The Triumph of Tompa Lee

By Edward Hoornaert

Tompa Lee - orphan, anti-social loner, and homeless street meat -- has clawed her way up to the stars. There, on planet Zee Shode, she finds the galaxy’s greatest treasures: friendship and love.

Happily ever after? Not if the Galactic Trading Council has its way. The Council rules by 'divide and conquer', so when Tompa commits the unforgivable crime of ‘forgery’—forging a forbidden alliance between humans, Shons, and Klicks—they hire Lily Kilsing, earth’s most feared bounty hunter. Kilsing lures Tompa to a deserted alien city by kidnapping her fiancé and her best friend.

Will Tompa kill the huntress – or be forced to sacrifice her own life to save her loved ones?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Edward Hoornaert
• Release date: Jul 29, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311500359

Edward Hoornaert

Edward Hoornaert is not only a science fiction and romance writer, he's also a certifiable Harlequin Hero, having inspired NYT best-selling author Vicki Lewis Thompson to write Mr. Valentine, which was dedicated to him. From this comes his online alter ego, "Mr. Valentine."These days, Hoornaert mostly writes science fiction—either sf romances, or sf with elements of romance. After living at 26 different addresses in his first 27 years, the rolling stone slowed in the Canadian Rockies and finally came to rest in Tucson, Arizona. Amongst other things, he has been a teacher, technical writer, and symphonic oboist. He married his high school sweetheart a week after graduation and is still in love ... which is probably why he can write romance.

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Praise for The Trilogy of Tompa Lee

The Trial of Tompa Lee

Ed Hoornaert is a marvelous writer: a terrific, engrossing storyteller and a consummate stylist. – Robert J. Sawyer, Hugo and Nebula Award winning author

The humor that comes from mistranslations and cultural differences contributes to Hoornaert's delightful voice … a rollicking romp on a distant planet, full of adventure and heart. – Amber Belldene, author of the Blood Vine series

This story gripped me within the first chapter and did not let go until I read the last page. Correction, it still has a hold on me. – Kara Ashley Dey, author of Stealing Sky

Reminiscent of the best of classic Star Trek. – TheBestReviews.com

The Tribulations of Tompa Lee

With a leading lady worth rooting for, The Tribulations of Tompa Lee was a heartfelt adventure. – San Francisco Book Review

Tompa Lee is an attractive, ambitious vagabond. – Arizona Daily Star

The Triumph of Tompa Lee

I love Tompa Lee! She grabs me in many of the same ways that are so captivating about Lisbeth Salander in The Girl with The Dragon Tattoo. – Pamela Keys, author of The Jumbee

The Triumph of Tompa Lee

by

Edward Hoornaert

Smashwords Edition, July 2014

Copyright 2014 by Edward Hoornaert

All rights reserved

This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy.

Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Chapter 1 Suicide Orders

When the goddess from outer space began removing her nightgown, Awmit rotated his neck one-hundred-eighty degrees to look away. Tompa Lee never wanted him to view her body.

Cloth rustled. The bed creaked.

His friend's bizarre modesty baffled Awmit for the twelve-to-the-twelfth time. Tompa could suppose negatively that human nudity would arouse him. The idea flew beyond ludicrous.

Yet he writhed with curiosity about human beings, and as the ancient proverb taught, curiosity was the opposite of a waistline: when starved, it grew. Perhaps the time had come to slay this silly obstacle to comprehensive friendship. He would quietly turn and watch as she—

A thunderclap of words exploded the thought out of his mind.

Tompa Lee, the thunderclap snarled, we command you to commit suicide!

With a squeak of terror, Awmit spun his head toward the roar. A moment before, he and Tompa were alone, safely alone, but now a bloated, bald, ugly head materialized out of nowhere, attached to nothing. Its pasty, furrowed forehead and three glowing red eyes were neither human nor Klick, the only alien creatures Awmit knew. The head offended negatively his nostrils with otherworldly stink, yet it appeared solid as it hovered over a table cluttered with toiletries.

You are a forger, Tompa Lee, and the Chroogin race condemns you to commit suicide.

You got the wrong girl, jerk, Tompa said in a brave yet quivering voice. Forgery's one of the few crimes I never tried. She laughed. The sound was puny compared to the apparition's roar.

A liar, as well! For the crime of forging forbidden alliances between races, we order you to kill yourself, Tompa Lee.

The bellowing words seared into Awmit's ear sacs and rumbled through his body down to his twelve toes. Terror would have rendered him a motionless, debilitated statue, except that he had pledged to defend his friend and goddess unto death.

Since the Galactic Trading Council has failed to crush your pitiful alliance, the Chroogins hereby unleash our power. This is your only warning, Tompa Lee!

For months, Awmit had slept across graceful human's door to prevent enemy attacks—and now, though old and tired and less fierce than the aliens who infested his planet, he charged the apparition with arms spread, determined to wrestle it to silence.

But his hands passed right through it. So did his arms, head, and short, pear-shaped body.

The edge of the table loomed dangerously. Twisting instinctively so the ring of fat around his hips absorbed the collision, he bounced off the table and rolled onto his back. The table shook. Toiletries showered him like strong-smelling hail.

It's just some sort of projection, Tompa whispered. She clutched the bed's sheet up to her neck. A fancy hologram with subsonics to frighten us. You can't…you can't fight it, Awmit.

The device in Awmit's ear failed to translate either 'hologram' or 'subsonics'—but if the apparition were electrical, perhaps he could short it out. From a sideboard, he grabbed the mug of juice intended for Tompa's breakfast.

We command you, obstreperous and noisome Tompa Lee—

Awmit flung the juice.

—to choose your preferred form of suicide.

The purple juice sailed through the apparition and splashed onto the beige slacks laid out for Tompa to wear.

Your tiny rebellion is doomed, the intruder roared. Eighteen ships from five suns now orbit this backward world, poised like sabers at your gut. To save your followers the agonizing torture prescribed for traitors, suicide is your only honorable action.

Rot in a sewer, you flickin' maggot, Tompa said.

Eager to match his deed to the goddess's valiant words, Awmit kicked off a sandal and hurled it at the apparition. It passed right through and headed toward the door—

Just as it opened.

***

The sandal was headed straight toward her lover's nose. Although trembling down to her toes, Tompa managed to croak a warning.

Luckily, Ming, possessed startling reflexes. He ducked. The sandal flew past him into the shadowy hallway, just as the apparition blinked out of existence.

"Chert poberi," he said in Russian—angry and explosive words, like cussing.

They sounded wonderful. Tompa wanted to leap across the room and throw herself into his arms. But she couldn't, and not because of the ugly, flickin' head, nor because she was nude and modesty was one of the few things that remained to her. No, it was because although Ming was her lover and she yearned to depend on him, she didn't quite trust him enough.

About the sandal, this one apologizes profusely, big-haired human, Awmit said. This one strove fruitlessly to defend graceful human from that monster. He pointed all six fingers of one hand at empty air.

The head had disappeared as quickly as it came, leaving behind air that quivered with anxiety. Or maybe it was Tompa's heart, not the air, that quivered.

A head existed truly, Awmit said. The loose skin at his neck sagged, making him look even older than usual.

It was a Chroogin, I think. Tompa was too rattled to recall anything about Chroogins other than that they were ugly as sin and scary as the devil. And loud. Very loud.

Ming scowled, turning his face into such a mask of fury that she looked away from him. He must have noticed her blank look when mentioning the Chroogin, because he said, They founded the Galactic Trading Council and own a monopoly on the interstellar drive.

The thing ordered loudly Tompa Lee to die, Awmit said.

Die? Ming turned his scowl on Tompa.

She was too busy keeping herself under control to speak coherently. She shrugged her shoulders.

Ming rounded on Awmit. So instead of calling for help, you threw your sandal at me. That's your idea of standing guard?

Big-haired human fails insultingly to understand.

Ming rolled his eyes. He was tall and muscular, whereas Shons were short, dumpy, and almost comical. Perhaps that was why he didn't, in Tompa's estimation, respect Awmit enough.

What the hell is going on? Ming asked.

Instead of running to him and burying her face against his chest, Tompa held the sheet against her body with one hand and hurled her juice-stained slacks across the room with the other. I'll need different flickin' pants.

But what happened, Tompa?

Awmit bustled forward. This one defended fearlessly graceful human.

By tossing juice on my pants. Tompa heaved a sigh. I know you meant well, but…

Ming turned his large, angry body toward Awmit. Leave.

But this one protected lovingly—

Ming yanked the door open and roared as loudly as the apparition. Out!

Awmit didn't budge except to plant his feet and clench his fists. His large grey eyes narrowed into upright ovals as he stared at Ming. Tompa knew Shons were herd creatures; for a solitary, four-foot-tall Shon to stand up to a man two feet taller required robust courage.

Emotion choked Tompa's voice. You love me very much, don't you, Awmit?

Graceful human can doubt negatively this one's love.

She glanced at Ming. Like Awmit, his fists were clenched, but when he met her gaze, his fingers reluctantly uncurled.

Did Ming love her as much as did this old, feckless Shon? She wasn't even sure she wanted that—but if she sought deep love from any human male, Ming would be the one.

Graceful human breathes divinely as this one's goddess, Awmit added.

Whatever the hell that means, she muttered as she ran a hand across the back of her neck. Being called a goddess by the Shons made her feel like a fraud. She was no goddess, just a scrawny, homeless orphan who had bulldozed her way into the Space Navy. She was a loner. A killer. A not-very-good person.

I'm not angry with you, Awmit, she said, but please, leave us alone.

He obeyed her, of course. But as he left, he rotated his head to the back in that unsettling Shon way, glaring at Ming the whole time. Ming slammed the door in Awmit's face.

Poor old guy. Tompa understood Shons better than she did humans, so she realized that being shut out felt to him like a punishment. Nonetheless, Ming's instincts were right. This was a humans-only moment. A Ming-only moment.

The mattress sagged as he sat beside her on the Shon bed, which was little more than a mattress in a wooden frame perched on the floor. He embraced her.

After a few seconds, though, she pulled away. Tell me about Chroogins.

Later, when you're less upset.

Now. Tell me now.

Okay, but how many thousands of years ago do you want me to start?

She balled her fist and punched his arm. Hard.

Okay, okay, he said with a laugh that he probably intended to lighten her mood. It only made her angrier. The story does start thousands of years ago, though, when the Chroogin planet was visited by a spaceship from a mysterious race, the Forefathers. The Forefathers adopted the Chroogins and gave them technology, including interstellar drive.

The Ginglyform Drive?

Yep. The Chroogins paid the Forefathers back by smuggling a bomb onto their ship and killing them all.

Tompa rubbed her temples. Great, now she was being pursued by interstellar monsters vicious enough to destroy their benefactors.

Since then, Ming said, the Chroogins have doled out Ginglyform units to a few advanced species and invited them into the Galactic Trading Council. Not out of the goodness of their hearts—they don't have any goodness—but because they take a cut of the profits. They aren't overlords of the galaxy or anything like that. The galaxy's too big for that. But they do run the Council—subtly, always working in the shadows. They divide and conquer, not allowing other species to band together and become more powerful than they are. That's why they're after you. You brought Shons, Klicks, and humans into an alliance, and they won't allow that.

Don't the stupid flickin' cockroaches know there are only four hundred of us?

They believe in nipping possible threats in the bud. When he tried to take her hand, she jerked it away.

You say the Chroogins work in the shadows, she said. Seems to me they've come into the light.

Sometimes they appear through projections, which must be what you saw. Most people will never see a Chroogin in the flesh. They hire intermediaries to do their dirty work.

Again, Tompa rubbed her temples.

Are you sure you're all right? he asked.

What a ridiculous question. No, she wasn't all right. How could she be, when the flickin' Chroogins had rubbed her nose in their power and ordered her to die? She and her followers fled to this island hoping to escape from conflict, but the Chroogins had already found her and given 'the only warning she would get.' And this ignorant idiot wondered if she were all right?

Nonetheless, a cardinal rule of surviving as a street person in Manhattan was never let 'em see your fear. Not even Ming.

So she shrugged. It takes more than a maggoty hologram to upset me.

Bullshit.

Her lips quivered, though no smile came out. She loved that Ming understood without making her admit to terror. Before she met him, she thought that having someone understand her would be threatening. By predicting what you'd do, they would know how to trap you.

Could Ming be a trap?

Of course not, whispered her hopes. Yes, her feral instincts screamed. Yes!

If that thing was what I think, he said, it was much more than a mere hologram.

She didn't give a ratcrap about technical descriptions. Hologram was the only pigeonhole in her mind for such a vision, so she jammed the thing in. A bad joke, that's what it was. Instead of laughing, she shivered. Did the Council really think I'd kill myself just because they told me to?

Oh, Tompa. Ming put his arm around her.

She jerked out of his embrace even though it meant forsaking the sheet's comforting modesty. Alone, that's how she'd survived a vile, homeless youth, and reached the stars. Alone, damn it.

Don't need you, she said through clenched teeth.

I know.

Then get the hell out of here. Go!

His dark eyes caressed her with a sympathetic touch. You've always survived perfectly well without me, haven't you? Without anyone.

Damn him, why did he have to understand her so flickin' well? Wasn't fair. She didn't understand him. How could an ignorant street meat like her understand a freelance adventurer who parlayed earth's largest export—music and musicians—into a swashbuckling career that crisscrossed the known galaxy? He was so good at swashing, or maybe it was buckling, that the Commerce Space Navy began paying him to spy during his musical gigs. From that beginning, he progressed to full-blown secret agent, averting interplanetary crises, rescuing kidnapped humans, and saving damsels in distress.

Like her, a few months ago.

Ming, look around you. What do you see?

Why?

She must have scowled, because he held up a palm to forestall argument. Okay, okay. The wooden bed frame squeaked as he shifted position to observe the room. There's a wall. Door. Wall. Bed. Spectacular breasts, the perfect size and shape. Hard, rosy nipples.

Can you stop being a roach-damned male long enough to hold a rational conversation? For once, will you listen?

All expression drained from Ming's face. Sorry.

Tompa wrapped her arms over her chest as she struggled for words. What you see is architecture, weird, startling, alien architecture. Angles that don't compute, doors that are too short and fat, walls that bulge and bend for literally no earthly reason. Before I came to Zee Shode, my life had architecture, too. Structure. Predictable patterns, like the right angles of rooms back home. Now all that's gone and I've got this. She spread her arms to encompass the room.

We were told it's the best sleeping chamber in the village, Ming said.

"Listen to what I mean, she begged. Sure, the room's great—but strange and unsettling. I used to care for no one but myself. That was the architecture of my life. When I let Awmit in, my architecture started to bulge. Then I let in others, like you. My architecture splintered apart, and I haven't had time to rebuild it."

Aside from Ming's well behaved head of hair, his most striking feature was his dark, piercing eyes. Now those orbs bored into her, pinning her in place. Tompa, are you trying to break up with me?

"Maggots and cockroaches, listen to me! I'm trying to explain why I'm incapable of caring for all the people who suddenly call themselves my followers. That, that thing acted as though I'm responsible for everyone, and I'm not. I can't be. I have enough trouble caring about the friends I've made, let alone faceless people."

Ming took her hand. With his forefinger, he stroked her thumb, sending tickles of awareness along her nerves. I know you, Tompa. You may not admit it, but you care.

Damn it, Ming you think you know everything—but you don't know ratshit about my feelings.

Chapter 2 An Apelike Clunch of a Man

Tompa's anger didn't last long. She glanced up, hoping Ming wouldn't stomp away from her forever.

But he didn't, and she loved him for that—though, as always, she couldn't express love easily. You shouldn't pretend you know me better than I know myself, she accused. Then she softened her voice. But it isn't you I'm mad at.

I understand. For several seconds, he stared down at the finger that stroked her palm so deliciously. I wish I'd been here, he said at last. I wish I could've protected you from the death head. That's what we call it, though nobody quite understands the technology.

I already told you. That the cockroachy piece of stupid ratcrap didn't bother me.

Much.

Perversely, thinking about the apparition lifted her out of the muck of her personal shortcomings; the death head was just one more problem on her worry list. The Galactic Trading Council wanted her dead? Well, they could take a number.

But the council was spying on her, and that was horrible. She'd arrived on Hoolpin Island only yesterday, yet they already knew not only her location, right down to the room assigned to her, but the very instant she was undressed and hence most vulnerable. Was that the work of spies or some unknowable technology? Both possibilities sent shudders writhing down her spine.

Tompa tugged the sheet up to shield her body from eyes in the walls. She'd be damned if she'd start depending on this man just because she'd fallen in love with him.

Why are you glaring at me? he asked. I'm on your side.

She shrugged and looked at the rough, uneven walls, painted bright yellow and green—cheerful colors that clashed with the conflicts roiling inside her. She closed her eyes, not wanting the colors to cheer her. With technology like the death head, the Trading Council could harass her anywhere and anytime they wanted. Or maybe more than just harass.

Will you be able to face everyone? asked Ming. You have a busy day lined up.

More than busy: as crowded as maggots on a week-old steak. She had to examine a spaceship, discuss strategy ad nauseam, reassure folks with her presence, and meet with the high priest of the Palla Pelly Rangers to discuss the ramifications of being a Shon goddess. All this, without even one flickin' day's rest.

Tompa burped. She'd been seasick for most of a week while sailing to Hoolpin Island from the mainland, and her stomach still felt queasy.

Keevie's spaceship was the key to survival. She and four-hundred-odd followers—humans, Shons, and Klicks—fled to Hoolpin because it housed the ship that had carried Lord Keevie and his Klick missionaries to Zee Shode, a decade ago. Tompa had her doubts; the ship was named Knife at Throat, which reinforced the nasty stereotypes of Klicks. However, Keevie insisted that Knife could ferry them all to a safe haven: an abandoned terraformed moon he described in glowing terms. Here on Zee Shode, they were helpless against those eighteen orbiting ships from five worlds. On Keevie's nameless moon, they'd be safe.

If the moon were as idyllic and peaceful as the Klick leader claimed, Tompa would gladly spend the rest of her life there. Ming called fleeing to the moon a strategic retreat. Tompa called it running away. And that was fine. Running away was smart.

Unless Ming ran away from her. That would be—

You're glaring at me again, Tompa.

He would leave her, later if not sooner. Why would a man like him stay with a woman like her?

She rose and bent to pull black slacks from a weird, drawer-like shelf/basket thingy that emphasized how alien everything here was. I hope that purple juice doesn't stain. I only have two pairs of pants.

Behind her, Ming said, You have a beautiful ass.

She jerked upright and stood rigidly. Without turning, she whipped the pants around to cover her backside. At a moment like this, with aftershocks of fear and anxiety trembling through her, this insensitive, apelike clunch of a man dared to—

The death head can't change that beauty or my appreciation of your bottom, he said.

Tompa wanted to cry. Or maybe claw.

Claw, she decided.

Know what else it can't change? he asked. Two simple truths. First, that I admire your ass less than I admire your determination and your genius-level, though sometimes paranoid, brain.

Oh.

Pants dangling from one hand to cover her nakedness, Tompa turned to him. The desire to claw his face receded, but didn't vanish. Why couldn't she trust him? Such a simple thing, trust, and yet so fiendishly difficult.

My bum's too skinny and you know it.

I'd worry if your own body turned you on. His amorous gaze stroked her like a caress. Anyway, the second simple truth. The Council can't change the fact that if by some miracle they do bring you down, I'll go down a split second earlier—because I'll be right there with you. Forever.

She snorted. No one stuck with her forever. Not the parents she'd never known, or Sister Lakeisha at the store-front orphanage, or her first lover, Dante Roussel. She felt guilty about blaming them; they'd all died. But still—

If I hear you right, she said, you're saying I'm a smartass. Is that all you admire about me? Before he could react, she silenced him by waving her palm. I'm not fishing for compliments.

Yes you are. And I'm glad to provide them.

No, what I mean is … oh, I don't know. I guess I can't understand what anyone—any human, at least—would like about me. If he responded that she was a good lay, she'd kick him in the balls. Wouldn't be the first time, either.

Smartass, I like that. You have a quick sense of humor, obviously. Ming smiled and raised one eyebrow as though to say See how neatly I sidestepped that razor-sharp chip on your shoulder?

And there's your voice, he said. I love its timbre, rich with overtones. For a long time, I puzzled over which instrument you reminded me of. Some people's voices are tubas, you know. Some are banjoes and others are dombras—Kazakh lutes. When I realized you were a cor anglais, the alto cousin of my oboe, with a rich, melancholy sound—that's when I first knew…

The sentence dangled in the air, unfinished.

Knew what? she prodded.

Most of all, I admire your innate, unshakable decency. I suspect you don't believe it, but you're a good person. That sounds so simple, so commonplace, but it isn't. Considering what your life's been like, it's downright astonishing.

She waited, expecting him to finish the thought on a negative note. When he didn't, she shrugged self-consciously. I steal. Well, I used to, back in Manhattan. I scheme and connive. I'll stop at nothing to survive. I lie too flickin' often, even to myself. I have a vile temper—but you already know that, I guess.

He raised one eyebrow, but said nothing.

And during my trial by combat, I … I killed dozens of Shons. I'm a killer, Ming.

Self-defense, and anyway, I didn't say you were perfect. Tompa, when I look at you, I see the person I want to be.

She lowered the pants. At the moment, she didn't mind if he looked at her—the idea thrilled her, actually—though all she said was, You want to be a woman?

Instead of laughing, he pursed his lips. There's something else I've thought about for some time. Now may not be the best time to bring it up, but … well, if we get out of this alive, Tompa, will you, uh…

She waited for him to finish, then asked, What?

It's … well … it's kind of hard for me to say.

Ming was brave. When he volunteered to fight a deadly, seven-foot-tall Klick on her behalf, he hadn't stammered like this.

Will I… She swallowed. A premonition of the impossible sent a shiver down her spine. "Will I