A wry smile played across his face. One of the more entertaining examples of Conclave technology. He’d talk to Trilby about getting the ’droid a complete overhaul. His tendency toward verbal ramblings was, if nothing else, a waste of energy.
He strode up the rampway, some of his lassitude abating. It was almost 0330 on his biotime. His and Trilby’s. His mind filled with a dozen different ways to wake her. He could almost feel the softness of her skin against his mouth, smell the intoxicating powdery scent of her. He imagined her saying yav cheron in a shy but passionate voice. He laid his hand against the Venture’s palm pad and realized his hands were sweating, the front of his uniform pants uncomfortably tight.
He heard the lock cycle, then click twice. But the hatchway door stayed closed.
Conclave technology, he reminded himself, but wiped his hand down his sleeve before trying again. Conclave technology and hormones.
It cycled, clicked twice, and went dead. The red entry denied light glowed brightly.
He frowned. Perhaps an interface glitch? The ship was segued into Imperial technology now.
He stepped back to the docking podium at the foot of the ramp, activated the intercom. “Venture, the hatch lock is not responding.”
He waited. Nothing happened.
“Venture, there is a problem with the hatch lock. This is Rhis.”
Nothing. He checked the status lights on the podium. Everything showed green. Maybe Trilby was asleep and Dezi involved in some maintenance function that prevented his responding.
Several more minutes passed. The ache in his side resurrected itself. He punched the intercom button again. “Trilby? Dezi? Open the—”
It opened.
Trilby Elliot stood in the air lock in her faded green T-shirt and baggy flight pants. Her service jacket, embroidered with the Venture’s name on the sleeve, was tied around her waist. Her pistol, holstered but not locked, hung from underneath it.
The strap of her laser rifle looped over one shoulder. She cradled the weapon in her hands, and as he took a step forward, he heard the distinctive snick of the safety being unlocked.
He stopped. Her face was pale, her lips drawn in a thin line. There were smudges down her cheeks but her eyes were dry, steady, penetrating. And as cold as the glaciers on Chevienko.
His throat felt hot in comparison. He rasped out her name. “Trilby-chenka?”
“This,” she said in an eerily quiet voice, “is one of the rifles that works.” She tilted the barrel slightly upward. If she pressed the trigger, the charge would hit him in the throat.
“I don’t understand.”
“But I do, Tivahr. You’re a lying, manipulating bastard.”
Lying? He hadn’t lied—
Tivahr. She called him Tivahr. Some of Chevienko’s icy chill gripped his chest. He now knew what he’d forgotten.
Once he explained, surely she’d understand. The precariousness of his position. The urgency of the situation with the ’Sko. The way that his feelings for her had so completely obliterated everything else from his mind.
She raised the rifle, braced it against her shoulder.
“Get. Off. My. Ramp.” She activated the target lock. He saw the thin red beam flick on, knew without looking down that it highlighted the center of his chest.
“Bastard,” she hissed.
He backed up a step. Anger surged through him. Anger and a sense of loss, of desolation so complete that it took all his strength not to double over. It sucked the air out of his lungs, the life from his body, would have stopped even his heart from beating.
But he didn’t have a heart anymore. He’d given it to her.
“Please. Trilby.” His voice was raw. “Let’s discuss this. Calmly.”
“Discuss?” She laughed harshly. “Yeah, that’s what Jagan said too. Let’s discuss this, darling. Fucking liars. Both of you.”
Her comparison stung like crazed firewasps against his skin. Jagan’s duplicity and smooth words surfaced, prickling against his conscience. “I am not Jagan Grantforth,” he protested.
“No. You’re Tivahr. The Senior Captain Tivahr. You say ‘jump’ and the entire universe says ‘how high and when.’ Well, I’m not jumping anymore. And you have ten seconds to get off my ramp. Nine.” She shifted position, locked her fingers on the trigger. “Eight—”
“We will talk tomorrow. I can explain everything, I promise.”
“Six …”
He turned, shoved his hands in his pockets, and made sure he held his head high as he walked away.
Rhis stared at the ceiling of the small barracks sleeping room and realized he didn’t even know his cubicle number. Nor did he care. Just as he didn’t care about the odd look the quartermaster in ops gave him when he’d demanded a sleeping room. Nor about the raised eyebrows of two of Gurdan’s team he’d stormed past in the corridor. He’d made it clear he was going back to the Conclave freighter. What in hell was Tivahr the Terrible doing on the barracks level?
What in hell, indeed.
He swallowed hard. This was hell. Worse than his interrogation by the ’Sko. Because the ’Sko he could fight against. The ’Sko he could hate.
He didn’t want to fight with Trilby. He wanted to make love to her. And he couldn’t hate her. Because she was right. He had lied, not so much to protect himself but to ensure her cooperation. He wanted her—
Yav chera.
—for selfish reasons. And he saw her flirt and laugh with Rhis Vanur in ways that he knew she never would with Khyrhis Tivahr. Tivahr the Terrible.
He knew what people called him, not only here but in the Conclave. Saw the fear that had flickered in her eyes at the mention of the Razalka.
And so Rhis Vanur was born. Rhis, who could be everything that Khyrhis was not. He shed the legend, the superstition, the rumors. And the truths. And reinvented himself. Into someone he hoped Trilby Elliot might love.
And she had. Hadn’t she?
Yav chera.
He woke hungry, edgy, and with the unaccustomed feeling that his life had somehow spun out of control. The crowd in the officer’s mess annoyed him. What in hell were all these people doing eating at this ungodly hour of the morning? The lines at the replicators were long, and trays were heavily laden with portions.
Morning. The numbers on the time panel caught his eye: 1830. It was dinnertime on station. But to his body, it was almost 0600—0545 to be exact. He’d lain in the sleeping room for two hours, slept maybe twenty minutes.
He stepped away from the line, headed for the coffee dispensers. A broad body blocked the panel in front of him. The gray-uniformed man filled a mug, then turned. Something flickered in the man’s eyes, then he nodded. “Captain Tivahr.”
It took a moment for Rhis’s brain to register the rank on the man’s collar. “Major.” He shouldered brusquely past the man, grabbed a mug, and held it under the spigot.
There were no unoccupied tables in the lounge. The gray-clad Stegzarda filled most of the room. Fleet personnel sat by the door. He saw the burly major—Mitkanos, he remembered now, recognizing the wide mouth, the bent nose—at a table with a young woman. Security Chief Mitkanos. He had turned over the problem of Trilby’s message to Neadi to him.
He was standing at Mitkanos’s table before he realized he was there.
Mitkanos and the young woman were staring at him.
“I assigned Captain Elliot to you last night.”
Mitkanos leaned back in his chair. “That was this afternoon. Sir.”
He blinked. Station time. Of course. “I’m aware of that, Major,” he snapped. “Was her request handled?”
“Rimanava sent Captain Elliot’s message herself.” Mitkanos nodded to the young woman, whose hands tightly clenched her mug of tea.
Rhis saw the apprehension in her eyes, just as he saw the defiance hinted at in Mitkanos’s casual posture. He’d never met the man before last night—this afternoon, he corrected himself. But the battle crests on Mitkanos’s sleeve told him the
older man had been around awhile. Long enough to remember when the Stegzarda held power in this sector. Long enough to remember when the Fleet had taken it away from them.
He turned to the young woman. “What’s your rank, Rimanava?”
“Corporal, sir.”
“You on duty now, Corporal?”
“No, sir. Not until tomorrow morning.”
“I don’t have that kind of time to waste. Send a copy of Captain Elliot’s message to me in Briefing Room One. You have five minutes.”
He turned and strode for the door, ignoring the table of Fleet officers who rose and saluted as he stormed by.
He saw alarm flash in Gurdan’s eyes when he stepped into the briefing room. The lieutenant stood up, stiffly. “You’re early, Captain.”
“There’s work to do, Lieutenant. And unless I’m around, it doesn’t seem to get done.” He took his seat at the head of the conference table, tabbed on the screen. It blinked into solidity in front of him.
He scanned the files. “How far have you gotten?”
“We should have a complete analysis within the hour.”
“Should? Should is unacceptable. You will.”
“Yes, sir.” Gurdan nodded briefly, then bent over to speak to one of his team at a wall console.
Rhis tapped the screen, opened one of the files he’d taken from the ’Sko. Dates and coordinates spilled past him. But now ship names and cargo overlay the data. Good. Good. Gurdan’s people had picked up on the patterns he’d found, fleshed them out.
He drummed his fingers against his mustache. His mouth was dry. Coffee—
He glanced to his right. Then his left. Coffee. He’d left his coffee at Mitkanos’s table.
The briefing-room doors slid open. Corporal Rimanava walked in. She put a cup of coffee on the table next to him, then clasped her hands behind her back and stood, waiting.
Waiting for what? Surely she didn’t expect him to thank her for bringing his coffee. “Yes, Corporal?”
“I sent that copy you requested three minutes ago, sir. I wanted to make sure you received it.”
Copy? Oh, bloody hell. He touched his screen, moved the analysis data, saw his message box flashing. His fingers reached for it before he could stop them. The transit ID grayed out, then Trilby was staring at him, her large green eyes sparkling, her mouth pursed in a small smile.
He knew that mouth, knew what it felt like, knew what it tasted like.
“Captain Trilby Elliot here, Independent freighter transit ID 1015–2711.” She paused after the requisite ID. “Hello, Neadi, old friend—”
His fingers darted to the screen, freezing the message, halting her greeting. But her face still looked at him, her lips slightly parted to begin her next word. Or to entice a kiss.
He blanked the screen, but he could still see her. See her smile. The way she wrinkled her nose. He swallowed hard. He thought her message to Neadi might give him some clue as to how to reach her, to get her to talk to him again. But it only made him want to bolt out of his chair and take the maintenance stairs two at a time down to the station docks. Outrun even the lifts.
But he couldn’t do that. She still had one laser rifle that worked.
He slumped back in his chair, covered his eyes with one hand. And then remembered the efficient Corporal Rimanava was still standing there.
Bloody fucking hell.
Fatigue washed over him. He wiped his hand down his face, turned to her. “Thank you, Rimanava. I got the message,” he said quietly.
“You’re welcome, sir.” She nodded curtly, spun on her heels, and walked out.
He turned back to his screen but saw Gurdan first. The lieutenant’s thin face was expressionless. Rhis read volumes in it.
“Reports are ready?” He forced a harsh note into his voice.
“Compiling the final tabulations now, Captain.”
“Advise me when they’re done.” He touched the report he’d been working on when Rimanava had walked in, dragged it back to the center of his screen, concentrated on it.
But he was drawn to the time stamp on his screen: 1845. To Trilby’s body, it was more like 0600. She might be awake. Maybe he should try to reach her. But if she were, then she’d had almost as little sleep as he had.
No, let her sleep. Let her anger die down. They were both overly tired. Tempers were thin. Brains were foggy.
Let her sleep. The Venture wasn’t going anywhere. At least not until he said so. And not just because of the docking clamps securely locked onto her ship.
But because of another of those wogs-and-weemlies she’d been so afraid of.
He’d amended all her command codes. Her ship would respond to maintenance, life support, communications. But her engines, for all intents and purposes, were dead. Unless he was on board to input his overrides.
He initially intended to use the program if she refused to return to the Empire. He’d left it in place when he became worried she’d go dashing off into ’Sko territory, looking for Carina. Keeping her safe was becoming a passion for him.
It never occurred to him to mention the program when they made Degvar. He’d done nothing to make her feel like a prisoner. If she wanted to leave, she most likely would request permission to depart through Degvar ops, which would come to him.
And they would … discuss it.
Then he remembered the way she’d stared at him down the barrel of her rifle.
He hoped she wouldn’t try something crazy, like breaking dock and bolting off station. There wasn’t enough juice left in her laser banks to even singe the docking clamps. And besides, when she went to bring the engines online, they weren’t going to respond.
And that, he knew, would really piss her off.
He leaned back in his chair, realized with mild surprise that Gurdan was gone. He hadn’t noticed him leave. But his message file was flashing. The report was done.
Good. His gaze drifted out the viewport. His mind traveled down seven decks and halfway around the station. He drummed his fingers on his mustache.
No, not his air sprite. She wouldn’t be that crazy.
11
Lieutenant Gurdan rose stiffly from one of the well-worn chairs in front of the lounge viewport and nodded to Trilby.
“I appreciate your time, Captain Elliot.” He closed his datapad with a snap, tucked it under his arm.
Trilby stood also, the strap of the laser rifle trailing through her fingers. Gurdan was polite and professional during their entire one-hour interview about Bella’s Dream, Rinnaker, and GGA. He never once mentioned the weapon lying casually on the small table next to her. Nor that the small green indicator lights showed it was fully primed.
She hooked the strap over her shoulder, offered him her hand. “I appreciate your thoroughness, Lieutenant. Bella’s Dream is just another Indy freighter to you. But Carina and her brother are my lifelong friends.”
“Bella’s Dream is symptomatic of a much larger problem. One that threatens not only the Independent freighter trade and your Conclave, but our Empire as well. Every incident must be looked at very closely right now.”
She walked him to the air lock, her hand tightening on the rifle as the hatch slid open. But only a Degvar dockhand lingered in the waiting area. She relaxed. “Is there anything else you’ll need from me?” she asked.
“I cannot think of anything.” He patted the datapad. “Your logs are very complete.”
“Then I’m free to go?”
He stepped through the hatchway and turned back to her. “I personally do not know of any further information my team needs from you. But perhaps you should check with Captain Tivahr. He’s most likely still in Briefing Room One. The Razalka is due in at 0200. Station time,” he added.
That was about six hours from now. Middle of the afternoon for her. Middle of the night for Degvar. “Why would that delay me?”
“The Razalka has her own personnel working this problem. And this is their sector. They may want to view your logs and schedule
s.”
“Can’t they just use your notes?” She pointed to his pad. “You have everything right there.”
“The crew of the Razalka prefers to conduct their own investigations.”
Well, then this was just a phenomenal waste of time. Trilby secured the hatch door behind Gurdan’s retreating figure and stomped down the corridor to the bridge.
She braced her arms against the back of her chair and stared out the wide forward viewport. Degvar curved off to her right. She could see various lights winking from the viewports on the different levels, and large darkened areas where the space station’s outer hull hid recessed weapons bays. Another docking ramp spiked out in front of her, about six ship lengths away. It was empty. She wondered if the Razalka would dock there or if it were too large and would simply hang in geosynchronous orbit, utilizing shuttles.
She heard Dezi’s footsteps as he clanked over the hatch tread. Her fingers smoothed down a wrinkled piece of duct tape that patched an old tear on the headrest. “I need you to plot me the shortest course to the border.”
“We’ve received clearance to depart?”
“No. And I doubt we will.” She traced the frayed piece of tape, her mind working. “The docking clamps Degvar uses are similar to the ones on Bagrond. Remember the time their main system fritzed out? We were all stuck. But I had that real good trike run to Quivera waiting. We had to go.”
“I remember the incident well, Captain.”
She turned, a wicked grin on her lips. “So do I, Dez. So do I. I’m going to get my tool kit and drag out the old EVA suit. If anyone asks where I am, I’m in the shower. Or napping.”
She trotted down the forward ladderway, whistling.
It took her less than five minutes to suit up and exit from the Venture’s portside airlock. She lectured herself while she worked, dangling in zero g from the side of her ship not facing Degvar Station. All bad things happen for a good reason, Trilby-girl! There you were, locked onto the station, the Quivera run dwindling before your eyes. So you got pissed off enough to get out there and gut the damned clamp locks—and learn a thing or two about station mechanisms.
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