Speaking of others…
She gripped the railing, wanting to run down and check on Viktor—or to fling herself into his arms—but with the ramp destroyed, she didn’t see another way down. Unless she jumped. Or… her gaze fell upon a vine dangling over the edge of her level. It belonged to one of those awful plants, the ones still lining the back edge of her own balcony, but the vine itself might not be that dangerous, especially if she didn’t touch it for long. Maybe.
“Are you all right?” Viktor called up. His left arm hung limply at his side.
“Me? I’m not the one who was shot. Are you all right?” Before she could talk herself out of it, Ankari swung over the railing, grasped the vine, and slid down it as if it were a rope. It had a tacky almost sticky flesh that tore at her hands, so she switched to climbing down, arm under arm. Something snapped above her head, and she let go, dropping the last ten feet and landing in a deep crouch, her butt bumping the planks underfoot. Not the most graceful move, but at least she didn’t hurt herself.
She spun, intending to race toward the spot where Viktor had been standing, but he had run to her while she was dropping, and she smacked into his chest. He wrapped one arm around her, pulling her hard against him.
“An unusual method of entering a room,” he remarked.
Relief and other feelings she wasn’t ready to acknowledge made a lump in her throat, so she didn’t try to say anything. She threw her arms around his waist and buried her face against his shoulder, the uninjured one. She might have flung her legs and everything else around him, but didn’t want to disturb his injury. The scent of smoke clung to him, his flesh and jacket scorched from the laser fire.
“Shall we see if your friends escaped?” Viktor asked.
Yes, that was important, but she kissed him first, needing him to know she cared that he had been injured, that she cared that he—they—had defeated Felgard, and… just that she cared.
His hand slid up her back to tangle in her hair as he returned the kiss. “Or we could stay here,” he murmured against her lips.
“All right.”
He snorted softly and pulled back, though he captured the side of her face with his hand. “I wasn’t truly suggesting that. There are a lot of people still alive around here who may not take kindly to their employer’s death.”
As much as Ankari would have liked to continue with the embracing, kissing, and gazing into Viktor’s eyes, she had to concede to that logic—there was probably something twisted about smooching while a pile of carnivorous plants were finishing their human lunch nearby too.
“How do we get back up there?” she asked.
Viktor tapped his comm-patch. “Sequoia, you still at the helm of that shuttle?”
“’Course I am, sir. Just sitting here, working on some navigational math problems Commander Thatcher assigned me at someone’s request.” The pilot’s cough wasn’t subtle.
“We’re ready for a pickup. Backside of the biggest building here. Grab the others on the way.”
“Yes, sir.”
“He sounded a little bitter,” Ankari said when the communication ended. “Should we be worried that he’ll forget to pick us up?”
“No, pilots need to be mentally challenged. Commander Thatcher would be the first to tell you that. Have you met him?”
“I don’t remember.” Most of the crew was still a blur to Ankari.
“You’d remember him.” Viktor smirked.
“In a good way or a bad way?”
“Can the answer be both?”
“Ah, maybe?”
She must have appeared concerned, because Viktor said, “Perhaps you should have spent more time learning about the eccentricities of my crew before making us partners and agreeing to set up your labs on my ship.”
“Oh, but I look forward to learning about those eccentricities.” Ankari smiled and gave him another kiss.
Epilogue
“I’ll admit, this is much better than I’d imagined,” Lauren said, stroking some kind of fancy cryo-electron microscope with the fondness one usually reserved for a lover. Or at least a cat or puppy.
Ankari thought the lab felt claustrophobic with all the new equipment packing the counters and shelves and cabinets in the small environmental cabin on the Albatross, but Lauren had the space to herself now, so maybe she didn’t mind. Ankari had a small desk—with a chair—in Viktor’s cabin. Since he was on shift twelve hours a day, she could work there without being disturbed, and by the time he came home at night, they were both ready for more physical activities.
“The equipment?” Jamie asked from the doorway. She had been apprenticed to one of the lower-ranking engineers and was getting on-the-job training when Lauren didn’t need anyone to repair or make alterations to her equipment. “Or our new position on the ship in general?”
“Mostly the equipment, but this isn’t any worse than the freighter with the shaggy carpeting.”
Ankari cleared her throat. “Let’s have a little respect for the deceased and departed.”
“De-parted is right.” Jamie snickered.
“Ha ha.” Ankari swatted at her. “Shouldn’t you be down retrofitting our new shuttle, so the interior won’t scare off the clients?” Viktor had agreed to let them fix up the craft that had been damaged on Sturm and install some medical equipment, so they could zip off to meet with clients whenever Mandrake Company had a mission in the same area. “Seeing laser burns on the walls and an array of guns bristling from the front of the craft might not fill someone with the calm serenity we want our customers to feel.”
“I just came up to double-check your paint choices.” Jamie held up a tablet. “I’ve got a couple of robots working on it, but it’s not too late to change things, if there was a mistake. Did you really want the exterior to be… pink?”
“Yes.”
“Oh. I thought that might be... an error.” Jamie sighed in obvious disappointment.
“I didn’t want Viktor to be tempted to borrow our shuttle if his were maimed, blown up, or otherwise indisposed. With as much expensive equipment as we’re putting in there, it should not be used to carry thugly mercenaries down to a battle zone.”
“I suppose that makes sense.”
Since Jamie wasn’t enthused with the color, it probably wasn’t surprising that Ankari’s comm-patch chimed a few minutes later with someone else’s input.
“Markovich,” Viktor growled. Though the entire ship was aware of their relationship, he still called her by last name in public—and when he was irked with her. “Why is there a pink shuttle in my shuttle bay?”
“Because I’m a girl and I like pink,” she responded cheerily.
“This is unacceptable.”
Ankari tried to decide if he was truly mad or simply blustering. Maybe he had to look good—suitably surly and authoritative—because one of his men had walked into the shuttle bay with him. “Really, Captain, you never stipulated that the shuttle remain its utterly boring gray color. In fact, you gave it to me without stipulations at all. It’s not as if I have my own spaceship that I can paint and decorate to suit my needs.” She winked at Lauren and Jamie. As guilty as Viktor felt about that incident, she could probably use it as a trump card in arguments for years to come.
He growled again, though no audible words accompanied the noise this time.
“Does he growl that much in bed?” Jamie asked.
“Yes, but it’s a different kind of growl. Much more enthused.”
“We’re not interested in those details,” Lauren said, her head once again bent over her new microscope.
“I might be a little interested,” Jamie said.
“Ah, Jamie, we might have to see if we can find you a nice young man here so you can have details of your own.” Too bad the ship had a lot more bitter, middle-aged men who thought women were something to be rented by the hour.
“Just not that Striker.” Jamie’s nose wrinkled. “He keeps accidentally bumping into me and trying to invite
me to his cabin to look at his comics.”
“I’m sure we can do better than that for you. Now, shall we see how that paint job is commencing? I want to make sure it’s a very vibrant shade of pink.”
THE END
Trial and Temptation
1
Val Calendula had no reason to be nervous. She knew how to fly. She’d been doing it for more than ten years. And yet… a bead of sweat slithered down her ribcage, and her hands shook slightly. Under normal conditions, she wouldn’t be nervous, but she was piloting an unfamiliar shuttlecraft under the watchful eyes of three mercenaries. All right, only one of the mercenaries was watching closely, from the seat next to hers. The other two were strapped into the passenger seats in the back, commenting on some sexually suggestive game they had picked up on the station. Or maybe it was an innocent game that they were making sexually suggestive.
“Hit that, and you get to slide right up into her tunnel of love.”
“Oh, yeah, and she’s open and ready for you too. Slicker than a lubed impact wrench.”
It was just like being back in the military. Nothing to be nervous about.
Except these weren’t Galactic Conglomeration soldiers. They were mercenaries. They might or might not keep things on a professional level. Mandrake Company had a reputation for being an honorable outfit, but she had never encountered them personally.
“What are you two playing back there?” Lieutenant Sequoia asked.
He was the one watching Val’s fingers as they danced lightly across the control panel—actually, they were dancing with all of the grace of elephants crammed into a cargo hold, and she kept leaving sweat marks on the switches. She hoped he hadn’t noticed that.
“Star Fighter’s Revenge, sir.”
“I have that game,” Sequoia said. “I don’t remember a tunnel of love on any of the levels.”
“We got an, ah, enhanced version.” Both men snickered.
Val smiled. The banter was starting to relax her, however coarse it might be. Until the lieutenant frowned at a display to the left of her seat and above her head. “Are you keeping an eye on the fuel mix ratio? I know most ships handle all of that manually, but these combat shuttles can be finicky. The ratio has to be precise.”
“Yes, sir,” Val said, falling into the old habit of calling officers sir, even though she had been a civilian for the last eight years. If she got the job—and oh how she needed this job—she would have to “sir” everyone again, at least those of higher rank, and she doubted she would get much rank based on the two years she had spent in the fleet after the academy. “I mean, I wasn’t, but it’s because I was expecting that display to be down here on the panel. I’ll watch it more closely now.”
“Hm.”
She tried not to wince at the faint disapproving note in that single syllable.
“What do you think, sir?” one of the gamers asked. “The girl got what it takes to fly with us? More important than that, she going to be able to land in the shuttle bay without ripping a door off?”
Val held back an indignant sniff. The hatch was in the back, so she’d really have to choke the landing to knock it off. Maybe he was worried about the door to the Albatross’s shuttle bay.
“We’ll see,” Sequoia said neutrally.
She tried not to find condemnation in his tone. She was qualified for this job. Mostly. She had graduated from the GalCon flight academy. So what if it had been ten years ago, and she’d been piloting clunky freighters through the extremely boring and extremely safe inner-system shipping lanes since then? So what if this was a mercenary outfit, and she’d never been in a real battle? Her résumé couldn’t have been worse than any of the others turned in, or she wouldn’t have been invited to come aboard for an interview with the flight commander.
“She’s got a tree name,” the other gamer said. “The captain’ll take her.”
Neither Val’s first name—Valerian—nor her last had anything to do with trees, but she didn’t correct the man. She knew what he meant. She had been born on the now-destroyed druid-dominated world of Grenavine, and Mandrake Company had a reputation for being a refuge for some of its inhabitants, those who had been off-world when it had been annihilated, and those who had skills useful to the mercenaries. Captain Mandrake himself was a native. That was why she had submitted her résumé. No need to mention that she had submitted it to three other outfits—and been rejected—before learning that Mandrake Company existed.
“I hope so,” the other mercenary said. “We need more tits on board. Way too many dicks roaming the halls.”
“Striker,” the lieutenant said, “it’d be nice if you could be a little less crude, given that there’s a lady present, one we’re hoping might want to stick around and work with us.”
“Sorry, sir.” The man—Striker—lowered his voice and asked his comrade, “What should I have said? Breasts and penises?”
Sequoia sighed.
They flew out of the station’s shadow, and the mercenary vessel came into sight, so Val stopped paying attention to the banter. The winged, gunmetal-gray craft, with its sleek predatory visage, looked more like a bird of prey than an albatross, but maybe the name had some historical significance.
She was more worried about the shuttle bay door than the ship itself, and her eyes fixated on that. She forced herself to check the instruments again, making the adjustments the computer suggested and nudging the starboard thrusters to line up the approach. A pilot who wanted to show off might ignore the computer, but she doubted the lieutenant would give her demerits for choosing safety over a chance to demonstrate her skills. Besides, she wasn’t that confident in her ability to show off in a craft she had never flown before. She was still surprised Sequoia had pointed her to the pilot’s seat two minutes after meeting her, but she supposed it made sense that her “interview” would start right away.
The lieutenant waved at a comm-patch on the front of his brown leather jacket. “Bridge, this is Charlie Shuttle. Requesting permission to land.”
“You bring back those chocolate tarts from the bakery on Level Three?” a man asked.
“If I said no, would you let us land?”
“Hell no, I’d send your skinny ass back to the station with my boot print embedded in it.”
After Val made a few more adjustments, the craft came in under one of the ship’s wings, facing the shuttle bay straight on. It hadn’t been established whether the chocolate tarts had been acquired or not, but the doors opened, nonetheless. Other shuttles were parked inside, locked down in the anti-grav environment. They made for very large and very solid obstacles that she would have to maneuver around.
Val wiped her hands on her trousers, saw Sequoia watching out of the corner of his eye, and placed them firmly back on the controls. She guided the craft through the doors without trouble. Good. Almost there.
“Take Dock Two,” Sequoia said, waving toward the port side.
Applying the minimum thrust, Val turned them in that direction. Her hand twitched when she spotted the shuttlecraft in Dock One. It was pink. What the hell? The rest of the shuttles were the same gunmetal gray as the exterior of the ship, just like everything else in the bay, including the walls themselves.
Her twitch caused the tail to swing farther inward than she intended. She rushed to correct the mistake before they scraped against anything, but flushed in mortification, anyway. This was a simple, simple task. If she couldn’t dock a shuttle in ideal conditions, they wouldn’t believe she could fly one in combat.
Sequoia didn’t comment, but she knew he had noticed. Maybe he would attribute it to nerves. Or maybe he knew how shocking that bright pink shuttle was; she wagered everyone jerked in surprise when they saw it.
Fortunately, Val landed the craft without further mishaps. She forced herself to calmly unfasten her harness and face the lieutenant, not slump down in her seat with palpable relief.
“A little rusty, eh?” Sequoia asked.
Val thought abou
t making an excuse and blaming the pink aberration, but he was probably referring to her whole flight out here. “It’s been a long time since I’ve flown anything except a freighter,” she admitted. “But I can get used to the maneuverability of these shuttles. I trained on all sorts of combat craft in the fleet.” No need to mention that she’d had no real-life combat experience…
“We’ll see what Commander Thatcher says.” Sequoia thumped her on the shoulder and stood up. “Get the door, will you? Looks like the air’s back on, and if I don’t deliver those tarts to the bridge, I’ll be in danger of being taped to my bunk tonight.”
Val’s mind had frozen at the name Thatcher, and she barely heard the rest. She’d trained under a Lieutenant Commander Thatcher back at the academy. The man had been an irritating, arrogant know-it-all, and he had looked for every excuse he could find to fail her. More than once, he’d told her that she should give up on the academy and consider civilian freighters or transport vessels. That pompous ass. Just because he had been some child prodigy who had blown up his first enemy before he’d been old enough for a ground vehicle license on his own world, that hadn’t given him the right to be such an aloof bastard.
“Calendula?” Sequoia frowned. “The door?”
“Sorry, sir,” she blurted, slamming a hand down on the release much harder than needed.
All three men were frowning at her now. But the hatch dropped open, turning into a ramp, and they trudged out, hopefully forgetting about her.
“Get yourself together, Val,” she muttered. “There’s no way it’s the same person.”
Mandrake Company- The Complete Series Page 28