"This one's free. I'd offer you one higher up, but . . ."
"I'm not good at climbing." Kyle dropped his pack on the lowest bed. At least the two on top looked unused.
Winter shrugged. "Stuff's in the usual place."
Kyle sat down on the bunk and reached for the woven black straps that would hold him during take-off and landing. They were as wide as his hands and withstood a strong tug when he tested them. "Straps all in working order?"
"Yeah, nobody's ever used those, but Grimm's anal about this. Even keeps a cryo-unit on standby, whatever the fuck he thinks that accomplishes."
"It's standard procedure for deep shock in case of a hull breach." Kyle smiled and tested the next strap. "So you have an operating theater?"
"Just basics, to keep people alive."
That would be one cargo space down. Slave traders usually improvised with heated irons and chemical cocktails. So what exactly did these mercs live off? With the speed and armor of the Scorpion, they were certainly something more than extremely fast couriers for illegal freight. To run a smuggling outfit, you didn't need a dozen mercenaries who looked like they'd wreck bars uncontested wherever they stopped. Smuggling only really took a pilot and somebody to keep the pilot alive and sane during the long trips.
"Ever thought of shipping VIP passengers around? Your little piece of lightning here could outrun everything out there."
Winter nodded. "We've done it. Also run illegal cargo. And hunted pirates. There was good money to be made a year or so ago, as blockade breakers didn't follow the Doctrine's 'stay out' policy."
"You worked for the Doctrine zombies?"
Winter laughed, probably amused by the outrage in his voice. "They put the contract on the market. And supplied the shield generator they'd salvaged as a bonus payment. That was a good time, but then things got a bit too cozy and we made a dash for it before their polite 'You want to join us, right?' turned too demanding."
"Surely you'd seen that coming." The Doctrine Committee Generals hadn't exactly made a secret of their desire to unite all human space under their particular brand of brain-washed brotherhood. Even the Commonwealth was pouring tons of money and resources into war-tech for when the Doctrine made its move—which many were expecting sooner rather than later. This crew wasn't stupid enough to ignore a threat that size.
"Yeah, we did see it coming." Winter leaned against the bunk. "If you want to stay an independent agent, you gotta play one against the other. That's why we're currently running in the Commonwealth. Plenty of work, what with the Glyrinny and all. Some people say the morphs are preparing for war." Winter gave him a sly look from the corner of her eye.
Kyle kept his face carefully neutral. Had she guessed why he was here? Or did she just fire tracer rounds into the darkness? He tested the last strap. They all seemed like they'd hold, but he'd only know for sure during launch. "Well, they're aliens."
And spectacularly mis-timed aliens, too. Just as the Doctrine was turning into a tangible threat, the Glyrinny had shown up, a brain-sucking, shape-shifting alien race of unknown capabilities—or interests. Bad news on top of bad news. Nobody could even guess what unpleasant surprises Glyrinny space held, so the border had been locked down and the whole area quarantined. Which left the Commonwealth having to defend two borders, both of which could turn into hot combat zones at a moment's notice. No wonder the Sector Commissar was paranoid.
Kyle sat down heavily on his bed. The mattress adjusted under his weight and actually felt more comfortable than he'd expected. He pulled his pilot bag up and shoved it into the storage compartment, twisting his back more quickly than he should have. Shit. A sharp pain zinged up from the bottom of his spine, and he suppressed a groan. It fucking hurt. They'd told him to keep his spine aligned as best he could, but how the fuck did you do that while maneuvering in confined spaces? He froze, felt down into his body, tried to work out how bad it was. He turned back around slowly, exhaling as the vertebrae ground against one another. His spine felt brittle, like it could snap in the middle, like an old, hollow branch.
"You all right?"
"Shouldn't have done that." Kyle grimaced and lay back on the mattress. "Help me get my legs up?" He hated asking for help, but straightening his back and aligning the rest of his body was the best thing he could do right now. The alternative was to try to get up and hope that whatever had dislocated would snap back into place.
Winter lifted his legs onto the bed and helped him straighten out. "Need something for the pain?"
"It doesn't actually hurt that much." Also, there was no pill available for phantom pain. "I'll just rest a bit. Wake me up when we start." Not that he'd be able to sleep through a launch.
He woke when the overhead light changed from yellowish to red. He must have been exhausted, because somewhere in the meantime, he'd missed the arrival of the other mercs. The remaining beds were occupied, and everybody was already strapped in. The mattress had hardened underneath him—a clear sign of launch preparations. He started to fasten his own straps.
Winter stood in the aisle. "All ready, Captain."
Grimm moved from the doorway into the middle of the room, where Kyle could see him clearly, his dark eyes shrouded in the low light. For a second, he didn't look human at all. "Very well. Get strapped in."
Winter lay down on the bed, and Grimm helped her buckle all the straps. He tested the fastenings and adjusted a support block under her neck, then adjusted the fastening of the last strap, which ran across her belly. He turned to Kyle. "Time to wake up, Kyle. We're about to launch."
"Nobody sleeps through an atmospheric launch."
"I had a comrade on Morten who did." Grimm crouched and tested his straps. "You keeping the prostheses on?"
"They'll be fine."
Grimm surveyed the strapped-down landscape of his body, studying him slowly and with far too much interest. Kyle hated it, but that look held a possibility, almost an offer. He could imagine them together, him whole and well, Grimm under his control, pleasuring him.
Fuck, where had that come from? He hadn't had such thoughts for weeks, not since the injury, the recovery. His libido had died a cringing death somewhere between the battle and the hospital. But at least his body didn't betray him. Nothing happened in his groin. Nothing at all. But it would have.
Now, that's a new one. You go for the swaggering assholes, Kyle, because that's exactly what you were before they killed all those nerves.
Grimm reached over and tested another fastening, brushing him with his knuckles. "You do look rather appetizing, all tied up at my mercy," he whispered.
Shit if his dick didn't try to stir.
And, had a fallen warrior just propositioned him? Formerly selfless protector of widows and orphans and cripples? The possibility shocked him. Warriors usually kept to each other—as if fucking a lesser member of society diluted their masculinity. Hard to imagine that Grimm's standards had slipped quite so far. Somehow, it had become extremely hard to resent him; the remaining anger was now more about the fact that he was not Grimm's equal, couldn't even move his legs without help.
"So you fancy fucking a slab of unresponsive meat?"
Grimm leaned closer, too close. Face to face. Close enough to smell soldered cables, plastic, and machine oil. He smelled like an engineer, not a pilot. "I'd make you respond. You could say I owe you after taking both your codes." He smiled. "Just let me try." He touched the side of Kyle's neck, and Kyle jerked. He couldn't tell what was worse—how intrigued he was by that promise or how little he believed it would actually happen.
Grimm shoved a support block under Kyle's neck and stood. "Time to launch. Relax, guys."
He swaggered out, and the door sealed.
Somewhere, a man hyperventilated, sucking in harsh, fast breaths to saturate his blood with oxygen. Another whispered what sounded like a prayer in a foreign language. Kyle closed his eyes and mulled Grimm's words. His promise. Why Grimm would be attracted to him, or pretend to be.
&nb
sp; But what could he gain by pretending? The diplomatic codes were by far the most valuable thing Kyle had owned. Grimm surely would not be fucking him for his money. And damn, but it was a promise he was actually interested in. Maybe because Grimm was a piece of home—a twisted, changed piece, but an embodiment of memories nonetheless.
To prepare himself for the launch, he imagined his consciousness fusing with the steel, ceramic, and titanium shell around him, like he had when he'd sat in the pilot's chair. It was self-deception; this ship wasn't his body, and the mental exercise served no purpose, unlike the times when he'd used it to familiarize himself with a new ship, or reacquaint himself with a current one at the beginning of a shift.
A low vibration signaled the thrusters were on. Two of them. Then the vibration got so strong it rattled his teeth. Four thrusters? Or had Grimm merely cycled them up to firing?
Mother of Light, Father of Darkness.
"Here goes," Winter groaned between clenched teeth, when suddenly, all the engines fired.
The vibration turned into a bone-shaking tremor, a million parts quaking in their foundations or locked behind cages as the ship launched.
It was a combat launch, not designed for passengers but soldiers. The acceleration was brutal, like a thousand organ-busting kicks against every tissue in his body. A frail passenger—or one not strapped down and supported by the intelligent foam of the beds—wouldn't have survived the pressure against the heart and lungs. Grimm was flirting with swelling their brains in their skulls, turning the gray matter (or whatever color Winter's had) into mush trickling out of their noses and ears.
Somebody screamed, or tried to. It was a breathless, pained keening that Kyle didn't want to hear again in his life. Utter agony. He couldn't even dream of turning his neck, pressed into the mattress as he was, expecting his organs to burst through his back and ooze onto the floor. He fought to stay conscious, focus on breathing, gulping down what oxygen he could. If Grimm was following standard procedure, O2 content would be higher now to help them survive, but it still felt like breathing with a mountain on his chest. Everything hurt.
And then the pressure was gone, the pain an echo. The ship had left the planet's atmosphere and the worst of the gravity field.
Winter moaned a curse and released her straps. Kyle turned his head and noticed her get up. She staggered to her feet and turned to the mercenary closest to her. "You good?"
The man answered in the affirmative, and Winter made the rounds, from one to the next, ensuring everyone was conscious and nobody had bitten off their tongue. Kyle just floated in his own mind. The launch pain had turned effortlessly into a high that was better than most drugs he'd ever tried (usually on long spells of leave from the Space Navy—those people didn't joke around about recreational drugs). He felt weightless, euphoric, and aware of how much the natural adrenaline buzz affected him.
He released his straps and sat up, wobbly even sitting down, so he steadied himself against the bunk above him. "That was a fucking brutal launch."
Winter nodded. "Like he just robbed a bank." She glared toward the door. "I'll have a word with him."
Kyle would have killed to see the big gray gal go toe-to-toe with a Tamenean warrior. But sneaking in after them would look weird, considering he was just a tolerated passenger with no personal stakes.
He shifted his weight closer to the edge of his mattress, and glanced up to the bunks opposite him. The mercenary couple was already sitting on the same bunk, whispering to each other. One of them glanced over at him, wearing a lazy, relaxed smile that bore the aftertaste of a mellow shag and good-hearted happiness. Kyle envied him—actually them both. They looked so comfortable with each other, like they existed in their own bubble where nothing, not even a thruster-scorching launch, rattled them for long.
"Hey, you."
Kyle looked at the taller of the two. "Yeah?"
"What's your name?"
"Kyle."
"I'm Jay, and this is Petros." The taller, Jay, put a hand on his lover's shoulder. "You from Tamene?"
"Yes, south continent. Where Grimm's from."
Petros smiled. "Looks like you'll fit right in."
Flirtation? Or a somewhat awkward welcome? Kyle decided to smile back. "I wouldn't mind working for the fare, but Grimm's robbed me blind."
"You're a Spacer," Jay observed.
"Ex-Spacer. Got it in one."
"You fight?"
"Not anymore. Unless there's some martial art I can adapt to incorporate my new range of movement." Kyle stood and tapped at the prosthesis that moved his legs for him.
Petros also stood, regarding him with one long, measuring glance that lingered at his hip area. Was he looking at his metal bits or checking out his dick? Petros seemed to have a fair package on him; not that it was easy to tell in the jumpsuits. And not that it mattered, with his lover sitting within reach and watching closely.
Something about Grimm had reawakened Kyle's long-dormant desires, reminding him of all he'd lost. It was as if that odd touch, that tempting promise, had ripped a scab off his soul.
"Balance is going to be a challenge," Petros said, snapping Kyle from his thoughts.
"Yes. And acceleration." And fine-tuning, and the fact that he felt absolutely nothing. Which would be a problem if he used his feet and knees to hit a human body—those had bones, and hence were much less of a "soft" target than his strategy instructor had drilled him to believe. He wouldn't feel the damage he might do to himself if he used his legs to fight. And another thing kept him from fighting: the fear that he could mess up his spine worse than it already was.
Petros rubbed his chin. "There are some things you can do. Holds and throws that don't require you to move much. I could show you."
Jay laughed. "Only if I can watch."
This was getting too personal too fast. Kyle lifted his hands. "I'm no fun, I promise."
If the merc's interest went any further, he still had the option of letting him down gently. And then not so gently if he insisted. Nothing he couldn't deal with—especially as somebody who'd apparently been incarcerated. He glanced around for something to help him change the topic, but the sparse room didn't yield anything conspicuous.
Winter came back just as the silence dragged on for too long. "Kyle, Grimm wants to see you."
"What shape is he in?"
Winter hesitated, then grinned broadly. "I didn't hit him or anything. Just told him next time he launches like that without an emergency, I'll have his balls."
"And what did he say?"
"Said it was an emergency." Winter snorted. "Go see him."
Kyle stalked off, but didn't hurry. His senses had mellowed in the post-adrenaline haze, but he still kept both eyes open for unaccounted-for spaces on the ship. He'd hoped somebody would have let something slip about a passenger, but so far, nothing. Maybe they were too professional for that. Or maybe the Commissar had it all wrong and these people weren't actually harboring a fugitive spy.
The path to the ship's nerve center led through the mess area, now crowded with four men preparing food and putting up the long, narrow table and benches that had been folded down. He navigated around them, walked down the corridor, and stepped through the last door that swished open for him.
There were still some cable bundles hanging about, and he ducked beneath one. In the pilot seat, Grimm had reclined so far back it looked almost like he was lying in a bed. He was wearing the gray jumpsuit, but it was open at the chest, and he'd shed his combat boots, feet in tight compression socks. "Ah, Kyle, thanks for coming."
Beyond the metal shell surrounding them was the deep black of space; the screens that covered half the available room in front of the pilot seats were alive, offering the illusion of staring right into the void. Grimm leaned forward and slapped a button. The door behind Kyle whispered shut.
Kyle refused to glance behind him to acknowledge the noise. "What's up?" He could speak in innuendo, too.
Grimm turned his head lazi
ly. His expression spoke of the same adrenaline haze Kyle had been floating in. "You have flight training; would you mind being useful?"
"Co-piloting the ship?"
"I'd prefer another human to watch the instruments while I'm sleeping. Our course shouldn't be too dangerous, but you never know."
That was reasonable enough, but something told Kyle that wasn't all there was to it. "Any other reasons?"
"You seem like the type who gets easily bored."
"Not at all."
"We could spend time together. Exchange stories." Grimm winked at him. "Also, the co-pilot seat is more comfortable than your bunk."
Kyle glanced at the other seat, which was piled high with cable bundles and spare parts. He walked over to it, put a hand on the firm material of the cushioning and squeezed it. "I'm out of practice."
"I don't need a fighter pilot for this. Just somebody who can wake me up when it's really urgent."
"I should be able to execute a launch that doesn't kill anybody."
Grimm laughed. "I didn't. I just underestimated the thrust I'd get out of this old lady after the modification."
"Winter said you told her it was an emergency."
Grimm hesitated, as if caught lying. "Okay. Control was about to push us back in the queue in favor of a diplomatic envoy. I didn't stand down."
"That made you popular."
"By the time we return, it'll be forgotten."
Not that Kyle believed him. The hasty start pointed very much to illegal cargo of some sort. "Why do I get the sense that you're not telling me the truth? What is this? You guys in trouble with the law?"
"No worse than you," Grimm said. "I'd say you fit right in. Let's get that pilot seat set up for you."
Grimm did most of the calibration, which spared Kyle the associated twisting and turning. Kyle relaxed while the chair's intelligent foam filling, which kept pilots secure through the maddest maneuvers, adjusted to his weight, size, and overall distribution. Sitting in a fighter pilot's chair felt like coming home, although Kyle had to hide how at ease he was. The other Kyle, as he thought of his cover, didn't have the thousands of flight hours he had.
Incursion Page 3
