He’d lunged for the cascading conduit on instinct, logic telling him that the chances she might actually be holding on to the other end were slim. A heartbeat later he hung over the edge himself, every ’cybe sense at max as he desperately searched for her.
When the conduit tugged back, his heart caught in his throat. It wasn’t until he had her back in his arms that he remembered to breathe again.
He almost told her, then and there, I don’t care who you were in the past, what you’ve done.
But he couldn’t. He didn’t yet know if she was even real and not just a psi-induced hallucination.
She seemed to believe it was her personal hell they were playing out, but it was also his. She was once again unattainable. At least with Tasha Sebastian he had the common basis of the Fleet and the Alliance. But the Tin Soldier and Lady Sass were on opposite ends of the spectrum.
And Lady Sass was Dag Zanorian’s lover. He didn’t need to see their interaction in the bay earlier to know that—nor was he dissuaded from that notion by the fact she’d decked him soundly. Her relationship with Zanorian was part of the profile the Triad had on her, a profile that included the very few, rare images of Gund’jalar’s top student. He wondered why he’d never noticed the resemblance in the years since he first saw her on the Sarna Bogue.
Or maybe he had and just chose to ignore it.
He was already hopelessly in love with her by that point.
She slowed, one hand splaying out. “Can you spike into any system or just Triad?”
A rectangular data-systems panel jutted out from the wall a few feet in front of them, its cover tarnished and dented. He reminded himself that there were very serious issues at stake here—hallucinations that could kill. The crew of Degun’s Luck had learned that. Who she was and whether she viewed him only as a ’cybe had to be tabled for now. He peeled off his gloves and answered without looking at her. “Do you really think I wouldn’t know how to get into U-Cee hardware? But if you remember the primary security codes, I can work more quickly. Are we looking for Zanorian’s dock assignment?”
“We’re looking to create a diversion. RaftTraff gets mighty testy when a ship breaks dock. And I’m not willing to wait for clearance.”
RaftTraff. Mining Raft Traffic Control. Definitely not Fleet terminology.
He flipped the cover open, studied the interfaces and crystal boards while she rattled off the codes. A patched mess but not unworkable. One stroke of luck: a compatible dataport. “What kind of diversion? I need location, start time, and duration.”
“I’d love to launch a raftwide mullytrock, but then we’d have every other damned jockey in straps burning bulkheads. ’Course, that would work too. RaftTraff wouldn’t know which one of us to send the sec tugs after first.”
Mullytrock. Definitely Lady Sass. He remembered Ralland at fourteen getting his mouth washed out with soap for saying that.
“You want a mullytrock, Sass, I can give you that.” Roving, sporadic power outages, ventilation failures, lift malfunctions. For starters. “But I still need start time.” He took his attention from the panel and looked at her. “How far are we from the Blade?”
“She’s right there.” She pointed to her left. “But we have to go down two access panels and up one level. That’ll bring us out about six docks up from her airlock. Figure fifteen minutes to get to that point. Five to ten to get on board the Blade, depending on who’s around.”
“I’ll start with lift lockdowns at the fifteen-minute mark.” He absently studied the panel as he thumbed back the covering on his left wrist port, wishing she wasn’t watching him become part of the raft’s data-grid. So her hand clasping his arm startled him.
She had her datalyzer out. “Let’s make sure you’re not going to get your ass fried when you spike in.”
“I doubt maintenance—”
“We’re overdue, flyboy.” She glanced up from the handheld’s screen and shot him a look that labeled him trock-brained idiot more than flyboy. “It’s been almost forty-five minutes without a major calamity. No collapsing walls or resurrected dead men. No intense emotions for this thing to feed on.”
He hated explaining this. “I have…fail-safes to prevent permanent damage from a backwash surge.”
“And for the five minutes you’re in a reboot-and-recover mode, who’ll be restarting my heart?” She shook her head as if in annoyance and looked down at the datalyzer again. “Everything looks normal. But be careful, okay?” She released his arm.
She was worried about him. But of course she was. He had the formulas to get them out of the void. He pulled his own datalyzer from his utility belt, retrieved the files, then linked the datalyzers, transmitting the information. “If something happens to me, there’s the data you’d need.”
Another glance down at her datalyzer and up again. “Thanks. But unless it’s really inconvenient, would you mind making sure you stay alive?”
A trickle of warmth grew inside him, in spite of his uncertainties. “I’ll make it a priority.”
“You do that.” She shoved the datalyzer back on her belt. “Now let’s see how much trouble we can cause.”
He caused considerable, starting with the lift lockdowns just as they exited into the corridor leading to the Blade. Sass took off her jacket and tied it around her waist, then unsealed the collar of her tan and black uniform, trying, she explained, to make it look less like a uniform. He left his jacket on but shoved up the sleeves and opened his collar too. His gloves were off, his admiral’s insignia and comm link in his pocket. They had to survive for only five, maybe ten minutes in the public corridor and hope no one realized they were Triad Fleet officers.
Two maintenance workers hurried past them, a third trailing behind, guiding a loaded antigrav pallet. They threaded into an oncoming group—males and females—in a variety of coveralls and shipsuits in grays, dark blue, and green. Six, no seven, he counted, noting the position of hands and weapons. Noting where eyes looked. But the group was busy chatting and barely glanced at him or Sass as they passed.
“Thirty-Seven Blue, next one after this.” Sass kept her voice low as they neared a yellow-and-white-striped docking port, its airlock set back three feet from the corridor by a short accessway. “It’ll say Devan’s Duty on the ID plate. Shit!”
He saw them at the same moment she did. Four U-Cee Fleet officers in regulation tans coming toward them. Williamson would recognize him immediately—she was a smart, tough captain but no match for the Vaxxar when he’d pushed through the Zone in her sector at the beginning of the war. Kuhn was UCID and could easily tag himself and Sass. The other two—both males—he didn’t know.
Overheads flickered and popped, but the damned lights didn’t dim enough for cover and wouldn’t go out for another ten minutes. He grabbed Sass’s arm and veered sharply into 36 Blue’s accessway as if that was their destination. They needed cover, they needed to look like they belonged, he needed to look like anyone but the Tin Soldier.
He kissed her, pinning her against the bulkhead because there was no time to explain his impromptu maneuver—and he didn’t want to give her enough room to take a swing at him. Mean right hook, Serafino had warned. She tensed for half a second, then her lips parted and her arms moved quickly up around his neck. His ploy be damned, the taste and feel of her was electrifying, and it was all he could do to keep focused on the approaching footsteps. She deepened their kiss and leaned up into him, her body a contrast of soft places and hard utility belt.
“It’s our job to keep their lives interesting.” A woman’s voice came from behind him. Williamson, he thought, listening to the answering laughter.
“No arguments about that, Captain,” another female voice said. “In the meantime…”
The voices and the footsteps trailed off.
He kept kissing Sass. He didn’t want to pull away from the hands caressing his neck or the tongue teasing his or the warm soft body arching against him, starting a riot of sensations that left him ac
hing for more.
But he had to. The Tin Soldier and Lady Sass had a ship to hijack.
He released her mouth, stepping back, but her hands locked around his neck, stopped him. Her eyes fluttered open and the look there sent a flare of heat through his body.
“We have to go.” His voice was rough.
“Shhh.” One hand slid forward to cup his cheek. Rising up on her toes, she very gently brushed her mouth over his.
Her feather-light touch seared him. He bit back a groan. “We don’t—”
“I know.” Her voice was as raspy as his. She shook her head. “Never mind. Let’s go.”
She turned away, adjusting the strap of her rifle. He wondered what she was about to say. He wondered why she kissed him with that gentle kiss. But there was no time to wonder.
He swept the corridor left and right with a quick but expert glance. No more U-Cee officers, no limping pirate captain coming to reclaim his ship. Only a maintenance worker in orange coveralls heading away on the left.
He put his hand against the middle of Sass’s back and guided her out.
“An hour,” she said, as they ducked into 37 Blue’s accessway, where the ID plate read Devan’s Duty. She tapped at the lock’s keypad. “An hour and no major calamities.”
“Only because Williamson or Kuhn didn’t see me.” He paused, checking the corridor, covering her back. “Three…two…one.”
An alarm blared discordantly through the corridor. Right on time.
“Tell me that’s your doing.”
“It is. The light system will fail on alternate decks in eight minutes. Ventilation fans will be on half power three minutes after that. All will restore at the fifteen-minute mark, then the sequence, starting with lift lockdowns, will repeat, starting at the twenty-five.”
She grinned. “A master of the mullytrock. No wonder I fell in love with you.”
A hydraulic hiss signaled the hatchway opening, halting his verbal reply, but it didn’t stop his chest from tightening at her words. Was this just another teasing quip? He didn’t ask—couldn’t ask. He pulled out his datalyzer and scanned for biosignatures or any anomaly that might indicate the presence of one of those psi-creatures on board.
She cradled her rifle against her, a look of determination on her face.
“Clear,” he said.
They stepped through the airlock, rifles at the ready.
“I don’t like this,” she murmured, locking the hatchway behind them. “It’s too godsdamned easy.”
They moved with deliberate caution down the narrow corridor. A Strafer-class cruiser wasn’t a large ship: three small cabins, two cargo holds, a galley–ready room combination, and a large cockpit that was too small to be called a bridge.
But its equipment and security were not average cruiser fare. They were customized—and ingeniously too. The Blade’s systems were set to come online once the ship read Zanorian’s biosignature and palm print. Unfortunately, they could provide neither.
Zanorian had much to be proud of, Kel-Paten mused, disabling security lock after security lock on the ship’s drives while Sass decoded the navigation system. He worked manually; there was no compatible dataport at the command station and too much else to do for him to leave the cockpit and search for one belowdeck in the drive room. It was almost as if Zanorian knew that one day the Tin Soldier would sit in the captain’s chair of the Blade and had intended to deny him access to spike in.
Which brought him back again to the woman he’d kissed and who’d gently kissed him. He had some very hard questions that needed asking. But they had to wait until they broke dock and avoided any pursuit. However, they’d have at least two hours in jump before they reached Panperra’s coordinates, which, by his calculations, should correspond to the location of HV-1 here in the void. Two hours where they’d be little more than passengers, the ship’s computers fully in charge. Two hours for him to ask those questions.
Lights flashed green before him. “Drives online,” he announced. “Priming sublights.”
“Almost there,” she told him. “Okay. Nav’s online, weapons are online.”
“Life support at optimum.”
“Scanner, shields…we have a go.” She slid out of the chair at the nav station and strapped herself into the copilot’s chair next to him.
“Looks good. Still not happy, Sass?”
“Me? Nervous as a long-tailed fidget in a room full of rocking chairs.” Her grin lacked its usual confidence. “It’s still too godsdamned easy.”
He initiated two diametric systems checks, not only because he wanted full data on Zanorian’s ship but because he didn’t discount her concern. “Maybe it’s finished playing with us.”
“The void doesn’t start or finish playing. That’s what it is—continuous emotional upheaval for its own pleasure.”
“The void is an anomaly and as such obtains no enjoyment.” He studied the first systems check. Nothing unusual. “What feeds off our experiences is the psi-creature you said the furzels found.”
“Bad Thing.”
“So maybe we’ve bored Bad Thing. It’s moved on to someone more interesting.”
“Is that your hypothesis?”
He glanced at her. “It’s one I’m working on.”
“Gathering evidence can get fatal. Remember that.”
“Noted.” Data scrolled on his console screen. The second check came back clean as well. “Sublights ready, thrusters primed,” he told her. “Do we at least give traffic control a courtesy warning?”
She shot him a narrow-eyed look, her mouth pursed. “Of course not.”
“Humor me,” he said, and disconnected the airlock, then began retracting the ship’s tether cables.
She sighed, keyed open the comm on her armrest. “RaftTraff, Devan’s Duty looking to flash out in two minutes.”
“Devan’s Duty, this is Raft Traffic Control,” a man’s voice replied from the speaker, sounding very annoyed. Kel-Paten checked the local scanners. Two freighters and a bulky transport skimmer streamed away from the raft at speeds that explained the controller’s testy tone. Four other ships were in various stages of undocking. The exodus from his mullytrock had started.
“You are not cleared for departure at this time. Follow procedure and upload your flight plan. A slot will be assigned—”
“RaftTraff, Devan’s Duty is flashing out, one minute fifteen. Unlock your clamps or I’ll sheer the suckers.”
“You still owe for the damage from the last time!”
“Then unlock your clamps, darling,” Sass’s voice dropped to a throaty purr, “or we will be burning bulkheads. Devan’s Duty, out.”
A series of muted thumps ensued. Kel-Paten keyed the thrusters, then eased the sublights to fifteen percent as the ship dropped away. The Blade handled well, feeling like a heavier ship than she was and without a Strafer’s usual tendency to yaw at undocking.
Sass tapped in a heading as he increased power, guiding the ship closer to the four departing freighters. Two more broke dock behind them and were on a similar path. He altered thrusters and sublight output.
More ships joined the exiting pack, and for the next ten minutes Sass wove their way toward a large ore freighter. Kel-Paten worked smoothly with her but didn’t know why she chose that particular ship. Then he recognized what she was doing. The mirroring maneuver was called “riding the shadow,” and it was dangerous and illegal in both the U-Cee and Triad Fleets.
“Hit her with a comm wash, will you?” she asked, sending a short stream of data to his console. “I want her ins and outs.”
He keyed in the wide-band invasive scan designed to obtain a ship’s unique communications codes: one for incoming transmits and one for outgoing. Codes within those codes could be used to emulate a ship’s energy signature. That little trick she might have learned from UCID, but he doubted it.
Now the Blade would not only look like part of the freighter on another ship’s sensors—most specifically the automated, unmann
ed sec tugs—it would sound like it too. But they had to keep her on a very precise, very narrow course.
“The sec tugs shouldn’t bother us,” he said, locking in the pattern. They weren’t one of the ships “burning bulkhead,” as she put it.
“It’s not the sec tugs that worry me. I’d like to be as invisible for as long as possible. There’s a lot of traffic between the rafts. I don’t know friendlies from unfriendlies.”
“You don’t have to. Logic,” he told her. He’d given this psi-creature problem a good deal of thought. “None of the emotion-inducing experiences to date were fatal.”
“Falling through that wall sure as hell could have been!”
“But it wasn’t. I’ve analyzed everything that’s happened since we made HV-One. Your fall wasn’t fatal because if it was, you’d no longer contribute an emotional response.”
“And sending a skimmer on a collision course with the Blade wouldn’t create an emotion?” She snorted softly.
“A hull breach in space is instantaneous death. We’d be useless to it. That’s why we had to get off the raft, where it could continue to throw problems at us, and into a smaller environment, where it needs to keep us alive.”
“The Galaxus going cold into the jumpgate, the fuel-line break?”
“All within range of a habitable world,” he reminded her.
“So your hypothesis is, the safest place we could be is in a small ship in the middle of nowhere?”
“It won’t try anything until we get back dirtside on HV-One.”
She took her gaze off her console for a few seconds and stared at him. Then, with a shake of her head, she went back to keeping the Blade on her very tight course. “Humor me,” she said after a moment, mimicking his request minutes before.
“I need some time to program in my calculations. Unless that freighter makes a big course change, you can keep us shadowed to her for another ten minutes.”
Games of Command Page 33
