The Ophelia Prophecy Page 3

  “Stop it!” she cried, shoving at him with her free hand. She yelped as pain shot up her injured wrist.

  Suddenly the lights came up, and steam plumed out of the wall right next to her head. Pax jumped back with a shout, and a jet of hot water struck him square in the chest, knocking him to the floor.

  Asha shrank back, even as she willed her legs to move the other direction. Before they could respond, she felt a crawling sensation at her middle.

  A thin membrane spread over her hips and abdomen. She gave a cry of horror and jerked forward. But in the space of three heartbeats the same material that covered every surface of the ship had sheathed her body from shoulders to knees, confining her against the wall of the ship.

  “Iris!” cried Asha, for whatever good it might do. From the exchange she’d overheard at the door, it was clear enough the sister had washed her hands of the situation.

  “Release her, Banshee,” barked Pax, rising to his feet.

  “Negative, Captain.”

  Asha loosed a strangled sob as the reply pulsed through the wall, waterlogged and echoing. Panic surged through her as she fought the living sheath.

  “You’re frightening her, Banshee,” said Pax.

  “I have been ordered to protect her from attack, Captain.”

  Paxton’s eyes widened, and he muttered an oath. “She attacked me, you mutinous lump of—”

  “I’ve inferred that it is your wish not to hurt her, Captain.”

  “You inferred?”

  Silence from Banshee.

  The captain’s fists clenched at his sides. He spoke through tight lips. “Release her as soon as I’m gone, and seal the door to Iris’s quarters. Then wait for my orders. Understood, Banshee?”

  “Yes, Captain.”

  INTERROGATION

  “You can’t really fault Banshee.”

  Pax stared at Iris in disbelief. “Is that supposed to be a joke?”

  “No, it’s not.”

  “It doesn’t concern you at all that Banshee’s inferring?”

  Iris frowned. “I didn’t say that. But you gave her permission to think for herself in protecting that girl. What did you expect?”

  Pax closed his eyes, sighing in frustration. Iris was right. His decision-making skills had deteriorated markedly over the last couple of hours.

  “Look,” continued Iris, “I’m sure we can sort her out when we get home.”

  “Banshee or Asha?”

  “Both. But I mean the ship.”

  “And until then?”

  “Until then I guess you better play nice with your pet.”

  He scowled at the mischief in his sister’s eyes.

  “Pax,” said Iris, sobering, “you know what I think about you bringing her on board. The order you gave Banshee was justified. I don’t get why you’re upset that she followed it. You should be relieved.”

  The creeping awareness that all three females were getting the better of him deepened his scowl. “Excuse me if I’m not relieved by the fact this casing stuffed with tissue and circuitry has sided with our enemy against me.”

  Iris gave a smug smile. “You at least have to appreciate the irony.”

  He eyed her, baffled.

  “It’s just what they did to us, right? Played god because they could, then cried foul when their creations turned on them.”

  She had a point. The Manti, not their creators, had been responsible for merging insect and plant DNA with artificial intelligence. The Scarab fleet had made the Manti masters of the skies. And now this particular serial number had gone sentient over a barely there, sylph of a human woman who’d all but forgotten her own name.

  “Your philosophical strain is diverting enough in the palace, Sister, but at the moment I think we’d benefit from a little pragmatism.”

  His reply had the desired effect—dampening the fun Iris was having at his expense. She rose to her feet and glared down at him.

  “All right. Question her. If she’s a spy, she goes out the hatch. If she’s not, she goes out the hatch. Pragmatic enough?”

  * * *

  Banshee released Asha and she stumbled to the floor. Rising on hands and knees she scrambled out of the bathroom.

  Her heart beat like the devil’s own drum as she sat panting, trying to think.

  Though instinct still screamed that the inside of a living, breathing, reasoning Manti ship was the very last place she should be, it was a circumstance she could not change. And for the moment it appeared Banshee was her only ally. She returned to the shower stall and sat with her arms folded over her knees. She felt safer there, found it easier to think. Her gaze fell on Iris’s comb. She picked it up, gripping the toothed end in her fist. Her hand trembled.

  “Where is the captain, Banshee?” she asked.

  “The captain is on the flight deck.” Banshee’s voice had no direction. It seemed to come from everywhere at once. She felt like Jonah in the belly of the whale.

  “Can you notify me if the captain leaves the bridge?”

  “Yes, Asha.”

  She shivered. It knew her name.

  “Can you tell me where we’re going?”

  “Navigation information is restricted to crew members.”

  “Can you tell me the names of the crew members?”

  “Augustus Paxton, captain. Iris Paxton, pilot.”

  “There’s no one else on board?”

  “Passenger Asha. Surname unknown.”

  “Right. Am I the first human to board this ship?”

  “Ship logs are restricted—”

  “Okay, Banshee.” She thought for a moment and asked, “Are you happy?”

  The pause was more significant than the answer, as the answer was pretty much what she’d expected: “I do not experience emotional response.”

  “I see. Well I do, Banshee, and I want you to know I’m grateful that you protected me.”

  “I was acting on the captain’s orders.”

  “The captain didn’t seem to think so. What were the captain’s orders?”

  “I have been ordered to protect you from attack.”

  Asha took a deep breath, relaxing her grip on the comb. “I’m glad to hear it.”

  Time to clear her mind of the encounter with Paxton. She had other pressing concerns.

  Whatever else was going on with Banshee, she was presumably mostly machine, and therefore a huge repository of data. The ship might be able to help Asha find some possible explanations for the holes in her memory. But she would have to assume any exchanges with Banshee would be shared with the captain.

  Do I have a choice? No. She needed answers.

  “Banshee, list causes of amnesia.”

  “The most common causes of amnesia are injury, shock, post-traumatic stress, psychological conditions, and drug or alcohol use.”

  Common sense had suggested most of these already. She was convinced her memory loss had something to do with Paxton.

  “What types of psychological conditions?”

  “Repression and hypnosis are two examples of psychological causes of amnesia.”

  “Hypnosis?” Was it possible someone had deliberately tampered with her memory?

  “A state that resembles sleep but differs in being induced by the suggestions of—”

  “Yes, Banshee. Thank you.”

  So why would anyone want to tamper with her memory? The fact that she knew more about the Manti than most humans and had somehow ended up in the company of one of them seemed important. But this wasn’t something she could discuss with Banshee.

  Could it be that something traumatic had happened to her? Considering Paxton’s behavior toward her—and the fact she’d been practically naked on the beach—she could easily imagine traumatic events that might have taken place. But there’d been no signs of assault. And his memories appeared to be missing as well. It didn’t add up.

  Finally out of sheer desperation she asked, “Banshee, can you tell me what the captain was doing so close to Sanctu
ary?”

  This question was met with silence, which she’d expected, but she’d had to try.

  “That information is restricted to crew members,” Banshee finally replied.

  “Naturally.”

  “Asha?”

  “Yes?”

  “The captain has ordered me not to interact with you independently.”

  She glanced up at the ceiling, frowning. “Since when?”

  “Twelve seconds ago. The captain also asked me to inform you that he intends to question you in eight hours. He suggests you use the time to sleep.”

  Sighing, Asha rose to her feet. Exhausted as she was, sleep wasn’t likely to bring back her missing memories. She needed to jog her brain somehow. If she could tell Paxton what had happened to them—reassure him she wasn’t some kind of spy—maybe he would consider releasing her.

  “Can I have a shower, Banshee, or is that on restricted access too?”

  Not recognizing the second part of her question as sarcasm, Banshee responded a moment later, “The captain has approved your request for a shower.”

  “Terrific,” she muttered. “Thanks.”

  * * *

  “Asha.”

  She sat up straight, gasping. It took a moment for the unfamiliar surroundings to register. Iris’s bed was huge in comparison to her own back at the Archive.

  So it hadn’t been a nightmare. Well, it had been. But the awake kind.

  “What is it, Banshee?” she asked, voice gravelly from sleep.

  “The captain has left the bridge.”

  She jumped up and crossed to the bathroom to splash cold water over her face—and retrieve her weapon, such as it was.

  “I thought you weren’t supposed to talk to me,” she murmured, drying her face and hands.

  “Your request for notification was made before the captain’s order.”

  Sounded a little too much like rationalization for a machine, but like Banshee’s earlier intervention, it was in her favor and she wasn’t about to argue.

  She ran her fingers through her hair to smooth the ends, which seemed to have a life of their own. She judged by the growling of her stomach that it was approximately morning.

  Except for Iris stopping by with a dinner of thin soup and some kind of sweet flatbread, Asha had spent the night alone with her thoughts. None of her missing memories had returned, and she’d lain in the bed trying to make sense of everything until she’d dozed off.

  Her first thoughts on waking were of her mother, who served on Sanctuary’s governing council. If anyone could help her it was Miriam St. John, who was a lioness when it came to her only daughter. By now she’d probably turned the city upside down searching for Asha. But even her mother’s political powers would not be enough to find and pluck Asha from the innards of a Manti ship.

  As for her father … He’d be frantic at her disappearance. Just the thought of it made her feel sick—Asha and the Archive were all he cared about. But unlike her mother, he wouldn’t have the solace of action. He found it hard to face the world outside his office. He would do nothing—could do nothing—for her.

  The idea of her parents ever having generated enough intimacy between them to produce a child was mysterious and baffling. But in the aftermath of the Bio Holocaust, perhaps instinct had driven some beyond reason.

  “Banshee, open the door.”

  Asha glanced up at the sound of the captain’s voice. She tucked the comb into a back pocket, slipping the handle under her shirt, and walked out to the bedroom.

  His luminous eyes locked with hers, and she shrank against the wall.

  “Come with me,” he ordered.

  “Where are we going?”

  He stepped toward her. “To the bridge.”

  Her fingers pressed the wall behind her, and she felt the tips sink in. She jumped as the wall at her back gently vibrated. Impossible to say whether the motion was intended as reassurance, but it served to remind Asha that Banshee had orders to protect her—and had demonstrated she would do so regardless of any contradictory order.

  Asha pushed away from the wall, following Paxton into the corridor.

  They made their way to the bridge, where Iris swiveled in the pilot’s chair to watch them. As Asha’s gaze moved beyond Iris to the window, her jaw dropped.

  To Asha—who until the previous day had never been beyond the landscape of what was once Arches National Park—it seemed like Banshee must have lighted on the most colorful, most alive spot on Earth. The ship perched atop some precipice—a rocky outcrop surrounded by a carpet of golden grass. Beyond that, snow-dusted mountaintops in one direction, the sea in another, and rolling green hills filling out the rest of the view. Far below she caught the reflection from a lake, with a picturesque ruin beside it.

  She’d seen images from all over the world—all the most dramatic scenery—in the Archive. Her father made a point of teaching her about mankind’s treasures, as he called them. Something they couldn’t afford to forget.

  She guessed they were somewhere in northern Europe, maybe the British Isles. But just like the first time Asha saw Iris, the real thing could not be compared to photos. She was the first of her generation to see something like this close up.

  She was the first of her generation to see the ocean.

  “Is this where you live?” she asked in a voice subdued with awe.

  “No,” he replied, his tone softening from earlier. “The climate is much too cold.”

  Of course. It was a foolish question. It was part of the reason Sanctuary had been established in Arches, near the ghost town of Moab, Utah. The bugs—both human-sized and microscopic—liked heat, but the desert was cold at night, and far too dry. It was thought to be the reason Sanctuary’s founders had survived. Many had speculated there were other pockets of humanity preserved in the least habitable parts of the Earth. Maybe Asha was going to find out if that was true.

  “Why have we stopped here?” she ventured, glancing at Paxton.

  The captain just looked at her. Studied her, like she was the anomaly.

  His gaze shifted to Iris. “Leave us. You need sleep.”

  She eyed him archly, but answered, “That’s true.”

  Iris rose and moved toward the door. She drew up even with Asha and turned.

  “Weather eye, Brother,” she warned.

  “Always. You know that.”

  “Inside the ship as well as out.”

  “Iris.”

  The mantis woman shrugged, and she left them.

  Paxton motioned Asha to sit in her place.

  “You haven’t answered my question,” she said.

  Paxton crossed his arms over his chest, his expression tightening with impatience. She moved to the pilot’s chair and sat down.

  “We’ve stopped here because I can’t take you into our city until I understand who you are, and what you’re after.”

  A hard, desperate laugh pushed past Asha’s lips. “Then we can end this right now. My name is Asha St. John. I’m an archivist. I don’t want to go to your city. All I want is to go home.”

  Some of the tightness in his expression gave way to a sort of surprised … curiosity. “What do you archive?”

  She hesitated, wondering whether she’d made a mistake in letting this slip.

  “Don’t lie to me, Asha,” he warned. “I’ll know.”

  She swallowed and sat up straighter. “If you can read my thoughts, what’s the point of interrogating me?”

  Paxton moved to the control panel—or to the slanted membranous surface that would have been the control panel on a regular ship—and leaned forward to gaze at the ocean.

  “I can’t read your thoughts. But unless you’re suffering from some yet-to-be-detected psychological disorder, Banshee will know if you’re lying.”

  That she could easily believe.

  Paxton turned from the window, resting against the console. “What do you archive?”

  “Images and video. News articles. Anything digita
l.”

  “About…?”

  She bit her lip. “You. Your people, I mean. Your genesis and rise to power.” He lifted his eyebrows in surprise, and she added, “Mine is only a small part of the Archive. It’s mostly our own history and culture.”

  “Know thyself, know thy enemy.”

  She didn’t know the source of the quotation, but she knew what it meant, and he was right—but only partly. The Archive’s mission statement was “preserving the past for the future.” They envisioned a future without their enemies in it. When it came, they intended to use the Archive to recover all they had lost.

  She flailed for a way to change the subject, but he saved her the trouble.

  “What were you doing at the reservoir?”

  She lifted her chin, meeting his gaze. “I don’t know. Maybe you can tell me.”

  “Banshee,” said Paxton, eyes fixed on her face, “are you with us?”

  “Yes, Captain. Elevated heart rate and respiration, consistent with her fear response upon arrival.”

  Paxton scooted toward her, leaning close. “Someone hit me hard enough to knock me out. The blow activated a defensive carapace—a sort of hard cocoon that protected me from further harm. I remember nothing except a dream about a yammering old woman.”

  Asha shrugged, a gesture far more relaxed than she felt. “I was almost outside bounds. Maybe you tried to take me and someone tried to stop you.”

  Paxton shook his head. “Why would someone stop me from taking you and then leave you behind?”

  “Do you have a better explanation?”

  “Yes. You were planted for some purpose. I was supposed to take you.”

  He could be right, she knew. It made no less sense than her explanation. And it was more appealing than believing she’d gone crazy and wandered into the desert, though she would not have been the first to do so. But if she was to have any hope of going home, she had to convince him she wasn’t a threat.

  “If someone in Sanctuary wanted you to pick me up, why would they knock you unconscious?”

  “Something went wrong, maybe. I don’t know. But it would also explain why someone has gone to the trouble of teaching an archivist self-defense. An archivist who just happens to specialize in my culture.”