His hand slides up and down my arm and it takes me a second to realize he’s trying to warm me up a bit. “Tell me what you saw,” he orders.
Lifting my forehead off his chest, my eyes meet his green ones. “Kyon Ensin is alive . . . by tomorrow he’ll be fine—up and around and plotting our deaths. The Alameeda will attack on Fitzmartin—in two rotations—midday—sixteen parts.”
“How will they infiltrate the shields?”
“I don’t know—I didn’t see that part. The fact is that they do, and then they start blowing the crap out of this place.”
“You said you stabbed Kyon!” he says in an accusatory tone.
I take offense to the tone. “Don’t yell at me! My head hurts like someone hit it with a golf club! And I did stab him. The Flower-looking freak healed him—err . . . will heal him . . . uh, I mean—whatever! The fact is that by tomorrow night, he’ll be as good as new.”
“The Flower-looking freak? What’s a Flower-looking freak?”
“She’s a priestess—she had on an orchid dress—never mind!” I say in exasperation. “I don’t know who she is. I’ve never met her! But they completely knew I was there—will be there—ugh! They could sense me listening. This is such a paradox to think about.”
“Are you getting this?” the man asks aloud.
“Yeah, we got it, Giffen,” comes a voice from a small device on Giffen’s uniform.
“You’re not Comantre,” I state.
“No, I’m not,” he agrees.
“Who are you?”
“No one you know.”
“Fine,” I retort with growing hostility. “I’ll leave you to it then. I have to go.” I try to move from his lap, but his arms tighten around me.
“You’re leaving with me,” comes his calm reply.
“Yeah,” I say with a fake laugh, “that’s not happening.”
“I wasn’t asking for your permission.”
“Good, because I’m not giving it. I have to warn everyone—”
“You’re not in charge,” he says with a snide twist of his lip.
“I’m not leaving!”
“Has anyone ever told you that you’re irritating?”
“No. Everybody likes me,” I counter.
The communicator on Giffen’s uniform makes a static noise. “Gif, there’s a problem,” the com-link voice relates in a stressed tone.
“What is it?” Giffen asks.
“They detected our trift.”
“Are they moving on you?” he asks.
“Affirmative. We need to move the ship.”
“Leave us here. I’ll find a way off Skye.”
“But, Gif—”
“Go! Now!” Giffen orders.
“Happy landings, Gif,” his com-link partner reluctantly says.
“To you, as well,” Giffen replies.
“Aww, your ride’s leaving. Looks like you’re toast,” I smirk. “So, let me go and you can save yourself.”
“You are very strange. I don’t know what bread has to do with this,” Giffen says in confusion.
“You’re moving things with your mind and I’m strange?” I counter.
“Shh,” he hushes me as he sizes up the mess he’s in—we’re in. It’s a colossal debacle. The overup jerks abruptly. Giffen rises to his feet with me in his arms. The elevatorlike car begins to descend once more.
“I think they just noticed us,” Giffen mutters. “This is going to sting a little.”
My eyes narrow in suspicion. “What’s going to sting a little?”
He closes his eyes, and his brow creases. I cringe as a shock charges through me the equivalent of touching an electrified fence. The overup trajectory shifts with a jerk and starts moving sideways, and then slantways.
“Owah! That hurt!” I whine. “What was that?”
“I redirected the overup.” He frowns at me, adding, “It didn’t hurt that bad.”
“Yes it did! Put me down!” I demand.
“You can hardly stand.”
“I’m fine.” I wiggle in his arms. It’s feeble; I’m weak.
With a heavy sigh, he sets me on my feet. I pull away from him.
He reaches for my neck. I shy away from him. “What’re you doing?”
“Hold still,” he orders, reaching for me again.
I shy away again. “No!” I give him my severest scowl.