Beyond the Shadows (3 page)

She’d spent hours looking for something, anything, even a complaint of hull vermin against him. She found nothing. That alone was odd.

Her neck began to tingle, her skin growing sensitive as her heart beat faster.

She wasn’t afraid of him.

If he tried to pull anything, she’d just kill him, or Tuz would.

He crossed his arms against his chest, his simple synthlin shirt gaped just enough for her to catch the edge of a scar on his chest. Who was he? In the modern age, scars were rare on people from tech, especially on Earth. That planet had at least a thousand-year history of seeking physical perfection through medical intervention. How did he get one? She had a sinking feeling it wasn’t from a medical procedure. It was a mark of violence.

The muscles in her legs suddenly felt heavy and uncoordinated.

She still wasn’t afraid of him.

But he made her nervous.

“Commander,” he greeted with a nod of his dark head. The orange glow of the gravity generators reflected in the lenses of his eye shades.

Yara didn’t like being unable to see his eyes. She didn’t trust him.

She walked forward with a steady and deliberate stride. It would be fine. As soon as she reached home, she could put the Earthlen out of her mind forever.

“Captain,” she responded, holding her head higher even though she felt flushed. She tried to tell herself it was only the radiant heat from the ship.

“Are you ready for this?” He smiled. It was a blatant invitation and an even more blatant challenge.

“Absolutely,” she answered.

THEY DUCKED UNDER THE SHIP AND YARA CLIMBED A RUNG LADDER THROUGH the cramped vertical airlock. She pulled herself up into the back left corner of the cargo bay. Looking around with a certain amount of apprehension, she hoped the ship was livable. It seemed like too much to ask. A single stack of crates was strapped with military precision against the forward bulkhead with a closed door just to the left of the stack.

The outside of the ship seemed large. Why was the interior so small? What sorts of items did he trade in? Obviously he wasn’t a major supplier for the Union.

“Impressed yet?” Cyrus asked as he picked up her bag and motioned to the bulkhead door ahead of them.

“Hardly. This ship is tiny.” At least it looked clean. She inspected the area for signs of vermin as Tuz growled his disapproval and curled his long tail around his front leg. The lingering scent of stale joint grease and dust hung in the air.

“That’s why I don’t take passengers. You’re lucky I took you on at all,” he mentioned as he passed her.

“I should have talked you down to twenty.”

Light glittered in his wicked eyes as he removed his shades. “It wouldn’t have happened, Pix.”

She turned to him. “I could leave this ship right now.”

He shrugged. “No refunds. You know the way out.” He flicked his hand at the open airlock hatch in the floor, daring her to back out.

Damn him. Damn him to the filth and darkness.

“You will not disrespect me, Earthlen.” She felt the heat rise again, felt her hands shake. She had to control herself.

“Captain,” he stated.

“Commander,” she corrected.

“No, you will address me as captain on this ship.”

“What?” He couldn’t be serious. She refused to play these petty games with him. He should know his place. And this piece of junk hardly counted as a ship. It was less than half a ship.

“I think I made myself clear, Commander.” He shifted her bag to his other hand, then opened the doors from the bay into converted living quarters connected to the command center of the ship by an open archway with an energy shield generator.

Yara felt as if she had taken a shock blast to the head. Handling venomous snakes seemed less hazardous than talking with him. Did he respect her authority or not? Was he trying to tell her it didn’t matter either way? She felt like she was missing something, and she had the feeling that was exactly what he wanted.

Clenching her teeth, she entered the living quarters. Her nerves made her feel edgy as she carefully inspected the compartment.

Four bunks lined the sidewalls, with spacious storage lockers between them. She had expected old military blankets, or something equally as practical on the bunks, but each proudly displayed beautiful handcrafted blankets of soft foreign material. They swirled with deep red and black patterns, an intricate maze of craftsmanship.

They looked soft, inviting. A small but spotless galley sat in the corner with an antique water basin that had been scrubbed so clean she could see reflections in the smooth stone.

This wasn’t a transport ship. This was his home. The conversion of the living space was personal, not simply functional. This was a ship made for a one- or two-man crew living and working in a single area. She had no place to hide from him.

“Which bunk?” She had trouble articulating the rest of her question as it dawned on her that she didn’t know which one he slept in on a regular basis.

“Which one do you want?” he responded, placing her bag in the center of the polished floor and entering the open control center.

“I think I should sleep on a cot in the cargo bay.” It was the best solution. She shouldn’t be in here.

“I don’t own a cot. You can sleep on the cargo bay floor, but I can’t guarantee a smooth ride in transwave. You might get knocked around, so to speak.”

Wonderful.

Tuz jumped up on the bunk nearest the galley and kneaded the pillow with his paws. Yara sat on the edge of it. The blankets felt even softer than they looked and smelled like fresh air and sun-soaked grasses. “Is this one yours?” she asked, wondering where the scent came from.

“They’re all mine.” He leaned against the archway to the control center and watched her with his shadowed eyes.

She shifted her weight, unsure what to do with her hands. She could picture him sprawled out under rumpled sheets. What did he wear to bed? She tried to keep herself from wondering if he wore anything at all, but the thought hit her before she could stop it.

She jumped up like a hot spark had gone off beneath her. “This will do.”

“Is there a problem, Commander?” He smiled, just a twitch in the corner of his mouth and a glint in his dark eyes.

Yes, I’m in your bedroom, you dirty mudrat.
“No, no problem. The sooner we leave, the better.”

 

 

CYN SHOOK HIS HEAD AS HE EASED THROUGH THE LIVING QUARTERS AND ENTERED the cargo bay to shut the airlock hatch. The commander was a real piece of work. He had no doubt that she would be a cold and efficient killer when provoked, but he had never seen an Elite warrior with less of a handle on her physical reactions to her emotions. She probably sucked at cards.

She was uncomfortable in his ship. That much was clear. But why?

He hauled the hatch shut, dropping it in the floor, and engaged the wheel lock in a slow, thoughtful motion. He came from a long line of Elite women. His sister was Elite. They hadn’t brainwashed her no matter how much they threatened her life. His sister broke away from them, whole and happy. His mother had been Elite until they turned on her like a pack of hyenas and banished her as a traitor for the terrible sin of getting pregnant. Yet his mother raised them with courage and love until she found a way to escape the shadows.

And then there was his aunt, the Grand Sister of Azra. The manipulative bitch. Heartless and ruthless, his father’s tyrant sister was obsessed with her bloodline and maintaining her hold on the throne of Azra no matter the cost. She’d drugged his parents so they’d have sex, used the scandal to steal the throne from his mother, and then turned on her own brother when he decided to stand up for the woman bearing his children.

If that weren’t enough, she’d tortured Cyn’s sister in an attempt to make Cyani her heir to the throne. Fira intended to create a mindless puppet strong enough to meet any blood challenges but not independent enough to control Azra without her. Cyn was determined to make his aunt fall. For many, the revolution was about freedom, justice, and safety. He knew the suffering of the people he led. He had lived it, and he couldn’t forget it. But this was about more than suffering. For him, it was personal.

So where did Yara fit in? His sister respected her but insisted Yara was as focused and cold as they came.

He didn’t see it. The woman unable to sit on his bed was anything but cold and focused. There was a chink in that armor. What kind of woman would he find beneath it?

What could it mean for the revolution?

He shouldn’t be thinking such things. He had a job to do, a plan to carry out. The time for plotting was over. It was time to act.

The hatch lock ground shut with a final clunk of metal locking into metal. They were stuck together now.

He stood and wiped his hands on his jeans.

“You ready, old girl?” he asked the ship as he pulled open the door to the living quarters.

He ignored Yara as he entered the control center and began the launch sequence. He barely glanced at the screens and consoles as he punched in coordinates from memory. Once the flight plan had been entered in the panels on the copilot side of the ship, he fell back into his worn pilot’s chair, synched the ship systems with the base’s launch program, and waited for the base to give the all clear.

“You have a last name?” he asked, knowing full well she didn’t. The more ignorance he showed for the cultural habits of Azra, the better his disguise would be.

“What is it about Earthlen that makes them think everyone in the universe does things the way they do?” she responded. She climbed the step to the edge of the control center and stood with her stiff back to the archway connecting it to the living quarters. Her eyes fixed on the copilot seat, but she didn’t make a move to sit in it.

“So you don’t have a last name?” Verbally sparring with her was fun, like when he used to poke snakes with sticks.

“The Yar in my name denotes my family lineage. I’m a descendant of Yarini the Just, one of our matriarchs. The closest thing you have on Earth is royalty.” She stood a little straighter. “How about your name. Does Cyrus mean anything?”

“It means I turn around when you call it.” His alias had always served its purpose, but it was just that, an empty moniker. Cyn pivoted in his chair as clearance came through and then initiated the gravity disruptor. “You’d better sit down, Your Highness.”

He wondered if she would consider him a prince if she ever found out his real name. He was the direct descendant of two matriarchs, Cyrila the Rebel on his mother’s side, and Fima the Merciless on his father’s. Few on Azra could boast such a powerful combination, but men who carried the bloodlines weren’t seen as respected warriors, only breeding stock.

Yara took a seat on the bed nearest the copilot’s seat, and Cyn slid his hand up the angrav controls, lifting them off the ground. He initiated the control thrusters and angled the ship for the shield breach. The ship shuddered as it pushed up out of the docks and through the atmosphere shield. The bubble folded over the ship, with the remnants of the energy shield sparkling over the visual sensors in a flashing rainbow of lightninglike discharges. The stars opened up before him, and Cyn set the computer on course.

The main thrusters engaged, pushing them farther from the small, desolate planet and through the fleet of large military starships space-docked above the base. Once they were well clear, Cyn engaged the transwave system.

The ship rattled as it settled into an uneasy stride. The stars around them blurred. It gave Cyn a headache, so he turned the viewscreen to information on the ship’s systems before rotating his chair back around. They must have been on course for at least half of a standard hour, but she didn’t say a word. He almost wanted to see how long she’d go without moving or speaking, but the silence was already buzzing in his ears.

“You like cards?” he asked, pulling a worn deck out from under the console.

“I don’t play,” Yara responded.

“Nassa, poker, hyped eights?” He cocked his head. “Maybe you prefer ralok?”

“I don’t play,” Yara turned to look at him.

“Ever?” Cyrus prodded, flicking the cards between his hands like a master.

“Ever.” And she wasn’t about to get caught up in his games, either. She looked down at Tuz in an attempt to halt the unwanted conversation with the nosey pilot. The start of the journey hadn’t been half bad. It was quiet. If she had her preference, they’d ignore each other for the next four days, and this mess would be over.

Tuz lifted his head and pricked his ears and whiskers forward in the universal cat sign language that meant he’d discovered something interesting, edible, or twitchy. What was he after? Yara hoped it was something she could use to bust the Earthlen’s trade permits, but they were already off port.

The cat jumped down off the bed and stalked under one of the other bunks.

“Get him, quick!” Cyrus shouted. Yara jolted to attention.

A loud snap echoed through the ship. Tuz exploded in a ball of spitting, fluffy fury. He streaked out from under the bunk yowling and hissing like his tail was on fire. Every single hair on the cat’s body stood on end.

Yara tried to catch him, but he arched his back and took a swipe at her.

“What happened?” Yara grabbed the blanket from the bunk to wrap Tuz up. She needed to figure out if he was injured or not. Suddenly a small ball of pink and green light zipped past her head.

Tuz launched off the bunk in a tremendous leap. He swiped at the flying object in midair before catching an overhead support brace with his tail.

The flying ball let out a high-pitched whistle. Yara covered her ears as Tuz hung upside down from his tail, his paws flailing for the strange flying disc.

“Bug, calm down!” Cyrus shouted. Tuz joined in the ruckus with a loud wail.