Finders Keepers (16 page)

A hidden bypass.

Someone had altered the clamp-release codes. And not from this terminal.

Out of everyone on Degvar, he knew of only two people who could’ve done that.

And
he
hadn’t.

He activated his comm badge. “Tivahr to ops. Patch me through to the
Venture.
”

He waited, wondering how many requests it would take this time to bring her to the air lock.

“This is the DZ-Nine ’droid.”

Hearing Dezi’s voice so quickly startled him. He began to reply in Zafharish. “
Yaschjon Tivahr
—this is Rhis. Let me talk to Trilby. Captain Elliot.”

“I regret Captain Elliot is not available at the moment.”

“Where is she, in the galley? Put me through, Dezi.”

“I’m sorry. She’s not on board.”

Maybe she left right after talking to Gurdan. Or maybe . . .

He sprinted to the viewport, scanned the perimeters of the ship for a small figure in an EVA suit. That’s how he would have accessed the clamp controls. He saw nothing.

“Where is she, Dezi?” His tone was insistent.

“I do not know, Captain.”

“I have to talk to her. There were some programs I installed on the
Venture
. She might not understand—”

“If you are referring to the one that invalidates her primary command codes, she is already aware of that.”

He closed his eyes briefly, leaned his forehead against the viewport’s thick glass. “She is.”

“Yes. And she’s not very happy, Captain Tivahr.”

He didn’t think she would be. “You have a penchant for understatement,” he told the ’droid.

“Sir?”

“Where is she?”

“I do not know.”

“Dezi!”

“She did not relay her destination to me.”

And he’d given her full clearance on the station. No required escort. No check-in. And no trackable badge.

Damn! He pushed himself away from the viewport. “If you should hear from her, I need you to give her a message from me.”

“Of course, sir.”

“Tell her, tell her I said
yav chera
.”

“Yav . . . ?”

“
Yav chera.
Tell her I said
yav chera.
”

“Yes, sir.”

“Tivahr out.”

Trilby swiveled the chair away from the console and looked with surprise, and gratitude, at the burly man seated behind the desk. It had been a risk coming here. But she realized she had two problems to solve when, overwhelmed with frustration, she’d stalked down the
Venture
’s ramp. The first was that her tinkerings with the dock clamps had probably been caught on security cameras. She needed to provide a reasonable explanation for her actions before someone stumbled on the truth.

The second was that she needed an ally.

She took a chance that Mitkanos was the answer to both.

He was Chief of Security on station. And her earlier conversations with him hinted that he was not a fan of
the
Captain Tivahr.

The conversation she’d just overheard had been in Zafharish, but some of the words Leonid had taught her had come back to her. Plus she knew
his
voice.

“You didn’t have to do that, but thank you. It was uncommonly kind toward someone you don’t know.”

Yavo Mitkanos shrugged. “I did nothing extraordinary. I was asked a question about explosions on Dock Level. Had there been any, I would have reported them.”

“But unusual activity?”

“I saw, on my monitors, a captain conducting an exterior inspection of her ship’s hull. I do not find that to be an unusual activity. Do you?”

She’d done it dozens of times. But only once before for that very reason.

“You also,” she continued, “didn’t tell Tivahr I was here.”

Another shrug of his broad shoulders. A comically innocent expression played across his gruff features. “He did not ask me.”

“You know,” she said softly, “I think you’re the first security grunt I’ve ever liked.”

He grinned broadly.

“Thank you,” she said again. She glanced at the screen behind her. Save for herself and Mitkanos, the security office was empty. Whether this was the usual state of operations on Degvar, she didn’t know. But it had been damned convenient, and damned lucky, for her.

“I gather the
Razalka
’s within shouting range.” She motioned to the data on the screen.

“Five hours, though she’ll make it in four. Her crew knows well their captain does not like to be kept waiting.”

“Then he’ll leave?”

“That is what I have been led to believe.”

“Gurdan said I have to talk to the team on the
Razalka
now. If that’s all he wants, he should’ve told me.” She was annoyed, embarrassed, and angry over her current situation. But she still held on to the small hope that something she knew might help find Carina. For that she was willing to tolerate annoyance, embarrassment, and anger. And
the
Captain Tivahr, although in limited doses. “He didn’t have to disable my ship for that.”

“Captain Tivahr has not shared his objectives with me.”

“Then you have no impound order on the
Venture
?”

“Nav.”

“So this is strictly Tivahr’s doing?”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

She didn’t miss his choice of words. “And you don’t know if he’ll let me go after I talk to his team?”

“As I said, he has not shared his objectives with me. But I am aware, of course, that you have recently found your ship’s engines to be inoperative. Perhaps you took damage from the ’Sko attack you were not aware of. Should I hear of something that would assist you in better allocating your repair time, I would be obliged to inform you.”

She stopped in front of his desk as she headed for the door. “Major Mitkanos,” she said, holding out her hand. “I have no idea what your pay grade is here. But whatever it is, the
Stegzarda
don’t pay you enough.”

He shook her hand firmly. “It is a good thing, then, that I love my work,
vad?
” He glanced at the monitors on his desk. “Go get a cup of hot tea. You need it, and he is back on Barracks Level now. No one will bother you.”

12

He awoke with a jolt. He didn’t know if it was the sharp trill of the cubicle intercom in his ear or his own internal sense of impending urgency. The two things happened almost simultaneously. He sat up, snagging his boot heel on the blanket. He’d fallen asleep fully clothed.

“Tivahr here!” His voice rasped. But his body, and his mind, felt marginally better than before his—he glanced at the time panel—one-and-a-half hour nap.

One and a half hours. The
Razalka
was due in a half hour from now.

“Captain, we’ve received confirmation that the
Razalka
has cleared the outer beacon.”

Make that fifteen minutes.

“Acknowledged. On my way.”

Not even time for a cup of tea. He snatched his jacket off the wall hook, slipped it on, then fumbled with his collar. He ducked his head, caught his reflection in the mirror. He still wore the white shirt Trilby had given him. No wonder the collar seemed wrong.

Trilby. More than his collar was wrong.

He sealed his jacket, ran his hand through his hair. His uniform betrayed the fact that he’d worn, slept in, and, thanks to Trilby, washed the same one for a month. His white shirt was nonregulation. His jacket held no ship’s insignia, no bars signifying rank. His comm badge bore Degvar’s emblem, not the
Razalka
’s.

And he was way overdue for a haircut.

Hell. It was just his crew. They’d seen him come ragged off missions before.

Eleven minutes.

The door, sensing his presence, opened. Light from the corridor glared in his face. Gray uniforms hurried past him, blending in with the gray bulkhead.

There was a queue at the lift. But when the doors parted, the gray line waited. He stepped inside first.

“Ops,” he said.

Two of the
Stegzarda
crew were going there as well. The remaining four gave other destinations.

He clenched his fist by his side as the lift sped up the levels. He fought the urge to tap his comm badge, to see if Trilby was back on the
Careless Venture
. Not that he could make time to talk to her right now. Probably wouldn’t be able to for at least two hours after his ship arrived. But he wanted to know. Needed to know.

But not in a lift full of
Stegzarda
.

There were more black Fleet uniforms on the Operations-Center Level. The
Stegzarda
worked the station. But Fleet personnel ran it. He returned several salutes and strode through the wide doors as they irised open.

Ops was fully staffed, even though it was the station’s red-eye shift. The approach of the Empire’s premier huntership required nothing less.

The room was a large half circle that encompassed two levels, with a viewport spanning its height and breadth. He entered on the upper level, which was half the width of the lower. Degvar Approach Control was immediately in front of him.

“Status?” he asked the young woman who turned upon his arrival.

“The
Razalka
’s just locked onto our escort tugs.”

He nodded, took the ladderway to the lower level. There was a small landing at the halfway point, where the stairs angled to the left. The landing overlooked communications and the large viewscreen bordering the far edge of the viewport. He didn’t stop there, as he could already see the
Razalka
’s upper bridge on the screen—his bridge. And, standing at perfect attention, his executive officer.

The silver-haired man saluted as Rhis reached the last step. He was younger than indicated by the color of his hair. His dark eyes were bright and there was an air of amiable trustworthiness about him. “Captain Tivahr.”

“Commander Demarik.” Rhis returned the salute crisply. “Tell Jankova I need her full team in my ready room in twenty minutes.”

“Acknowledged, Captain. However, Lord Minister Kospahr has been using it as his office.”

“What—?”

“Captain Tivahr.” A portly man in an elegant dark suit pushed himself out of the chair behind Demarik. The
captain’s
chair. Rhis clenched his teeth, felt a muscle in his jaw begin to throb.

Kospahr. What in hell was that egotistical bureaucrat doing on his ship? In his command chair? Why in hell hadn’t he been warned about this?

He saluted Kospahr, wishing he could offer a different hand gesture instead. “Lord Minister. What a surprise.”

“You’re out of uniform, Tivahr. You look a disgrace.”

“I don’t think you’ve come all the way from Council Chambers on Verahznar to tell me that.”

“I came all the way from Council Chambers because you’ve been absent for over a month. Captain.” Kospahr took a step forward. Demarik took a step away from him, a brief flash of distaste on his usually pleasant features. The shorter man didn’t seem to notice. “My cousin the emperor needed answers.”

His cousin the emperor. Kospahr always said those four words as if they were one. More likely his cousin the emperor—who was in truth his second cousin—was tired of listening to him whine.

Rhis inclined his head with the barest semblance of respect. “I’ve already prepared a detailed report for Emperor Kasmov.”

“Good. I’ll review it before you send it to him.”

Demarik moved across the bridge behind Kospahr, leaning over shoulders, conferring with various bridge crew. Rhis recognized the familiar procedure. The
Razalka
was preparing to lock into synchronized docking orbit with the station. She was too large to use any of the ramps.

Rhis purposely looked past Kospahr. “Mister Demarik.”

Demarik turned. “Sir?”

“Get Jankova’s team in my ready room. Minister Kospahr will have to find someplace else to have his tea party. I’m on my way to the shuttle now.”

He strode toward the lower-level doors and was glad when they shut behind him, cutting off Kospahr’s sputtering protestations.

He strapped himself into a seat on the left side of the shuttle, knowing that as the small ship pulled out of the station’s bay, he’d have a clear view of the
Venture
through the viewport. The freighter was dwarfed by the station, looking small and battered. Her bridge lights were still dark. No reason to sit on the bridge if the engines were dead.

The long, deltoid form of the
Razalka
came into view as the shuttle turned. Spiky with weapons turrets and braking vanes, she was an example of Imperial technology at its best. Her hull sparkled with lights. All departments were active. The captain was on his way in.

Demarik and the
Razalka
’s chief medical officer were waiting in the air lock when the shuttle docked in the large bay. Overhead lights blinked green twice as enviro kicked on.

He returned Demarik’s salute, then held up his hand to stop his CMO’s anticipated order. “No, I am not going to sick bay right now. I need to change my uniform and meet with my team in my ready room.”

“Your report indicated you suffered injuries.” The CMO rocked back on his heels and eyed Rhis from head to toe. He wasn’t a tall man but stockily built, with a round face that looked even rounder under his balding head.

“And my report also stated I am suffering no ill effects from those same injuries.”

“And if you were, you wouldn’t tell me anyway.”

“Very astute, Doctor.” Rhis handed Demarik a small packet. “There’s some classified data in there I’d like you and Jankova to review. After the meeting,” he added over his shoulder as he headed for the air lock. Demarik hurried to keep up with Rhis’s long strides.

“Additionally,” he said as they proceeded into the corridor, “I need an explanation from you regarding Kospahr’s presence on my ship. I need to know how long he’s been here, what he’s done, who he’s spoken to.” They halted in front of the lift. “I don’t like surprises, Demarik.”

“Yes, sir. I’m sure you know I did everything I could to prevent this.”

“Not enough, obviously,” he said coolly. “Not enough.”

Rhis rested his chin in his hand and watched Commander Jankova and her team pull his data apart. On one end of the conference table in his ready room, a multilevel holograph of the shared border regions of the Empire’s Yanir System and the Conclave’s Gensiira rotated slowly just above the small projector set into the tabletop. Cosaros and Bervanik argued quietly, adjusting the projection’s parameters as it turned.

At the center of the long table, Hana Jankova stood in front of a thin screen, her copper-colored hair glinting as the room’s overhead lights played down on it. Her arms were crossed over her chest. Her brows were drawn into a frown over her bright blue eyes.

Standing next to her was Lieutenant Osmar, a lightpen in his hand. He stabbed at a line of data. Jankova shook her head in disagreement.

Rhis watched, listened, and, at least for now, said nothing. He knew where the problems were, knew the locations of gaps in the data, the glaring inconsistencies. But pointing these out to his tactical team wasn’t the same as letting them find and follow the trails themselves.

For the trails, he knew, would eventually lead to the source.

The Ycsko.

And GGA.

The ready-room doors slid open with an almost-silent hiss. Rhis glanced to the left, saw Demarik enter, and give a small nod to Jankova. The slightest upturn of her mouth was her only answer.

Rhis had known about their relationship for over eight months. Had tolerated it only because Demarik was the best exec in the Fleet, and Jankova had one of the sharpest tactical minds in the Empire.

He’d said nothing to either of them when he realized what was going on. He didn’t have to. He’d worked with Zak Demarik for more than ten years. He’d mentored Jankova for five, since she’d come out of the academy at the top of her class. His opinion of “emotional entanglements” as a waste of valuable time and energy was well known not only to them but to every one of his crew.

Malika had taught him that well, twenty years ago. It was a lesson he’d never forgotten. Until he met Trilby.

He turned his face toward the room’s high viewport, letting his hand drop from his chin. He rested it on the arm of his chair and clenched his fist. Maybe it was a lesson he now had to remember. His air sprite had already skewed his life, deprived him of sleep, muddied his thinking. She was giving him an out, with her lone working laser rifle. He should be thankful. Let her go. Forget her.

Something squeezed his chest, hard. Painfully.

In his mind, he saw the kill order in the ’Sko transmit. It was his duty to protect her.

But another part of his mind argued,
Let the Conclave protect her.
She was an Indy trader. She was their responsibility, not his.

He had to let her go. She’d do all right. She was bright, gutsy. A survivor. They hadn’t really become involved. They’d made love one time. A response to the stress of the situation. It had made them both overly sensitive, overly emotional.

There was no place for emotions on the
Razalka
. She wouldn’t fit in here. She was unorthodox, impulsive. Distracting.

Enchanting. Enticing.

Damn it!

He had to forget her. He had to let her go.

“Captain?” There was a note of urgency in Jankova’s voice.

He sat upright. “What is it?”

She hesitated only slightly before answering. “You’ve cut your hand.”

He looked down, saw the thin stream of blood flowing down his wrist. In his fingers were the shards of his lightpen. He didn’t remember grabbing it from the table. He didn’t remember snapping it in half.

He pushed himself to his feet, saw the looks of concern and confusion on Jankova and Demarik’s faces. Osmar’s eyes were wide. Cosaros studied the holograph with a new intensity.

Bloody hell.
Literally.

“It’s nothing. I’ll go clean up.” He tossed the broken pen on the table, belatedly remembering the units were supposed to be indestructible.

So much for Imperial technology.

He strode through the ready-room doors, his fist still clenched.

She had tea by herself, though both Fleet and
Stegzarda
personnel wandered in and out of the mess hall during the twenty minutes she sat, steeped in the game of hurry-up-and-wait.

With every heavy footstep she heard Rhis. She steeled herself, forced herself not to turn but to stare at the darkened viewports, looking for the reflection of a tall, broad-shouldered form.

Degvar was filled with a goodly assortment of tall, broad-shouldered forms. But none set off her internal warning sirens nor made her heart skip a beat. She didn’t have to turn around. She’d know if he were walking toward her.

He never did.

She damned him, damned herself, and finally shoved her empty mug in the disposal and trudged back to her ship. It was the middle of the afternoon on her bioclock, but she was exhausted. The hot tea, instead of reviving her, made her lethargic.

She wrapped herself in the purple quilt and told her cabin lights to dim. The
Razalka
was due in shortly. Might already be sitting out on skim, for all she knew. If someone needed to talk to her, they’d know where to find her. It wasn’t like she could go anywhere else.