by Jess Granger
“I don’t.” She picked up a piece of crumpled paper and tossed it through the open bulkhead door into the cargo bay. Tuz chased after it, disappearing into the storage area.
“Why is that?” he asked. After the endless hours locked in the tiny confines of the ship, she’d learned how to read him pretty well. So far, his inflection was neutral, but this was the type of conversation that had gotten her into infuriating circular logic with him earlier.
He already pointed out that basing a system of government on physical prowess in war was an outdated way of thinking in the modern era then pulled apart every cultural idiosyncrasy Azra had. She was tired of defending herself and her people from his backhanded logic.
But then there were other times when he was nearly friendly. That was strange, a situation she wasn’t used to handling. She didn’t have many friends. Deep in her heart she wondered if she really had any, or if the people that seemed to enjoy being in her company only did so to gain greater positions of power.
“I never have played games,” she admitted. “I’ve never had the time.” It wasn’t that she didn’t have the inclination; her life was far too serious. Only sparring gave her a sense of enjoyment, but she wasn’t sure if that counted as fun.
“Do you want to?” He smiled again. The man smiled too often and easily. She didn’t trust it, but she found she craved it. Not that she’d ever admit it to him.
Now that they were nearing the port of Gansai, she was going ship-crazy. All in all, it hadn’t been a terrible passage, but having her world reduced to four bunks, an empty bay, and an attractive man in a worn pilot’s chair had taken its toll.
She frowned. Did she just think of Cyrus as attractive? She was going mad. He was an ass. At first the silence of the ship was comforting, but that last thought was clear proof it was driving her insane.
It was the little things that were getting to her. Cyrus had cooked for her the night before, then left her to eat alone. He’d returned to his pilot’s seat. He spent most of his time there. She suspected he slept in the chair, too, if he slept at all.
She hadn’t slept much either. Being in the bunk made her uneasy. Completely relaxing in his presence was out of the question. Tuz slept in the crook of her arm next to her chest, and she knew if anything came near her, the cat would take its head off.
But, for all of his verbal tricks, she trusted that Cyrus wouldn’t harm her. She couldn’t sleep because every time she tried to relax, she could picture him in the bed, his dark eyes sleepy and full of languid pleasure as her hand strayed over the scar on his bare chest.
She trembled.
“Yara?”
She returned her attention to the captain. “I’m sorry, what?”
“Do you want to play?” He leaned back, letting the hand holding his cards fall down near his thigh. Yara’s eyes followed the cards and lingered on the worn material of his Earthlen jeans. She wondered what the material felt like. The people of Earth didn’t wear the canvas pants out of tradition, or even style preferences really, but had maintained the fashion for generations simply because they liked them. The pants had caught on fast, and now several planets enjoyed them.
It was a foreign idea for her—liking something for no reason other than pleasure. She’d been given what she needed to hone her skills. She’d never been allowed to keep anything simply because she liked it, not even a damn pillow.
Her family had wealth, they had the lineage, but they hadn’t produced a daughter capable of becoming one of the Elite in four generations. Her mother married her father after her father’s sister won prestige as a rising star in the training class, but she ended up washing out the hard way. She didn’t survive. The training accident left her mother disappointed in Yara’s bloodline and her father insecure about his status in the family.
Yara figured out really early that nothing mattered but making it into the training. Once she made it into the training, nothing mattered except being the best in her class and becoming a full Elite. Now nothing mattered but being named heir to the throne. None of the others had the popular support Yara had. Now that Cyani was out of the picture, no one had her skill. She’d be the next Grand Sister, and perhaps her parents would finally be happy.
“Hey, Yara,” Cyrus called as he thumped her on the arm.
Yara’s thoughts snapped to focus as his hand settled on her shoulder then slid down to her elbow. His warm palm chased a fleeting tingle down her skin.
“Don’t you dare touch me,” she scolded, horrified that she broke out in chill prickles at his touch. She whacked him on the shoulder to make her point, then realized Cyrus would probably take her to task and call her a hypocrite for touching him while simultaneously chastising him for touching her.
“Are you back with me? You completely tuned out.” He seemed concerned. “Do you have lag?”
“I’m fine, just tired.” Maybe the trip was getting to her. Mild cases of lag caused depression, but severe lack of mental stimulation in the confines of a ship had been known to cause a series of mental illnesses from dementia to full psychosis in certain species. It was part of the reason people were so suspicious of traders. Some races were more susceptible to lag than others. Azralen were particularly sensitive to it. Her people needed exposure to natural light to survive. The artificial lights in the ship didn’t help regulate their bodies.
Was she getting ill? Or was it something else?
The captain ran a hand over his face, and one stray inky curl fell near his brow by his dark eye. She was willing to bet he looked glorious naked.
By Ona the Pure, she was losing her mind.
“Come on,” Cyrus ordered as he tossed his cards into the pile. “You need to do something. You’re lagging out on me.” Bug, who had been winning, chattered angrily at him.
Yara crossed her arms. “Where are we going to go? On a little stroll outside?” Since she had nothing else to do, she got up and followed him into the cargo bay. She noticed how nice his backside looked in those faded blue pants. She was sick; she was very, very sick. She looked away from Cyrus and turned her attention to her cat.
Tuz batted at a loose case strap dangling from the sidewall through the holes in one of the support beams that circled the vacuous cargo area like great iron ribs. Even her cat was going stir crazy. He had taken to stalking both Bug and Cyrus and “singing” during the night cycle. He yowled so loudly, it rattled the cases at the ends of the bunks.
Cyrus’s boots clicked on the smooth metal beneath their feet. He detached a pair of handles from an older model angrav lift and tossed her one. The meter-long tube of metal felt cold and solid in her fist, and smelled like overused joint grease. It focused her thoughts and she felt the urge to smile at him.
“What are you suggesting?” She twirled the bar, spinning it behind her back and then over her head. It made a slight whistling sound as it sliced through the still air of the empty room.
Cyrus shrugged off his vest, rolled up his loose sleeves past the bracers he constantly wore on his arms, and then widened his stance. He slowly lowered his center, dropping his point of balance low to the ground.
Did he want to spar with her? The man was insane. She’d whip him before he could blink twice.
“You can’t be serious.” She twirled the bar again and then adjusted her own stance before finding a good grip on the makeshift weapon. She tested out her footing in the fine layer of dust. While it helped reduce friction when moving cargo, it would make sparring tricky.
“C’mon, Pix. You’ve been dying to beat me with a stick from the moment you met me.”
Oh yeah, she was ready.
She smiled.
CYN HAD TO TAKE A STEP BACK. IT WAS ONLY A QUIRK OF HER FULL LIPS ON either end, but it was the first time he’d seen her smile where it didn’t look like she was faking it. Her smile softened her features and made her haphazard hair seem playful. He had intended to get their blood flowing; he hadn’t intended for it to pool in the places that were respond
ing to her now. She was hot. Her smile made her pretty.
That was a scary thought.
Keep control of yourself.
The smile faded as she looked down at the bar in her hands. He didn’t want to lose her interest. He liked her attention.
“What? Afraid I’m going to fight like a girl?” he teased. His heart skipped and sped up with a sudden rush of adrenaline as her competitive spirit burned in her golden eyes. That got her back in the game.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” she admitted. “Too badly, anyway.”
Cyn chuckled low. Damn it. It was too bad he was in the process of kidnapping her. Sometimes he almost liked her. He kept his bar in a defensive position. He wanted her to strike first. It gave him a better shot at scoring on the rebound. Of course, he didn’t know what the rules of this game were going to be. That was another good reason to wait for the lady to move first.
Circling to her right, he taunted her by opening up his defenses just enough to give her motivation to strike. He tapped the end of the bar against the cargo floor as he circled. The metallic ping-ping reverberated in the bay and rang in his ears. He needed to unnerve her, make her strike without thinking. Her posture wasn’t as closed as his. She was underestimating him.
That didn’t surprise him. The men of Azra weren’t allowed to train to fight. They were confined to artisan positions in the middle class. In the high classes their worth was defined by their sisters’ talent in the Elite training rituals. Women who washed out of the Elite sought men as husbands whose sisters succeeded in the trials in the hopes that their daughters would be strong. High-born sons were considered a waste.
What had started because of women’s superior skill in arboreal combat morphed into traditions that served no purpose other than preventing men from ever gaining significant power in the ruling order. Tradition alone kept men inferior to women, reducing them to nothing more than walking sperm banks for maintaining female bloodlines.
Cyn had every intention of changing that. The men of Azra could fight. They needed to fight. They wanted to fight.
He wanted this fight.
Yara swung at him and he blocked. The clang of metal striking metal echoed in the empty cargo bay. He broke her strike, dodged a second quick blow, and spun out to the left.
Yara pursued, using the momentum from a leaping attack to drive him back toward the crates.
Again, their weapons met with bone-crushing force.
Their gazes locked.
Yara felt the rush of adrenaline and a flood of something softer, warmer, in her blood.
“Feeling better?” Cyrus asked. He deftly circled his weapon, spinning hers off of his with a sharp grind of metal on metal, breaking the strike. She shifted her weight to maintain her balance as she focused on controlling her muscles and her heart.
She drew in a quick breath as he moved in to her. It slowed her reaction enough for him to turn and nearly strike her shoulder. She barely had time to crouch, spin, and block the attack. She felt the clash of the two bars in her taut muscles. He wasn’t playing nice. He intended to knock her well enough for her to feel it for a week.
She had to be careful.
He wasn’t bad.
“You sure you want to do this?” she asked.
“Absolutely.”
They broke away and started circling again. Their feet fell in sync with one another, tapping in a slow rhythm accented by soft shuffles on the scuffed floor.
“How did you learn to fight?” she asked, genuinely interested in his answer.
“What is it about Azralen women that makes them think everyone in the universe does things the way they do?” he teased, throwing her words from several days ago back at her. He smiled then continued. “Earth has a long martial tradition created by men.”
“But why did you take it up?” She changed the position of her weapon, and then as he adjusted his stance, she struck at him. Again, he blocked her blow with a skillful spin of his bar.
“Good exercise and the mental control helps fight lag.” He advanced, his bar clattering against hers in a quick pattern of sharp strikes against her weapon. She was forced to retreat, unused to the style of attack.
“Fair enough.” She stopped the next strike with a solid block, locking them together so they came face-to-face.
They lingered there for a moment and Cyrus’s gaze slowly drifted to dwell on her lips.
Yara’s breath stopped in her chest. He tilted his head just slightly. It was a provocative invitation.
“Don’t even think about it,” she warned, but she couldn’t bring herself to back away.
“Think about what?” he asked as he edged his chin forward. She tilted her own head, exposing her neck to him.
“You know what.”
She could feel the heat of his body in the cold empty space of the bay. Standing so close to him made her muscles feel loose and heavy.
“Earthlen aren’t known for their mind-reading abilities,” he murmured. “Why don’t you spell it out for me?”
She whopped him on the side of the thigh with her bar.
“Ow.” He hobbled away from her, clutching his thigh. Then he laughed.
“Why are you laughing?” She lowered her weapon in disbelief. “I just gave you a bruise that should be green for a week.”
“I think I like the way you play, Pix.” He shook it out, then brought his bar up.
“I’m not playing.” She twirled hers again and jumped forward with another pair of quick strikes. It forced his weight back on his bruised thigh, but he didn’t flinch.
Damn, he was strong.
She tried to swallow the lump in her throat. It felt like her pulse pounded in every centimeter of her body. It radiated out from a place just behind her navel and seemed to float by the time it reached her head. He made her feel hungry.
“Are you sure?”
This had to be lag. There was no other explanation for her completely losing her mind.
No, she couldn’t do this anymore. She tossed her bar at him, and he caught it, immediately turning it into a fast spin before tucking it down and behind his shoulder.
“I think that’s enough distraction for today,” she stated. Sparring with him was dangerous. She needed to be careful. She had a lot more at stake now than when she was younger and more reckless. She’d been overconfident in her position with the Elite. She didn’t want to end up like Cyori, pregnant and banished to the shadows just before she inherited the throne.
Bug zipped into the room, his aura pulsing bright green. He let out a sharp whistle.
Cyrus looked at his pet with his brow knit. “What?”
Bug spun around Cyrus’s head at a dizzying speed as he let out a short series of clicks, then another sharp whistle.
The hairs rose up on the backs of her arms, and she felt the urge to rub the white falcon tattoos there. What was going on?
Yara knew a warning when she heard it.
Cyrus dropped the bars with a loud clatter and ran through the bulkhead door. Yara followed him into the living quarters. He launched himself into the pilot’s seat and scanned the strings of code scrolling in front of him.
“Shit,” he whispered, then shouted, “Brace yourself!”
A heart-stopping boom pounded in the air as the ship tumbled, throwing Yara into the sidewall by the beds. Pain lanced through her body as her shoulder and head smashed against the hard wall. She fell onto the bunk and grasped the edge while her head throbbed.
She held on. The room around her blurred as her eyes tried to focus, but it was no use. The ship shook with such force one of the lockers broke its tether bolts and crashed to the floor.
Cyrus braced himself and initiated the energy net to protect the control center. Tuz raced under her bunk.
“What was that?” she shouted at Cyrus above an ominous rumbling coursing through the ship. He was too busy punching commands into the console.
Another thunderous boom shook the ship, followed by a second
violent round of shaking. Yara did her best to hang on as one of the panels that hid the cases dislodged from the sidewall. It smashed into her injured shoulder, sending a new wave of agony rushing through her body.
She felt herself go weightless, and then gravity reengaged but at a lower threshold than Union standard gravity. The swooping feeling made her stomach turn in knots, but she didn’t have the luxury of giving in to it.
Cyrus jumped off his seat, pushed through the energy field protecting the controls, and ran to the galley, each stride looking like a leap. “Get your weapons,” he commanded.
He ripped open a locker and grabbed a DEC pulse gun. Yara grabbed for her bag and pulled out a sono to complement the knife she always wore on her belt.
“What is going on?” Her heart raced. For all her Elite training, and her five years in service with the Union, she’d never seen live fire.
“We got tossed by an energy web. They’re coming.”
The lights flickered then died. Only Bug’s glow illuminated the quarters. Suddenly Yara felt the heavy weight of gravity increase to a level far higher than Union standard.
Cyrus had the hard look of a soldier as dim red lights along the sidewalls started to glow.
The temperature inside the ship plummeted.
Yara felt the chill in the air seep into her skin and heart.
The unmistakable groan of metal reverberated through the ship as it lurched. Another ship had docked with theirs.
Every sound grated on her nerves as Cyrus took her hand and pulled her into the empty cargo bay.
“Keep to my back. They’ll send the bots first, then the men. I’ll take out as many as I can with the DEC. Shoot to kill.” He brought the DEC to his shoulder and aimed it at the closed cargo ramp. “Bug, stay in the control center and work on getting systems back up. Keep the security link open so you can hear us.” Bug flew back into the living quarters and Cyrus shut and sealed the bulkhead door.
Yara took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. The vapor curled around her face as she braced herself for attack.
“Tuz,” she ordered as her cat stalked to her side. “Attack and kill.”