Finders Keepers (27 page)

He hesitated. Tension and fatigue wrapped around her like a suffocating cloak. His timing with his surprise was either perfect, or abysmal.

He pulled his hand from behind his back, held the small, plush felinar out to her. Its red ribbon dangled through his fingers.

She gasped softly, reached for it, but at the last moment she hesitated. Brought her gaze up to his. He could see a light film of tears shimmering in her eyes.

He tried to smile. His throat felt tight. “I thought you might want this,” he managed to get out.

Her fingers closed around the small toy that had decorated her bridge. “Thank you.” She clutched it against her chest, glanced up at him again. There was a tinge of warmth in her eyes now, and a small flush of color on her cheeks. She sighed. “I mean that. Thank you.”

The thin screen on the low table in front of her couch was activated. He glanced at it as he followed her into the room: Zafharish vocabulary lessons.

The small smile he permitted to play across his lips was nothing compared to the warmth that spread through his chest. He hoped that learning his language meant she wanted to stay in the Empire. With him. Maybe his timing with the toy was better than he’d realized.

She propped the plush felinar against one edge of the screen, picked up her empty coffee cup. “Want some? I was just going to get a refill.” Her tone was light, but without any real energy behind it.

“Yav chalkon gara reling, viek.”
He casually requested a cup of tea, trying to sound, not teacher to student, but as if speaking Zafharish to her were an ordinary occurrence. He wanted it to be.

She was already turning. “Yellow tea or that black—oh! Sorry.” She shrugged. “I understand better than I answer.”

He stepped closer. “It takes practice.” He wrapped his fingers over hers as she held the cup.

She pulled away. “I’m surrounded with it here. But I’ll probably forget it all once I get back to Port Rumor.” She pushed her cup into the replicator, ordered coffee. “You never said: black tea or yellow?”

“Trilby-
chenka
—”

“Don’t, please.”

He was silent a moment, tried to read her discomfort in the straight line of her back, in the set of her shoulders. She was pushing him away again. “I’m not.” Asking. Prying. Condemning. “Black tea is fine.”

She keyed in the request.

He waited until she handed him the steaming cup. “We will have dinner off ship tonight, 1845. I told Farra to choose where,” he added, when he realized his first comment sounded too much like an order. “Grantforth’s already left, for places unknown.”

She relaxed a little, sat down on the couch in front of the screen on the low table. Picked up the little felinar again, smoothed its fur. “I don’t know if I’ll last a septi without killing him.” She tabbed off the screen. It slid from sight.

He grinned, eased down next to her on the couch. “You’d not lack help.”

“The best the Imperial Fleet and
Stegzarda
have to offer?” She leaned back against the overstuffed cushions, a wry smile on her lips. It faded. “It’s none of my business,” she said after a moment, “but can I ask you something?”

He forced himself to relax, to ignore the one question he feared her asking. At least asking now, when things were so tenuous between them. He didn’t need anything else to drive her away. Or make her look at him with disgust, as Malika had.

“Ask,” he told her easily, as if his very life didn’t hang in the balance.

“What’s the problem between you and the
Stegzarda
?”

He soundlessly let out the breath he’d been holding. The
Stegzarda
? That’s all she wanted to know? He felt as if, for once, he’d received a reprieve from his habitual spot on the divine shit list. “The
Stegzarda
are primarily ground and security forces. The Fleet patrols Imperial space. When it comes to certain outposts and stations, we share jurisdiction.”

“I know that. But what’s the problem? And don’t tell me it’s just common rivalry.”

Oh. That. He turned the cup around in his hands. “It’s rather complicated.”

“Then just give me the basics. I can probably figure out the rest.”

She’d been talking to Mitkanos. He could hear that clearly now in the even tone in her voice, could see it in the slight tilt of her chin. She’d been given an opinion, a strong opinion. He tried to keep his recital impartial.

“The
Stegzarda
base and academy are in the Yanir Quadrant. Have been for over two hundred fifty years. The Fleet was much smaller then. We didn’t have ships with the long-range capabilities we do now. As the Fleet expanded, especially in the last ten, fifteen years, we rightfully took over jurisdiction in Yanir, as we did with all the outlying quadrants in the Empire.”

“We?” she asked, raising one eyebrow.

He damned Mitkanos. “The
Razalka
was assigned to Yanir. Our authority then superseded the
Stegzarda
’s.” His authority, actually. That had been almost ten years ago. He didn’t regard the transfer of powers as one of the sterling moments in his career. Looking back, he knew he wouldn’t have done things any differently. But they could have been handled better.

She was nodding. “So they’d been very efficiently taking care of their quadrant for, oh, two hundred or so years, and then you come in with your brand-new, shiny huntership and tell them you’re in charge now.”

“The transition was not without its share of problems.” He hesitated, not really understanding why he needed to be honest with her, but he did. “And yes, looking back, I probably contributed to a few of them. Fleet has always valued results over diplomacy. Perhaps in that situation, too much so.”

She nodded slowly.

He sucked in a short breath, continued: “I’ve been guilty for many years of letting my position, my rank, dictate who I am, how I act. When we took over in Yanir, I knew that emotions, pride in the
Stegzarda
, ran deep. Instead of working with that, finding compromises, I ignored it. It was wrong. How I handled it was wrong even though the desired results were achieved.”

Another thoughtful nod. “Did you know Mitkanos then?”

“Only by reputation, service record.” But he should have, he knew. The man had been chief of security on station for three years, worked in security longer than that. The
Razalka
had stopped on Degvar dozens of times.

“But you trusted him enough to bring him on this mission.”

Actually, he wasn’t given much of a choice, as he remembered it. “He has an excellent record and the necessary contacts in Imperial shipping.”

“I know that. I saw his record too. But I don’t . . .” She hesitated. “I would’ve thought you’d insist on all Fleet personnel.”

“Hana’s team was overworked, still on the injury roster. And Gurdan’s people had ties to Kospahr.”

She wrinkled her nose at the name. “So you had no choice, is that it?”

“Essentially. Yes.” He could tell she was sifting through his information. It was important to her, but he didn’t know why. “Mitkanos tell you differently?”

“Mitkanos told me very little. Other than he called you an arrogant rimstrutter.”

He’d heard worse. A year ago, though, that evaluation might’ve angered him. It would’ve warranted at least a mental check mark. Now he almost understood it. “I’m also a hungry arrogant rimstrutter. We’re meeting them at the ramp in,” he glanced at his watch, “ten minutes.”

She grabbed her empty coffee cup, then his. “I need a few minutes to brush my hair. Powder my nose. I’ll meet you there,” she said as he followed her to the small galley area.

“I’ll wait.”

She hesitated. He mentally lined up a few more reasons to keep her with him. So he was surprised when she merely nodded, retrieved the felinar from the couch, then headed for her bedroom.

A few minutes later she returned, hair shining like pale moonlight, a touch of color on her cheeks. She stepped by him to retrieve her jacket from the couch. Powder and flowers.

She thrust her hand into the sleeve. “Who’s securing the ship?”

“We are. We’ll go to the bridge from here.” He studied her as she straightened her collar. Some of the edginess he’d sensed in her since they left Degvar was dissipating. He couldn’t say exactly how he knew that; it might be in the way she walked or held her shoulders. Or just the lights that now danced in her eyes.

Some of it was no doubt a result of her well-placed punch on Jagan’s jaw. Revenge, his people said, was sweeter than the best Suralian honey. And maybe some of it was because of the toy felinar. A part of her past, returned to her safely.

But he also had a feeling that something in his answers about the
Stegzarda
played a part. He was glad of that. He just wished he knew what in hell it was so he could keep on doing it.

23

Breakfast the next morning wasn’t an option, but whether it was because of the large and delicious dinner she’d had the night before or because her stomach was a bit in a knot over dealing with Jagan in the confines of the
Quest
for a full septi, Trilby didn’t know and didn’t care to explore. At 0645 she finished her coffee and left the lounge for the bridge. Tivahr was in engineering with Dallon. She’d comm him once she was ready to bring the
Quest
’s primaries online.

It was routine, yet it wasn’t. She went through her preflight checklist as she always did: fuel mix-ture, pumps operative, aux generator synched in on standby, cargo doors sealed and locked. But there was other movement around her. Farra’s soft voice talking to Saldika Departures. Tivahr’s clipped accent answering her comm. Mitkanos’s burly form ambling in with some last-minute updates on a troublesome ion storm by the border. Then he clomped off the bridge, down to the cargo deck, for one last inspection.

Tivahr squeezed her shoulder as he slid into the copilot’s seat and strapped himself in. Strapped in herself, she couldn’t move away from his touch. She wasn’t even one hundred percent sure she wanted to anymore.

It was the oddest thing seeing him next to Jagan, first in the wide corridor of the terminal, then on the pod, and then later in the hangar, as he hauled the shorter man up by his jacket lapels.

She wondered how the hell she’d ever been attracted to Jagan Grantforth.

She wondered what in hell she was going to do about Khyrhis Tivahr.

Later. She’d deal with that, and him, later. And try to forget she’d slept with the small felinar on her pillow all night. “Full power active. Initiating systems check.”

“Life support optimum. Filters online,” Tivahr replied.

Dezi’s voice. That should be Dezi’s voice. But she knew if it were, she’d miss another voice, deeper, with a distinctly clipped Zafharish accent.

She went down her list by memory. Farra answered some questions, Tivahr others. Mitkanos’s deep rumble replied over intraship confirming the status of the engines.

She heard footsteps and out of the corner of her eye saw Dallon slide into navigation. “He still alive?” She knew he’d checked on Jagan.

“Snoring and deep in hangover heaven. But had the forethought to strap in.”

“Shame,” Tivahr intoned. “Ship’s afterburners have a nice kick.”

Farra laughed, but added in Zafharish, “He’s not that bad, really. Typical bureaucrat. All strut and nonsense.”

“Mind your tongue, Farra-
chenka,
” Trilby quipped back in the same language.

She caught Tivahr’s wide grin and felt the heat rise to her cheeks. He seemed to take it as a personal triumph every time she spoke Zafharish.

“We are cleared for departure,” Farra announced, lapsing back into Standard. She relayed taxi instructions.

Trilby fired the ship’s heavy-air engines and eased out of the cargo hangar.

They were in the lanes within the hour, heading for Saldika’s outer beacon.

“Rimanava.”

“Vad, Dasjon.”

Tivahr was back to Zafharish again. Trilby took her attention from the stream of data on the distant ion storm and leaned back in her chair.

“What’s the status on Grantforth?” he asked, and Trilby translated. His accent was easier for her to understand than Farra’s or Mitkanos’s.

“Still in his cabin,
Dasjon
.”

“Keep an eye on him. I want to update our conversation from dinner last night. I’ve thought about some of our theories. These are things he shouldn’t hear.”

“As soon as he moves, I’ll tell you.”

“Jhevd’.”

Trilby heard Tivahr use the informal term for thank you. Though he consistently addressed Farra by her last name, in military fashion, she noted that overall his conversations with Farra were more relaxed. With Mitkanos or Dallon, he’d have said,
“Jhevdon.”
I am grateful.

Tivahr glanced from Farra to Trilby but slowed his words down slightly to allow for Trilby’s translation time. “I want to keep the conversation in Zafharish, just in case. Will you be able to follow?”

It took her a moment to form her answer, and she knew it wasn’t perfect. “If I cannot, I can say this. Say something,” she corrected.

“Patruzius?” Tivahr twisted around in his seat.

“
Vad, Dasjon.
Do you want Farra to bring Uncle Yavo in on closed intraship, or do you want him to come up here?”

Dallon said “Uncle Yavo” with a grin. There was a clear camaraderie between the two, in spite of the fact that Dallon was Fleet. But not, Trilby suspected, an arrogant rimstrutter like Tivahr. Though even the
Razalka
’s senior captain wasn’t quite as arrogant as he used to be.

Tivahr thought for a moment before answering Dallon’s question. “I don’t want to risk intraship, even closed. I don’t know how much Jagan knows about ship’s communications—”

“Less than a mizzet’s ass,” Trilby put in, courtesy of an idiom she’d learned from Farra.

“Even so. Tell Mitkanos to get up here as soon as he can. But until then, let’s go over what we know. Make sure we’re not missing something important.”

Garold Grantforth had announced the first trade agreement with the Beffa cartel and the ’Sko earlier in the day, which was, considering intergalactic distances and time considerations, more like a deuce past. A few things they agreed were notable. The Beffa were coming to the Conclave, the chief secretary said, because their own government, now controlled by the Niyil military, was unstable. The rim worlds of the Ycsko Empire, which were predominantly Beffan, were left out in the cold, more than literally.

The Beffan allied worlds and stations said they feared retaliation by the Niyil. Garold Grantforth’s next project was to get them military assistance from the Conclave.

“And did you find out about the Dakrahl?” Trilby asked. There’d been no mention of the religious powers in the ’Sko Empire. Tivahr told them last night he had ways to get some quick information on the mysterious sect.

“I sent those queries out when we got back to the ship,” Tivahr said, with a nod toward Dallon. “On the surface it appears they’re staying out of it, for the moment.”

“But you don’t believe that.” Dallon swiveled back and forth in his chair, as far as his safety straps permitted.

“No. That’s their official posture.”

“Where does this put Secretary Grantforth?” Trilby asked.

“Officially, as a peacekeeper.” Tivahr pulled a lightpen from his flight-suit pocket and toyed with it. “But I think we have reasons now to suspect the link to Dark Sword is either in his office or GGA. I’ve put out a request to intercept all ’Sko transmits on this. Something feels very wrong.”

“Everything involving the ’Sko feels wrong.” Mitkanos stepped onto the bridge. He looked around, chose the empty chair next to Farra, pulled one strap across his chest, left the other dangling. “What of the Dakrahl?” he asked Tivahr.

“We were just getting into that. Right now they’re saying little. But then, they’ve always played their power games silently. I’m more interested that my contacts say several high priests were seen on Szed recently.”

“The Niyil,” Dallon told Trilby, “have a well-known dislike of the Dakrahl.”

Rhis jabbed the air with his lightpen as he spoke. “But if the Beffa are working with the Conclave, that could force the Niyil to consider the Dakrahl in a different light.”

Trilby held up one hand. “Wait a moment, please.” She formed her comments, translated them into Zafharish. “We believe Beffa works with Grantforth. And Grantforth talks to GGA. Then GGA uses wide-body haulers to help Beffa bring ships to the Conclave.” Their earlier investigations into the movements of GGA ships near the border had showed, as they all suspected, some significant and inexplicable delays. “But the ships that attacked us out by Avanar were Niyil. What were they doing there?”

“Looking to attack Beffan ships, to halt the deal?” Farra suggested. “That’s what the newsvid said. The Niyil don’t want the Beffans allying with the Conclave.”

“It’s more than that,” Rhis said. “If Grantforth’s trade deal was legitimate, Beffa wouldn’t need the old star charts. The Conclave would grant them entry. So we have to assume that something much larger, much deeper is going on.”

“That Beffa’s making the deal as a cover? That the Niyil are involved?” Dallon looked at Mitkanos, then at Rhis. “That would be suicide for the Conclave. The ’Sko would overrun them first chance they got.”

“Us and them,” Mitkanos agreed. “Especially if the Dakrahl get into the game. The Dakrahl would like nothing better than to be in a position to make a move on the Empire, take back Faytari. With the Conclave under their rule, they could do that.”

“Faytari?” Trilby knew it was a section of Zafharin space that bordered the ’Sko. But it wasn’t the only section. “Why Faytari?”

“The Faytari Drifts.” Tivahr made a broad sweep in the air with his lightpen, as if delineating the asteroid belt deep in Zafharin space. “It’s the Dakrahl’s belief—the other factions don’t hold to this—that the Faytari Drifts contain pieces of three sacred Ycsko moons. Their legends tell of an evil deity that cast the moons away, then challenged the Dakrahl priests to bring the moons and their supposed treasure troves back. It’s nonsense, of course.” He leaned back. “About fifty or so years ago, we gave a ’Sko science team access to the Drifts. Just to try to settle this claim of theirs. They found no proof of their claim. And there were no treasure troves. But the Dakrahl don’t want to give up.”

Trilby rearranged the words, translated, and arranged them again. Tivahr was looking at her. She nodded.

“So I think we have to consider,” he said, glancing from Mitkanos to Farra to Dallon, “that they may be a part of this as well.”

“But the trade agreement is pointing to the Niyil, not us, as the oppressors.” Farra glanced at her panels, then back at Tivahr.

“Give them time,” her uncle told her sagely. “Give them time.”

A small light flickered on Farra’s panel. She caught it, tapped her screen. “He’s out. Heading for the lounge.”

Jagan was awake.

Dallon flipped open the harness buckles and stood. “I’ll go listen to what glory-stories our friend has to tell.”

Tivahr rapped the lightpen on the arm of his chair. “Make sure he knows the bridge is off-limits. Then in an hour you’re off duty. You too, Rimanava.”

Dallon ducked his head, strode down the short corridor.

Trilby leaned back against her chair and closed her eyes. “How many days to go?” Maybe she could drug Jagan, make him sleep through them all.

“Seven,” Tivahr’s voice said. “Six and a half, truthfully. And then we see what Syar has to offer.”

She groaned as she formed the words she wanted to say. “As long as it is not a one-way ticket to Club ’Sko, I am happy.”

“I’ve been there,” Tivahr replied. “Much overrated. Can’t recommend it.”

She remembered the bruises on his body. Hell of a vacation memento.

Mitkanos unhooked his harness strap. Trilby had noticed the man rarely liked to sit in one place for long. After the wide corridors of Degvar, an Endurance Class starfreighter must seem very confining to him.

“You want me to take main or late shift?” he asked Tivahr. And there was no requisite
Dasjon
. Even last night at dinner, Trilby’d noticed that Mitkanos simply spoke to Tivahr. No name, no title. The rivalry between the Fleet and the
Stegzarda
was still apparent here. Though Tivahr seemed less bothered by it than he had on Degvar.

“I need you on a swing shift, because of our guest. At least for the next two days. I’ll have Dallon relieve you after that. But I want to keep Grantforth always looking over his shoulder, not knowing who might be in the corridor, or when.”

It was a good, workable plan that meant Mitkanos would be on duty for two hours before and after each shift change. But she had a feeling the
Stegzarda
major would make his presence felt a lot more than that.

They all would. With Jagan on board, the usual laxity of ’tween time wouldn’t occur. Tivahr might feel Jagan was there to babysit them, but the reality was that they also had to babysit Jagan.

There were too many questions and too few answers.

An hour later, Farra logged off duty and left the bridge, but not before she offered, “If you need me . . .”

Trilby turned away from her console. “
Vad.
We’ll call.” Then she was left alone with Tivahr. She brought up the specs on her new ship and tried to look busy, tried to look like she didn’t want any conversation with a man who occupied far too much of her thoughts as it was.

He seemed to sense that, excused himself a little while later, told her to lock the bridge. He returned with two wide mugs of soup, spill-capped and steaming. It was past lunch. She hadn’t realized she was hungry.

If he’d encountered Jagan, he didn’t say. But Trilby’s random glances at the ship’s CLS showed their guest was spending most of his time in his cabin.

“Soup is okay good for replicator,” she told him in halting Zafharish.

“Okay good?” He grinned. “Listen to me. Good. Better. Best. Very good.” He went through the Zafharish words, pronouncing them carefully, making her repeat them in between spoonfuls.