Games of Command

by Linnea Sinclair

  “I believe we have.”

  “You believe?” she repeated, her voice rising.

  “Sebastian…”

  “Don’t ‘Sebastian’ me, Kel-Paten. You could be wrong.”

  “I could. But the Galaxus’s nav comps are intact. And correct.”

  “That’s impossible.” She glanced to the back of the cockpit. “Maybe Serafino can help. The Nasyry have been around a lot longer, and a lot farther, than any of us.”

  The bright glow in his eyes flared briefly. “How long have you known he’s Nasyry?”

  “Two, three days,” she replied after a moment, knowing he wouldn’t be satisfied with that answer and knowing they were opening a can of frinkas here. But if they were going to find a way to get home, maybe it was time that particular can was opened. “Eden told me.”

  “Dr. Fynn—”

  “Is a telepath too. Yes.” Might as well cut to the chase.

  “Her personnel records—”

  “She didn’t know. Working with Serafino uncovered it. She confirmed he’s Nasyry, or half Nasyry. And if Eden says so, then it’s so.” She tried to look sternly at him but failed. She was too damned tired.

  Evidently so was he. With something that was a cross between a sigh and a groan, he slid his wrist from the contact cradle embedded into the arm of his chair. Then he closed his eyes briefly, letting his head rest against the high back of the seat.

  “You okay?” she asked softly after a few minutes.

  He turned his head toward her, his eyes once again their familiar pale hue. “It’s something I’ve gotten used to.”

  She ran her hands over her face, his soft, apologetic tone tugging at her. That, and the realization that he more than likely wasn’t behind the attack by the mysterious fighters. Kel-Paten was a perfectionist. Had Kel-Paten orchestrated the attack, they would have succeeded. “I’m sorry. I know you’re just doing what you have to do.” She hesitated. “Are we really lost?”

  “Technically, no. I know exactly where we are. It just doesn’t relate to anything in our nav comps.”

  “Let’s look on the bright side, then. That means there’s a whole galaxy of pubs out there that haven’t banned me. Yet.”

  “If Serafino can’t help us, finding those pubs may become your full-time job,” he said. “We’re going to need supplies, eventually.”

  True. “Did your scans pick up any habitable worlds?” It would be nice to know there were a few places they could bunk in with breathable air and potable water. “Or how about a station, a miners’ raft?”

  “No rafts or stations yet, but I’ve only scanned based on our known frequencies. I’ll recode a second scan shortly. But as for habitable worlds, a few possibilities. I’ll know more once we get the engines back online and full power restored.”

  Sass looked out at the silvery points dotting the blackness, hoping that a planet would suddenly send up some sort of welcome flag, something like Beer Here! One-Credit Shots 1900 Hours to Closing!

  Kel-Paten’s voice cut into her wishful thinking. “Go check on Serafino. Sounds like he’s functional now. I won’t be able to make the proper appreciative noises at his survival.”

  “Aye, sir. By your command.” She gave him a wry smile and vacated her seat, surprised at his candor. Evidently there were times he could act almost a little bit human.

  Friend? Sleep. Sleep. Tank hurt.

  Friend. No sleep. Sleep bad. Alert! Alert! Help Friend. Help Sass. Help Mommy.

  Friend…hurt…

  Reilly hurt too. Friend. Alert! Help. Soon food. Soon.

  Food?

  Food. Soon.

  Sass sat cross-legged on the floor next to Jace while Eden activated the small bone-regeneration device on his left arm. In six to eight hours he’d have little more than some tenderness at the area of the break. “Though the admiral may never tell you so, we’re both appreciative of what you’ve done.”

  “What I’ve done,” Jace said, from his position propped against the bulkhead wall, “is get us into a blind jump. I already explained to Eden that I did not get us out. I thought,” he continued, with a nod to Kel-Paten in the pilot’s seat, “he might have spiked in and taken control. But evidently not, from what you tell me.”

  “Then who pulled us out? Someone had to initiate the deceleration sequence. The computers were off-line; we were on manual,” Sass said, remembering their wild ride.

  “Could you or the admiral have done that by mistake?” Eden briefly glanced up from the medicorder. “Hit something when the ship inverted and you ended up on the viewport?”

  “Unlikely,” Sass replied. “The only other possibility is the emergency shutoff, and that’s not even up front. It’s back…” and she turned toward the rear of the cockpit, toward a long access panel whose door was skewed on its hinges. There was a broken air vent directly above it. And a yellow furzel collar torn in half, snagged on a jagged edge of the vent.

  Sass’s stomach clenched and her heart stopped at the same time.

  She sprang to her feet. “Kel-Paten!” She didn’t know quite why she called for him. Except she was afraid that if she found what her sinking heart told her she was going to find, she was going to need something large and immovable to pound on in her grief. He was the largest and most immovable thing she knew.

  She yanked on the access-panel door as he strode up beside her.

  “The door’s stuck!” she cried. “I need in there. Now!”

  Deities be praised, he didn’t question but tore the panel off its hinges.

  And there, balancing on the metal emergency shutdown bar, were two furzels—one rather large black one with a white tuxedo blaze, and a smaller, more furry black and white one. A fidget, really, with his collar tangled in the equipment.

  “How in hell—?” Kel-Paten’s question ended abruptly as he was roughly shoved aside by two laughing and crying women.

  “Tank!”

  “Reilly!”

  Kel-Paten watched from the pilot’s seat as Tasha, her face still damp from tears, gently rubbed the shoulders of the pudgy creature that fit nicely in her lap as she sat cross-legged on the floor. He had never heard of furzel massage. But that evidently was what was being performed at Fynn’s medical direction.

  The larger furzel in Fynn’s lap didn’t fit as well but received the same loving attention.

  When I die, Kel-Paten considered thoughtfully, noting the adoring look Tasha bestowed on the small furzel as she and Fynn discussed what had happened, I think I know exactly what I want to be reincarnated as.

  Serafino, in the copilot’s seat, leaned toward him, his voice low. “They’re traditionally neutered at six months. You might not find that as rewarding. Or maybe you might not even notice.”

  Kel-Paten started slightly, the comment making no sense. Then he realized what had happened. Serafino had picked a thought out of his mind—again. Biting back a response, he automatically activated an additional set of mind filters. He shot Serafino a look of pure venom. Serafino shrugged, unconcerned.

  But no rejoinder. Good.

  Then he caught the narrowing of Fynn’s eyes. She’d evidently heard Serafino. Had she been reading his thoughts all along as well? He should never have dropped his mental filters. But they were confining, like wearing three overcoats, and he knew they made him act stiffly around Tasha. So he made a habit of disabling them when she was around. Unfortunately, most times when she was around, so was Eden Fynn. And now Serafino. Empaths. Telepaths.

  He’d have to be on his guard and try, somehow, to circumvent the programming when he dealt privately with Tasha.

  He glanced over as Serafino, with a wince of pain, adjusted his position. Kel-Paten would have gladly added to that, but the show—and that’s what he felt Serafino’s actions were—wasn’t for his benefit but for the doctor’s and Tasha’s.

  “Domesticated furzels form a bond with their human counterparts,” Serafino said. Kel-Paten only half-listened to the words, the furzels were of sl
ight concern to him. He was more interested in studying the mercenary, now that the man was revealed to be Nasyry. He was, he realized grimly, stuck with the bastard until the shuttle was fixed and they could return to Triad space.

  “Telepathic furzels—they’re fairly rare, you know—can also form a psychic bond.” Serafino smiled at Fynn, and Kel-Paten didn’t miss the slight pink tinge on the CMO’s cheeks. Sad. He respected the woman, thought she was smarter than to succumb to the bastard pirate’s oily charms.

  “You can scan Reilly and know for yourself,” Serafino said to Fynn. “But since Tasha and the Tin—Kel-Paten can’t, I’ll explain.”

  Tin Soldier. Kel-Paten didn’t miss the way Serafino constantly slipped it in and then corrected himself. Another bit of playacting.

  Now, Tasha…Kel-Paten had no delusions about his ability to second-guess her, but he did believe she had no idea Serafino was Nasyry until Fynn told her. She also didn’t appear totally comfortable with that fact. Neither was he—or with the fact that Serafino’s heritage was not part of the data either the Triad or the U-Cees had on him. He hadn’t known. Tasha hadn’t known. He was sure that rankled her as much as it did him. Perhaps that would be one more thing he could use to keep her allied with him.

  He was having a hard time forgetting her remark to sell him as scrap. Or that she’d armed Serafino. But when she needed someone to rescue her beloved fidget, she called for him, not Serafino. Did that mean something? He hoped so. They did need to have that talk—but not with either Serafino or Fynn around. How he was going to manage that in a small shuttle…He turned his attention back to Serafino.

  Serafino nodded to the large black furzel now purring loudly in Fynn’s lap. “Reilly came to me when I was in sick bay with a warning. With all else that was going on, I didn’t take it as seriously as I should have. I accept blame there.”

  “A warning?” Tasha asked before Kel-Paten could voice the same question. “They knew those ships were going to attack us at Panperra?”

  “It’s more like something felt very wrong. Because of their bond to Eden and you, they decided to take things into their own hands. Uh, paws.” Serafino grinned.

  Kel-Paten almost put a stop to the ridiculous conversation then and there but decided it was better to let Serafino make a total fool of himself. He leaned back, resting his fist against his mouth.

  “Because they’d accompanied Captain Sebastian and Doc Eden on emergency drills before, Tank and Reilly knew that they’d have to shut down the engine to drop us out of the jump,” Serafino continued. “They don’t have the knowledge to initiate a shutdown via the command panel. But Reilly remembered seeing the emergency shut off. And, of course, it’s labeled.”

  “You want us to believe they can read?” Kel-Paten had had enough. It was time someone injected some rationality into this insane recounting.

  “Of course not.” Serafino looked pleased that his comment had finally elicited a response from Kel-Paten. “But it’s documented that furzels can recognize symbols or patterns. They don’t actually understand the word fish, but when they see those shapes on a can of furzel food, they know it’s something they like.”

  Reilly’s head shot up and Tank wriggled in Tasha’s lap.

  “I believe our stowaways are hungry,” Serafino said.

  Fynn stood and handed Reilly to Serafino. “I’ll check the galley.”

  “Until Captain Sebastian and I can complete our assessment and repairs,” Kel-Paten said as Fynn turned away, “we need to keep tight control on all supplies.”

  “Understood, Admiral.”

  “And we need,” Kel-Paten continued, focusing back on Serafino, “to keep our discussions to useful, factual topics. Not flights of fancy.”

  A slow smile crossed Serafino’s lips. “Guess there’s no room in your narrow-minded programming for—ow!” And he stopped mid-sentence as the tip of Fynn’s boot caught him in the ankle. The smile was replaced by a sheepish look on his face and a stern one on the CMO’s. They were conversing telepathically; Kel-Paten had no doubt now as he watched Fynn lower a bowl of what looked—and smelled—like a meat stew onto the floor. Reilly squirmed in Serafino’s lap.

  “You might want to release him,” Fynn said to Serafino, “before he breaks your other arm.”

  Kel-Paten heard the warning tone in her voice and felt it had little to do with the hungry beasts and more to do with Serafino’s being back in the insult business. He wanted to tell her not to worry on his account, but Tasha’s soft chuckle drew his attention. Whether she was laughing at the furzels, now head to head in the bowl and slurping loudly, or at the interaction between Fynn and Serafino, he couldn’t tell.

  “Time to get to work,” she said, pulling herself off the floor. “Out of my chair, ’Fino.”

  “Where do you want us to start?” Fynn put in.

  “Captain Sebastian and I have to get the engines, life support, and computers back to optimum—or as close to optimum as we can manage,” Kel-Paten told her. “We can’t stay in this ship much past two weeks. I’m running searches now for stations or rafts. But our chances might be greater for finding a habitable planet.”

  Fynn was frowning. “Can’t we just return to Panperra?”

  “Not easily.” Tasha sighed as she sat in the copilot’s chair. “Nothing out there,” she said with a flick of her hand toward the main viewport, “tells us how far away we are.”

  Fynn shot a look at Serafino. Again, Kel-Paten was sure something passed between them. The man sighed loudly as he plopped down at the nav station. “Let me take a look at the nav data.”

  “If you can find something the admiral and I couldn’t, I’d love to hear it,” Tasha said.

  As much as Kel-Paten was loath to cast Serafino in the role of savior, he grudgingly hoped Serafino could provide them with some kind of fix. He was, after all, the one who’d brought them here—albeit accidentally.

  Or perhaps not so accidentally? No, if Serafino had planned a double-cross, there’d already be at least a pair of Strafers, bristling with weaponry, on the Galaxus’s screens. Still, it was something he wasn’t ready to completely discount. And it was one more thing he wanted to discuss with Tasha.

  When—if—he ever got her alone.

  “If you could make the main cabin one of your first priorities,” Fynn said to Kel-Paten, “I think we all might benefit from a little more room. None of us—and that includes you, Admiral—is in perfect condition after what we’ve just been through.”

  “Understood, Doctor,” Kel-Paten said. “We should have life support back in the cabin within three hours.”

  He glanced at Tasha. She was working data on the copilot’s screens, and when she glanced up at him, there were shadows under her eyes. Fynn was accurate in her assessment that they all needed some downtime.

  He shoved his wrist against the chair’s contact cradle, spiked in, and briefly wondered if he’d ever stop feeling uncomfortable doing so in front of Tasha.

  No, probably not.

  Life support’s base programs cascaded in front of him. He saw the truncated code lines, damaged when the system had overloaded.

  “I’ll handle those,” he told Tasha without looking at her. “You check for transfer-point integrity.”

  “On it,” she said, and for the next ten minutes they worked in compatible, if tired, silence. Fynn moved from peering over Serafino’s shoulders to tending to the furzels, her footsteps soft. Then a rough grunt broke the silence.

  Kel-Paten looked toward the nav station just as Tasha did.

  “Damn.” Serafino swiveled around. “Sorry,” he said. “Nothing in my memory, collective or otherwise, ties in to what I see here.”

  Fynn’s shoulders sagged. “So we could be two quadrants or an entire galaxy away from Alliance space and we wouldn’t know.”

  “Not two quadrants.” Serafino turned his chair toward Fynn. “There’d still be something recognizable. A distant star cluster we could hone in on. That’s not the case.�
��

  Wide-eyed, Fynn switched a look from Serafino to Tasha. “How do we get home? To the Vaxxar or even the Regalia?”

  “First, we get this shuttle operative so that we can find supplies and fuel,” Tasha said gently to her friend. “Then we can concentrate on getting back.” She paused. “We’ve been in tighter spots than this, Eden.”

  “Yes. That’s true.” Fynn knotted her fingers together, then, with a loud sigh, released them. “Well.” She looked around the cockpit. “Well,” she said again, more firmly this time.

  “I’ve picked up three possible worlds in stable habitable zones of F-to K-class stars,” Kel-Paten said. The doctor was uncharacteristically rattled. She needed something to occupy her mind. And he could use her medical opinion on planetary habitability determination. “I need you to review the data, Doctor, and give us biocompatibilities or hazards. Use the nav station.”

  “Here, sweetling.” Serafino rose and made a sweeping gesture with his right hand.

  Kel-Paten caught Tasha’s bemused shake of her head out of the corner of his eye. He swiveled the pilot’s chair to face the console. Tasha mirrored his movement and looked questioningly at him.

  “Let’s finish getting life support back on in the cabin and maintenance deck. I’m almost done with the preliminaries.” He transferred to her comp screen the data he’d worked on while spiked in, then leaned on the arm of her chair, about to close the distance between them in order to bring her attention to the results of a diagnostic scan, when a small, furry body thrust itself under his arm.

  Tank positioned himself on the edge of Tasha’s chair and looked up at Kel-Paten with a noticeably determined and possessive expression.

  Tasha wrapped one arm around the fidget and snuggled him closer against her. “Does it bother you he’s here?”

  “No,” he lied. He angled back toward his console and tried to concentrate on the problems at hand. They were lost in a malfunctioning shuttle, out of range of help from any sort of civilization as they knew it. That should be the problem he needed to address. Not that he was on that same shuttle with a woman who’d never see him as anything other than a ’cybe and two telepaths who knew exactly how he, and that woman, felt.