Trapped On Talonque: (A Sectors SF romance) by Veronica Scott Page A

father approve of such a concept. But his associates Tedesk and Syrmir, well…” She fell silent. “But bringing the novelties of a new world home to my people engendered much profit and fame. My father wasn’t immune to the lure of both but wouldn’t dream of presenting himself as a god. The truth mutates unrecognizably over time, doesn’t it?”
    “What happened? Why did you get left here, in this way?” How do you stay sane? He guessed the machine kept her in a form of suspended animation or cryo sleep between summonses from those who worshipped her. He speculated that the device must have a beneficial effect on her mind, to keep her from overwhelming despair.  
    The dream ended before she could answer, much to his chagrin. The guards kicked his bed, ordering him and the others to rise for another endless day of drilling and scrimmage.  
    Thom gave him the eye as they ate breakfast mush and fruit. “You saw her?”
    Nate kept his voice low as well. “Yeah, but the dream was too short to learn much. She’s never heard of the AO or the Mawreg, and I’ve never heard of her people. She came on a scientific expedition, as near as I can figure out. I don’t know how she got trapped.”
    “Nothing useful, then.” Thom dropped his spoon into his empty bowl.
    “Other than proving I can reconnect with her? No. I’ll try again tonight.”

CHAPTER THREE

    The day’s practice was especially intense as the trainers concentrated on passing and stealing drills, which were not Nate’s best sapiche skills, to say the least. Exhausted, frustrated and in need of serious sleep as he rode to the city in the slow old cart, he was grateful for the twilight’s soothing effect on his eyes. The only time of day the oversize sun didn’t cause Nate vision problems.
    Once they reached the palace and the cart was parked in the small courtyard adjoining their dormitory, two guards held Nate aside. The others were taken across the courtyard, while Nate stood and waited.
    “What’s with the change in routine?” he asked Murrax, the junior officer in charge of their daily transportation to and from practice.
    “Queen Lolanta has sent for you.”  
    “What the seven hells?” Thom tried to delay as he realized Nate wasn’t going to the dormitory. He shouted across the courtyard, “What’s going on?”
    “Don’t get yourself in trouble with these guys on my account. I’ll be okay.” Nate tried to express a calm assurance he was far from feeling. He watched his three teammates disappear into the building, not much liking the idea of being separated from his men. As the cart driver led the placid bracalx to the stable, Nate’s three-man escort took him to the other side of the courtyard, entering a different corridor and leading him farther away from his comrades.
    Nate deliberately sought the state of inner calm the Special Forces taught their highly lethal operatives to achieve under the most severe conditions. It was a patient watchfulness, hard edged with readiness to take instant action on any opportunity presenting itself—to escape, to wreak havoc and mayhem on the enemy, whatever the situation called for. Sarbordon and his people were capable of just about anything, in Nate’s opinion. He had to keep his wits about him.
    The nature of the hallways changed as he climbed flights of sweeping stairs, moving ever higher in the palace complex. The wall decor transitioned from dour gray stone to clean, whitewashed surfaces with elaborate, colorful frescoes. Certain themes repeated, all involving Huitlani. Scenes of the horrific deity with his priestesses, with captives, leading warriors into battle, trampling over the bodies of what Nate could only assume were previously vanquished people—the common theme was an emotion-battering stew of blood, death and destruction.  
    As he walked he studied the mural for clues about the people who held him prisoner, trying to imagine how the ruling dynasty could inspire loyalty and