Rebels and Lovers

by Linnea Sinclair

  “I have no—”

  “You and Kiler were GGS pilots. The Guthries know you, trust you.”

  “They’re not on my ship. You can look.”

  “We already scanned.”

  “Then you know as much as I do.”

  “I think you know more. A great deal more.”

  Why do you want them? She almost asked that out loud but stopped herself. To show concern, to show emotion, was to be trapped. One thing Kaidee knew for certain: Orvis was not here to help the Guthries.

  “Okay, so I ran into them briefly at Trouble’s Brewing.” She pointed to the vidcam. “You can see that yourself. There was a bar fight and I showed them a back way out. End of story. So as much as I’d like to help Orvis”—in a crigblarg’s eyes—“that’s all I know.”

  “Where are they hiding?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Captain Griggs—”

  “Frinks, I don’t know. I’m an ex-employee. Ex. I don’t run in their social circles and they don’t confide in me.”

  Frinks’s disbelief was clear in the narrowing of his eyes and the slight quirk of his fleshy lips. “Then maybe it’s time you renewed your acquaintance. Just for old times’ sake. Orvis, in his generosity, is giving you six hours to do so. Six hours. Bring them here, to us, and all your debts will be forgiven. Got that, Captain Griggs?”

  He nodded sharply, the Taka clipped the vidcam back on his utility belt, and the two walked side by side toward the corridor airlock without waiting to hear her answer.

  Which was, yes, she got it. But, no, she wouldn’t cooperate. Not even to wipe out all of Kiler’s debts. Not even for full tanks of water and fuel.

  But for a moment she could almost hear Kiler’s voice: Guthrie’s armed. And that Barthol, he’s had training. Hell, they might even be able to kill Orvis. That would be great, wouldn’t it? All you have to do is put them together. If Orvis dies, you’re free. If he doesn’t … you’re still free. It’s a win–win.

  No, it wasn’t, and whether Devin and Barty could kill Orvis wasn’t the point. The debt was her problem, not theirs. She wasn’t going to walk to her freedom across their backs.

  They were probably long gone off dock anyway. The Guthries had money, and money could buy a seat on any passenger transport out of here. So they were on their way home. She’d never see them again. Never see Devin …

  She sent a prayer in his direction. Please be safe.

  She trudged back to her ship in search of her L7. Her options were dwindling. She was going to need it.

  Devin took a slow sip of his tea, because with his mouth full he couldn’t unleash the stream of expletives he wanted to say. But it really did seem like this goddamned fucking place in the middle of goddamned fucking nowhere conspired against them. He swallowed and instead thought of an answer to the problem. A typical Guthrie answer. “Offer them twice the price.”

  “Already did,” Barthol replied, putting his DRECU down on the bed, then reaching for the plate of breakfast pastries. He took one, then passed the plate down to Devin, who, like Trip, was seated on blankets folded on the floor, back against the wall. It was, if not more comfortable, at least roomier than the small bed. “Compass’s position is they’re overbooked on all passenger transports. Our reservations are canceled. And they don’t have three seats available on the same flight for another four days.”

  “Try for two seats.” Devin bit off a piece of sugared bread and chewed thoughtfully. “You and Trip. You can protect him as well as I could if anything goes wrong.” Probably even better. His shoulder still throbbed, limiting his range of motion. And in spite of getting several hours’ sleep, he was tired. Bone-deep tired. And worried about Makaiden. But if Barty escorted Trip home, Makaiden was a worry Devin could do something about.

  “They don’t even have one seat. Not at any price.”

  Devin handed the plate to Trip, who’d become increasingly quiet, almost glum. Devin guessed that Halsey’s death and all the subsequent problems were finally registering. Including the fact that, because of Trip, they were stuck on Dock Five. And had to be out of this hotel room in another hour.

  It was dangerous out in the corridors, and they all knew that. Fuzz-face’s thugs were out there, and Barty’s contacts had yet to come back with any answers or identification. The enemy was an unknown. Not a pleasant position.

  “We’ll simply have to deal with this delay,” Barty said. “Yes, it will mean changing hotel rooms again. I’ll start working on that right away. But it also gives GGS more time to respond to our messages. They might even be able to get the Prosperity out here. Or the Triumph.”

  The Triumph. It had to be the Triumph, because in those four days—if they were forced to spend them here—he would find Makaiden and get her back on her ship again. The Triumph had always been her ship.

  “In the meantime, we have another room waiting for us on Green. Pack it up, boys.” Barty pushed himself off the bed. “We need to be on the way out of Pisstown in forty-five minutes.”

  “My ass hurts,” Trip grumbled, shoving himself to his feet. “Can I shower first?”

  “Five minutes,” Barty said, and then there was a discussion about clean clothes and who wanted the last of the sugar bread, but Devin only half-listened. The crazy idea he’d played with all night surfaced again.

  Maybe it wasn’t so crazy. He snatched his Rada from the floor. Maybe his mind was clearer this morning, or maybe he’d just gotten used to the pain. But it all came together with the cancelation of their flight and the image of Makaiden at the controls of the Triumph.

  She was down on Deck 2—the Rider’s largest deck, comprised almost fully of cargo holds—when the ship’s comm link chimed. Not the usual news-and-trade-report download chime but the personal chime, a triple bell-like sound that meant someone who knew her ship’s personal comm codes—

  God and stars. It had to be Rae from the Solarian Wolf, or maybe Mikey. The embargo was lifted. She was free.

  She ignored the lift and ran up the cramped stairway behind it, shouting, “I’m coming, I’m coming!” as if the comm panel could hear her. She should have had it segued into the panels in the main galley—also on 2—but it had been weeks since she’d been down there. She’d even shut off lights and enviro, to save power.

  So she had to run to answer the comm, then threw herself over the black swivel seat and slapped at the flashing icon. “Void Rider. This is Griggs.” Her voice was breathless.

  “Captain Griggs. This is Dabberly from CalRis Free-Trader Collective,” said a familiar voice. Okay, not Rae. Not Mikey. But CFTC would know if the embargo was lifted, wouldn’t they?

  “Dabberly. Sorry. I was belowdecks.”

  “Understand, Captain. Apologies if this is a bad time, but your presence is required at our offices as soon as possible.”

  Her presence? “This is, uh, about the embargo?”

  “Sadly, no. Apologies again. But we need your authorization to finalize the ownership transfer of your ship and your membership in our collective.”

  Ownership transfer? Frinks. That goddamned slag-assed Horatio Frinks. She still had two days, more or less. But even at less, she still had time. That’s what she’d been doing down on Deck 2: taking inventory of everything and anything she could sell. She intended to hand out flyers all over Dock Five, take first offer on anything. She doubted she’d get thirteen thousand, but she’d get something.

  And now Frinks, so smug, so sure, had called in the lien on her ship and claimed it under default of payment.

  Goddamned slag-assed bastard.

  “Could you be here in the next half hour?” Dabberly asked.

  “Oh, absolutely,” she said with teeth gritted. “I’m on my way right now.” Spitting fire, kicking ass, and taking names.

  She’d use her inventory list as collateral and force CFTC to give her a loan. It was an option she’d considered before but always dismissed because their rates were exorbitant—almost as bad as Orvis’s. A
nd because CFTC required detailed record-keeping, triple-checking of manifests, strict adherence to hauling regulations—all things no normal freighter captain wanted to do. In essence, it was almost impossible to comply with their restrictions.

  But she had to comply with them for only a week, just until the embargo lifted. And it was a week during which she wasn’t hauling cargo anyway. Oh, they’d inspect the Rider. They’d present her with a list of violations and demand correction.

  It would be annoying. No, it would be a major pain in the ass. But it would buy her time with Orvis. And it would get Frinks’s name off her ship’s ownership papers.

  That’s all Kaidee wanted. That and a fully charged Norlack laser rifle.

  But she doubted CFTC would approve of that expenditure.

  It took her fifteen minutes, with nonfunctioning escalators and ovecrowded lifts, to make her way to CFTC’s offices on Blue. She recognized Dabberly’s dark bushy hair and angular face as he turned at the front desk. He smiled as she approached, his teeth white against his dusky complexion.

  “Always good to see you, Captain.”

  “You too, Dabberly.” She let some of the ire drain from her voice. She liked the middle-aged man. What was happening here wasn’t his fault. “Where do you need me?”

  “Executive offices.” He waved toward a door on the left. “We have a barrister and a licensed certifier just finishing up the paperwork. And congratulations, by the way. I know you’ve been worried. This, along with the renewal of your passenger-transport certification, will really help.”

  Renewal of her passenger certification? She couldn’t see Frinks or Orvis getting into the passenger business. What in hell were they going to do with her ship? Turn it into a flying brothel?

  “Right,” she said, frowning as she slipped around his desk, then past a row of storage cabinets. She would have loved to barge into the office with her L7 drawn and primed, but that would be bad form. Still, she flicked off the safety. Frinks rarely went anywhere without his Takan muscle. She was entitled to her own security blanket.

  The door was partly ajar. She knocked on it anyway and, when a female voice said, “Come,” stepped inside, schooling her features to somewhere between furious and neutral.

  And found herself face-to-face with smoky-blue eyes behind silver-rimmed glasses.

  “Devin?” To her shame, her voice squeaked.

  She glanced rapidly around the room. No Frinks. No towering Taka. Just Devin, standing, and, seated behind a wide desk, a dusky-skinned woman wearing a neatly pressed light-blue business suit, her dark curly hair shot through with silver.

  “I’m Barrister Layton,” she said, rising, holding one hand out. Kaidee realized she’d seen her in CFTC’s offices before, but they’d never been introduced.

  Kaidee accepted the woman’s hand as if on autopilot. “Makaiden Griggs.”

  “Yes, Captain Griggs. Have a seat, please. We’re just waiting for the certifier to return with the retinal and bioprint scanner.”

  Certifier. Retinal scanner. For the transfer of ownership of her—

  “Just what in hell do you think you’re doing?” she blurted out. Devin had taken the only other chair opposite Layton’s desk and sat with his hands loosely folded in his lap, his features a mask of perfect professionalism.

  “Fixing things,” Mr. Perfect and In Control said calmly after a moment’s silence.

  “Fixing things? You shouldn’t even be here! Do you have any idea—” She clamped her mouth shut and fought the urge to scrub at her face with her hands. God, he was supposed to be on a shuttle out of here. She didn’t see Trip or Barty, but she prayed they were far away from Dock Five, because all that had to happen was for Frinks to see her with Devin. “You have to leave.” Her voice was harsh. “Now, Mr. Devin.”

  “Barrister Layton, if you’d be so kind as to give us a few minutes?” Devin asked in that smooth, well-schooled, and so very Guthrie-in-charge voice she remembered well. It matched the businesslike effect of his cream-colored shirt and blue-and-gold silk scarf with the signature intertwined Gs peeking out from under the edge of his suede jacket. No hint of a knife wound or struggle. Though his slight beard shadow added a hint of rakish charm.

  “Of course, Mr. Guthrie. I’ll check on the certifier and bring us all some coffee.”

  “Tea,” Devin said. “And thank you.”

  The door closed.

  “Makaiden—”

  “You gave her your real name? Are you crazy?”

  “There wasn’t time to set up a corporate shell.”

  “People are trying to kill you. Or haven’t you noticed? And now you’re going to put your very well-known name out there on a ship registration? On Dock Five?” She shook her head in frustration. “Tell me Barty and Trip are safely on a shuttle and heading back to Sylvadae.”

  “They’re down the corridor at Trouble’s Brewing, having lunch.”

  She stared at him. “You’re out of your fucking mind!”

  Something sparked in his eyes briefly, but his demeanor didn’t change. Calm, collected, in-control Devin Guthrie. “Barty’s armed. So is Trip.”

  “So are Fuzz-face and his friends, and they outnumber Trip and Barty.” Especially when you added in Frinks. But Frinks was her problem, not Devin’s.

  “Exactly. That’s why I bought your ship. There were no seats available on flights out for at least four days. We very much need off Dock Five as soon as possible. The Void Rider is now certified to carry passengers. All you have to do is transport us back to Sylvadae.”

  And what happens after that? I’m stuck on Sylvadae, a destitute cargo captain on a luxury-yacht world, with no ship and no job. She wanted to throw that at him, rattle his calm façade, but Barrister Layton returned with the certifier—a nervous young pale-skinned man in his mid-twenties—and a dark-wood tea tray with two red CFTC mugs.

  “Everything settled?” she asked brightly. Too brightly.

  “This is for the best, trust me,” Devin said quietly as Layton set the tea tray on her desk.

  She stared at him. How many times had she heard exactly those words from Kiler? She turned away, then looked up at Layton. “Let’s get this over with.” She suddenly felt the pressure of time. She had to collect Barty and Trip and get back to the Rider before Frinks or the Taka saw them. Before Orvis found out. But the Rider was low on fuel and water.

  The passenger-transport certification permitted her to leave Dock Five. But without fuel they weren’t going to get very far. And Devin had already spent—she quickly scanned the docupad Layton handed her—more than thirty-five thousand just paying off her debt and renewing her passenger certification. Another twenty for his CFTC registration as owner—

  The figures almost leapt off the screen at her, jolting her as much as if there had been physical contact. She swallowed, hard, her throat dry. Devin Guthrie had paid off her and Kiler’s purchase loan on the Rider of two million seven hundred forty thousand. In full.

  “Captain Griggs?” The young certifier waited in front of her, scanner in hand.

  She was out of options. She stared at the small blue retinal-reader light as he waved it past her face, then closed her eyes and put her palm against the cool surface of the screen.

  It was done. Devin Jonathan Guthrie now owned the Void Rider. And he also owned her.

  ——————

  Kaidee waited until they were outside the CFTC office and heading for Trouble’s Brewing before speaking, even though she knew this wasn’t the time to vent her frustration. There was too much at stake, too many problems nipping at their heels, and she strode down the corridor as if she could feel their tiny pointed teeth tearing at her flesh.

  “You need to listen, Mr. Devin, and listen good.”

  “Makaiden—”

  “Listen, damn you! You have no idea what you just got yourself, or me, into. You may think this is for the best”—God, how those words rankled her!—“but in buying my ship, you also bought yourself all my
troubles. There are other issues here you know nothing about. If you’d even—”

  “What issues?”

  God, where did she begin? How do you give someone like Devin Guthrie a crash course in real life, dockside? Could she even do so without admitting things she did not want to admit? “Issues that say we have to get off Dock Five, fast. But I’m low on fuel—”

  “I’ve already paid for the Rider to be refueled.”

  The ease with which he spent large amounts of money stunned her. Almost as much as the ease with which he made decisions without consulting her. Not that fueling her ship was wrong, but, damn it, did he even know what kind of fuel? She stared up at him, losing track of her surroundings for a moment and almost mowing over a pair of Takan women in long white aprons, who guided a wobbling antigrav pallet between them.

  He owns your ship. He owns you. She bit back the next angry barrage that was on the tip of her tongue and wrenched on the employee demeanor she’d worn so successfully first at Starways spacelines, then at GGS. “Thank you. That’s … that’s efficient.” She almost said kind of you, but he wasn’t being kind. He was acting as an owner should. “However, someone needs to be there to unlock the fuel ports. And no one is.” The last few words came out through clenched teeth. Owner or not, he had no clue as to what was waiting for them just around the corner. Which—with Frinks or Fuzz-face—was a statement that could be taken literally.

  “We will be there shortly.”

  Shortly might not be soon enough. Not with Orvis’s network of paid eyes and ears. She sucked in a hard breath. “There’s another problem. The minute Frinks—there are certain people who will get nasty if they find out I’m fueling my ship. Preparing to leave.”

  “The debt to Orvis is paid off.”

  “The financial one, yes. But nothing with Orvis is ever that simple.” She quickened her pace; Devin easily kept up with her as they threaded through clusters of freighter crew and overall-clad dockworkers. “This is not two corporations playing nice while jockeying for market position. The man’s a criminal.”

  “I know that.”