Or would it?
Hawke might not find any Outliers … but if this secret weapon of his could really sniff out people’s true allegiances? How many others might be revealed to be harboring less-than-ideal alliances?
How many people like her?
One sniff from that damn dog could bring her whole charade as a returned and repentant deserter to an end. What would happen to her if Hawke found out she didn’t really want to be here? Didn’t want to rejoin the Federation? To say nothing about what might happen to her crew at that point.
She’d just have to hope against hope her crew could get the job done before that happened. With any luck, they’d already gotten the job done, if the earlier mention of the secret weapon’s tardiness was any indication.
At least there was plenty of alcohol at this function … its sole saving grace. She gulped the champagne, ignoring the sting of its bubbles, then turned and moved casually away from the center of the ballroom floor, away from the round tables bedecked in tablecloths and napkins sporting the Federation’s official colors. She moved toward the far wall, hoping to park herself out of the way. More and more Federation officers arrived every minute. The last thing she wanted was to get caught up in tedious, pointless conversation.
“Captain?”
She startled and whirled around, nearly spilling champagne down the front of her dress.
But it was just a waiter, a young man dressed in a tux—way overkill for a waiter, in her opinion—proffering a tray of hors d’oeuvres well into her personal zone. “Would you care for fermented rock-sponge tonsils?” he asked.
Cass blinked at the moldy bits arranged neatly on the platter. They did not look appetizing. At all. She swallowed back the bile and cleared her throat. “Um, no. No thank you.”
The waiter shrugged. “The brass spent a fortune on these, and no one wants to eat them. Oh well … off to find another victim—err, guest.”
Cass turned toward the wall and covered her face, permitting herself to gag. Hopefully the rest of dinner would not be so … unsettling. Of course, given the current company… She glanced around the ballroom again and heaved another sigh. That’s pretty much a given.
“Ah, Captain, there you are!”
She winced at the sound of Rear Admiral Hawke’s voice. So much for hiding away from the action. She let her free hand fall to her side and tried to forget about the moldy sponge.
Hawke, too, was dressed in formal attire, which for the male officers merely consisted of a white, wrinkle-free uniform instead of the usual blue, wrinkle-free uniform. Such a double-standard. Unfortunately, the double-standard was the standard for the Effing Federation. Hawke beamed at her like a long-lost uncle who’d had a little too much to drink. He damn near glowed as he stepped up next to her.
Her stomach turned. He looks awfully happy, considering his secret weapon’s been missing. Unless, of course, it had been found.
“You look absolutely ravishing, my dear,” he purred.
The burning sensation of rising bile hit Cass for a second time. She used the rest of her champagne to wash it down. “Thank you, sir,” she managed to choke.
He took her empty glass and set it on the tray of another passing waiter, then retrieved a replacement and handed it back to her. “Well, what do you think? Is this not a glorious affair? Do you think it will put our guests of honor at ease?”
Cass considered these so-called “guests of honor.” A tribal civilization living on a backworlds planet at the edge of a minor system, whose main clothing of choice consisted of animal furs. She was hard-pressed to imagine they’d know what to do with a formal set of silverware. “To be frank, sir, no, I don’t.”
To her surprise, Hawke chuckled. He sipped at his champagne. “Good.”
She blinked at him, growing unease crawling over her skin. She decided to risk asking the one question that had been consuming her thoughts since she’d surrendered herself to the Feds. Even if she didn’t like the answer, she needed to know. Please already have the dog, Red, she silently prayed. Have the dog and be far, far away from here… She drew a slow, deep breath, then tried to sound casual. “So, where’s the dog, then?”
“The secret weapon is getting tidied up as we speak,” Hawke replied, grinning. “He was in dire need of a bath.”
“Shit.”
“I’m sorry?”
Shit, did I say that out loud? “Oh, I was just saying, ‘Pffsshh!’ Dogs sure can get stinky.” Cass gulped at her champagne to cover the flush now burning in her cheeks.
But Hawke seemed to buy her cover-up. “Oh yes. They certainly can. But the secret weapon’s handler tends to keep him presentable. Usually.”
“That’s great.” But it wasn’t great. It wasn’t great at all. If the dog was off getting a bath right now, that meant her crew had failed to extract it. Maybe they had never managed to get out of the cellblock at all. Maybe Harry had never even received medical treatment. Maybe that bitch Anasua had been pulling strings behind Hawke’s back, and her poor crew was being abused while she sipped tea and got glammed up.
Her mind raced, eyes raking across the ballroom. Was it possible she could snag the dog during this stupid dinner? With no one there to help, could she somehow manage to grab it and slip out of this room undetected?
“...don’t you think?” Hawke asked.
Cass snapped back to the present. What the hell was he saying? For a long heartbeat, she stared at him blankly, attempting to rewind the moment.
Mercifully, the arrival of new dinner guests interrupted the moment, drawing Hawke’s attention. His brilliant blue eyes shifted to the south exit, his question forgotten. “Oh, look, our guests of honor!”
Cass followed his gaze. A cluster of tribal members, flanked by a Federation escort, filtered into the ballroom, their eyes wide and mouths agape. They still wore their primitive furs, she noted. Woah, who is that? At the heart of the group strode a giant of a woman, easily head-and-shoulders taller than everyone else around her. The wild mane of red hair and fierce, defiant eyes looked strikingly familiar.
Cass squinted, trying to recall the contents of Hawke’s mission brief, which included the limited intel the Federation had on these people. Against Commodore Corvus’s wishes, Hawke had let Cass in on a meeting with top brass to review his plans for the dinner.
The striking red-headed woman was the tribe’s chieftainess, Sonia. Her athletic frame was wrapped in leather, a mantle of thick white fur draped across her shoulders and trailed all the way to the floor. Her right arm was entwined with that of a strutting peacock of a man in a leather jacket.
Cass drew in a sharp breath. No, that can’t be...
She stared hard into the crowd, trying to get a better look at him.
Cocky, arrogant posture. Tousled brown hair. Roguish good looks…
“Djerke!” Her fingers clenched around the delicate stem of her champagne flute and she ground her teeth. It took every ounce of her willpower to stay in place, to not go running across the room to bodily tackle him and strangle the life out of him right then and there.
“Ah, yes,” Hawke said, nodding toward the mutinous bastard. “I believe you remember our informant.” He smiled blandly. “He’s been of enormous value to the Federation.”
Cass clenched her jaw harder, strangling the words that would betray her ongoing allegiance to the pirates of Haven. Not only had that rat-bastard stolen her favorite ship, he’d taken advantage of its cloaking capabilities to tail them across the quadrant, apparently reporting back to the Federation on their every movement. And then, to add insult to injury, he’d stolen their winnings from the Running of the Donkey contest! Traitor!
Her eyes narrowed, tracing Djerke and Sonia’s movements across the room as they moved toward their assigned table. The Girlboss. If that slimeball was here, that meant her beautiful ship had to be nearby.
If I can get away with the dog, maybe I can get my ship back, too. Heck, with the difficulty score of this mission already pushi
ng ten out of ten, why not add one more impossible task to the mix?
A girl could dream.
“The Vice Admiral did not agree with my decision to keep him on as an informant,” Hawke said, apparently taking her silence for interest, “given his … colorful history and occasional bouts of insubordination. But we are in agreement now. He has delivered on his promise to bring us a nest of Outliers.”
Cass grunted.
Hawke looked at her quizzically. “You don’t think so?”
She tried to compose herself. Her dislike of Djerke was one thing she did not have to fake. “I don’t think he can be trusted,” she stated flatly.
Hawke’s glowing demeanor dampened a bit. “No? He’s come through for us so far. I know he used to be a pirate, but… well, so did you, my dear.” His mouth twisted as if he’d eaten something sour, then smoothed back into a smile. “And look at you now. Back where you belong. No hard feelings.” He put a hand on her arm.
No hard feelings? She resisted the urge to shrug off his hand. She’d seen the looks some of the other officers had given her in the briefing room and in the hallways. Hawke might not have harbored any ill will toward her for her desertion and stint among the pirates, but he was himself an outlier in that regard. How ironic. She cleared her throat, focusing on Djerke once more, marking his seat in her memory.
“Still, sir,” she said, “I’d keep a close eye on him, if I were you.”
Hawke sighed, following her gaze and mercifully releasing her arm. “Well, maybe you’re right. You were always a good sailor, Bambi. Djerke, on the other hand? He’ll never be a sailor, no matter what grooming the Academy might attempt.”
Most certainly not, Cass agreed silently. Turns out he’s not even a good pirate. Betraying his captain and his crew at the first opportunity…
“Oh, excellent,” Hawke exclaimed suddenly, turning toward the south entrance. “Commodore Corvus is here! With the rest of our special guests!”
Cass grudgingly ripped her gaze away from Djerke to see who he could possibly be talking about now, and her heart instantly plummeted into her stomach. Commodore Corvus was indeed there, marching into the room with a purpose that didn’t match the elegance of her red dress. But it was the sight of the group who came after her, escorted by another cluster of sailors, which made Cass nearly drop her flute of champagne.
She gasped.
“I know, I know,” said Hawke, his tone dripping with pleasure. “They clean up well, don’t they?”
It was her crew. All of them. Redbeard, Kitt, Spiner … even Harry. Redbeard was probably the cleanest she’d ever seen him, fit into a tux, his wild red mane somehow tamed into soft red waves flowing back from his high forehead. Kitt’s white fur practically shone, her black, sparkling dress standing in stark contrast. And then there was Spiner, bedecked in a dark blue suit of a cut she didn’t recognize, but nonetheless dashing, with a wide lapel and crisp creases.
Even Harry looked nicer than usual, naked though he was compared to everyone else. He must have been bathed and groomed, at least. A red bowtie had been tied around his neck.
Hawke gave her a sideways look. “Yes, we’ve outdone ourselves. No need for them to miss out on the fun of this demonstration!”
Cass hardly registered his words.
So, they hadn’t even escaped the brig. This was my plan, she thought, suddenly despondent. I should have listened to my crew when they protested… And now they were stuck here, same as her, all dressed up with nowhere to go, surrounded by Federation sailors. About to have their true allegiances and plans exposed by an ass-sniffing dog.
Dread overcame her as she watched her crew shuffle reluctantly toward the table nearest the tribal guests.
Her worst nightmare was coming true. She’d come back to the Federation for nothing. They had failed. They had completely, utterly failed.
24
Harry’s head dangled sideways over Spiner’s shoulder, which made it a challenge to catch anyone’s eye. Maybe if he just spoke up, someone would notice. “Excuse me,” Harry said to the nearest sailor. “Where am I supposed to sit?”
The nearest sailor raised his brows and looked searchingly toward his companions, but no one took the bait. He shook his head and took a step closer toward where Harry dangled over Spiner’s shoulder. “Ah, what seems to be the problem?”
Oh good. Someone was paying attention. Harry twitched an ear in the direction of the table. “There’s nowhere to sit.”
The sailor glanced at the table. “Plenty of chairs.”
“A bit narrow for a donkey, don’t you think?”
“I try not to. Thinking gets you in trouble, don’t you know?”
Harry paused and thought about it for a moment. He’d never been in trouble for thinking before. But maybe the Federation was different. “I wouldn’t want to get you in trouble. Hmm … let me put it another way—there’s no seats at the table that will accommodate my host.”
“Host?” The sailor’s eyes narrowed.
“My ass.”
“Oh, right,” the sailor replied. “Yes, I suppose you are shaped different than a human. Hrmm. I’m going to have to check with the supervisor and get back to you.”
“Okay!” That’s nice of the Federation fellow. They’re not all bad.
Somewhere behind him, Redbeard was still grumbling about his outfit. “Oy, this makes my butt look big!”
Kitt yowled miserably. “Look at these.”
Harry craned his neck around Spiner’s shoulder, glimpsing Kitt’s outstretched arms, upon which dangled thick gold bracelets. “Pretty,” he commented.
The compliment was met with bared teeth. “You got off easy.”
“Ahhhhh,” came an urgent scream from the nearby table.
Spiner spun around dizzyingly fast, allowing Harry to catch sight of the giant red-haired lady from the cargo hold. Her hands were over her mouth, eyes wide, as she stared in the direction of Redbeard. “Blimey!”
“Sonia?” Redbeard blurted.
“Red?”
Redbeard took a step toward her table, a big grin on his face … which was quickly replaced by a scowl as he noticed her companion. “Djerke?!”
Jerk? Harry followed Redbeard’s gaze to the man in a leather jacket standing beside Sonia. One of his hands rested firmly on her backside. Who else had said that recently? Oh yeah … Spiner.
Spiner’s arms tightened around Harry at the mention of that name, and he muttered something incomprehensible under his breath. It didn’t sound like the android was happy to see that guy again, either.
Kitt let out a mighty hiss, then growled low in her throat, her tail lashing behind her as the fur around her neck ruffled. Her golden eyes narrowed, sending a death glare toward the man in the leather jacket.
The pirates clearly thought this man was a jerk. But he looked alright to Harry.
Redbeard took another step forward, this one a menacing step instead of an excited step.
“Easy there, big guy,” said one of the sailors. To a man, they lifted their rifles and aimed them in the direction of the burly pirate. “You are required to keep to your assigned seats. Rear Admiral Hawke’s orders.”
The directive was met by a snarl. Redbeard had an impressive mean face going. One of his best yet. “Blimey bastard,” he growled, “get yer filthy hands off me sister!”
Sonia looked at Redbeard, then at Djerke, then back at … her brother?
Harry’s eyes grew wide. “Wait, wait, wait! Redbeard, this is your sister? Wow! Can you introduce us, please?”
But he was ignored as the red-heads regarded each other. “Red,” the woman said, “this is my lover. We’re to be betrothed.”
“Be ... WHAT?!”
Redbeard’s roar made everyone nearby cringe and turn to stare, their eyes wide.
Djerke turned to Sonia and put his other hand on her shoulder. “It’s okay, dear. I won’t hold it against him.”
“Hold what against me, ye bloody traitor? Ya stole ar
rrr ship! An’ then ya stole our race winnin’s! An’ I swore next time I saw ya I was gonna rip yer arms off!” By this point, Redbeard’s face matched his hair. His hands, Harry noted, both grasped the back of the nearest chair. He hefted it into the air and started to rear back.
“Woah, woah, woah big guy!” shouted the nearest sailor, stepping up to Redbeard and pushing the barrel of his rifle into the pirate’s chest. “Put that down.”
Sonia ran a finger along Djerke’s cheek. “Ya didn’t steal me twin’s ship, did ya? Maybe jus’ borrowed it a wee bit?”
“Borrowed?” Redbeard spluttered. His knuckles were white where he clenched the chair.
Kitt’s growl grew louder.
“Borrowed. Yes.” Djerke flashed shiny white teeth. “He can have it back any time he wants.” As Sonia’s finger lingered over his lips, he gently bit down on it.
“Oh, ho ho, behave, love. We be honored dinner guests, now. Look at all tha fancy stuff.” She waved a hand toward the table with its gleaming silverware, crystal goblets, and neatly folded napkins.
“If you think the tables are fancy, just imagine what the beds are like,” Djerke purred in her ear.
Redbeard looked like he might explode.
Harry worried that he might, in fact, just walk through the rifle and get himself killed. What his big friend needed was a little change of subject, so Harry put on a smile and coughed loudly, trying to draw attention in his direction, instead.
Sonia took the bait. She stepped away from her lover, whatever that meant, and peered over at Harry. “Oy, what’s this then? A donkey as a dinner guest? Wha’s tha Effin’ Federation come to?”
“Hi there, I’m Harold,” he said, attempting his best smile. “Those furs aren’t real, are they?”
“Blimey!” she exclaimed. “He talks! Red, where’d ya find tha adorable little guy?”
Redbeard muttered a string of curses, drawing a stern look of disapproval from the sailors. He kept his fierce glare locked on the fellow they called Jerk, but slowly lowered the chair back to the floor, then jerked a thumb toward Harry. “Tha’s me arse.”
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