by Kris Delake
“Looks dead to me,” he said.
She turned, assessing her options as she did. One knife. (People were afraid of knives, which was good. But knives were messy, hard to clean up the blood, which was bad.) Two laser pistols. (One tiny, against her ankle, hard to reach. The other on her hip, obvious, but laser blasts in a corridor—dangerous. They’d bounce off the walls, might hit her.) Fists. (Might break a bone, hands already shaking. Didn’t need the additional risk.)
Then stopped assessing when she saw him.
He wasn’t what she expected. Tall, white-blond hair, the kind that got noticed (funny, she hadn’t noticed him, but then there were two thousand passengers on this damn ship). Broad shoulders, strong bones—not a spacer then. Blue eyes with long lashes, like a girl’s almost, but he didn’t look girly, not with that aquiline nose and those high cheekbones. Thin lips twisted into a slight smile, a knowing smile, as if he understood what she was doing.
He wore gray pants and an ivory shirt without a single stain on it. No rings, no tattoos, no visible scars—and no uniform.
Not security, then. Or at least, not security that happened to be on duty.
“He’s drunk,” she said again, hoping Testrial’s face was turned slightly. She’d managed to close his eyes, but he had that pallor the newly dead sometimes acquired. Blood wasn’t flowing; it was pooling, and that leached all the color from his skin.
“So he’s drunk, and you’re messing with the airlock controls, because you want to get him, what? Some fresh air?” The man’s eyes twinkled.
He was disgustingly handsome, and he knew it. She hated men like that, and thought longingly of her knife. One slash across the cheek. That would teach him.
“Guess I’ve had a little too much to drink myself,” she said.
“Oh, for God’s sake,” the man said as he approached her.
She reached for the knife, but he caught her wrist with one hand. He smelled faintly of sandalwood, and that, for some reason, made her breath catch.
He slammed the airlock controls with his free fist. The damn alarm went off and the first of the double doors opened.
“What the hell?” she snapped.
He sighed, as if she were the dumbest person he had ever met, then let her go. She did reach for the knife as he bent at the waist and picked up Testrial with one easy move.
She knew that move wasn’t easy. She’d used an over-the-shoulder carry to get the bastard down here, after having rigged the corridor cameras to show footage from two hours before. Not that that did any good now that this asshole had set off the alarm.
He tossed Testrial into the airlock itself, then reached inside and triggered the outer door. He barely got his hand back into the corridor before the inner door closed, protecting them from the vacuum of space.
“What the hell?” she asked again.
The man gave her a withering glance. “He was dead, you were going to toss him out, and then you were going to go about your business as if nothing happened. I just helped you along a little.”
“And now every security agent on the ship will come down here,” she snapped.
“Yeah,” he said. “But it won’t be a problem.”
“It won’t be a problem?” she asked.
But he already had his arm tightly around her shoulder, and he dragged her forward. The movement felt familiar, as if someone had done this to her before.
Except no one had ever done this to her before.
“C’mon,” he said. “Stagger a little.”
“What?” she asked, letting him pull her along. Her hand was still on her knife, but she didn’t close her fist around the hilt. Not yet.
“Do you know any drinking songs?” he asked.
“Know any… what?”
“Stagger,” he said, and she did without much effort, since he was half-carrying her, not allowing her feet to find a rhythm.
They stepped onto the between-decks platform, which she loathed because it was open, not a true elevator at all, and he said, “Down,” and the stupid thing jerked before it went down, and suddenly she was on corridor cameras.
“Do you know any drinking songs?” he asked again.
“No,” she said, ready with an answer this time. “I don’t drink.”
“No wonder you lack creativity,” he said and added, “Stop,” as they passed their third deck. He dragged her down the corridor to the airlock, and slammed it with his fist.
Another alarm went off as the inner door opened, and he reached inside, triggering the outer door.
“What the hell are you doing?” she asked again.
“Is that the only question you know?” he asked.
“Just answer me,” she said as he turned her around and headed back toward the between-decks platform.
“Weren’t you ever a teenager?” he asked.
“Of course I was,” she said.
“Then you should know what I’m doing,” he said.
“Well color me clueless,” she said, “because I don’t.”
His eyebrows went up as he looked at her. “Color you clueless? What kind of phrase is that?”
“The kind of phrase you say when someone won’t tell you what the hell they’re doing.”
“Watch and learn, babe,” he said. “Watch and learn.”
He took them to the platform again, and as it lurched downward, he pulled her toward him using just his arm and the hand clutching her shoulder. A practiced move, and a strong one, considering how much resistance she was putting up.
He held her in a viselike grip, and then, before she could move away, kissed her. She was so startled, she didn’t pull back.
At least, that was what she told herself when he did let go and she realized that her lips were bruised, her hand had fallen away from the hilt of her knife, her heart was pounding rapidly.
That was a hell of a kiss, short but—good God, had she ever been kissed like that? Mouth to mouth, open, warm but not sloppy, his tongue sampling hers and hers, traitor that it was, responding.
“Yum,” he said, as if she had been particularly tasty, and then he grinned. He was unbelievably handsome when he smiled, and she didn’t like that either, but before her addled brain figured out what to do, he added, “Stop,” as they reached one of the lowest decks.
He propelled her forward with that mighty arm of his, and she tripped stepping from the platform into the corridor, which was a good thing, since a male passenger stood near the platform, looking confused.
The passenger, middle-aged, overweight, tired, like most everyone else on week three of an interstellar cruise, peered at them.
The man beside her grinned, said, “Is this the way to the lounge?” and then kept going.
The male passenger said, “What lounge?” but they were already too far away to answer him.
They reached yet another airlock and the handsome man still holding her hit the controls with his fist, setting off yet another alarm and doing his little trick with the doors.
This time he kept going straight, swaying a little, knocking her off balance.
“Too bad you don’t know any drinking songs,” he said. “But then, you don’t smell like booze. Enhancer, maybe? Too many mood elevators? No, that doesn’t work. You’re not smiling.”
They rounded a corner, and came face to face with three terrified security guards, standing in three-point formation, laser rifles drawn.
“Stop!” one of them, a man as middle-aged and heavyset as that passenger, yelled. He didn’t sound nearly as in control as Rikki’s companion had when he told the platforms to stop. In fact this guy, this so-called guard, sounded dangerously close to panicking.
Rikki stopped, but the man didn’t and neither did his arm, so he nearly shoved her forward, but she’d faced laser rifles before, and had even been shot with one, and she’d never forget how the stupid thing burned, and she wasn’t going to get shot again.
“Ah, jeez, Rik,” the man said, and she jolted. The bastard knew her na
me. Not the name she was using on this cruise. Her real name. “Let’s go.”
“I said stop,” the guard repeated.
“You,” the man said, turning to the guard, and slurring his words just slightly, “are too tense. C’mon with us. We’re heading to the lounge.”
“What lounge?” the female guard asked. Not only was she the sole female, but she was the only one in what Rikki would consider regulation shape. Trim, sharp, but terrified too. Her rifle vibrated, probably because she wasn’t bracing it right.
Amateurs.
“I dunno what lounge,” the man holding Rikki said. “The closest lounge.”
He grinned as if he had discovered some kind of prize, and if she didn’t know better, she would’ve thought he was on something.
“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” the third guard said. “Is that what this is all about?”
“I dunno,” the man said, “but you sure got a lotta doors leading to nothing around here. Where’s the damn lounge? I paid good money to have a lounge on each floor and I been to—what, hon? Three floors? Four—”
He looked at Rikki as he said that and pinched the nerve on her outer arm at the same time. She squeaked and hopped just a little as he continued.
“—and we ain’t found no damn lounge anywhere. I wanna drink. I wanna enhancer. I wanna burger. Real meat. You got real meat on this crappy ship?”
The first security guard sighed, then lowered his rifle. The other man did the same, but the woman didn’t.
“Oh for God’s sake,” the female security guard said to the guard in front. “You gonna let them get away with this just because they’re drunk?”
“I’m not drunk,” Rikki said, and the man pulled her close again so that she had to put a hand against his waist to steady herself.
He tried to kiss her again, but she moved her face away. “She’s not drunk,” he said rather grumpily, “because we can’t find the damn lounge.”
The front guard shook his head.
“They opened three airlocks,” the female guard said.
“They’re passengers,” the male guard hissed at her.
“Reckless ones,” the female guard said.
“What’s your room?” the guard asked.
“Um…” the man said, his hand so tight around Rikki’s upper arm that he was cutting off circulation. “B Deck, Something-something, 15A?”
“If you’re on B Deck, it would be 15B,” the female guard said.
The man extended his free hand. “’S on here,” he said, and to Rikki’s surprise, let them scan the back of his hand to get the code upscale passengers had embedded into the skin so they didn’t have to carry identification.
“B Deck,” the female guard said to the others, “Section 690, 15B.”
“Suite,” the male guard hissed again. “Expensive.”
Rikki tried not to raise her own eyebrows. She had a cabin, K Deck, without a view. Cheap.
“We’ll take you to a lounge,” the male guard said to the man holding Rikki, “but we’re going to have to fine you.”
“For taking me to a lounge?” He sounded indignant. “Jus’ tell me where to go.”
“I’d love to,” the female guard said.
“No,” the male guard said. “We’ll fine you for the airlocks.”
“Not interested in a damn airlock,” the man said. “Wanna lounge.”
The second male guard shook his head. “I need a new job,” he said softly to the woman.
“Good luck with that,” she said back to him.
“I’ve got your information,” the male guard said to the man holding Rikki. “I’ll be adding 6,000 credits to your account. Two for each airlock you opened.”
“Didn’t open no damn airlock,” the man said.
“We’ll talk about it when you’re sober,” the male guard said.
“Don’t plan to be sober anymore this entire trip. Too damn dull.” The man glared at him. “You said lounge. Where’s the damn lounge?”
“This way,” the guard said and headed off the down the corridor.
The man holding Rikki lurched after him, dragging Rikki along. She tripped again, this time because her toe caught the man’s heel. He was doing that on purpose, but she didn’t argue. She was slightly breathless from the strangeness of it all, and from the way he held her.
The other two guards followed a good distance behind, clearly arguing.
The first guard led them to an actual elevator, in the main section of the ship. Four other passengers stood inside, three women, one man, all older than Rikki, all better dressed. They eyed her as if she lowered their net worth by factors of ten.
The man holding her grinned at them. It was a silly, sloppy grin, and it made him seem harmless. “You goin’ to the lounge too?” he asked.
She realized as he continued to slur his words, all trace of that accent was gone.
The four passengers leaned against the walls and looked away, wanting nothing to do with him.
They got off on the main level, but the guard led Rikki and the man to B Deck and took them to the B Deck–only lounge.
“It’s exclusive,” he said to the man. “Just touch the door with your fist, like you did with the airlocks.”
She stiffened. The man holding her had ID embedded in his hand. They had known who he was from the moment he hit the first airlock.
That was why she stayed below decks. Cheaper. No identification required.
He grinned at the guard and gave him a mock salute. “You need a favor, friend, I’m there for you,” he said, then slapped his palm against the door to the B Deck lounge.
The guard nodded, almost smiling himself. “You won’t say that tomorrow when you look at your accounts.”
“Hell, I got enough. Should tip you, really,” the man said.
“No, you shouldn’t.” The guard was smiling now. “Enjoy your evening, sir.”
The guard stepped back as the door slid open. The man staggered inside, pulling Rikki along. The noise startled her—conversation and music, live music, and a view. The entire wall was clear, showing the exterior of the ship, darkness, pinpoints of light, patterns she didn’t recognize.
Full tables, filled with overdressed passengers, laughing, talking, a few waving drinks. Some people at a roulette wheel to the left, others at a card table to the right, some sitting on couches, leaning against each other, listening to the music.
No one noticed as Rikki and the man holding her entered.
“Thanks,” Rikki said, starting to pull away, but he held her tighter.
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