Moonstruck (4 page)

She wanted this to fail. He saw it then. She wanted someone on his crew to start trouble, and they’d be off her ship, all of them.

“There won’t be trouble, Admiral. I give you my word as warleader.”

Which meant little to her, he sensed.

“I’ll hold you to it, Rorkken.”

“I won’t fail you.”

Something flickered in her eyes with his quiet tone. She dropped her gaze to her plate. Again, the wall had almost parted. Every time, it did something to his gut.

She turned to Zaafran. “I’ll take Rorkken’s crew, if that’s acceptable, Prime-Admiral.”

Zaafran waved a hand at the admiral in relief. The man was one step closer to getting them launched and out of his hair.

Finn folded his arms over his chest, his armor creaking. He’d won. Instead of celebrating that he got his crew on board, he was thinking about what a gods-be-damned long voyage it was going to be. First, there was something going on between him and Bandar that he couldn’t figure out, but it had something to do with hate and hurt and one hell of a mutual sexual attraction. Combine that with patrolling the Borderlands with her wanting to hunt down rogue Drakken to arrest them, and him wanting to save them. If he were smart, he’d leave now.

Problem was, Finn had been hungry more than he’d been smart. He needed this job. He’d waged worse battles against worse odds than the one between his heart, his cock and this hands-off woman.

S
EVEN…FIVE…THREE…
Standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Rorkken, Brit counted decks, willing them lower and faster. The ride in the lift from the floor that housed Zaafran’s offices Ring level down to where the
Unity
was docked at gangway level was interminable. Brit never knew how long mere minutes could stretch out. Each one was an eternity. In the hours since lunch, her reaction to the warleader hadn’t faded. It was more than a passing resemblance to Seff; Finnar Rorkken radiated what could only be described as presence. She could close her eyes and know he was there.

That was unacceptable, of course.

Finally, the descent was over. The door slid open with a soft hiss. Brit strode out first, hands locked behind her back, trying to give the impression she was employing a purposeful stride, not running away. Instinct urged her to flee Rorkken; attraction made her want to have him at her side. She boiled with self-loathing and lust, hating that she thought of him, a Drakken, as a man at all.

She’d spent a career serving with males. Few turned her head, few inspired more than a passing notice. Why this Drakken?

He looks like Seff.
Yes, of course that was it. Why else would she be so drawn to him?

“Drawn” is an understatement, and you know it.
She wanted him in her bed, inside her body, which was utterly unacceptable. Such an attraction must be eradicated.

She was a sexual being. Now those signals were misfiring, pointing her to the wrong target. If not for the interruption of her shore leave and playtime with the man-toy she hired she wouldn’t be wrestling with such pent-up hunger in the first place. The fault was Zaafran’s—yes, his and the entire Reunification Committee’s—for taking her from the
Vengeance
and forcing her to take command of a freak show of a crew.

Heavy boots caught up with her. She gave Rorkken a sidelong glance if only to remind herself of what he was.
Not a potential lover. A Drakken.
Skin peeked out from under worn leather straps—the curve of muscle and bone, scars. She sped up to escape the sight.

Rorkken easily maintained her pace. He smelled of leather, and clean skin, spicy sweet, and faintly like that peculiar odor all Drakken carried. It made her want to retch. She was used to Drakken stinking like animals. There was that underlying smell they all had that she couldn’t define. All she knew was it lingered wherever they were, and wherever they’d been.

“Shall we tour the bridge first?” he asked. “Or belowdecks?”

“The bridge.”

“I’d hoped you’d say that.”

She stiffened at the deep, almost intimate timbre of his voice. How many like him had purred in similar tones as they slit throats, or raped, and murdered little children?
Don’t think of that.
She gritted her teeth until they ached. Arrayar was a long time ago, in another life that hardly seemed like it had ever belonged to her. But it had.

Rorkken’s armor creaked, and the beads in his hair tinkled. A Drakken with Seff’s eyes. She couldn’t look at him.

You have to. He is your first officer. You can’t talk to his boots.
But she didn’t trust what he might see if their eyes met.
Control, Bandar. You didn’t become an admiral because you are soft.
Yes, she had to rise above her emotions. They had no place in this job. “My crew—my former crew—have been told to upload their gear to the
Unity,
” he continued. Everyone would stay on board tonight, even though no launch date had been set.

“Admiral Bandar.”

Brit’s heart leaped in relief at the reassuringly familiar voice as Lieutenant Keyren walked up to them. The girl had the misfortune of an open, honest face that couldn’t conceal anything. Hadley glanced from her to Rorkken with clear concern and amazement. The only other times she’d seen Brit this close to a Drakken was during prisoner-of-war transfers.

Brit went through the formalities of introduction. “Warleader Rorkken, this is my executive officer, Lt. Hadley Keyren.”

They exchanged greetings. “Nice to meet you, sir,” Hadley said.

Her executive officer, calling a Hordish pirate “sir.” The galaxy had changed overnight.

The next sight underscored that thought. The area around the gangway was crowded. Dozens of Drakken bustled about uploading supplies and equipment. Hairstyles of all descriptions, jewels and tattoos, outfits of leather and frayed fabric that could be considered uniforms only in the broadest sense: the sight of them hit her senses at the same time as their stench.

She halted, Hadley bumping up against her. “Sorry, Admiral.”

The Drakken in the corridor turned to stare. “Stick your eyes on your work,” Rorkken growled.

They went back to loading the ship, but dozens stole glances at her and Lieutenant Keyren. Hadley watched the scene as if it were a badly edited horror holo-feature. Perhaps in their new Triad uniforms the Drakken would look less like Horde, and more like…braided, beringed, tattooed Horde wearing Triad uniforms. Brit swallowed a groan. “I’ll hold you responsible for any contraband brought aboard the vessel.”

“Onto the
Unity?
” His eyes crinkled with a hint of amusement as they did each time she refused to call her ship by such a wimpy name. She despised that she amused this man. Did he have to be so damn attractive?

“Yes, the…” The name was too pitiful to utter. “No stolen goods. No stowaways. No hallucinogenic substances.”

“As long as sweef doesn’t fall under the category of hallucinogen, I can vouch for the contents of what they’re bringing aboard.” He wore that half smile again, as if teasing her.

She pretended not to notice. Sweef was distilled from the berries of a type of conifer and mixed with an additive used in robot hydraulics fluid. Homemade stills abounded on military ships. It was cheap, easy to make. Abuse rotted the teeth not to mention various internal organs without widespread use of nanomeds to reverse the damage. “I don’t know how you Drakken tolerate the stuff. It’s poison.”

“Aye. But sometimes, a little poison is better than the alternative.”

“And what is that?”

“Thinking. Thinking too hard.”

Something in the Drakken’s voice grabbed at her. She knew all about thinking too hard. She’d plunged herself into her career to avoid doing just that. She avoided thinking…thinking about the past.
Must never fall into that trap.
She swallowed, squaring her shoulders. “I want you to report to the ship’s physician ASAP. Arrange for a full exam.”

“I assure you, Admiral, I’m no alcoholic.”

“I assure you, Warleader, had I suspected that you were, you wouldn’t have set foot on…my vessel.” The
Unity,
his glance insisted. “You have a cut on your right middle finger, on the knuckle.”

“Ah. So I do. I think I’ll survive without a doctor’s visit,” he added dryly.

“I should hope so. The fact that you have a healing cut at all indicates the low level of nanomeds in your system.”

“More like no nanomeds.”

Brit had never before spent time contemplating how the Drakken warlord had treated his own citizens. In the Coalition, health care and education were universal rights throughout the queendom. Not so in the Drakken Empire, apparently, where technology was hoarded by the rich and powerful. High-ranking Drakken she’d taken as prisoners over the years had shown high levels of nanomeds of various types in their bodies. Yet, this warleader had little or no protection from disease or injury. “You have full access to Coalition med-tech now. You and your crew will receive physicals and the proper maintenance nanomeds. You first. The rest as their work schedules allow.”

“I am—we are—deeply grateful.”

“Gratitude is irrelevant. I must have my crew in top form for our mission. We can’t afford downtime due to sickness. A physical body healing on its own is inefficient.” And downright primitive. To deny citizens basic care was unimaginable. A crime.

Many Drakken carried some sort of stiff fabric draped over their arms. A whiff as they went by told her the fabric was the source of the terrible smell. “What are those?” she asked Rorkken.

“Their sleeping skins. Rakkelle!” He pulled a “skin” from the hands of a thin young woman with dark hair and a pretty face and unfolded it for Brit to view. It was the texture of sausage casing, transparent, but thick and lined with grommets.

It stank. She wrinkled her nose, found Rorkken watching her with that strange look again, his boyish eyes gone soft. “We hang them from the ceilings for sleeping,” he explained. “They’re then filled with blankets and pillows.”

“On a modern warship there is no need for hammocks. There are bunks.”

“The skins are more comfortable than bunks, ma’am,” the girl broke in.

“Rakkelle,” Rorkken growled under his breath with a shake of his head before Brit had time to reprimand her for speaking out of turn. “Ask permission to speak.”

Good that the warleader didn’t hesitate to discipline his crew.
Your crew.
Brit sighed quietly through her nose. Yes, they were hers, too, since she couldn’t very well shove them through the airlock, as much as she would like to.

“Request permission to say something, Admiral Stone—” The girl reddened at her near error. “Admiral Bandar.”

“Speak.”

“Skins move with a ship. Bunks, they be land-folk beds, ma’am, rooted to the ground. A true spacer sleeps in a skin.”

“Young lady, in my military, when you speak to a commanding officer, you do so giving your name and rank.”

“My error, Admiral,” Rorkken interjected. “This is Rakkelle of Pehzwan.”

“Yes, ma’am. That’s me.”

“Doesn’t she have a rank?”

“I’m the pilot.”

“Your military rank…”

“I don’t have one.”

“She’s
civilian?
” Brit thought of all the excuses she had to walk away from this mission now. Only, stubbornness and honor wouldn’t let her use any of them. Instead, she assumed her trademark glare and focused it on her second-in-command. “Explanation, please, Warleader.”

F
INN SWALLOWED A GROAN
at the way Bandar’s elegant brow lifted as she turned her appalled gaze to him. His plan had been to launch first, explain later about the patchwork nature of his crew. It was this gig or taking their chances in the Borderlands, hungry and on the run. Sure, the Triad seemed open to giving assistance to Drakken, but Finn didn’t care to risk testing that generosity so soon after the war’s end. Better to work with what he had: a miraculous invitation to serve on this ship. That meant talking fast and honest or risk having Rakkelle and the others blow his good intentions.

“I lost my pilot in a dockside skirmish just before the end of the war. I needed a pilot. Rakkelle was available. She’s flown cargo freighters most of her life.” And four different pirate ships. Best he leave out that part.

“I’m good, too!”

“Say, ‘I’m good, too,
Admiral,’
” he instructed through clenched teeth.

“Admiral, ma’am.” Rakkelle nervously slapped her knuckles to her forehead in a sloppy salute.

Finn rolled his eyes. “Get out of here, Pehzwan. Load the rest of your gear.” He shoved the skin back into her hands. Her fingernails were dirty, he noticed. Bandar probably had, too. He thought he’d told Rakkelle and the others to clean up before coming aboard. Then he remembered that she’d been helping unload cargo. Well, she’d have a chance to wash soon enough. There were washrooms aplenty on this ship, some even in a crewman’s own quarters. He knew his would have one. Utter luxury. He made a mental note to check their hands before the upcoming meal.

Rakkelle swaggered off, swaying her ass for the entertainment of the men in the crew as she draped her sleeping skin over her shoulder.

“She’s an imp,” Bandar observed. To his surprise, she sounded amused, but not in the bitter way she was with him.

“Aye, she is that.”

“A little imp who’ll be flying my ship. And she needs a bath.”

“I’ll make sure she gets one—all of them.” He wanted to prove they weren’t barbarians. Though all he’d been thinking about all afternoon was holding Stone-Heart’s sexy ass in his hands and acting anything but civilized.

She pressed a finger alongside the bottom of her nose. “The stench of those…skins is intolerable. Dispose of them.”

He’d known the smell most of his life. He had to work hard to notice it. “Skins are a space-faring tradition. It’s what every Imperial sailor knows.”

“They’ll sleep in beds, Warleader. Like soldiers, not pirates.”

Rorkken almost fought her on that, convincing her that they had rights based on the Triad, that she couldn’t convert them to Triad overnight. But he backed off. There would be other battles. A lifetime of fighting had taught him the bigger ones were better worth the fight.

Not to mention that he needed this gig. His crew needed this gig. If it meant painting their toenails pink to keep it, he’d freepin’ consider it. The prospect of full bellies offset the small amount of ego lost in any concessions required to stay in Bandar’s good graces long enough to launch this ship—with all of them aboard.

“I’ll see that the skins are removed from the
Unity,
” he said.

“Now, let us continue to the bridge, Warleader.”

“Give me a moment with the crew, please, Admiral.”

Bandar answered with a nod and continued down the corridor, trailed by her loyal lieutenant. “See that my shipboard quarters are set up,” he heard her tell Keyren. “We won’t be sleeping on the Ring tonight. All hands will sleep on board tonight, and until we launch.”

Zurykk sidled up to him and murmured in his ear, “Don’t expect me to start following you like that, Captain.”

Finn laughed. The man would die for him. That was all he needed to know. “She doesn’t want the skins aboard,” he said when the admiral was out of earshot.

The crew met the news with grumbles. Finn’s hand went to his sidearm—new, Triad issued. “Enough. We are on this ship by the goodwill of the gods. Don’t push your luck. We sleep in bunks like they do.”

“Why do we have to be the ones to give in?” his apprentice engineer Simi asked.

“Because we lost the war, fool,” Zurykk grumbled.

Bolivarr spoke up. “It’s more than that. If we want to stay here, we have to adapt to their rules.”

He gets it, Finn realized with pleasure. Then again, sharp perception and willingness added weight to Bolivarr’s claim that he’d been an Imperial Wraith before they’d found him unconscious and bleeding in a back alley with no memory of how he got there, thanks to several years’ gap in his memory. The former elite commando was now a hitchhiker dependent on a captain’s mercy. Bolivarr might understand Finn’s reasoning for wanting to play along with Bandar’s demands, but the admiral? If she was disturbed about Rakkelle, wait until she found out about Battle-Lieutenant Bolivarr.

“Besides, we’re not to blame for losing the war,” Bolivarr said with quiet conviction. “Our leadership, if you could call it that, lost it for us.”

Finn sliced a hand through the air before any political arguments could start. “It’s freepin’ done. Over. The surrender is signed. Be grateful we’re here, alive, warm and well-fed.”

“When do we eat again, Captain?”

The grumbles changed to eager murmurs. They’d been grateful for the food he’d had sent down to them. “After the staff meeting. Food and drink for all. And it’s best you no longer call me captain.”

“You’ll always be our captain, no matter what.”

Looks of loyalty went around.

“Aye, I will, in more ways than you’ll know. But we have a new captain—Admiral Bandar—and you will follow her orders as you will follow mine.”

“Stone-Heart…” More grumbles.

“We’ll follow her orders to the letter. As for bunks, that’s what we’ll sleep on for now—and like it. These aren’t thin, lumpy, bug-infested mattresses, you oafs. We’re talking luxury. A better night’s sleep than these skins. Hot food, new uniforms, comfortable beds—we’re moving up in the world, men and women.”

Finn only hoped they could do so without losing who they were.

H
ADLEY SCRAMBLED
to accomplish what Admiral Bandar had asked of her. The admiral’s instructions had been curt and to the point. She wanted her quarters set up before the staff meeting. Everyone was being ordered to stay on board the ship tonight. It was typical of her commander to do such a thing. When you served under Admiral Bandar, you were her crew. You never doubted you were part of a team. Hadley wondered how the admiral was going to handle the motley crew she’d inherited. Apparently forcing them all to share the same finite space was one way to enforce crew unity.

Unity
. Hadley liked the name. It was so much nicer than the rest of the ship names she’d seen, on both sides. Those nasty names were all posturing, in her opinion. Admiral Bandar needn’t be alarmed by her new ship’s name. The woman could command a toy bath boat and others would still steer clear out of deference or fear, depending whose side you were on.

Hadley dumped her personal possessions in a heap in the center of her new quarters. She’d unpack later, after making sure the admiral’s captain’s suite was set up to her liking. She was out of the room and back in the corridor a moment later, hoping the crate she’d ordered sent to the admiral’s suite had been delivered.

An unfamiliar artificial voice thundered out of the ship’s new comm system, echoing down the shiny new corridors: “Attention—all personnel. Call to quarters is in effect. All personnel will retrieve their personal items and proceed to their assigned quarters immediately. Attention—all officers. There will be a command staff meeting at oh-five-thirty standard ship-hours.”

Hadley glanced at the digits glowing on her sleeve. That didn’t give her much time to finish setting up the admiral’s quarters. She hurried through the bustling corridors and almost collided with a group of Earthling officers on their way into the cargo area.

One of them was Tango. Sleeves rolled up and holding a box under one muscular arm, the pilot circled his finger at all the commotion. “Do you know what we call this at home, Hadley?”

She frowned at his use of her first name in public. “No, Major Barrientes—” she struggled with the pronunciation “—I do not.”

“An ass-leaping-event, as in leap through your ass to get it done.”

She put her chin in the air and ignored him. The Earthling pilot ran his hand over his short blond hair and laughed. “Man, there’s nothing like an impatient admiral,” she heard him say to his friends as he passed by. “They want everything now, now, now. They want to make their mark on the world.”

Gods! He horrified her. He fascinated her. She waited until he’d walked by before she turned for another look, only to catch him winking at her over his shoulder, as if he knew she’d take a second peek. Oh, she hated him, too! Face ablaze, she turned back to the corridor ahead.

Tango’s flirtation left her emotions roiling. She was relieved when she finally reached Admiral Bandar’s suite of rooms at the end of a quiet corridor housing senior officers’ quarters. One of the cargo rats—a crewman she’d served with on the
Vengeance
—was waiting outside the admiral’s suite with the crate. “Got the admiral’s things,” he said.

“I’ll let us in.” Hadley submitted to the retina scan and walked inside.

The crewman slid the heavy crate through the door and straightened. “Gods, look at this. It’s a blasted palace.”

A palace to a space-hand, she thought, thanking him and shooing him out. Still, it
was
quite the suite, and with a view to die for. Hadley’s quarters on the other hand had two square portholes. On the
Vengeance
she’d had one, so it was an improvement.

She made the bed with the admiral’s sheets and blankets, plumping the pillows. Then she set to the unpacking. The crate held familiar items from Admiral Bandar’s old quarters: several glass bowls and numerous holo-cubes from her travels. The images were exclusively scenery—the sea or sunsets taken on shore leave, never other people.

Hadley knew the admiral had family, but only because once she’d dared to ask. The admiral’s parents were religious, extremely so. Admiral Bandar had been raised on a planet settled by pilgrims. Odd. The admiral was not a believer. Vehemently not a believer. Religion was a topic everyone around her learned not to bring up. It too often made the admiral irritable, and sometimes even pensive.

Hadley strived to do anything but upset her. Admiral Bandar was her hero. She remembered the emergency drills, growing up on her home planet. Then one day the drill was real. They were under attack. The Drakken ships were destroyed by a warship under the command of Admiral Bandar when she was still only Star-Commander Bandar. The admiral had saved Hadley’s planet. From then on, Hadley was determined to model her life after the admiral’s. She was the first female from folksy, clannish Planet Talo to win an appointment to the Royal Galactic Military Academy, and the youngest graduate to be selected as the admiral’s executive officer. The miracle of Hadley’s existence was having the honor of serving in a capacity to make the officer’s life easier. Although it was her dream to someday rise up through the ranks and captain a ship of her own, she learned so much from watching in her day-to-day routine as Admiral Bandar’s assistant.

Hadley’s thoughts returned to the Earthling pilot, and his disrespectful words. With four brothers at home on Talo, she knew he’d been trying to show off. That unsettled her almost as much as his rude observations of her boss. Maybe even more. It wasn’t often she was in a position to be flirted with. On the
Vengeance,
most of the other junior officers were intimidated by the fact that she was Admiral Bandar’s exec. What did they think—if they broke her heart she’d turn them in? It was her darkest secret that she was still a virgin. It would stay her darkest secret, too. What twenty-three-year-old was still a virgin? Maybe now on the
Unity,
she’d finally have a chance to expand her social horizons.

With the Earthling? He was handsome. He was exotic, too, being from Prince Jared’s homeworld. If only he wasn’t such an ass!

With reverence, Hadley placed Admiral Bandar’s items around the suite. The admiral would no doubt fine-tune the arrangement, but after so many years of working with her, Hadley had developed an almost infallible sense of what the woman liked. She reached into the container for the last item. It was a medium-size white engraved box she was used to seeing sitting on a shelf high above the admiral’s desk. It was a pretty box, but ornate, and had seemed out of place with the admiral’s taste for clean, uncluttered decor. Hadley had always wondered about the box, and what was inside. It was larger than a container for jewelry, big enough for some items of clothing. She’d once guessed books or dinnerware but now she saw it wasn’t that heavy.

Her hands slid over the lid’s engraved surface. And stopped. It felt wrong, peeking. Head held high, she carried the box to some shelves by the admiral’s new desk, placing it at the same approximate spot as on the
Vengeance.
She stepped back, admiring her handiwork. The admiral would be pleased.

Hadley’s gaze traveled back to the white box. So much about her boss was a mystery. Would it be so wrong to learn a little more about her? In the end, it might help Hadley be a better assistant.

Biting her lip, she took the box down from the shelf and set it on the desk. Nervously, she glanced at the door.
All clear.
Then she lifted the lid.

A small folded blanket lay on top, hiding the contents beneath. It was soft and pink, nothing like a blanket the admiral would use. Cute, chubby marrmice decorated the satin hem all the way around. It was a baby blanket, Hadley realized with a start.

Heart pounding, unable to stop herself, she lifted the blanket out of the box, even though she knew what she’d stumbled upon was a terrible violation of her commanding officer’s privacy.

Under the blanket was a bracelet, a silver band. Hadley turned it in her hands. It was engraved.
Me and you forever. Seff.
There was an old, worn leather volume of the
Agran Sakkara,
the religious tome that formed the basis of their worship of the goddesses. But the admiral wasn’t a believer…The bible was badly damaged, the cover torn, the pages crushed. Hadley ached to open it and see if anything was written inside, as some families were prone to do. She forced herself not to. It was bad enough she’d opened the white box.