Rebels and Lovers

by Linnea Sinclair

  “No, you don’t. Your kind doesn’t know what Orvis is like. The threats he makes. The people he controls.” She stopped at the wide doorway to Trouble’s Brewing and grabbed his arm. “He sent Frinks to my bay a few hours ago with a vid image and a demand. The image was of you, me, and Trip yesterday, in here. The demand was that I deliver you to Frinks in the next three hours. I ignored it because I thought you were gone! You’re supposed to be gone, on your way back to Sylvadae or Garno or to wherever in hell you could buy passage. Instead …” And she tore her hand from his jacket sleeve, then flung both hands wide in frustration. “You’re here. Still on Dock Five, buying my ship! And in so doing you have put all of our lives at risk, because if Frinks finds you with me or in my bay, he may kidnap you and Trip. Or kill you. Now do you understand what you’ve done?”

  The lean face in need of a shave and the smoky-blue eyes behind silver-rimmed glasses showed no emotion as he looked down at her. “That does make things slightly more complicated.”

  “Slightly?” The word came out in a harsh whisper because she was that close to screaming at him.

  “We’ll collect Barty and my nephew, then deal with what needs to be done.” He swept one hand out in a courteous gesture, motioning her into the pub.

  She strode through the doorway without further comment, not only because she knew she was running out of time but because she knew that if she hesitated one minute more, she was going to punch Mr. Perfect and In Control right across that lean, chiseled jaw of his.

  The pub was busy but not overcrowded. She spotted Trip and Barty seated along the side wall, remnants of a meal on their plates. Trip was shoving the last of a piece of bread into his mouth as she approached. Barty tapped the younger man on the shoulder, then looked at Kaidee. “Everything went smoothly, I trust?”

  “We need to move, and move quickly,” she said without any preliminaries. “We may have big trouble waiting for us at my bay. If not, it’s real close behind. Keep the safeties off your weapons.”

  Trip wiped his mouth with his napkin. “Sounds like fun.”

  “It could be fatal, Master Trip,” she said tersely, as Barty shot Trip a warning glance. For a fleeting second Kaidee wondered what Devin was like at that age. Did he have Trip’s sense of adventure and excitement? Or had he always been a quiet loner, calculating and distant?

  “We’re paid up,” Barty said with a nod to Devin, now standing—looming, in her estimation—at Kaidee’s side. “I suggest you follow with Trip. I’ll take point with Captain Griggs.” He grabbed the strap of a duffel tucked under his chair. “She can fill me in on the details as we go.”

  It was easier talking to Barty. Probably because, Kaidee mused, he was an employee—as she had once been. He knew an employee’s need for approval, the desire to perform, the importance of knowing how and why and when to cover your ass. And while he shared Devin’s calm demeanor, there was an intensity, an emotion, in Barty’s questions that Devin “Perfect and In Control” Guthrie lacked. An excitement tempered by a dry humor. He understood the urgency and the irony.

  Plus, she didn’t have a soft spot for Barty.

  Devin was … calculated. Quantified. Redacted. Though he wasn’t always that way. In the last two years she worked for GGS, she’d seen Devin thaw, open a bit with her. She’d glimpsed his shy smile, heard the deep rumble of his laugh. Sometimes the employer–employee line blurred a bit. Those times felt good.

  But that was then. This was trouble—a trouble partly of her own making, but, damn it, Devin had just made a huge contribution. At least it wasn’t a trouble Barty was unfamiliar with.

  “ImpSec watched Orvis for years. Still does,” Barty told her, as they wove their way through freighter crew, shop workers, and the occasional pair of robed Englarians moving at various speeds down the corridor. Despite the tension of watching for unfriendlies, Kaidee relaxed infinitesimally. For all his outward pomposity, Barthol was a soldier, and one with sources of information. She didn’t have to explain about what Orvis had done or could do. Barty knew—enough that he kept his hand on his Carver’s grip as they hit a set of lesser-used stairs on the way down to Green, then across several corridors to another set leading down to Yellow. They stopped there because Barty’s microcomp pinged. They tucked themselves behind a support strut while Barty checked the data.

  Trip was grinning, and she could almost hear Full apex! running through his mind. Duck-and-hide with weapons primed appealed to him. Devin’s expression was his usual inscrutable mask, but when she looked up at him, his gaze locked on hers and something hot and electric shot through her veins, startling her. It had to be her imagination.

  Don’t be an idiot, girl. He’s a Guthrie.

  “Nothing. Another dead end,” Barty said with a shake of his head.

  Kaidee saw the first sign of emotion from Devin—other than when he was flat-out drunk with Barty digging a hole in his shoulder. Something akin to anger and disappointment flashed over his features, his mouth thinning, his eyes narrowing. Then it was gone, like a cargo-bay hatch slamming shut.

  They moved on.

  Kaidee could feel Frinks’s eyes on her at every cross corridor, could hear his Takan cohort’s boot steps just above them in every stairwell. Barty’s expertise might be reassuring, but the closer they got to the Rider’s bay on Orange, the harder her heart thumped in her chest.

  It couldn’t have been more than twenty minutes since she’d been forced to sign the Rider over to Devin, but that might be enough time for one of Orvis’s people to alert him to the change of status—and the name of the new owner. It would look to Frinks and Orvis as if she’d known where Devin was all along, sought him out, and cut a deal behind Orvis’s back. She couldn’t imagine that Orvis wouldn’t react. And if by some miracle they got off Dock Five unscathed, she knew she was going to spend the rest of her life looking over her shoulder, waiting for that telltale whine of a laser pistol—the last thing she’d ever hear.

  Thank you, Kiler Griggs.

  And thank you, Devin Guthrie.

  The good news—when they exited out of the narrow stairwell onto Orange Level—was not only that the dingy gray corridor was empty of humans or other sentients but that they found themselves conveniently behind a trio of boxy cargobots slowly guiding an overloaded antigrav pallet in the direction of the Rider’s bay. Devin recognized the units as older-model Varrods. GGS had used Varrod cargobots years ago; Devin was about Max’s age when he used to tinker with them at one of the Garno warehouses, reprogramming them to dance in crazy circles. Bulky, lumbering, and slow, they now provided decent cover. If Devin stepped slightly left or right, he could get a glimpse of what was farther down the corridor without letting whatever might be farther down the corridor have a clear shot at him.

  Unless, of course, whatever was farther down the corridor was behind them. But that wasn’t the bad news.

  The bad news was that Makaiden was still furious. She was keeping up a low conversation with Barty, with an occasional comment to Trip, as they headed down the wide corridor, but she barely glanced in Devin’s direction. Admittedly, her fury wasn’t an unusual reaction to high-handed tactics, and he’d be the first to confess what he did with her ship neatly fit into that category. He could explain, but he didn’t think she wanted to hear it right now—even if he could figure out what to say that wouldn’t make him appear even more the bullying idiot than she already thought he was.

  What he hadn’t expected was her “your kind” comment: Your kind doesn’t know what Orvis is like. That hurt, because although rationally he understood the belief behind it, emotionally he found it stung. He didn’t view Makaiden as a different “kind” than himself, though he knew Jonathan or Ethan would. But he wasn’t Jonathan, and he sure as hell wasn’t Ethan. He had always believed Makaiden knew that.

  Evidently not, or maybe the pain in his shoulder made him oversensitive. Or her fears about this Orvis made her overly sharp. It was something he knew he’d have to work on, but n
ot now. He had more-pressing problems. Like the fact that the cargobots suddenly slowed, veering to the right, guiding the front of the pallet toward the next orange-striped airlock. Their change of direction revealed a pair of stripers—human males—just past the next cross corridor, maybe fifty feet away. The darker-skinned older one leaned against the bulkhead. The other, shorter and red-faced, waved his hands left and right as he talked, his words unintelligible.

  Shit.

  With a quick motion and mumbling a similar epithet, Barty tugged Trip against the bulkhead and behind the stalled cargobots’ container-laden pallet. Devin had already moved to shield Makaiden and didn’t miss the narrow-eyed glance she sent him as she sidled next to Trip. Another error on his part. Yes, Captain Griggs understood the problem and could take care of herself.

  But there were also things he could do. He sandwiched himself between Makaiden and Trip, slipped his Carver back under his jacket, and pulled out his Rada.

  “It’s pretty common for them to patrol through here,” Makaiden was saying, her voice low as she indicated the stripers with a quick jerk of her chin. “If they’re not waiting for me—us—they should move on. With luck, down the cross corridor.”

  With no luck they’d continue straight on and have his, Barty’s, and Makaiden’s images in their wanted for assault on an officer database.

  One of the ’bots beeped shrilly, a familiar sound. Two red lights on the airlock’s upper left corner flashed. Good. Evidently little had changed with Varrod ’bots in the past two decades. His attempt to reroute their course had worked. Their codes—

  A lower-pitched chirp sounded and, even before he glanced at the lights, he knew the airlock’s indicators had flashed green. Hell’s ass. The ’bots were back on their original course. He sent the reorientation codes again, damning the fact that even though the ’bots were only a foot or two in front of him, he couldn’t hard-link in and change their program manually. He had to come in on a secondary greenpoint wireless linkage, and that, he was learning, was less than reliable.

  The cargobots wanted inside that bay. He wanted them out here in the corridor, playing defensive shield so they could get to the Rider. At the moment, they were stalled and the lights blinked yellow.

  Footsteps and male voices cut into his thoughts and made him lift his face toward the sound: the stripers, heading this way, not turning at the cross corridor. Devin’s mind raced, then caught on a scenario he’d seen dozens of times in GGS warehouses. A scenario that would fit unobtrusively with their current circumstances and maybe deflect suspicion. “Trip, you’re a cargo apprentice.” He spoke quickly, his voice low. “Barty, use your microcomp like a manifest recorder. You’re training him. Makaiden, you’re, we’re …” Nothing came to mind. She was in freighter grays—a captain’s uniform, if someone looked closely enough. That was workable given their location, but he was too well dressed. And the stripers were too close now for Devin to slip away unnoticed.

  For a wild, crazy moment he considered flattening her against the bulkhead and kissing her. That’s what the actor playing the super-spy always did in those adventure vids when the spy and the heroine needed to hide in plain sight.

  But for Devin, it wouldn’t be playacting. He caught Makaiden’s glance, her eyes narrowed, lips parted slightly, and suddenly—even though he knew it was the most irrational thing to do—he wanted nothing more than to do exactly that: kiss Makaiden until the stripers went away, and then keep kissing her. For hours. He stepped toward her, closing the short distance, hesitant about doing something so insane and yet so damned wonderful—and was shocked when she reached for him, her hand resting firmly against his forearm. Maybe—

  “Trouble,” she said harshly. “Behind you.”

  Devin whipped a glance over his shoulder, caught sight of a Taka in faded coveralls loping doggedly down the corridor, a shorter human male in his wake. They weren’t close enough for him to see faces or details, but evidently Makaiden recognized them.

  “Orvis?” he guessed.

  “Close. Frinks. And friend,” she added, bringing the L7 in her right hand higher. “We need to get out of here.”

  No, not out. “In,” he said, motioning to the airlock hatchway with his microcomp.

  “That’s not my bay,” she said, as he brought up the ’bots delivery program again. “I don’t have the lock or unlock codes.”

  “Not an issue.” He took a moment away from his work on his Rada to thrust it in the cargobots’ direction. “The ’bots do.”

  Her eyes widened slightly, understanding dawning. Then: “And if Frinks figures a way in?”

  “We will have figured a way to be someplace else,” Barty said before Devin could answer, which was just as well, because the cargobots that so desperately wanted into that bay a minute before now were stubbornly resisting his attempts to permit them to do so.

  “Uncle Devin?” There was an undercurrent of panic in Trip’s hushed words.

  “Hey, you there!” The man’s shouted command came from the stripers’ direction.

  A ’bot chirped twice. “Got it!” Devin said through clenched teeth.

  Trip was leaning against the double doors when the green lights flashed, and he almost fell inside the bay when they slid open. “Go, go!” Devin shoved Makaiden ahead of him. The cargo pallet wobbled. The ’bots made a low thrumming noise and crept forward by what seemed to be an inch at a time. He had to get the ’bots inside or the signal to lock the doors wouldn’t work.

  “Get clear!” he said hoarsely, not wanting Frinks or the stripers to hear his warning. But he couldn’t risk Makaiden, Barty, or Trip getting injured. He keyed in the emergency jettison-cargo command just as the high whine of laser fire filled the corridor.

  The pallet and the cargobots surged forward. Devin dove through the hatchway next to them, cradling the Rada against his chest as he caught the side of the pallet with his hip. He stumbled, then hit the decking, knees and elbows impacting painfully. Swearing, he rolled onto his back, Rada screen in front of his eyes, and hurriedly initiated the lockdown command. The pallet halted with a jerk, the ’bots’ thrumming increased, then, with an audible groan, the airlock doors slammed closed.

  Lock, damn you, lock! He stared at the green signal lights over the hatchway, aware of Trip crouching on the decking behind Makaiden and Barty, who had weapons drawn and aimed.

  The doors shuddered again. Then the lights blinked red. Locked.

  Devin let his head drop back against the decking with a thud. His heart raced and he didn’t remember the last time he’d breathed. He did so now, drawing in a long breath, then letting it out in a noisy exhale.

  Makaiden’s voice cut through his few seconds of respite. “The stripers can get override commands from the dockmaster’s office. Five, maybe ten minutes.”

  “Unless they’re busy wondering why Frinks was shooting at us,” Devin offered, pulling himself off the decking and briefly surveying his surroundings. He clipped the Rada back onto his belt. He was in a medium-size bay with the usual arched metal struts lining the side walls. There were three banks of overhead lights but only the middle one was lit, throwing the edges of the bay into shadow.

  “Willing to bet your life on that?”

  He wasn’t. Neither, obviously, was Barty, who was already prowling about the shadowed regions of the bay—which was, Devin suddenly realized, curiously empty of a ship. An oddity, considering the current lack of dock space on Dock Five.

  “Bellfire Cargo has this bay,” Makaiden said when he voiced his observation. She was watching Barty, then looked back to him. “They got off dock just before the most recent embargo and are smart enough not to come back right now.”

  “Then why would someone deliver cargo here?” Devin asked, as Barty motioned Trip over to where a wide metal grate covered an opening about four feet square.

  A thump and then a thud from the airlock halted all conversation. Devin tensed and was aware of Makaiden straightening. Then the thump and thud mov
ed away, fading. Whatever it was had nothing to do with them. He hoped.

  “Mistimed shipment, probably,” Makaiden said, answering the question he’d posed before the interruption set everyone on edge. “Bellfire would have been back by now, if everyone’s schedule wasn’t interrupted.”

  “If we use the service tunnels, how far to the Rider?” Barty asked from the far left side of the bay. He had one hand supporting the access grating while Trip wriggled it loose.

  Makaiden turned from her inspection of the pallet’s contents. “I’m three bays past the cross corridor. But that corridor keeps it from being a direct route. We have to go under it in a subtunnel that’s not much more than a big square pipe, with only one way in and one way out. We could get trapped in there if Frinks has people behind us as well as coming in from my bay.”

  “You don’t lock your bay?” Trip asked.

  She nodded. “Sure, but Orvis, as lien holder, had a legal right to my lock codes. Which means Frinks knows them.”

  “He’s not lien holder now,” Devin said.

  “But I didn’t know that when I left my ship, did I?” she shot back. She met his gaze evenly, but there was fury in the tightness of her mouth and the slight downturn in her eyes. Then her expression shifted, her mouth softening. She looked tired. She shook her head. “Sorry.”

  “I understand.”

  “No, you don’t.” The accusatory tone was back in her voice. She turned away from him and headed for where Barty and Trip stood by the open access grating.

  “Unless the stripers have joined Frinks,” Barty said as Makaiden approached, “there are four of us, armed, to the two of them. Those aren’t bad odds.”

  “Frinks has more muscle than just the Taka. He could easily get half a dozen armed thugs to take us on when we get to my ship. And if the stripers are working with him, they could get behind us in the tunnels, herd us toward Frinks, and—”

  A loud hammering made Devin spin around. Someone or something was pounding on the hatchlock doors. There was no question this time, and the noise didn’t go away. The hatchlock lights flashed but—for the moment—stayed red.