Vendetta (Project Vetus Book 2)

by Emmy Chandler

  “Wow, we would have killed for these on the prison planet.” Lilli runs her hand over the one on top of the stack. “I slept on a two-inch foam pad for years, and I was grateful to have it.”

  “Those days are over.” Captain Sotelo embraces her from behind, his left hand settling over her still-flat stomach. “My mate and offspring deserve much better. And they shall have it.”

  Hannah watches them with an odd longing shining in her eyes, and for the first time, I don’t really understand what she’s feeling. Because she didn’t wake up on Gebose. She was never invisible. She was never expected to open herself for a man-child she hates. To make herself the recipient of acts he would never ask his future-wife to endure.

  I’m glad that Hannah will never know those burdens. That she can look forward to love and sex without any fears or prejudices to overcome.

  “Hungry?” Vaughn asks, and I turn to find him standing over one of the two food crates, which is now filled to the brim. As are the galley cabinets, as I noticed on our way through the main deck.

  “I’m fine for now,” I tell him as I stare around at our bounty.

  Both supply crates are open and full of everything from bedding to medical supplies. A fifth crate has been added, and it holds clothing in several different sizes, as well as toiletries. But the most prominent additions to the cargo hold are the two medpods, taken from the infirmary while I was still unconscious. Because they lack crates of their own, they’ve been strapped to hooks in the floor, to keep them from shifting during flight.

  “Wow.” Lilli whistles as she looks around the cargo hold. “Even if we don’t get that new ship, we’ll be in pretty good shape here. Even if it is crowded.”

  “We’ll get the ship,” Sotelo calls on his way up the stairs to the main deck.

  “What ship?” Hannah still looks shell-shocked, but she’s taken all the new information remarkably well. Of course, understanding what’s happened to her and coming to terms with that are two completely different things. She’s going to need some time. And some space.

  “We’re on the way to buy a ship from this guy named Meshach, on the planet Gebose,” I tell her. “But our circumstances have changed, and we’re no longer going to be able to pay him, exactly. Fortunately, we have a plan.”

  “What—?” Hannah begins, but then, as we turn toward the stairs, a familiar crate catches her attention from across the cargo bay. Fear flickers behind her dark eyes, an odd reflection of an expression I’m sure I’ve worn many times. “What is that doing here?” Her voice and her frame are full of tension. “I am not getting back in that thing.”

  “It’s not for you,” I assure her. “Not exactly. Come sit with me, and I’ll explain that part.” The only part of this we haven’t yet spelled out for her—that Meshach will expect her as payment for our new-to-us ship.

  Or someone who looks just like her, anyway.

  I lead her to the corner of the cargo hold that has been set up for her comfort—and her isolation. For now, at least until we’ve secured the new ship and gotten safely away from Gebose, we’ve decided that Hannah should not mingle with the unmated men on the crew. Both to keep from overwhelming a woman whose only experience with men is a peek at the occasional handyman tasked with maintenance at a convent that never really existed, and because Vaughn and Captain Sotelo are afraid that if Lawrence, Jamison, and Zamora meet Hannah, one—or maybe more—of them will be drawn to her just as fiercely as they were drawn to me and to Lilli.

  And if that’s going to happen, we’d like to be safely away from Meshach before we’re forced to tackle another mating drama.

  So the men have agreed to stay upstairs, and Lilli and I will ride in the cargo hold with Hannah.

  “Okay,” I say as I sink onto a chair strapped to the floor, while my clone sinks into the one next to me. “You know how I told you that we share all of the same memories, thanks to the mental implant they gave you in that pod?” Hannah nods, and I give Vaughn a thumbs-up as he heads up the stairs to the main deck, because Jamison has just started the engine. “Well, that’s only true up to a point, because I didn’t wake up with Vaughn, and Tirzah, and Lilli there to tell me what was going on and assure me that I was safe. I woke up on another planet, where a man had bought me to give me to his son.

  “That same man tried to buy you too. He hired the crew of the Dinghy to find you and bring you to him, in exchange for their new ship. But they didn’t know what was in the crate they were hired to track down. And now that we all know about you—about what Meshach tried to use the crew to do—we’re about to show him exactly who he’s fucking with.”

  24

  VAUGHN

  AARON LARSEN TAPS HIS EARPIECE, his pale-eyed gaze trained on me while the Gebosan sun beats down on both of our heads. “They’re here,” he says as I push the floating dolly across the very same rooftop landing pad we set the Dinghy down on a week ago, when we first accepted this mission. Back before I had any idea it would change my life. Today, Aaron and his men are armed with shiny new ballistic rifles—guns that fire actual projectile bullets, rather than laser rounds.

  Guns which can’t be set to stun.

  Which makes sense, considering that I had to kill one of their men on Miscellany. If they fire on us, they intend to kill us.

  A blue light flashes in Aaron’s earpiece, and I pretend I can’t hear Meshach respond that he’s on his way, because no normal human would be able to hear him from across the landing pad.

  Aaron’s gaze falls to the metal crate on the dolly. “Have you opened it?”

  “No,” I lie. “As you might recall, that would have voided our contract.”

  “Indeed.” His brows rise as he studies my sleek new battle gear. “Looks like you got a wardrobe upgrade.”

  I can’t tell whether or not he knows where we got the nano-tech. If he realizes we were on Zelos, he’ll suspect we know what’s in the crate. But there’s a good chance, considering how different our battle gear appears from the Gebosan modesty sheaths, that he has no idea they utilize the same technology.

  It takes every bit of self-control I possess not to rip into him, literally, for his part in buying Grace and imprisoning her here. For making her invisible and silencing her. I want to tear his head from his shoulders, then move on to his men, pulling them limb from limb until I can bathe in their blood. Until I can present the heads of our enemies to my mate as a gift. As a demonstration of my ability and eagerness to rid the world of her tormentors.

  The only thing deterring me from indulging the beast’s need to spill blood is Meshach’s fleet.

  Boots clomp on the Dinghy’s ramp at my back, and Dreyer and Zamora step up to flank me. Aaron’s gaze lands briefly on Dreyer, then it skips to Zamora. “I apologize for our oversight,” he says, blatantly avoiding looking at her. “I’ll have someone bring your woman a courtesy garb.”

  “No thanks,” Dreyer snaps. “I won’t be covering myself for your comfort anymore. If you don’t want to see me, don’t look.”

  “We have rules—”

  “And since I’m not going to follow them, I’m sure you’re eager to get this exchange over with as soon as possible,” she says. “I assume you’ll want to inspect your cargo before you officially accept delivery?” Aaron nods, staring at the landing pad. “And we’d like to inspect our new ship.”

  “That’s up to Meshach.” Aaron’s narrowed eyes carry blatant hostility, even as he goes to absurd lengths to avoid looking at her.

  “Take them to their ship.” Meshach steps onto the roof from the stairwell that leads down into the building, flanked by several more of his men. “They’ve earned it.” He doesn’t seem the least bit concerned that we might have opened the crate. Or that it might be empty.

  “She’s declined a courtesy garb,” Aaron informs his brother, with an aimless gesture at Dreyer.

  “Then let’s get her onto their ship, where she won’t be enticing undisciplined eyes to sin. But station a guard right outsi
de,” he adds. “Someone of stalwart willpower, who won’t be tempted by an uncovered woman.”

  “Of course.” Aaron gestures for Dreyer and Zamora to follow him, and they all three disappear into the stairwell, evidently bound for the larger landing bay on the other side of the building.

  I lay one hand on the metal crate, and the floating dolly bobs beneath it. “The inventory number matches the number we found on the manifest from the ship it was stolen from.” Meshach doesn’t need to know his crate was never actually on that evidentiary ship, nor does he need to know how we found it. “I assume you want to open it, to make sure it’s really your merchandise?” I don’t bother to screen disgust for him from my voice.

  “Have you opened it?” He kneels to inspect the crate, which we resealed on board the Dinghy.

  “No, and even if we had, we couldn’t be entirely sure it’s the crate you lost, since you declined to tell us what’s in the box. But we’re ninety percent sure this is what you’re looking for.”

  “Well, we’ll know in a minute.” Meshach sets his hand on top of the crate, in a mirror-polished section of the metal surface, and it lights up as it scans his prints. Then a seam appears, running along the long axis across the top of the box. The seam pops open half an inch, and Meshach folds down his side of the long box lid so that he can see the contents, while the still-closed other half shields it from me.

  Relief floods his features for a second, then a small smile turns up the corners of his mouth.

  I want to punch him until his smile is a bloody mess of shredded lips and jagged, broken teeth.

  “This is exactly what I was looking for. What was stolen from me.” He closes the box again, then he turns to gesture to one of the six armed men at his back. “Ira, take the crate in—”

  “No,” I say. “Your merchandise stays with me until I get word from my crew mates that our new ship is in the promised condition.” That it is clean, functional, furnished, unregistered, and free of any tracking software. And—most important—that the warp and cloaking systems are in excellent shape.

  “I’m taking the crate inside,” Meshach insists. “But you’re welcome to stay with it, until your inspection of the ship is complete. If you insist.”

  “I do.” I turn back to the Dinghy, where Jamison and Lawrence are now standing at the top of the lowered ramp. “Button it up and sit tight until you hear from us.”

  Jamison nods. Lawrence reaches to his left and punches the red button, and the ramp begins to fold closed with the soft whine of a motor.

  “Amos, have Damaris and my sons assembled in the courtyard of my private residence,” Meshach says to the man on his left. “I have something to discuss with them.”

  Presumably, that discussion involves which of his sons will be taking possession of the cloned sex slave that was intended for his youngest, since the one intended for his oldest is still missing.

  Or so Meshach thinks.

  “Ira, please escort our guest and my recovered crate to a secure room on the top floor, until he gets satisfactory word about the ship inspection.”

  “Of course.” Ira steps forward, and I realize I’ve seen him before. He and Amos were there when I killed Ezra on Miscellany. When they tried to board the Dinghy without permission.

  The beast purrs in satisfaction with this fortuitous turn of events.

  Pushing the floating dolly, I follow Ira across the roof past the stairwell, where a freight elevator comes into view. It opens as we approach, and I guide the dolly inside after him. We stop on the top floor, and Ira leads me to a room down the hall from the elevator. It’s unoccupied, and I can tell from the thick clunk that the door has automatically locked behind us. What I don’t know yet is whether the lock is intended to keep me in or everyone else out.

  “Sit tight.” Ira perches on the edge of a conference table in the center of the room, ignoring the twelve chairs that surround it. He holds his rifle across his chest at an angle, evidently confident in his ability to aim it quickly.

  Unfortunately for him, his understanding of what constitutes “quickly” isn’t really relevant when his only opponent has been augmented by Universal Authority.

  I push the dolly against the wall next to the door, then I cross my arms over my chest, standing guard. And I wait.

  “Okay, we’re in the ship,” Dreyer says into my ear, and I can tell from Ira’s complete lack of a response that he can’t hear her. “It’s dated, but there’s so much room. Zamora’s doing a quick visual inspection, while I dig into the systems.”

  “Looks good so far,” he adds, as the soft whisper of a door opening punctuates his statement. “Crew quarters are sparsely furnished, but they’re fucking palaces, compared to what we’re used to. Doors are all functional so far. The galley’s food synthesizer is old, but it produced a banana nut muffin for me in about a second and a half.”

  “Excellent,” I say, and Ira glances at me in surprise, before he realizes I’m talking to my own crew members. “Keep us all posted.”

  “What about alcohol?” Lawrence asks from my earpiece. “Will it make vodka? Or better yet, whiskey?”

  “Not sure. But tequila and lime slices are a go. I’ve even got salt on the rim of the fucking shot glass.”

  “You’re on duty,” I remind Zamora. Who laughs right into my ear as another door whispers open.

  “I’m running a search for a tracking bug in the background, while I assess the warp and cloaking systems,” Dreyer says. “If Zamora’s still sober when he gets back to the bridge, he can speed this up a bit.”

  “Give me a minute,” Zamora pipes up. “This is a good-sized ship.” And in the week since we last inspected it, Meshach could have installed or sabotaged just about anything.

  Ira and I endure each other’s company in silence while Dreyer and Zamora speak into my ear, giving the rest of the crew a running update on their assessment of our new home. When Zamora has been through the entire ship, he joins Dreyer on the bridge and takes over the scan for a tracking beacon or insidious but subtle software intended to do the same thing.

  “Warp looks solid,” Dreyer says. “If the cloaking works, once we’re free of the atmosphere, we should be able to disappear before they’re able to lock onto us.”

  “And when will you know for sure?” About the cloaking, I mean. Though I’m not going to say that in front of Ira.

  “Couple more minutes,” Dreyer responds.

  “Found the tracking bug,” Zamora pipes up. “Meshach’s men hid it pretty well, but they’re not as good as they think they are. I’m not going to disarm it yet, though, because when I do, it’ll alert them.”

  “Good,” Dreyer says. “Best to do that right before we hit warp.”

  “Agreed,” I say, and the rest of the crew agrees, in my ear.

  “And…the cloaking and shields look good,” Dreyer adds. “I think we’re good to go. Coleman, grab our package, and let’s get out of here.”

  “Roger,” I tell them all. “Stand by.”

  When I step away from the wall, Ira stands, on edge because of my sudden movement. “Back up,” he orders.

  “Relax. I just need to stretch out my lower back,” I say hoping his earpiece picks that up. I need to take him out without alerting whoever else is listening. “Do you know what’s in the box?” I whisper.

  He scowls at me, clearly wary. “You said you haven’t seen inside.”

  “I haven’t,” I answer at full volume. Then I lower my voice again. “But I know what’s in there, and this is my last chance for a peek. Your last chance too, right?” I shrug. “It’s already unsealed. I won’t tell if you won’t.”

  Ira’s scowl deepens for a second, but I can see temptation winning him over. He’s desperate for a glimpse at what his boss has bought. What Meshach will be handing over to an eighteen-year-old boy. And he feels confident in his own power, with that rifle across his chest.

  Finally, he taps his earpiece to turn it off. Or maybe to mute it. It flashes
brightly for a second, then the light fades and goes off. “Quickly,” Ira says at full volume, now that he won’t be overheard. “I could lose my head for this. Open it.”

  I press the button on the end of the crate, and when the lid splits open again, along that seam in the middle, I fold down the half that isn’t against the wall.

  “Holy shit,” Ira breathes as he stares down at the nude, unconscious form in the pod, and I let the beast rage inside me. “She’s real. I heard about her, but I don’t think I really believed it until this moment. She’s perfect.”

  “She damn well ought to be, for what he paid for her.” While Ira stares down at Grace’s beautiful face, his gaze trailing toward parts he has no business ever laying eyes on, I let spikes press through the seams in my knuckles. My skin itches for a second, as it begins to harden beneath my battle gear, forming a layer of biological armor I probably don’t need, beneath the nano-tech material.

  “How do you know what he pa—?” Ira turns to me, and my fist smashes into the side of his face.

  He grunts as he stumbles to his left and crashes into two of the chairs, then slams into the side of the conference table. His left cheekbone is a ruin of torn flesh and dripping blood, and through the gash, I can see his upper molars.

  Grunting in pain—gurgling his own blood—he shoves himself upright again, swinging his rifle up.

  I flip a mental switch, and a familiar tingling sweeps through me. It’s still unnerving, even after two years of practice.

  One hand covering the gruesome wound in his face, Ira fires at me. His rifle makes a soft thwup sound as the suppressor engages, and I feel a strange fluttery sensation as the bullet passes right through my abdomen. Through tissue that has been altered in density to allow me to pass through things like walls and doors.

  And to allow things to pass through me. Like archaic projectile bullets.