“We’re out!” Tigre said. “We did it! We’re on the other side!”
The men cheered.
The door to the bridge slid open. A horned man with reddened features burst in. “What in herian happened?” the real Inferno demanded.
Tigre, Wingman, and Shadow spun around. Chameleon picked himself up off the floor. His tail, as bright blue as the rest of him, twitched with alarm. With all the shaking, he’d lost the personification, and he stood there revealed for what he was: the Xeno prisoner they thought was in the brig.
Chapter Two
Chameleon dove for freedom.
“Stop him!” Wingman shouted.
Inferno tackled him, and he and Wingman wrestled him into a chair.
“Do you see?” Wingman glowered at Tigre. “He escaped and mimicked one of us! We have to neutralize him. Airlocking is our only recourse. We five are the last living ’Topians. If we want to stay alive, we can’t risk keeping him around.”
If he didn’t come up with something quick, they’d kill him. He had to get them to see him as a person, who wanted to help them, not hurt them. “I mean you no harm—”
Wingman ignored him, produced a neuro stunner, and brandished the weapon while addressing the others. “Xenos have mastered genetic engineering and manipulation. He could have a homing gene programmed into his DNA. He impersonated a Saberian, and then he personified a Luciferan. Who knows what else he can do? You can’t trust a Xeno.”
Tigre pointed at the real Inferno. “Find Psy, please. Tell him he’s needed on the bridge.” Then he addressed Shadow. “We can’t sit and drift. Let’s get moving. Put us into hyperdrive.”
“Would if I could. Hyperdrive is shot. Three of the four engines burned out. We’re a breath away from requiring auxiliary support now. If I can repair one engine, we’ll have two functioning, and then I can get us somewhere.”
“Make it happen,” Tigre said.
Shadow glanced at Chameleon. “Is it safe to leave? I’ll have to go to the engine room.”
Wingman glowered. “If he twitches, I’ll fry his synapses.” Most likely the Avian hoped Chameleon would attempt to flee to give him an excuse to shoot him.
“Do it. Get us out of here,” Tigre said.
For a moment, Shadow’s form wavered and faded, but then he pulled himself together and slipped off the bridge. Vaporians were another experiment. Born with solid bodies, they were genetically imbued with the ability to alter their solid state and become apparitions. Then came the cruel twist. Upon reaching adulthood, if they didn’t mate, they began to evaporate until they dissipated completely.
For their own amusement, the Xenos had played many dirty tricks under the guise of science. They’d given some of the most intelligent beings the shortest life spans while handicapping others with low intelligence or physical deformities. Others received self-destruct genes. At a predetermined time, their genetic programming went haywire and killed them. Xenos had spliced animal DNA with humanoid DNA. Plant with animal.
The ’Topians had reason to distrust their creators. Yet they had not only survived but thrived, developing a medical science to counteract many of the congenital perils. Until the bombardment.
“I mean you no harm,” Chameleon said. “I came to ’Topia to rescue as many people as I could before—”
“Shut up.” Wingman waved the disruptor.
Would a ’Topian weapon affect his nervous system? He wasn’t sure, but he had no plans to test its efficacy unless they tried to airlock him.
Inferno reentered the bridge with Psy. Veritals could tap into psychic energy, read minds, and access deeply buried memories or erase them. He’d sensed Psy’s energy when they’d boarded the ship and had given him a wide berth in case Psy detected his identity.
Tigre folded his arms, crossed his ankles, and leaned against the handrail, a portrait of calm, except for the prominent throbbing facial stripes. “Thanks for the quick response, Psy. We need a read on our prisoner here.”
Psy’s pupils were large and round, his eyes unblinking. “I’ll do what I can.”
Tigre studied Chameleon. “You want to tell us again who you are and why you’re here?”
“My name is Chameleon.” Already, the fingers of Psy’s consciousness touched his mind. Insidious, subtle. If not for the forewarning, the probing might have occurred without his awareness. He could block it—Xenos had the ability—but doing so wouldn’t engender goodwill from his comrades. He needed them to trust him if he was going to stay alive, and, although they didn’t realize it, he was essential to their survival. So he threw up a barricade to the darkest memories and let Psy walk through the rest.
“I was a member of the Xeno Consortium High Council, and—”
Wingman’s face darkened, and Tigre uncrossed his ankles.
“I opposed the bombardment of ’Topia.”
“Bombardment? Try genocide!” Wingman said.
“I opposed the destruction of ’Topia,” he repeated.
“You didn’t oppose it enough to try to do anything about it!” Wingman charged.
“You’re here, aren’t you?” he snapped.
Just before the bombardment had begun, he had led several hundred ’Topians to an escape shuttle. Prior to that, over several months, he’d worked with a ’Topian contact to try to convince the pacifist government to shore up the planet’s defenses while secretly relocating as many people as he could. Unfortunately, the consortium had caught on and moved up the date of extermination, which was why he happened to be on the planet during the bombardment. He wondered what had happened to his ’Topian contact, if Wisp been able to escape.
Secretly working with his small opposition group, Chameleon had rescued several thousand people. The rest of the population—millions—had perished.
His role in that was the shame he locked behind the mental barrier. He could feel Psy trying to pry open the door. Let him try. He’d allow himself to be airlocked before he’d grant admission.
Psy withdrew, but Chameleon maintained the shields just in case. The Verital squinted and rubbed his temples as if reading his mind had given him a headache. Good. Stay out of my head, then.
Tigre straightened. “Well? Is he friend or foe?”
“What he’s told you thus far is the truth, but he blocked certain memories, and, without the use of force, I couldn’t read them.”
“So force it!” Wingman said.
“It could cause irreparable brain damage or kill him.”
“And the downside is?” Wingman flexed his wings. “Has he been implanted with a tracker?”
“If he was, he doesn’t know it,” Psy said.
“I would know it,” Chameleon retorted automatically, but he wondered. As a member of the ruling class, he’d enjoyed enormous personal autonomy, but he couldn’t be sure geneticists of yore hadn’t built in a failsafe. It was unlikely but possible he did carry a tracker gene. Whether he did or didn’t was immaterial. They had to keep moving, or they were doomed for sure. He studied the men whose fates had become tied to his. Tigre’s brow furrowed in contemplation, a scowling Wingman flexed his fingers as if itching to push the OPEN AIRLOCK button, and Psy still squinted. Inferno rubbed his horns as if they ached. Any one of them or all of them could be carrying a tracker.