Shadower (8 page)

She flashed him a look of disdain. Tossing her hair over her shoulders, she strolled past him and down the corridor. The sway of her nicely rounded hips only fueled his agitation further. He forced himself to focus on the back of her head. When they reached the cockpit, he ordered her to strap in while he began takeoff procedures and notified the colonists of his departure.

Moments later, they broke free from the planet's gravity field and headed away. After setting the coordinates for Elysia, Sabin leaned back in his chair and drummed his fingers on the armrests. Unsnapping her harness, Moriah rose and leaned toward the navigational screen. He switched it off. "Oh, no, you don't."

Straightening, she leveled a golden glare at him. "Where are we going?"

He rose. "You don't need to worry about that."

She chewed her bottom lip, a surprisingly vulnerable gesture. She probably didn't even know she did it, he reflected, his attention drawn to her lush mouth. He thought of the kiss he'd commandeered on Calt, the feel of her lips, the taste…Damn, why did the force field have to shut down
now
?

"I need to know our destination," she insisted.

"All you need to worry about is keeping your word not to give me any trouble."

"But we're obviously headed
somewhere.
I want to know what you have planned!"

"We're going to take care of a little business." He again noted the circles beneath her eyes and remembered she needed to eat. "Come on. Let's go to the galley. The least you can do is make yourself useful while you're on board."

She stood very still, and he could almost see her composure slip back into place, like a shield against him. But the wariness remained in her eyes. "How so, Travers?"

Her refusal to use his first name or the proper title of
captain
amused him. "By replicating our meals,
Cameron.
At least I assume that's your real last name, and we do seem to be on a last-name basis here. Lack of manners, and all. I hate to cook, so you can have that duty now."

She gave a small shrug and headed for the corridor. "I don't know how to operate a replicator. Where is the galley?"

"Second panel on the left. What do you mean, you don't know how to operate a replicator?"

"Never learned."

In disbelief, he followed her to the galley. "Every ship that's less than fifty seasons old has a replicator. How do you fix your meals?"

"I don't. I eat prepackaged food." She turned and smiled tauntingly. "So I guess you get to cook."

Several choice words came to mind, but Sabin decided he'd cursed enough for one cycle. "I should have known," he grumbled. "But you get clean-up duty. And you can get out the dishes. Except the utensils. I'll handle those."

Silently she began opening cabinets and looking for the plates. He pushed the pads on the replicator panel. "How do protein sticks and amargrain sound? I might even throw in some of my special bread, if you ask nicely."

"Fix whatever you want," she answered indifferently.

But when they sat down a short while later, she dug into her food without hesitation. She ate like she hadn't eaten in cycles, and she probably hadn't. There was nothing dainty about her at the table. He leaned back to watch as she rapidly diminished the food on her plate.

Here was evidence that her graceful poise and modulated voice hadn't always been part of her persona. When she ate, a more basic woman emerged. Fascinating. A sudden flash of insight told Sabin that perhaps she had learned to eat so fast out of necessity, such as a lack of food and having to battle for what was available. He knew what that was like.

"Whoa! Don't you think you should slow down? If you haven't eaten in a few cycles, you should give your body time to adjust to solid food," he cautioned. "I'll give you more later, I promise."

She paused, her fork heaped with food halfway to her mouth. Still chewing, she lowered the utensil. She swallowed before raising her eyes to his. "How do I know this isn't my last meal?"

Her tension was palpable. She appeared to be strung tighter than a miserly Shen. Yet he was reluctant to tell her much. She was too clever and resourceful, and any knowledge in her hands could be dangerous. "Look, you'll just have to trust—"

"Forget it," she cut in. "I've heard that line before, especially from men like you, and I know how meaningless it is." She shoved back from the table and rose swiftly, picking up her plate. He tensed, halfway expecting the plate to be hurled at him, but she turned toward the wall unit. "Is this the refuse chute?"

Without waiting for an answer, she began scraping the food into the chute, her movements jerky.
Men like him?
What did that mean? Damn, but she appeared madder than a wounded Antek. Sabin rose and approached her. He placed his hand on her shoulder, his fingers tangling in her hair. "Listen—"

"No!" Tossing her head, she jerked away from his hand and turned to glare at him. "I don't want any empty promises from you, Travers."

The flash of fear in her eyes tugged at him. He reached toward her, but she brushed past him to pick up his plate. He reached out again. "Moriah—"

She whirled, knocking his arm away. "What are you
really
going to do with me?"

She didn't trust him, and he couldn't blame her. She didn't know him from a Trion cave dweller. She probably assumed he was going to kill her to keep her quiet about the Shielder colony. He understood her fear. He understood fear all too well.

For a brief moment, the present faded, and the black void opened around him, obscuring everything but the screams of anguish, the explosion of blasters, the stench of burning flesh. The running, the hiding, the darkness, but most of all, the fear. The all-consuming fear that dominated every sense…

Wrenching himself back from the void, Sabin knew he had to tell Moriah his plans. He had thought to keep her in the dark, to use her uncertainty to control her. He couldn't do that. He couldn't endure seeing in her face that which was etched in his soul for eternity. "I'm going to have part of your memory erased," he answered. "Then I'll let you go."

She froze, staring at him, astonishment in her eyes. In a world where survival depended on staying one step ahead of the Controllers, or their Antek henchmen, or shadowers; where it was frequently a matter of kill or be killed, an act of compassion was as rare as a warming cycle on Atara. She obviously had not expected mercy from him.

"I can see that surprises you," he said. "It just so happens I don't believe in killing innocent people. It was an accident that you turned up at the wrong time."

She considered a moment. Then, instead of showing relief as he had expected, she shoved him. "How long?"

He stumbled back. "How long what?"

"How long will your plan take? Did it ever occur to you, Travers, that I might have places to go, business to take care of?"

A little gratitude would have been nice. His anger boiled over.
"You
have business to take care of? What about
me?
My life has been completely disrupted ever since I met you, lady. No, make that miserable. I had to play healer to you, and then I spent hours traipsing around Calt trying to be sure you were okay. Now I have to take five cycles out of my time to get your memory erased and—"

"Five cycles!" she screeched, stomping toward him, a fork clutched in her hand. "Where the blazing hells are we going?"

He didn't know if she intended to use that utensil, but he wasn't taking any chances. He lunged forward, grabbed her wrist, and pried the fork from her fingers.

Tossing it into the sterilizer, he growled, "Don't ever approach me with anything that could be used as a weapon. And don't ask me again where we're going. All that matters is that I'll release you after your memory is altered. You'll be alive, which is more than anyone else would have done. Now finish cleaning up the galley."

She glared at him, her chest heaving, but she didn't say anything further. Finally, she turned and began loading the sterilizer. Sabin slouched against the wall, watching her alertly. When the galley was clean, he insisted on patting her down to be sure she hadn't pocketed a potential weapon. She remained silent, although he could tell the brief search didn't sit well with her.

When he was satisfied she was unarmed, he stepped back and stretched. "Time to turn in."

"Where am I going to sleep?"

Where indeed? He certainly wouldn't mind having that lithe body curled around him. The images unfurling in his mind sent shafts of heat through his body. It would be insanity to indulge in the fantasy. He didn't get involved with women. Besides, he didn't think his guest shared the attraction. Still, he couldn't resist saying, "You're welcome to bunk with me."

She stood stiffly, her hands clenched against her thighs. "Do I have a choice?"

He should be relieved the attraction wasn't mutual. Involvement with Moriah could bring nothing but trouble. Yet her obvious reluctance stung his male pride. "Don't try to resist too hard," he retorted. "Of course it's a choice. While you may think I'm no better than an Antek, I assure you I can control my baser urges."

Her expression clearly showed she didn't believe him, which rankled even further. "Then I choose to have my own cabin."

He'd been thinking about that and believed he had a way to contain her—with the intruder alert. He would set the alarms for the entire ship, including the motion detectors in the corridor. That way, if Moriah tried to leave her cabin during the sleep shift, he would know immediately. With her in her own cabin, he wouldn't have to worry about her while he slept. A good, albeit chaste, solution.

He wouldn't tell her about the alert. It provided the perfect opportunity to see if she would try to pull anything during the shift. He motioned toward the cabin she'd stowed away in. "You can sleep in your old hiding place—that last cabin."

Escorting her to the cabin, he showed her how the intercom worked, in case she needed anything during the shift. That done, he left her and returned to his cabin. After setting the alert, he crawled into his bunk. It had been a long cycle, and he was exhausted. Yet visions of fiery hair and golden eyes inundated his thoughts, and sleep was a long time coming.

*  *  *  *

Moriah saw the small light begin flashing on the cabin's control panel. She suspected Sabin had activated a security program, and most probably, the corridor was wired with motion detectors. She hadn't expected him to trust her, but it was better than being shackled. Oddly enough, she was beginning to believe he didn't intend to kill her, although she wasn't sure why. She'd never known any man who kept his word if it didn't suit his purposes.

Yet Sabin had spared her life, when it would have been simpler to rid himself of her immediately. He could have left her to the Shielders if he didn't want to handle the deed himself. He didn't appear to be keeping her alive to satisfy his sexual needs, either.

She didn't know what to think of any of this, except maybe he really meant to have her memory erased and then release her. Although grateful his intentions appeared benign, she wasn't inclined to let anyone alter her memory. Besides, she couldn't afford to lose any more time.

She stretched out on the bunk, fingering her magnasteel bracelet. The bracelet looked common enough, like a thousand other adornments worn throughout this quadrant of the galaxy. But its contents were highly valuable, in more ways than one. More than just the four lethean patches lent the bracelet value, although each of those little patches cost at least a hundred miterons on the black market.

Even more valuable was the Leor credit chip hidden inside the bracelet, especially considering her life would be forfeit if she lost that chip. It would also be forfeit if she failed to appear in time to bid on the iridon shipment, which was why she had to act quickly.

According to her information, the auction would be held in eight cycles, giving bidders time to travel to the event. But she still had to find transportation and then travel to the auction site. With no time to waste, she had to use one of the lethean patches on Sabin at the first opportunity.

She'd held off this cycle, giving herself a chance to get her bearings and recover from fatigue and hunger. But tomorrow, she'd wait until Sabin's guard was down and then she'd place a patch on him. Within a minute, he'd be out cold, and his ship would be hers. A twinge of remorse pierced her. She'd just had her own ship stolen, so she knew how he might feel.

Surely this heap of rust couldn't be that great a loss for him, she argued to herself. Besides, she suspected Sabin Travers always managed to land on his feet. And her survival, along with that of Celie and the group members, hinged on getting to the iridon auction. She'd do whatever was necessary to ensure that.

The next morning, Moriah was awake long before Sabin deactivated the security program and came for her. She even had time to do her stretches and work through her fighting katas. Her kicks were a little stiff, but then she'd been in a cramped lav for several cycles. Her full range of motion would be restored with a few more workouts.

"Sorry to be so late." He strolled into the cabin with his usual casual air. "I worked out this morning."

Inadvertently, her gaze went to his biceps, bulging through the sleeves of his black flightsuit and then wandered to his impressive chest. He'd left the suit partway open, revealing a hint of dark hair. Forcing herself to glance up from his chest, she realized he'd showered. His dark hair, still damp, hung loose and silky around his shoulders. He'd shaved, too, the temporary lack of beard stubble lending a cleaner edge to his features.

He was close to two meters of pure, rugged male. Her mouth grew dry, and her pulse sped up. Shocked at the unusual reaction, she reprimanded herself mentally. She knew better. She'd learned the hard way that good looks could cover a rotten soul.

Besides, she needed to focus on placing a patch and escaping. The patch had to be positioned on bare skin, and required a full minute to take effect, which meant she had to place it without Travers being aware of it. She'd have to time it carefully.