Lost Star

by Hawke, Morgan

  Ravnos’s smile gentled. “Appreciated.”

  The president inclined his head, then smiled. “Now then…” He tugged at the lace falling from his cuffs. “I will send my aide to you with the particulars of where you will be stationed. A small private estate has been prepared for you and your crew’s convenience. I also have a list of companies willing to take commission for recovery and repair for your ship, should you need them.”

  Ravnos had only half his attention on the conversation. Truthfully, he was merely nodding at the appropriate lulls while internally recording what was said for later perusal. He was far more interested in who Seht was looking for in the Republic of the Caribbean Stars. The fist around his heart and the cold sweat sliding down his spine told him that he knew exactly who the Skeldhi prince sought. But why was the prince still pursuing him after so many years? Why hadn’t he just given him up?

  A ping sounded, signaling that the lift doors behind him had opened.

  A voice called out in the echoing room. “Sir, you must wait!”

  “I do not…wait.” The voice was cultured, soft, slightly mechanized, and…familiar. Heavy boots thumped on carpet.

  Ravnos stilled. Where had he heard that voice before? His internal computational automatically sorted through his monstrous collection of voice files, choosing and discarding voice track after voice track at the speed of thought. The closest match was…

  Memories flitted through his mind, of darkness and a medical table, then a floor, punctuated by faded echoes of screaming pain from…ice in his lungs.

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  Ravnos’s eyes widened, and his breath stilled. Moribund…? But it couldn’t be him.

  He schooled his expression to neutrality, showing only mild boredom, and turned very slowly.

  The man striding up the carpet was tall, broad-shouldered, and refined in appearance. Perfectly groomed golden hair fell in graceful waves across a high brow.

  Neatly trimmed golden brows arched over sapphire blue eyes. His carved porcelain face was very nearly feminine with high cheekbones. He was the very picture of a high-ranking noble of the Imperial court, but he moved with the smooth refinement of the extremely, and expensively, augmented. Clearly, his body was more machine than man.

  However, what held Ravnos’s attention was that he wore a blindingly white, painfully tailored uniform practically encrusted with gold braid with a floor-sweeping cape and the long coat of a high-ranking imperial officer. He frowned slightly at the man’s insignia. An admiral? That can’t be Moribund. He searched through his data files trying to match the face with a name.

  “President Kidd”—the noble admiral stopped before the desk on Ravnos’s immediate left—“a moment of your time, if you please?”

  Ravnos lifted his brow. By standing on his left, the noble was blocking Ravnos’s sword arm. Rude bastard.

  The noble’s gaze traveled across Ravnos’s clearly mercenary uniform. He focused on the ship insignia displayed in silver and jet on the left breast of Ravnos’s long coat.

  More than one iris shifted in the depths of his eyes, revealing that they were entirely artificial and designed for deep space. His gaze chilled, but his full mouth smiled almost sweetly. “You won’t mind, will you?”

  Ravnos’s brows lifted. That was an interesting expression. He couldn’t have reproduced it if he tried. “How does he do that?”

  The president smiled. “You mean that disdainfully cheerful ‘I hate your guts and plan to kill you, but don’t trouble yourself over it’ look?”

  Ravnos blinked. He hadn’t actually intended to say that out loud. On the other hand, he didn’t mind joining the president in a small game of “let’s annoy the rude admiral by talking about him as if he’s not there.” Ravnos nodded. “Yeah, that.” He tilted his head to glance at the agreeably sneering admiral, then turned to purse his lips thoughtfully at the president. “That must have taken quite some time to perfect.”

  Kidd rolled his eyes and shook his head. “I’ve been trying for ages, but I still can’t quite get it.” He winked at Ravnos. “I have a few council members I would dearly love to use it on.”

  Ravnos tucked his thumbs into his belt and smiled. “I could see how that might come in handy.” His mental files suddenly coughed up an image of the man beside him.

  Admiral Roth “Satan’s Wrath” Moraine of the angel-class dreadnaught Righteous, also known as the Emperor’s Sword, in charge of the Imperium’s largest fleet, fourth in 110

  Morgan Hawke

  rank from the throne, a prince of the third quadrant, and twice decorated with the Imperial Star for heroism in battle.

  “I am so pleased that my presence brings you such amusement.” Admiral Moraine’s voice was calm, cultured, and clicked into a perfect match with what Ravnos had recorded as Moribund.

  Ravnos turned to stare at him. “I’ll be damned…” He is Moribund. But how could he be the most wanted man in known space and also be…the hero of the Empire?

  Something to think about later. He tuned his entire mental array to memorizing everything he could about the man beside him, up to and including the exotic cologne that didn’t quite disguise the scent of extremely expensive designer hydraulic fluid.

  Admiral Moraine inclined his head slightly, his eyes crinkling at the corners with humor, but his lips curled back to show perfectly even teeth in what one might assume was a smile, but according to the fine hairs on the back of Ravnos’s neck, was in fact a snarl. “Ah, so you recognized me?”

  Ravnos blinked. That was the understatement of the century. Was he telepathic? Only one way to find out. He curled back his lips in an exact replica of Moraine’s snarling smile. “You’re a celebrity. Kind of hard to miss…” You murdering sack of shit.

  Admiral Moraine nodded absently. “Yes, thank you, now if you don’t mind, Captain, I truly wish to have a private word with President Kidd.”

  Ravnos released a soft breath. Nope, not telepathic, just a damned good guesser.

  President Kidd waved his hand. “Of course you may have a private word!” He tapped the top of his desk. A holographic display bloomed into life a few inches above the surface of his desk. He frowned at the data flowing upward before him. “How does the twenty-third, at half past nine in the morning, sound to you?” He turned and smiled at the admiral.

  The admiral’s eyes widened. “Three days from today…?”

  President Kidd plastered on the sincerest look of regret that Ravnos had ever seen.

  “I’m sorry, but that’s soonest I have available at the moment.” He shook his head sadly.

  “I’m booked solid until then.”

  Moraine shook his head. “I’m sure the captain wouldn’t mind…”

  The president abruptly threw up his hands. “Oh, yes, how thoughtless of me!” He set one hand behind his back and waved the other in Ravnos’s direction. “Admiral Moraine, may I introduce Captain Ravnos, who was kind enough to agree to join my dreadnaught fleet.”

  Moraine blinked, his expression going completely blank for a millisecond, only to be replaced by a very charming smile of utter disdain. “A. Ravnos, originally of the dreadnaught Reaper under Captain Maria Melchior?”

  Ravnos gave a short, curt bow. “I have that distinction.”

  Kidd nodded and smiled broadly. “He’s an excellent battle commander, particularly against Moribund Company ships.”

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  Ravnos didn’t quite flinch.

  “So I’d heard.” Moraine turned to regard Ravnos with wide eyes yet a tight mouth. “Your pursuit of the Moribund Company leads one to think there might be a personal vendetta involved.” His brows lifted.

  Ravnos smiled mildly. “Yes, one just might think that.”

  President Kidd clasped his hands before him. “My most abject apologies, but I really do need to complete this meeting with Captain Ravnos. I have yet another
meeting directly after with one my senators.”

  The admiral eyed Ravnos, then lifted his chin to focus on the far-smaller man behind the desk. “With all due respect, President, I really must insist.”

  “With all due respect, Admiral”—President Kidd set one gloved hand down on his desk—“I really must insist.”

  The president’s guards took a simultaneous step forward, their bladed pole-arms crackling with electricity.

  Admiral Moraine inclined his head toward the president, turned on his heel in a perfectly executed about-face, then strode back down the carpet toward the lift.

  Kidd’s gaze narrowed, watching the admiral’s progress.

  Behind him, Ravnos heard the soft ping of the lift closing. He leaned over the desk and dropped his voice to a subvocal wavelength that normal sound detection equipment wouldn’t pick up. “President, this may sound crazy, but that man was Moribund.”

  The president nodded and leaned down to reply on the same subvocal wavelength. “I know.”

  Ravnos stilled. “What?” He stared at the president of the Republic of the Caribbean Stars. “How?”

  Kidd smirked. “Let’s just say that Agent Sear has a weakness for dark and bittersweet chocolate.”

  Sear knew…? Ravnos narrowed his eyes. “If the Agency knows, then why…?”

  Kidd waved his gloved hand and snorted. “Why doesn’t someone just go to his house and arrest him?” He shook his head. “Unfortunately, Moribund is not merely the mastermind behind a highly organized crime syndicate, he’s also fourth in line to the Imperial throne. There’s not a damned thing anyone in your Imperium can do about him… officially.” He leaned close and his smirk returned. “Which is where you and I come in.” He lifted a finger. “Which reminds me.” He reached into his pocket and withdrew a neatly folded sheet of paper bearing a wax seal and ribbons.

  Ravnos eyed the folded paper with deep suspicion.

  President Kidd pressed it into his hand and smiled. “You will attend tonight’s dinner and musical, won’t you?”

  Crap… Ravnos hid his wince with a tight smile and a nod. “Of course, Mr.

  President.”

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  Chapter Eighteen

  After a rather long ascending lift ride and a march through curved windowed hallways, Ravnos and his men arrived in the spacious four-bedroom suite that was their temporary quarters. Less than half an hour later, his four crewmen, led by his lieutenant, had his formal captain’s attire unpacked, pressed, starched, and ready for donning the moment he stepped from the shower. One of his men had even taken the time to polish the two dozen silver buttons on his black velvet armored long coat while yet another had polished his boots to a mirror shine.

  Ravnos counted himself lucky that he was allowed to put on his own undergarments, stockings, and trousers.

  His senior yeoman tucked his shirtsleeves into the armholes of his black brocade waistcoat and then into the sleeves of his captain’s coat, so as not to crush the starched perfection of his lace cuffs and collar. Ravnos was then allowed to don the shirt, waistcoat, and coat simultaneously, but forced to stand perfectly still while a yeoman buttoned his shirt and attended to his cufflinks. A lace cravat, which was starched within an inch of its life, was set around his collar and tied in a florid bow.

  While this was happening, yet another yeoman combed his damp, beyond-shoulder-length hair, and rather firmly tamed it into a tightly braided queue tied with a black silk ribbon in an overlarge bow. A broad silver sash was tied around him, and brushes were brought out to stroke the black velvet of his coat into sleek perfection.

  Finally, his ornate, black- and silver-etched captain’s sword bearing Hellsbreath’s crest was belted around him.

  The four men stood back to intently peruse their handiwork.

  Feeling rather put-upon, Ravnos glared at them. “Am I presentable enough for you?”

  The four crewmen looked over at the lieutenant.

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  The lieutenant tilted his head to either side and rubbed his jaw, his brows lifting in clear uncertainty. “Eh”—he grinned—“you’ll do.”

  Ravnos rolled his eyes while positioning his arm-length parrying dagger at the small of his back. “Remind me again why I let you bully me this way?”

  His lieutenant stepped forward and pressed the handwritten invitation into Ravnos’s hand. “Because you have yet to select a first officer to protect you from us.”

  Ravnos snorted and tucked the invitation into the wide cuff of his sleeve. “I’ll make that my first priority.”

  His lieutenant nodded firmly. “See that you do.” He then practically shoved his captain out of the suite and into the lift. “Have fun and play nice, Captain!” He waved while the lift doors eased closed.

  In the solitude of the descending lift, Ravnos stared at the handwritten, wax-sealed, and beribboned command, cleverly disguised as a formal invitation to dinner, and allowed himself the luxury of a deep, rumbling growl. “Play nice, my ass!” This was a disaster in the making; he could feel it. Not only would he have to “play nice”

  with the Imperial admiral who would undoubtedly be there, but he’d have to hide his intolerance to certain very common human foods, namely vegetables. An intolerance that would be very recognizable to the entire Skeldhi delegation present.

  He activated his communicator. “Imp One, are you in position?”

  The earcom crackled. “Aye, aye, Captain, one minute from your signal.”

  Ravnos nodded. “Good. Out.” Thank the Fates he’d thought to prepare an escape plan, just in case. He fisted his hands to flex the muscles in his forearms, feeling for the throwing blades sheathed inside both of the sleeves of his captain’s coat. All things considered, it was looking less like “just in case,” and more like “any second now.”

  The elevator stilled. Several small and metallic things smacked against the door’s exterior with ringing pops followed by the distinct and familiar scream of metal scoring metal.

  Ravnos stiffened. That sounded like…bolt pistols? He whirled to the left and tucked himself against the side. The lift was too small to unsheathe his sword. Piss! His thumb pressed against the scarab on his belt. A slight hum and a barely visible wavering in the air around him marked the activation of the deflection field.

  The doors parted. Smoke whirled into the lift, reeking of scorched metal, melting stone, and the copper sweet tang of blood. A cacophony of hoarse shouts, the ring of live-steel against live-steel, and the loud retort of handheld bolt pistols hammered against his ears.

  Ravnos freed his parrying dagger from its sheath at his back and peeked past the edge of the open lift doors. The hallway beyond was a merry hell of smoke, fire, and broken bodies wearing blood-spattered Imperial white and shattered, exotic black armor.

  What the hell…?

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  At the center of the maelstrom whirled the hulking and distorted shape of a blood-drenched, Marauder cyborg. Tusks curled from its screaming mouth. Its hands were fingered with knives as long as Ravnos’s forearm. Irregularly shaped scales coated the beast in bullet-repelling armor, and a long, prehensile, bladed tail swung in a deadly arc. It mowed through both the Imperial delegation and the sword-wielding Skeldhi with complete abandon.

  Ravnos noted the tattered remains of the bright blue frockcoat of the president’s chamberlain hanging from the creature’s distorted shoulders and winced. A sleeper assassin, fuck! The Fates only knew when the Marauder nano-virus was implanted in its unwitting and doomed host. The nano-virus was capable of remaining dormant for years, appearing as merely a bit of half-erased data. However, once the second half of the code was delivered, the host’s own nanites transformed them physically, mechanically, and mentally into a monstrous and deadly cyborg that would not cease tearing apart everything and everyone in its path until its target had been found and destroyed.
Once its mission had been accomplished, the last string of code activated, reversing the transformation and killing its host in the process, leaving the victim to take the blame for the killing spree.

  Ravnos narrowed his gaze and adjusted his eyesight to see through the smoky haze. Someone in that hallway had provided the activation code, and he had a damned good idea who.

  A Skeldhi man in decorative armor, a sword in one hand and a long dagger in the other, hurtled backward past the doors of the lift, his white hair flying like a flag. The man slammed into the wall and collapsed on the carpeted floor. He gasped for breath and shoved his long hair from his blood-spattered face with a gloved hand, leaving scarlet smears in his wake. Snarling something unintelligible, he rose on unsteady feet, then marched back toward the fight, passing close by the open doors of the lift.

  The barest trace of the scent of the man’s anger-sweat brushed past Ravnos’s sensitive nose. He stiffened. He knew that scent. Seht! Fire sparked at the base of his skull. The world slowed down around him. His gaze narrowed on the man passing less than an arm’s length away, the edges of his vision fading to a blur. With careless ease, he sheathed his weapons and reached out with his right hand to grab a handful of white hair, pulling Seht’s head back. His left arm looped around the man’s throat, tipping him backward to tumble into the lift and into his arms.

  Seht snarled and swung one hand down, jabbing his long dagger backward. A nasty screech announced the blade’s contact with the deflection field cast by the scarab Ravnos wore on his belt.

  The world slammed back into normal speed, and Ravnos gasped in shock. What the hell had he just done? Of all the stupid, moronic, lamebrain, idiotic, and suicidal things to do!

  Seht screamed and fought, kicking out with both feet.

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  Shit! Ravnos struggled to keep his balance while holding the struggling Skeldhi.