by Zoë Archer
“I’m shocked they didn’t kill him,” she whispered to Kell.
“Sends a stronger message if they don’t. A walking cautionary tale.”
“A crawling cautionary tale.” She watched the man trying unsuccessfully to drag himself away.
“Everyone keep moving,” one of the sentries yelled.
Putting aside the image of the brutalized man, Mara fell in step beside Kell as they continued on to the main building. She didn’t want to think of herself, or Kell, lying bloody and broken in the dirt.
The main building was a filthy warehouse, rusted and grimy, empty of anything except throngs of people and a dais at the far end. A short flight of steps led to the top of the dais. As she and Kell pushed their way through the crowd, Gavra climbed the steps, her stocky body making her resemble a red-headed sarvikpotemus.
“Fifteen solar minutes until the auction, swine,” she bellowed. “Fifteen more minutes to check out the Black Wraith before it gets locked up.”
Kell and Mara exchanged a look. Adhering to their plan, they followed the crowd through a side door to an alley between storage buildings. Armed mercenaries lined the alley, which led to a hangar that had doors wide enough to accommodate a light ship. Security panels kept the doors sealed, and people could only go inside through a small entry, monitored by cameras and sentries. She had never seen so many security precautions in her life, not even in Skiren Palace.
Once inside, she understood why. Her first glimpse of a real Black Wraith ship. Kell clenched his jaw as if just barely holding in a curse, but she gave a soft gasp of amazement. “It’s beautiful.”
A sleek, dark knife of a ship, the Black Wraith gleamed beneath the sodium lights. It seemed formed of a single piece of seamless metal, even the guns projecting from beneath its curved wings.
Another gun sat mounted on the back, presumably to be used when being pursued. A window indicated the cockpit, yet Mara could find no way to actually get inside the ship.
Kell whispered the answer to her unspoken question. “Only Black Wraith Squad has access to the interior.”
“Then it’ll be worthless to PRAXIS or anyone else.”
“A precisely calibrated plasma saw could breach its shields and split it open. The ship would be ruined, but they could pull it apart and learn how to make more.”
That definitely should not happen. The Black Wraith radiated deadly potential, sleek and lethal,
not unlike Kell. He had mentioned that the ship’s pilot had a unique way of interacting and communicating with the vessel, making them an almost unbeatable force. A fleet of these ships could wreak devastation from one end of the galaxy to the other.
Kell spoke tightly. “PRAXIS already greatly outnumbers 8th Wing. Black Wraiths help, but it’s never enough.”
Gods only knew how many more worlds PRAXIS would conquer if they had such power at their disposal. She fought a shudder.
She made sure they were at a distance from the people milling around the ship before she spoke.
“It takes more than the chip to fly a Black Wraith.”
“Years of training, depending on the pilot.”
“You probably learned in a year.”
“Ten solar months,” he answered.
“Always a fighter.”
Pride flickered in his eyes. “Celene was quick too. Took her sixteen solar months. The second fastest record in the squad.”
Something in his tone told her more than his actual words. “You were lovers.”
When a hint of flush darkened his tanned face, a hot blast of pure anger cleaved through her. She wanted to grab a plasma rifle from one of the guards and start shooting out the sodium lights, maybe even club a few people with the butt of the gun.
“Or maybe you still are,” she said, her voice like broken glass in her throat.
“Were, not are.” He stepped closer.
She turned away to feign interest in the Black Wraith. Damn it, she was jealous. She had never experienced that emotion before, but now she wanted to find Lieutenant Jur. Hurt her as Mara hurt now.
She did not recognize herself—the scavenger with attachments to nothing and no one. The idea of Kell making love to someone, to anyone who wasn’t her, felt like the bitterest betrayal. No matter how long ago it had happened. How would she face it in the future, knowing that he wasn’t in her bed but someone else’s because of a choice she’d made?
“Fifteen minutes are up,” Gavra’s voice over a comm announced. “Get the hell out and make your way to the main warehouse. Now.”
Armed sentries herded those attempting to linger toward the door. No one but Mara saw the microbot hidden in the cuff of Kell’s pants scuttle away. Two more of the tiny bots clung to the cuff, but if someone noticed all he would see were a couple of dustbeetles hitching a ride. Kell moved with the crowd exiting the building, betraying no signs that he directed the movements of the microbots using his tech implants. She could only marvel at his control. His engineering ability was damn impressive too. He’d built the little bots out of spare parts en route, hunched over the table in Arcadia’s galley.
Torn between admiration and anger, Mara walked silently beside him as they returned to the main warehouse. Her timing was worse than a sipkaswine accidentally wandering into a Joppian cookout. This was not the moment to stew over Kell and the lieutenant’s affair. But hard as she tried, she couldn’t get the images out of her head, envisioning Lieutenant Jur’s hands—and other things—all over his hard, solid body. Him kissing her with the same hunger he’d shown for Mara. Biting the lieutenant’s neck.
Gods, she was going to lose her mind, and the real danger hadn’t even begun.
“You have to stay with me, Mara.”
She nodded, feeling ridiculous. The only way they could survive the next hour was to stay alert.
“I’m here.” She would make herself focus.
They entered the main building and saw that the crowd had thickened. Scavengers, smugglers and other assorted criminals from all over Ryge filled the warehouse. Mara knew most of them, and she traded nods of reserved greeting. The atmosphere held no friendliness, not even good-natured rivalry.
Profit was all that mattered this day. The air droned with collective anticipation at the prospect of bidding on both an 8th Wing ship and an 8th Wing pilot.
A beautiful pilot. Who once shared a bed with Kell.
Stop it.
He paused to lean against the wall. As he did, the remaining microbots scurried off of him and up the wall, blending in with the other dustbeetles and grimespiders darting back and forth. She made certain not to follow the progress of the bots, lest she draw anyone’s attention to them. Aside from the subtle twitching of his fingers, no one would suspect that Kell controlled the tiny machines.
“Everything in place?” she murmured.
“Positioned and ready.”
He cleaved a path through the mob. Or, rather, people stepped aside to let him through, including some of the toughest and most ruthless lawbreakers she knew, men and women who would trample their aged grandparents to steal an aurelia nugget. Yet these coldblooded thieves gave Kell a wide berth.
Mara stayed close, drifting in his wake, and she, too, felt the strength of him, his energy and ferocity. Intoxicating, dangerously alluring. And targeted toward a single goal. Soon, Kell had crossed the length of the warehouse to stand right in front of the dais. She positioned herself beside him, both because it was part of the plan, as well as in response to an instinct that told her it was the safest place.
“We need to find out where they’re keeping Lieutenant Jur.” He spoke low enough so that only Mara could hear. “Following the guards will take us to her, then it’s a matter of overpowering them and decoding the locked chamber they’re most likely keeping her in. Then we—” She laid her hand on Kell’s arm. “I’ve been thinking about how Gavra operates. We won’t need an elaborate plan.” At his frown, she added, “Trust me.”
She wondered if he would,
after everything. Yet, incredibly, he nodded, then turned his attention to the platform.
Gavra stood on the dais, flanked by four armed mercenaries. She eyed the crowd with a strange mixture of disgust and eagerness, as if she despised them but loved what they could do for her cred values. A voice amplifier attached to her shirt threw her voice across the warehouse. “Want to see what you’re bidding on?”
The mob roared its assent, raucous and eager.
Gavra motioned and two mercenaries stepped down from the platform, only to return a minute later. They held a woman between them, their grips tight on her arms as she twisted and struggled. She wore a grimy 8th Wing uniform, torn in places, and her dark hair spilled over her shoulders.
“For your buying pleasure,” Gavra shouted, “I offer you Lieutenant Celene Jur of the 8th Wing’s Black Wraith Squad.”
Another roar from the throng. The sound grew rowdy, avid, as the guards tried to tug the lieutenant up the steps to the dais, and she managed to kick one of the mercenaries in his upper thigh.
She took advantage of the moment, tugging her arm free from his grip. Her punch landed on the second guard’s jaw, but he did not release her. Three more guards surged toward her. She tried to fight them, but in a moment they had her up on the platform and completely subdued. One guard for each arm, and guards pinning her feet to the floor.
She glared at the mob.
The crowd loved it, bellowing its approval. Her silver eyes scanned the crowd, contempt plain in her lovely, bruised face. Mara tensed when the lieutenant’s gaze moved over Kell, worried that Jur would make some sign of recognition and give them away. A needless worry—the lieutenant’s expression did not alter. Neither did Kell’s.
Whatever Mara felt about Jur, there was no denying the lieutenant was both intelligent and a skilled fighter—just like Kell. Not much of a surprise that he had chosen her.
“Plenty of fire in this bitch,” Gavra crowed. She strutted over and stroked a proprietary hand down Jur’s face. The lieutenant jerked her head away, but the guards held her in place.
Gavra chuckled. “Whoever’s lucky enough to buy her is in for a great ride. Provided you can keep hold of your balls.”
Harsh laughter filled the warehouse. Only Mara was aware that Kell’s hands knotted into fists.
“Let’s start the bidding for the woman,” Gavra continued. “Opening at fifty thousand creds.”
The amount astonished Mara—even top-of-the-line Halu pleasure slaves cost only twenty thousand creds. It didn’t appear that Lieutenant Jur felt flattered, though. Her mouth curled into a sneer.
Despite the astronomical figure, someone immediately yelled out, “Fifty.”
“Fifty-five,” another shouted.
“Sixty.” This from Nalren, the slaver.
Soon, the warehouse shook from the bids flying quick and frenetic, like animals caught in a feeding frenzy.
Gavra looked euphoric, allowing the bids to pile higher and higher. A blissful chaos of rising profit.
Kell adjusted the folds of his scarf, and Mara knew the time had come. She braced herself.
Tension tightened her skin as she waited. In a moment, hell was about to break loose.
Sound and percussion rocked the warehouse as one of the walls exploded. Debris, smoke,
everywhere, and the panicked shouts of the mob.
“We’re under attack!” Gavra shrieked. “Guards!” Gun drawn, firing wildly, she fled the dais and disappeared through a small door. On her way out, she slammed her fist into a panel by the door,
filling the compound with the shrill of an alarm.
No one knew that the explosions had been triggered by Kell as he detonated the microbots scuttling across the wall. Instead, believing themselves under siege and unarmed, people shoved at each other, trying desperately to flee. Mara fought to keep from being swept away by the terrified crowd. It wasn’t a surprise to see that all the smugglers and scavengers fled. Only the mercenaries stayed, their continued presence ensured by the promise of creds. Profit made men brave.
These mercenaries fanned out to meet the assumed threat. As one of the mercenaries stood at the edge of the platform, Kell pulled the scarf from around his throat and whipped it toward the guard. It struck the sentry across the face, leaving a bleeding, angry welt. The scarf snapped again with a sharp crack. The guard lost his grip on his gun, and Mara grabbed it before the firearm could hit the floor.
It wasn’t a damned ugly scarf after all, but a weapon. A lash, with a jagged, cutting edge that deployed only when in motion. And Kell wielded it masterfully, beating back mercenaries charging across the floor toward him. She wanted to watch his fluid, deadly grace, but other things needed attention. Like the half dozen guards headed in her direction.
She ran to the side of the platform and took cover. Then, careful to draw fire away from Kell,
shot at the advancing guards. Three went down, and Mara kept up her assault. As she continued her cover, Kell leapt up onto the dais. With brutal efficiency, he used both his whip and his fists to mow down the mercenaries trying to take him down. She had witnessed fights both sanctioned and spontaneous from one end of the galaxy to the other. Nothing and no one ever fought as beautifully, as capably as Kell. He was action and purpose, a blur she could barely track. Something primal within her heated to see him transform fully into a lethal warrior.
Mara continued to hold back advancing mercenaries, giving Kell the time he needed to free the lieutenant. Though, she confirmed with a quick glance, Jur seemed to have the situation in hand—she took advantage of the confusion to kick free of most of the mercenaries holding her. Nobody could match Kell for fighting skill, but Jur made an impressive sight as she grappled with the last guard holding her.
As the guards fell back to regroup, Mara sprang up onto the platform. She picked up another dropped weapon so she held two pistols. She fired a plasma round into a mercenary lunging for Kell, then slipped behind the guard still struggling with Jur.
One gun barrel pressed to the back of the guard’s head, the other jammed up between his legs.
The mercenary froze.
“Good boy.” Mara nudged the pistol she held between his legs. “Let go of your shiny toy.”
His hand opened, releasing his grip on Jur’s arm. The moment he did, the lieutenant punched him in the jaw and he slid to the ground, out cold.
Shaking out her hand, Jur said, “I’m not complaining, but who are you?”
“A friend of Kell’s,” seemed the easiest, and shortest, explanation.
“Thank you, Kell’s friend.” Jur looked toward where Kell fought three guards. “Let’s give him a hand.”
Gods curse it, she really didn’t want to respect the lieutenant, but it was a challenge. She and Jur shared a nod, then sprang into the fray. Between Mara, Lieutenant Jur and Kell, they cleared the platform in less than a minute.
Kell turned to Mara and Jur. “Appreciate it.” His dark gaze moved over Mara, quick and attentive. “Hurt?”
She shook her head. “You?”
“Feels like old times.” He grinned, and her chest constricted at the sight. His smile dimmed a little when he looked at Jur, finally acknowledging her torn and dirty uniform, the bruises on her face.
“Which of these fuckers hurt you?”
“Just a few knocks, Commander.” She waved off his concern, but said, more gently, “The next time we meet, it should be under better circumstances. Maybe at the mess hall on base. Though the food’s better here.”
The contraction in Mara’s chest tightened. Kell and Jur bantered easily with each other, revealing a long history—far longer than Mara could claim. It doesn’t matter now.
Kell seemed satisfied that they were all in one piece, then leapt off the dais. “Weapons,” he said over his shoulder.
They followed him out of the warehouse, darting through the chaos of the panicking crowd outside. Smugglers, scavengers and slavers were trying to cram themselves through the gate to
get to their ships. A small, smoldering pile of debris indicated that at least one hysterical smuggler tried to run through the plasma fence rather than go through the gate.
No one ever said a scared smuggler was a smart smuggler, Mara thought.
She and Jur caught up with Kell as he took down the guards outside the weapons storage structure. Kell grabbed the decoder from an unconscious guard’s belt and pressed it to the control panel beside the door. It opened with a hiss, and then he, Mara and Jur stepped inside.
All three of them smiled.
“It’s like Solstice Morning.” Mara sighed.
“And Lunar New Year, and Birth Celebration all rolled into one.” Kell’s smile widened into a grin.
Weapons of every size, shape and variety were lined up on tables and hung in cases on the walls.
Pistols, rifles, plasma shredders, heavy and light guns. Plasma grenades. Ion muskets. Even a surface-to-air blaster.
“Smugglers and scavengers aren’t always smart.” Mara stroked a plasma shredder. “But they are well-armed.”
Kell threw her another devastating grin, before he made his way up and down the rows of firearms, loading himself down with as many weapons as he could carry. She and the Lieutenant followed his example, and soon they bristled like a very small, very dangerous army. Even so, there were only three of them and dozens of mercenaries waiting outside.
“How’s my Wraith?” Jur asked.
“Unbreached, for now.” Kell checked the power supply for a long-barreled plasma rifle before slinging it over his shoulder. He tucked a few grenades into his belt for extra measure. “Let’s not keep her waiting.”
They stepped outside the storage structure, then flattened against the wall as a volley of plasma fire erupted around them. Mara cursed when she saw the mercenaries positioned in the alley between the weapons structure and the building that contained the Black Wraith. Clearly the guards had been ordered to protect the ship. The alley was a long, vulnerable dash, hemmed in on every side.
Though the route to the Black Wraith was heavily guarded, none of the mercenaries were focused on the way out of the compound, and the ships docked there. Provided one could push through the still teeming, frenzied mob, all that remained was a fairly straight shot to an escape.