The Skypirate

by Justine Davis

  Dax had to look away from that smile; it was far too tempting. “Because,” he said, staring down at the gleaming toes of the boots she’d shined, “he used . . . my family name. I . . . haven’t heard it in five years.”

  “Oh.”

  She sounded as if she could think of nothing else to say, and he supposed that, in truth, there was nothing else to say. But he knew she wouldn’t give up for long, and he was right. Immediately she began to analyze, with that quick, trained mind of hers.

  “How good a look did he get at you?”

  “Good enough. Short, but in full light.”

  “Still, how sure can he be?”

  Dax felt heat creep up his cheeks. Most times he could shrug off his own impulsiveness with a laugh, but somehow it was more difficult with Califa. Her stare as he explained that Mordred was no doubt positive, because he by now must have learned of the flashbow bolt Dax left behind in the Archives, made him decidedly uncomfortable.

  “You left the bolt in place of that holograph disk?”

  “No. Something else. More important, though they didn’t know it.”

  She just looked at him.

  “I know, I know,” he said. “It was stupid.”

  “Probably,” she agreed. “But I’m not sure you’d be capable of resisting that particular temptation.”

  That’s not the only one I can’t resist, he thought sourly.

  “Actually,” Califa said, in musing tones, “I’m not sure anyone would be. Especially any Triotian.”

  That surprised him. He’d realized how completely she’d turned her back on the Coalition when she’d appeared on the bridge to help them. She’d given them information about the destroyer’s weaponry that could only be considered treasonous, yet she’d never hesitated. But for her to realize that as a Triotian, albeit a very wayward one, he’d truly had no choice, at least not at that moment, but to leave the bolt in place of the royal circlet, was more than he’d ever expected.

  “Thank you. I think. From you that’s high praise.”

  “If you want praise, then take it for that little escape plan of yours.”

  His expression changed, cooling suddenly. “I told you, it wasn’t my plan.”

  “But Larcos said—”

  “It was Dare’s. I just adapted it a little to the circumstances.”

  He saw that she remembered then the story he’d told her, of the Sunbird’s encounter with the skypirate Cryon and his ship the Wanderer, and how Dare had blown up the Sunbird’s own shuttle to incapacitate the bigger ship so they could escape.

  “Are all Triotians inherently so . . . inventive?” she asked. Dax only shrugged. “I wonder,” she went on, her eyes going distant as she pondered the idea, “what would have happened if Trios had not so long lived in peace, so long that they were far too generous to strangers. If they had had enough weapons, and leaders like you and Dare, perhaps even the might of the Coalition could not have overpowered them.”

  He knew she hadn’t meant it as an accusation, but the old guilt goaded him. “But they didn’t. They had none but the simplest of weapons. The rest were stored away in caves up in the mountains outside of Triotia, where they’d been for years. They were taken by surprise, tricked by their own goodness, and their legendary”—he spat out the word—“flashbow warrior was off sulking, while they died.”

  In a motion so quick he couldn’t move in time to stop her, Califa darted forward and grabbed his knife from his boot. He tensed, his eyes flicking from the gleaming blade to her face. Then, startlingly, she reversed the blade and handed it to him.

  “You’re still sulking,” she ground out. “Here. Take it. Slit your bedamned throat and get it over with. If you won’t give yourself the mercy of a quick death, then give it to me. And Rina. And all the others who will mourn you when it’s finally done.”

  His breath caught in his throat. On some deep level, his mind was clamoring that she was right, that he’d been clinging to his guilt like a child clung to a broken favorite toy. But on another level, that quick, instinctive level they called gut-reaction, all he could take in was that she’d said she’d mourn him.

  “Perhaps we could even get word to your old friend,” she went on, never letting up. “Perhaps when you are finally dead, when you finally atone for the heinous sin of survival, even your king will mourn.”

  Shaken by the slicing truth of her words, Dax tried to speak. “Califa, I—”

  “Do you think he will?” Her tone had shifted suddenly, as if she were now merely considering an interesting question. “Will the king care what happened to the boy he grew up with? Will he—”

  She broke off suddenly, her eyes widening. She dropped the knife. As it clanged on the floor, she looked away from him. Foreboding welled up in Dax, sweeping his chagrin at the truth of her battering words before it. He’d come to recognize that action of hers, and it told him she’d made one of those connections that always seemed to be right.

  “That’s it,” she whispered, and the dismay he saw cloud the clear blue of her eyes told him he was right; she’d come to some conclusion, and she didn’t much like it.

  “What?” he prompted, and the way she looked away then told him he probably wasn’t going to like it, either.

  “They want you alive . . . ,” she began, then stopped, biting her lip.

  “We already deduced that,” he said gently, trying to ignore his body’s instantaneous reaction to the reminder of the softness of her mouth.

  “It makes sense. It’s just what they would do.”

  “Califa . . .”

  “Don’t you see?” She began to pace, short, quick steps. “Roxton said he’d heard talk that confirmed what you’d heard, that the rebellion forced Corling to withdraw and has been holding off the Coalition for months now. Whatever they’re doing, whatever weapon they have, the Coalition hasn’t been able to budge them for nearly a year. They can’t risk that kind of news getting out; it would undermine their position everywhere. And they must know the story is already getting out.”

  He knew all that; he’d prodded Roxton for as much information as he could get without drawing the old man’s lively curiosity. The news had only added to the tangled mass of his emotions, a quandary he was having to work harder and harder to ignore.

  “But what has that got to do with why they want me alive?”

  “They’re desperate. They have nothing to bargain with.”

  Something knotted up deep in Dax’s belly. “What does that mean?”

  At last she turned and met his gaze. “They want you alive . . . to get to Dare.”

  The knot tightened. “What?”

  “If they have all the Triotian records, they must have learned you and Dare were . . . close. They think they’ve got their lever. That’s why you’re no good to them dead.”

  “Are you saying,” he asked, pronouncing each word with precise care, “that they think if they take me alive, they can use me to . . . negotiate something with Dare?”

  She nodded. He stared at her.

  “That’s insane. Dare would do anything in his power to rescue a fellow Triotian—”

  “Not just a fellow Triotian,” Califa said.

  Dax shook his head. “No. Any Triotian would be equally important to us all.”

  “The Coalition would never understand that. To them, the anonymous one is easily sacrificed for the whole.”

  “Dare may have to adopt that stance, since he’s at war. But no matter what, he would never deal with the horde that destroyed Trios.”

  “Not even for his oldest friend?”

  Dax’s throat tightened, making his voice gruff. “He might have. Once. But I doubt I mean anything to him now.” He beat down the emotion that threatened to engulf him, and forced his mind to work logically. “What do they
think they could get out of him? Surely they don’t think he’d ever let them back in?”

  Califa shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe an agreement to keep silent. Or to refuse any refugees from other Coalition-owned worlds.” Her mouth curved in a bitter, knowing smile that made him think yet again how far she’d come. “Or perhaps they just hope to trick him, as they tricked his father.”

  “Then they’ll find themselves in deep trouble,” Dax said. “Triotians are peaceful by choice, but we were warriors once, and we can be again. And Dare has the finest tactical mind I’ve ever known.” He gave her a sideways look. “Except, perhaps, for Major Califa Claxton of The Coalition Tactical School.”

  She blushed, as much now at his praise of her mind as she ever had at his praise of her beauty, even when she’d been naked beneath him. This time it was he who turned away, to fight the fierce arousal that swept him even amid the chaos of feeling her revelation had brought on.

  He walked over to his bunk and stood there, staring out the viewport. He sensed rather than heard Califa follow him. She came to a halt close behind him, close enough that he swore he could feel her warmth.

  “He won’t bargain,” he said flatly. “Not with them. Not for me.”

  “Don’t be so certain that everyone paints you with the same dark brush as you yourself do.”

  “He won’t,” Dax insisted. “Even if he doesn’t hold me to blame, he would never risk his people for the sake of his own personal feelings. I know that. And he knows I would never expect it, even if things—if I—were different. In war, you do what you have to preserve what is left.”

  “But would it be easy for him?”

  Dax suppressed a shiver. “No. Even if he . . . hates me now, it would not be easy for him to condemn me. He is not that kind of man. But he would do it, if he felt he must.”

  He heard her sigh behind him. “Then I suppose you’d best avoid capture.”

  He nearly laughed. He turned around then, and she seemed startled by his expression.

  “Always straight to the heart of it,” he observed, smiling at her.

  She looked at him, perplexed. “You are a very confusing man,” she muttered.

  He did laugh then. “Ah, little snowfox, it’s only fair. You’ve confounded me since I first saw you.”

  He felt the heat building between them, and knew what would happen if they stayed so close much longer. As if she realized it, too, she backed up a step.

  “What will you do now?” she asked.

  He battled the urge to grab her and kiss her into once more melting in his arms, summoning up every painful, aching memory of his inevitable frustration to do it. He tried to concentrate on her question.

  “Do?”

  “You can’t continue to risk running into Coalition patrols, not when you’ve become such a priority to them. They’ll be looking for you everywhere.” Her brow furrowed. “In fact, you probably shouldn’t linger here much longer. Clarion is a vital cog in the Coalition machine, with the Starworks shipbuilding facility here. You won’t go long unnoticed.”

  “We’re skypirates,” Dax said simply. “We can’t help but risk running into Coalition patrols. And it wouldn’t be fair to ask the crew to give up going after prizes just because I’ve managed to move to the top of the Coalition’s most wanted index.”

  “They would give it up for a while. For you.”

  “Perhaps. If I asked it of them.”

  She read his expression—as usual—accurately. “But you won’t.”

  “It would not be fair,” he repeated.

  “Eos!” she exclaimed. “Are you still looking for fairness in a cosmos ruled by the Coalition? Wasn’t it you who told me that anyone who trusts the Coalition is a fool?”

  “What would you have me do?” he shot back. “Run and hide? Perhaps go back to the storehouse and reside there until I die of old age? I’d die of boredom first.”

  She studied him a moment, perversely calm in the face of his burst of temper.

  “What would you do,” she said at last, “if there was no one else to consider? If it were only you?”

  He felt his shoulders sag; he’d wrestled with that thought far too often to feel anything other than weariness at thinking of it now.

  “Dax?” Her voice was soft, coaxing. And almost against his will, he gave her the truth.

  “When you first told me there were Triotians alive, I thought I . . . I wanted . . .”

  “Wanted what?” she prompted, her voice so very gentle he couldn’t refuse, even knowing his words would sound like those of a lost child.

  “I wanted to go home.”

  “Oh, Dax,” she said, her tone laced with pain. For him. He knew it was for him, and he couldn’t bear it. He spoke quickly, denying the moment of weakness.

  “It doesn’t matter. I would not be welcome. If they’ve not already stripped me of my citizenship, it is only because they haven’t had time to think of it yet.”

  “What if you’re wrong? You could at least try, couldn’t you? Surely they wouldn’t—”

  “I would, were I them,” Dax said grimly.

  Califa covered the safe distance she’d put between them in a single lithe stride.

  “That’s because you are harder on yourself than anyone else could be. Even Rina sees that.”

  He stiffened. “Rina?”

  “Do you think she doesn’t remember what she said to you, when you first found her? That she blamed you for not fighting for Trios? Did you never wonder why she stopped?”

  He shook his head. “I was just glad she did. It hurt too much to hear the truth from one so young.”

  “She stopped because she saw you were punishing yourself more than she ever could.” She took a breath, as if to steady a voice that had begun to quaver. “But even Rina knows now that you couldn’t have stopped the Coalition. And that you had a reason for not being there.”

  He stared at her. “She knows?”

  “Not what the reason was, just that you must have had one. Such is her faith in you, Dax.”

  He closed his eyes against a sudden stab of pain. “Too bad it’s misplaced.”

  Suddenly, unexpectedly, she threw her arms around him. “Eos, Dax. Or I’ll swear to your God, if it will do any good. Can’t you ever forgive yourself?”

  Before he could stop himself, his arms went around her in turn. He pulled her close, and lifted one hand to smooth the silk of her hair.

  “Tell me something, snowfox. Have you forgiven yourself, for all you did as a Coalition officer?”

  He felt her go rigid in his arms. Then, so softly he could barely be sure he’d heard it, she whispered. “No.”

  A low, pained laugh rumbled up from his chest. “What a miserable pair we are, snowfox.”

  For a long time they just stood there, taking an odd sort of consolation in their mutual predicament. It was only gradually that Dax became aware of the shirt, of the increasing softness of her body pressed against his, of the warmth that had begun as comfort changing to heat of an entirely different sort. It had never happened between them this way before, slowly, gently. It was like watching the sun come up over the mountains and spill down over the meadows of Triotia, a first touch of warmth followed by a growing flood of heat and golden light.

  He let his hands slip to the back of her head, his fingers threading through her hair as he tilted her face back. She looked up at him, and he could see the warmth he was feeling mirrored in her eyes. But when he began to lower his head, his lips already parting in anticipation of savoring the taste of her, she drew back.

  “Califa?” His voice was rough, already husky with arousal.

  “I . . . can’t, Dax.”

  He drew back then, brows furrowing as he studied her. A possible answer came to him, and it was as if a su
dden snow had struck his sun-filled meadow.

  “I see,” he said, his voice reflecting the chill that had swept him.

  “Dax—”

  “So tell me,” he said in that same cool voice, “was the controller the only reason you mated with me before? In the hopes I would—what, be so appreciative that I would give it back? And now that you have it back—”

  Fury flashed in the ice-blue eyes. She pulled back fiercely, yanking herself out of his grasp. He saw her move, and barely saved himself from a ringing blow by grabbing her arm.

  “Damn you to Hades,” she grated. “You accuse me of willing whoredom.”

  He saw her point, and released her wrist. He looked at her for a moment, then chose his words with care. “You must admit it seems . . . indicative that you should choose now to deny what happens between us.”

  “You mean what happens to me,” she corrected.

  His brows lowered. “I am as much in your power in this as you are in mine,” he said. “So why, Califa?”

  “Why won’t I mate with you? You must ask?” She shook her head incredulously. “You say you are in my power as I am in yours. Do you think then that I enjoy seeing you in such pain?”

  Dax froze.

  “You think I could welcome even the incredible pleasure you give me, when I know it leaves you in agony?”

  “I didn’t think you—”

  “Noticed? Eos, help me! How could I not? If this is indeed some Triotian trait, then I’m astounded your race has survived at all. No wonder you don’t believe in mating outside of bonding, if this is what your people go through.”

  “Califa, it doesn’t matter—”

  “So you’ve said. I can’t agree. I can only think how I would feel, if you took me so close and then left me wanting.”

  He swallowed tightly, knowing he owed her some kind of explanation, knowing it was amazing she hadn’t demanded one before now. Yet he couldn’t find the words to admit this last, ultimate flaw.

  “It pleases me to give you pleasure,” he began.