Blade Dancer Read online

  chest.

  It wasn’t much of a block—I’d plowed through much worse on the field—and I weighed too much for

  him to move me. The problem was the not-at-all-human thing that swelled inside me. Worse than anger.

  My vision sharpened, my mouth dried, and I felt my claws punch through my gloves. Something huge and

  vicious lived inside me, and now it wanted more than a fistfight.

  Take them down.

  Rip their bellies open.

  Fill your hands with their guts.

  Take them down, Jory, now now NO W.

  I fought it, curling my hands over, cutting my own palms as I forced my claws back into my fingers.

  Denying the ferocious surge was like being scalded from the inside out, but I’d kill them all if I didn’t. Rij

  had taught me breathing methods to get through these rage spells, but that was for the game. With my

  mother there, it was personal.

  And suddenly I wasn’t too sure I could hold back the beast.

  I had to get away from them. Right now. Before I could pick a direction, the fourth agent fumbled in his

  jacket, produced a weapon, and fired.

  Mistake number two.

  Light and pain crackled over me. From the whine of the blast I knew his weapon had been adjusted to

  heavily stun almost any life-form. Any life-form not wearing insulating thermal wraps, that is. In my case,

  it was like getting stung by a great big bee—it just pissed me off more.

  “That didn’t work, did it, asshole?” I knocked the pistol from his hand, grabbed his jacket, and jerked

  him up off his feet. As he dangled, eyes bulging, I showed him all of my pretty teeth. “Want to try again?”

  I might have done more to Mr. Trigger-Happy, but the fifth agent stepped up to me. He was tall enough

  that he didn’t have to stretch much when he put his gun to my head.

  “Mine is set to burn a hole through your brain,” Bright Boy told me. “Your move.”

  I dropped the terrified man and enjoyed the subsequent thud and grunt. “Tell them to keep their fucking

  hands off me.”

  “All right.” He held out a hand. “I want to see some ID.”

  I tossed it at him as his men picked themselves up and brushed off their tunics. Trigger-Happy muttered a

  few nasty things, but Bright Boy told him to shut up and everyone to back off.

  He checked my ID, gave it to one of the others, went over to the grave, then came back to me. “Identify

  the cause of death.”

  I was briefly tempted to say something like bubonic plague, but then they’d probably make a huge deal

  out of it and quarantine the entire commune. Besides, they’d caught me; it didn’t matter that they knew.

  So I told him the truth.

  “Holy shit,” one of them muttered. He had his light trained on my ID tag. “You know who she is? Jory

  Rask. The runback with the NuYork StarDrivers.”

  “I don’t care if she’s the first lady.” The one in charge ran his beam up to my face again. “Remove the

  eyewear and show me your hands.”

  My sunglasses and gloves were all that stood between me and being exposed for what I was. When I

  was a kid, Mom had even sewn my shades on a strap around my head, to make sure they didn’t come

  off while I was playing.

  No one must ever see your hands or your eyes. Promise me you’ll be careful, Jory.

  I took them off.

  Mistake number three.

  Someone spit on the ground. Trigger-Happy muttered more filthy words.

  “You’re under arrest.” Bright Boy turned to his men and pointed to the grave. “Drag that thing out of

  there.”

  The PRC took me back to the city. Being secured in the back of one of their unmarked vehicles proved

  convenient—no drone monitor inside—so I took the opportunity to conceal a few items. Once we

  arrived at their regional office, they did the obligatory body-cavity search (and missed everything I’d

  hidden), gene print, uterine check to see if I’d given birth, then instantly revoked my planetary residential

  status.

  I gave them as much trouble as I could without actually killing anyone.

  After trashing three drones and spoiling a few more PRC profiles, I ended up cuffed to a chair in an

  inquiry room. The interrogator who finally came in was a blocky, middle-aged man with a blunt face and

  oddly small, delicate hands.

  “Jory, Jory, Jory.” He sounded like a disappointed parent. “Now we know the real reason why you’re

  the fastest runback in the game.”

  “You figure that out all by yourself?” I asked him. “Or did you need a drone to break it down on a

  spreadsheet for you?”

  “Alien blood always shows through.” He sat behind the console in front of me. I returned his pleasant

  smile with an unblinking stare until Prissy Hands tossed my shades in my lap. Someone had been

  thoughtful enough to smash the one-way lenses. “Did you really think you could hide behind them

  forever?”

  Besides being nearly seven feet tall, I had six fingers on each hand, and my mother’s thick, matte-black

  hair. Unlike hers, mine curled, so I kept it short. All of that still passed as Terran.

  Except my eyes.

  I shifted, let the ruined shades drop to the floor. “Worked for twenty-four years.”

  “The gloves were clever. From the way they were fitted, no one could tell you had an extra finger on

  each hand.” He took out a cigarette and lit it, probably to show me he wasn’t above breaking the law. I’d

  heard they did things like that—establishing rapport with the filthy, disgusting half-humans before they

  tossed them off-planet. “Did she have your epidermis bleached?”

  Couldn’t he tell that I was naturally Terran-skinned? “No, genius, she used beige spray paint.”

  “You made the early-morning news.” The agent blew some smoke in my face, then tapped a panel

  switch.

  A wall screen flickered on, showing the image of a seething crowd around a bonfire. They were yelling

  and laughing and throwing stuff on the flames. Stuff like StarDrivers jerseys with my number, and

  photoscans of me.

  I guessed that couple from Toronto would be getting their kid’s name changed real soon.

  “Not every day a World Game MVP turns out to be an alien crossbreed.” He tapped some ashes into his

  cupped palm. “People are a little upset.”

  “People survive.”

  “You may have a little trouble. You’ve been fired from the StarDrivers for violating junta regulations. All

  your assets and property have been confiscated, and don’t count on getting them back.” Prissy Hands

  switched off the vid. “I don’t have to tell you the rest. That alien mother of yours probably made you

  memorize the law.”

  Sure, I knew the law—nonhuman life-forms were denied residence status on Terra. Especially any

  progeny—generally referred to as crossbreeds—resulting from human/nonhuman liaisons. Terrans didn’t

  want us polluting their precious gene pool.

  My existence had certainly muddied the waters in a big way.

  “I know this has been a tough night for you, but we’re not really monsters, you know. I’m just pushing

  paper and doing my job.” He gave me another let’s-be-pals smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “I’ll see to it

  that you get some compensation, enough to help you make a fresh start off-planet.”

  “And you want what for this incredible act of generosity?”

  “Information.” He leaned back in his chair. “Tel
l me about the underground, Jory.”

  So this was how they did it. They caught one crossbreed and bought their way with credits to the rest.

  Made sense.

  They weren’t going to buy me, though. “It’s deep, dark, and has a lot of rocks in it.”

  “We know you purchased the house two years ago. No legal residence on file prior to that.” He slowly

  exhaled smoke, making it float in little rings between us. “Someone helped you, Jory. Someone kept you

  hidden somewhere all that time. Give me a name and I can make good things happen for you.”

  “Okay.” I sat back, too. “MacDonald.”

  “MacDonald who?”

  “Old guy.” I yawned. “Liked hanging out with a lot of nonhuman types, you know.”

  Prissy Hands got busy and took notes. “Where does he reside?”

  I pretended to think. “On a farm.”

  “Where is it located?”

  “I can’t remember… oh, yeah. Eeyigh-eeyigh-yo.”

  He frowned at me. “What is that? Some Indian reservation?”

  Christ, he didn’t get it. He was that stupid. “Let me spell it out for you again.” I leaned forward. “Old

  MacDonald. Had a farm. E-I-E-I-O.”

  He looked as if he might lunge across the desk for a moment, then he shoved the notepad aside. “I want

  the nest, Jory.”

  The nest. Like we were rodents. “Go climb a flagpole. Maybe you’ll spot one from up there.”

  He didn’t like that either, judging by the color he turned. “You fern breeds are all the same, think nobody

  can faze you. Then you get to transport and start wailing and begging to stay.”

  Compared to junta training camp, deportation was a cake-walk. “Yeah, well. Don’t hold your breath,

  you jerk.”

  “We’ll see.” He waited a minute. “Last chance, take it or leave it.”

  He bored me, so I started running play patterns in my head.

  Prissy Hands got out from behind the console. “Jory Rask, you’ve been charged with two violations of

  the Genetic Exclusivity Act.” He dropped the cigarette butt and ground it out under his footgear. “Your

  deportation arraignment will be in one hour.”

  That fast? “I want counsel.”

  “You’re a breed.” He took off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves, revealing muscular forearms. His girly

  hands really looked ridiculous attached to them. His smile finally crinkled the skin around his eyes as he

  loomed over me. “You don’t get one.”

  Then he started hitting me with his small, hard fists.

  Exactly sixty minutes later, I stood before a drone judge. One of my eyes had swollen shut, but I could

  still see out of the other one. Not that there was much to look at. Because of the media blitz on me, the

  drone judge had barred the public and the press from the courtroom. Everyone else kept their distance.

  Don’t want me getting my illegal blood on them.

  They’d scrubbed my face before marching me in, but the cut on my cheek kept oozing, and my belly hurt

  so much I couldn’t stand up straight. The agent hadn’t broken anything, though—if he had, I’d have

  qualified for a medical postponement, and he didn’t want that.

  Have to get the disgusting alien crossbreed off the planet as fast as possible.

  “Docket number two-seven-one-four, Terra versus Jory Rask,” the bailiff read as the prosecutor took

  position beside me. “The charges are aiding and abetting an illegal alien, and maintaining unlawful

  planetary residence status.”

  I needed to spit out some blood. Where the hell do you spit in a courtroom?

  The prosecutor, a petite blond female with an immaculate suit, gave me a single sideways glance before

  inserting a legal chip in the console. “The State asks for standard sentencing, Your Honor.”

  The drone judge processed that, then asked me, “Defendant Rask, are you aware PRC statute number

  six-eight-four automatically suspends your right to representation and trial by jury?”

  Blood and saliva dribbled over my split lip as I muttered, “Yeah.” I spotted a small wastebasket at the

  end of the console, and made use of it. “I’m aware.”

  The prosecutor made a disgusted sound and put another two feet of console between us.

  “Jory Rask, this court hereby sentences you to immediate deportation from the planet Terra.” The

  recorded sound of a gavel striking wood echoed through the nearly empty courtroom. “Next case.”

  A middle-aged, overweight woman switched off the drone recorder in front of the bench and removed

  the case file chip.

  That’s it? I’d expected it to be quick, but not fifteen seconds.

  The prosecutor immediately left the courtroom, doubtless to visit a lavatory and spray herself down with

  disinfectant.

  I didn’t move. I had one last thing to do, and I wasn’t leaving until I did it. Even if that meant another

  beating. “I have a request.”

  “Sentence has been passed.” The drone’s fake face turned to the bailiff. “Remove the convict.”

  “I want my mother’s body,” I said, louder.

  “Shut your mouth, breed.” The bailiff came to haul me away from the monitors.

  I hiked up my good leg and kicked him away. The fat woman holding the case file chip screamed. Over

  the noise, I repeated, “I want. My mother’s. Body.”

  The drone judge clicked and whirred as it buzzed over the big desk and hovered in front of my face.

  “You are found to be in contempt of court,” it told me, displaying whatever penal code I’d violated. “A

  fine of one thousand credits will be levied against your estate prior to deportation.”

  “Where is she?” I breathed through the pain kicking the bailiff had sent up through my battered torso, and

  wrenched my arms apart. The chain between my handcuffs snapped, freeing my hands. “What did you

  do with her?”

  “We put the dead alien in a disposal unit.”

  I turned around and saw Pretty Hands standing behind me. He was smiling again. Like he had the whole

  time he’d beaten me.

  The bailiff had gotten up and grabbed me, but I shook him off. My claws emerged, and the fat lady

  shrieked even louder as she ran from the courtroom. I waited until the screamer exited before I asked,

  “Why?”

  “It’s what we do with trash. Here.” He threw something old and silver at me. “A memento.”

  I caught the necklace of tarnished links without thinking. Mom’s vocollar. The one she’d never removed,

  even though it wouldn’t translate anything away from a Jorenian linguistic database. I’d left it on her neck,

  intending to bury it with her.

  “Rask.” He drew his weapon and trained it on my heart. There were new bruises on his knuckles now,

  along with a deep bite mark. He got the latter when I demonstrated what I’d do if he tried to mouth-rape

  me. “Want to join her?”

  For a minute, I was tempted. What did I have to live for? Everything I loved was ruined, dead, gone. My

  mother. My home. My career. My reputation. The only thing I truly cared about had ended up in a waste

  processor.

  This is what it must have been like for her. From the moment I was born. How did she handle

  twenty-five years of exile from everything she loved?

  The pendant suspended from the heavy links cut into my fist, and I uncurled my hand to look at it. The

  silver and black Jorenian pictograph was the symbol for the number seven.

  I’d forgotten about them, too.

  I looked at the PRC agent, who
still had me in his sights. Somehow he seemed smaller, more pathetic.

  “No, thanks.” I slipped my mother’s vocollar over my head, felt the links settle, cool and weighty, against

  my skin. “I’ve got someplace to go.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  “An unaltered path is both boon and affliction.”

  —Tarek Varena, ClanJoren

  Being deported would have been a swift, no-nonsense business, had I not been a celebrity athlete. The

  PRC agents assigned to haul my ass to Main Transport tried to sneak me out through the judges’ private

  entrance, but the media sharks were already teeming and hungry.

  As we emerged outside the courthouse, a wall of photoscanner lights popped, blinding me, and a

  thousand voices called out my name and the inevitable, brainless questions.