by Robyn Bachar
She fell into a rhythm of a punch for every frustration. Sweat beaded her brow and stinging jabs shot up her arms with each contact, but the pain was manageable. Familiar. And dull in comparison to the gnawing in her gut. How could she do this without Erik? She’d never run a mission aboard the Mombasa without her mentor. Worse, how could she do this with Lieutenant Gabriel Fucking Steele? He was the last person in the galaxy she’d trust to watch her back.
Why couldn’t something just go right for once?
“Are you picturing my face, Captain?”
Lindana jumped and whirled to spot the asshole in question standing in the armory doorway. She flexed her fingers within her gloves and imagined delivering one good right hook.
“Not everything’s about you, Lieutenant,” she said. “You’re supposed to be resting.”
“As are you.” His gaze traveled over her like a slow caress, and the cold knot in her belly heated. Lindana hated how he could warm her blood with a simple look.
“I never sleep before a mission,” he said.
“No? I suppose you read instead. How many of those old books do you have?”
Gabriel smiled. “Not nearly enough.”
“What were you reading? When you first came on board?” And then kissed my brains out, she added silently.
“Pride and Prejudice, by Jane Austen. It is somewhat...applicable to our current situation.” He smiled, and Lindana shivered. Damn him and his perfect teeth.
“Oh? Full of pirates and privateers?”
“Not as such, no. I’m willing to lend it if you wish to read it.”
Lindana pondered the decadence of reading a print book and feeling the pages beneath her fingers as she turned them. Tempting...
“I had intended to go for a run,” he said, “but since you’re here, perhaps we could work together?”
Work. Yeah, right. Lindana’s eyes narrowed. “I’m still not sleeping with you.”
“Not everything’s about sex, Captain. I thought sparring might be more appropriate.”
She laughed, and it was a high, nervous sound. “I’m not rebreaking your nose before a mission.”
Gabriel took a few cautious steps into the room as though measuring whether she would attack him. “I’m not advocating for that, because I prefer my nose unbroken. However, since you’re unconvinced of my combat abilities, perhaps a demonstration would help. Besides, we’re not leaving the ship on this mission, so should you injure me it won’t affect the outcome.”
Lindana weighed the dangers of sweaty grappling with a man who set every inch of her body to high alert versus the long delayed satisfaction of finally wiping that smarmy grin from his face with her fist. They had gone to target practice together a few times when they were in the Academy—he was a better shot, damn him—but had never tested their hand-to-hand skills against each other, unless sex counted. Not everything is about sex. Right.
“All right. What sort of sparring did you have in mind? We have additional boxing gloves somewhere.” She glanced around and realized that Ryder had cleaned up the room’s usual clutter.
“I was thinking blunted blades might be safer.”
Lindana chuckled darkly. “You think I can’t punch you in the face while wielding a blade?”
“I’m fairly certain that is not a standard fencing move.”
“We’re not a standard ship.” Lindana tugged her gloves off and grabbed two practice swords from an equipment rack. She handed one to Gabriel, and he studied it with a furrowed brow before finding it acceptable.
“I had noticed,” he said.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Lindana frowned as she took her place across from him. She tried a few practice swings—this model was a saber, and it differed slightly in length, width and heft from her machete, but the theory was the same.
“The Mombasa has numerous complex modifications.” Gabriel raised his blade and settled into a guard position. “They must keep Chief Watson busy, and the upkeep must be expensive.”
“Understatement.” Lindana raised her sword and then lunged without warning. Gabriel’s eyes widened but he blocked in reflex. Good. Most civilians would have been slow to react. She pressed him back, venting her frustration into the attack, and the sharp clangs of striking metal filled the room. “Going to fix us? Make it all better?”
Backed into a corner, Gabriel’s expression darkened. “You do need my help.”
“What I need is someone I can trust, not some—” she began. Gabriel interrupted her intended insult by launching an attack, raining blows fast and furious as Lindana lost all the ground she had previously gained. She circled left and looked for weak points, but he was fast. She was grudgingly forced to admit that he was good at this, and that only added to her irritation. Damn it all—did he have to be good at everything? It wasn’t fair. It also wasn’t fair that he looked gorgeous doing it, all lean lines and graceful form. Her blood stirred and her body heated in ways that had nothing to do with sparring.
“You can trust me,” Gabriel said.
“Because you have such a fabulous track record at honesty.”
“I am trying to help you, Lindy.”
She opened her mouth, about to tell him exactly where he could shove his help, but the light above her fizzled, sparked and died, followed by a cascading electrical failure that shorted out everything in the overhead fixture. She cursed under her breath as the room was plunged into darkness.
“Should I call Engineering?” Gabriel asked.
“No.” Lindana crossed to where her jacket was folded atop a bench. She set her saber down, pulled the handlamp out of her pocket and clicked it on. “Maria won’t fix it because Tomas broke it.”
“That seems...” Gabriel trailed off, his tone puzzled. Lindana turned to find him standing closer, but his attention was fixed on the panel.
“Seems what?” she asked.
“Odd for a chief engineer. Why should it matter who broke it? It still needs repair, and that is her duty.”
“Said like a man who’s good at breaking shit and expecting others to fix his mess.”
“Is there history between them?”
“Not in the way you think. Maria has a boyfriend on New Nairobi. The problem with Maria and Tomas is a territorial dispute. Tomas is pissed at the idea that the Mombasa is anyone else’s kingdom, because he and I own the ship. The two of them are always butting heads, with me in the middle playing peacemaker.”
“Has this dispute been going on long?” Gabriel asked.
“Pretty much since the day Maria joined the crew.” Lindana nudged Gabriel out of the way. “I’m going to repair the lights. I can fix the fuse and get the other lights back online. A new bulb can wait until after the mission.”
Lindana tried to open the access panel to the room’s electrical system, but it was stuck shut. She growled in frustration, clamped the lamp between her teeth and used both hands to pry the panel open. It gave suddenly with a metallic screech that unbalanced her, and she stumbled back into Gabriel’s chest as her lamp clattered to the floor.
“So she was queen of the engine room from day one?” Gabriel retrieved the light and held the lamp above her shoulder, beaming light on to the mess of wires and switches.
She peered up at him—was he smirking at her? She scowled and turned back to the panel. Her jaw clenched as she tried to ignore the heat from his body as he stood close behind her, and the light brush of his breath against her hair. Beneath the stinging ozone scent of shorted circuits she caught a hint of Gabriel’s scent—not cologne or aftershave, but a clean, crisp scent that was uniquely his.
“Yes, she was. It was one of the conditions of her contract. Maria doesn’t like being micromanaged, especially by people who have no idea how the engines work.” She flipped a switch that did nothing, and th
en a second unsuccessful attempt.
“Try the one in the upper right,” he said.
Lindana rolled her eyes but reached for it, and a snap of electricity singed her. She hissed and drew her hand back, and Gabriel gently took her wrist and held her hand under the lamplight.
“It’s fine.” Lindana tried to tug her hand free, but Gabriel held it fast. Her pulse leaped at his touch, and an eager shiver tingled down her spine. She was suddenly grateful for the darkness, because it hid the blush that heated her face. She hated this attraction—if only she could turn it off as simply as shorting a light.
“You have an electrical burn.”
“A small one,” she said. “It’s fine. Let go.”
Gabriel sighed. “I just want to help you.”
“Why?” she asked, exasperated.
“Perhaps I’ve grown tired of expecting others to clean up my messes.” Gabriel released her, then reached past her and flipped a circuit breaker. The lights flickered on above them—save for the blown bulb—and Lindana took a cautious step back as Gabriel studied her. His brow was furrowed, and something shadowed moved behind his eyes, like a beast prowling the edges of its cage.
Gabriel took a step forward and her heart stopped—for a moment she imagined him closing the space between them, taking her into his arms and kissing her breathless. Then reality reasserted itself and she cleared her throat politely.
“Thank you,” she said. “For the light.”
“You’re welcome.” Gabriel tilted his head. “Have you considered asking Maria to become a co-owner of the Mombasa?”
“What? No. Why?” She retrieved the lamp and turned on her heel, retreating to the bench that held her jacket.
“It would solve the problem of the power struggle if Maria owned a percentage of the ship. That way she could be the queen of the engine room in more than name only. You and Tomas would still own the majority of the Mombasa.”
Lindana paused, jacket in hand, as she pondered his suggestion. It was brilliant—she wished she’d thought of it herself. Maria loved the Mombasa as much as Lindana and Tomas did, so if she had the money to invest she was sure to approve of the idea. Maria probably had enough credits banked to manage a down payment. It would be easier for her to banish Tomas from the engine room if she literally owned it. This could solve several of her ongoing headaches.
“It’s a good idea. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Now, shall we continue?”
Lindana weighed the safety of retreating to her quarters against the satisfaction of kicking Gabriel Steele’s ass. She set her jacket down and picked up her blade with a wicked grin.
“En garde!”
Chapter Five
The trick to intercepting another spaceship was catching it in real space. Once a ship entered hyperspace it was safe from harm—or at least harm from another ship. Hyperspace held its own unique set of problems. Old spacers told tales of ships that entered hyperspace and vanished, or of ghost ships that were trapped half in and out of real space, doomed to wander the shipping lanes forever.
The Mombasa lay in wait, hiding in high orbit of the outermost planet of the Dektan System. If the Novosibirsk was on schedule it should appear in the next few minutes, but if it was late it could be hours.
“Ten credits says it’s late,” the copilot said. Kala was one of Jiang’s newer recruits—talented, but young and still jittery about life as a privateer. Lindana was sure that Kala would be a solid crew member after she got a few successful missions under her belt.
“That’s a sucker bet,” Lindana said.
“Soviet freighters are only late if they’ve undergone mechanical failures,” Jiang explained to Kala. “The Novosibirsk may be decommissioned, but her class was built to last. She’ll be on time.”
As if on cue the massive former warship popped into normal space at the edge of the solar system. Lindana whistled low. “She’s a big girl.”
“Built to last,” Jiang repeated.
The Novosibirsk had started life as a heavy cruiser, and her military purpose was evident in the thick armor plating that comprised the ship’s hull. Many of her guns were missing—not all, but enough to qualify the ship as a civilian-grade vessel. She looked slow—it took a lot of propulsion to move a monster like that. Mama Mo could outrun her if necessary. It shouldn’t be necessary, but it was best to be prepared.
“All right. We’re on the clock,” Lindana announced. “She’s all yours, Lieutenant Chen.”
Jiang nodded and began barking orders. The Mombasa slid out of hiding and stalked its prey like a lioness zeroing in on an unsuspecting impala.
“Careful,” Jiang said. “If she has a nervous captain she may pull an Ivan.”
“An Ivan?” Gabriel asked.
“Crazy Ivan,” Lindana explained to him. “A holdover from Soviet submarine days. Soviet captains order their ships to turn around to see if anyone’s following them. It still applies with spaceships. Sensors can malfunction, but viewports don’t.”
“Ah.”
Lindana peered at him. “Does any of your classified experience really include fieldwork?”
“Yes, but I’m no pilot.”
“She’s holding course. We’re clear for approach,” Jiang said.
“Acknowledged.” Lindana tapped her cuff and set it to intership broadcast. “Alpha team, report to the airlock.”
Jiang maneuvered the Mombasa into place with skill and precision, just as she had dozens of times before on other missions. Lindana held her breath as her ship eased alongside the Novosibirsk, the final inches slow and agonizing.
“Extending magnetic docking clamps now,” Jiang said. The ship shuddered as if sighing, and Lindana exhaled in relief.
“Hard dock completed. Seal is pressurized. Alpha team, you’re go,” Lindana said. “Lieutenant Steele, you’re with me.”
* * *
The vid screen on the conference room wall was divided into the head cams of each team member, their name and vitals stamped on the bottom. At the moment the screens displayed boring views of the Mombasa’s airlock as the plasma cutters finished slicing through the Novosibirsk’s armored hull. Ryder’s resting heart rate continued to impress—he was the most physically fit person Lindana had ever met, yet he ate like a horse with a sweet tooth. Good genes, she supposed.
“The hole is punched.” Ryder opened the airlock and placed magnetic handles against the newly sliced circle of metal. He shoved, and with a metallic groan that made the speakers squeal the piece gave way and Ryder stepped onto the other ship. “Knock, knock, motherfuckers.”
Lindana rolled her eyes. “Cut the chatter, Chief.”
“Sorry, Cap,” he said. “Alpha team is moving out.”
Lindana leaned forward, focused on their progress as the team proceeded. The path was clear—too clear? The ship was supposed to have a minimal crew, and she doubted that they bothered with security patrols. The corridors were as boring and cramped as any other deep spaceship that Lindana had seen; the only obvious difference was the Cyrillic lettering and Chinese characters labeling hatchways and pointing directions. Alpha team reached their mission goal point without incident, and Lindana and Gabriel exchanged a glance of relief.
“This is not a room,” Maria said as the door to the data node opened. “This is a closet.”
Lindana silently agreed. Whoever designed this access point had an odd definition of access; maybe the builders had gotten the measurements wrong. Pipes and wires tangled and crisscrossed in a space so tight that it likely featured a starring role in some poor claustrophobe’s nightmares.
“You’re the only one who can fit,” Tomas said.
“You’re the one with the magic fingers.” Maria’s heart rate spiked. “That’s not what I meant!”
Tomas gr
inned. “You got that, right? That’s recorded? I’m gonna send it with my holiday cards.”
“Tomas, stop bothering Chief Watson,” Lindana said. “Watson, it’s your turn to climb into the ductwork. The boys will watch your back.”
Tomas muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “and your ass,” and Maria punched him hard in the shoulder and cursed him in Spanish. Ryder grabbed Tomas by the collar of his uniform jacket and hauled him back into the hallway.
“We’re on guard duty,” Ryder reminded him.
“Aye, Chief.” Tomas drew his machete. Lindana had never seen him use the weapon—usually the threat of it alone was enough to scare people into line.
Maria continued to mutter threats in Spanish as she crawled into the conduit. She was petite and skinny as a rail, which made her an ideal duct rat. Maria’s camera feed switched to night vision and bathed her screen in a pale green glow.
“Here we go,” she said. “I’m splicing in now. Tomas, check the readout on your handheld, tell me when we’re green.”
“Got it...you’re green now.”
“Good,” Lindana said. “Watson, stay at the access point. You’re on monitor and modify duty. The rest of alpha team is clear to proceed to the cargo bay.”
The group headed out, but Ryder stopped and raised a closed fist, signaling for alpha team to freeze behind him. Lindana swallowed hard and her own pulse leaped as she watched—this was the part she hated most about being the captain. Captains didn’t participate in missions unless something went wrong, because a ship’s captain was a valuable hostage. Everyone else was considered expendable—not that Lindana thought of any of her crew as expendable, but it was the principle of the thing.
The audio feed picked up approaching footfalls and murmured conversation. Ryder motioned for Diesel, his second-in-command, to follow while the rest of the group held position. Ryder and Diesel waited at the end of the corridor, and each man grabbed his target and dropped them into sleeper holds, squeezing them into unconsciousness.
“Impressive,” Gabriel murmured.
“They’re the best,” Lindana agreed.