Ily could feel the Etarian woman's gaze on her as, face grim, Tyklat steered her back to the vehicle.
Ily glanced back at the veiled woman and then forced her from her mind as she considered the guard's words. "A good way to rid yourself of surplus? The Lord Commander does not fit my definition of surplus."
The aircar rose easily as Ily leaned back in the seat. She sighed. "Very well, assuming we have found Staffa, where could his Wing Commander be?"
Tyklat rubbed a finger along his straight nose. His eyes, dark as her own, betrayed a slight mystification. "I'm not certain at this stage. To be honest, the Lord Commander was my first concern. The fact remains that he eluded us because we were looking in the wrong place for the wrong reasons." His thoughtful features wrinkled into a frown. "Maybe we've done the same with the Wing Commander— only based on different assumptions."
Ily grimaced as they rose over the squat city. What an ugly place Etarus had turned out to be for all the glittering reputation of its whore temple. Flat-roofed brown buildings hugged narrow streets. A tourist town, it lived off the revenue brought from the men flocking to the Temple and the Priestesses. At the same time, believers came to receive instruction in prayers, devotions, and philosophy. That trade supported lodgings while small cottage industries made souvenirs. A spice trade came out of the desert as did minerals and precious gems.
"We just don't know enough about Skyla Lyma," Ily decided. Another thought crossed her mind. "However, assuming we have found Staffa, I don't want him to know his Wing Commander is here. We have more leverage if he doesn't."
"I understand."
"Good." Ily paused, glancing at Tyklat. "You know, she is a very beautiful woman."
"I've seen the official holos you provided." Tyklat laced his fingers together.
"Believe me, they don't do her justice." Ily realized the and air had begun affecting her skin. Her mouth felt sucked dry. "Anything to drink in here?"
He handed her a flask that clipped to the side of the seat.
Refreshed, Ily pursued that thought. "When you find her, remember that she's a warrior of some considerable talent. She didn't get to be Wing Commander by wiggling her tail. She's dangerous and probably quite capable of whipping your best in hand-to-hand combat."
Tyklat grinned. "We'll use stun rods and put a collar on her immediately."
"And after that, Tyklat, keep her on ice. I want no word of her being under our control to leak out. I think you can appreciate the ramifications." She sat back, enjoying the thought. How far could she go with Staff a all to herself? "Indeed, if it proves that we don't need the inestimable Wing Commander, you may keep her for yourself. As I say, she is very beautiful — and I do reward my people."
His smile grew. "With a collar on, she will be tame as a kitten."
Ily allowed herself a short laugh. By the Rotted Gods, this had gone well after all. She was congratulating herself, feeling an uplifting surge of optimism as they circled over a thin line seemingly drawn in the white desert sands. As they dropped, the line turned into a long ditch, trenching machines springing into visibility as they closed.
The dust that rose in a maelstrom about the car surprised her. She could see Tyklat's measuring eyes on her. "Your shoes, Ily. You might want to take them off. This is what we call the True Sand, the deep desert. Your long thin heels will sink in and you will look foolish. Of course, your bare feet will be most uncomfortable. The temperature of the sand often gets as high as three hundred and fifty degrees Kelvin." He spread his hands. "Or I could attend to it."
She saw his curiosity. Without losing eye contact, she slipped her footgear off. "After you Director."
He hadn't lied. Her skin felt like it was curling and blistering off her very bones. She kept her face straight and plodded after him, each burning step a trial. Despite herself, she had to squint in the blinding glare. Heat beat at
her in a constant suffocating mass. Rotted Gods! They carried pipe in this?
Her skin had gone completely dry and her lips had chapped. The hot wind that bled her of moisture teased and tugged at her long hair.
They made it to a tent awning where three men waited to greet Tyklat. Ily found herself shaking an officer's hand. She caught his name: Anglo.
"We have come for a slave," Ily told the officer coldly, seeing the glint in his eyes as he appraised her. Rotted Gods! Does he have no conception of who I am? Or has he been screwing the slaves until a woman is no more than meat? Her anger stirred.
"We're a little short of those today Minister." Anglo grinned idiotically in his attempt to be suave. "If I may be of any other assistance—"
"Get the slave called Staffa!" Tyklat ordered, his face hard.
"We have no Staffa here."
Tyklat rapped out the registration number.
"Oh," Anglo's face began to smirk. "Him. I'm afraid you're a little too late." He pointed down the pipeline to the side of a slumped dune. Ily could see the pipe running into the mass of loose shifted sand.
"Yeah," Anglo said with a sigh. "Ole Tuff, he was at the head of the line. We've beendigging for a half hour now. It'll be a day before we get all that cleaned out."
Staffa? Buried alive? Ily's mind raced. Staffa dead would be better than Staffa loose. She had to know if the mysterious Tuff was the Lord Commander.
"You will remove that sand now," Ily told Anglo in a voice like slow poison. "You will remove it if you have to stop the commerce of this planet to do so."
Anglo gaped. "Look, Minister, you don't—"
"/ do! Tyklat, get the equipment here now! Officer Anglo, you get down there and dig! With your bare hands if necessary!
Ily's eyes went to the mountain of sand. Threats or not, what chance was there? A bitter acid taste formed in her mouth — a taste of defeat.
CHAPIMER 18
Blackness suffocated Staffa; it bled from the very air into his soul. The silence thundered, disturbed only by the pounding of his heart. Staffa tried to move only to find his legs trapped, pinned by the pressing weight. Kaylla's muscular body shivered in his arms. A painful awareness of her rushed through him; he smelled her hot skin next to his nose. Hugging her tightly, he reveled in the reassurance that he wasn't alone-not deserted in his sin and guilt.
"Can you move your legs?" he asked, hoping his voice wouldn't break.
Her muscles slid under smooth skin-a feeling of living flesh he cherished.
"No." Then, "We're buried, aren't we?" "Yes. "
"Will they get us out alive?"
"Maybe," Staffa mumbled. "Depends on how long it takes to dig us out… and how long the air lasts."
"I think I can push enough sand past to free my legs. Then we can dig you out."
They didn't speak as they worked to free Kaylla. Then together they scooped sand back to free his waist and thighs. He pulled himself forward and crawled to the center of the pipe.
"At least it's cool." After a pause Kaylla added hesitantly, "Hold my hand."
He felt around until he found her fingers. "How long would you estimate, Tuff?"
"Four hours. Maybe six at the most for the size of the pipe and our respiration rate. That's about right for the cubic footage. "
"We were in the middle of the dune." Her fingers tightened on his. "We're only slaves. The trenchers are miles
away. They won't have this moved until sometime tomorrow."
He chuckled hollowly, body sagging, glad for the rest if nothing else. "Then according to what Koree was telling me, we're spared the cowardice of death."
He could hear her swallow. "I remember his lectures in the university on Maika. He was one of my professors when I was young. I always admired him. It broke my heart to find him here.".
"We could save a little oxygen if we didn't talk." It began to cool off rapidly, the heat in the pipe radiating into the sand around them.