by MB Panichi
Copyright © 2013 by MB Panichi
Bella Books, Inc.
P.O. Box 10543
Tallahassee, FL 32302
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, without permission in writing from the publisher.
First Bella Books Edition 2013
Bella Books eBook released 2013
Editor: Nene Adams
Cover Designed by: Kiaro Creative
ISBN: 978-1-59493-365-3
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
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About the Author
MB Panichi lives in Richfield, Minnesota with her wife and their two dogs: Dave, a border collie/lab mix who loves to swim, and Maci, a shih tzu with a mind of her own. Saving Morgan is MB’s first published book. When she isn’t holding down her day job as a software developer, MB plays drums in a variety band when gigs come up, and dreams wistfully about her “heavy metal” days.
Dedication
This one is for my mom, Ruby, who gave to me a love of words and books, and for my friend Roy, who was the first to teach me to “show, not tell.” I miss you both.
Acknowledgement
This has been a long and wonderful journey, with so many helpers on the way. First, thanks to my wife April for putting up with having a writer in the house, and for her love, support and patience. Love you, Sweet Pea!!! Thanks, next, to all my writer friends and writers’ groups for their support, encouragement, and critiques—Jessie, Lori, Mary L., all the Queer Writers and the BABA’s—you guys all know who you are, and you’re all great!! Special thanks to my GLCS mentors, Pol Robinson and Fran Heckrotte, for their wisdom and insights. Fran was integral in helping me to get my manuscript to the point where I felt comfortable submitting it, and I learned a TON working with her. Thanks, too, to Nene Adams, my fearless editor at Bella, and Karin Kallmaker for taking a chance on me! And, of course, thanks to all my relatives and friends who supported and encouraged me through the whole crazy process. You’re all the best!!!
Chapter One
As the Moon Base dome dimmed to an evening tint, Shaine Wendt picked her way along the crowded main street. She efficiently dodged pedestrians and the occasional delivery trucks and hover-bikes weaving between them.
Wearing a long-sleeved tunic, pocketed cargo pants belted at the ankles, and work boots, she thought she fit in well, but knew her military past remained part of her style and bearing. She had let the top of her regulation-length buzzcut grow out into fire-red spikes, though she kept the sides shaved. She moved with a purposeful, loose-limbed stride, her head up and her shoulders back, no longer bothered by the vague hint of a limp she still carried from the loss of half her right leg to an IED explosion ten years ago.
Shaine remained aloof from the other people on the street, though she automatically assessed and cataloged everything and everyone. She took in the enticing smells of food cooking, sorting out the rich, old Earth ethnic aromas from the bland, predictable odors of preprocessed meals. Occasionally, the thick tang of intoxicants wafted from open doors along with the babble of voices and music.
She paused in front of a bar, attracted by the fluorescent neon curling in flashing detail around the entrance. A slightly less gaudy sign in the front window announced “Rose’s Roost.” She shoved her hands in her pants pockets and walked through the open doorway.
Pausing just inside, she scrutinized the dimly lit room. Knots of people gathered around tables scattered throughout the low-ceilinged space. A handful of dancers clustered on the matchbox-sized dance floor in the rear. The thumping bass beat rumbled through her chest, even though the music wasn’t all that loud. She crossed to the horseshoe-shaped bar just past the entrance and claimed a stool against the wall.
The heavyset bartender with a salt-and-pepper crewcut sauntered over. She swiped a rag across the bar’s already shiny surface. “Hey, honey, what can I get ya?”
“Whatever’s on tap is fine.”
The bartender swung the damp towel over her shoulder and grabbed a mug off the shelf hanging from the ceiling at the center of the bar. She filled the mug one-handed from an auto-dispenser and slid it over to Shaine. “You new, Red? Don’t think I’ve seen you around.”
Shaine raised a brow. “Red?”
“Well, ya ain’t told me your name.” The bartender held out a meaty hand and gave Shaine a blatant, grinning leer. “Rose Hallsey.”
Shaine stared pointedly at Rose for a second before giving up a smile. “Shaine Wendt.” She clasped the extended hand with a firm grip. “Only been on Base a month. And if you call me Red again, I’ll beat you senseless.”
Rose laughed. “You got it.” She studied Shaine with dark, curious eyes. “You ex-Earth Guard?”
“Yeah, a while back.”
“Thought you had that look about ya. I was Fifth Guard Out-System Cavalry. Retired a couple years ago, came up here to take this place over for a friend.”
“Cav’s a good group. Worked with ’em a couple times. I got a medical discharge out of Special Ops.”
Rose’s eyebrows rose. “No kidding? You’re a tough one.”
Shaine shrugged. “Like I said, been a while. Just doing the mechanic thing these days.”
“Tab’s on the house tonight, then.”
Shaine lifted her glass. “Thanks.”
“No problem.”
Shaine settled against the wall and took a deep swallow of her beer. She had been on Moon Base five weeks, transferring from a job as a covert agent for Mann-Maru Security. So far, working maintenance here was a decent gig. Definitely beat the claustrophobic atmosphere of working in the mining facilities out in the Asteroid Belt or having to deal with the twisted intrigues of corporate security. She sighed while observing the people around her. I wanted a normal life, she reminded herself. Now I have it. So why do I feel like I’m completely at loose ends?
Loud voices from the entry attracted her attention. A mixed group of men and women walked in, jostling each other and laughing. Several wore loose-fitting, kelly-green jerseys bearing a stylized cartoon of a frothing guard dog with the slogan “Devil Dawgs—We Bite” in a dripping, blood-red font. She recognized the name of the team from the local grav-ball rec league sports reports.
Her gaze flicked over the boisterous and somewhat mismatched crew who appeared focused on the ball player at the center. Slim, diminutive and scruffy-looking, the woman had cropped black hair with bangs flopping unevenly over wide-set eyes. She gave the squat, compactly built man beside her a teasing push.
Laughing, he shoved her back and tousled her hair in what seemed to Shaine like a friendly, almost brotherly gesture. The arms of his jersey were cut off, revealing biceps and forearms covered in tattoos. Black, red and gold tribal patterns curled and twisted in geometric motifs up his arms and the sides of his neck.
The broad-shouldered woman towering at the head of the group waved a hand at the bartender. “Hey, Rose! Can you grab a round for us?” She draped an arm around the shoulders of the slender, black-haired woman in the middle who looked up, revealing a bandage taped over her left eyebrow. Shaine also noticed a dark stain down the front of her jersey. “And a double shot for Morgan, here. She kicked serious ass tonight.”
Rose returned the wave with a wide smile. “Hi, Ally. You guys win tonight?”
“Yeah. Five to two. Chissley went after Morgan again, but, man, she ri
pped into him!” Ally laughed as the group crowded around a table close to the bar. The team and their friends slapped Morgan on the back and on the butt, razzing and congratulating her while they settled in.
The tattooed guy shouted, “Rosie, bring a couple extra shots, hey?”
“Pony up the cash, Digger! You still owe me from last week.”
“Yeah, yeah.” He grinned and laughed.
Shaine sipped her drink while she watched the team’s interactions, singling out the star ball player. Morgan. Mentally she repeated the name, feeling there was something familiar about the woman, but unable to identify what. I should know her. Had she seen Morgan around the maintenance docks?
Morgan’s pale, almost translucent complexion identified her as a “spacer”—someone who had lived a lot of years in artificial light—so she wouldn’t have been anyone Shaine knew from Earth. Nor did she recognize Morgan from her time working in the Belt.
Shaine finished off her beer and set the glass down, feeling suddenly very alone. She contemplated just heading home. It made no sense to sit here drinking by herself.
“Another?” Rose asked.
Shaine hesitated and finally shrugged. At least she was among people here. She didn’t find any attraction in sitting alone in her apartment. “Sure, why not.”
Rose poured out another glass and gestured with her chin. “The Dawgs are one of the best grav-ball teams in the rec league,” she commented. “You play any ball?”
“Not really. Used to do some pickup games in the Guard, just for kicks. Usually degenerated into zero-g wrestling free-for-alls.”
“Well, they’re good, that bunch. The little one, Morgan Rahn, she’s their primary forward. Tough kid. Fast and accurate. Has a hell of a body slam, too. Seen her smack the snot out of guys three times her size.”
Shaine studied Morgan slouching in her seat as her friends carried the conversation. If it weren’t for the bandage and the blood, she wouldn’t have picked out Morgan for a fighter. Morgan Rahn.
A round of laughter went up around the table. Morgan’s face lit up with a wicked grin.
Shaine’s breath hitched. Damn. She’s hot. She grabbed for the glass of beer in front of her and downed a sizable swallow. Put your eyes back in their sockets, dumbass. Finish your drink and leave before you do something stupid, like actually walk over there and talk to her. Morgan Rahn sure as hell wouldn’t be interested in a fucked-up ex-commando assassin. She shook her head and focused elsewhere.
Two women appeared in the bar’s entryway. The shorter of the pair hung possessively on her escort’s arm. They seemed exceptionally overdressed for the establishment. The description “high-class sophisticated bitches” popped into Shaine’s head. She immediately disliked them.
The taller woman’s deep auburn hair fell in thick waves past her bare shoulders. She wore a sleek metallic-bronze dress split to mid-thigh and knee-high spike-heeled boots. She paused, scanning the room. Her attention seemed to focus on the group of grav-ball players. Full lips curled into a too-wide smile. She strode toward them, pulling her companion along.
“Aw, fuck. That ain’t a good thing,” Rose muttered. Shaine noted that Rose’s gaze focused on the newcomers.
As the well-dressed twosome approached the grav-ball team and their friends, the ball player whom Rose had called Ally stood up, hands clenched at her sides. “What do you want, Gina?” she growled. “Maybe I should do the world a favor and kick your sorry ass back Earthside.”
Gina ignored her and turned a seductive smile on Morgan. “Miss me, baby?” she drawled.
Morgan stared at her with bored, empty eyes. “No.”
Gina stepped in and grabbed Morgan’s jaw to kiss her roughly. Morgan didn’t react to the bruising attack. Gina released her and backed away. “Hmm…” Her mouth twisted into a contemptuous smile. “I guess not. Good thing you’re replaceable.”
“Fuck off, Gina,” Morgan said flatly.
Gina laughed, pulling her companion closer.
Digger stood up, glaring dangerously. When Gina walked away, he dropped a protective hand on Morgan’s shoulder.
Shaine found herself standing beside the bar, poised on the balls of her feet, her hands tightly fisted at her sides. She took a long breath, forcing her tensed muscles to relax. Good to know her fighting instincts were still intact, she supposed, even if it wasn’t her fight. Or any of her business. It was no longer her job to keep the peace. Besides, Morgan’s friends appeared more than ready to defend her honor.
She backed mechanically onto the barstool, unable to tear her gaze from Morgan Rahn. The woman wore a dark, unreadable expression, and her arms were crossed protectively over her chest. No, it wasn’t her job to save Morgan Rahn from bitches like that, she thought. But she knew she would have done it in a second if the situation warranted.
As though aware of someone watching her, Morgan glanced up. Wide gray eyes focused on Shaine and their gazes locked.
For an endless second Shaine’s existence tunneled into a conduit between them. Heart pounding, she blinked and looked away. She leaned against the bar and pulled in a shaky breath, tightening her fingers around the cool mug. A quick backward glance confirmed Morgan still watching her curiously. A shiver ran down her spine. Oh, hell, I really, really need to leave.
Chapter Two
Duffel bag slung over her shoulder, Senior Systems Mechanic Morgan Rahn plodded into the ready room with a sigh. Another day, another credit. She glanced around the tightly arranged staging area. Ben and Charri stood in front of their lockers changing into the skintight liners worn under their spacesuits. Digger and Strom hadn’t wandered in yet.
She went to her locker on the opposite side of the room and dropped her duffel on the bench while absently tapping her pass-code into the keypad.
“Hey, Morg, how was the club last night?”
Morgan glanced behind her to see Charri smiling over her shoulder. Her best friend was a petite woman with kinky blond hair and an exuberant personality. Morgan shrugged. “It wasn’t bad—got there late, though, and Ally’s girlfriend didn’t show. Mitchell told me to tell you hello.”
Ben snorted. “He’s such a dick.”
Charri swatted him. “Don’t be mean.”
The ready room door hissed open and Digger stomped in. “Fucking blast-brains in security had to go through all my stuff,” he growled as he dropped his bag in front of the locker next to Morgan’s. “I am so fucking sick of this crap. Damned Inquisition.”
“It’s supposed to make us feel safer,” Morgan commented dryly. “I heard they were hassling Walker and Benny Smithe yesterday because they were filling shifts out in the Belt. Apparently anyone who’s worked the Belt is a budding terrorist now, too.”
Charri shook her head. “The paranoia around here is getting out of hand.”
“And look how much good it’s doing,” Digger muttered. He stripped off his shirt to reveal the intricate tattoos covering his back. “You see the news last night? Another ‘unexplained’ mining explosion.”
“Unexplained my ass,” Ben said. “Somebody’s making a lot of money off all this.”
Morgan added, “If it was hurting Mann-Maru Industries that bad, the terrorists would’ve been shut down a long time ago.”
Derek Strom, their crew chief, strolled into the ready room carrying the usual stack of handheld computers. “All right, we got orders.” He tossed each team member a comp pad and glanced around the room. “Sound off so I know who’s doing what.”
Digger glanced at his pad. “I’m checking—probably replacing—the valves for the main thruster fuel lines.”
“Some topside hull repair,” Chari responded. “Nothing major.”
Ben scrolled through his list. “Doing hull check with Charri. And a couple of vent seals.”
“Morgan?” Strom asked.
“They’ve got me running replacement control leads to the main thrusters, but the micro-fuser on my suit is still burnt out,” she said. “Maintenance
said they won’t have a replacement for me until the day after tomorrow. Hey, Digg, you wanna trade jobs? Your suit fuser’s working.”
Digger scowled. “How about switching suits again—I’m shit-all with the fuser. I’d rather work the fuel lines.”
“That okay with you, Strom?” Morgan asked.
“Sure, long as the work gets done,” Derek said. “Let me know if maintenance doesn’t get that fuser fixed on your suit soon, Morgan. Otherwise, I’m going to make the suit switch permanent on the records. This is—what? The third time this shift cycle you guys have switched?” He shook his head, made a note into his comp pad, and added, “I’ll be forward. Scanner assembly has a bad connection. Okay, people, let’s get this show on the road.”
Fifteen minutes later, sealed in their vacuum suits, Morgan and her work crew crowded into the air lock. When the outer door slid open, Strom jumped down first. Boots barely touching the ground, he bounced gracefully toward the massive scaffolding structure a hundred meters away where an intra-planetary cargo ship was docked.
Morgan recognized the ship as a Mann-Maru R330 Heavy Hauler, primarily used to transport processed and unprocessed metals from the mines in the Asteroid Belt back to Moon Base. The body of the R330 resembled a slightly flattened football with the cargo hold in the wide central area. A smaller ovoid at the front held the cockpit. Three thrusters took up the back third of the hauler, inverted cones emerging from the top and lower sides of the ship.
Morgan bounced to the surface behind Strom, kicking in the thruster pack mounted on her back and guiding herself toward the bottom of the ship. She inverted her body midflight, allowing the magnetic soles of her boots to connect to the hull with a solid clunk, then cut the power and pushed the handlebars out of her way.
Standing on the ship’s underbelly, she pulled the comp pad from its holster and scrolled through the blueprints to check the location of the hatch she needed to access. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Digger bounce past her and disappear behind the thruster casings.
