She gave a little half laugh, half sob. “It takes all this to finally get you to call me Kaidee?”
A sad chuckle rumbled in his chest. “I always thought that when I called you Kaidee, I was sharing you with everyone else who did. When I call you Makaiden, then you’re mine alone.” He brushed a light kiss over her forehead. “But I know you don’t like it—”
“Actually, I like it too much. I like you too much, Devin Guthrie.” She made a fist with one hand and rapped him on the chest before pushing away—as far as his arm around her waist let her. “I’m sorry. I’m not usually like this.” She swiped at the wetness on her face. “This has been the best and the worst couple of days in my life. I feel like, I don’t know, I’m in free fall. Plummeting into a gravity—”
She stopped, her own words suddenly blazing in her mind.
Plummeting into a gravity well.
Gravity.
She looked down at her boots and Devin’s—what she could see of them in the glow of the handbeam. She stamped her foot, hearing the thud, feeling the thud. She couldn’t believe her own stupidity. How could she not have realized?
“Makaiden?” Devin was frowning.
“Gravity. Gravity, Dev.”
“What about it?”
“Ship’s artificial gravity is working.” She couldn’t keep the excitement out of her voice. “It’s still working.”
“Why …?”
“Artificial gravity should have gone off with the sublights when the primaries crashed. It’s supposed to go off. But it didn’t. That means—”
He stepped back, grasping her shoulders hard. “There’s power. We have a power program functioning normally outside the parameters of the lockout.”
“Can you use that to reinstall the primaries?”
“Hell’s fat ass, yes!” He yanked her back to him, his mouth covering hers in a kiss of joy and passion.
She clung to him, knowing they were wasting time but not wanting to let him go. It was just a few extravagant seconds. A celebration. A reaffirmation.
If he got the primaries reinstalled, they might make it to the Prosperity, to GGS, to the Guthrie estate on Sylvadae. She was sending him back to Tavia.
Hell. She’d deal with that crisis when she had to.
If this works, Devin mused, carefully overlaying his code strings onto the Rider’s main-system databoxes via the Rada’s display, I may have a new career. Just in case when I get home J.M. decides to fire my ass for running off after Trippy without permission.
Neither he nor Makaiden could figure out why artificial gravity had remained on after the systems lockout. An Imperial oversight? Or maybe the horror stories about tampering with a ship’s ident programs were just that: horror stories. But whoever created the trap code to snare Devin’s attempts to enter into the sealed unit software didn’t figure in the firmware—or that Devin’s Rada was sensitive enough to notice the firmware didn’t go down under lockout when the software did.
Though enough had gone wrong—definitely. But the artificial-gravity system remaining functional left a huge pathway for entry through a firmware link with his Rada or even the DRECU. It was a primary system. And it was operating. That meant the primaries weren’t in a true lockout. Just … sleeping.
All he had to do was wake them up.
Carefully.
He glanced over at Makaiden, who sat with legs crossed, elbow on the chair’s arm, and chin resting against her fist. She was mostly silhouette in the bridge’s lack of lighting. But his memory filled in what his eyes couldn’t, and his mouth still tasted their kiss. Makaiden. His Kaidee.
And if he was wrong about this program and the back door he’d found through the firmware, he could be condemning her—condemning all of them—to death.
“Okay.” He blew out a hard sigh through tense lips. “This is it. Systems should come back on in their usual order, but I can’t guarantee it.”
“We need enviro, sublights, and shields,” Makaiden said. “Anything else is a blessing. Trip?” She leaned to her left, looking past Devin. “The ship may kick when sublights come on. Make sure you’re braced and Barty’s secure.”
“Got it,” his nephew said, a slight tone of nervousness in his voice.
Devin understood. He tugged on his safety strap, checking the clasp. “Here we go.” He dragged the last databox across the display and sent the initialization command.
The display flickered. Screens on the communications console in front of him winked on, then went out. A loud humming noise started, stopped—and Makaiden swore out loud. “Damn it, no. No!”
“Wait!” Teeth gritted in frustration, Devin held up his left hand, his right hand dragging databoxes, rearranging bits of code. He had it, he almost had it. He had to remember that this was a ship, not a banking facility. Files were more than files—they were almost living instructions, constantly communicating with one another, with the ship. With other ships. With maintenance bots. With—
“Okay. One more time …”
He held his breath.
Console screens flickered on, off … on. On. Stayed on. A distant humming grew to a rumble beneath his boots. Makaiden let out a whoop as overhead lights winked on. Warm, fresh-smelling air wafted across his face.
“We’re on, system is on!” Makaiden had pushed the smaller armrest screen to one side and was working with both hands on the main screens in front of her.
Devin let out the breath he’d been holding. His heart started beating again. He watched Makaiden work her ship.
“Shields are restructuring. We’re at sixty-five percent. Sublights are half power, but everything looks good. Damned good. Retracting all blast doors now. Sick bay should be fully operational in about two minutes.” She glanced over her shoulder at Devin. “You and Trip get Barty down there, get him on the emergency med system. If nothing else, he’ll be stable until we reach Lufty’s. They have a full med-unit there.”
Devin had already unlatched his straps and was standing. “Lift works?”
She glanced at her screens, then back at him. “Yep.”
He motioned to Trip. “We can use the blanket as a stretcher.”
“Intraship’s up,” Makaiden said. “Any problems, call me. I’ll be right down.”
“Don’t touch the Rada. I have it running as a mirror in case we hit any more glitches.” He held her gaze for one more long self-indulgent moment, then hurried to help Trip with the unconscious Barty.
Corridor lights flickered on around them as they trundled Barty into the lift. When they hit Deck 2 and exited, there was more humming and thrumming, systems cycling up to full power. The air on this level smelled slightly stale, but his fears that sick bay might be sluggish were unfounded.
He was surprised by Trip’s sure-handedness with sick bay’s instrumentation.
“I found a couple equipment manuals, read them,” his nephew admitted as they watched Barty’s medical readings level out. “Uncle Philip always said a good officer knows more than just which chair his ass belongs in.”
Devin snorted. That was Philip, verbatim.
“Barty’s stable,” Trip continued. “This”—he pointed to a databox in the upper right of the wall screen—“is monitoring the infection levels in his lungs. Anything over three-fifty is considered serious.”
“Four eighty-five,” Devin read out loud.
“The unit will keep him unconscious until he’s back down to around three hundred or so. He uses less air when he sleeps. There’s less irritation in his lungs.”
Devin arched an eyebrow. “Sure you don’t want to pursue medical school?”
“Starship captain, ultimately. But I’d take patrol-ship captain, like Aunt Chaz.”
Devin clasped him on the shoulder. “Let’s get home first. Then maybe I can try talking to your father about letting you take additional courses at—”
“Devin?” Makaiden’s voice, sounding worried, came through the intraship speaker in sick bay. “I need you on the bridge. Now.
”
Devin’s gut clenched as he jabbed at the speaker button. “On my way.” He turned to Trip. “Stay with Barty. Make sure he’s secure. Sounds like we have trouble.”
He knew the minute he hit the bridge and saw the pulsing icon on the Rider’s scanner display that they indeed had trouble.
“Who is it?” He slid into the seat at the comm console in front of the Rada, then angled around toward her.
Makaiden glanced over her shoulder. “Fleet. At least, I’m ninety percent sure, based on scanner data. They’re close enough now—about two hours out—that I can fill in the gaps. That means they can too. They just started probing us again about three minutes ago. I don’t have a confirmed ident on them yet, but they’re either Fleet or a merc group running an old Fleet ship. Either way,” and she waved one hand toward the corridor, “you need to change clothes.”
That last bit wasn’t what he expected to hear. “Change clothes? To what?”
“There’s a tan blanket on my bed and scissors in the galley. Bring both. I need to turn you into a monk. Brother Balatharis is listed as church administrator and ship’s liaison in our docs, and whoever is out there will want to talk to him.”
Devin stared at her. No. She couldn’t possibly want him to … “Balatharis?”
“You did more than get us up and running. You altered ship’s ID. We’re the Veil of Relief, in service to the Englarian Church. Unless you tell me Barty’s awake and talking, you’re the only chance we have to convince whoever it is out there that we’re not who they’re looking for. And that they need to go away and leave us alone. The last thing we need is someone following us to Lufty’s.”
Devin had several fantasies that involved Makaiden taking off his clothes—though she’d removed only his sweater, not his thermal undershirt. None of those fantasies included her draping an old blanket around him and turning him into a monk.
Monks were celibate, weren’t they?
Neither celibacy nor Englarianism was in his plans, but it looked as if there wasn’t a damned thing he could do about the latter. Barty was ill and unconscious. Someone had to play Brother Balatharis. That someone, much to his consternation, was Devin.
He stared at the info vid on Trip’s bookpad as Makaiden snipped and tucked and adjusted the blanket robe. It was a news interview with two Englarian monks that Trip had been required to watch as part of his comparative-religions class at the university. The class lasted an entire semester.
Devin had never taken comparative religions. He now had about ten minutes to absorb enough to convincingly impersonate a soft-spoken holy man who believed in a mystical connection between the stars and an elderly fanatic named Abbot Eng.
“Praise the stars.” Trip paused the vid. “They say that all the time. And Blessings of the hour.”
Makaiden was tucking the blanket’s edge into the collar of his thermal shirt, her fingers brushing his neck and shoulders. He fought the urge to press his mouth against her palm, then nibble his way up her arm. He knew it was partly from relief that they weren’t going to die—at least, not from the primaries going into full lockout.
But partly he just wanted to nibble his way up her arm before she disappeared from his life again and he lost the chance.
“And sometimes,” Makaiden was saying, “it’s Praise the stars in the abbot’s holy name.”
“They meditate a lot,” Trip said, starting the vid again. “Listen to how the monk answers the question about an incident on a starcruiser.”
Devin listened, ignoring the question, focusing on the answer and the monk’s totally innocent demeanor, which, yes, made him itch with its overwhelming placidity.
“I was deep in meditation at that point,” the man said, his voice soft and melodic. “I regret I can offer no information as to what transpired on the ship. But I will pray for guidance on the matter from our revered abbot.”
It was almost word for word what he knew he’d probably be saying if their pursuers wanted to question him. He had a sinking feeling, though, that it would only invite more questions. He needed to have answers for when it did. “What if they want to know our mission? Barty set it up that we’re in service to the Order of Devoted Missionaries on Calfedar. How do I justify that we’re on a course to Lufty’s?”
“We don’t tell them we’re headed for Lufty’s. As far as they’re concerned, we’re on a course to Port Chalo, which is a veritable den of iniquity.” A half smile tugged at the corners of Makaiden’s mouth. “Wouldn’t Brother Balatharis go where there were hundreds of souls in need of saving?”
Devin shook his head. He should have thought of that. He hadn’t. That, too, worried him. In financial matters, he was never at a loss for a counterargument. This was decidedly not his area of expertise. “You’d be a lot better at this than I would.”
“But Barty didn’t set me up as Sister Makerra. I’m Captain Makerra in the docs. And Trip’s too young to hold the rank of church liaison.”
He knew that. But it didn’t make him comfortable in this role he had to play—no, more than play. There was too much at stake to consider this play.
A pinging noise had her turning away from him. She leaned one hip on her seat, then swung her armrest screen around and studied it. “Shit. They tagged us and pulled our ID.” She shoved herself the rest of the way into her seat, tossing the scissors into a cup holder secured to the edge of the console. “Let’s hope they don’t go poking around too deeply into it.”
He stepped to her side. “Do we know who they are yet?”
“Working on it.” She was tapping commands back and forth between two different screens. “They’ll be in visual comm range in about twenty minutes. We’ll know for sure then, but it looks like they’re Fleet. Arrow-class destroyer, based on mass and configuration.”
Arrow-class meant nothing to him other than big and deadly—though if Philip was here, he’d be spouting weapons capabilities and maneuvering limitations. Some of his incomprehension must have shown in his eyes.
“It’s about twice our size,” Makaiden said, “and ten times as deadly.”
Twice as deadly was deadly enough. He didn’t want to contemplate ten times.
He hiked up the bottom of his blanket robe and headed for communications, taking the seat in front of his Rada again. “Okay, so there are a lot of lost souls out there. I need workable specifics I can toss at them if they demand details.”
Trip flopped into the seat next to him and paged through his bookpad. “Give me a few minutes. I think I have an Englarian charity-project analysis from that class.”
“Do we have a few minutes?” he asked Makaiden, who had turned in her seat, one arm propped on the back of her chair.
“Keep researching until they contact us. Even then, I can stall. They don’t know what our shiptime is. I can say you’re sleeping, in meditations, whatever works. Just keep in mind there’s a limit to how long they’ll wait.”
She turned back to her console. He stared at the comm screens, willing the incoming-transmit chime not to sound, as he waited for Trip to find the report. Praise the stars. Blessings of the hour. By the divine guidance of our revered Abbot Eng … He ran the catchphrases through his mind. His only saving grace, as he saw it, was his excellent memory. But remembering phrases was different from reciting them with the proper and convincing cadence.
“Here.” Trip shoved the bookpad at him.
Devin shut out everything else around him, committing to memory every fact that could potentially be useful: names and locations of Englarian temples in Aldan and Baris and their head guardians, locations of educational centers and clinics, sources of charitable funding. He wasn’t surprised to see Guthrie Global on the list. Jonathan had mentioned that when they’d discussed the Baris–Agri deal and the role of the Englarian farming cooperatives.
But Devin’s job was numbers, not people. He’d never met the representatives from the Church. That was Jonathan’s specialty. Now he wished he had. If he’d spent actual
time with a few of the monks, he’d have a personality template to call to mind.
He read the rest of the report. “Where’s that interview again? I want to watch—”
The incoming-transmit chime pinged.
Shit.
Makaiden swung around. “How much time do you need?”
There was little to be gained by a ten-minute delay. “Let’s get it over with.”
She nodded. “Trip, I need you off the bridge. It’s about time for you to check on Barty anyway.”
Devin handed the bookpad to Trip as he passed by, then looked at Makaiden. “Should I be here?”
“Up to you. Like I said, they don’t know shiptime. You could logically be up here, compiling reports to send to Calfedar. Or you can wait in my quarters and I could call you on intraship.”
And walk down the corridor only to trip on his makeshift robe and fall flat on his face? Sitting seemed safer. “I’m compiling reports to send to Calfedar.” He lifted his chin slightly. “Answer them.”
“Remember I’m Captain Makerra.”
“Captain of the Veil of Relief.”
She flashed him a tense smile, then tapped the upraised screen on her armrest. “I’ll angle this so they can’t see you when I talk to them. Same thing. They won’t see me in the background of your camera. But shut down the Rada’s display. I don’t think they’re going to believe someone donated that.”
He was already doing so. Then there was a lower-pitched chime as Makaiden opened the comm link from her console. “Makerra of the Veil of Relief, in service to the Englarian Order of Devoted Missionaries.”
An image flashed on the screen in front of Makaiden. Devin could barely make it out from where he sat—only that it was a gruff-looking human with short hair. Male, he thought, but couldn’t be one hundred percent sure.
“Thurman Anibal, captain of the Nola Tran, Imperial Fleet, Baris.” A man, then, with an equally gruff voice that sounded as if he enjoyed chewing rocks. “I have your ship’s docs here, as I’m sure you know, Captain Makerra. Out of Calfedar?”
“We are. Is there a problem, Captain Anibal?”
“I was going to ask you that. We thought we picked you up on long range a few hours ago. Then you disappeared.”
Rebels and Lovers Page 31
