Finders Keepers

by Linnea Sinclair

  The silver-haired man saluted as Rhis reached the last step. He was younger than indicated by the color of his hair. His dark eyes were bright and there was an air of amiable trustworthiness about him. “Captain Tivahr.”

  “Commander Demarik.” Rhis returned the salute crisply. “Tell Jankova I need her full team in my ready room in twenty minutes.”

  “Acknowledged, Captain. However, Lord Minister Kospahr has been using it as his office.”

  “What—?”

  “Captain Tivahr.” A portly man in an elegant dark suit pushed himself out of the chair behind Demarik. The captain’s chair. Rhis clenched his teeth, felt a muscle in his jaw begin to throb.

  Kospahr. What in hell was that egotistical bureaucrat doing on his ship? In his command chair? Why in hell hadn’t he been warned about this?

  He saluted Kospahr, wishing he could offer a different hand gesture instead. “Lord Minister. What a surprise.”

  “You’re out of uniform, Tivahr. You look a disgrace.”

  “I don’t think you’ve come all the way from Council Chambers on Verahznar to tell me that.”

  “I came all the way from Council Chambers because you’ve been absent for over a month. Captain.” Kospahr took a step forward. Demarik took a step away from him, a brief flash of distaste on his usually pleasant features. The shorter man didn’t seem to notice. “My cousin the emperor needed answers.”

  His cousin the emperor. Kospahr always said those four words as if they were one. More likely his cousin the emperor—who was in truth his second cousin—was tired of listening to him whine.

  Rhis inclined his head with the barest semblance of respect. “I’ve already prepared a detailed report for Emperor Kasmov.”

  “Good. I’ll review it before you send it to him.”

  Demarik moved across the bridge behind Kospahr, leaning over shoulders, conferring with various bridge crew. Rhis recognized the familiar procedure. The Razalka was preparing to lock into synchronized docking orbit with the station. She was too large to use any of the ramps.

  Rhis purposely looked past Kospahr. “Mister Demarik.”

  Demarik turned. “Sir?”

  “Get Jankova’s team in my ready room. Minister Kospahr will have to find someplace else to have his tea party. I’m on my way to the shuttle now.”

  He strode toward the lower-level doors and was glad when they shut behind him, cutting off Kospahr’s sputtering protestations.

  He strapped himself into a seat on the left side of the shuttle, knowing that as the small ship pulled out of the station’s bay, he’d have a clear view of the Venture through the viewport. The freighter was dwarfed by the station, looking small and battered. Her bridge lights were still dark. No reason to sit on the bridge if the engines were dead.

  The long, deltoid form of the Razalka came into view as the shuttle turned. Spiky with weapons turrets and braking vanes, she was an example of Imperial technology at its best. Her hull sparkled with lights. All departments were active. The captain was on his way in.

  Demarik and the Razalka’s chief medical officer were waiting in the air lock when the shuttle docked in the large bay. Overhead lights blinked green twice as enviro kicked on.

  He returned Demarik’s salute, then held up his hand to stop his CMO’s anticipated order. “No, I am not going to sick bay right now. I need to change my uniform and meet with my team in my ready room.”

  “Your report indicated you suffered injuries.” The CMO rocked back on his heels and eyed Rhis from head to toe. He wasn’t a tall man but stockily built, with a round face that looked even rounder under his balding head.

  “And my report also stated I am suffering no ill effects from those same injuries.”

  “And if you were, you wouldn’t tell me anyway.”

  “Very astute, Doctor.” Rhis handed Demarik a small packet. “There’s some classified data in there I’d like you and Jankova to review. After the meeting,” he added over his shoulder as he headed for the air lock. Demarik hurried to keep up with Rhis’s long strides.

  “Additionally,” he said as they proceeded into the corridor, “I need an explanation from you regarding Kospahr’s presence on my ship. I need to know how long he’s been here, what he’s done, who he’s spoken to.” They halted in front of the lift. “I don’t like surprises, Demarik.”

  “Yes, sir. I’m sure you know I did everything I could to prevent this.”

  “Not enough, obviously,” he said coolly. “Not enough.”

  Rhis rested his chin in his hand and watched Commander Jankova and her team pull his data apart. On one end of the conference table in his ready room, a multilevel holograph of the shared border regions of the Empire’s Yanir System and the Conclave’s Gensiira rotated slowly just above the small projector set into the tabletop. Cosaros and Bervanik argued quietly, adjusting the projection’s parameters as it turned.

  At the center of the long table, Hana Jankova stood in front of a thin screen, her copper-colored hair glinting as the room’s overhead lights played down on it. Her arms were crossed over her chest. Her brows were drawn into a frown over her bright blue eyes.

  Standing next to her was Lieutenant Osmar, a lightpen in his hand. He stabbed at a line of data. Jankova shook her head in disagreement.

  Rhis watched, listened, and, at least for now, said nothing. He knew where the problems were, knew the locations of gaps in the data, the glaring inconsistencies. But pointing these out to his tactical team wasn’t the same as letting them find and follow the trails themselves.

  For the trails, he knew, would eventually lead to the source.

  The Ycsko.

  And GGA.

  The ready-room doors slid open with an almost-silent hiss. Rhis glanced to the left, saw Demarik enter, and give a small nod to Jankova. The slightest upturn of her mouth was her only answer.

  Rhis had known about their relationship for over eight months. Had tolerated it only because Demarik was the best exec in the Fleet, and Jankova had one of the sharpest tactical minds in the Empire.

  He’d said nothing to either of them when he realized what was going on. He didn’t have to. He’d worked with Zak Demarik for more than ten years. He’d mentored Jankova for five, since she’d come out of the academy at the top of her class. His opinion of “emotional entanglements” as a waste of valuable time and energy was well known not only to them but to every one of his crew.

  Malika had taught him that well, twenty years ago. It was a lesson he’d never forgotten. Until he met Trilby.

  He turned his face toward the room’s high viewport, letting his hand drop from his chin. He rested it on the arm of his chair and clenched his fist. Maybe it was a lesson he now had to remember. His air sprite had already skewed his life, deprived him of sleep, muddied his thinking. She was giving him an out, with her lone working laser rifle. He should be thankful. Let her go. Forget her.

  Something squeezed his chest, hard. Painfully.

  In his mind, he saw the kill order in the ’Sko transmit. It was his duty to protect her.

  But another part of his mind argued, Let the Conclave protect her. She was an Indy trader. She was their responsibility, not his.

  He had to let her go. She’d do all right. She was bright, gutsy. A survivor. They hadn’t really become involved. They’d made love one time. A response to the stress of the situation. It had made them both overly sensitive, overly emotional.

  There was no place for emotions on the Razalka. She wouldn’t fit in here. She was unorthodox, impulsive. Distracting.

  Enchanting. Enticing.

  Damn it!

  He had to forget her. He had to let her go.

  “Captain?” There was a note of urgency in Jankova’s voice.

  He sat upright. “What is it?”

  She hesitated only slightly before answering. “You’ve cut your hand.”

  He looked down, saw the thin stream of blood flowing down his wrist. In his fingers were the shards of his lightpen
. He didn’t remember grabbing it from the table. He didn’t remember snapping it in half.

  He pushed himself to his feet, saw the looks of concern and confusion on Jankova and Demarik’s faces. Osmar’s eyes were wide. Cosaros studied the holograph with a new intensity.

  Bloody hell. Literally.

  “It’s nothing. I’ll go clean up.” He tossed the broken pen on the table, belatedly remembering the units were supposed to be indestructible.

  So much for Imperial technology.

  He strode through the ready-room doors, his fist still clenched.

  She had tea by herself, though both Fleet and Stegzarda personnel wandered in and out of the mess hall during the twenty minutes she sat, steeped in the game of hurry-up-and-wait.

  With every heavy footstep she heard Rhis. She steeled herself, forced herself not to turn but to stare at the darkened viewports, looking for the reflection of a tall, broad-shouldered form.

  Degvar was filled with a goodly assortment of tall, broad-shouldered forms. But none set off her internal warning sirens nor made her heart skip a beat. She didn’t have to turn around. She’d know if he were walking toward her.

  He never did.

  She damned him, damned herself, and finally shoved her empty mug in the disposal and trudged back to her ship. It was the middle of the afternoon on her bioclock, but she was exhausted. The hot tea, instead of reviving her, made her lethargic.

  She wrapped herself in the purple quilt and told her cabin lights to dim. The Razalka was due in shortly. Might already be sitting out on skim, for all she knew. If someone needed to talk to her, they’d know where to find her. It wasn’t like she could go anywhere else.

  Damn him.

  The plaintive tones of her cabin’s intercom woke her. She climbed out of a muzzy-headed sleep, aching and disoriented. It took her a moment to slap the touchpad on the wall next to her bed.

  “Elliot,” she croaked. She kicked the quilt off her legs.

  “Captain, I have a Corporal Rimanava at the air lock.” Dezi’s voice was irritatingly chipper. “She would like to know if you care to join her for breakfast.”

  Breakfast? The red numbers on her time panel showed ship’s time of 1800 hours. Dinner, her stomach told her.

  She pushed her hand through her hair. She’d slept over six hours. “A minute, Dez.” She muted the intercom. “Lights.”

  The illumination in her cabin increased, flickered, then steadied. Damned generator! What next?

  She tabbed off the mute. “I fell asleep,” she told him. “I’m …” She peered in the mirror. Gods. She looked like she’d slept in a windstorm. But she was hungry.

  “I’ll be a few minutes. Hell. Send her down to my cabin.” Farra Rimanava looked like an understanding sort. After all, she’d survived with Mitkanos as her uncle.

  She’d dragged a clean T-shirt over her head and managed to do something with her short mop of thick hair when her cabin door chimed. “Come.”

  Farra walked in, her long hair neatly braided, her gray uniform spotless.

  Trilby grabbed her service jacket. Dark green and frayed on the cuffs. She returned the young woman’s smile.

  “Welcome on board the Careless Venture. Sorry I didn’t meet you at the ramp. I just woke up.”

  “Uncle Yavo says it takes full day to get body and station on same time, vad?”

  “Usually I ignore station time. I hit too many of them.” Which was why spaceport pubs like Flyboy’s and stations bars in places like Bagrond prospered. Someone was always coming in, hungry and thirsty and looking for a good time. Or trouble. Which often turned out to be the same thing.

  “You have seen many places, then? This I find fasten-ing. No.” Farra shook her head.

  “Fascinating,” Trilby supplied, pulling on her jacket.

  “Ah, yes! Fascinating. I need much to learn Standard. We have breakfast, share tea. You talk to me in Standard. Uncle Yavo says I learn much.”

  “I’d like that, thanks.” She stepped into the corridor, motioned Farra ahead of her. They climbed the ladderway to the bridge corridor and found Dezi waiting by the hatch lock.

  “I’m going with Corporal Rimanava to have some dinner. Or breakfast. If anyone comes looking for me—”

  “Captain Tivahr was here several hours ago,” Dezi said.

  Trilby froze. “While I was sleeping?” She’d given Dezi strict orders not to permit Tivahr on board. But she doubted that the DZ-9 would be able to stop him, if the Senior Captain of the Razalka really wanted access. So that meant he’d left of his own accord. She wondered why Dezi hadn’t called her.

  “No. Before you returned,” the ’droid said. “But when you came back on board you said to hold all messages for at least two hours.”

  Yes, she did. She remembered that now. Her eyes had been rapidly closing.

  “And then when I checked on you, you were asleep. May I say I think you needed the rest? Besides, Captain Tivahr’s message did not appear to be urgent.”

  “What message?”

  “He said, ‘Yav chera.’ ” He looked at Farra. “Did I pronounce that correctly, Corporal? My linguistic chip does not contain many Zafharish parameters.”

  Trilby leaned against the bulkhead and closed her eyes briefly. Her throat felt suddenly tight. She swallowed hard.

  “Bastard!” she hissed.

  “No,” Farra said, with a slight frown. “It does not mean that. It means—”

  “I know what it means,” Trilby said hurriedly. She pushed herself away from the bulkhead, slapped at the hatch-lock release. The hatch slid sideways, letting in a gust of cool station air. “It means,” she said, as Farra stepped onto the ramp beside her, “that he’s not only a bastard, he’s a lying bastard.”

  They threaded their way past station technicians and dockworkers in silence. But they were the only ones waiting for the lift. Farra spoke after the doors closed.

  “He said this, when he pretends to be this Vanur person? He tells you, ‘Yav chera’?”

  Trilby stared at the numbers flashing on the overhead readout. “Yeah,” she said after a moment, feeling her cheeks starting to burn.

  Farra shook her head knowingly. “Maybe not tea then, Captain Elliot. I think, no, you need something stronger. Coffee? Or you like to try a glass of our famous Yaniran fedka?”

  The Yaniran liquor was highly potent. Leonid let her try a sip once. It had made her eyes water.

  “At breakfast?” Trilby asked with a wry smile.

  “We have saying on my home station. When mizzet farts in air duct, high and low suffer stink.” She clasped her hand on Trilby’s shoulder. “Come. We go see Uncle Yavo. Drink a toast to farting mizzets. Then we go eat. Breakfast. Dinner. No matter.”

  Drink a toast to farting mizzets? What the hell. It was the best offer she’d had in a long time.

  Trilby folded the thick slice of bread in half and dunked it in her soup. “Looks like we got here just ahead of the crowd.” She motioned to a large group of black-uniformed personnel coming through the doors of the officers’ lounge.

  Farra’s knife hesitated over her breakfast as she glanced up. “Not our people.”

  “I know. Fleet.”

  “Razalka,” Farra said. She stabbed a thick chunk of fried fruit. “They are Razalka crew. See their …” And she shoved the fruit into her mouth, her free hand circling the emblem on her uniform.

  “Insignia,” Trilby said. So this was crew from his ship. Interesting. After two glasses of fedka with Yavo Mitkanos, that information barely fazed her.

  She nibbled on her bread. It was deliciously soggy.

  “In-sig-ni-a.” Farra tested the word.

  “How long have they been docked here?”

  “Not docked.” Farra’s hand circled in the air this time.

  Trilby nodded. “Synchronous orbit. We call it ‘sitting out,’ or ‘sitting out on skim.’ The big tri-haulers have to do that a lot. And if they’re in for more than a trike, we call them ‘shuttle sl
uts.’ ”

  “Sluts?” Farra giggled wickedly.

  “You know. Big ships have a lot of personnel. They suck up all the available shuttles.”

  “Good language, your Standard!”

  Trilby studied the group waiting at the replicators. She could see the difference now. It was more than just the design of the insignia. It was their spotless uniforms, their unmarred boots. Their datalyzers, weapons holstered perfectly as if they’d all been stamped out by the same machine.

  It was also in the way they held themselves, backs straight, shoulders level, eyes straight ahead. Arrogance on the hoof.

  And not a one of them was smiling.

  Poor bastards. She sipped her coffee.

  Three more Fleet officers strolled in, and she immediately recognized they weren’t off the Razalka. For one thing, they strolled. For another, the two men and one woman were talking animatedly. They had Degvar emblems on their chests. And smiles on their faces.

  They headed for her table, and only as she saw the widening smile on Farra’s face did she realize this wasn’t a chance meeting.

  Farra introduced them. “My friend Lucho, his sister Leesa. And cousin Dallon.”

  Lucho had a shy smile and the same thick brown hair as his sister. He unclipped two chairs from an empty table and dragged them over, locking his into place next to Farra. So this, Trilby thought, is the reason she defends the Fleet to Uncle Yavo.

  She shook his hand, then Leesa’s, while Dallon unclipped an empty chair from a table farther away. He hooked it to the decking between Trilby and Leesa.

  “Dasja Captain.” He took the hand she offered, but instead of shaking it, brought it to his lips and brushed it with a light kiss.

  His hair was a richer glossy brown than his cousins’ and he wore it long, pulled back into a tail and tied with a black cord. He was several years older. Mid thirties, Trilby guessed. Not boyishly cute—and she had to admit Lucho was cute—like his cousin. But attractive, in a rugged, almost roguish way.