She took the final tray of cookies out of the oven. As she cleaned up the dirty dishes, she thought again of the spilled mop water and Derrick’s wet boots and bruised shoulder with a pang. She set aside a portion of the fresh-baked cookies and wrapped them up securely. After she finished cleaning up the kitchen, she took the cookies she’d set aside and headed down the hall toward the passenger quarters. Instead of heading for her own quarters, however, she headed in the opposite direction. She searched the names on the control pads until she found Derrick’s and paused outside his door. She hesitated and then knocked.
Long seconds ticked by. She listened hard for movement inside. She knocked again, but the complete silence from the other side of the door made it clear Derrick was either sleeping or somewhere else.
She pulled open the deposit drawer—a recess in the wall covered with metal flap—next to the door and set the package of cookies there. She had intended to make her apology in person, so she hadn’t thought to write a note. Well, he’d have to know they were from her—she was the only one on board who baked; hopefully, he’d know why she was leaving them for him. He’d probably understand the apology part, at least. She hoped he also understood the thank you.
Chapter Six
“Can we keep her?” Ivy asked, helping herself to a fourth cookie.
Vienna shot her a quelling look. “Hunter don’t take much to press-ganging, Ivy.”
“I just meant can we offer her a job?”
Vienna shook her head. “The Company would have to pay for it, and they’ve got no call to add a full-time cook to a low-end, mid-range transport like us. Otherwise, we’d have to cover her wages and the food supplies from what we take in from private fares, and there’s no way we can afford that.”
“We’d attract a better class of clientele if we could offer them good food,” Ivy replied. Her expression was innocent enough looking, but Derrick could tell she was trying to work on Vienna, to swing her around to her way of thinking. Hunter could never be told or ordered, but sometimes he could be persuaded—if it were Vienna or Harlan doing the talkin’. Harlan was over the moon about Kyra’s cooking, so he was all for signing her up. If Ivy could persuade Vienna, then they might be able to convince Hunter.
“She ain’t a pet, Ivy.”
“Course not!” Ivy said. “She’s nice… and I like her. And I like eating, too. Food that ain’t burnt or half raw or bland as lubricating wax.”
Keeping Kyra on as crew? His heart jumped at the thought. Maybe that’s what he’d been trying to get at when they’d talked in the cargo hold. The idea hadn’t quite fully formed in his brain, but now that Ivy said it out loud, he realized that he’d been thinking that exact thing. She might be accident prone, but the meals more than compensated for that. As far as temperament, Kyra seemed a middle ground between Vienna’s and Hunter’s taciturn scowling and Ivy’s and Harlan’s perpetual joking. She was sweet and thoughtful, but with a dry sense of humor that always managed to get a chuckle out of him. She had a nice smile, too. Genuine. Warm.
They could do worse in a crew mate.
However, he kept his thoughts to himself, since Ivy hadn’t bothered to ask his opinion. His word didn’t weigh squat with Hunter or Vienna, so apparently his views didn’t matter. Besides, he was pretty sure Kyra wasn’t interested in signing on with a low-end transport like the Mercy. She had her sights set on higher aspirations.
His gut clenched with annoyance at that thought.
“No,” said Vienna firmly.
Ivy frowned with disappointment. “She’s brought us together, you know. We never used to all eat together before she came. Even Hunter is thawing out.”
“That’s as may be, but the Company isn’t going to give us a position for that.”
The intercom crackled to life. “Vienna, Derrick, get up here. And Derrick, bring your guns.”
Since he’d brought his two primary guns to the mess to clean them, it weren’t hard to grab them. He and Vienna exchanged looks and then sprinted for the hallway together. His boots rang on the metal stairs as he took them two at a time. He squeezed himself into the narrow bridge.
“Trouble?” he asked.
“Looks like there’s going to be,” Hunter said grimly.
Vienna pushed Derrick aside and headed for her seat in front of the navigation array. She tapped a few commands into the screen.
“They’re closing fast,” Vienna said.
“Raiders?” Derrick asked, raising an eyebrow. Hell, he’d though the roughnecks were scrappin’ again. They were getting restless; he’d had to break them up three times in the last week. He was heartily sick of them—not that he minded an excuse to punch someone. It was just they were so bad at fighting that breaking them up was hardly worth the effort to rouse himself. It was invariably over before it had hardly begun.
Hunter clapped him on the shoulder. “Time to earn your keep. You know the drill.” Hunter nodded at Vienna to sound the alarm.
She hit the switch, sounding general alert. An automated message began to play over the intercom. “All passengers, please move to the cargo hold. This is not a drill.”
Derrick slid down the ladder and headed for the passenger quarters to round up any stragglers as he made his way to the hold. He’d lock the passengers in the raider box—the re-enforced steel closet inside the cargo bay that served as a safe room in case of attack—and then position himself in the narrow corridor in front of it. Any raiders getting past Vienna and Hunter would have to go through a narrow choke point to get to him. It would be like shooting fish in a barrel. He was the last line of defense for the passengers, and the only way the raiders were getting past him was if he ran out of ammo or got shot.
“What’s going on?” one of the roughnecks asked coming out of his quarters.
“Raiders.” Derrick grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and spun him, so he faced down the hall, and then gave him a little shove to get him moving.
“Well, hell,” the roughneck said. He appeared to be dragging his feet. “I don’t mind going with them. Work’s work.”
“Are you crazy?” Derrick planted himself in the hall, hands on hips. “There ain’t no returning from an illegal settlement. Once they got you, it’s for life. There ain’t no transport off, and there ain’t no law. They don’t like the way you work, they just shoot you.”
“Way I hear it, young, able-bodied fella like myself can live like a king in one of those settlements.”
“Yeah, sure if you like managing slaves and raping women who didn’t choose to be there.”
The kid’s face twisted in derision. “Same as anywhere else—it’s kill or be killed. Some of the rocks I been on, they weren’t fit for animals let alone people.”
“I said no. Now get along toward the hold.” Derrick put a hand to the gun on his hip to emphasize the point. He didn’t have time to stand here arguing with some idiot who thought getting press-ganged was romantic.
“It’s my choice!”
“No it ain’t. What do you think happens to a transport ship that lets its passengers get taken? Ain’t nobody who’ll want to fly with them. Business dries up. And the Company don’t take too kindly to letting its citizens get kidnapped, neither. I let you go without a fight, we get fined.”
The roughneck opened his mouth, but Derrick pulled the gun from its holster and took a step toward the man.
“Less talkin’. More walkin’”
Kyra gritted her teeth against the incessant blare of the alarm as she followed the other passengers down the hall to the hold. Her heart hammered against her ribs. Being press-ganged into service in an illegal settlement was bad, but for a woman of breeding age… She wished she had thought to grab a knife from the kitchen to tuck into her waistband. She’d slit her wrists rather than go with raiders. Sure, they’d dress it up fancy, tell her she could have her pick of the men, be a wife and mother, a valuable part of their community, but there would be no choice—she’d have to submit to a life of perpet
ual pregnancy and child rearing if she wanted food, shelter, oxygen. Unlike proper settlements, where population growth was tightly controlled through family size limits and carefully regulated immigration, illegal settlements had high death rates due to illness, starvation, and violence. It was a constant struggle to keep a big enough population to survive. The goal for all “citizens” of such settlements was to have as many children as possible—by any means necessary. If you didn’t find a husband on your own, one would be found for you.
Metal scraped metal and the ship shuddered. Kyra grabbed on to the wall to keep her balance.
Vienna was at the far end of the hallway, in the cargo bay doorway, and she frantically waved at Kyra. “Hurry up!”
“What was that?”
“They’ve clamped on.” Vienna’s usually cool and aloof demeanor had disappeared, and she had a pinched and anxious look about her now. “Hurry up; we got to get you to the raider box.”
A high-pitched screech of protesting metal drove a knife of pain through Kyra’s spine, and she clamped her hands over her ears.
“They’re cutting through!” Vienna shouted over the racket. “In about twenty-minutes, they’ll be inside.”
Kyra let Vienna usher her through the cargo bay and into the tiny, cramped safe room. She jumped as the door clanged shut behind her. In the feeble glow of a handheld lantern, she saw the drawn, tense faces of the other passengers.
No one spoke. Long moments passed, the shrill shriek of the hull being cut into knifed into Kyra, as if the raiders were drilling directly into her skull. It was as if the ship were crying out in pain.
The sound stopped. Somehow, that was worse. Kyra held her breath, straining in the darkness to hear.
Shouts.
Pounding footsteps.
Gunfire.
Kyra’s heart thundered in her ears. She strained, listening harder.
Silence.
She glanced at the roughneck beside her. “Is it over?” she whispered.
Something heavy struck the door hard from outside. Kyra jumped.
Blow after blow clanged against the door. Someone was trying to break down the door from outside.
The crew must be dead or incapacitated. The raiders had made it through.
The roughneck shoved her roughly toward the back wall. The rest of the men closed ranks around her, the roughnecks moving to the front and assuming defensive postures. They had only their fists, but they were going to fight to the last.
The door groaned and rippled like waves. On the next blow, it crumpled inward, ripped free from its hinges. Kyra barely had time to register the unfamiliar face in the doorway before the roughnecks surged forward with a collective shout.
Kyra was jostled from side to side as the battle began in earnest. The raider in the doorway grabbed the nearest passenger by the collar and yanked him out of the room, flinging him into the narrow hallway behind him. Two more unfamiliar figures dashed forward, yanked a black cloth over the passenger’s head and then pressed a shock stick to his chest. The roughneck crumpled to the deck.
Two more raiders slapped restraints on the unconscious roughneck’s wrists and dragged him off while the one in the doorway already had hold of a second passenger, preparing to fling him into the hallway—and the other raiders’ waiting clutches—like he had the first.
Gunfire erupted in the cargo bay behind the raiders.
The raider glanced over his shoulder and then reached for another passenger.
The remaining passengers were clustered in the doorway, trying to punch the raider without leaving the safety of the closet. This bottle-necked them, kept them from actually reaching the raider. He just had to time his attacks correctly, ducking under their outstretched arms to grab them one by one and fling them out into the narrow hall. The raiders’ superior numbers did the rest.
“There’s a woman in here!” the raider shouted to his comrades.
Kyra shrank against the wall, terror washing over her. She dropped down into a crouch, trying to make herself as tiny as possible. She’d learned long ago not to cry or beg—it just made things worse—but she couldn’t stop her heart from slamming against her ribs.
The raider pushed into the closet, followed by two, three, four of his comrades. In the feeble light, Kyra could make out a beard, long hair, and a face set with determination. The leader shoved his way through the remaining passengers, who, to their credit, tried to shield Kyra. But the raider just thrust them aside, into the waiting fists of his friends.
He grabbed her by the hair and dragged her to her feet. She cried out in pain, beating at his hands, trying to dig her nails into his skin. Without pause, he turned in one smooth movement, dragging her behind him. She staggered, and the man yanked hard on her hair, sending a shock of pain through her. Panic engulfed her, and she flailed wildly, beating at his fists and arms, trying to free herself. She futilely kicked and screamed as he pulled her into the cargo bay. Once free of the confines of the small space, he let her go. She stumbled. In one swift movement, he turned and threw out his fist. It slammed into her jaw, sending a blanket of stars across her vision.
Momentarily stunned, she was powerless to resist as he picked her up and threw her over his shoulder. She tried to struggle but he had an arm clamped around her legs, preventing her from kicking him and her tiny fists were ineffectual against his broad back. He took no more notice of her blows than he would a speck of space dust.
Everything was confusion. The air was full of smoke and dust, and she coughed and choked. Dimly, she was aware of shouting. A shrill whistled sounded.
“Hold your fire!” someone shouted.
She was jostled hard as her abductor shifted position, and a new wave of panic rolled over her as she realized they were moving through a hole in the hull onto the raiders’ ship. Then she was dumped unceremoniously on the floor of the raiders’ cargo bay. She tried to scramble backwards, but the raider slapped a pair of restraints on her as easily as if she had held perfectly still. Another raider hustled by with a body slung over one shoulder—one of the techs. He was unconscious. The raider continued past, heading for the far end of the cargo hold. He disappeared down a hallway with his prize.
A grating sound alerted Kyra to the fact the docking ring door was closing. The hum of the engines firing rose above the other sounds. They were getting underway.
She jumped to her feet and tried to dash for the door, but she was too late. Icy terror washed over her as the door swung closed in her face with a resounding clang.
She was a prisoner.
Chapter Seven
Derrick shook his head to clear the black spots obscuring his vision. One of the raiders had rushed him and struck him in the face with the butt of a gun, momentarily stunning him. He’d gone weak-kneed and staggered, providing the raiders the opportunity to yank him out of the narrow corridor. One of the raiders had then made the fatal mistake of trying to put restraints on him. He had snapped the man’s neck easily. But before he could stagger back into the choke point, several raiders had set on him in a pack, one particularly feral woman jumping on his back, kicking and punching like there was no tomorrow. Several more raiders had rushed past with a battering ram, disappearing down the short corridor to the safe room. After that, Derrick lost track of what was happening where. He managed to fling off the woman on his back, only to be born to the ground by a flying tackle from two more raiders. Gunfire crackled around him. Dimly, he heard Hunter barking commands.
He grunted in satisfaction as he laid out blows left and right. Raider after raider dropped under his fists, but there seemed to be no end to them.
He spied a gun on the floor and dove for it. He grabbed the gun and twisted mid-dive, spraying bullets across the group of raiders attacking him. As one, they crumpled to the deck.
He climbed to his feet. Through the dust and haze, he saw one of the raiders across the cargo bay bend at the waist and then heft something onto his shoulder. Derrick raised his gun, took aim, and th
en stopped as he saw a cascade of brown curls. God damn it—the man had Kyra.
He grimaced in annoyance, and then put his head down and charged. “Hold your fire!” he shouted as he saw Vienna taking aim at the same raider.
A red-hot pain sliced into the back of his leg. He stumbled, and his leg gave out, sending him crashing to the floor. He tried to scramble to his feet, but a shock of agony jolted through him. He turned and looked down. Blood seeped through his pant leg. He’d been shot.
“God damn it,” he muttered through gritted teeth. He climbed to his feet, ignoring the pain. He limped forward, but he was too late. The raider disappeared into his ship with Kyra.
Derrick ran forward, pain shooting up his leg like fireworks with every step.
Hunter called his name. He turned. Hunter was pointing behind him. Another raider was racing toward a different entrance to the raider ship with one of the techs slung over his shoulder. The bastards had double clamped—drilled two holes in the Mercy’s hull to give themselves twice the access.
Derrick could stop the raider or he could go after Kyra, but he couldn’t do both. He hesitated. The tech had insurance; Kyra didn’t.
“God damn it,” he muttered again, and then took off running for the hole through which Kyra had disappeared.
He ignored Hunter’s shouts.
The door to the raider ship clanged shut in his face. He pounded on it uselessly. His fists were no match for six inches of titanium.
He heard the roar of their engines firing up. He glanced around wildly and spied the cable winch they used for loading heavy cargo. He grabbed the end and clipped it to his belt. He slammed a hand on the brake, releasing it so the cable could unspool freely.
Vienna skidded to a stop beside him. “What the hell are you doing?”
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