by Robyn Bachar
Lindana blinked at Ryder’s full arms and armor. “Expecting trouble?”
Ryder beamed a roguish grin. “We’re meeting the new intel officer. I want to make a good first impression.”
“Meaning he wants to scare the poor bastard shitless,” Tomas said. “Look at him. He’s his own armored vehicle.”
“That’s what we pay him for. And you—” Lindana poked Tomas in the chest “—better stay out of the damn engine room. That’s an order.”
Tomas held up both hands in surrender, his expression the perfect picture of innocence. “It’s not my fault...”
“Stow it. Let’s go before Maria and the rats get here. I don’t want Ryder to have to shoot you.”
“Me?” Tomas said. “What did I do?” Lindana ignored his indignation and pulled the lever. A hiss escaped as the inner door whooshed open, followed by the groan of the outer door cycling.
“Please step forward and enter the decontamination area.” The automated greeting repeated the request in Russian over the crackling, cheap speakers as the trio entered the decontam area and sealed the lock behind them. “Decontamination will commence in ten seconds. Please stand by.”
“I hope the intel officer is a hot chick,” Ryder murmured to Tomas. Lindana rolled her eyes.
“Seconded,” Tomas said. “It’s about time we get some hot a—”
Lindana whipped around and glared at her brother. “Tomas Barack Nyota! Do not finish that sentence!”
“Just because you have no love life doesn’t mean the rest of the crew can’t have one. Captain.” Tomas added her title with vinegar, as though the word was a pungent insult.
Lindana unclenched her fists as she stomped down the urge to strangle him. She reminded herself that she loved her big brother, even when he was being an absolute jackass. “You need to update your definition of love life. If there’s a transfer of funds after the fact, love wasn’t involved in the transaction.”
Tomas groaned. “Trust me, marriage is all about financial transactions. Misha still gets a damn percentage of my pay.”
Lindana’s lips pressed in a stoic line as she turned back to the station airlock. She didn’t blame Misha for leaving Tomas, but Lindana would never abandon her brother—she couldn’t afford to leave him, even if she wanted to. Their entire combined savings was invested in the ship, and they funneled most of their profit back into the ship in fuel and repairs.
“Decontamination complete. Welcome to Tortue Station. Use of energy and ballistic projectile weapons is prohibited. Our terms of service have been recently updated. Please refer to the station information file to view these updates. Enjoy your stay.”
Ryder snorted and muttered something about updates and grenades that Lindana chose to ignore. She tugged at the hem of her uniform jacket and dusted her palms against the legs of her khaki cargo pants. She had a few knives secreted on her person but no firearms. She left heavy weaponry up to Ryder—it was what she paid him for, after all.
The station airlocks opened and Lindana wrinkled her nose at the stale, nicotine-scented air. If only humanity had left their bad habits behind on Earth. Swiss stations like Tortue offered all manner of vice at a price. The entire place could stand a good decontamination itself, judging by the rank smell—not just smoke, but stale sweat and old vomit. Disgusting. Even the floors were slightly sticky, and Lindana made a mental note to bleach the soles of her boots after they left. Item one hundred and fifteen...
“Drinks first or work first?” Tomas asked.
Lindana sighed. “No work, no drinks. Let’s meet our new crew member.”
Tortue was packed. Spacers crammed into corridors that were filled to capacity—probably past legal capacity, to be honest, but who was going to enforce it? Tortue fell into a neutral zone where the United Alliance of Democratic Nations, Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, and Core Colony Collective held no jurisdiction, and justice went to the highest bidder. It reminded Lindana a bit too much of area she’d grown up in on Earth, but at least the paranoia and furtive glances of suspicion were familiar.
The trio shoved their way through the teeming crowds, located the nearest lift and headed for the admin level, following the faded signage directing them toward the United Alliance of Democratic Nations diplomatic office. It wasn’t technically an office, more like a closet with delusions of grandeur. Ryder gave the room a brief glance before Lindana entered, followed by Tomas. A bored administrative assistant manning the front desk barely bothered to look up from the puzzle game on the screen of his data terminal. “Please place your palm on the pad for identification and look into the camera for retinal scan. One at a time,” he added, as though an afterthought. Did other officers elbow each other out of the way for the privilege of being identified first?
When the computer confirmed their identities they were ushered through to the rest of the suite. The hum of machinery and the whispering drone of hushed conversations filled the room. People frowned at data screens and made notes on their tablets. Boring as hell. Lindana doubted that any of them had seen combat during the war, but they had to have done something wrong to have been shipped out to serve here. Pushing paperwork on a Swiss station was one step above being sent to perform hard labor at a mining colony.
“Captain Nyota, you are late.”
Lindana squared her shoulders and turned her cool regard to Commander Scott, their UADN contact. He was a thin, waspish man whose face had frozen into a perpetually sour expression, and said expression was hardened by the addition of a nonregulation goatee. Commander Scott seemed like precisely the sort of asshole who bucked the rules he demanded that his subordinates follow.
“We had engine problems,” she said. “Is our new officer here?”
Commander Scott leveled a disapproving glare at her that deepened when Lindana refused to quail beneath it. “Yes. Allow me to introduce Lieutenant Steele.”
The commander gestured toward a tall, slender figure who was leaning over a terminal across the room. The man was dressed in a fitted black duster—a garment that was fine and fashionable and not at all functional for life aboard a privateer ship. Or anywhere, really. In Lindana’s opinion the only reason a spacer needed a long coat was to conceal weapons, and you couldn’t conceal anything in a garment that tight. Lindana was immediately skeptical about this lieutenant’s abilities, and then he turned, and her heart stopped as their eyes locked.
Lieutenant Steele. Gabriel Steele.
“Son of a bitch,” she blurted out.
The bastard had the gall to smile at her. “Lindy. You look well.”
That voice. Just four words in his silken purr sent shivers down her spine, and her nerves sizzled to life like a malfunctioning computer system suddenly brought back online. His pale blue gaze flicked over her form, leaving heat in its wake as though his focus was a passionate, physical caress. Lindana shivered and swallowed hard, then gulped a deep breath and focused on fury instead.
“No.” Lindana turned her ire on Commander Scott. “Absolutely not. He doesn’t set foot on my ship. Ever. Period.”
Commander Scott gaped like a trout out of water. “Is there a problem here?”
“If I may—” Gabriel began. Lindana cut him off with a slash of her hand, and irritation flashed through his pale blue eyes. Bastard. It was entirely unfair that he still looked like an ancient god carved from marble and noble privilege.
“No you fucking may not. I don’t want to hear another word out of you. You—” Lindana pointed at Commander Scott. “Get me another intel officer. Stat.”
She turned to storm out, but Tomas blocked her way, his expression bewildered. Ryder seemed equally confused, though more willing to follow his captain’s lead. Good soldier. She ought to give the man a raise.
“Lindana, what the hell?” Tomas asked.
For a moment she debated ord
ering him out of the way, but this was her big brother. Tomas was the only one who would understand the pain that spidered through her chest, as though a cargo ship had landed on top of her and was slowly crushing her to death.
“That’s him,” she muttered.
“Him who?” Tomas asked.
“Academy. Senior year.” Lindana ground the words out like broken glass, and Tomas’s eyes widened. She watched the shock play out across his face, followed by the same anger that clenched Lindana’s hands into fists.
“Son of a bitch,” Tomas echoed. He leaped across the room and punched Gabriel square in the face.
Chapter Two
“Bar fight?” The station medic’s face was set in weary lines as she glanced up at Gabriel. Instead of reaching for a scanner, she picked up a cup of coffee, and Gabriel wondered for the thousandth time why he had ever traveled to this godforsaken place.
Lindy. That’s why. He’d come here for the woman who had refused to speak with him, and whose brother had likely broken his nose.
“Not as such.” Gabriel spoke each word cautiously, concerned that too much force would rekindle the bleeding. The gushing had stopped—or at least he was fairly certain it had stopped, for it was difficult to tell considering the frightful degree to which his handkerchief was soaked with blood. He had suffered stab wounds that bled less than this. Karma, his mentor would have intoned gravely if she could see him now.
“Jealous husband?” The medic set her mug aside and rose. She was an older woman, perhaps near retirement, experienced enough to not be perturbed by any injury short of a gunshot wound. Gabriel wasn’t perturbed by his wound, either, but he was grateful that it wasn’t a gunshot. He wouldn’t have blamed Lindy for shooting him.
“Angry brother,” Gabriel corrected.
“Nice. I’m Doctor Redford. Let’s get you patched up.”
Doctor Redford led him to an exam station and positioned him under the scanner. The readout screen blinked to life and began streaming all manner of information about his pulse, respiration rate, oxygenation levels and so forth. Most of the indicators blinked green, which was comforting; only Soviets found solace in the color red.
“Haven’t had an angry brother in a while.” The doctor eased his hand away from his face and tutted over his injury. “He got you good. It’s broken. I can mend it, but you’ll have quite the bruise for a few days.”
“Please do. A bruise is not a problem. I deserved it, and more.” He grimaced, and the expression sent waves of agony shuddering through his face.
“Is she pregnant?”
“Good Lord, no!” Gabriel instantly regretted his indignant tone. Perhaps he should type out his responses. He had been injured far worse—he had been a hairsbreadth away from death on more than a few assignments—but Gabriel was a vain creature. His appearance was the most efficient weapon in his arsenal.
“Well that’s something, at least. Hold still. The more you move, the more crooked your nose will be.”
Gabriel sat perfectly still as the doctor worked, and pondered his next move. He had expected a negative response; he would have been surprised if she hadn’t attacked him on sight. Though technically Lindy hadn’t attacked him—her brother had. Lindana had merely sacked him before he had even had an opportunity to start his new position.
Command wouldn’t approve her request for a different intel officer, but it would take a few days for the request to be sent, received, and then denied, which hopefully would give Lindana’s temper time to cool. All reports indicated that Lindana remained a reasonable woman—a good soldier, stalwart and loyal—and Gabriel trusted that she would accept his assignment once the initial sting faded.
“There. Mended.” Doctor Redford stepped back. “I’d avoid the brother from now on.”
“I can’t. I’m assigned to his ship.”
“Request reassignment.”
“I requested this posting. I needed to see her again, though she despises me. Rightly so. I was beyond awful to her.” Break her heart, his mentor had ordered. Hating you will keep her safe from what you’re about to do. And Gabriel had wanted her safe, convinced that he loved her enough to let her go.
“Trying to win her back?” the doctor guessed.
“Yes. No.” Gabriel sighed. “Right now I simply want to make peace with her.”
“Good. You’re all set. Alliance, Soviet, or C3 cash?”
“Alliance.” Gabriel resisted the urge to grimace. Medical treatment was expensive regardless of the setting, and this would put a dent in his money on hand. Nothing to be done about it. He counted out the Alliance tender and handed it over, plus gratuity. “Thank you, Doctor.”
“Try to avoid any further fistfights until the bruising heals.”
Gabriel nodded and retreated. He ought to return to the UADN office, though there was nothing there for him except another tedious lecture from Commander Scott. Instead, Gabriel sought a weak cup of tea from a food vendor and found a corner to watch the crowd. There were three obvious intelligence agents in the marketplace—four if Gabriel counted himself, for he was hardly traveling incognito. He had dressed the part of a wealthy man dabbling in spycraft—the sort who would naively consider life aboard a privateer ship a great adventure instead of a dangerous undertaking behind enemy lines. It was a simple enough ruse. Gabriel’s core colonist pedigree had granted him a privileged childhood, but now he was one more tool of the Alliance who had outlived his usefulness. Gabriel was perilously close to becoming a liability instead of an asset.
He wrapped his hands around his tea and let the warmth seep into his fingers as he continued his perusal of the crowd. There were two less-than-obvious agents, though he couldn’t pin down who they worked for. Before the core colonist rebellion the options were Alliance, Soviet, or freelance, but the formation of the C3 seven years ago had changed that. What began on Earth as a battle of wills between two superpowers—the capitalists of the west and the communists of the east—spread into space. The Soviets were first to launch a satellite, launch a man into orbit, and first to walk on the moon. The Americans and their NATO allies feared being left behind in the space race, and vowed that they would be the first to reach Mars, and so on. Each side was determined to one-up the other by planting their respective flags across the solar system, and then farther through the galaxy until humanity’s corner of the Milky Way was splashed red or blue.
The core colonies were the oldest and wealthiest, and were ultimately tired of being pawns in the UADN and USSR’s galactic chess game. Ten years ago they declared their independence, and no side emerged clean from the war that followed. Most core colonists had shifted their allegiance to the new C3 government. Gabriel had chosen to stay with the Alliance, and the decision earned him scorn and mistrust from every side. His loyalty had been tested constantly, and over the past few years his missions had become increasingly dangerous. Few of the other former core colonist agents he knew still survived, and Gabriel had no intention of joining them in the afterlife.
Gabriel closed his eyes and listened to the ebb and flow of the conversations around him; thousands of intrigues passed through Swiss stations. Everything here was monitored, recorded and analyzed for actionable information by some poor sod stuck behind an Intelligence desk.
“I can get you three for four fifty, but you gotta pay for ’em up front. Cash only.”
“My family needs transport papers, no questions asked, and they have to be cleared before the end of the week.”
“—and I can’t pay that! Nobody’s got that kind of money. Not on Tortue, anyway. Might as well book myself a drawer in the morgue.”
Poor bastard. Gabriel hoped he wasn’t going to end up beside him. Foolish sentiment had brought him here—Gabriel had leaped at the opportunity to serve aboard the Mombasa. The chance to see Lindana again almost seemed like fate—a divine op
portunity to right a past wrong. Now all he had to do was convince Lindana to forgive him.
He had faced more difficult tasks. He simply couldn’t remember any at the moment.
Gabriel sipped his tea and nearly dropped it as the liquid activated a mission notification. Bloody hell. He struggled to keep his face impassive as the chemicals in the doctored drink interacted with his sensory implant, displaying images and playing audio that only he could see and hear. Bold red font overlaid his view of the milling crowd.
NEW MISSION NOTIFICATION, PRIORITY ONE, CLASSIFIED A-1 LEVEL ONLY. INITIATING DATA UPLOAD.
A migraine formed behind his left eye as though said data was being delivered via the jab of an icepick. Design specs for a Soviet cargo ship flashed before his eyes, along with a short list of its known crew and recent shipping manifests. Two sets of mission parameters floated into view—one for himself, and one he was instructed to share with the Mombasa’s crew. Gabriel cursed under his breath, because the two were completely different. Intel Command was ordering him to begin his new position aboard the Mombasa by lying to his shipmates.
CREW COMPROMISED. UNKNOWN AGENT RESPONSIBLE FOR LEAKING INFORMATION TO SOVIET TARGETS. LOCATE SOURCE AND ELIMINATE. CREW DOSSIERS WILL BE UPLOADED TO YOUR PERSONAL DATA TABLET.
Lovely. Gabriel grimaced and considered chucking the rest of the tea into the trash. This day just kept getting better and better. He swirled the liquid and studied the dark flecks of stray grounds floating within it. A leak aboard the Mombasa would explain their recent mission failures. Privateer ships tended to attract crew with dubious backgrounds—people who washed out of the military but were unwilling to become complete criminals.
Gabriel took a cautious drink, but no further warnings blared to life. Just as well. Things were complicated enough without additional mission parameters. He doubted that one of the ship’s officers was responsible for the leak, but anything was possible. The Mombasa had a small crew—less than fifty altogether—and information would travel quickly through the ranks. It could be anyone.