Finders Keepers

by Linnea Sinclair

  Trilby nodded. “Dasja Carina would probably laugh her ass off if you referred to her as a lady. She was trying to water me. To get me to grow.” She pointed to the lush green plants. “She’s always bringing plants to Neadi and Leo. She’s got a pretty good hydroponics section on the Dream—” She stopped. “Well, that’s probably gone now.”

  The small, bright glow faded from her face. Rhis felt the lack of its warmth, wanted it to return.

  “So she waters you?” He forced a smile. “And this? Who is this with the beard?” It wasn’t Jagan Grantforth. He’d known what Grantforth looked like even before he’d seen Trilby’s files. Jagan Grantforth’s well-groomed form was frequently seen on the televid next to his politically well-placed uncle, Garold, now Chief Secretary of Trade in the Conclave.

  “That’s Chaser. He’s a med-tech at GGA HQ on Bagrond. He comes back to Rumor once in a while. Carina, Chaser, and I grew up together there. In Port Rumor.” She took the holo from him, studied it again. “Seems like a long time ago. Growing up, that is. Not this holo. This was only a few months ago.”

  “A birthday?” Rhis guessed, trying to fit the holo into the timeline of Trilby’s J files.

  “Hmm? Oh, no. I had—well, it was just another wild party.”

  He heard her stop mid-sentence, heard the attempted lightness in her tone. There was a reason for that party, one she wasn’t willing to share. He had a feeling it had to do with Grantforth. Or, rather, Grantforth’s absence.

  “Where was Dezi?”

  “Getting more liquor, where else?”

  “So Dasja Neadi does not have him tend bar?”

  “Dasjon Leonid,” she said, and Rhis nodded at her use of the term, “takes Dezi back to the kitchen to teach him to cook. That’s been an ongoing project. You probably noticed I do most of the cooking on board.”

  “A food replicator would be easier, no?”

  “A food replicator would cost money, yes.” She held up one hand and ticked items off on her fingers. “I need a new long-range sensor optical diffuser, new short-range optical filters, and my portside scanner’s on its last legs. I only have one really working crystal splicer—”

  “That I know well,” Rhis cut in dryly.

  “—and the main cargo door needs to be removed and rehung because some fool crashed a forklift into it last month, and if it falls off on my way to Bagrond I’m in deep shit. My AGSs need to be completely overhauled and have new stands put on, and,” she added, giving him a wary glance, “I probably shouldn’t be telling you this, but only one of my laser rifles works and my ion-cannon reservoir is down below half.

  “And you ask about a replicator?” She exhaled a sharp laugh. “Rhis-my-boy, talk to me about a fully charged complement of Lady-Fives instead. Then I wouldn’t be worrying about the ion cannon.”

  He knew the Venture was in bad shape. But her lack of defense options startled him. Only one working laser rifle and a dying ion cannon. “I thought your Conclave outlawed LD-Five torpedoes after the war.”

  “Oh, they did. But they’re not out here in the lanes, I am. And when they cut back on funds and manpower for patrols in Gensiira …”

  She didn’t have to finish her sentence. Rhis knew. The Conclave was turning its back on a region that had little to offer in the way of profits or pleasures. Not like the inner worlds of Quivera or Bagrond. All part of the Lissade Quadrant. Lissade was the United Intergalactic Conclave’s home base and as different from Gensiira as the Venture was from the Razalka.

  Then something that had bothered him about Neadi’s message came back into mind. “How did Dasja Neadi know to warn you and Bella’s Dream? Yes, I know, in a spaceport bar she would hear talk. But talk so specific?”

  “How do you think Port Rumor got its name? Not because of Neadi’s bar, which is called Flyboy’s, by the way. It’s because we’re close to where the borders of Gensiira, your own Yanir System, and the ’Sko’s Eilni intersect. Conclave. Zafharin. Ycsko.” She touched three invisible points in the air as she said the names. “That’s the only place that happens. And Port Rumor’s the closest cold beer.”

  The star charts played through Rhis’s mind, showing that same intersection. And now, from what he’d learned from her ship’s charts, traders’ lanes he’d not been aware of.

  “There are ’Sko expatriates who jump ship and look for refuge on Rumor, though not many,” Trilby continued. “Lots more Zafharin expats who don’t want the formalities of your Empire. And the usual assortment of bastards that results when the Conclave is thrown in. You may think your Empire is a safe distance away on Verahznar, Rhis. But believe me, anything you know there, we know of, sooner or later, on Rumor. And very often sooner. Freighters carry more than cargo, you know.”

  He did. It had never been brought home quite so well before. “And so Neadi hears … ?”

  “What Quivera or any of the political higher-ups are not yet willing to release. Or admit. And she heard that someone in the Conclave is looking to make some real profits. Knock out all the short-haulers like me. With ’Sko help.”

  Rhis straightened, his hands curling tightly around the top metal bar of the chair. Suddenly duty took on a very personal meaning. “Tell me,” he said, his voice suddenly serious, almost flat. “Tell me everything Dasja Neadi said.”

  Rhis sat in the lounge, waiting for the teakettle to chime. Life without a replicator. Life without a comfortable bed and soft, thick carpeting in his cabin. Life with a patched comm system, temperamental scanners, and only one ion cannon, half-dead at that.

  Life with Trilby Elliot, air sprite with only one working laser rifle. And a missing friend.

  Rhis thought he was beginning to understand how that friend was missing. And why.

  He’d listened to Trilby tell him of Neadi’s warning. Then, with her permission, he reviewed Neadi’s message itself. And he’d told Trilby a small part of what he had heard about the ’Sko—though not his part in verifying those rumors. It was still necessary for her to believe his ’Sko Tark was leftover from war games, his appearance on her doorstep due to mechanical failure.

  He couldn’t tell her of his being on Szedcafar. He heard Neadi question who, besides the Zafharin, would sleep with the ’Sko. And he knew Trilby wouldn’t believe his story.

  One man was simply not capable of infiltrating the ’Sko military base.

  But then, he was not one simple man.

  He’d been three days overdue at the recon point and had left strict orders with his command staff not to wait more than twelve hours for his return.

  He hadn’t anticipated the Ycsko removing him from their compound on Szed to one of their mother ships. Looking back, he realized he should have. But as Dasjon Admiral Vanushavor had liked to point out, he’d become reckless of late. Not careless. Reckless. It was as if he didn’t care if he lived or died.

  He didn’t. At least, at the time the infiltration of the compound on Szed was proposed, the success of the mission meant more to him than his life. And the mission had been a success. He did infiltrate the military base and relay the critical stolen data back to the Razalka. It was his own rescue that had been botched, and he’d been forced to take actions that were nearly fatal.

  Might have been, if not for Trilby. Avanar’s vampire snakes would’ve found him eventually. And he would have faded into the swamps and not be here now, piecing together information that made what he’d learned on Szed even more urgent.

  And he would not be here now, waiting for the kettle to chime so he could deliver a cup of hot tea to one Trilby Elliot, air sprite, freighter captain, and finder of lost Zafharin officers.

  As if on cue, a soft but shrill pinging sounded in the lounge.

  He performed his duty and headed for the ladderway.

  Trilby was back in command of her bridge. Dezi’s knee joints squeaked as he vacated the copilot’s seat and returned to navigation. Rhis handed her the steaming tea and placed his own mug in the holder on the copilot’s console.


  She pointed to a screen to his right. “Dezi and I worked up a list of all the short-haulers gone missing in the past two months, ones that fit Neadi’s profile. Departure, pickup, and cargo are all noted.”

  There were seven, including Bella’s Dream. Four had contracted through Rinnaker. Two from Grantforth. One from Norvind.

  He turned the list into data and the data into pinpoints on a star-chart grid. On the Razalka, that grid would be projected, suspended in a holograph over the large polished table in the ready room aft of upper level of the bridge. The best minds in the Empire would scrutinize it, tear it apart.

  Here his grid was flat on a comp screen. He absently tapped his lightpen on the table, waiting for his tea to cool, wondering just how much he could share with his air sprite and an old envoy ’droid.

  “Well?” Trilby asked.

  “I can understand why Dasja Neadi sees a problem.”

  “And?”

  He shook his head, took a sip of his tea. It was a good, strong brew, pungent. Almost Zafharin quality. “I have more questions than answers, Trilby Elliot.”

  “We’ve got two days yet before we reach Port Rumor. Neadi may know more then. Flyboy’s has been busy lately.”

  Rhis glanced at her. His air sprite had lost some of her sparkle again. The pleasant memories she’d shared with him in her cabin had led to more serious things. Things that led him to the conclusion that he was going to have to do those wogs-and-weemlies after all. The ones she was so worried about. The ones finding her files on Jagan Grantforth had halted.

  She was not two days from Port Rumor. She was three, perhaps five days from the Razalka, or the closest Imperial outpost, whichever he found first.

  Trilby Elliot wouldn’t be happy when he took control of her ship. That thought uncharacteristically rankled him.

  But he had to take control of something at this point and had a little over twenty-four hours in which to do so. The Venture presented a much easier prospect than controlling his inexplicable reactions to her captain.

  He had a feeling that both of his problems were going to let him get very little sleep again tonight.

  6

  Transit time on a run had a predictably boring routine. Like most freighter operators, Trilby tried to pattern her hours after the old dirtside rhythms. That meant at least six hours sleep at a time she designated as night. A large mug of coffee within fifteen minutes, first thing in the morning. And the rest of the day tending to little things to fill the time as the ship went from point A to point B.

  She pulled on her last clean T-shirt and pinged Dezi on intraship. “I’ll be on the bridge in ten. See Rhis yet?”

  “He’s not been to the bridge this morning, Captain. However, the galley was activated about an hour ago.”

  “Got it. Thanks.”

  Rhis was seated at the counter, portable pad on his right, coffee on his left. She took a quick glance, saw the freighter schedule data on his screen. “Anything?”

  “More questions.” He looked tired.

  She heard the frustration in his voice. Frustration over a problem that wasn’t his. That touched her, made her think about awarding him another bonus point. She refilled his coffee. “Please don’t tell me you were working on this all night. I told you to get some sleep. How’s your side?”

  He stretched his left arm. “Better.”

  Liar, she thought. I should’ve tranked him and locked him in sick bay. Of course, she’d have had to strip off his clothes again. That was a pleasant thought. She needed pleasant thoughts right now to chase away her worries over Carina.

  “I’m going to play captain on the bridge for a while. Give Dezi some downtime.”

  “I’ll be all right here.”

  She grabbed a large plastic mug, filled it with coffee, and snapped on a protective spill cap. She was often lax about loose items in the lounge, but never on the bridge. Everything was strapped down, sealed, and secured.

  “You know where to find me if you need me.”

  Dezi came back on duty at lunch.

  “Seen our lieutenant around?” she asked.

  “He was not in engineering when I left. And I didn’t see him in the corridors. However, it’s possible he’s in the lounge. After all, it’s approaching your lunch hour, and—”

  “That’s where I’m headed, Dez. Then I’ve got to get some chores started.” If she didn’t keep busy her mind would keep drifting back to Bella’s Dream. One more thing in her life she could do nothing about. “If you see him, tell him I’m looking for him.”

  She didn’t run into Rhis on the forward ladderway or in the corridor. The lounge was empty, spotlessly clean. She grabbed a swamp apple from the fridge and crunched on it on her way to her cabin. The crisp fruit was one of the few benefits of her excursions to Avanar.

  She was sorting laundry in her cabin when her door chimed. Dezi wouldn’t leave the bridge without advising her. So she knew with relative accuracy who stood on the other side even before she heard the muffled Zafharin voice call out. “Trilby?”

  She stepped around a pile of towels to slap at the panel. “Come on in.” And then caught his expression of bewilderment when he took in the state of her cabin.

  “Redecorating?”

  She waved one hand at him and then realized, as he averted his eyes, that what she also waved at him was her scanty flowered bra. Pillorian silk. Lace trimmed. She chuckled. “It’s either this,” she said with a sweeping motion, “or next shift I’m on the bridge totally naked.”

  Rhis opened his mouth then clamped it shut, and she was surprised to see the color heighten on his cheeks. She’d embarrassed him? She hadn’t thought it possible.

  She couldn’t resist. “Well, actually, if you remember, that was the way you and I started our relationship.”

  “That was not of my choosing.” He shoved his hands in his pockets and looked anywhere but the floor. Her empty closet seemed to have a particular fascination for him.

  “Don’t do much laundry duty, do you, Vanur?”

  Something distasteful flashed across his face, and his dark brows slanted into a frown. Ah, Pampered Imperial Arrogance. Slumming.

  “It’ll all be over soon.” She tossed the last towel on the pile. “Port Rumor’s about forty-eight hours from now. Then you can be on your way back to the much-improved, much-preferred Empire.”

  “Dezi doesn’t cook and now does not do laundry, yes?”

  “Not if you want to eat and have something to wear, no.” She grinned. His Zafharin accent and phrasing still sounded quaint to her. It gave him a unique, almost endearing quality. “Don’t they teach you about proper utilization of personnel in the Imperial Fleet Academy? Or is it just true that everyone in the Empire is perfect at every task, like those rumors I’ve heard?”

  “Rumors?” he asked in mock indignation. His eyes sparkled playfully. “You have known me now, what, three, four days, and you do not know that everything produced by the Zafharin embodies perfection?”

  Well, I have seen you naked, she almost said but then stopped, knowing that only proved his claim. Ah, well. She chuckled again, then, on a whim, grabbed a pile of towels from the floor. “Okay, Lieutenant Perfection, here you go.” She shoved the towels against him. “Some of them are yours, anyway. Glad to know they’ll all be spotless and perfectly folded within the hour.”

  He stared at her, his arms overflowing, clearly not expecting her demand. “This is not—”

  “Enough?” she cut in, grinning broadly. She snatched at the pile of silk and lace next to her. “Want more?”

  Rhis backed up a step. “No.”

  “Good.” She motioned down the corridor to her right. “Laundry is the third door on the left. Says L-One on the wall. Three cycles, all sonic, but only two work and you may have to smack the microdryer a few times to get it to kick on.”

  He switched a look from her to the towels in his arms. Then back again. A small furrow dug into his brow. “Elliot, this is really not—”
/>
  “One more word of complaint out of you, Vanur, and you will get my bras and panties too.”

  Again his gaze zigzagged back and forth. What was going on in that aristocratic head of his? Then he swore under his breath in Zafharish and turned, almost stumbling over the door tread as he strode down the corridor.

  A towel escaped from his grasp, falling onto the decking. Trilby saw it when she followed him. Laughing, she threw it after his retreating figure. “I like ’em nice and fluffy, Vanur. And neatly folded!”

  He glanced over his shoulder at her with an unreadable look. Trilby leaned against the bulkhead and laughed until her sides ached.

  Gods, it felt good to laugh. She wiped her eyes, then went back to her cabin to get the rest of the laundry, stuffing it into a canvas duffel. In her brief exchange with Rhis she’d forgotten for the moment her concerns for Carina, her hurt over Jagan, her worries of how she was going to pay for everything she needed just to survive. She knew he had enjoyed the light verbal game as much as she had. She’d seen the sly smile on his mouth, the mirth dancing in his eyes.

  More than enjoyed it: he’d encouraged it. He could have shut her down with a quick, biting comment. Or just walked out. She felt he would have two days ago. But now …

  Now things were different. Or starting to become different. There was a camaraderie. Maybe this was the real Rhis Vanur, not the arrogant, demanding, cold man who had lunged at her in sick bay, almost ending her life. That man had been in physical pain and no little amount of fear. She could see that now.

  She lugged the rest of the laundry down the corridor, thinking maybe her Zafharin lieutenant wasn’t quite that bad, after all.

  She waited an hour before checking his progress. How much damage could he do to a load of towels? She found him smacking the front of the dryer with the flat of his hand. Pounding it with his fist, he informed her, didn’t have the same positive result. The unit whined and grumbled as if in agreement. She grabbed a stack of freshly folded towels and hid her laughter in their softness.

  The corridor suddenly resounded with a loud, discordant wail.