Finders Keepers (14 page)

“Some say Vanushavor blood runs in his veins. Some say even Vanurin,” Mitkanos said quietly. “But the list is much longer than that. So they don’t know what he is. Or who he is. But he came out smarter and stronger than they wanted him to. And now they can’t stop him.”

“Nor can the Ycsko,” Farra pointed out.

“I have fought the ’Sko many times and won.” Mitkanos thumped his hand on his chest. “The victory record of my platoon is glorious. All the
Stegzarda
are known for bravery.”

“And so is the Fleet. We work with them here, on Degvar, Uncle.”

Trilby began to suspect that Farra might have a tender spot for someone in a black uniform. Well, she knew the feeling. She didn’t think many of her friends back in Rumor would be any happier about her involvement with a Zafharin Fleet officer than Mitkanos would.

He said something to Farra in Zafharish. Trilby recognized a few words, but her brain was too tired to try to translate them.

Mitkanos turned to her with an embarrassed grin. “I apologize. I forget, you do not understand. I tell my niece, we are brave because we are a . . . what is the word? A unit. A family. We are bound by mutual trust. Loyalty. But the
Razalka,
she operates on fear. It is different, no?”

Trilby thought of Grantforth Galactic Amalgamated. Jagan’s opinion of his family’s employees as “underlings” became apparent to her as she’d come to know him. It was one of the things that had unsettled her about him, one of the things that had made it easy to walk away from his flattering words and his lavish gifts. She’d given them all back. It hadn’t been a pretty scene.

She nodded. “We have our share of tyrants too, Major. I try to avoid them as best I can.”

Mitkanos patted her hand. “Well, you had only to deal with him a short time, yes? Now you can go home and tell your friends you survived what, four, five days with Tivahr the Terrible on your ship. They will be impressed.”

But Tivahr wasn’t
—Trilby started to say, and stopped. Something ominous, something cold and fearful suddenly wrapped around her like an icy blanket. Something about Mitkanos’s surprise that Rhis had been carried on board the
Venture
. And before that.
He
took your ship, Mitkanos had said. It was the way he said
he
. With a capital
H
. Underscored. In lights. As if
the
resided before his name.

The
Senior Captain Tivahr.

She closed her eyes for a moment, her head spinning. She felt Mitkanos’s large hand on her arm. “Niece, we have tired her. This has been much stress. She has had Captain Tivahr on her ship and now me, frightening her.”

Tivahr. On my ship. Tivahr.

She opened her eyes. “He told me his name was Vanur.” Her voice sounded thin. “Not . . . Tivahr. Rhis Vanur.”

Farra and her uncle exchanged quick glances. A low, guttural curse passed Mitkanos’s lips.

Trilby leaned back in her chair. Mitkanos’s hand fell away. A few choice curse words of her own tumbled through her mind, but she didn’t have the energy to voice them.

“Khyrhis Tivahr,” Mitkanos said quietly. “I saw him come down your rampway on my security screen.”

Farra shot a question at him in Zafharish.

“I do not know,” he answered in Standard. “Captain Elliot. It appears now perhaps we have been too forward in our talk. But there was no indication from him,” and he looked back at Farra, “that you did not know who he was. He identified himself properly many times when your ship made contact with the station. I was in ops. I heard him myself.”

All the conversation she’d listened to on her bridge came back to her. She understood little of it. Only basic words like
dock
and
schedule
. And the names:
Razalka.
Vanushavor. Tivahr.

She shook her head. “You heard him in Zafharish.” She gave him a weak smile. “Other than
vad, nav,
and
dharjas taf, viek,
I don’t understand very much of it.”
Except for yav cheron,
a small voice reminded her. She pushed it away.

Farra asked something else.

“No,” Mitkanos said. “He did not put her under any security restrictions.”

Trilby frowned, not comprehending his answer.

“My niece said that perhaps he felt he had to protect his identity from you, because you are Conclave. But you would have been confined to your ship then. Not permitted access to this station. You would have a Level Three, or more, status. He said to me Level One. And yes,” he nodded to Farra, apparently anticipating her question, “I clarified. I have not been
Stegzarda
Chief of Security for three years and not know this.”

He sat back, folded his arms across his broad chest. “Tivahr was very clear when he spoke to me on the comm. ‘Level One,’ he said, for
Dasja
Captain Elliot.”

“Then is not a problem, Uncle.” Farra lifted her cup, drained the last of her tea. “Is nothing more than oversight. Or perhaps Captain Tivahr did not want Captain Elliot to be afraid of him.”

“He would not be so considerate of her feelings, no,” Mitkanos disagreed. “He lives for fear. More likely he knew that was the easiest way to get her to cooperate with his plans. He is a master at that, manipulating people.

“But regardless,” he said, standing, “what he has given you is an interesting tale to tell, no?” He took her empty cup, and Farra’s. “Come. My niece and I will walk you back to your ship, and we will talk of more pleasant things. For Tivahr is our problem now. Not yours. Your trouble now is over.”

But it wasn’t more pleasant things that ran through Trilby’s mind as she wrapped herself in her purple quilt and propped herself up against the headboard of her bed.

It was everything she’d learned about Tivahr the Terrible. Emperor and sometimes executioner on his own ship. And a master manipulator of people.

She glanced at the chair in the corner, secured to the floor with the decklock. It would feel real good to unclip it and throw it at something right now. Like the bulkhead.

Or
the
Captain Tivahr. If he dared walk through her cabin door again.

It was with that pleasant thought that she fell into an exhausted sleep, purple quilt wrapped tightly around her, catching her tears of anger as they fell.

10

The words on the screen in front of him blurred. Rhis reached for his tea and, as his fingers closed around the mug, realized it was cold. He’d been sifting through the data Gurdan supplied him for, what, two hours now?

He sought the time stamp on his screen. Two and a half.

Bloody hell.

Since all the changes he’d quietly made to the
Venture
’s systems, he’d had little or no sleep. He felt it now, as his side began to ache again. Even he had his limits. Forty-eight hours with only two hours’ sleep was one of them.

“Run a comparative on my analysis. I need about four hours downtime. Have it ready for me by then.”

Gurdan looked up from his own screen and tabbed at the touchpads on his right. He was quiet for a moment, his gaze moving rapidly over the data now streaming down his screen. “We may need more than four hours, Captain.”

Rhis stood, leaned his fists on the edge of the briefing-room table, and glared at the thin man. Gods, he was tired. And he needed to sink against something Trilby-soft and Trilby-scented.

“Four hours,” he repeated. “Do I make myself clear?”

Gurdan’s mouth tightened but he nodded. “We will do what we can in four hours.”

“No. You will supply me with a thorough and complete analysis in four hours. Or I will find someone to replace you who can.”

His boots echoed sharply as he strode down the corridor. The situation with the ’Sko had worsened considerably, factions merging with factions, even in the few days he’d been absent. No, it was more than a few days. He’d spent five on the
Venture
. Two in ’Sko captivity. And two and a half weeks before that, slowly infiltrating the Ycsko system with his team. He’d been away from the
Razalka
for almost a month.

He’d been away from Trilby Elliot for a little less than three hours. He wasn’t sure which discomforted him more.

Trilby, he decided as he hit the call button for the lift. But Gurdan’s lackadaisical response to his analysis request ranked right up there on the discomfort list as well.

Hell and damnation! Was he the only one able to elicit results in the Fleet?

Gurdan’s team was good, but his team on the
Razalka
was better. Had to be. Or they wouldn’t be there.

He sagged tiredly against the metal wall of the lift, thankful no one else occupied it. His thoughts drifted back to the ’Sko. The information he’d stolen from Szed. The movement in the Niyil parties and the Beffa cartels. The tie-ins with Rinnaker, and now, with the attack on the
Venture,
with GGA. He had an uneasy suspicion Garold Grantforth might be involved. The man was power-hungry. But his political success and well-known image made it difficult to see how he’d worked it, if he had. Or how Rhis could prove it.

Jagan Grantforth, or someone in his office, as Trilby suggested, could well be the key. He’d have to look further into that, follow the same kind of trail in Rinnaker as well. The Empire wasn’t in the position to openly criticize the Conclave. Not yet.

That was something else he had to attend to.

That and . . .

His mind fogged. He had the disturbing sensation he’d forgotten something. Something important. But that was ridiculous. He never forgot anything important. He tolerated lapses in himself even less than he tolerated them in his crew.

The lift slowed smoothly, easing to a stop at the dock level. It was good to be back with Imperial technology again. He remembered some of the public lifts in Syar and Bagrond. Shuddering things, swaying and jerking. Outdated. Antiquated. Quite useless. Typical Conclave technology.

He stopped just short of the
Venture
’s rampway. The aging freighter’s rounded bow was visible through the viewport. In the dim light on her bridge, he saw a small movement, recognized Dezi’s tarnished form.

A wry smile played across his face. One of the more entertaining examples of Conclave technology. He’d talk to Trilby about getting the ’droid a complete overhaul. His tendency toward verbal ramblings was, if nothing else, a waste of energy.

He strode up the rampway, some of his lassitude abating. It was almost 0330 on his biotime. His and Trilby’s. His mind filled with a dozen different ways to wake her. He could almost feel the softness of her skin against his mouth, smell the intoxicating powdery scent of her. He imagined her saying
yav cheron
in a shy but passionate voice. He laid his hand against the
Venture
’s palm pad and realized his hands were sweating, the front of his uniform pants uncomfortably tight.

He heard the lock cycle, then click twice. But the hatchway door stayed closed.

Conclave technology,
he reminded himself, but wiped his hand down his sleeve before trying again.
Conclave technology and hormones.

It cycled, clicked twice, and went dead. The red
entry denied
light glowed brightly.

He frowned. Perhaps an interface glitch? The ship was segued into Imperial technology now.

He stepped back to the docking podium at the foot of the ramp, activated the intercom. “
Venture,
the hatch lock is not responding.”

He waited. Nothing happened.

“
Venture,
there is a problem with the hatch lock. This is Rhis.”

Nothing. He checked the status lights on the podium. Everything showed green. Maybe Trilby was asleep and Dezi involved in some maintenance function that prevented his responding.

Several more minutes passed. The ache in his side resurrected itself. He punched the intercom button again. “Trilby? Dezi? Open the—”

It opened.

Trilby Elliot stood in the air lock in her faded green T-shirt and baggy flight pants. Her service jacket, embroidered with the
Venture
’s name on the sleeve, was tied around her waist. Her pistol, holstered but not locked, hung from underneath it.

The strap of her laser rifle looped over one shoulder. She cradled the weapon in her hands, and as he took a step forward, he heard the distinctive snick of the safety being unlocked.

He stopped. Her face was pale, her lips drawn in a thin line. There were smudges down her cheeks but her eyes were dry, steady, penetrating. And as cold as the glaciers on Chevienko.

His throat felt hot in comparison. He rasped out her name. “Trilby-
chenka
?”

“This,” she said in an eerily quiet voice, “is one of the rifles that works.” She tilted the barrel slightly upward. If she pressed the trigger, the charge would hit him in the throat.

“I don’t understand.”

“But I do, Tivahr. You’re a lying, manipulating bastard.”

Lying? He hadn’t lied—

Tivahr. She called him Tivahr. Some of Chevienko’s icy chill gripped his chest. He now knew what he’d forgotten.

Once he explained, surely she’d understand. The precariousness of his position. The urgency of the situation with the ’Sko. The way that his feelings for her had so completely obliterated everything else from his mind.

She raised the rifle, braced it against her shoulder.

“Get. Off. My. Ramp.” She activated the target lock. He saw the thin red beam flick on, knew without looking down that it highlighted the center of his chest.

“Bastard,” she hissed.

He backed up a step. Anger surged through him. Anger and a sense of loss, of desolation so complete that it took all his strength not to double over. It sucked the air out of his lungs, the life from his body, would have stopped even his heart from beating.

But he didn’t have a heart anymore. He’d given it to her.

“Please. Trilby.” His voice was raw. “Let’s discuss this. Calmly.”

“Discuss?” She laughed harshly. “Yeah, that’s what Jagan said too. Let’s discuss this, darling. Fucking liars. Both of you.”

Her comparison stung like crazed firewasps against his skin. Jagan’s duplicity and smooth words surfaced, prickling against his conscience. “I am not Jagan Grantforth,” he protested.

“No. You’re Tivahr.
The
Senior Captain Tivahr. You say ‘jump’ and the entire universe says ‘how high and when.’ Well, I’m not jumping anymore. And you have ten seconds to get off my ramp. Nine.” She shifted position, locked her fingers on the trigger. “Eight—”

“We will talk tomorrow. I can explain everything, I promise.”

“Six . . .”

He turned, shoved his hands in his pockets, and made sure he held his head high as he walked away.

Rhis stared at the ceiling of the small barracks sleeping room and realized he didn’t even know his cubicle number. Nor did he care. Just as he didn’t care about the odd look the quartermaster in ops gave him when he’d demanded a sleeping room. Nor about the raised eyebrows of two of Gurdan’s team he’d stormed past in the corridor. He’d made it clear he was going back to the Conclave freighter. What in hell was Tivahr the Terrible doing on the barracks level?

What in hell, indeed.

He swallowed hard. This was hell. Worse than his interrogation by the ’Sko. Because the ’Sko he could fight against. The ’Sko he could hate.

He didn’t want to fight with Trilby. He wanted to make love to her. And he couldn’t hate her. Because she was right. He had lied, not so much to protect himself but to ensure her cooperation. He wanted her—

Yav chera.

—for selfish reasons. And he saw her flirt and laugh with Rhis Vanur in ways that he knew she never would with Khyrhis Tivahr. Tivahr the Terrible.

He knew what people called him, not only here but in the Conclave. Saw the fear that had flickered in her eyes at the mention of the
Razalka
.

And so Rhis Vanur was born. Rhis, who could be everything that Khyrhis was not. He shed the legend, the superstition, the rumors. And the truths. And reinvented himself. Into someone he hoped Trilby Elliot might love.

And she had. Hadn’t she?

Yav chera.

He woke hungry, edgy, and with the unaccustomed feeling that his life had somehow spun out of control. The crowd in the officer’s mess annoyed him. What in hell were all these people doing eating at this ungodly hour of the morning? The lines at the replicators were long, and trays were heavily laden with portions.

Morning. The numbers on the time panel caught his eye: 1830. It was dinnertime on station. But to his body, it was almost 0600—0545 to be exact. He’d lain in the sleeping room for two hours, slept maybe twenty minutes.

He stepped away from the line, headed for the coffee dispensers. A broad body blocked the panel in front of him. The gray-uniformed man filled a mug, then turned. Something flickered in the man’s eyes, then he nodded. “Captain Tivahr.”

It took a moment for Rhis’s brain to register the rank on the man’s collar. “Major.” He shouldered brusquely past the man, grabbed a mug, and held it under the spigot.

There were no unoccupied tables in the lounge. The gray-clad
Stegzarda
filled most of the room. Fleet personnel sat by the door. He saw the burly major—Mitkanos, he remembered now, recognizing the wide mouth, the bent nose—at a table with a young woman. Security Chief Mitkanos. He had turned over the problem of Trilby’s message to Neadi to him.

He was standing at Mitkanos’s table before he realized he was there.

Mitkanos and the young woman were staring at him.

“I assigned Captain Elliot to you last night.”

Mitkanos leaned back in his chair. “That was this afternoon. Sir.”

He blinked. Station time. Of course. “I’m aware of that, Major,” he snapped. “Was her request handled?”

“Rimanava sent Captain Elliot’s message herself.” Mitkanos nodded to the young woman, whose hands tightly clenched her mug of tea.

Rhis saw the apprehension in her eyes, just as he saw the defiance hinted at in Mitkanos’s casual posture. He’d never met the man before last night—this afternoon, he corrected himself. But the battle crests on Mitkanos’s sleeve told him the older man had been around awhile. Long enough to remember when the
Stegzarda
held power in this sector. Long enough to remember when the Fleet had taken it away from them.

He turned to the young woman. “What’s your rank, Rimanava?”

“Corporal, sir.”

“You on duty now, Corporal?”

“No, sir. Not until tomorrow morning.”

“I don’t have that kind of time to waste. Send a copy of Captain Elliot’s message to me in Briefing Room One. You have five minutes.”

He turned and strode for the door, ignoring the table of Fleet officers who rose and saluted as he stormed by.

He saw alarm flash in Gurdan’s eyes when he stepped into the briefing room. The lieutenant stood up, stiffly. “You’re early, Captain.”

“There’s work to do, Lieutenant. And unless I’m around, it doesn’t seem to get done.” He took his seat at the head of the conference table, tabbed on the screen. It blinked into solidity in front of him.

He scanned the files. “How far have you gotten?”

“We should have a complete analysis within the hour.”

“Should? Should is unacceptable. You will.”

“Yes, sir.” Gurdan nodded briefly, then bent over to speak to one of his team at a wall console.