Skip Trace

by Jenn Burke

  “Meaning?” The reporter gestured, encouraging him to expand on the statement.

  “I was ill—mentally ill—and I required medication.” It wasn’t a lie. He knew himself well enough to realize that without the complications of the poison in his veins, he still would have had a battle returning to civilian life. Something else the Guardians helped him to fix. “I sought treatment on Ashushk Prime.”

  “Why not with the AEF?” a reporter shouted.

  Because they didn’t give a fuck. “I felt it best to distance myself from the Allied Earth Forces.”

  Another reporter thrust a hand in the air, then launched into her question before anyone else could ask one. “What about the rumors that you were forced out of the AEF, Major Anatolius? Any truth to those? If so, why did it happen?”

  “The circumstances of my retirement are public knowledge. My specialized team was identified by the Guardians as being the equivalent of a weapon, and therefore we were required to disband and retire.”

  As though his answers opened a floodgate, the questions started coming more quickly from all quarters. Faces blended together and Zed no longer cared about keeping track of who asked what. It didn’t matter.

  “Is that what caused your mental illness?”

  “No. The war in general was enough for that to happen.”

  “Sources say that you’ve been put under house arrest here on Alpha Station, Major. That you’ve broken the terms of your retirement?”

  “No comment.”

  “Are you in contact with the other members of your squad, Major?”

  “No.”

  “What about Emma Katze? There were reports that you arrived on Chloris Station shortly after the murder of ten station security officers, allegedly by Captain Katze, and she was found dead not too long after. Do you know anything about that?”

  Shit, what could he say? That he’d failed her in just about every way a commanding officer and friend could fail? He’d tried to help, but it had been too little, too late. “No. Emma...no. Emma was sick, too, and she—”

  “Do you know anything about Project Dreamweaver, Major?”

  Fuck. Zed narrowed his eyes at the man who’d asked that question. Short in stature, reedy, he looked just like Zed had imagined annoying, weaselly Juston Dell would look like. Who else would be asking about the project? “No.”

  God, he wanted to run off the stage, but there was no way he could. That couldn’t be his last question, and it couldn’t be seen as the reason for a rushed escape. The whole point of this exercise was to be visible and show the AEF that he wasn’t interested in blowing their secrets all over the galaxy. That was all the more important with the Chaos planning a rescue mission. He didn’t want his crew at risk because the AEF thought they might be a threat.

  “Funny, because my source says both you and Captain Katze participated in that project. Is that why you were sick?”

  “Never heard of it,” Zed said, hoping the tension in his jaw wasn’t picked up by the vids.

  Dell wasn’t ready to let it go, however, his lips curving in a predatory smile. “What about the lift malfunction yesterday? Is it true that someone is trying to kill you, Major?”

  “No.” Zed met Dell’s gaze without flinching. Yeah, we figured out your plan, asshole.

  “Can you explain why it appears you flicker in and out of view on the footage?”

  “I haven’t seen it,” Zed lied. Brennan had shared it after they’d been cleared by the medical staff. Thankfully, the recording was less than clear, with the vibrations from the lift tube’s excessive speed. “One more question.”

  Hands shot skyward and Zed picked a reporter who hadn’t spat questions at him yet, a short woman with dark gold skin and thick-rimmed glasses. The glasses were enough to make her stand out—most people who had vision issues opted for laser correction—but the spiky brown hair with flame-red tips ensured no one could miss her in a crowd.

  She took a calmer approach than the other reporters thus far. Instead of madly throwing a question at Zed, she smiled. “Tanis Nejem, AllSpace Alliance News. How are you feeling, Major?”

  Zed let out a breath. Some of the tautness in his shoulders drained away, but he refused to allow himself to slump. “I’m happy to be alive, Ms. Nejem, and thankful for the efforts of the ashushk, and for my family and crew’s patience and support. Thank you for asking.”

  Brennan stepped forward and Zed fell back, gratefully giving up the spotlight. “Thank you all for your time,” Brennan said. “Additional questions may be ferried through the usual Anatolius Industries channels.”

  Zed turned to see his dad already walking out of the conference room beside Flick, his head bowed as they shared a few words. Flick’s gait was stiff—whether from what Dad was saying or the fact that there was a mob of people at their backs, Zed didn’t know. He hoped like hell it wasn’t the former.

  Before he could reach his dad, Brennan slapped a hand on his shoulder. “You’re out of practice, man.”

  If he had his way, he wouldn’t have to get into practice. “Contact her if we have to do the media thing again. Tanis Nejem.”

  “Uh...why? She’s a nobody, from a nowhere network.”

  “Because I wasn’t just a story to her. Or, at least, she made me feel like I wasn’t. Same difference.” Zed nodded at his dad and Flick as Flick’s stance seemed to get even tighter. “What’s up with that?”

  “Dad’s probably just catching up with Flick.” Brennan’s tone sounded artificially light.

  “He’d better not be—”

  Flick jerked away from Alexander. Zed darted forward. “Dad, what the hell—”

  “Going for a walk,” Flick announced, turning away from the group.

  “Wait, I’ll come with.”

  “You can’t, remember?”

  “Shit. Flick—”

  “‘S okay.” Flick shoved his hands into his pockets, striding down the hall without a backward glance.

  Zed turned on his father. “What the hell did you say?”

  To his credit, Alexander didn’t try to brush off Zed’s ire. “I said that you being here is a chance that Felix himself didn’t have with his family.”

  “Jesus Christ, Dad. Why not just pull out a fucking whip and have done with it?”

  “Language.” Alexander’s expression softened as he took in the sight of Flick’s retreating form. “I didn’t intend to hurt him. I was just trying to get him to empathize.”

  “He knows, all right? He gets it.” Sort of. Mostly. It didn’t mean Flick was okay with him staying on Alpha, though—even if the plan was for it to be temporary, and even if Flick was going to stay for the time being. “He just needs to know he has a place here too.”

  Dad seemed stunned. “He does. Of course he does.”

  “Well, then maybe you should have made sure he knew that, eh?” Zed’s urge to roll his eyes was mitigated by the genuine distress he spotted in his father’s expression. Alexander was a good man—he just sometimes forgot that not everyone thought the way he did.

  “C’mon,” Brennan said, grabbing Zed’s elbow. “Let Flick go on his walk. I’ve got something else to occupy you.”

  Zed groaned. “Please say you didn’t set up a private press interview or some shit like that.”

  “You’ll like this, I promise.”

  Given the gap between him and his family, Zed wasn’t so sure. But his only other choice would be to retreat to the borrowed apartment and sulk as he waited for Flick to return—not the most appealing option. “All right. Lead on.”

  * * *

  Twenty minutes into his walk, Felix realized his mistake. Walking usually meant thinking, which was why he preferred to tinker when he had time on his hands. If he wanted exercise, he had his kick bag. Walking didn’t require
as much effort or concentration. It left his mind free to wander.

  Only a fool wouldn’t guess what Alexander Anatolius wanted. What Felix couldn’t decide was whether he was part of the package or not. He didn’t know how long Zed planned to stay on Alpha, but had the feeling the longer Zed lived within arm’s reach of his family, the more unsuitable Felix would seem as a partner. If he hadn’t figured that out already.

  Would admitting that he loved Zed, out loud, within earshot, make a difference?

  Grumbling quietly, the sound tickling his throat, Felix turned into an alleyway and leaned headfirst into a wall. Alpha Station buzzed around him, the susurrus of life support and gravity generators not quite as comforting as the hum of the Chaos in motion.

  It seemed that for most of his life he’d lived in fear of Zed leaving him, or bobbed in the well of grief that followed. He didn’t know how to halt the cycle—how to lay claim to what he wanted or how to give up and walk away. Felix rolled his head back and forth on the smooth plasmix wall. He thought about pulling his head back and smacking it forward. Thought about actions more dire. Then he stepped out of the alley and turned back toward the Damianos Building.

  Inside the lobby, Felix smoothed his hands down his pants, rubbing as the smart fiber tickled his sweaty palms. He plucked at his serviceable and plain SFT. Unlike Zed’s wardrobe, Felix’s shirts weren’t fashionable. The smart fibers in his shirts didn’t add a silky sheen. They merely wicked away nervous sweat and gathered around grease stains in a concert of confusion. This shirt was clean, though. He’d put it on for the press conference. Felix thought about trying to arrange his hair next. Should he tame it, poke the nascent curls down against his scalp? He wondered if he should see about having the scar on his face looked at. They could repair just about any defect, give him a whole new face if he wanted it. Felix had the idea he wouldn’t recognize himself without his scars, though. For better or worse, he wouldn’t be the same man.

  “For better or worse.” Shit.

  Felix sauntered toward the bank of lift tubes, silently wishing there was another way to gain the upper floors of the buildings. The receptionist—a human female; no automatons or holos for Anatolius Industries—called out as he passed her desk.

  “Mr. Ingesson?”

  He eyed the security milling about the vast lobby, glanced back at her. “That’s me.”

  “Mr. Anatolius left a message for you.”

  Shit, which one?

  His thought must have been apparent because she smiled. “Zander is in the gymnasium. He asked that you meet him there.”

  Weird, but better than being escorted to Alexander Anatolius’s office for another speech on how valuable Zed was to his family—or being thrown out on his ear.

  “Okay. And the gym is...”

  “Behind the elevators, past the Garden Café.”

  “Thanks.”

  The gymnasium was a large, multi-roomed facility set aside for the enjoyment of Anatolius employees and the training of their security corps. Felix found Zed in session with the latter. Men and women clothed in identical workout gear ringed a square of floor where two opponents faced off—one uniformed, one divested of the nice shirt he’d worn for the press conference, bulky shoulders exposed beneath a sweat-dampened tank. SFT could only cope with so much.

  Felix watched Zed catch his opponent’s attack mid-stride, halting his momentum. A second later, the recruit lay flat on his back, chest heaving as he fought for breath. Zed hadn’t even Zoned. He’d demonstrated a combination of agility and skill honed by years of service, and the well-being he’d gained from the Guardians. He extended a hand toward the recruit and hauled him to his feet, then turned to the men and women leaning in around them, face animated as he explained the move.

  It was easy to see that Zed enjoyed teaching, that he enjoyed sharing his skills. Hell, if anyone had the patience for such an exercise, it would be Zed. He cocked his head gently as he listened to one of the recruits, then beckoned her forward, inviting her to stand opposite him. He demonstrated a move in slow motion, taking her down to the mat, and then let her try it. He laughed with her when she tripped herself up on his feet, picked her back up and told her to try again. His face glowed with her success when she performed the move with reasonable competency.

  That glow, that joy lighting Zed’s eyes...man, it hurt. Felix didn’t understand why seeing Zed so happy should feel like a punch to the gut. He drew back from the doorway, leaned out into the hall and breathed. Blood swished behind his ears in a noisy rhythm.

  “Flick!”

  Zed addressed the class, his voice indistinct. A moment later he appeared in the doorway, panting lightly. His eyes still shone with pleasure and purpose, and the hall lights glanced off the sweat beading his brow. He had his discarded shirt in his hands. Muscles shifted and bunched beneath the golden glow of his skin as he wiped his hands on the fabric, used it to mop his face.

  “Hey.”

  “Hey.” Heart hammering, Felix leaned in, not entirely sure of his purpose until his mouth claimed Zed’s.

  He put everything he felt into the kiss, crushing Zed’s lips with the joy and pain of loving him. Grabbing him by the shoulders, Felix pushed him back against the wall and deepened the connection, desperate in his need to communicate, unsure how else to go about it. He licked the back of Zed’s teeth, bit his lower lip, his top lip. Kissed him hard and deep, afraid that if he withdrew, calmed down, he’d lose everything.

  Rather than shift away, Zed allowed himself to be captured. His larger hands framed Felix’s face, thumb stroking his cheek. The hard planes of his chest and thighs pressed forward so that they touched all the way down. Felix could feel firm musculature, the heat of Zed’s skin, and the moan building inside his chest.

  He couldn’t tell what pulled him from the haze of lust that kept his lips pinned to Zed’s flesh—the need for breath or the prickle across his skin, something other than arousal. Felix glanced to the side and saw someone watching them, wallet held up and out. The asshole reporter from the press conference. Was that Juston Dell?

  Felix leaned away from Zed and rolled toward the reporter in a single, fluid movement. The reporter’s eyes widened at the sight of Felix’s bunched knuckles, but he hadn’t been hit often enough to learn the most basic defense: he didn’t turn away. Amid shouts from fore and aft, Felix’s fist connected with the angular jaw. The reporter’s head snapped back. Using the momentum gained, Felix shoved at his shoulder, knocking him farther back, then gathered to leap after him, take him to the ground. A pair of hands gripped his arms.

  “Felix!”

  Felix kicked out, catching the reporter’s knee. The man stumbled, dropped his wallet and fell down on his ass. Struggling against Zed’s hold, Felix tried again to dive after him.

  “Fucking parasite!” Felix turned on Zed. “Let me go. That guy had no business getting up in our faces while we’re kissing. That’s our private stuff.”

  But the commotion had summoned Anatolius Security and the recruits from inside the gym. Their stuff was no longer private. None of it.

  Zed’s formerly sensuous lips formed a thin, hard line. His cheeks were flushed and his eyes bright. “I know,” he said stiffly. “But you can’t deck every person who pisses you off. Not here.”

  Recognizing Zed’s expression as embarrassment, Felix stopped struggling. Remorse thundered through his veins, the rush of it just about worse than the anger it replaced. Or maybe the anger was still there, matching every beat, deepening every effect. Uniforms swarmed the scene. An officer bent down beside the fallen reporter, scanning him for graver injury. Another picked up his wallet. Even if they confiscated the damn thing, it would be too late, though. Whatever the reporter had captured would have been streamed to personal storage, somewhere in the ether that housed broken dreams. Zed’s class watched, with wide eyes and gaping mouth
s. Felix could feel the gaze of every man and woman in the hall. The scars across his face burned, or maybe that was a blush.

  Shit, had he overreacted?

  He looked from Zed, who’d stepped forward to begin damage control, to the reporter, who appeared to be playing up the incident for all it was worth. Felix swallowed over a sinking stomach. The fingers of his right hand curled in his palm. His left hand twitched in frustrated sympathy.

  “With friends like him, who needs bodyguards,” drawled a quiet voice. One of the recruits.

  Swallowing the desire to tear apart every person in the facility, Felix turned away.

  The recruits continued murmuring among themselves.

  “How do you think he got in here?”

  “Through the service corridors, maybe?”

  “Maybe he snuck down after the press conference.”

  Were they were talking about him or the reporter?

  “He’s one mean-looking motherfucker.”

  “Deadly right hook. You can already see the bruise.”

  Cheeks burning hotter, Felix thought about sneaking out of a back door. He flinched as a warm arm circled his shoulders, and kept his face pointed down. He couldn’t bear to meet Zed’s steely gaze. Hell, he already knew what he’d find there.

  Zed’s fingers dug into his shoulder. “Ready to get out of here?”

  Felix looked up. Zed’s expression was strained. He’d lost his joyful glow but seemed to be working to regain it. Felix toyed with appropriate responses. Apologizing would admit fault. He’d overreacted, sure, but he’d had good intentions. Mentioning the reporter would deepen those lines across Zed’s forehead.

  Unclenching his right hand, Felix lifted his fingers toward Zed’s handsome face and made an attempt to smooth the lines marring his brow. “I want to make these disappear.”

  That simple contact returned sensation, or perhaps replaced the encroaching numbness with the thrill of being close to Zed. Reawakened lust tickled his skin, warming, rousing.

  “Let’s go back to the apartment.” Felix leaned in. “You can show me one of those takedowns, or maybe I’ll try one on you.” He slid a hand over Zed’s flat abdomen, intent on not giving him too much space to think, too much time for recrimination or little things like warnings, placing blame. Zed’s stomach fluttered gently beneath his shirt, and a quiet rumble sounded in his chest. Felix nipped at his ear.