Rebels and Lovers

by Linnea Sinclair

  “But we had reservations on a Compass flight. No one knows we’re on the Rider.”

  “Devin Jonathan Guthrie.” She said his name with her teeth obviously clenched. “Your name is on the ownership papers. It’s public record. We’ve been gone more than two shipdays. The whole slagging Empire will know by the time we hit gate exit at Talgarrath.”

  Shit. There was that.

  “They didn’t need that stealth pointer in Trip’s pocket comm. You gave them a nice clean trail to follow.”

  He rubbed at his eyes with the heels of his hands. He’d had, what, two, three hours of sleep? “Aborting a jump could kill us.”

  “Coming out of jump at Talgarrath to find a couple of Imperial cruisers dead-eyeing us is just as fatal. This is a freighter, Mr. Guthrie. I have a standard tow beam and a pair of low-level lasers. Standard shields. They fire one torpedo and we’re slagged.”

  “We could consider jettisoning some cheese casserole—ow!” He rubbed his shoulder where she smacked him.

  “Five hours,” she said. “That will put us nicely in range of an old trader route that the Empire will not be expecting us to use. And it might even get us there before the Rider’s ownership papers filed in the name of Devin Jonathan Guthrie are on the desk of every ImpSec agent and bounty hunter in Baris sector. I already have everything plotted in. That gives you about four hours of sleep before I’ll need you, Trip, and, if he’s up to it, Barty on the bridge.”

  “Three hours of sleep,” he told her, pulling her back against him. He was not going to face death without making love to Makaiden one more time.

  He’d argue with her about the aborted jump later.

  Later came during breakfast in the galley dining area.

  “Devin, look at the facts.” Makaiden, now in her standard gray uniform, was standing across from him, palms against the back of the chair. Barty was on his right, Trip—looking understandably pale—on his left. An aborted jump scared him too.

  “Ben Halsey is dead,” she continued. “Trip shows up on Dock Five, some guy tries to put a tagger on him. When that fails, the same guy tries to abduct him. Then that fails because I show up. But those same guys find us in Trouble’s Brewing when you do, and now they’re shooting at you. While all this is happening, the Guthrie security net is hacked and your offices are bombed.” She raised one hand, ticking off the items as she spoke. “One murder, one attempted murder, one attempted abduction, one security breach, and a bombing. In roughly one week.” She wriggled her fingers at him. “And that doesn’t even include the fact that Orvis is now interested in you.”

  “That doesn’t mean Imperial cruisers will be waiting for us at gate exit,” he countered.

  “Are you going to tell me you’re wrong about the end source of that stealth pointer? That it doesn’t go back to Imperial offices on Aldan Prime?”

  “No, but—”

  “Then, yes, odds are excellent that an Imperial cruiser or a destroyer or, hell, a couple of heavily armed patrol ships will be watching for us at gate exit. Which is why I don’t intend to exit at that gate.”

  “Odds are? Odds can be wrong. What are the odds of winning five consecutive hands of Zentauri—”

  “That’s different. If we dump out and shift to the old smugglers’ routes, I think I can get you to the Prosperity—to safety—before ImpSec realizes what’s happened.” She glanced at Trip, then back at Devin. “I need you all on the bridge in thirty-five minutes. At forty-five, we dump out.”

  “Makaiden, it’s too dangerous.” He didn’t want to pull this on her, but she was leaving him no choice. “I own this ship. No aborted jump. That’s final.”

  She straightened, eyes narrowing. “With all due respect, Mr. Guthrie, read your own regs. In the event of an emergency, the captain of any GGS yacht or transport ship has the right to overrule any GGS executive or owner on board and employ any and all methods she deems fit in order to correct or contain that which threatens the structure of the vessel or the safety of its passengers. Guthrie Global Systems Security Policies and Procedures Manual, Chapter Three, Section Five, Paragraph One.”

  He peered over the top of his glasses at her. “Earlier you reminded me this isn’t a GGS ship and it’s not an emergency.”

  She switched her focus to Barty. “Mr. Barthol, how does GGS Security Policies and Procedures classify attempted murder of a Guthrie family member or GGS executive?”

  “If we live through this,” Barty said, a mug of coffee in his hands, “you might want to consider a career change to barrister. And, yes, attempted murder is considered an emergency situation. Though it’s listed as attempted assassination.” He shrugged one shoulder. “Semantics.”

  Devin slanted a glance at Barty. Traitor. He tried another tack. “How many aborted jumps have you done, and how many in a Blackfire 225? Specifically, how many in this ship?”

  That made her hesitate. “I’ve never dumped out the Rider. I’ve been through two on my father’s ship—”

  “As a child?”

  “Late teens, early twenties. And, yes, I was on the bridge.”

  “As first pilot? Second pilot?”

  “Auxiliary helm,” she admitted. “But I did a dump-out on the Triumph.”

  Now it was his turn to hesitate. “Our ship?”

  Her half smile was smug. Damn, she could be uppity, and damn, he wanted to drag her across the corridor and into his bed. Except it had once been Kiler’s bed. Okay, use the lift and drag her up one deck to her cabin. Better. Though it would likely get him tossed in the brig. Did the Rider even have a brig? There was a thought. …

  “When?” he persisted.

  “A month after Admiral Guthrie—he was Captain Guthrie then—was injured by terrorists on Marker. He was on medical leave and at your family home on Sylvadae when he was summoned to a meeting on Aldan Prime. It was easier for me to transport him there and back than wait for the Loviti to send a pinnace.”

  “So Philip was at the controls?”

  He could tell she knew what he was getting at. Philip could probably handle an aborted jump blind-drunk. “I’m captain of record but, yes, he assisted.”

  “Get Philip here and I’ll let you pull your dump-out. Until then, we stay on course to Talgarrath.”

  She glared down at him. “Thirty minutes. Strapped in on the bridge. No exceptions. That’s an order.” She spun on her heels and marched across the dining area toward the stairs.

  He watched her go, his heart sinking. He knew Makaiden was a good pilot, an excellent pilot. He’d just learned that breaking J.M.’s rules—and falling in love with Makaiden would qualify for that—usually portended something bad happening. One rebel in the family is enough, his mother would say. Meaning Philip, not Devin. Not old “By the Numbers” Devin, who always did as he was told, living a safe, controlled, and orderly life. That old Devin went on sabbatical a week ago. This new Devin had rescued his nephew and found the woman he loved—and had been forbidden to love for years.

  He had a feeling there’d be hell to pay for it.

  Kaidee sat in the pilot’s chair, her palms sweating. She rubbed them down the sides of her pants as discreetly as she could, while behind her the clicking of straps signaled that the last of her passengers—Devin, and he was late, damn him—was secure in his chair. She hadn’t lied about her aborted jump experience. She had been through three, but in the merchant academy and then as a navigator and second pilot with Starways, she’d studied dozens more. Including failed ones.

  None of those dump-outs had Devin on board, though. Or Trip and Barty, but to her, the biggest issue was Devin. She should never have slept with him, but she was incredibly, ridiculously glad she did. It wasn’t his money or the fact that he was a Guthrie. It was that he was the man she’d known and respected for years and had, whether she was aware of it or not, grown closer to. Making love to him, letting him make love to her, just brought things full circle. It didn’t destroy the friendship that had grown over five years. It deepened
it.

  But as much as the dump-out scared her, ImpSec scared her even more. ImpSec had killed her father. Okay, Ministry of Corrections’ officers on Moabar Station had actually killed her father, but they’d acted on ImpSec’s orders, ImpSec’s information.

  She would not let that happen again.

  Devin furious with her, was better than Devin dead. He could eventually get over being furious. Death had a way of sticking around.

  She glanced over her shoulder to where Barty sat at the comm console. “Shunting control of warning drones to you now, Mr. Barthol.”

  “Acknowledged, Captain.”

  Barty had assured her he had some experience with ship’s communications. She accepted that as fact because she had no time and no options. A ship transiting into an aborted jump had no idea what would be in its path when it dropped back into realspace. So it not only bleated a required emergency message but launched warning drones, forward and aft.

  Which didn’t mean something couldn’t slam into them port and starboard. But she had only two drones.

  What made this dump-out particularly troublesome was that Talgarrath was close to the Baris–Calth border, midpoint between Starport 6 and Calth Prime. Legitimate freighter and military traffic in the lanes was common. Given the fact that Talgarrath was home to Port Chalo, illegitimate smuggler traffic outside the lanes could be plentiful.

  She finished her enviro check. All systems operational. “Sealing all interior airlocks and hatchlocks in five, four, three, two, one … now.” She tapped at her screen, knowing the hiss and rumble of the blast door behind her was echoed by other doors through the ship. If they were hit upon dump-out, a hull breach would be contained to the damaged section.

  Unless the bridge took a direct hit. In which case—she shoved the thought away. She needed full ship shields during the transit in order to keep the Rider as stable as possible when it ripped through the time–space fabric. And rip through it would. There were no gate beacons for guidance, no gate buffers to keep the ship intact.

  “Master Trip?”

  “Captain?”

  “Sending mirror coordinates to you now.” She really didn’t need Trip to monitor their position, but she knew he was scared. Watching nav data would give him something to do other than sitting, strapped in, one leg jiggling as if he could shake off his nerves.

  “Got ’em,” Trip confirmed.

  “What’s my plus–minus, Mr. Trip?”

  “Plus–minus three, Captain.”

  “Totally apex, Mr. Trip.” She turned just enough to catch his tight smile at her use of his favorite expression. “Let’s keep her in that range.”

  She turned back to her screens, tallying the data before her. So far, so good. “Initializing sublights.” Engine icons went from red to yellow. Then she ran a full systems check again. There was no way of knowing which system would shake loose some glitch during an aborted jump, but invariably one did, even though the Rider was a newer ship with all the required aborted-jump-transit fail-safes. Which worked flawlessly under controlled test conditions, but when was real life ever like a test lab?

  She brought up their coordinates, her heart rate spiking. Five minutes to jump margins. Five minutes. She’d been wasting too much time checking and rechecking systems. Her hands moved in a flurry across the pilot’s screens as she shut out all thoughts of anything other than the Rider and jumpspace.

  She’d been through three dump-outs, but she’d never done one alone.

  “Two minutes,” she announced. “If you’re un-strapped behind me, strap in now. We’re going to hit, hard, and I’m not interested in scraping your parts off my decking.”

  There was an answering click. Devin. It wasn’t a guess. She was peripherally aware of his leaving his seat and talking quietly to Barty a minute ago. Planning a mutiny, no doubt. But she’d activated the decking sensors around her seat. Nice little addition she’d learned about long ago from an old single-hander. If he intended to sneak up from behind and hit her on the head, he was in for a surprise.

  “One minute to hard edge.” Now was the tricky part of bringing the sublights fully online while keeping the hypers pulsing, with no gate buffers to ease the transition. She had to trust that she knew her ship, knew its quirks. Work everything in proper order, don’t try to anticipate, her instructors had told her.

  The Rider shimmied, bucking as the tug-of-war between jumpspace and realspace began.

  “Transmit, Mr. Barthol.” She had to raise her voice over the rumble of the engines. The emergency message couldn’t penetrate jumpspace, but it would already be in process once they breached the hard edge.

  “Transmitting, Captain. Warning drones standing by.”

  Something flashed on a screen on her left. Shit! It was coming from the enviro and support console, systems she was controlling now because—

  M. Love you. D.

  —Devin was sitting there. Devin, the data-systems genius, bypassing her lockout, sending a message. His timing was terrible, but his words gave her strength.

  Her palms were still sweaty. “Twenty seconds to hard edge. Hang on. Here we go.”

  The Rider screamed back into realspace, bulkheads groaning, decking thumping, and something else that sounded like thousands of pebbles churning inside a metal can. Kaidee was thrown against her straps, then, just as quickly, slammed backward. Her chest ached, and for a moment she felt as if breathing was impossible. Teeth clenched, she shut down the hypers, confirmed sublight status, and intently studied the screens for any signs of coolant leak or fuel-line rupture.

  The pressure lifted, but the racket continued. Nausea hit her as the forward screens blanked, then suddenly filled with the deep darkness of space. She swallowed hard and punched short-range scanners live. “Bogey check. Starboard clear!”

  “Drones away,” Barty called out as the rattling, groaning, and thumping subsided.

  “Acknowledged. Portside clear. Mr. Trip, confirm variance.”

  “Plus–minus holding at three!”

  “That’s my boy.” She was reaching to bring long scan online when a series of tiny blips flashed over long range, then disappeared. She blinked, not even sure the pinpoints of light weren’t just her body’s reaction to the transit. Seeing stars, Kaid?

  She checked long range again quickly. No ships, no overt problems. Later she’d call up the logs, see what it was, if it was anything at all. Right now she was reading out short scan and …

  Holy slagging hell. She did it. They made it.

  She huffed out a hard breath. Her hands were shaking. Quickly, she checked their course. Damn, she was only ten minutes out from where she wanted to be. Not bad at all! She keyed in minor adjustments as she spoke over her shoulder: “Barty, talk to me. How are you feeling?”

  “You worry overmuch, Captain Griggs. Good job, by the way.”

  She grinned as she made one last manual check of short and long scans. Empty as the inside of a prosti’s head. She tapped off the decking sensors around her chair. “Devin?”

  “We may have to rewrite the oddsmaker’s book.”

  “I accept your apology. Mr. Trip?”

  “Uh, Captain, can you unlock the hatch? I think … I need … the lav.”

  God. Poor kid. A quick glance over her shoulder showed him to be tight-lipped, with sweat beading on his brow. She reset ship’s security to passive and released the blast doors. “Relieved from duty, Trip. Go.”

  He bolted off the bridge, hand over his mouth.

  She took one more sweep of ship’s systems. A few readings were somewhat off, but nothing pressing and nothing that would kill them. Speaking of which, she located the self-destruct program for the warning drones and sent the command. No need for a warning and no need to leave a trail. She brought up the autopilot program with an undisguised sigh of relief. Adrenaline drained from her body. She leaned back in her chair, letting her head fall against the cushion. “Well. That was fun. And just think, in one hour we get to play with the ups
and downs of slippery space.”

  Boot steps sounded on the decking behind her, then warm hands grasped her shoulders. Strong thumbs massaged at the aches in her neck. She let herself go limp, eyes closing. If she were a cat, she’d be purring.

  “If you’re applying for the position of captain’s personal massage therapist, you’re hired,” she murmured.

  She heard Devin’s low chuckle. Then, from Barty: “I’d best go check on Trip.”

  And give the captain and her lover a little privacy? Smart man, that Barthol.

  Devin’s ministrations slowed. She swiveled her chair around, tilting her face just as he leaned down to brush her mouth with a kiss.

  She pulled his hand from her shoulder and twined her fingers through his. “I already said apology accepted. But redundancy is nice.”

  He braced his other hand on her chair’s armrest. “Let’s not ever do that again.”

  The obvious relief in his voice made her smile. “Don’t ask me to make promises I can’t keep.”

  “Okay. Let’s not ever do that again without at least Philip on the bridge.”

  “Why Philip? You know, with your analytical mind, you’d probably make a damned good second pilot. I could teach you.”

  He looked affronted. “Only second? Why not first?”

  “To sit second pilot you need to be meticulous, smart, and detail-oriented. To be first pilot, you need to be meticulous, smart, detail-oriented, and crazy.”

  “So you’re saying I’m deficient in crazy?”

  “It’s something you need to work on.”

  “I take it you can recommend a course of study?”

  She gave him her best slow and sultry smile. “Come to my quarters later, after dinner.” They’d be through the old trader gates by then. Slippery space was something she felt confident the Rider would handle flawlessly. She’d copied her father’s data on the old gates when she was in the academy. Those same codes, permissions, and passkeys now resided in the Rider’s comp. “I’ll give you crazy lessons.”

  “Does your invitation involve either cards or cheese?”

  “Nope.”