Trial and Temptation (Mandrake Company)

by Ruby Lionsdrake

  “If you are permanently hired,” Thatcher said, “you will then be paid regularly and you will be eligible for combat bonuses.”

  Yes, she was counting on those combat bonuses. The base pay itself was much better than she had earned hauling freight—even if she was about to have to endure daily hours of physical training that hadn’t been a part of her life for a long time—but she would need more than that to keep her brother from going from jail to the mines. Oh, Yarrow. Life wasn’t supposed to work out this way…

  “After one year of employment,” Thatched continued, “you’ll be added to the pool and can expect a percentage of earnings when the payout is greater than the costs of maintenance, repairs, and salaries.”

  “A share in the company, essentially.”

  “Yes.”

  If that was a year out, she had better not speculate on that money now. “Anything else?” Val nudged her duffel bag with her boot. The ship’s cycle wasn’t synced with the station’s, and it was well after midnight to her body.

  “You’ll share Cabin 37 with Private Sahara. It’s on Deck Three.” Thatcher touched something on his tablet. “I’m sending you maps, ship’s rules, pilots’ rules, and meal acquisition data now.”

  Meal acquisition data… Who said these things? “Not going to offer to take me on a tour of the ship and show me the sights in person, sir?”

  “You would not find the map preferable?”

  To spending time with him, yes. But what kind of commander didn’t at least find some off-shift private to give the new person a tour? “Well, I don’t know anyone here, sir.”

  He looked at her… in confusion? His utterly bland expression was so similar to his perplexed expression. It was hard to tell.

  “It’d be nice to be introduced to people,” Val added, in case he truly was perplexed. Hell, maybe he couldn’t imagine someone wanting to do anything except running off to one’s own cabin to familiarize oneself with one’s new home digitally. And alone. She’d never known anything about his social life when he’d been instructing cadets, but given his aloofness, maybe he hadn’t had one.

  “I sent a roster of the ship’s personnel, as well, but if you wish a tour and introductions, that can be arranged.” The words came out calmly and confidently, but he gave her that little perplexed I-can’t-figure-you-out look again. “Do you wish me to give it?”

  Hell, no. “Never mind, sir. I’ll ask the roommate you mentioned.” A roommate, after having an entire freighter ship to herself on most runs. Wouldn’t this be fun? “If there’s nothing else…?” She picked up the duffel and hefted it over her shoulder.

  “Only one other matter.” Thatcher frowned at her—at her chest specifically. “Captain Mandrake insists that a uniform isn’t necessary for a mercenary company with little more than a hundred soldiers.” Something it sounded like he didn’t approve of… “However, this crew is ninety percent male, some with felonious pasts. You may wish to dress less revealingly.”

  Revealingly? Val gaped at him. The only skin showing was that of her face, neck, and her hands. Yes, her breasts filled out her blouse nicely, and maybe the garment was the teensiest bit snug in that area, and maybe she didn’t have all of the buttons done up, but she had butt-hugger skirts and shirts that dipped to her belly button. This was chaste by most people’s standards.

  “You’re saying the crew won’t be able to keep from pawing me unless I wear a bag? Aren’t there rules against that?” Val held up her own tablet, which had presumably received his files by now.

  “There are rules forbidding physical contact. Verbal crudeness is rarely punished.” His lips pursed with… disapproval? That was mostly how things had been in the GalCon military, too, but maybe he found the mercenaries more savage and lawless in comparison. So, what had caused him to leave his cushy teaching job to come here, then?

  No, she didn’t care. About his past or about him. The sooner she got away from his uncomfortable presence and went about proving herself capable for this job, the better.

  “Thanks for the tip, sir.” Val didn’t bother to add a smile to soften her sarcasm that time.

  She wished she could think of some advice to give him on his clothing choice, but his boots were shined, his trousers pressed, and not so much as a wrinkle or a piece of hair plagued his shirt or jacket. Sighing, she walked out the door and strode down the corridor, only to realize she had no idea where she was going. She pulled out her tablet.

  “You would not find a map more preferable?” she mocked in his stiff formal tone, then glanced over her shoulder to make sure he hadn’t come out after her. He was going to be her commander here if she got the job. She had better keep the attitude to a minimum. Or at least do her best to avoid him.

  Chapter 2

  Commander Gregor Thatcher had not handled that interview well. He had struggled all of his life to grasp the emotions of others, but in this case, he was certain he had annoyed Val Calendula.

  Cadet Calendula, he corrected. He should not think of her by first name, even if he wished to do so. She had not invited any such familiarity, and they were once again in a commander-subordinate relationship.

  Strange that the attraction he had felt for her ten years ago should come back and hit him with such force. But perhaps it was not. He forgot little, and he vividly remembered what had drawn him to her back then. She had possessed neither great athleticism, great intelligence, nor great aptitude for flying, but she had never given up and had persevered at the academy despite facing challenge after challenge that had come easily for her more gifted peers. And all right, he might have been drawn to her fine physical attributes, as well. Not the lithe leanness of a born athlete, as many who chose a soldier’s life seemed to have, but feminine curves that had bounced delightfully when she ran the obstacle course at the training compound. She had a pretty and lively face, with dimples that flashed when she smiled and gray-blue eyes that reminded him of the sea on a stormy day back on his home world of Paradise.

  Unfortunately, the only smile she had ever given him had been less than sincere. He had always struggled to understand sarcasm when he had been a student and even later as a young officer, but the last five years with Mandrake Company, surrounded with the sharp-tongued and irreverent, he had honed his talent for reading it. What he hadn’t honed was his ability to keep people from resorting to it as a natural response to dealing with him. His rank insulated him somewhat, but he was not deaf. He heard the jokes issued at his expense. The crew might appreciate his expertise at the helm—he had saved the entire ship from certain calamity on more than one occasion—and they even gave him a thump on the back from time to time, but they would never truly be comfortable around him, just as he struggled to find ease when in their presence.

  He had certainly struggled to find ease with Cadet Calendula. He had been flummoxed by her beauty—that damnably alluring shirt and the unsubtle hint as to what lay beneath it!—and by his own feelings, feelings he had never dared show when he had been the instructor and she the student. Not that she would have reciprocated them back then, regardless. She had never seemed to appreciate his attempts to advise her, though he had been eager to offer pertinent tips to help her improve. She had seemed horrified when he had offered to put together a remedial study group in which she might participate. At the time, he had been mystified by her disinterest in accepting help from him, for he excelled in all areas of mathematics and piloting, core subjects at the academy. Was he not a logical choice as an offerer of input? Only later in life, during his infrequent and always awkward attempts to woo the opposite sex, had he learned that women sometimes put feelings toward a person ahead of practicality, and that not all of them found his blunt logic appealing.

  Unfortunately, if her frostiness today was any indication, nothing had changed for her in the intervening years. She still saw him as… an irritation to be dealt with. Perhaps her disinterest in him would make things easier, since it would be inappropriate for him to pursue a relationshi
p with a trainee recruit seeking a job under his command. Even later, if she was hired, it would be a dubious situation.

  Ah, but his concern was premature. She had to pass the assessment first.

  Gregor’s comm-patch chimed. Before he could activate the two-way signal, the captain’s words sounded. “I need a skilled pilot who can defy gravity, dodge missiles, and who can be trusted to be discreet about a secret mission. You have any recommendations, Thatcher?”

  Gregor frowned. He was the company’s most skilled pilot, as his flight record and biannual proficiency tests proved, but if the captain wished a recommendation, would it be inappropriate to put himself forward for the mission? The idea of passing it up did not sit well with him, but after his difficulty in communicating with Cadet Calendula, he felt more tentative than usual in regard to social situations. To err on the side of inoffensive would be prudent. “Nobody can defy gravity, but Lieutenant Sequoia is qualified for many piloting tasks, Captain. I have not spent time with him outside of work hours, but I have also not heard reports of failings in regard to discretion.”

  “I’m talking about you, Thatcher. You still in the briefing room? I’ll be there in thirty seconds.”

  Gregor’s frown deepened. If the captain had meant him, why hadn’t he said so? He was a man who usually spoke bluntly, and rarely employed levity. Gregor appreciated that about him. Perhaps this new… blitheness had something to do with his acquisition of that civilian girlfriend. Gregor hadn’t spoken with the woman often but knew she was responsible for the pink shuttlecraft in the bay. Granted, the captain had leased the shuttle to her for her business, but Gregor couldn’t help but feel affronted at the color. Spacecraft deserved more seriousness, more respect.

  The door slid open, and Captain Mandrake strode in. As usual, he wore no sign of rank, and his long brown leather jacket and black and beige clothing were of a civilian style. But between his hard, grim face, scarred hands, broad shoulders, and the sureness with which he carried himself, he had the aura of a veteran soldier. People never questioned that he was in charge, whether they were familiar with the company or not.

  “Sit,” he said, though he leaned against the wall himself, folding his arms across his chest. Whatever humor he had been attempting to practice earlier was not evident on his face now.

  This made Gregor more comfortable, and he perched on the edge of a chair, leaning forward attentively. Thoughts of Cadet Calendula drifted out of his mind as he wondered what mission was coming up that could challenge his skills. He was always eager to do so, whether it meant pitting himself against a single pilot or a squadron.

  “I’ve just accepted a new assignment,” the captain said. “We’ll be flying to Icesphere—you’re aware of the world’s status?”

  “A glacial planet on the edge of the habitable zone, it has two major continents Orenka and Malbak. Their respective governments have been warring off and on for generations over the ore and gems in the tunnels where the majority of the population dwells. In recent years, Orenka, the larger continent, has grown more aggressive, perhaps in response to particularly rich new veins discovered deep within Malbak’s land mass.”

  “Yes, the war has been bloody these last two years, with space forces being brought in as well as ground troops. The Orenkans have decided to hire mercenaries in an attempt to finally finish off their enemies. The Death Rush Fleet.”

  Gregor had expected to hear that they had been hired, but he quickly deduced the captain’s next words. “We are to fight against them.”

  He held back a frown. Aside from the shuttles, Mandrake Company had a single ship, and it focused more often on smaller missions that might require a couple of squadrons of well-trained soldiers, rather than getting involved with planet-scale attacks or defenses. They had occasionally turned the tide in wars, but usually by stealth, kidnapping, and assassination rather than by confronting armies. Even Gregor’s piloting skills would be tested if he had to dodge an entire fleet.

  “Ostensibly,” the captain added.

  Ah, so there was more to it than first suggested. Not surprising. Mandrake wasn’t one to throw his people against an artillery line for no reason. Or even with a reason.

  “The Albatross and I and most of the company will appear to engage Death Rush, but we’ll be providing a distraction for a pilot to pick up an important person from the space base orbiting the planet. Our pilot—you—will then deliver this person to a protected location on Malbak. Their own military won’t send a ship up, because they’re worried it would be watched and shot out of the air. Though the Malbakians hope to keep this all a secret, this passenger grew up on the planet and his return won’t be unexpected. The Orenkans will want to ensure he doesn’t arrive, even if it means risking pissing off the GalCon army.”

  “Am I allowed to know who it is?” Gregor asked.

  “Admiral Douglas Summers.”

  Gregor sucked in a surprised breath. Summers was a legendary strategist. Thatcher had studied his mission briefs at the academy and read all of his publications in the intervening years, since so much of it applied to space flight. Summers had been a pilot himself before being recruited to the command track. Gregor had never thought to meet the man. When he had been in the fleet, he would have considered it a great honor. He would still consider it an honor, except… now he was a mercenary, not a respected GalCon officer. If the admiral knew that he had walked away from the fleet for this life, what would he think? That Gregor was a failure? A coward? No, he had resigned his commission while he had been on leave, not during the heat of battle. No one would think him a coward, but… to give up all he’d had for this, what would the admiral think?

  “Will the mission be a problem?” The captain was watching his face.

  Gregor didn’t know what his face had been doing, but he straightened in the chair and smoothed his features. “No, sir.”

  “You can take some men along and another pilot, in case there’s trouble. The pick-up shouldn’t be problematic, but getting down to the planet and dropping Summers off may be challenging. We’ll take a look at the aerial deployment before I send you out, but you’ll probably need to go in at night and dodge some bogeys.”

  “I understand, sir.”

  “Good.” The captain pushed away from the wall but paused before leaving. “You get the new pilot trainee on board?”

  “Yes, sir. She’ll need to be tested thoroughly to ensure she’ll meet company standards, but she went through the flight academy several years ago. She should be able to fly a combat shuttle and the Albatross, as well. That’s why I selected her.” Yes, it had nothing to do with the fact that he had known her and had once spent much time fantasizing about her saucy smirk and her alluring physical attributes. He swallowed, hoping Mandrake didn’t question him further on this topic. He would not care to lie, both because he respected the captain and wanted to deal honestly with him and because he was abysmal at lying.

  “Calendula is the name?” the captain asked.

  Gregor blinked, surprised he had remembered. He had glanced at the résumés Gregor had given him and waved in approval, but he had also said that selecting a new pilot was in Gregor’s hands. The captain had given the impression that he wouldn’t particularly care until someone had been selected, most likely because Gregor had already interviewed and dismissed seven prospects—amazing how many would-be pilots had such meager grasps of the academics of flight. One impertinent young man had even proclaimed that flying was like scratching an itch—he might not know what caused the itch, but he could always satisfy it. Gregor didn’t even know what that meant, but the man had been far too much of a bumpkin to trust at the helm.

  “Yes, sir. Valerian Calendula. She had just made lieutenant when she left the fleet eight years ago, reason not stated in her discharge record.”

  Mandrake snorted. “If she’s Grenavinian, I can guess. That’s the same time I left GalCon.”

  His interest finally dawned on Gregor. Of course. The captain wa
s Grenavinian and so were many of his original crew members, people who had formed the company with him. With the planet destroyed, people who could claim it as a homeland were rare, and though the captain wasn’t obvious about showing favoritism, it was well known that he wouldn’t take an assignment that pitted him against a Grenavinian, and he might more closely consider the résumé of someone from his planet. That was good. If Calendula performed satisfactorily and Gregor was able to recommend her, it meant the captain shouldn’t object to her placement in the company.

  “Yes, sir. She is.”

  Gregor thought the captain might say more, ask for special consideration for her or even a slackening of Gregor’s stringent standards, but he merely nodded and walked out. That was as it should be; if Calendula earned a spot, it would be hers, but not unless she earned it. And, just as the captain wasn’t going to let feelings about her heritage influence his decision, Gregor could not allow feelings about her to influence his.

  * * *

  The flight simulator goggles might have been fun under other circumstances—more private circumstances—but there were several other people on the bridge, and Val felt self-conscious. She sat at the auxiliary helm next to Lieutenant Sequoia—he was at the main helm, guiding the Albatross along the edge of an asteroid field—and both of their positions were front and center, banks of view screens and holographic displays surrounding them. The two weapons stations behind them were also occupied, with the young officers practicing slicing the edges off the asteroids with the ship’s big laser cannons. Commander Garland, the captain’s second-in-command, paced a textured metal walkway behind them all, going back and forth from the proximity monitors on one side to a sensor station on the other side.