Down Home Zombie Blues - Linnea Sinclair (SF ROM)

[marianne]

THE DOWN HOME ZOMBIE BLUES

By Linnea Sinclair
Coming November 27, 2007 from Bantam Dell
ISBN: 978-0-553-58964-1 (0-553-58964-4)
Bantam Dell Books
www.bantamdell.com

Copyright ©2007 Linnea Sinclair Bernadino
www.linneasinclair.com



UNEDITED, UNCORRECTED AUTHOR PAGE PROOFS FOR REVIEW PURPOSES ONLY. DO NOT DISTRIBUTE WITHOUT WRITTEN PERMISSION FROM THE AUTHOR. MATERIAL FOR QUOTATION SHOULD BE CHECKED AGAINST THE REGULAR EDITION. THIS IS NOT AN OFFICIAL BANTAM DELL ARC.


For this mismatched pair of crime fighters, the most dangerous thing could be their own cosmic attraction…

In this steamy, suspenseful new thriller from RITA award-winning author Linnea Sinclair, a dangerously sexy space commander and an irresistibly earthy Florida police detective pair up to save the civilized galaxy…but can they save themselves from each other?

Bahia Vista homicide detective Theo Petrakos thought he’d seen it all. Then a mummified corpse and a room full of futuristic hardware sends Guardian Force commander Jorie Mikkalah into his life. Before the night’s through, he’s become her unofficial partner—and official prisoner—in a race to save the Earth. And that’s only the start of his troubles.

Jorie’s mission is to stop a deadly infestation of bio-mechanical organisms from using Earth as its breeding ground. If she succeeds, she could save a world and win a captaincy. But she’ll need Theo’s help, even if their unlikely partnership does threaten to set off an intergalactic incident. Because if she fails, she’ll lose not just a planet and a promotion, but a man who’s become far more important than she cares to admit..

"Linnea Sinclair invades Earth with a rip-roaring, genre-bending, edge-of-your-seat read that has it all: crackling action, monsters, double-crossers, unlikely heroes, and a fully realized love story. I loved it!" ~Susan Grant, New York Times bestselling author of How to Lose an Extraterrestrial in 10 Days

[marianne]

Chapter 1

Another dark, humid, stinking alley. Another nil-tech planet. What a surprise.
Commander Jorie Mikkalah catalogued her surroundings as she absently rubbed her bare arm. Needle-pricks danced across her skin. Only her vision was unaffected by the dispersing and reassembling of her molecules, courtesy of the Personnel Matter Transporter—her means of arrival in the alley moments before.
The ocular over her right eye eradicated the alley’s murky gloom, enhancing the moonlight so she could clearly see the shards of broken glass and small rusted metal cylinders strewn across the hard surface under her and her team’s boots.
Another dark, humid, stinking filthy alley. Jorie amended her initial appraisal of her location as a breeze filtered past, sending one of the metal cylinders tumbling, clanking hollowly.
She checked her scanner even though no alarm had sounded. But it would take a few more seconds yet for her body to adjust to the after-effects of the PMaT, and for her equilibrium to segue from the lighter gravity of an intergalactic battle cruiser to the heavier gravity of a Class-F5 world. It wouldn’t do to fall flat on her face trying to defend her team if a zombie appeared.
She swiveled towards them. “You two all right?”
Tamlynne Herryck’s sharp features relaxed under her short cap of dark red curls. “Fine, sir.”
Low mechanical rumblings echoed behind Jorie. She shot a quick glance over her shoulder, saw nothing threatening at the alleyway opening. Only the expected metallic land vehicles, lighted front and aft, moving slowly past.
Herryck was scrubbing at her face with the side of her hand when Jorie turned back. The ever-efficient lieutenant had been under Jorie’s command for four years; she knew how to work through the PMaT experience.
Ensign Jacare Trenat, however, was as green as liaso hedges, and looked more than a bit dazed from the transit.
“Optimum,” replied Trenat when Jorie turned to him, straightening his shoulders, trying hard not to twitch. Or fall over.
Jorie bit back an amused snort of disbelief and caught Herryck’s eye. A corner of Herryck’s mouth quirked up in response. They both knew this was Trenat’s third dirtside mission; perhaps his sixth PMaT experience.
After eight years with the Guardian Force, Jorie had lost track of how much time she’d logged through the PMaT, having her molecules haphazardly spewed through some planet’s atmosphere. She'd seen stronger officers than the broad-shouldered ensign leave their lunch on the ground after a transit. The itching and disorientation would drive him crazy for a few more trips.
At least it was a standard transit and not an emergency one. Even she was known to land on her rump after one of those.
“Are we where we’re supposed to be, Lieutenant?” she asked as Herryck flipped open her scanner. The screen blinked to life with a greenish-yellow glow.
“Confirming location now, sir.”
Jorie glanced again at the scanner she’d kept in her left hand through the entire transport, power on, shielding at full. If it beeped, her laser would be in her right hand, set for hard-terminate. Recent intelligence reported the chilling fact that some zombies had acquired the ability to sense a Guardian’s tech, even through shields.
That’s why she and her team were in this stinking filthy alleyway, on this backwards, nil-tech planet the natives aptly named after dirt.
They were hunting zombies.
Because zombies were on the hunt again.
“Confirmed, Commander.” Herryck squinted at the screen with her unshielded eye. “Bahia Vista, Florida state. Nation of American States United.”
A sub-tropical area, according to the Guardian agent who was on active hunt status here for three planetary months. An agent whose reports ceased without explanation, two days ago. Jorie knew from experience what that could portend. She’d seen it before with agents and trackers who thought they could solve a rogue herd situation alone. One tracker against one zombie had a chance. An agent with basic tracker training might live long enough to escape. But if there was more than one zombie or if the agent was caught unawares… It was the latter she feared.
She’d known Danjay Wain for more than a dozen years—he was one of her older brother’s closest friends and had flown as her gunner on her last few missions with the Interplanetary Marines during the Tresh Border Wars. For the past three years on the Sakanah, he’d worked as Jorie’s active hunt agent a half dozen times. In spite of his teasing, prankster ways—he and her brother Galin were so much alike—he was a conscientious man with a quick mind and an insatiable curiosity about tracker procedures.
She dreaded now that during their many sessions over a wedge of cheese and a brew in the crew lounge, she’d either taught him too much about her job—or not enough.
“Think he’s alive, sir?” Herryck’s quiet question echoed her thoughts. No surprise, that. Danjay Wain was her teammate, her friend as well. The jovial agent’s sudden silence bothered Herryck as much as it bothered Jorie.
She huffed out a short breath. Even as a marine, Danjay could be impetuous. But she’d never thought him stupid. “I hope so. Any response from his transcomm?”
Herryck squinted at her screen, tapped the query code again then shook her head. “Still no answer.”
Damn. She so wanted the problem to be one of distance, of the ship in orbit, atmospheric interference… anything. Anything but what her gut told her might be true: Danjay’s impulsive, hotshot streak might have finally won out over his common sense. “How far are we from his last signal?”
“Twelve point two marks, sir.”
Twelve marks? Jorie directed a scowl upward, even though there was no way the PMaT chief on board the Sakanah could see her. All right. I can deal with another stinking alley, she railed silently at the chief. I know we can’t just materialize anywhere we want without setting the native nil-techs on edge. But, damn your hide, Ronna, twelve marks? On foot? Let’s forget the fact that this is a time-critical mission. Let’s forget the fact that we have an agent missing. Do I look like I’m dressed for sightseeing?
She was in standard hot-weather tracker gear: sleeveless shirt, shorts, knee-high duraboots, socks and a right arm technosleeve so she could multi-task her units if she had to. Two G-1 laser pistols were shoulder-holstered left and right. A Hazer micro-rifle slanted across her back. In the side of her right boot rested a sonic-blade. Not to mention her utility belt with her MOD-tech—her Mech-Organic Data scanner—and transcomm. Her headset with its adjustable ocular and mouth-mike striped her hair like a dark band. She’d need that to target the zombies once a warning sounded.
Hot-weather gear notwithstanding, she was definitely not dressed for a leisurely twelve-mark sightseeing stroll.
“Sir?”
“We have to acquire transportation.” She took a few steps towards the alley’s entrance then stopped. Ronna needed to recalibrate her tiny seeker ’droids to provide landing coordinates better suited to humanoids.
As for Trenat… “Relax, Ensign.” In the light of the almost full moon overhead, she could see the stiff tension in the young man’s shoulders under his tracker shirt. He hadn’t taken his hand off his G-1 since they arrived. “There’s not a zombie within fifty marks of this place.”
Yet. But there would be. There were close to three hundred on planet, per Danjay’s last report. It was the largest herd the Guardians found to date. The zombies’ Controller, their C-Prime, had to be straining its capabilities to direct all the drones.
That also meant the zombie’s sensenet was large. They’d probably already detected the energy from her team’s PMaT and were alerted to an off-world transport. But PMaT trails faded quickly. As long as her team’s MOD-tech stayed shielded, they should be safe.
“Transportation,” Herryck thumbed down Danjay’s data on her scanner screen. “Land vehicles powered by combustion engines. Fossil petroleum fueled. Local term is car.”
Jorie had read the reports. No personal air transits; at least, not for internal city use. Damned nil-techs. A four-seater gravripper would be very convenient right now. She resumed her trek towards the alley’s entrance, waving her team to follow. “Let’s go find one of those cars.”
“City population is less than three hundred thousand humans.” Herryck dutifully read as she came up behind Jorie. “The surrounding region contains approximately one million.”
In her eight years as a Guardian, Jorie worked cities larger and smaller. Six months ago, Kohrkin—a medium-sized city on Delos-5—held seven hundred thousand humanoids. A herd of eighty zombies reduced the population to three hundred fifty thousand by the time the damned Council Heads alerted the Sakanah. Jorie, Herryck and two other commanders went dirtside with a full battle squadron. Their mission was successful. But the lives of those she couldn’t save still haunted her.
She thought she’d seen death as a pilot with the Kedrian Interplanetary Marines fighting in the Tresh Border Wars, ten years past. That was civilized warfare compared to what the Guardians faced with the zombies.
Unless you were a pilot taken prisoner by the Tresh. Jorie’s fingers automatically rose to the long, bumpy scar just below her collarbone as Herryck continued to recite the facts Danjay had provided. And, as always, Jorie’s stomach clenched. A memento—a very special one she couldn’t afford to think about now. She had other problems. Serious ones, if something had happened to Danjay.
The stickiness of the air and the sharp stench of rotting garbage faded. Jorie paused cautiously at the darkened alley entrance, assessing the landscape. The street was dotted with silent land vehicles, all pointing in the same direction, lights extinguished. Black shadows of thin trees jutted now and then in between. The uneven rows of low buildings were two-story, five-story, a few taller. Two much taller ones—twenty stories or more—glowed with a few uneven rectangles of light far down to her right.
Judging from the brief flashes of light between the buildings and tinny echoes of sound, most of the city’s activity appeared to be a street or so in front of her. At least Ronna’s seeker ’droid had analyzed that correctly. Materializing in the midst of a crowd of nil-techs while dressed in full tracker gear had proven to be patently counter-productive.
A bell clanged hollowly to her left. Trenat, beside her, stiffened. She didn’t, but tilted her head towards the sound, curious. As the third gong pealed, she guessed it wasn’t a warning system and remembered reading about a nil-tech method of announcing the time.
She didn’t know local time, didn’t care. Unlike the Tresh, humanoids here had no naturally enhanced night sight. It was only important that it was dark and would continue to be dark for a while yet. She and her team needed that, dressed as they were, if they were going to find out what had happened to Agent Danjay Wain.
The bell pealed eight more times then fell silent. A fresh breeze drifted over her skin. She caught a salty tang in the air.
“…is situated on a peninsula that is bordered on one side by a large body of water known as Bay Tampa.” Herryck was still reading. “On the other…”
Gulf of Mexico, Jorie knew, tuning her out. Data was Herryck’s passion.
Zombie hunting was Jorie’s.
But first, she had to appropriate a car and locate Danjay Wain.

“Trust me, this is truly weird.” Ezequiel Martinez’s voice held an unusual note of amazement.
Homicide Detective Sergeant Theo Petrakos followed his former patrol partner through the cluster of crime scene technicians poking, prodding and prowling around the living room of the small bungalow a few blocks from Crescent Lake Park and downtown Bahia Vista. The whirr-click of a digital camera sounded on his left. He recognized Liza Walters, her blond head framing the familiar piece of equipment.
Zeke stopped and pointed to a nearly-shredded green plaid couch. “There.”
Theo stepped around overall-clad Sam Kasparov, who was diligently dusting a broken lamp for prints, then came to a halt in front of a body next to the couch.
“Well?” Zeke looked at him expectantly. “Weird, right?”
Theo shoved his hands into the pockets of his slacks and nodded mutely in answer. He wasn’t sure weird was sufficiently descriptive of the dead, withered body of the man sprawled face-up on the floor. His skin looked like crisp parchment that had been shrink-wrapped over his bones. His t-shirt lay loosely on his frame; his sweat pants seemed over-large. His red hair, though, was thick, full, healthy. Not sparse, like the mummy the dead man resembled.
Worse, his eyeballs were still moist. They bulged from his face like two large, wet dimple-less golf balls.
Theo had never heard of a mummy with wet eyeballs. But then, this man was no mummy. Mummification of a body took at least a couple of months under normal circumstances in Florida’s warmer temperatures. Yet the landlord had last seen the deceased—one Dan J. Wayne, according to the documents Detectives Zeke Martinez and Amy Holloway had found in a kitchen drawer—alive and well two days ago.
Theo had heard of spontaneous combustion. But spontaneous mummification?
He made a mental note to make sure Zeke checked the Center for Disease Control database. Judging from comments by the crime scene techs, they were puzzled, too.
They couldn’t even definitely say that this was a murder.
All they did know was what the landlord—an affable, ruddy-faced French Canadian who lived next door—had told Zeke and Amy: he was walking his rat terrier after the six o’clock news when he noticed the broken front window on his rental property. He peered in. Then, voice shaking, Monsieur Lafleur had called the police on his cell phone. First officers to arrive on scene found clear signs of a struggle in the overturned, broken furniture and torn draperies.
But the struggle didn’t seem to leave any corresponding injuries on the dead man on the floor. And there was no evidence of who—or what—he struggled with. If anything.
For all Theo could tell, the dead man had run around like a whirling dervish, demolishing his own living room before falling to the floor in a mummified state.
That would fit with the pattern of shattered glass from the window. The window hadn’t been broken by someone coming in, but by something—which included a portion of a wooden end table, from all appearances—going out.
Theo hunkered down on his heels next to the body and snagged a pair of protective gloves from a nearby evidence kit. Carefully, he plucked at the neck of the man’s t-shirt, then the sleeves.
“Maybe you shouldn’t get too close to Mr. Crunchy.” Zeke leaned back as if Theo’s touching the corpse might cause it to burst, sending lethal chunks flying in his direction. “Might be some kind of virus. Contagious. A new SARs strain or something.”
In the fifteen years that he and Zeke worked for the Bahia Vista Police Department, Theo had seen the wiry man fearlessly dodge any number of flying fists, speeding cars and even, a few times, bullets. Diseases, however, were another issue entirely. Zeke was probably the sole reason local vitamin stores made any profits. How he stayed married to a doctor was a source of continual speculation.
Theo continued his examination. “SARs is respiratory, not dermatological.”
“So what do we got?” Zeke asked. “Some Satanic cult who thinks the Christmas holidays are Halloween, killing people by draining their blood?”

[marianne]

Chapter 1 ctd

Zeke might think of Halloween, but Theo’s upbringing resurrected another image: the Kalikantzri, evil goblins who appeared during the twelve days before Christmas, according to Greek legends. But this was Bahia Vista, not Athens. Theo frowned then looked up. “Not sure. Hey, Liza, you see this?”
The stocky blond crime scene photographer squatted down next to him with a grunt. “You mean those marks on the side of his head?” she asked. “Yeah. Got those when Amy rolled him.”
“They line up. Almost like a large pronged vise grabbed him.”
“Like this?” She pulled off her hair clip and clicked it in his face. It was a plastic half-moon curve, spring-loaded with rows of teeth.
He took it, turning it over in his hand. “Like this, but big enough to cover his head.”
“Saw that happen on a construction site, once.” She retrieved the clip, twisted her long hair into a bun at the back of her head and clamped the clip over it. “Guy’s skull was crushed. Lots of blood, gray matter. Don’t have that here.”
No, they didn’t. Not even a puncture. Just some barely discernable bruises.
“How are your holidays so far, Theo?” Liza was still squatting next to him.
“Fine,” he lied. “Yours?”
“Kids are up to their eyes in toys they don’t need, as usual. And they can’t even get to the ones under the tree until Christmas.” She nudged him with her elbow and grinned. “My husband’s cousin Bonnie is in town. She’s a couple years younger than you, thirty-four or thirty-five, single. Real cute. Like you.” She winked. “You’re clocking out for vacation, right?”
He nodded reluctantly. He’d wondered why she asked about his schedule when he ran into her at the courthouse yesterday. Now he had a feeling he knew.
“Why don’t you come by the house tomorrow night, say hi to Mark and the kids, meet Bonnie?”
He rose. She stood with him. Liza Walters was, as his Aunt Tootie like to say, good people. But ever since he’d divorced Camille last year, Liza had joined the ranks of friends and co-workers trying to make sure Theo Petrakos didn’t spend his nights alone.
“Thanks. I mean that. But I’ve got some things to do.”
“How about the day after, then? I’m sure you’ll like her. Then you could come with us to the New Year’s concert and fireworks Pass Pointe beach.” She raised her chin towards Zeke. “You too, Zeke. Unless Suzanne has other plans?”
“New Year’s Eve is always at her sister’s house.” Zeke splayed his hands outward in a gesture of helplessness. “Suzy doesn’t give me a choice.”
Liza briefly laid her hand on Theo’s arm. “Think about it. You need to have some fun. Forget about the bitch.”
He smiled grimly. Forgetting about the bitch wasn’t the problem. Trusting another woman was. “I’ll let you know, but I’m probably scheduled on call out.”
“That Bonnie sounds real nice,” Zeke intoned innocently as Liza went back to photographing a splintered bookcase. “Thirty-five’s not too young for you. I mean, you’re not even fifty.”
Theo shot a narrow-eyed glance at the shorter man. “Forty-three. And don’t you start on me, too.”
Zeke grinned affably. “So what are your plans for tomorrow night, old man?”
“I’m restringing my guitar.”
“Alone?”
Theo only glared at him.
Zeke shook his head. “Still singing The Down Home Divorced Guy Blues? Man, you gotta change your tune.”
“I like my life just the way it is.”
“When’s the last time you got laid?”
“If you focus that fine investigative mind of yours on our dead friend’s problems, not mine, we just might get out of here by midnight.”
“That long ago, eh?”
“I’m going to go see what I can find in the bedroom,” he said, ignoring Zeke’s leering grin at his choice of destination. “You take the kitchen.”
Zeke’s good-natured snort of laughter sounded behind him as he left.

“Nice work, Trenat.” Jorie laid both hands on the vehicle’s guidance wheel and, looking over her shoulder, offered the young ensign an appreciative smile. He had done very nice work locating a well-concealed storage area of land vehicles and using a combination of mechanical and technical skills to override a series of locks and security devices. All in under ten minutes. Hopefully, determining Danjay’s status and returning him and his critical T-MOD unit to the ship would go as smoothly.
Trenat all but beamed at her from the rear seat, most of his earlier unease gone. “This power pack,” he said, holding out a thin box slightly smaller than her hand, “will create an ignition sequence and activate the engine.”
She followed his instructions as to placement and tabbed on the power. The vehicle vibrated to life, a grumbling noise sounding from its front. “No aft propulsion?”
“No sir.”
No antigravs, either. Well, damn. But when in Vekris, one must do as the Vekrisians do. She draped the headset around her neck and studied the control panel with its round numbered gauges. Other gauges had symbols like those she saw on signs as they’d walked the short distance to A-1 Rental Cars. Danjay’s reports noted that the local language was similar to Vekran, which Jorie spoke along with three other galactic tongues. The two languages shared a similar alphabet—though not completely—which explained why many of the signs she saw didn’t made sense.
As to why the local language was similar to Vekran, she had no idea. That was out of her area of expertise and Danjay’s. His report had noted it and had been forwarded to the scholars in the galactic comparative cultures division of the Guardian Force.
Jorie was just happy the locals didn’t speak Tresh.
Tam Herryck, rummaging through the vehicle’s small storage compartment on the control panel, produced a short paperbound book. “Aw-nortz Min-o-al,” she read in the tight glow of her wristbeam on her technosleeve.
Jorie leaned towards her. Tam Herryck’s Vekran was, at best, rudimentary. “Ow-ner’s Min-u-al,” she corrected. She took the book, tapped on her wristbeam and scanned the first few pages. It would be too much to ask, she supposed, that the entire universe be civilized enough—and considerate enough—to speak Alarsh. “Operating instructions for the vehicle’s pilot.” As the engine chugged quietly, she found a page depicting the gauges and read in silence for a few moments. “I think I have the basics.” She tapped off her wristbeam then caught Trenat’s smile in the rectangular mirror over her head. “Never met a ship I couldn’t fly, Ensign. That’s what six years in the marines will teach you.”
The vehicle’s control stick was between the two front seats. She depressed the small buttons, eased it until it clicked once.
The vehicle lurched backwards, crashing into one parked behind it.
“Damn!” She shoved the stick forward and only missed a head-on impact with another parked vehicle because she grabbed the wheel and yanked it to the left.
Herryck bounced against the door. “Sir!”
“I have it, I have it. It’s okay.” Damn, damn. Give her a nice antigrav hopper any day.
Her feet played with the two pedals, the vehicle seesawing as it jerked towards the open gate.
“I think,” Herryck said, bracing herself with her right hand against the front control panel, “those are some kind of throttle and braking system. Sir.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant. I know that. I’m just trying to determine their sensitivity ranges.”
“Of course, sir.” Herryck’s head jerked back and forth, but whether she was nodding or reacting to the vehicle’s movement, Jorie didn’t know. “Good idea.”
By the time they exited onto the street, Jorie felt she had the nil-tech land vehicle under control. “Which direction?”
“We need to take a heading of two-four-oh-point-eight, sir.” Herryck glanced from her scanner over at the gauges in front of Jorie, none of which functioned as guidance or directional. “Oh.” She pulled her palm off the control panel and pointed out the window. “That way.”
They went that way, this way, then that way again. Jorie noticed Trenat found some kind of safety webbing and flattened himself against the cushions of the rear seat.
“What do you think those colored lights on their structures mean?” Herryck asked as Jorie was again forced to swerve to avoid an impact with another vehicle whose driver was obviously not adept at proper usage of airspace.
Jorie shrugged. “A religious custom. Wain mentioned that locals hang colored lights on their residences, even on the foliage this time of the year. Nil-techs can be very supersti—hey!” A dark land vehicle appeared on her right, seemingly out of nowhere. Jorie pushed her foot down on the throttle, barely escaping being rammed broadside. There was a loud screeching noise then the discordant blare of a horn. A pair of oncoming vehicles added their horns to the noise as she sped by them.
“Another religious custom,” she told Herryck, who sank down in her seat and planted her boots against the front console. “Their vehicles play music as they pass. And they’re blessing us.”
“Blessing us?”
Jorie nodded as she negotiated her vehicle between two others that seemed to want to travel at an unreasonably slow rate of speed. “They put one hand out the window, middle finger pointing upward. Wain’s reports stated many natives worship a god they believe lives in the sky. So I think that raised finger is a gesture of blessing.”
“How kind of them. We need to go that way again, sir.”
“I’m coming up to an intersection now. How much farther?”
“We should be within walking distance in a few minutes.”
“Praise be,” Trenat croaked from the rear seat.
Jorie snickered softly. “You’d never survive in the marines, Ensign.”

Zeke Martinez let out a low whistle as Theo led him and Liza into the bedroom. “Damn. Looks like some kind of computer you’d find in a sci fi flick. It was behind that dresser?”
“The dresser’s a fake.” Theo shoved the chest-high piece of furniture farther away from the wall. Liza moved in front of him, digital camera whirring. “Drawer fronts are glued on. Inside’s hollow.”
“Looks like Mr. Wayne didn’t want just anyone to find this,” Liza said, adjusting the camera’s telephoto, zooming in on the object on the floor. The blinking unit resembled an overlarge black metallic mouse pad with a thin, lime-green monitor.
“Maybe it’s a new kind of laptop?” Zeke asked.
“Not sure,” Theo answered honestly. “The screen’s a strange color. And the keyboard”—if that’s what that long, dark area was—“doesn’t have keys.”
“Touch pad system?” Liza ventured.
Theo shook his head. “Maybe.” He knelt in front of the greenish-yellow screen, pointed to the symbols splattered across it. “That’s not ASCII and it’s not HTML. But it looks somewhat like both.”
Zeke squinted. “Hey, it’s all Greek to me.” He smacked Theo playfully on his shoulder. “Get it, Petrakos? Greek?”
“It’s not Greek. You know damn well I can speak—”
“I know, I know. I just thought it was a good line.”
“Suzanne can’t possibly love you for your personality.”
Zeke arched one eyebrow. “Actually, I’ll tell you what my little Suzy loves about me.”
“Spare me.” Theo shoved himself to his feet as Liza headed back to the living room to ask Sam Kasparov to dust the unit for prints. “I put a call into the techno squad. One of their geeks should be here in about,” he glanced at his watch, “thirty minutes to pick this up. Maybe there are emails or documents, an Internet trail. Something that will tell us what happened to Mr. Wayne out there.” Noises behind him made him turn towards the living room. The body snatchers had arrived with gurney and body bag.
“Come on.” He tapped Zeke on the arm. “Let’s go see what the ME has to say.”

Jorie hunkered down in the thick foliage bordering the structure, with Herryck on her left and Trenat on her right. A cool breeze now and then ruffled the leaves, tickling the sweat dripping down her neck. The ground under her boots smelled musty. If the blossoms poking through the branches had a scent, she couldn’t detect it. They were tightly closed, drooping slightly in the darkness.
Two dark colored land vehicles sat, power off, at the edge of the street. Two more green and white ones—POLICE in gold letters on their flanks—were on a short graveled stretch of yard, a larger boxy vehicle parked at an angle behind them.
Humanoids, some wearing green pants and white shirts and others in light unisuits, moved between the vehicles and the structure. But none of the humanoids appeared to be Danjay Wain.
“Any sign of Agent Wain?” Jorie asked Tam Herryck in a hushed tone.
“Scanning, sir. I’m picking up our tech, but there is some distortion. It’s even jamming our PMaT signal. I’m trying to pinpoint the source.”
That was not good news. Without access to the PMaT they were essentially stranded. And this was supposed to be a nil-tech world without the expertise to jam the frequencies the Guardians used.
“It’s very localized,” Herryck said as if reading Jorie’s concerns about transporting back to the ship. “But I get a clear signal twenty five maxmeters from here. This can’t be the reason why Agent Wain ceased contact.”
No, it wouldn’t. Danjay, like Jorie, had been trained to work around dead zones, natural and artificial ones.
Jorie studied the structure again. There were far too many nils coming and going. That—along with Danjay’s silence—did not portend well. Perhaps he’d been seized, removed to a security compound by nils ever-fearful of the unknown.
That would explain his silence. It would also require her to assemble an assault and infiltration team, further eating into the time and resources they had to deal with the zombie problem.
Captain Pietr would not be happy.
A shaft of light cut into the night as the front door of the structure opened. Personnel in unisuits appeared, flanking something on a wheeled gurney. Jorie felt Herryck tense beside her. Trenat’s hand moved to his G-1 on his hip.
Data suddenly danced across Herryck’s screen. “Sir, I’ve a lock on a bio-signature. But it’s…damn. Negative state, sir.”
She knew but she had to ask. “It’s Wain, isn’t it?”
“Yes.” Herryck’s voice was still a whisper. “Signature discharge indicates death by zombie attack.”
Hell and damn. She’d hoped—prayed—there would be some other explanation for his silence. She liked Danjay. Just before his latest mission, she and Herryck had shared a pitcher of ale with him in the crew lounge. Danjay always had such wild stories… She watched his body as it was trundled into the boxy land vehicle, her heart sinking.
Herryck let out a short sigh. “I can’t believe this happened to him.” There was a slight tremor in her voice then she ducked her head in embarrassment. “Regrets, sir. I—
“It’s okay, Tam.” Jorie gave Herryck’s shoulder a quick squeeze. After all Jorie had been through, death of a teammate should be easier. Or at least, less painful.
But it wasn’t, and she knew that Herryck—who hadn’t been a marine, who hadn’t seen what the Tresh could do—was feeling worse. “He was my friend, too.”
Trenat peered around Jorie at Herryck’s screen. “You still reading his T-MOD?”
“Only partially. And our PMaT is still out of range,” Herryck said and Jorie saw that, saw the spikes in the T-MOD’s pattern, saw the null icon for the transporter. What in hell’s wrath was happening here?
Recovery of the T-MOD was critical. It would have recorded the attacking zombie’s movement, its stats. And—if Danjay was toying with the unit to lure the zombie as she suspected he was—it would also provide important data about the herd.
“Commander Mikkalah.” Trenat shifted his weight slightly. Branches rustled. “I volunteer to infiltrate the structure and—
“Down!” Jorie yanked on Trenat’s sleeve as she threw herself onto the dirt, feeling Tam bump her leg as she did the same. Footsteps suddenly moved toward them, beams of lights crisscrossing the ground.
Her hand crept along her side, her fingers curling around the grip of her pistol. She peered over the leaves and twigs at the approaching figures, recognizing utility belts on their waists and what most likely were armaments hanging from their sides. Her heart pounded. Every muscle in her body was taut.
No escape. She couldn’t engage an emergency PMaT transport. The signal was dead.
And if those nils took one step closer, she and her team were, too.

[Neko]

This is but another win for her in a series of successes. I am currently waiting to for her next book Shades of Dark to come out. Three cheers for Linnea Sinclair.