Finders Keepers (9 page)

Rhis sat in the lounge, waiting for the teakettle to chime. Life without a replicator. Life without a comfortable bed and soft, thick carpeting in his cabin. Life with a patched comm system, temperamental scanners, and only one ion cannon, half-dead at that.

Life with Trilby Elliot, air sprite with only one working laser rifle. And a missing friend.

Rhis thought he was beginning to understand how that friend was missing. And why.

He’d listened to Trilby tell him of Neadi’s warning. Then, with her permission, he reviewed Neadi’s message itself. And he’d told Trilby a small part of what he had heard about the ’Sko—though not his part in verifying those rumors. It was still necessary for her to believe his ’Sko Tark was leftover from war games, his appearance on her doorstep due to mechanical failure.

He couldn’t tell her of his being on Szedcafar. He heard Neadi question who, besides the Zafharin, would sleep with the ’Sko. And he knew Trilby wouldn’t believe his story.

One man was simply not capable of infiltrating the ’Sko military base.

But then, he was not one simple man.

He’d been three days overdue at the recon point and had left strict orders with his command staff
not
to wait more than twelve hours for his return.

He hadn’t anticipated the Ycsko removing him from their compound on Szed to one of their mother ships. Looking back, he realized he should have. But as
Dasjon
Admiral Vanushavor had liked to point out, he’d become reckless of late. Not careless. Reckless. It was as if he didn’t care if he lived or died.

He didn’t. At least, at the time the infiltration of the compound on Szed was proposed, the success of the mission meant more to him than his life. And the mission had been a success. He did infiltrate the military base and relay the critical stolen data back to the
Razalka
. It was his own rescue that had been botched, and he’d been forced to take actions that were nearly fatal.

Might have been, if not for Trilby. Avanar’s vampire snakes would’ve found him eventually. And he would have faded into the swamps and not be here now, piecing together information that made what he’d learned on Szed even more urgent.

And he would not be here now, waiting for the kettle to chime so he could deliver a cup of hot tea to one Trilby Elliot, air sprite, freighter captain, and finder of lost Zafharin officers.

As if on cue, a soft but shrill pinging sounded in the lounge.

He performed his duty and headed for the ladderway.

Trilby was back in command of her bridge. Dezi’s knee joints squeaked as he vacated the copilot’s seat and returned to navigation. Rhis handed her the steaming tea and placed his own mug in the holder on the copilot’s console.

She pointed to a screen to his right. “Dezi and I worked up a list of all the short-haulers gone missing in the past two months, ones that fit Neadi’s profile. Departure, pickup, and cargo are all noted.”

There were seven, including
Bella’s Dream
. Four had contracted through Rinnaker. Two from Grantforth. One from Norvind.

He turned the list into data and the data into pinpoints on a star-chart grid. On the
Razalka
, that grid would be projected, suspended in a holograph over the large polished table in the ready room aft of upper level of the bridge. The best minds in the Empire would scrutinize it, tear it apart.

Here his grid was flat on a comp screen. He absently tapped his lightpen on the table, waiting for his tea to cool, wondering just how much he could share with his air sprite and an old envoy ’droid.

“Well?” Trilby asked.

“I can understand why
Dasja
Neadi sees a problem.”

“And?”

He shook his head, took a sip of his tea. It was a good, strong brew, pungent. Almost Zafharin quality. “I have more questions than answers, Trilby Elliot.”

“We’ve got two days yet before we reach Port Rumor. Neadi may know more then. Flyboy’s has been busy lately.”

Rhis glanced at her. His air sprite had lost some of her sparkle again. The pleasant memories she’d shared with him in her cabin had led to more serious things. Things that led him to the conclusion that he was going to have to do those wogs-and-weemlies after all. The ones she was so worried about. The ones finding her files on Jagan Grantforth had halted.

She was not two days from Port Rumor. She was three, perhaps five days from the
Razalka,
or the closest Imperial outpost, whichever he found first.

Trilby Elliot wouldn’t be happy when he took control of her ship. That thought uncharacteristically rankled him.

But he had to take control of something at this point and had a little over twenty-four hours in which to do so. The
Venture
presented a much easier prospect than controlling his inexplicable reactions to her captain.

He had a feeling that both of his problems were going to let him get very little sleep again tonight.

6

Transit time on a run had a predictably boring routine. Like most freighter operators, Trilby tried to pattern her hours after the old dirtside rhythms. That meant at least six hours sleep at a time she designated as night. A large mug of coffee within fifteen minutes, first thing in the morning. And the rest of the day tending to little things to fill the time as the ship went from point A to point B.

She pulled on her last clean T-shirt and pinged Dezi on intraship. “I’ll be on the bridge in ten. See Rhis yet?”

“He’s not been to the bridge this morning, Captain. However, the galley was activated about an hour ago.”

“Got it. Thanks.”

Rhis was seated at the counter, portable pad on his right, coffee on his left. She took a quick glance, saw the freighter schedule data on his screen. “Anything?”

“More questions.” He looked tired.

She heard the frustration in his voice. Frustration over a problem that wasn’t his. That touched her, made her think about awarding him another bonus point. She refilled his coffee. “Please don’t tell me you were working on this all night. I told you to get some sleep. How’s your side?”

He stretched his left arm. “Better.”

Liar,
she thought.
I should’ve tranked him and locked him in sick bay.
Of course, she’d have had to strip off his clothes again. That was a pleasant thought. She needed pleasant thoughts right now to chase away her worries over Carina.

“I’m going to play captain on the bridge for a while. Give Dezi some downtime.”

“I’ll be all right here.”

She grabbed a large plastic mug, filled it with coffee, and snapped on a protective spill cap. She was often lax about loose items in the lounge, but never on the bridge. Everything was strapped down, sealed, and secured.

“You know where to find me if you need me.”

Dezi came back on duty at lunch.

“Seen our lieutenant around?” she asked.

“He was not in engineering when I left. And I didn’t see him in the corridors. However, it’s possible he’s in the lounge. After all, it’s approaching your lunch hour, and—”

“That’s where I’m headed, Dez. Then I’ve got to get some chores started.” If she didn’t keep busy her mind would keep drifting back to
Bella’s Dream
. One more thing in her life she could do nothing about. “If you see him, tell him I’m looking for him.”

She didn’t run into Rhis on the forward ladderway or in the corridor. The lounge was empty, spotlessly clean. She grabbed a swamp apple from the fridge and crunched on it on her way to her cabin. The crisp fruit was one of the few benefits of her excursions to Avanar.

She was sorting laundry in her cabin when her door chimed. Dezi wouldn’t leave the bridge without advising her. So she knew with relative accuracy who stood on the other side even before she heard the muffled Zafharin voice call out. “Trilby?”

She stepped around a pile of towels to slap at the panel. “Come on in.” And then caught his expression of bewilderment when he took in the state of her cabin.

“Redecorating?”

She waved one hand at him and then realized, as he averted his eyes, that what she also waved at him was her scanty flowered bra. Pillorian silk. Lace trimmed. She chuckled. “It’s either this,” she said with a sweeping motion, “or next shift I’m on the bridge totally naked.”

Rhis opened his mouth then clamped it shut, and she was surprised to see the color heighten on his cheeks. She’d embarrassed him? She hadn’t thought it possible.

She couldn’t resist. “Well, actually, if you remember, that was the way you and I started our relationship.”

“That was not of my choosing.” He shoved his hands in his pockets and looked anywhere but the floor. Her empty closet seemed to have a particular fascination for him.

“Don’t do much laundry duty, do you, Vanur?”

Something distasteful flashed across his face, and his dark brows slanted into a frown. Ah, Pampered Imperial Arrogance. Slumming.

“It’ll all be over soon.” She tossed the last towel on the pile. “Port Rumor’s about forty-eight hours from now. Then you can be on your way back to the much-improved, much-preferred Empire.”

“Dezi doesn’t cook and now does not do laundry, yes?”

“Not if you want to eat and have something to wear, no.” She grinned. His Zafharin accent and phrasing still sounded quaint to her. It gave him a unique, almost endearing quality. “Don’t they teach you about proper utilization of personnel in the Imperial Fleet Academy? Or is it just true that everyone in the Empire is perfect at every task, like those rumors I’ve heard?”

“Rumors?” he asked in mock indignation. His eyes sparkled playfully. “You have known me now, what, three, four days, and you do not know that everything produced by the Zafharin embodies perfection?”

Well, I have seen you naked,
she almost said but then stopped, knowing that only proved his claim. Ah, well. She chuckled again, then, on a whim, grabbed a pile of towels from the floor. “Okay, Lieutenant Perfection, here you go.” She shoved the towels against him. “Some of them are yours, anyway. Glad to know they’ll all be spotless and perfectly folded within the hour.”

He stared at her, his arms overflowing, clearly not expecting her demand. “This is not—”

“Enough?” she cut in, grinning broadly. She snatched at the pile of silk and lace next to her. “Want more?”

Rhis backed up a step. “No.”

“Good.” She motioned down the corridor to her right. “Laundry is the third door on the left. Says L-One on the wall. Three cycles, all sonic, but only two work and you may have to smack the microdryer a few times to get it to kick on.”

He switched a look from her to the towels in his arms. Then back again. A small furrow dug into his brow. “Elliot, this is really not—”

“One more word of complaint out of you, Vanur, and you will get my bras and panties too.”

Again his gaze zigzagged back and forth. What was going on in that aristocratic head of his? Then he swore under his breath in Zafharish and turned, almost stumbling over the door tread as he strode down the corridor.

A towel escaped from his grasp, falling onto the decking. Trilby saw it when she followed him. Laughing, she threw it after his retreating figure. “I like ’em nice and fluffy, Vanur. And neatly folded!”

He glanced over his shoulder at her with an unreadable look. Trilby leaned against the bulkhead and laughed until her sides ached.

Gods, it felt good to laugh. She wiped her eyes, then went back to her cabin to get the rest of the laundry, stuffing it into a canvas duffel. In her brief exchange with Rhis she’d forgotten for the moment her concerns for Carina, her hurt over Jagan, her worries of how she was going to pay for everything she needed just to survive. She knew he had enjoyed the light verbal game as much as she had. She’d seen the sly smile on his mouth, the mirth dancing in his eyes.

More than enjoyed it: he’d encouraged it. He could have shut her down with a quick, biting comment. Or just walked out. She felt he would have two days ago. But now . . .

Now things were different. Or starting to become different. There was a camaraderie. Maybe this was the real Rhis Vanur, not the arrogant, demanding, cold man who had lunged at her in sick bay, almost ending her life. That man had been in physical pain and no little amount of fear. She could see that now.

She lugged the rest of the laundry down the corridor, thinking maybe her Zafharin lieutenant wasn’t quite that bad, after all.

She waited an hour before checking his progress. How much damage could he do to a load of towels? She found him smacking the front of the dryer with the flat of his hand. Pounding it with his fist, he informed her, didn’t have the same positive result. The unit whined and grumbled as if in agreement. She grabbed a stack of freshly folded towels and hid her laughter in their softness.

The corridor suddenly resounded with a loud, discordant wail.

She dropped the towels and spun toward him.

He held his hands in the air in supplication. “I was only doing what you told me to—”

She grabbed his arm. “Incoming. Damn it! That’s my short-range alarm. We’ve got incoming!” She bolted down the corridor.

He caught up with her on the ladderway to the bridge. “Short-range?”

“Long-range is fritzed. Can’t ID.” Their boots hammered up the metal stairs. “Short-range is all we’ve got to handle unfriendlies.”

Trilby was first through the hatchway. “Who’s there, Dez?”

“Ycsko. Three Trahtarks.” The ’droid relayed their speed and distance without any of his usual, meandering dialogue.

Trilby slid into the captain’s seat, her fingers already keying queries into the ship’s systems. The wailing ceased. “Okay. I see ’em. Weapons online. Shields at max.”

“Affirmative.”

She raked the safety straps across her chest. “Anyone else in the neighborhood?”

“Negative. I have sent out a broad-channel Request for Assistance.”

Rhis stood, scanning the data at the copilot’s station. The Tarks were about twenty minutes behind the
Venture.
Then he grabbed for the navigator’s chair. A light flashed on her panel, showing his station was online. She went back to her work with Dezi.

“Fifteen minutes. Still closing,” the ’droid intoned.

Something odd flickered on one of Trilby’s data comps. It came from the navigation. She shot him a look over her shoulder. “Vanur! What the hell—?”

“The ’Sko have started filtering their energy emissions. This grants them some invisibility. Unless, of course, your scanners know to look for them.”

Trilby saw the large blip flash on her long-range screen. Somehow he’d gotten it to work again. Her anger at Rhis died and was replaced by a moment of amazement. And then a growing feeling of dread. “Cloaking device?”

“Not exactly.”

“Eleven minutes,” Dezi stated.

“Shit! That’s a mother ship.” Part of Trilby’s mind acknowledged Dezi’s countdown. The other part focused on data now streaming next to the ominous blip. She glanced again at Rhis, saw him frowning at the weapons data on the screen on his left. He evidently had the same thoughts she did. A half-dead ion cannon was no match for a ’Sko mother ship.

Her stomach tightened in fear. Neadi’s warnings played through her mind. But she wasn’t on a cargo run. Her holds were empty.

“Dezi, amend that RFA to a Code-Three SUA!” A Request for Assistance could be ignored. A Ship under Attack advisory could not.

She shook her fist at the blip on the screen as if it could see her. “Gods damn you. I don’t have any cargo!”

“That will not be their concern until it’s too late.”

“Thanks for the encouraging words, Vanur.”

“Nine minutes.”

Trilby’s fingers flew back to the command controls. “Tarks are in attack formation. Retract cannon hatch.”

“Nav!”

Trilby’s chair tilted back. A broad arm shot in front of her, knocking her hands from the controls. He yelled words at her as he keyed in a course change from her station.

She swore back at him. “Speak
Standard,
Gods damn you!”

“The abandoned miner’s raft in the asteroid belt. There!” He pointed to the data now on her screen. “We can get there. We can lose them in the debris field.”

It just might work. Trilby hesitated only a second before throwing the ship hard to starboard.

The freighter shuddered as the Tarks’ weapons laced the shields. The auxiliary interface panel behind Rhis sizzled, showering sparks through the small cockpit. Two data screens flickered. The
Venture
’s engines whined, straining. Power readouts sagged, then spiked.

Rhis worked in a course adjustment. “We have to outrun them.”

Trilby tapped quickly on a datapad on her left. “Dezi, get down to engineering. Disconnect the A-Five bypass. I’m going to run everything we got to the drives. That should give us what we need.” Though what condition they’d be in when they got to the rafts was up for grabs.

Rhis slid into the seat Dezi vacated just as Trilby banked the ship to port to avoid incoming fire.

“Missed me, you bastard.” There was a grim note of glee in her voice.

A critical-status light blinked red. “You’re disconnecting life support?”

“Only belowdecks. I’ll seal the bridge on Dezi’s signal. What do you think, we’ve got reserves? That extra power has to come from somewhere.”

It took five more long minutes of ducking and diving, of skittering through the blackness before the asteroid debris field was in sight. Two more comp panels sizzled as the
Venture
’s shields tried to handle the impact of the ’Sko weapons. Trilby ran through every evasive maneuver she knew, then invented a few more. She trusted Rhis to keep one hand on the cannon’s targeting controls and prayed for a lucky shot. He grazed one Tark. It fell back behind the other two, damaged but not disabled.

“Good shot, flyboy.”

The
Venture
defied all safety parameters, pushing her components beyond their specs. Circura II short-haulers weren’t built to maneuver like this one did.

But even the best of patches couldn’t hold up forever under enemy fire.