Finders Keepers (34 page)

30

The senior captain’s quarters were nice. Very nice. Trilby ran one hand over the soft fabric on the couch. In her other she held a tall tumbler of iced gin. And two limes.

She heard the sani-fac door slide open in the room behind her, heard footsteps on the carpeted floor. The shush of closet doors, the rustle of fabric.

She thought of her own cabin on the
Careless Venture
. Threadbare. Empty closets. And a man standing there, surprised when she shoved a pile of towels against his chest.

The same chest ’Sko lasers had burned into.

Later, he told her. He’d explain everything later.

But then there was the bridge to unlock and the
Razalka
to dock with. Demarik to confer with. And quick, insistent transmits between Imperial and Conclave admirals until it was clear to all parties that the
Razalka
’s appearance through Gensiira and into Syar was on behalf of a rescue operation. Not an invasion.

Not yet, Admiral Vanushavor said later. They needed the data from the captured mother ship first. To prove Garold Grantforth’s part in all this, to show how he’d used Jagan to seduce Trilby in order to learn more about rumored old star charts that the ’Sko wanted. But his plans had gone awry when Jagan’s mother intervened, forcing Jagan to marry the woman she’d chosen for him.

That’s when Garold Grantforth had pressured Jagan to contact Trilby again, apologize, and get back in her good graces. Effectively signing his nephew’s death warrant. Because the competing ’Sko factions had no intention of leaving live witnesses behind.

In the midst of the politics and machinations, Mitkanos, Dallon, and Carina were transferred, carefully, into Doc Vanko’s care.

Not Vitorio. Her friend’s drug-hazed recounting rambled, but Trilby understood and filled in what she knew Carina didn’t understand. Working with information stolen from the Niyil-Pry faction, the Niyil-Day had kidnapped Carina and Vitorio, recovered the nav banks from
Bella’s Dream
. Told them they’d let them live in exchange for the charts.

But when Carina had refused, they’d killed Vitorio and wrenched Carina away from her brother. And from the inside pocket of her service jacket tumbled an envelope of holos she’d forgotten was there.

More than one had been of Trilby and Carina at Port Rumor’s freighter docks, the
Careless Venture
’s name clearly visible on the side of the ship behind them. The ’Sko had recognized her ship’s name. So they’d let Carina live, keeping her sedated, hoping this Captain Trilby Elliot that the other Niyil faction desperately wanted would come looking for her. And bring the missing star charts along.

Another shush of a closet door.

Khyrhis.

Unsure of what to tell her.

But that, too, she already knew. Lots of rumors surrounded Tivahr the Terrible. More terrible to his own people, to whom family lineage decreed acceptance.

A
boulashka
, Mitkanos had called him. A genetic manipulation. No family, no name, no lineage—

She knew what that felt like.

—only, incongruously, he had power.

That she didn’t know. Nor did it interest her.

His fingers slid across her shoulders as he moved around the side of the couch and sat down next to her. His short hair was still damp. He wrapped his hand over hers as she held the tumbler, brought it to his mouth, and took a sip. Then he lowered his hand, but didn’t release hers.

“Feeling better?” she asked him.

“Immensely.”

“Good. I much prefer you alive to dead.”

He hesitated only a second. “I’ve done dead. It’s overrated.”

“You want to tell me about it?”

He looked down at their hands, locked around the tumbler, then brought his face up. “You thought your medistat on the
Careless Venture
malfunctioned, didn’t you?”

Well, that was the normal state of affairs for most of her equipment on that ship.

“You couldn’t get any true readings on me because there’s a biosymbiotic layer, a matrix, in my chest and back. Sections can migrate anywhere I’m injured. It also skews medistats. Unless Doc Vanko’s customized them.”

All she could think of was that it must have hurt like hell to have something like that inserted under your skin. “What did they do, graft it in pieces?”

He was silent. “No. It grew, it grows there. It’s part of me. I’ve always had it.”

It took a moment for her to comprehend what he’d said. A continually regenerating protective layer. Useful for an Imperial senior captain with a penchant for pissing off the ’Sko.

“There’s more.” He closed his eyes briefly.

She wanted to put down the tumbler, stroke his face with her hands, but he had a tight grip on her fingers. He needed her touch. She didn’t want to break that contact.

“Because of this matrix, my body has a greater muscle mass, strength, density. Faster recovery ability, not only from injury but poisons. Drugs. And I can memorize and record large amounts of data. In some ways, I’m not dissimilar to Dezi.”

He stopped. She knew he waited for her reaction.

“Because of this layer that lives inside you?”

“Because of what I am, genetically.”

“Which is?”

His mouth twisted into a wry smile. “Depends on who you ask.”

Pain. She heard it clearly now. He was talking about abilities, attributes he had that had saved her life. And hundreds of others. His voice was tinged with shame. And loneliness.

“Is there anyone else like you?”

“No. The lab was destroyed by people who were afraid they were creating not a new breed of soldier but soulless monsters that would eventually dominate them.”

“But they let you live?”

“I survived. They figured there was a significant amount of money already invested in me. And they were curious.”

Bastards. Worse than the Iffys. “And have you met their expectations?”

He crooked one eyebrow in a self-deprecating gesture. “The ’Sko hate me.”

“For good reason.” She snatched her hand from under his, let the gin and the glass tumble to the floor. He jerked back. She could see from the look in his eyes he was misinterpreting her actions as anger, rejection. She framed his face in her hands, brought his mouth to hers, and kissed him, hard. Then kissed him again, drawing herself up on her knees till she was almost in his lap. She kept kissing him, pushed him backward onto the soft cushions of the couch. She straddled him. He looked up at her with eyes wide in amazement.

“I love you, Khyrhis Tivahr. I don’t give a mizzet’s ass what anyone else says or thinks. I love you. I found you. I’m keeping you. And there’s not a bloody damned thing you can do about it.” She braced her hands against his shoulders. “So you damned well better get used to it.”

He grabbed her by the elbows and pulled her slowly down toward him, stopping only when her mouth was inches from his own.

“Trilby-
chenka
?” he whispered.

“Umm?”

He kissed her slowly, with almost heartbreaking tenderness.
“Yav chera.”

A former news reporter and retired private detective, Linnea Sinclair has managed to use all of her college degrees (journalism and criminology) but hasn’t soothed the yearning in her soul to travel the galaxy. To that end, she’s authored several science fiction and fantasy novels, including
Finders Keepers, Gabriel’s Ghost,
and
An Accidental Goddess
. When not on duty with some intergalactic fleet she can be found in Fort Lauderdale, Florida, with her husband and their two thoroughly spoiled cats. Fans can reach her through her website at
www.starfreighter.com
.

On sale November 2005

Only fools boast they have no fears. I thought of that as I pulled the blade of my dagger from the Takan guard’s throat, my hand shaking, my heart pounding in my ears. Light from the setting sun filtered down through the tall trees around me. It flickered briefly on the dark gold blood that bubbled from the wound, staining the Taka’s coarse fur. I felt a sliminess between my fingers and saw that same ochre stain on my skin.

“Shit!” I jerked my hand back. My dagger tumbled to the rock-strewn ground. A stupid reaction for someone with my training. It wasn’t as if I’d never killed another sentient being before, but it had been more than five years. And then, at least, it had carried the respectable label of military action.

This time it was pure survival.

It took me a few minutes to find my blade wedged in between the moss-covered rocks. After more than a decade on interstellar patrol ships, my eyes had problems adjusting to variations in natural light. Shades of grays and greens, muddied by Moabar’s twilight sky, merged into seamless shadows. I’d never have found my only weapon if I hadn’t pricked my fingers on the point. Red human blood mingled with Takan gold. I wiped the blade against my pants before letting it mold itself back around my wrist. It flowed into the form of a simple silver bracelet.

“A Grizni dagger, is it?”

I spun into a half-crouch, my right hand grasping the bracelet. Quickly it uncoiled again—almost as quickly as I’d sucked in a harsh, rasping breath. The distinctly masculine voice had come from the thick stand of trees directly in front of me. But in the few seconds it took me to straighten, he could be anywhere. It looked like tonight’s agenda held a second attempt at rape and murder. Or completion of the first. That would make more sense. Takan violence against humans, while not unknown, was rare enough that the guard’s aggression had taken me—almost—by surprise. But if a human prison official had ordered him . . . that, given Moabar’s reputation, would fit only too well.

I tuned out my own breathing. Instead, I listened to the hushed rustle of the thick forest around me and farther away, the guttural roar of a shuttle departing the prison’s spaceport. I watched for movement. Murky shadows, black-edged yet ill defined, taunted me. I’d have sold my soul then and there for a nightscope and a fully-charged laser pistol.

But I had neither of those. Just a sloppily manipulated court martial and a life sentence without parole. And, of course, a smuggled Grizni dagger that the Takan guard had discovered a bit too late to report.

My newest assailant, unfortunately, was already forewarned.

“Let’s not cause any more trouble, okay?” My voice sounded thin in the encroaching darkness. I wondered what had happened to that ‘tone of command’ Fleet regs had insisted we adopt. It had obviously taken one look at the harsh prison world of Moabar and decided it preferred to reside elsewhere. I didn’t blame it. I only wished I had the same choice.

I drew a deep breath. “If I’m on your grid, I’m leaving. Wasn’t my intention to be here,” I added, feeling that was probably the understatement of the century. “And if he,” I said with a nod to the large body sprawled to my right, “was your partner, then I’m sorry. But I wasn’t in the mood.”

A brittle snap started my heart pounding again. My hand felt as slick against the smooth metal of the dagger as if the Taka’s blood still ran down its surface. The sound was on my right, beyond where the Taka lay. Only a fool would try to take me over the lifeless barrier at my feet. A fool, or someone not intent on harming me. At least, not right away.

The first of Moabar’s three moons had risen in the hazy night sky. I glimpsed a flicker of movement, then saw him step out of the shadows just as the clouds cleared away from the moon. His face was hidden, distorted. But I clearly saw the distinct shape of a short-barreled rifle propped against his shoulder. That, and the fact that he appeared humanoid, told me he wasn’t a prison guard. Energy weapons were banned on Moabar. Most of the eight-foot-tall Takas didn’t need them, anyway.

The man before me was tall, but not eight feet. Nor did his dark jacket glisten with official prison insignia. Another con, then. Possession of the rifle meant he had off- world sources, and probably wielded some power among the other convicts as well.

I took a step back as he approached. His pace was casual, as if he were just taking his gun out for a moonlit stroll. He prodded the dead guard with the tip of the rifle then squatted down, ran one hand over the guard’s work vest as if checking for a weapon, or perhaps life signs. I could have told him the guard had neither. “Perhaps I should’ve warned him about you,” he said, rising. “Captain Chasidah Bergren. Pride of the Sixth Fleet. One dangerous woman. But, oh, I forgot. You’re not a captain anymore.”

With a chill I recognized the mocking tone, the cultured voice. And suddenly the dead guard and the rifle were the least of my problems. I breathed a name in disbelief. “Sullivan! This is impossible. You’re dead—”

“Well, if I’m dead, then so are you.” His mirthless laugh was as soft as footsteps on a grave. “Welcome to Hell, Captain. Welcome to Hell.”

We found two fallen trees, hunkered down and stared at each other, each waiting for the other to make a move. It was just like old times. Except there was the harsh glow of his lightbar between us, not the blackness of space.

“I never pegged you for an easy kill,” I told him. Which was true. The reports of his death two years ago had actually surprised me more than his reappearance just now. I balanced the dagger in my hand, not yet content to let it wrap itself around my wrist. “When I heard what happened at Garno it sounded too easy. I didn’t buy it.” I shrugged and pushed aside what else I’d thought, and felt, when I’d heard the news. My opinions and feelings about the death of a known mercenary and smuggler mattered little anymore.

He seemed to hear my unspoken comment. “It wasn’t planned to fool anyone with a modicum of intelligence. Only the government. And, of course, their news-hounds. But tell me the news of my passing pained you,” he continued, dropping his voice to a well-remembered low rumble, “and I’ll do my best to assuage your fears.”

A muted boom sounded in the distance, rattling through the forest. Another shuttle arriving, breaking the sound barrier on descent. He turned toward it, so I was spared answering what I knew to be a jibe. Regardless, I had no intention of telling him about my pain.

Patches of light and shadow moved over his face. Sullivan’s profile had always been strong, aristocratic, dominating the Imperial police bulletins and Fleet patrol advisories. He had his father’s lean jawline, his mother’s thick dark hair. Both were more than famous in their own right, but not for the same reasons as Sully. They were members of the Empire’s elite; he was simply elusive.

The lightbar reached full power. It was almost like shiplight, crisp and clear. He turned back to me, his lips curved in a wry smile, as if he knew I’d been studying him.

He’d aged since I last saw him, about six months before his highly publicized demise. The thick, short-cropped black hair was sprinkled with silver. The dark eyes had more lines at the corners. The mouth still claimed its share of arrogance, though—as if he knew he’d always be one handsome bastard.

However, something else had changed, something deeper inside him. It was nothing I could see, sitting there under the canopy of the forest. It was something I knew. Because I
was
sitting there with Gabriel Ross Sullivan and I was still alive.

All the more reason to ignore his attempt at taunting me. His existence had been far more troublesome to me than his purported passing. “What went down on Garno? You cut a deal?” Moabar or death had been offered to a lot of people, but not to me. Most chose death. I hadn’t had that luxury.

He snorted. It was a disdainful sound I remembered well. He shoved the rifle almost to my nose. “What’s this look like? How long have you been here, three weeks?”

I knew what it was. Illegal. Damn difficult to come by. A rifle didn’t wrap around your wrist like my dagger, or fit in the sole of a boot.

A thought chilled me. Maybe the Taka weren’t the only guards the prison authorities used.

“Yeah, three weeks, two days, and seventeen hours. You know what they say about how time flies.” I held his gaze evenly. His eyes were dark, like pieces of obsidian, unreadable. “That’s a Norlack 473 rifle. Sniper model. Modified, it appears, to handle illegal wide-load slash charges.”

He laughed. “On point as ever, Bergren. Dedicated captain of a peashooter squad out in no man’s land. Keeping those freighters safe from dangerous pirates like me. And even when they damn you and ship you here and every inch of you still belongs to Fleet Ops.” He shook his head. “Your mama wore army boots, and so do you.”

“What do you want, Sully?” I jerked my chin toward the dead Taka. “You cleaning up after him? Or finishing what he didn’t?”

He turned the rifle in his hands. “This isn’t Fleet issue. Or prison stock. This is mine. Contraband, wasn’t that how your orders phrased it? Stolen. Modified.” He paused and pinned me intently with his obsidian gaze.

We’d had conversations like this before, most often with me on the bridge of my small patrol ship. He’d be on the bridge of the
Boru Karn,
his pilot and bridge crew flickering in and out of the shadows behind him. He rarely answered anything directly. He threw words at you, phrases, like hints to a puzzle he’d taunt you to solve. Or like free-form poetry, the kind that always sounded better after a few beers. He loved to play with words.

I didn’t. “Okay. So no deal was cut and you’re not working for the Ministry of Corrections. Don’t tell me you’ve added Moabar to your vacation plans?”

He laughed again, more easily this time. But not easily enough for me to put my dagger back around my wrist.

“A resort for the suicidal but faint at heart? Don’t bother to slit your own throat, we’ll do it for you.” He gestured theatrically. “It could work. If I couldn’t market it, hell, no one could.”

“Not a lot of repeat business.”

“Ah, but that is the operative word. Business.”

“Is it? What are you funding here, prison breaks?” If he wasn’t with the M.O.C., then he had to be working against them. But I’d never heard of any successful escapes from Moabar. There was no prison, per se. No formal structure. Just an inhospitable, barely habitable world of long frigid winters that brought airborne viruses, and bleak, chilled summers. Like now. I was lucky my sentence started when it did. I’d have time to acclimate. Others, dumped dirtside in the midst of a blizzard, often died within hours.

“If I’m funding anything, it’s freedom for a cause. I’ve found, since my untimely but useful demise, that this place can provide me with a source of cheap, willing labor.”

“Willing being the operative word, I take it?”

“Willing being the operative word, yes.”

“Doing what?” I knew many of Sully’s operations before Garno: stolen cargo, weapons, illegal drugs, ships, and everything that fell in-between. I just couldn’t see why he’d chosen to seek me out. My expertise lay in none of those areas. Unless he’d lost his pilot, needed someone to captain a ship for him. But why come to me? He could have his pick from those who lined the barstools in any spaceport pub.

But then, I’d ignored his all-important earlier comment: my mother wore army boots.

“You know the system,” he told me. “You were born and raised in it. As were your parents, and your parents’ parents. I know your personnel file, Captain Chasidah ‘Chaz’ Bergren. Daughter of Engineering Specialist Amaris Deirdre Bergren and Lt. Commander Lars Bergren. Sister of Commander Thaddeus Bergren, currently second in command at the Marker Shipyards. Granddaughter of Lieutenant—”

“I know who I am.”

“So do I.”

“Good. Then you know my mother’s been dead for almost twenty years and I haven’t spoken to my father in over ten. And my brother, since the trial, won’t permit my name to be mentioned within earshot. What’s the point?”

“The point, my lovely angel—and no, don’t look so skeptical. Though I may be a veritable walking list of negative personality traits, the one thing I am not, and never have been, is a liar. It’s my great downfall, Chaz. So if I say you’re lovely—” He reached as if to touch my chin with his fingertips. I jerked back and almost fell off my log. I dragged my boot heel in the dirt to keep my balance.