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She paused at the dim doorway, took one narrow-eyed look back at him, slid open the steel-looking door, and disappeared.

4

The Language of Poetry

RIV

He woke with a sudden gasp of breath.

To the cold feel of hardened steel under the thin pallet his body lay on.

For a moment, he floundered, wondering where he was.

With a groan, it all came flooding back.

Élisa.

Fokk.

He must have fallen asleep after she’d left.

Gassed, he suspected, given the noxious scent lingering in the air.

She’d knocked him out.

Clever. Effective.

‘Twas an ingenious way to keep him in control.

He accessed his neural node and did some rooting around.

The anesthetic she’d pumped into the vents of the storage area was designed to knock out an average human for 24 hours or more.

However, his noids must have scrubbed his blood, reducing the effect to eight.

He had to pretend to be unconscious if she returned in the next few hours. He hoped she’d bought hook, line, and sinker into his Galician ruse.

To kill time, he studied the layout of the small repository, probing for weak points or vulnerabilities, trying to find any way to gain an advantage and make his getaway.

He spied a chute, leading no doubt to an escape pod.

The energy barrier would be simple to breach, and he smirked, knowing if push came to shove, he’d have a way out.

He reached out for a connection.

Mirage?

Right here.

The instantaneous response had him slumping back onto the pallet in relief.Where the fokk am I?

Can’t you tell?

Nada,he clapped back with some impatience.Would I be asking if I did?

Mirage didn’t react to his triteness.Your location puts you forty klicks away from me in the Galaxy skiff that was shadowing us.

Riv shook his head in disbelief.I was kidnapped. I bet you won’t believe by whom.