A Sort of Justice
P. E. Sibley
Author Bio
For P. E. Sibley (a.k.a. Pat Sibley) writing is a passion, or perhaps a compulsion.
She was born, raised, and educated mostly in Orange County, California. A voracious reader as a child, she became interested in writing early on. She wrote her first short story in second grade about an ant. It ended rather abruptly when the ant was smashed by a foot.
She graduated from the University of California with a Bachelor’s Degree in Medieval History and Technical Theatre.
By the time she reached her mid-twenties, she was living a near-gypsy existence, moving from one city to another. She traveled to Europe several times (Scotland is the preferred destination) and to the Middle East, and tried numerous occupations including climbing telephone poles, picking oranges on a kibbutz in Israel, and managing a bookstore. She went back to school for a Teaching Credential from Cal State University, Long Beach, doing her student teaching in Hampshire, England.
She moved numerous times more—mostly eastward and northward to San Francisco and then Sierra Nevada mountains—and now resides in rural Eastern Washington State with her husband, a wolf-canine mix, a cattle dog, and a cat that believes she is really a dog.
Description
Revenge is a sort of justice . . .
Mark Praed is a half-alien, half-human who has inherited a skill from his Kyreen mother that makes him a valuable asset at the Commonwealth Intelligence Service: he can read minds.
As a CIS agent, Praed uses his abilities to run a covert smuggling operation on Ludmalia, an alien planet conquered by a warrior race some two hundred years in the past. His assignment is to help humans and Ludmalian rebels escape the planet after it is taken over by a militaristic dictator. But when his superior turns traitor and defects, Praed is captured, tortured for information by the man, and traded back to CIS.
Praed vows to track down the man that betrayed him. He transfers to the Commonwealth’s counterterrorist task force in order to use their resources to locate his traitorous commander. There he is teamed with operative Alexandra Lansing, an auburn-haired beauty who is also a by-the-book veteran of two years. Alex isn’t fond of change and is none too happy to be working with a partner who can read her mind whenever he feels like it.
Together Alex and Praed travel to a resort planet in an attempt to discover the source of an illegal arms pipeline in the sector. Their mission is to carry out routine surveillance on Jonathon Reul, owner of the planet, who is under suspicion of selling arms to anti-Commonwealth terrorists.
Praed finds it difficult working with a partner after two years on Ludmalia, running an escape operation without interference from a colleague. Alex is all about the job and wants to micromanage his process of investigation. He finds her meddling more than annoying. And her intense curiosity about his past is too intrusive for his liking.
But as ghosts from his past rear their ugly heads, their simple observe-and-report operation quickly becomes a life-or-death battle and a race against time to apprehend their quarry before he slips away. Can Praed learn to trust Alex? Can he share his past with her? Even ask for her help? Or will his personal vendetta destroy them both?
Book excerpt
Fitzhugh gazed down at his captive. The man had been fettered like a ginderbete, a Ludmalian canine that couldn’t be domesticated. Wrists, ankles, and neck were encircled with steel and linked with heavy chains. It was the prisoner’s inclination for stubbornness rather than a violent nature that made chains a necessary precaution.
Fitzhugh crouched next to the younger man and shook him. It was some time before he got a response but he waited with unusual patience. At length the chains rattled, echoing dully around the stone chamber as the prisoner changed position, moving sluggishly onto his back. His head turned slowly, and eventually, reluctantly, he opened his eyes.
In the feeble light cast by the small Terson lamp on the opposite side of the cell, Fitzhugh saw what he expected, indeed hoped, to see. The man’s eyes changed color. His irises went from sea-green to a deep, vast blue in the space of a heartbeat. Fitzhugh felt his spirits rise, but schooled his features into an expression of concern.
Staring up at him the prisoner didn’t immediately speak, his confusion apparent. Fitzhugh knew from experience the symptoms a Brolley stun could produce: the disorientation and lightheadedness, the tingling in the hands and feet, the nausea. He propped the young man into a sitting position with the damp, stone wall at his back.
The silence lengthened, and Fitzhugh found it difficult meeting the eerie blue gaze of his former subordinate, Mark Praed. He retreated a step, letting his eyes drop. Praed could make the first move.
But Praed continued to stare with wide, unblinking eyes. Fitzhugh refrained from shifting his feet. Maybe he’d have to initiate the interview after all. Then finally Praed took a careful breath. “Robert. Where are we?”
It wasn’t really necessary to respond. Praed had surely guessed, but it might be gratifying to confirm it for him. “Brelinta,” Fitzhugh said, watching the other man closely for any telltale signs of dismay or fear.
But although his lids lowered momentarily, Praed’s pale face was expressionless. He fixed his gaze on Fitzhugh. “Tell me you’ve come because Anya and I are to be released.”
Fitzhugh kept his eyes on the other’s face. The implications of the situation had hit home, but clearly Praed was not yet willing to accept them. “Anya is dead.”
As expected, Praed regarded him with something less than credence, his eyes narrowing. Fitzhugh realized what he was attempting and moved quickly to produce the one piece of evidence he’d believe. From a pocket in his jacket he withdrew a thin band of gold and held it out. Praed sucked in a lung-full of air, his eyes growing even larger and more unfocused. He swallowed audibly.
“While they were having their fun with her,” Fitzhugh began, “the Security Service told her you were dead. At some point—no one is sure of the exact moment—she took an ilysium grenade off one of the men and detonated it, killing herself and six soldiers.”
Author Website
Best place to buy your book
A Sort of Justice