“Only you can decide that, Captain.”
“That’s absolutely no fucking help whatsoever.”
“I’m sorry, Captain.”
The holo psych said that a lot in response to her comments.
Gods, how she despised that phrase.
* * * *
Andrews stood by her desk in her cabin. He’d managed to last almost two years with her. He proved good at his job. She relied on him in many ways.
He never saw her cry or laugh. The crying she was a master of hiding, although lately she spent a lot less time doing it as dreams of her men faded. Heavy action against the raiders in a sector on the other side of the galaxy from Act’huras tended to take her mind off things. Smiling only happened when going into battle.
“Sir, may I speak with you?”
She nodded and sat back. “Of course.”
“I wanted to let you know I’m eligible to retire in six months.” And there it was. Her heart sank. She couldn’t call him—or anyone else—friend, but she had hoped he would be around a while longer despite what she knew was his impending retirement. She hadn’t felt quite so alone with him around. He reminded her a lot of Jarl.
“Yes, I know.”
“I believe I have found you a replacement. I’ve arranged for you to meet with his captain when we reach the Martian shipyard next week.”
“I appreciate that, Andrews. Thank you.”
He smiled. “I wanted enough time to break in my replacement and weed out anyone not good enough for you.”
That almost prompted a smile from her. Her entire crew had proven loyal, especially Andrews. He had a lot of pride in his work and took his service seriously. If she was awake, so was he, sometimes days at a time, even when she told him he could take a break. He always refused, wanting to do his duty. “You will be hard to replace, Andrews.”
“The Candola Ryke will be ready for you to take command in three months. I promise I won’t retire until I know for sure he’s good enough for you. I want someone who can ship out with you and be ready.”
“Duly noted.”
When he left her alone again, she sat back and pinched the bridge of her nose, trying to stem the familiar prickle of tears threatening to break through.
Eventually, everyone always left. One of these days she’d get that through her thick skull and learn to suck it up.
Chapter Sixteen
Aine stood staring at the vid screen, posture stiff, hands clasped behind her back. No doubt her bridge crew thought she was all business.
Inside, she struggled not to cry.
Boys don’t cry…
No one could see how her fingernails dug into her palms as she stared at the Emissary Flagship Tav’rokian Might berthed in the space station dock. Just the fact that it was an Act’huran vessel made memories flood back with brutal vengeance.
Feelings.
The loss and aloneness. Her single soul, never as complete as when part of a loving triad.
The com whistled. She reached over with a smooth, fluid movement and punched the button. “Candola Ryke, Captain Lorcan.”
“Captain Lorcan, this is the dockmaster. I’ve been instructed to berth you next to the Tav’rokian Might.”
Of course you were. Just my fucking dumb luck. “Roger. We’ll plug nav into the docking beacons.”
“Permission granted to dock at will. We’ll fit your airlock and your crew are free to disembark.”
“Thank you.” Her finger hovered over the button to disconnect.
“Oh, and Captain?”
Damn. “Yes?”
“I was told to upload your Confederation orders now.”
Aine frowned. “Now?” Normally she would receive an upload after her post-docking debriefing.
“Yes, Captain. Orders direct from President Olan’s office.”
She swore under her breath as she slid into her command chair and activated her display. “Begin.”
“Aye.”
The display lit up as the upload commenced. Immediately, her private command message icon blinked. There wasn’t much to the upload because within a few seconds it completed.
“Is that it, dockmaster?”
“Aye.”
She slumped in her chair. This couldn’t be good. “Candola Ryke out.” She punched the com button harder than she intended.
The red message icon blinked at her, a red number three in the center. Three messages.
Shit. Her intuition buzzed. No doubt special orders pertaining to the Tav’rokian Might. She locked the message screen and pulled herself from her chair. “I’ll be in my quarters. Helm, take over. Berth us.”
The Lieutenant jumped from his seat. “Aye, sir.”
She muttered under her breath as she stalked down the corridor, the end of her braid swinging and brushing along her ass as she pushed past her crew. She should cut it but hadn’t mustered enough mental strength to do that yet, even this many years later. It was hard enough to dye it black every few weeks to hide the stubborn blonde streaks that refused to go away.
In her cabin she ordered her yeoman out and sealed the door behind him before activating her private command console.
Let’s see what we’ve got.
It couldn’t be good news. And of course, it wasn’t.
Message One: She would report to the President’s formal dinner in honor of the Act’huran ambassador tonight at 2100 hours. Dress: Full formal uniform.
Fuck.
Message Two: Her previous mission orders were hereby suspended by executive order of President Olan. The Candola Ryke would escort the Act’huran emissary vessel on its mission to Korellas to the final treaty talks and signing.
Double fuck.
Message Three: The honor of her presence was requested by President Olan at a private reception to be held before the formal dinner at 1900 hours.
Tonight. In two hours, to be precise.
Fuck. Me.
Well, there had to be lots of Act’hurans in the star system. They were one of the most powerful races in this quadrant of the galaxy. It meant nothing, especially with the treaty talks nearing successful completion. Everyone anticipated Act’huras would be the next Confederation addition before the end of the year.
It meant nothing. Absolutely nothing.
Nothing but a head full of memories to fuck with her after a few years of relative stability.
She unsealed her door and punched the page button for her yeoman, Paul Castlo. The man appeared within seconds. “Sir?”
She headed for the shower. “Caz, I need a full formal uniform ready immediately.”
“Full formal, sir?”
She threw a glare over her shoulder. Fuck the president and double fuck the Act’huran ambassador. No one ordered her into poufy breeches. “You know what? Substitute a pair of deck trousers for the formal ones.”
The yeoman smiled in relief. “I hoped you’d say that. I doubt anyone will challenge you.”
“Am I that bitchy when I dress full formal?”
“Honestly?”
She nodded.
“Yes, sir.”
Aine laughed as she walked into the head and shut the door behind her. He was the only person who could make her laugh or ever heard her do it. Damn, Caz was a pain in the ass sometimes, but Andrews made a good choice for his replacement. Besides Caz’s beefy size and considerable weapons and defense skills, which made him invaluable as a bodyguard, he wasn’t afraid to stand up to her, had a decent set of balls on him, so to speak.
He reminded her a lot of Mal…
She immediately clamped down on that thought, willing it away.
Caz transferred from the command of a retiring fellow captain, John Arctillio. Arctillio warned her Caz would be spookily good at anticipating her needs, like a silent shadow at times, but that if she trusted him and let him do his job he would never disappoint her.
So far, he had never disappointed her. She relied on him in a way she had been afraid to rely on anyone sinc
e…
She willed that thought away too. She tried not to think their names.
It hurt too much, her single soul echoing with pain every time she did.
Caz was, in fact, spookily good at anticipating her needs and taking care of her. Even seeming to sense her moods, knowing when to keep crew away from her, when to take her off the duty roster for a day so she could spend a long uninterrupted night trying to catch up on rest.
Fifteen minutes later she’d showered and wrapped herself in a waiting robe. She sat on a chair in front of the mirror while Caz carefully combed and dried her long hair. She didn’t have time to fully dye it before the dinner, but she just dyed it the week before. The blonde roots in the streaks were barely visible.
Not that anyone should get that close to her to begin with, except Caz. Not that Caz would let anyone get that close to her if she asked him for space.
He carefully pulled her long hair back as he worked an anti-frizz lotion into it. By the time he finished braiding it, not a single hair would dare misbehave all evening. She never questioned where he picked up his skills, not after the first time he offered to braid it for her soon after his arrival and the near-perfect result stunned her. Before him, she’d often loosely plaited it, or even bundled it into a ponytail twisted into a rough bun on the back of her head. Before Caz’s arrival she hadn’t had a good braid since either one of her men or Jarl, when they’d been deployed, had helped her just as she’d helped her men with theirs.
“Bow, sir?”
She started to tell him no, then surprised herself. “Use a green ribbon.” She stared into the mirror. Her eyes would most likely never turn back to brown. Admittedly, she liked their green color. Until today, it’d been months since she consciously thought of Ker or Sammuel when she looked into the mirror and saw her dusty green gaze.
He carefully tied the ribbon at the end of her braid, weaving it through the plaits and ensuring the loops lay even.
“Is that satisfactory, sir?”
She turned her head to look in the mirror. Of course it was. He always did it perfectly. “Yes, thank you.”
Caz helped her don her skivvies, followed by her molecular body armor. She undoubtedly surprised command by insisting no women crewed on her ship, not even a female yeoman. She wanted no distractions for her men, and high command overlooked certain regulations to give her what she wanted. After all, they’d begged her to come back.
A Dreadnought wasn’t a ship to fuck with, and she wasn’t a captain to fuck with. Just one of the reasons why she insisted on the traditional high-protocol “sir” honorific instead of “ma’am,” like other female captains. The formality comforted her.
Kept people away.
To be honest, after “what she went through”—as she tended to refer to that period in her mind to avoid thinking their names—the glancing looks her yeoman got of her naked flesh were nothing to blush about. The skin-tight deck trousers accentuated her firm, curvy hips and thighs. Caz polished her knee boots to a gleaming black glow and helped her pull them on. The starched white shirt and roll-up cuffs were an anachronism, but one she didn’t mind. Belted around her waist, the shirt hem fell past her ass and could almost double as a short dress if it had to. She’d had the formal black woolen coat specially modified, allowing her to hide extra weapons and not interfere with her sidearm draw. Caz had spent countless hours sparring with her as they worked to perfect the modifications. The tails dropped almost to the backs of her knees, but the front angled up and fell mid-thigh, long enough to give her an illusion of slimness she didn’t feel anymore despite the frequent appraising glances she knew she received in passing from her crew.
Caz handed her the short carbon dagger she kept inside her right boot as well as the throwing stars and another knife she stashed within her coat. Then her plasma pistol in its holster, which she clipped to her belt.
She studied herself in the mirror as Caz ran a lint roller over the already spotless jacket. She still had an hour before reporting to the reception.
“You look good, sir,” he said.
“Thank you.”
“No makeup tonight?”
She shook her head. “No. They can kiss my ass. Nothing in regs says I have to paint my face.”
“You don’t need it anyway.” The large man blushed as he realized he said it out loud. She felt a wave of worried embarrassment from him.
It took her a moment to process his comment. He started to stammer an apology, but she stopped him with a rare smile. “Thank you, Caz,” she said. “That’s the kindest thing anyone’s said to me in a long time.”
He nodded. “Permission to speak freely, sir?”
“Of course.”
“You know I’ve served under many Confederation captains besides you. You’re the best ever, and the toughest by far of any of them. I wish you’d take some time to see another side of yourself. You never have fun. You never relax. I’m not saying I think you should girlie up and confide in me, but frankly, sir? I wish I knew who had made you this way so I could personally kick their ass if I ever meet them. I’m afraid you’ll burn yourself out way too young unless you learn to take down time. You’re too damn good at what you to do lose you like that.”
She blinked, trying to absorb what the yeoman said. Caz was normally quiet, respectful, and unopinionated, even though extremely protective, almost like a big brother. To hear this kind of sentiment from him nearly brought her to tears.
“Thank you. May I ask what brought this on?”
He blushed again. “When we stood on the bridge earlier as we approached the station and you saw the Act’huran emissary vessel. I don’t know what’s going on or what happened, but it was like you went from flat calm to wanting to kill someone when you saw that ship.”
Aine replayed the events in her memory, buying her some time. She’d requested her records be sealed and brass had honored that. All people knew was she commanded an Act’huran ship in charge of Confederation forces during the Great Raider Sweep, as it’d been dubbed, nothing else.
“What did I do?” she carefully asked. Here she thought she hid her reaction well. Well enough. Maintaining her calm, icy image was a source of personal pride to her. She never engaged in idle chitchat. People knew when she spoke it meant they’d better pay attention.
Demonstrating yet again why he was the perfect yeoman for her, Caz shook his head. “No one else noticed. I was standing right behind you.” He reached out, lifted her right hand, and turned it palm up. Purple half-moons where her nails dug into her flesh still showed. “It’s my job to watch my captain in a way no one else does. My sole job is taking care of and serving my captain. This means knowing you like no one else on this ship, so I can anticipate your every need and make your job as easy as possible. Otherwise, I’m failing in my duties to serve you.”
Mal’s voice flickered through her memory. Service Before Self.
Aine clamped down on that before it could drive her to insanity. There were only so many painful memories she could deal with tonight.
She slowly licked her lips to buy another moment to compose her thoughts. “No one else noticed?”
He shook his head. “No. It’s also my job to make sure no one else does.” He smiled. “I stowed a stress ball at your station for you to abuse next time, sir.”
Aine laughed, long and hearty. At least her tears could be attributed to that. She smiled and snapped him a crisp salute, which he happily returned. “Caz, buddy, you have job security. You realize that, right?” He was the only one she allowed close enough to see her like this. The only one she ever conversed with outside of normal duties. Even that bit of informality dangerously stretched her ability to relax.
He grinned. “Sir, that’s the only thing I ever ask for.”
* * * *
Leaving her first officer to oversee their replenishment and maintenance, Aine left for the reception with Caz on her heels. Dressed in his formal uniform, he closely followed a step behind and to h
er left. Also in body armor and well-armed, he carried extra weapons in his modified formal coat. Not that Aine anticipated any trouble, but as a Dreadnought captain with a considerable raider bounty on her head, she never left the ship unless well-armed and prepared for anything. No one would challenge her or her yeoman on this well-protected station, at least. Despite Caz being a good foot taller than her and beefy as hell, she knew people saw her first, felt her presence.
Caz was a master of melting into the background.
They stepped into the dock lift. Caz punched the code to take them to the official level. He flashed her a smile. “Ready to knock ‘em dead, sir?”
She managed not to cry after he left her cabin earlier. She spent a few minutes with a cool, damp cloth pressed to her face to keep her eyes from looking red and puffy. She pulled herself together and firmly anchored her “Don’t fuck with the Ice Queen” mask in place.
She nodded. “Let’s knock ‘em dead, Caz.”
When the lift doors opened at 1901 hours, two presidential guards turned and bowed as she stepped out. Caz handed over the chip with their invitation code. After verifying it, the guards stepped back, waving her through with a new, respectful air upon discovering her identity.
“Thank you, Captain Lorcan. Please enjoy your evening.”
She walked past, never growing tired of that. Of the respect she automatically earned after clawing her way to the top to become a Dreadnought captain, one of the elite. One of the few. Able to face down any situation with steady calm.
Only Caz suspected the truth about her inner nature, and he damn sure wasn’t talking. Her relationship with him, even though only Captain and yeoman, was the closest thing she’d had to a friendship since…
End that thought.
She stopped in the reception hall doorway. Without turning her head, her gaze coolly swept the room. Over one hundred people, including a group of musicians, every captain with something other than a garbage scow docked at the station in attendance—
No, wait, there was a sanitation captain over by the punch bowl.
Son of a bitch.
She marginally relaxed. Caz stepped close, his voice low. “Looks like everyone got an invite.” As if he read her mind. He did that a lot. She’d grown used to it over the years.
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