7
The Venture’s landing struts locked onto the docking rails with a loud clank that reverberated through the ship.
“Would be nice if the gate fields still worked.” Trilby motioned to the darkened ring of lights at the wide docking-bay entry. “Then we could all help with outside repair.” She kept her voice level, professional. Rhis seemed to have the uncanny ability to get her emotions seesawing, and she was, frankly, tired of it. She had to remember he wasn’t “her” hero. He was her passenger. One she’d never see again after Port Rumor.
“As it is,” she said, unsnapping her straps, “best this raft can do for us is let us filch power from its solar grid.”
Rhis turned. “You don’t have EVA suits?”
“One. Mine. Doubt it’ll fit you.” She paused in the hatchway to glance at the life-support lights above the door. The Venture was back to normal, at least where that was concerned.
She reached for the palm pad, but Rhis’s voice stopped her. “How much experience do you have with zero-g repairs?”
He sounded concerned about her. Troubled by whatever it was he wasn’t telling her, she didn’t want him to be. His concern felt false, somehow. She leaned back against the hatchway. “Funny thing about EVA suits. Bigger they are, more they cost. Herkoid found that out a long time ago. Wasn’t a kid in Port Rumor, ’specially a girl, who didn’t get lots of training in zero-g repairs. And I don’t mean in sims.”
She saw his eyes close and bit her lip. Her answer had been sharp. But if he were truly concerned about her, then he had to be honest. All she could think about when the Tarks showed up was survival. She never questioned for a moment why they were on her tail. It had taken Rhis and his Fleet-issue paranoia to do that.
It bothered her that she didn’t have an answer. But it bothered her more that she thought he did. And, in spite of the way he held her hand and looked at her with a dark fire in his eyes, he wasn’t willing to share it.
That hurt her, just as Jagan’s lies and polished subterfuge had. Just as the supposedly wise social workers in Port Rumor had. Everyone seemed to know better than she how to run her life. And none ever saw fit to tell her. After all, who was she? Nothing but another castoff kid to the Iffys—the Iffys—and nothing but a low-budget jumpjockey to Jagan Grantforth. The Jagan Grantforth.
She slapped at the palm pad. The door whooshed open, letting in the tinny smell of a ventilation system that had just kicked on.
“It’ll take Dez and me about two hours, I figure, to patch what we can. I’ll be on intraship.” She pointed to a small overhead speaker in the corridor. “I’ll tell you what we find. And you tell me the minute you see any hint of visitors on my screens.”
He put his elbow on the armrest, then covered his mouth with one finger. After a moment, he nodded.
Talk to me! She wanted to yell at him. He was flatlining. Withdrawn. She could only figure it was because of the ’Sko patrol.
“Understood,” he said finally.
She wished she knew just what it was he understood.
Rhis listened to the cadence of her boots descending the metal stairs. Short. Probably female. He remembered coming up with that appraisal as he lay in sick bay.
Definitely female. He ran his hand over his face and turned back in the seat. He felt like the Gods had plugged his name into the number-one slot on their shit list.
He had to tell her the truth. Now. Who he was and what had brought him here. And that they were returning to Imperial space. He’d hoped to take over the Venture about six hours from now. They’d be close to a jumpgate he’d used before for a quick transit back to the Empire. He needed more time as well to finalize the wogs-and-weemlies he’d added to her ship’s systems, so that with one signal, all controls would be his. But the bits of coded transmissions he’d snagged from the ’Sko mother ship had forced him to accelerate his plans.
The ’Sko were looking for him. Waiting. He should have known they’d try to trace the energy signature from his Tark and then position patrols at the most likely coordinates. Anticipating, no doubt, a rescue by an Imperial ship.
But the patrol by Avanar had seen only an old Circura II starfreighter, which they almost let slip by.
Except for the second bit of data he pulled from their transmission.
The Careless Venture was flagged in their files for immediate destruction upon sighting. His air sprite was marked, targeted. And the kill order was tagged with the code symbols Dark Sword.
Dark Sword. He didn’t have to translate it from Ycskrite to Zafharish. He’d seen the symbols enough during the war to recognize it immediately. Dark Sword was the ’Sko code name for their contact in the Conclave. An anonymous, but well-placed, double agent, from the little the Empire had been able to discern.
He clenched his teeth. The data obtained from his near-fatal mission to Szed alluded to this same high-placed contact in the Conclave. A transport corporation was also involved, as a conduit for funds and information. Both Rinnaker and GGA could fit the profile of the latter. But there were too many possibilities for that crucial government contact. And no new clues.
Until now.
But why would Dark Sword want his air sprite dead? Rhis drummed his fingers on the armrest. He had no answers to that one. But this much he did know: the ’Sko and their spy would have to kill him first to accomplish that part of their mission. And take out the Razalka as well.
Because that’s where he was taking her. And that’s where she was going to stay.
He listened to her chatter to Dezi as they welded patches on the ship’s hull. She was working with an array of tools as threadbare as her ship. And as sparse as her closet.
That had shaken him. He’d stared at her empty closet because he couldn’t look at the few items of clothing on the floor. He’d always prided himself on his spartan lifestyle. But he had seven daily uniforms in his closet, three dress uniforms, and a workable collection of off-duty clothes.
Trilby Elliot had almost nothing. His closet, his quarters, his entire lifestyle was lavish in comparison.
He had more than one working EVA suit. And he’d been chosen for his assignments because of his qualifications, his intellect, his physical strength.
Not because he took up less space. Or because he was expendable.
Trilby was expendable. Not only to Herkoid but to Jagan Grantforth. Both had shamelessly used her. Both had carelessly endangered her. The thought made him want to punch holes in the bulkhead with his fist.
He settled for answering her question in a sharper tone than he intended. “That scanner disk is still not receiving, no!”
“Well, hell, Vanur, don’t bite my head off.” Her voice sounded hollow on intraship. But he could clearly picture her rolling her eyes in frustration at him. “We’re doing the best we can.”
“Of course. Sorry.”
“But long-range is okay?”
“Long-range is clear.” He hadn’t taken his eyes off it. Couldn’t afford to. The Venture was uncomfortably vulnerable right now, for all the protection afforded by the asteroids and the rafts.
“We’ve got one more patch to try. If that doesn’t work, then it’s going to be a slow, careful ride back to Rumor.”
No. A slow, careful ride to the border.
The time spent on repairs had been productive, not only for the Venture but for Trilby’s attitude. Some of her disquiet had abated. The ache between her shoulder blades had far more of her attention at the moment than Rhis’s elusive comments. She heard the buckle on his safety strap snap into place as she powered up her ship’s engines. Maybe it was time to let things get back to normal. “With no more surprises we’ll ETA at Rumor in about forty-three hours.”
“Unlocking landing grapples,” Dezi intoned.
“Affirmative,” she replied. She angled the thrusters, felt the ship shimmy slightly. “You hear me, Vanur? Forty-three and you’re free.”
“Will you miss me?”
His comment startled
her. That and the playful tone in his voice. His evasiveness seemed to have dissipated along with her annoyance at him.
She’d thought about it while she wrangled with the repairs. Maybe he’d told her the truth when he said it was just a routine patrol. She had to admit he had a lot more experience in that area than she did. If the Venture jumped through hyperspace as quickly as she jumped to conclusions, she’d have to apply for a patent for a miraculous hyperdrive.
She shot a quick grin over her shoulder and found him looking quizzically at her. “I’ll miss you every minute of every hour of every day. Now stick your nose back in your station and holler like hell the second anything even farts out there.”
“Captain.” Dezi tilted his tarnished head. “I don’t believe this ship’s sensors are calibrated to detect the discharge of organic digestive—”
“Long-and short-range on full sweep,” Rhis said loudly.
“Then we’re out of here.” She increased power. The Venture glided smoothly away from the raft.
Trilby watched the first coordinates flow across her screen. She let Rhis plot a course out of the asteroid field. He had, after all, gotten them in rather skillfully, and in one piece. There was still a bit of weaving to do before they could head for Port Rumor.
At the eight-minute mark the asteroids became smaller and more widely spaced. She gave her ship a little more power and was pleased with the way she handled. Maybe getting knocked around a bit had done the old girl some good.
At fifteen minutes they were at the outer edges of the last bands. At twenty, completely clear.
“Log notes we have cleared the belt at nineteen minutes, thirty-one seconds, and—”
“Thanks, Dez. Got it.” She looked back over her shoulder and caught Rhis slowly shaking his head. She grinned, then settled back, her smile fading. It might be about forty-three hours until they reached Rumor—and she was sure Dezi would be glad to give a more precise estimate of the time—but the next two hours were the most critical. If the ’Sko mother ship was still around, she’d make her presence known before the Venture cleared Quadrant 84 and was back in Conclave patrol range.
It was one of the reasons she’d used Avanar for so long. No one, not even the Conclave, liked to come this far out. Except now her little secret had been discovered by the ’Sko.
One hour out and the engines were purring at max. Long-range and short-range were blissfully silent. They were still too far from the trader lanes to see any merchant traffic on the screens.
Rhis had to be right. It was only bad timing that’d made them cross paths with the ’Sko. Nothing was out here now. It was almost peaceful. Trilby relaxed a bit more and realized she was hungry. Soup sounded good. She unsnapped her buckle.
“Take the con, Dez. I’m going to see what I can scare up in the galley. Soup for dinner okay with you?” she asked Rhis as she stood.
“Need some help?”
“Nope. I’ll bring a couple mugs up here.”
She found two large packets of vegetable soup in the food locker and set the timer for three minutes. She turned and was looking in the galley lower racks for two mugs when she heard footsteps coming down the corridor.
She raised her head over the counter just as Rhis walked in. His hands were shoved in his pockets. His face wore the look of a small boy who knew he was about to get into big trouble.
“I need to talk to you.” His voice had the tight tone of a grown man who knew he was in trouble.
Damn, double damn. Her heart plummeted just as unease raced up her spine again. Her mind raced over several things. First was the location and status of her hand weapons. She had never given him the codes to the weapons lockers, but then, he was Zafharin. Still, his hands in his pockets didn’t appear to conceal a laser pistol.
The second was a reappearance of the ’Sko. But her alarms were silent. And Dezi would’ve been on intraship long before Rhis could make the trek down the ladderway.
Then for a brief moment she wondered if he was ill. The crash of the Tark was no child’s play. And he had bounded—quite naked, she remembered—out of the regeneration unit long before he was completely healed. Her gaze raked him head to foot. No, he looked fit, disgustingly fit. If he dropped dead now he’d be the best-looking corpse she’d ever seen.
So it had to be about that evasiveness that had settled over him after the ’Sko attack. And his cryptic comments. Maybe there was something to his paranoia after all.
And maybe, just maybe, he’d finally realized he should share that information with her. A bonus point, if he did. She patted the high counter. “Have a seat. Soup’s almost ready.”
The timer pinged while she was placing the mugs on the counter. He climbed onto a stool but was silent as she poured the thick, fragrant liquid full of sweetroot and goldbulb. Crisp chunks of greenlace floated to the top.
She perched on the stool next to him and wagged her spoon in his face. “Talk.”
He took a spoonful of the soup first, sipped it thoughtfully. She wanted to smack him with her spoon for the minor delay but stirred her soup instead.
“I wasn’t involved in war games,” he said finally. “I was part of an infiltration mission. The ’Sko took me prisoner. I stole the Tark and escaped.”
She let out the breath she’d been holding. That was it? Hell, she’d figured as much. There was no reason why she, or anyone in the Conclave, wouldn’t have been sympathetic to that situation. “Why did you lie to me?”
“I will explain that in a moment.”
“So those ’Sko were looking for you—”
“Trilby, please. Hear me out.”
She tapped her spoon on the edge of her mug, barely disguising her impatience. “Go ahead.”
“They were looking for you too.”
The spoon trembled in her fingers. “But that makes no sense. Why me? I’ve never even had a cargo contract worth more than—”
“It might have something to do with Grantforth.”
She dropped her spoon. It clattered against the countertop. “Jag—What in hell are you talking about?”
“I recognized a transmission signature from the mother ship during the attack, locked it in a capture feed.” He waved his hand. “Yes, I used that program I mentioned. Please. Let me finish.”
Trilby closed her mouth.
“What I snared was a coded transmission from the mother ship to the Tarks. But I couldn’t run a decode until we destroyed them. There is only so much,” he said, splaying his hands on the counter in a depreciative gesture, “that I can do at once. Survival was more important.”
“No shit.”
He let out a short sigh. “But I decoded it while you started your systems check.”
And swore loud and long, Trilby remembered. And became evasive, not to lie to her, but to protect her.
“The mother ship was sent to look for me. But your ship was listed in their kill file. As soon as they ID’d you, they changed course to follow.”
Kill file. Trilby knew about ’Sko kill files. Anyone who worked the lanes did. But kill files were usually for revenge. You take out a ’Sko squadron, a ’Sko station, you’re in their kill file.
“But I never did anything to them!” she protested. “Look at me. I’m a small hauler. I’m broke. I don’t go running raids on ’Sko colonies, or—”
“I don’t know why you’re in the file. But you are. And the order, the code that I picked up from the mother ship, also held a code that I know from the war. It relates to a double agent in your government, someone the ’Sko call Dark Sword. And it relates, we now think, to this same agent using a Conclave transport company to help them. GGA is one of the possibilities.”
She sat back. Grantforth Galactic Amalgamated. Not Jagan. When Rhis said “Grantforth” she automatically assumed he meant Jagan, personally. But why would he? There was no way he’d know about her fiasco of a relationship.
“GGA would never work with the ’Sko,” she protested. “I mean, hell, Garold Gr
antforth’s on the Trade Commission. Are you saying his family’s betraying him? It would ruin his political career, to say the least.”
This time it was Rhis who stirred his soup. “The message didn’t specifically mention GGA. But tell me about Garold Grantforth. Do you know him?”
“Sort of,” she admitted after a moment. What was it, one or two cocktail parties? Three? A year ago, maybe. “I met him at a couple of social events I went to.” She saw something odd in Rhis’s expression but couldn’t peg it. No doubt he was wondering where a low-budget hauler like Trilby Elliot would meet up with a high-powered politician.
Oh, Gods, she thought. He thinks I was a prosti.
She waved her hand quickly. “Not those kind of parties. I knew his nephew. Jagan. Jagan Grantforth. He introduced me to his uncle. That’s all.”
Rhis’s spoon clunked hollowly against the sides of the plastic mug. He was staring at her, his silence urging her to speak. But she didn’t know what he wanted her to say.
“I dated Jagan Grantforth, okay? I know that’s probably hard for you to believe. I mean, he’s got money, right? A name. Position. But we dated. We—” and she stopped and had to look away from the intensity in his eyes. It wasn’t disbelief she saw there. It looked like pity.
Gods damn him and his Imperial arrogance! She might as well have a sign plastered on her forehead: I’m nobody and let somebody rich and powerful use me. She could see it in the way he was looking at her. Poor, stupid Trilby. Did you really ever believe someone like the Jagan Grantforth would want you?
“So you dated Grantforth.”
She turned back to him, raised her chin a little higher. “Yeah. So what?”
“So what did he learn from you?”
“I beg your pardon?” Her voice dripped icicles.
“No, no.” He wiped one hand over his face. “About your routes. Your cargo runs. The things you told me that Neadi hears all the time in her bar. What did he learn from you?”
The icicles moved from Trilby’s mouth to her brain. Her thoughts froze, seized up like a clogged sublight drive.
Finders Keepers Page 10
