SECRETS OF THE WIND

Chapter One

Major Chastain Neff was tired, hungry and covered with a thick layer of mud. She was hunkered down beside a dead body watching a fourth-class medical examiner’s mate doing his thing. The sight of the yawning body cavity where once a chest had been didn’t faze Neff, but the smell of burnt flesh from the phosphorus blast that had taken out that chest made her a bit queasy.

“Is he Storian?” she asked.

“Well,” the fourth-class med ex drawled, “I don’t see any markings to say he was, but until I get him back to the shop, I won’t know for sure.”

“Sure as hell fought like one,” Chastain remarked. She ran the back of her dirty forearm under her chin to catch the drop of sweat that had been hanging there precariously.

“He stinks like one,” Chastain’s immediate superior Colonel Brock commented.

Chastain got wearily to her feet. “How’s the target doing?”

Brock looked around. “Still puking,” he replied with a snort. “I don’t think he’s accustomed to someone getting ventilated.”

“That’s understandable.”

“By the way, the general would like to see you,” Brock told Chastain.

Chas frowned. “Don’t tell me he’s got another assignment for me this quick,” she said and winced at the whine of complaint she could hear in her voice.

“We’re down two operatives,” Brock reminded her. “We do what we have to, Neff.”

Sighing heavily, Chas hung her head. Her hands were on her hips as she shook her head. “I am due for leave, Colonel. I
need
some leave.”

“Everyone is overworked, Neff,” Brock reprimanded her. “I’m sure the general will give you extra time off after the next one.”

Knowing it would do her no good to argue, Chastain lifted her head. She looked over at the target for a long moment then walked over to where he was sitting.

“Can we get you anything else, Councilman Jost?” a med-tech asked the shivering man as Chastain joined them.

Councilman Jost pulled the thick wool blanket tighter around his shoulders and could barely speak for his teeth were clicking together. “N-no. I’ll b-be all right.” He glanced up at Chastain. “Thank you, Major. If it hadn’t been for you…”

“There’s no need to thank me, Sir,” Chas told him. “I’m just glad everything turned out okay.”

“If I hadn’t hired you to protect me, if you hadn’t been with m-me…”

“Another Guardian would have been, Sir,” Chas cut him off. She could tell the man was going into shock and caught the eye of the med-tech.

“He was going to kill me, wasn’t he?” the councilman asked, his teeth chattering.

“Aye, Sir, he was. He would have taken your money then he would have taken your life. You were wise to get us involved in this extortion plot, Sir.”

“Let’s get you to the clinic, Councilman Jost,” the med-tech suggested. “We’ve put in a call to your family and they’ll join us there.”

Chas stepped aside as the med-tech helped the councilman to his feet. She nodded at his grateful look and gave him a tired smile. “Take care, Sir,” she said as the shivering man was led away.

“Go get cleaned up and get something to eat, Neff,” Colonel Brock ordered. “I’ll let the general know you’ll be in his office first thing this afternoon.”

“Aye, Sir,” Chas replied.

Walking back to the runabout in which she had brought Councilman Jost to the place where he had been meant to die, Chas felt a brief respite from the bodily aches and pains she knew would be ten times worse when she turned in that night. She always felt a rush of healing adrenalin course through her body when she’d performed her job well and the target lived.

The Storian—if indeed the assassin had been of that nationality—had fought well. He had gotten in a few lucky punches and even one well-timed kick before going for his phospho firearm. That he might have had the weapon turned on him, and his massive chest blown apart in the ensuing struggle, had more than likely never occurred to him. Then again, he had not counted on his opponent being a Riezell Guardian, either.

Going through the start-up procedures without thinking much about it, Chas settled back in the form-fitting command chair as the mighty engine roared to life. She sat there feeling the runabout vibrating beneath her rump and smiled at the nearly silent power encased in the titanium hull.

The runabout belonged entirely to Chas. It had been awarded to her a year earlier by a grateful target and his family. Top of the line, state-of-the-art, the runabout was one of the most sought-after models at Tappa Industries. Only a handful of high-ranking officials within the Riezell Conclave could afford a Fiach model runabout. Not even General Siri, head of Fleet Command, had such a sweet machine at his disposal, for the retail price of the craft was upwards of one-point-five million credits.

Buckling herself in the command chair, Chas tightened the safety harness, took a look at the proximity screen to make sure no unsuspecting body happened to be within range of the propulsion tubes and engaged the throttle to twenty percent. Beneath her, the runabout lifted with a wash of thick white clay dust spiraling up from beneath the sleek black matte belly of the craft.

Those at the crime scene shielded their eyes as the runabout climbed fifty feet into the late-morning sun, nosed to starboard—the propulsion engine heat pointed away from any humans on the ground—then took off like a rock from a slingshot.

“That’s one awesome piece of work,” the fourth-class med ex said with a sigh.

Colonel Brock nodded as the runabout disappeared from view. “Aye,” he replied. “She is, and one of our best operatives. If I needed protection, Chastain Neff would be the RG I’d want assigned to my ass.”

It was obvious the med ex had been commenting on the expensive piece of machinery that was transporting the Riezell Guardian, but he made no comment to the colonel’s remark. Everyone there knew how the colonel felt about his operative.

* * * * *

The bath had cleansed away the dirt and a twenty-minute power nap had cleared away the fog that had permeated Chas’ tired brain. After a bowl of high-protein chips and an energy shake, she dressed in the silver-gray uniform with its bright copper anchor insignia on the shirt collar that marked her as a Principle Riezell Guardian. Checking one last time to make sure she was properly attired, she left her quarters and took the elevator to the eighteenth floor of Command Central.

The guards at the door to the general’s complex snapped to attention as she passed, the bases of their phospho lances thumping in unison upon the polished marble floor.

“At ease, gentlemen,” Chas said as she entered the door they were securing. Immediately, the guards shifted their legs apart in parade rest.

“He’s expecting you, Major,” the general’s secretary told Chas.

“Any news yet?” Chas inquired.

The secretary shook her head. “No, Ma’am. Not yet.”

“No news is good news or so they say,” Chas reminded the young woman.

“So they say,” the secretary echoed.

“I’ll light a candle for his safe return.”

Miriam Quillan smiled. “Thank you, Major. I appreciate it.”

Chas tapped twice with the back of her index finger knuckle upon the wall beside the general’s open door and smiled as she entered the man’s office. “You wanted to see me, Sir?” she inquired.

“Aye,” the great man answered. “Close the door, Major.”

Chas’ left eyebrow arched upward at the order but she made no comment as she did as she was told. When she turned around, the general told her to take a seat.

“They’ve found him?” she asked softly as she sat.

“About half an hour ago,” the general replied. “At least what was left of him. I just haven’t had the heart to tell her.”

Chas felt a tug at her heartstrings, and she asked if the general would like her to inform Miriam that her husband of less than a year would not be returning.

“No, I’ll tell her,” the general said. “I just have to find a gentle way in which to do it.”

“This internecine war has destroyed many a life, hasn’t it, Sir?”

“Too many, Major. Far too many.”

There was a long moment of silence then the general leaned back in his chair. “I was very pleased to hear the Jost situation has been successfully resolved. Good work, Chastain.”

“Thank you, Sir. I wish we could have taken the Storian captive, but one less rebel assassin is better than nothing.”

“It is definite, then? He was Storian?”

“I had a message on my Vid-Mem when I returned to my quarters. He had the mark on the sole of his left foot.”

The general winced. “A primary,” he noted. “Thank the Goddess you were able to take him out.”

“He could have given us much-needed information had I been able to capture him alive, but he didn’t give me any choice,” Chas confessed.

“Well, at least you survived the contact.” He eyed her carefully. “A few bruises and a scrape or two seems to be the extent of your injuries.”

“I was lucky,” Chas maintained.

The general waved away her modesty. “Luck had nothing to do with it, Major. You are good at what you do.”

Chastain smiled, the compliment being one that was rarely extended to an RG. “I take it you have a new mission for me?”

A dark scowl spread over the general’s face. “One demanded of us by the Caitliceachs.”

Chas’ eyes widened and General Alphon Morrison grinned mirthlessly. “Surprises you too, eh? I never thought the Council of Cosaint would ask for our help, did you?”

“No, Sir. Never in a millennia,” Chas said slowly. “What do they want us to do?”

“Keep the heir-apparent from being assassinated,” the general said.

Chas frowned. “That’s Prince Ruan, isn’t it?”

“The one and the same,” her superior officer replied.

“Don’t they call him the Wraith?”

“Aye, he is high up in the Order of Taibhse. Supposedly, he is one helluva warrior and if his documented kills are any indication, I can see where he’s earned his nickname.”

The frown on Chas’ face deepened. “I am Protastnúach so I have never understood the Caitliceachs, Sir. The whole idea of a race of people governed by a ruling family is anathema to the way I was brought up. Anything that smacks of kingship and all that folderol just irks me,” Chas remarked.

“It bothers me too, so I wasn’t keen on the idea of us providing protection for one of King Declan Cosaint’s brats.”

“Then why are we?”

“Orders came directly from the Tribunal to us, Major. We didn’t have any say in the matter. Despite our differences, the Caitliceachs are our allies.”

“His people can’t protect the heir-apparent?”

“Not as sufficiently as they would like. He’s a handful, I hear.”

“Aye, well, from what I’ve heard of Prince Ruan, he won’t appreciate us providing protection for him. Isn’t that what his surname means? Protection?”

“Aye, but protection of his people, not of himself,” the general explained. “I’m told he tends to be rather careless of his own safety and his mother nudged the king into having their son placed under safeguard.”

“Nevertheless, he might balk at me shadowing him.”

General Morrison leaned forward and braced his elbows on his desk. “That’s why he isn’t to know who or what you are, Major.”

Chas’ eyebrows drew toward one another. “I’m not to tell him I’m an RG?”

“By all means, no, you aren’t!” the general exclaimed. “The king’s attaché was adamant about that.”

“Then how in the blue blazes am I to protect him?”

“Stealth, my dear Major,” the general said with a chuckle. “By using stealth!”

* * * * *

The prisoner slumped against the heavy chains weighing down his arms. It was hard for him to sign his name on the paper that had been thrust under his nose, but he would have done anything for a chance to have his life sentence put aside.

“The policy to grant clemency to prisoners capable of defeating one of our Riezell Guardians came from the governor himself. He thought it would be a good way to keep the RG on their toes if they knew assassins might be out there after their hides. You understand that you might die?” the warden inquired.