the mercy of either the Varangy or those who control them is not an option.

The container jerks and bucks. I hang on with grim determination until the ride smooths out and the temperature warms. I risk a look and, while I’m still in space, the outer glow shows me I’m caught in a transport field which is pulling me down to a planet.

If it has atmosphere, things are about to get heated….

Sure enough, the temperature rises exponentially, and the outer part of the container is too hot to touch. It whines as we descend, presumably the life support system having to work hard to keep its occupant, me, alive.

The heat goes almost as quickly as the cold and with a burst of speed I’m pulled from the upper atmosphere to the ground in half a nova-second with a sickening lurch.

Nothing is going to stop me from getting back to my mate. Not some ridiculous transfer from ship to planet or any Varangy. I slam my wings against the upper part of the container, using all my strength against the thing. It pops open with a grinding noise, and I am in the air before anything can stop me.

Whoever wants me, it seems they want me alive, and I’m prepared to test the theory with extreme prejudice.

Pulsar bolts zip past me, but they appear to be an attempt to stop me going higher. The stench of must and disuse, along with something unpleasantly familiar hits me as I take in my surroundings. Metal and some sort of crystalline substance in a deep depression, open to what passes for a sky wherever I am. My stomach clenches as the place looks unpleasantly familiar.

“Welcome home, Gryn,” a voice booms out, surrounding me and drowning out the sound of pulsar fire. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

FERN

The Varangy have done little to disguise their flight pattern or their ship. Either they don’t expect to be followed or they’re arrogant enough to think no one would.

I suspect it’s the latter. What little I know of Varangy comes from my contact with a bounty hunter from another agency I went up against to collect a mark. A tiny female from a species called Kaiwii, all pink fur and twitching ears.

She was also a deadly assassin, wanted in multiple jurisdictions. The Varangy hunter thought he’d caught her before me, decided he’d comm me in order to boast about it.

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