by Mima
“Becca,” Laurent whispered. “Are you in trouble?”
Staring at her handsome brother, the one who was noble, brave, and smart, with a chest full of medals and a life full of excitement . . . Becca knew she’d gone about this all wrong. Out of pride, she’d resisted the service, when she could have been standing at her brother’s side, using this surging adrenaline for the greater good instead of her greater bank account and the regard of a man she might not even have a relationship with. But she’d been seduced by some good sex, naïve in her first brush with crime, and there was no way she could back out now. The Brotherhood had been very clear that her family would pay the first bill for failure. Loss and anger whirled in her aching lungs. Her new path was supposed to stay forever apart from her family. They couldn’t be in the same room together. Oh, God.
She lifted her chin. “I’m right where I choose to be. This bar was a lot of fun, and look what you’ve done to it.” The churning in her stomach grew worse, but not from the poison. Bile soured her throat and she swallowed.
Rex stepped right up into her face. “Becca Sharpin. Where is Mindy Granville?”
She stared at him, pleading with her eyes. “I don’t know,” she answered honestly but not completely.
He turned away from her. Laurent looked back and forth between them, openly stricken.
“This is bullshit,” said the slender teammate by the door. “She’s your sister?”
Rex braced his hands on the bar, his shoulders hunched defensively. “I need you to swear to me. Swear, Becca. Tell me you had nothing to do with the kidnapping of a child. Tell me you haven’t been approached by the Syndicate and that you’re just being an idiot. Swear.” He whirled, and she was shocked at the fury she saw burning in his eyes. His face was tight and red, his nose drawn up. “Look me in the eyes and swear.”
She had to swallow again, and the thick blood did nothing to settle her stomach. “I can’t do that.”
Rex stared at her. Then he pulled out his heat pistol. She flinched. He turned and fired it again and again into the back of the bar, smashing all the bottles and glasses. Roaring, he blasted until the wall was a melted, warped thing full of holes.
Then he stood breathing loud and ugly. Tears streamed out of her eyes, stinging a cut on her lip.
Laurent went up to Rex and laid his hand on his shoulder. Rex looked at him, then turned and walked back to her. He was still holding his pistol. She shouldn’t be afraid of Rex. But this warrior was not the brother she’d known on holidays. The man at her back prevented her from retreating.
Rex stood in front of her. “Come with me. I’ll hide you.”
Sight blurred at his generous words. Her brother was a good man. She couldn’t let him wreck his career for the mess she’d chosen. They both knew it would just be a matter of time until she was killed. Maybe he’d be taken out in the process, maybe their parents. No one left the Syndicate.
“No.” She croaked out the word. She hadn’t expected a scene like this to ever happen. He was supposed to be on his warship three suns away. He was never supposed to notice anything odd about her, let alone care.
“This is the only time, Becca. Don’t contact Mom and Dad. If I find you again, I’ll take you alive to prison, or dead for justice. You spit on our family. You spit on law. You spit on people who want to live in a fair and safe world. You’re not my sister anymore.”
Rex pulled the full hooded mask over his head and holstered his weapon. “Move out. We’ll hit the airfield first.”
The slender teammate by the door went without pause, then Rex. Laurent, also hooded again, stopped by the door. “Sparky. Leave her.”
Her shoulders were shaking so wildly, they pulled on the treetop’s arm. Sparky the treetop finally dropped his grip, and she crumpled to the debris-strewn floor.
He leaned down and hissed into her face. “I’ve got your smell, traitor. I’ll make it quick next time I sniff you out.”
The two men eased into the street.
Becca sat on the floor and tapped into her plax-page, pulling up a vid-com with Sam. “Is Mindy secure?”
Sam scowled at her. “Yes.” The barmaid tipped her head, considering Becca’s face. “Fuck. How bad?”
“Come get me.” Becca struggled to breathe through the thick tears in her throat. “I’ll be fine,” she lied.
CONGRATULATIONS. (Not really . . .) You have found the ending called Crime Pays Two Ways. Click on this link to return to the Choice Index. Dare to decide again!
With shaking hands, Becca rearranged her ponytail as she strode down into the cargo bay. She went into the main cargo office and breathed a sigh of relief on finding it empty. Passing through her smaller office, she entered the large bay, easing through the new aisles they’d just created. The shipping containers towered over her head. At the door to the connecting hall, she waited. Cracking the door, she crouched on her knees.
She studied the back of Darnell’s head as he stared glumly at the monitor. Her lips were dry, and licking them didn’t help lessen the tightness in her throat. She was just about to ease into the hall and cross to the refrigerated bay when footsteps echoed down the stairs. It was the security master’s tall, thin figure. He walked straight up to Darnell, who stood nervously.
They spoke quietly, then both went into the chilled room. A few minutes later, they both left and went out together, up the stairs. She had no idea where Darnell was off to when he should have been at the monitor, but it was perfect. She darted across the hall and ducked into the cold bay. Leaning against the door, she glared at the refrigerated box they’d placed in the center of the front row. It looked like most of the other crates, a gray metal rectangle with a plax-page stuck to one corner displaying the origin, contents, weight, destination, and seal. In this case, all of it had to be fake.
Chewing on her lip, Becca leaned in, uncertain now that she faced the shoulder-high box. She wasn’t good enough with data to break this seal and reset it. If she proved this, she’d have to get to the captain fast and pray he wasn’t in on it. Curse her curiosity! She leaned on the darker gray crate next to it, deep in thought and worry, and almost screamed when a gap cut into the outer panel gave way under her weight.
She stared, mouth agape, as a perfect square swung inward. She looked into the hollow interior. Cautiously crouching, she leaned her head in and looked left, toward the suspicious refrigerated box. Against the left end of the crate were the colorful flickering lights of a med panel. She understood now. They’d already broken the seal on both of these crates, then connected them, using the cargo unit next to the cryo to hide the cryo’s med panel. The men needed access to this med panel because while the crate was in transport, without the robotic analysis, the vitals had to be constantly adjusted. That’s why they had to jockey it from her planned location.
She checked over her shoulder, hoping they hadn’t returned. She needed a bit more time. Becca crawled into the empty cargo unit and studied the med panel. What she saw made her sick to her stomach. There was a reason cryo was incredibly illegal. In order for a person to remain alive, the nervous system had to be completely engaged during the freezing and remain that way. It was agony for the person. Their body was flayed by pain and they were constantly aware. Trapped in their own mind with no other stimulus but torment, survivors of cryo described an endless hell. Many went mad.
This is none of your business. You took a side trip and now you need to make the best of it. Get back to your private bunk and keep your nose down. The cold, competitive side of Becca had always served her well. She usually listened to it. And if she hadn’t been staring at a slowed heart rate, she probably would have.
She put a shaking hand to her mouth. There was a person in there. Frozen, but awake. How long had he or she existed like that? Without even meaning to, Becca reached out and pressed the button to disengage.
I probably could have
done that with just a bit of planning. Her gaze darted all over the panel as columns of life readings began to fluctuate and alter.
A countdown appeared. Thirty minutes! She shook her head wildly. What was she going to do with a stunned, naked person in need of medical attention? One who had no identification? Should she get the captain? Should she get a doctor down here? Her breath echoed around, bursting off the walls of the dark container. Pressing a hand to her thundering heart, she closed her eyes, praying she hadn’t just killed someone.
Before she involved anyone else, she should find out who it was. The man or woman could have very strong feelings about being revealed. There was a chance the captain was involved. Regardless, she’d started this crazy journey, and she wouldn’t endanger anyone else. There were no allies she could trust here.
They’d know she’d freed the person. If they didn’t kill her, they’d capture her, and the cryo prisoner would need a lot of help. This wasn’t just about waking the person up. It was about keeping them safe from the people who put them in cryo, and that meant avoiding the crew willing to smuggle a cryo, who would be beholden to the customer.
She would hide them both. They had to disappear until they could get off ship. Trying to catch her breath, she struggled to think of where she could hide the poor person. The life reading would be too obvious in her berth. The pods for the crew were set up to serve six, so there was no privacy there.
What place on the ship had many life readings, someplace the new person would blend in? The lounge! It was open all hours, and crew from all shifts were constantly coming and going. It would be a great place to hide life signs, except obviously the lounge wasn’t private. But the sub-space around it was.
Becca scrambled out of the crate, replaced the clever door in the wall, sucked in the cold air of the bay, and then dashed back across the still empty hall, through the large bay, and into her office. She sat on the desk with her plax-page and frantically began to pore over the Cider Pot’s schematics she’d had before as junior systems engineer. A few minutes later she had it: an undershaft. She jumped to her feet, straightened her flight suit, and took a deep breath. First she set a distraction for later involving a nasty mix of system fluids in the big bay, and then she eased out into the main hallway.
Walking sedately, she collected some supplies from a maintenance closet and relaxed against a wall. She was in a hall around the corner from the lounge. When there was a break in foot traffic, she loosened the panel. Again she stood and waited, and when she judged it safe, she threw her first set of supplies inside.
Next she stole several blankets from bunks in pods where no one was awake. She even took a bunch of pillows. Strangely, no one gave her more than a passing glance as she leaned against the wall with a pile of pillows behind her back. After she’d made several trips, she slid into the wall herself and put the grate back.
She was crouched in a narrow, waist-high alley. Bundling her collection into a blanket, she dragged it through the passageway until she found the space below the lounge holding the junction box for this floor. It was about the size of her parents’ bed. She couldn’t even kneel upright it was so low, but it was well ventilated and quite warm from the juncture box on one wall. She prepared the space by spreading out the blankets, arranging the pillows, and lining her pitiful supplies along one wall. When the sad little nest was arranged, it seemed even more idiotic to bring a cryo-shocked person here. But it was the only plan she had.
Grimly triggering her cutting torch, she went a short way down the undershaft and set to making a connection to an overcrawl from the level below. The walls of every ship were riddled with functionality. She loved these secret pathways and had no problem in small passages. Soon, she’d cut into the lower level’s ceiling area and dropped into the overcrawl. Slithering through this space for a few moments, she came next to a taller area with a roaring vent fan. She loosened the panel in the wall there and stuck her head through. She was looking at a dead-end corner of a quiet hallway. There was nothing here but a supply closet keyed to the mess hall—the perfect place to steal food from. She dropped to the floor and replaced the ceiling tile. Glancing at her plax-page as she strolled through the corridor, her veins iced. Two minutes.
That poor person was not going to wake up alone in a box. She broke into a run. Luckily, the few people she passed didn’t seem to care. When she got to the cargo bay, she clattered down the stairs. Old Joe sat at the monitor. He looked up at her.
She scowled at him. “There’s green shit leaking from a crate in the sixth row of the main cargo bay! I’m not going in there until it’s analyzed!”
He jumped to his feet. “Left cube or right?”
“Right!”
He dashed off into the room. She ran into the refrigerated bay and burst through the side crate. She would surely get caught, but at this point it didn’t matter. Only the person waking out of cryo did. The countdown was blinking 00:00 and a purple button was pulsing. She hit it. The entire end started to slide toward her. Scrambling back out of the crate, she watched as sour-smelling mist pooled out of the emerging drawer.
With a hiss, the gliding bed came to a stop, and the top popped. When nothing happened, Becca leaned forward and gently pulled up on the lid. Her faint prod made it rise clear up, opening like the lid of a coffin. As it moved away from the man inside, a sucking sluice of goo peeled up off of him.
He lay in a bed of orange gel. The stuff that had encased his front began to ooze down the lid, plopping onto the hinge. His skin was raw and red, and he was soaking wet. Dark hair lay matted around his head in a mass. His eyes opened and met hers.
She watched his pupils dilate, and the next time he blinked his long, thick lashes, she saw a soul come flooding into his green eyes.
“I woke you up,” she whispered. “I have a place to hide you. If they catch us, it will be very bad.” She thought of Djetivoch’s cold eyes. “Can you move?”
He winced. His mouth opened, and then he surged up and puked over the edge of the med-bed. She jumped out of range just in time. His shoulders shook with the strain, and his gags were impossibly loud, echoing within the hollow crate. Weakly, she stroked his shoulder, grimacing at the goo. This poor man. She hadn’t the first clue as to what he’d need. Was this normal?
When he finished, he wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and heaved himself up onto his knees. The muscled arms braced on the edge of his bed trembled with strain. For him to have that kind of musculature, he couldn’t have been in cryo long. Or perhaps he’d once been extremely buff. She eased his arm around her shoulders. He flopped his legs over the edge and stood. She let him get his balance. They wavered there for what seemed like five hundred heartbeats, exposed, almost directly in front of the bay doors. The chill of the bay felt good on her steaming body. Sweat dripped down her neck. He shivered.
He stepped forward and they awkwardly tried to avoid most of the sickly looking purple puke. She walked him through the bay doors, almost dizzy with fear. She imagined Djetivoch standing there, ready to shoot them both with his bolt gun. No one was there.
She hurried him up the stairs, along the hall, and into the first pod of crew quarters she came to. Becca discovered that staggering with a nude man dripping orange goo through a busy cargo trader gave her the same adrenaline jolt as cliff diving. Each pod was set up for six people. But as usual, no one was in this pod except for one sleeping person. First he used the toilet. She gave him privacy, even though he listed against the wall of the stall.
She took the dozing person’s plax-page from their locker and used it to access the shower. Poor guy was going to be very angry to discover his day’s use of water was taken. She stripped out of her flight suit and underwear quickly and walked cryo-guy into the tiled bay.
“Brace yourself.” She triggered the tepid water.
He put his hands on the shower wall and moaned, body shaking.
; She began soaping him furiously. “We’ve only got three minutes of water. Can you wash your hair?” Her hands scrubbed over his back. She worked across the top of his shoulders, around the slabs of lean muscle covering his ribs. Her thumbs went from nape to tailbone, scooping away stubborn goo hiding in the valley of his spine.
He hissed, body jerking, but she had no time to worry that she hurt him. Brushing around his shoulder blades, she grabbed more of the soft foaming soap and worked his skin in rough circles. His ass was round and tight, with hollows on the sides. Hurriedly, she cleaned the crease between and under his cheeks but didn’t linger.
His legs were braced shoulder-width apart, and she grabbed more soap for his thighs, strokes rougher with the crinkly hair covering them. After cleaning his knees, she massaged hard at a ridge of goo on his calf. Her mind was full of questions, but she knew it wasn’t the time.
He groaned again, ass clenching. First she admired it, then she scowled. “Do you have to go to the toilet again?” Her hands left his calf suspiciously.
“Hunh!” His body bowed forward and every muscle went rigid.
Oh, crap. He must be having a seizure! She ducked around to look up at the front of him, prepared for foaming at the mouth and bracing to catch his collapsing body. That wasn’t what she saw at all.
Becca caught a perfect side view of a magnificently huge erection blowing a long stream of cream against the wall. His hands clawed at the tile then curled into fists. He stared down at her, green eyes intense, jaw clenched. Hesitantly, she put her hand on his hip. His eyes slammed shut and his hips bucked. More come spurted. She waited while three more shudders took his body and finally his tip sagged. He was far from limp, but softening.
His breath rasped and he rested his forehead on the wall. “You have no idea,” he gasped, “what the air feels like after that box. The bliss of water. Your soapy touch—the warmth—” He coughed, clearly overcome.