Star Crossed

by C. Gockel

  A sort of crevasse opened to one side. Great, a pit toilet for her pit stop. She shone the light back the way she’d come, but he hadn’t followed her.

  Smart man.

  When she finished, she picked up her zoombag and headed back, noting he’d retreated to his spot on the other side of—Sara could see it now—a pile of glowing rocks. Yet another clue she wasn’t in Kansas, in case she had any doubts left. Sara stopped by her stuff, dropped her zoombag and picked out her bottle of waterless soap, so she could clean her hands. She could feel him watching everything she did. Didn’t take long to figure out her side arm, knife and P-90 were not among the jumble of her stuff.

  Very smart man.

  Back on earth, she wouldn’t have had a P-90 or the ABU’s—the pixilated camo uniform—under her zoombag, but she’d received a lot of specialized training and been given a lot more gear prior to the mission. Lucky for her, all he’d done was take it. Be a real bummer if he used it against her. And embarrassing.

  Not that he needed her stuff to kick her ass.

  Though she was careful not to turn the light on him, in the reflected glow she could see him a bit better. He was younger than she’d first thought, probably close to her own age. He was also very nicely built, thanks to the generosity of all the leather, and her impression that he was well armed was confirmed. He had side arms of some sort on both hips, a sword looking thing strapped to his back and at least three knife sheaths that she could see. Probably more she couldn’t see. On his wrists she could see spikes sticking out in a deadly fan.

  Dang. Must be a rough neighborhood.

  What was he doing here?

  And where was here?

  She turned off the flashlight and dropped it back on the pile, then returned to her seat, a pile of dried stuff. She looked around. It seemed to be the only pile of stuff. His bed? That was kind of disturbing. On the other hand, he was keeping his distance. She knew she was no beauty queen. There were no cushy love lies in foster care. She was too tall, too thin, her hair was too red and her eyes were too big for her face. That said, as far as she could tell, she was the last woman on this earth and there he sat.

  On his side of the cave.

  Not that she wanted to get hit on by a caveman. She was just curious. How desperate did a guy have to get to hit on her?

  She noticed the glowing dial of her watch. One thing he hadn’t taken. If she didn’t count her virginity. But she was moving on from that. The time meant nothing, since she hadn’t been in position to look at her watch before the crash. The alarm had sounded at twelve-hundred. The dog fight, well it seemed long, but it probably wasn’t. According to her watch it was either 0500 or 1700.

  She rubbed her aching head.

  “I don’t suppose you’d tell me how long I was out?” She looked up suddenly and saw the green glow of his eyes. “I know you understand me. I can see it in your eyes.”

  The eyes abruptly turned away. Sara smiled to herself. She picked up the bowl of food, took another piece and examined it, then absently popped it in her mouth. Okay, that was worse than the last one. She spit it out in her hand and looked at him. He still wasn’t looking, so she dumped it back in the wooden thing, and set it aside. She leaned back against the wall, shifting until she found a semi-comfortable position, then pulled her legs in until her knees were against her chest and rested her arms on them, watching her host.

  After a time, she saw his gaze turn toward her again.

  Oddly enough, the silence wasn’t uncomfortable. Sara didn’t have a problem with not talking. She’d spent a lot of her life not talking. The problem with this silence, it allowed worry to creep in. When her Dauntless got hit, the Doolittle had been engaged in a battle with an unknown, alien force. Had it survived? Did anyone see her get hit or where she went? How far from her ship had he taken her? Was any of it still intact? And all questions led back to, why had he taken her? What did he want? Who was he? Why was he here, apparently all alone?

  When she was fourteen, she’d thought the worst thing that could happen to her was foster care. What a difference thirteen years—and another galaxy—made.

  As always, when she was nervous, she began to tap out a song against the sides of her arms.

  The song got slower…

  Sara’s chin sank down to rest on her arms, then her lashes drifted down....

  Captain Sara Donovan. Sara. Fyn tried the name out in his head. He didn’t know what a Captain was, but he liked Sara. It suited her.

  No surprise she’d been uneasy when she came to, but she hid it quickly and hid it deep. Her chin had lifted slowly until he was looking down into cool, wary gray pools. She’d stood, her gaze never leaving his. He should have said something then, but he couldn’t think of anything to say. Asleep she was lovely to examine, but awake—

  The gods had been unexpectedly kind.

  There was strength and character in her cleanly fashioned face. Her eyes were wide and tipped up at the edges, like a smile. Her chin was slightly pointed, but determined. Even her hair seemed more alive when she was awake. He had to stop himself from touching it, from touching her.

  Now he smiled, thinking of the color running into her face when she’d tried to tell him she needed to relieve herself. And the look on her face when she’d eaten the food.

  Without her outer gear, she was long and lean and graceful and he couldn’t believe she’d been at the controls of that ship. Her voice was as cool as her eyes and the soft curve of her mouth reminded him that men could do things besides fight, even though she’d made no attempt to use the fact that she was female to try and manipulate him. Quite the contrary.

  He remembered how women acted when they knew they were beautiful. She didn’t act that way.

  He stared toward her, wondering if she’d really fallen asleep and if she had, how could she, curled up like that? Had she pulled herself in like that because she was afraid of him? What had put the tiny frown between her brows? What had she heard when she swayed like that? There’d been a pattern to the way her fingers tapped against her arms. He’d been alone a long time and away from women for longer than that and he couldn’t say he’d understood women then.

  It wasn’t long before first light that she stirred again, stretching her cramped muscles before rising. Her chin tilted defensively, she made another trip to the rear of the cave. He watched with interest as she washed her hands again, then took out another of the little packets and cleaned her face.

  She dug around in the stuff, until she found small, white pellets, tossed them in her mouth and drank from a larger packet. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, then looked at him, biting her lower lip, an almost brooding expression in her gray eyes.

  “Look,” she said, breaking the long silence, “I appreciate the hospitality, and as charming as this place is—” Her gaze swept the area as if she couldn’t quite believe what she was seeing— “I need to get back to my bird. My people will look for me there.”

  Fyn stared at her, fascinated by the play of expression on her face and in her eyes. She stood up and put her hands on her hips.

  “If you could point me in the right the direction, I can take myself there. Though you’re welcome to join me.”

  Her booted foot began to tap the floor.

  “Or not.”

  She might have been gritting her teeth. Fyn got up and closed the small gap that divided them, forcing her to tip her head back to look at him. He’d thought someone would look for him once. If anyone came, it probably wouldn’t be her people, but the Dusan making sure they’d killed her. He was trying to decide how to tell her that, when little sparks shot out her eyes.

  “Fine.”

  She started to step around him. He didn’t know which of them was more surprised when he grabbed her arm. He could feel her tense at the sudden contact. Her lips thinned into a stubborn line and her chin lifted. Her gaze narrowed in warning.

  “It’s not safe.” He felt her jerk in surprise. The sound of
his voice surprised him, too. “When it’s light, I’ll take you.”

  They were standing so close, he could smell the scent that had puzzled him as he carried her. She looked at him for a long moment, then the challenge in her eyes eased a bit.

  “Thank you.” There was still a chill in her voice.

  She looked in the direction of the entrance and he braced for a flood of questions, but she eased her arm from his hold, as if she thought he might not let go. Had he scared her? She tucked her hands into her under arms. Maybe she was just cold.

  “It’s warmer here,” he said, indicating the rocks he’d lit up.

  She knelt and held her hands over the glowing warmth. Lashes and chin lifted slowly. Wary and curious warred for dominance in her eyes.

  “You’re really tall.” An almost smile edged up the sides of her mouth. “I’m usually as tall or taller than most of the guys I know.”

  He crouched down across from her, hoping she would speak again. He liked the sound of her voice. It was soft and clear, with a slightly husky undertone.

  “You’ve been very kind but I have to tell you,” she sounded very serious, “You talk way too much.”

  What? He stared at her and suddenly she grinned at him. The movement sent warmth flooding into her face, like the sun topping the horizon.

  His mouth smiled back before he told it to.

  “So, you do have a sense of humor. That’s a relief. That brooding silence was beginning to freak me out.”

  “I’ve been alone a long time.” The words came a bit easier this time.

  “Really? I couldn’t tell.” Her brows arched and her mouth was prim, but her eyes were bright with humor.

  He shouldn’t stare, but he couldn’t help it. She was different from any woman he’d met, anywhere. She was still wary, but she wasn’t afraid. She looked right at him and there was an air of confidence and yes, competence about her.

  She sat back, crossing her legs. She started tapping her fingers again.

  “So, you must have pulled me out of my bird?” She hesitated. “Was it trashed?”

  Her bird must be her ship. Trashed? That would be crashed, maybe? He looked at her, not sure how to tell her.

  “That bad? Tactically, the gomers sucked, but they were everywhere. It was a real furball and then I took a double hit to the six. Thought I was going to have to pull my loud handle—you know, punch out—but I didn’t want to lose my bird, or be hanging in space in a freaking pod with everyone bumping heads around me.” She sighed. “Man, Briggs is so going to bust my chops. He keeps telling me I fly like a girl. Now he’s got proof.”

  Fyn blinked a little at this, but managed to figure out the essential point.

  “You were attacked by the Dusan.” It wasn’t really a question.

  “The gomers didn’t stop to introduce themselves, just dived in and started shooting.”

  He noticed that she’d started to relax, now that they were talking. He should have remembered that about women. It hadn’t been that long.

  “Did they see you come here?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. Probably. I think one of them started to follow me, but the colonel made him go away.”

  “The kernel?”

  “Lieutenant Colonel Carey, our squadron commander.”

  Worry danced across her face. “They’ll be worried about me.”

  “You think they will come?”

  Her chin lifted. “We don’t leave our people behind.”

  If they survived the attack.

  “The Dusan will probably come, too,” he said. “They don’t like to leave people alive.”

  “Really.” Her gaze narrowed as she thought about this. “Then I’ll need my weapons back.”

  Her chin lifted, as if she expected him to argue about it. He reached behind him, extracted them one at a time, and handed them to her. She stuck the knife in the sheath he’d removed it from, but not the other two.

  “I had some spare magazines—long things that hold my bullets?”

  “Everything else is right there,” he said, nodding toward the pack, with her stuff scattered around it.

  She ejected something that he figured was the magazine from the smaller gun, checked it, shoved it back in, then stowed it back in its holder at her hip. Warmth stirred in his mid-section. He’d never seen a woman with any weapon. He liked the way she handled them and how she looked wearing them. They suited her.

  She noticed him looking. “Nine mil, for close shooting.” She held up the larger weapon. “And this is a P-90 for the distance shots.”

  She checked it the way she had the nine mil, then set it down beside her, as she knelt by her scattered belongings. She stowed most of it back in the pack, including her outer suit, but he noticed she put a few more of the magazines in her pockets. She looked up at him. “We probably won’t be coming back here, so you should get your stuff together—if you want a lift off this rock? You do, don’t you?”

  He looked at her warily.

  “I know you’ll miss the food and these charming digs, but try to buck up.” She grinned again.

  He had to grin back. “Not much to take with me.”

  Most of his gear had been destroyed when his ship caught fire. He’d been lucky to get himself out.

  She couldn’t be right about help coming, but she was hard to resist. There was something basically upbeat about her, a resilience that impressed him—even if he didn’t understand more than half of what she said.

  “So, what’s the plan?”

  Plan? There was a plan?

  “I was thinking we should do some recon. Are they likely to be covert? Or do the gomers like to strut around being big and bad?”

  He sorted through this. “Probably covert.”

  “Well, since you know the terrain—and where we’re going—you should take point and I’ll get your six.”

  “My six?”

  “I’ll follow you? Watch your back? Clock? Twelve o’clock at the top, six at the bottom.” She tipped her head slightly to the side. “Odd that we seem to have a similar language, but different stuff, too. Is your language pretty common around here?”

  “Some worlds have their own language, but they also speak the Common language.” She was right, though. It was strange.

  “Interesting.” She looked at him for a moment longer. “We should figure out some hand signals.”

  He blinked a couple of times. Hand signals? She didn’t seem to notice.

  “Usually we do this when we need to stop and be quiet.” She held her fist up at a right angle to her body. “How many Dusan are we likely to be dealing with?”

  Fyn shrugged. “For a small craft, they’ll send a scout ship, between five and six?” He hesitated. “Even when they use stun, their weapons can kill.”

  “Okay. Don’t get shot. Anything else?”

  “They’ll have two positions, overlooking your ship. We’ll need to hit them at the same time. If they get a chance to send a warning, more will come.”

  Did she understand what he was telling her?

  Her mouth thinned and her eyes narrowed. “So, we make them go away.”

  He hoped that meant kill them.

  She showed him some more signals and then she pulled out a hat of the same mottled material as her clothing and put it on her head. She tucked her hair up out of sight. Next she picked up a small round box. She opened it. The contents looked dark and sticky. She proceeded to rub it on her skin.

  “Did I miss anywhere?” she asked, suddenly. She did a half turn, so he could see the back of her neck.

  He pointed to his temple, fascinated by how efficiently she prepared herself for battle. She was obviously well trained. Was that part of what made her different?

  “Oh, right.” She smeared the brown stuff on the dressing covering her head wound. “How long until its light?”

  “Not long.”

  When everything was stowed but a small rectangular box, she picked it up and turned a knob on t
he top. It emitted a crackle. Maybe she saw him looking at it, because she said, “Radio. For communication.”

  He’d had something similar in his craft, though not so portable. A useful innovation.

  She listened for a moment, then pressed the side, stopping the crackle and spoke into it.

  “Home plate, this outfield5. Do you copy?” Only crackling silence. “Come in, home plate.” Again, no response. With a slight sigh, she stowed this in a pocket, too, one near her face. “No joy. The cave might be blocking the transmission, though.”

  There was a small silence. He should say something.

  “So, do you have a name or should I just call you Chewie?” Her lips curved slightly, as if inviting him to share a joke.

  “Chewie?”

  “Sorry, Earth joke.”

  Earth?

  “I’m Fyn. Kiernan Fyn.”

  “So, do you like to be called Kiernan, Kier, or Fyn? Sir? Or Mr. Fyn—”

  “Fyn. That’s what most people call me.” Probably. Been awhile since anyone called him anything. Though no one had found so many different things to call him in such a short time.

  “Everyone on the Doolittle calls me Donovan, but I answer to Sara, too. At least I think I do. It’s been a while.” Her eyes were big and serious in her blackened face. She grinned suddenly, her teeth white against her darkened skin. “A long while.” She held out her hand. “Nice to meet you, Fyn.”

  He took her hand. She seemed to expect it. It felt narrow and soft inside his, but her grip was surprisingly strong. She lifted their hands up and down, then took her hand back.

  “That’s called ‘shaking on it’ where I come from. It’s a friendly greeting.” Her tone was educational, but her eyes still smiled.

  “Okay.” He realized he sounded rude. “Nice to meet you.”

  Her brows arched. He smiled slightly.

  “Donovan.” Using her last name seemed safer, though he couldn’t have said how. In his head, he was already calling her Sara. “Earth?”

  “That’s my home planet. Third rock from the sun.”

  He frowned. “Never heard of it.”

  Her eyes got slightly wary. “So, you know this galaxy pretty well?”