“That’s it. You may outrank me, Sergeant Greeve, but I’m ordering you rest and a hearty meal.” He extended one of those dirt-streaked hands to her, curling his fingers to beckon her upward.
With a sigh, she slapped her hand in his and allowed herself to be hefted to her feet. “If you insist, Spymaster General.”
“That’s… not a real thing.”
“My ship, my rules. Now make yourself useful and go cook us some dinner.”
“Yes, Sergeant.” He snapped her a picture-perfect salute, face a mask of seriousness, and marched lockstep from the room. She laughed, then caught herself checking out his ass in the jumpsuit and sobered. It didn’t seem such a dangerous thing, to admire him now that their time together didn’t measure in dozens of years. The fact that she thought he was cute even though he was no longer the only human in light-years made her feel freer to enjoy the view. But still. Pull it together, Greeve.
In the mess, she slid into her usual seat and kicked her heels up on a chair alongside her, then turned to watch Tomas while he raided the pantry.
“You know, you really don’t have to do all the cooking,” she said as she jabbed idly at her wristpad, running through Bero’s system checks to see if anything needed patching up.
“Hey, cooking’s in my blood. My grandma and ma own a restaurant—Elysian Fusion.” He banged around in a cupboard, coming up with a few likely cans.
“I don’t even know where Elysia is.”
He threw a grin at her over his shoulder, one that made her heart kick up. “And that’s why you shouldn’t be doing the cooking.”
She pretended to be engrossed with her wristpad. “Well, aren’t you Mister High Culture. The Elysians use a lot of canned pears in their dining, do they?”
He made a face at the can he’d just popped open. “Space is space. Gotta make do with what you can.”
“Which is precisely what I was doing.”
“Ugh. No. Sorry, Sergeant, but that was not making do. That was self-flagellation.”
“I liked it.”
Pure horror overtook his expression. “I’m not even going to answer that.”
She snorted and continued to prod at her pad while he cooked, letting her mind wander. Something about the way he called her sergeant tickled her; she couldn’t quite place why. Sanda should have been more intimate, surely, but he laid a layer of respect over her title that tingled her straight to her toes. She shook her head. Probably just wishful thinking, and he was using the title to reestablish the boundaries their brief intimacy in Farion station had eroded.
A message from Bero blipped across her pad: Are you certain both pods can be repaired?
Whatever warmth she’d felt fled in a flash.
She tapped out a message: Yes. It will take a while to perfect, but we have the supplies now. Pause. And I trust him. We have time. We’ll make it work.
Why do you trust him now?
He could have harmed me on Farion if he meant to. He didn’t.
I’m not yet convinced.
Do you trust me?
Yes. Always.
Then let me make this call.
Okay, Sanda.
“What’s so fascinating?” Tomas plopped into the chair across the table and deposited a steaming plate of food in front of her, twin to his own. She started guiltily.
“Reviewing Bero’s system checks. Gotta make sure the old boy is in top shape.”
“I am quite healthy,” Bero said.
“You know I like to check myself. Military training: can’t shake it.”
“We are a squadron of three, led by the sergeant.” Tomas lifted his glass to toast Bero’s cameras and she laughed. How he could keep so calm, knowing all he did, and make light with Bero as if they were the oldest friends in the world, she had no idea. She envied him that training.
Fragrant curls of steam called her name. The food didn’t look like much, but the scent alone set her stomach grumbling. She took a big mouthful and let out a pleased moan. Flavor burst across her tongue, set her mouth salivating. He’d done something to the pears to make them savory, then mixed them in with spiced and toasted tempeh. It was, quite probably, the best thing she’d tasted in years. She regretted not letting him know they had more than nutriblocks sooner.
“Dios,” she said around chews.
“If you want to go back to cooking…” He trailed off.
“No, no, no.” She swallowed hard and went for another bite. “That was a damn mouthgasm.”
His brows shot up, and she hid her face by shoving more food into it.
“In that case.” He stood and went back to the cupboard, then returned with the remnants of the Caneridge they’d opened that first night she’d let him out of quarantine. He poured two cups and pushed one toward her.
“Here’s to surviving, in style.”
“Now, that I can drink to.” She clinked his glass, drank, and went right back to packing away the food.
“You sure you don’t have any taste sensors, Bero?” she asked. “You gotta try this.”
“I have no desire to eat, but my gas sensors are picking up the smell. Tomas is an accomplished chef.”
“See?” He lifted his fork in triumph. “I can even make a spaceship hungry.”
Chatter was sparse as they demolished their dinner and worked steadily away at the remains of the Caneridge. By the time the food was gone, Sanda was feeling as warm and comfortable as she’d felt since she’d woken up. Her stomach was full. Nothing was truly her responsibility right now.
Biran would find her in time, or she’d resort to plan B, and she’d cross that bridge when she came to it. Bero was still a lodestone of ache in her heart, but for now she could pretend he hadn’t betrayed her. She had good food, good company, and soon… Soon she’d be going home.
At the thought of Ada, a twinge kicked up in her head again. She sighed and rubbed at her temple. It had almost been a perfect evening.
“What’s wrong?” Tomas asked.
“Coldsleep headache.”
“Again?” He came around the table, a frown pulling down alcohol-damp lips, and dropped to one knee in front of her chair. “Let me test your pupils, okay?”
She snorted. “Sure, though I don’t know what good that’ll do you. The headaches are a known side effect from the evac pods. Considering the trauma my body went through”—she tapped her false leg—“I’m lucky that’s all I walked away with. They should fade, but the manual said it can sometimes take years.”
“To hell with that.”
“Oh, and are you an accomplished doctor, too, Mister Dancer Chef Spy?”
He actually blushed, but she couldn’t tell if it was the booze or real embarrassment. “No, but I’ve had some training in field dressings. Same as yours, probably. This shouldn’t be persisting.”
He nudged her hand away and gently took her head in his hands, thumbs against her temples while his fingers angled down along her jawline. “You have TMJ, maybe?” he asked as he massaged the tendons of her jaw.
“Not that I’m aware of,” she admitted. A little pressure eased her head, but his proximity was making it hard to concentrate.
“There is a lot of tension in your jaw, though. Could have been TMJ induced by the trauma of the evac pod and NutriBath. Bero, do your mics pick up any teeth grinding at night?”
“I haven’t noticed, but I will run a search now. She does snore, however.”
“Oookay, that’s enough.” She reached up and nudged his hands away. “You, Mr. Spaceship, stop listening to me sleep. It’s rude. And you—” She held his hands out, away from her, and looked down into those grey, concerned eyes. Eyes like asteroids, she’d thought the first time she’d seen him up close. Caneridge warmed her veins, and her thoughts derailed, drawn to the hard line of his chin, the dusting of scruff that’d grown in while they’d spent the last few days consumed by work. The firm stretch of his neck muscle, extending down from that rough jaw to a chest she’d very much like to see.
Unf, she thought.
“What?” he said.
Oh Dios, she said that out loud. He must think she was behaving like a complete loon. No wonder he thought she needed looking after. “I don’t need you playing mother hen,” she snapped. Well, that was real fucking smooth.
His brows drew together and he rocked back onto his heels. “I didn’t mean… I’m sorry. I’m just worried. Those headaches really are getting more frequent.”
“Yeah. And I guess they make me irritable.” She summoned up a smile for him and was relieved when he smiled back.
She still hadn’t dropped his hands. Through the fog of Caneridge, she was growing dimly aware that she’d pushed some social barrier a little too long. That keeping on holding his hands—no matter that she’d meant to push him away—was about to become awkward.
He looked at their hands pointedly, then back up to her, brows raised. She licked her lips. So did he. She reached a conclusion: If she were going to die anytime soon, she’d be damned if she didn’t go for one last lay first.
She tackled him.
CHAPTER 40
PRIME STANDARD YEAR 3543
A DAY FOR EMBARRASSMENT
Whatever he’d been about to say broke off in a startled yelp as she plowed them both over. She lost his hands, lost track of just about everything, and reached to reclaim them. Fingers entwined, she lifted his hands above his head and pinned them hard against the floor.
Tomas, however, had misunderstood.
His knee found her stomach, and she grunted as he pushed down on her hands, forcing her arms back to her sides. She let a little squeak escape as he twisted, rolled so that he pinned her against the floor instead. His breath, spicy with Caneridge and his own cooking, flooded against her cheek. She would have found it hot if he didn’t look so righteously pissed off.
“What the fuck did I do?” he demanded.
“I, uh, wasn’t attacking you?” She cut herself off, heating all over with embarrassment. This really hadn’t gone how she’d planned. “Sorry. I thought—I mean—ugh. I’m not very good at this. I wasn’t trying to overpower you, or anything, well. I mean. I kinda was—consensually!—but, oh Dios.” She wanted nothing more than to shrivel up into oblivion, right there on the floor.
“What are you—” Realization clicked into place on his face. She really, really wanted to die. His eyes flew wide. “Oh. OH. Wait. Really?”
From the heat radiating off her face, she was probably turning a half dozen shades of crimson. “Yes?”
“Oh. Oh.”
He stared at her. She stared back. “So, uh, I mean, if you’re not interested—” Was he going to tell Biran about this? Would he have to report it? Maybe she should just space herself now.
“Oh.”
“For the love of all that’s holy, please say something other than oh.”
A grin lit up his face, and the hard press of something that was most certainly not his toolbelt warmed against her thigh.
“Oh,” she said.
He kissed her. She gasped against the force, the rough branch-bark of his stubble scraping her chin, her lips. His grip slackened on her wrists, hands searching at her hips, cupping the small of her back, stroking, as she reached up, tangled her fingers in his hair, let loose with a soft moan, and dragged them down his back, massaging.
The world tilted as he cupped her, cradled her in one hand and braced her back with the other, face pressed to her neck, lips probing, tongue brushing; he scooped her from the floor and turned, setting her down with a satisfying thump on the tabletop. Cutlery clattered, spilled aside.
He gasped and she gasped and their hands met, released, searched each other. Face buried in his neck, fingers twisting in his hair, she breathed in the scent of him, tugged him close, pushed her hips forward. Pressure mounted along her breastbone—his thumb tracing the seam of her suit.
“Wait,” she breathed, tipping her head back and away. His hands instantly stilled, gaze fraught with worry.
“Did I—”
She silenced him with a hand over his lips.
“Bero, a little privacy?”
“My security protocols only allow me to cut camera access in private cabins.”
Tomas saluted the cameras. “Gotcha.”
He slung her over his shoulder and landed a hearty slap on her ass. She burst out laughing, startled, bouncing as he sprinted down the hall. The whoosh of the door blew hair into her eyes, and the next thing she knew he pitched her onto the soft plane of his bed, silken grey-and-flame sheets twisting around her, the lighting drifting toward dusk.
“Bero,” he declared, and clapped twice. “See you in the morning, my good man.”
The activity lights in Bero’s cameras winked dark, and Tomas threw her a coy grin. Through the electric anticipation tingling her skin, sending her mind spinning, she realized—Bero couldn’t see them. If he had cut out his mics, too, then—
Before she could chase that thought down, Tomas leapt to the bed alongside her. They bounced, laughing, and twined together.
Sanda’d been worried about this. The moment that pod popped open and Tomas clambered out, sporting a firm jawline and blinking some lovely eyes, thoughts of Adam and Eve crashed into her head. Jokes, mostly. She’d warned herself against getting too close. Against their situation pushing her into his arms. Couldn’t even be sure he’d be interested in her type.
Even if he was interested, there’d be trouble. She didn’t know a couple that shared a one-bedroom apartment that didn’t indulge in the occasional bickerfest. But this would have been so, so much more intense. The only two humans left alive alone, together, for light-years.
She’d figured, that if anything came up between them, there was a fifty-fifty chance of attempted murder in their future.
So, she’d kept her distance. Put him at arm’s length. Let her distrust distill in her belly, cool the hot thumping along of oh-so-human hormones and loneliness. Bero and Grippy had been company, but they hadn’t been human. And, try as she might, she just couldn’t accept Bero the way she’d wanted to. Couldn’t let him get really close.
Never mind that the fucker had been lying to her from the start.
Tomas was everywhere and everything and her reticence washed away on a crest of sheer joy.
The dusky light of the room turned bloodred.
“What the hell—” Tomas sat bolt upright, and she was right behind him, swinging her legs to the ground as she resealed what had been peeled open of her suit.
“Bero, report,” she demanded.
“Everything is under—”
“Proximity alert. Unknown ship entering flight path. Impact imminent.” A metallic woman’s voice overrode Bero’s, and it took Sanda a moment to place it. She hadn’t heard it in—how long, weeks?—but it must be. It was the modular voice of the ship’s emergency override features. The same voice that had alerted her to Bero’s airlock blowing due to a denatured rubber seal.
A seal that could not have possibly oxidized in the scant amount of time that had actually passed. Blood drained from her face. In the contouring confines of her FitFlex, she went very, very cold. Without thought, she scanned Tomas’s room for the gasket she’d let him keep, let him take to examine. The seal, with the three gouges in it.
It lay against a bulkhead. She stood, moved toward it mechanically, while Tomas and Bero argued about the meaning of the woman’s voice. Bero was insisting everything was fine. That the alarm was just a blown circuit, or something like it, made unstable over time. They’d fix it, patch it up, and everything would be fine. How many of those little circuits she had mended under his direction shut up the automated voice of the woman?
She pressed her fingers into the gouges. They fit. Perfectly.
A great many things threatened to overwhelm her in that moment. Implications raced through her, intensifying her headache. That glint. That hint of white—or was it Icarion grey?—she’d seen in the brief moment it had taken Bero to adjust her HUD
as she’d stepped out to fix the gasket. Had one of Bero’s crew clung to life on that gasket, just before being spaced?
She shoved those images down. Locked them in a box in her chest to dwell upon later. A ship was near. Biran was near. And she and Tomas needed to get the hell off this bucket before things went very, very wrong.
Tomas was still bickering with Bero, faking a good-natured sort of annoyance to keep the AI from realizing Tomas was stalling him, giving whoever was out there time to get into position to capture the smartship and its passengers. Bero kept on insisting the alert was a false read, just some ice, the ramscoop would obliterate it, the parameters for alert had been set too fine, etc., etc. Sanda listened to him rationalize it all away, knowing damned well he was stalling just as surely as Tomas was.
“I want to see the obstruction,” she said. Both men snapped silent.
“I can pipe a feed into the screen embedded on Tomas’s wall,” Bero offered.
“No. I want it full-res, on the lab screen. Big as day. I know you’re confident, but if your circuits are as faulty as you think they are, then I want visual. Your sensors might misjudge mass in a way the alert system isn’t.”
“I know what—”
“Send it through, I’m on my way.” No more stalling. There was, she was certain, no fucking way Bero could produce the kind of render he’d need to fool her on short notice. Not on that large of a screen. If he’d said there’d been nothing there, then he could just slap up an image of the area wiped clean—nothing but black between the bright array of stars. But he’d stuck his metaphorical foot straight in his own speakers. He’d tried to convince Tomas something was there, just something not worth worrying about.
But then, maybe he could. He was an AI running on a top-of-the-line experimental spaceship. He was probably running billions of processes every second. For all she knew, a little render might be child’s play. But she had to keep him distracted, jumping. And once inside the lab they’d have access to tools—tools to help them override certain processes. Regardless, she’d feel a whole lot better with a big, hefty wrench in her hands.
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