“Wise decision. You need to get away from the Zone.”
Get away from the Triad border, Sass knew Eden meant. Away from memories of a certain Triad admiral and their encounters in the Zone when he’d been a mere captain. “Eden, I’m okay.”
“Grief takes time,” Eden said softly. “A month isn’t always long enough.”
Not a month. One month, three days, and fourteen and a half hours since she’d found out Branden was dead.
Killed in the line of duty. She had no idea what that meant in the Triad, where the only news came from refugees, who heard it from other refugees. She only knew what it meant to her—an empty ache that had yet to fade. And when there were no refugees to rescue, no Ved-controlled Triad cruisers to deflect, far too much quiet.
“Tell ’Fino I’ll see him at the Starfield Doubles tables in ten days.” She pasted a smile on her face.
Eden shook her head knowingly. “Aye, Captain. It’s a date.”
The screen blanked, the U-Cee logo winking back on.
Her fingers hovered over a small star-shaped icon. A touch and she could bring up the logs. Sometimes it lessened the pain. Most times it did not.
She knew them all by heart anyway.
I don’t know where you found that No, No, Bad Captain shirt. Nor do I know where you found those pink sweatpants. But sweet holy gods, Tasha, you don’t know how close I came to totally losing it and making more of a fool of myself than I already have.
It seems all I’m able to do in your presence is stare at you like some stupid schoolboy. I just want to talk to you. I’ve been trying so hard to reach you, but I’m so afraid, and the gods know if you found out you’d probably think it hysterically funny…but I’m so afraid of losing you. I don’t know how close I can get. I tell myself all the time that you’re here with me on the Vax and I should be thankful for that! It’s more than I ever thought I deserved. I know where you are, I know you’re safe, I know I can protect you.
She closed the file, closed her eyes, sat in the office’s deafening silence, her head against the tall back of her chair, willing herself to feel nothing, knowing she felt too much.
Mommy sad? Don’t be sad.
Tank’s innocent love washed over her. She leaned forward and rubbed his belly fur. Then she sighed. “Mommy has to get back to work, sweet baby.”
She stood. Red-alert sirens erupted.
Shit! Sass flicked on intraship as Tank bolted off the desk into the safety kennel in the corner of the office. “Sebastian to bridge. Status, Mister Rembert!”
“Incoming interstellar thermal wave,” her First Officer told her. “Five-point-two on the Graslan scale. McAbian-residue readings—”
“On my way! Sebastian out.”
The bridge was a flurry of frenzied activity, U-Cee officers moving efficiently from station to station, specialists glued to their chairs but swiveling quickly as new information downloaded to nearby screens. Voices were tense, commands clipped. Every screen streamed with data.
She stopped behind Rembert and in less than fifteen seconds knew what they had.
“McAbian levels increasing at the rate of twelve parts per nanosecond,” she called out as she darted for the command sling. “Chances of a vortex in the next ten minutes is eighty percent and rising.”
She slapped at intraship as she sat. “This is the captain. Secure all decks. We’re on a rift horizon. Sebastian out.” She raked the straps across her, grabbed the arm-pad console, and swung it into place. “Switching helm control to manual, ten seconds…nine…eight…Hang on, boys and girls, it’s going to be a rough ride.”
The vortex’s primary flare came in a blinding flash on the forward viewscreens. The Regalia lurched, buffeted by the energy spiraling outward. Bridge lights flickered as Sass, heart pounding, coaxed the huntership through a series of countermoves.
“Remy, watch those vanes.”
“On it, Captain.”
“I’m retracting forward vanes…now. Advise on any structural slippage.”
“Hull’s holding, Captain.”
“Inverting aft vanes, ten percent.”
The ship shimmied, jerking. Alarms wailed again. She altered vane pitch. The shimmying lessened though didn’t stop completely. One alarm, blessedly, fell silent.
“Status, Remy,” she called out.
“Almost through the wave, Captain. Two minutes, eight seconds…”
Another hard shimmy. More lights flickered. Voices were still clipped, but Sass could feel some of the tension abate. The Regalia, trooper that she was, held tight. The last alarm ceased and, at a heartbeat past the two-minute mark, she allowed herself a long breath.
Tank?
Ooh, bumpy jumpy time. Tank o-kay. Food now?
She bit back a small grin. Few minutes.
She tapped intraship, opening the link to sick bay. “Cal, how’s my crew?”
“Two broken arms, one concussion, one broken furzel tail. All under control,” Dr. Monterro reported easily.
“And the gods smile on the U-Cees once again,” she intoned, cutting the link. “Remy?”
“Minimal damage. Repair crews are already reporting to stations.”
She unhooked her straps. “Find out where in hell that thermal wave came from,” she told him as she stood. “I’ll be—”
A short-range-scanner alarm trilled discordantly.
“Huntership, Captain,” Rembert called out. “Attempting to acquire configuration and ident now.”
She sprinted to his station, scanning the data as it streamed down his screens.
Her heart stopped.
Rembert locked in the information. “Ship is—”
“The Vaxxar.” She breathed the name. Sweet holy gods.
“Get me all images on forward screens,” she ordered, swinging around, heart pounding again, throat dry. Her hands went cold, clammy.
The Vaxxar. His flagship.
“Confirming Triad huntership Vaxxar,” Rembert said. “Going to full shields, weapons online. We have visual on screens one and three forward.”
She saw. Her breath caught in her throat. The one-time pride of the Triadian Fleet hung in the star-filled blackness of space like a triangular dark void. No lights dotted most of her hull. Those few lights she saw were dim, sparsely scattered. The command tower was dark. Sensor dishes and comm arrays were little more than twisted wreckage.
“Remy, get me life signs!”
“Scanning, Captain, but we’re having problems getting past her shield configurations. She’s spiking off the scale.”
Wild, erratic power surges. A ship in the throes of death. Plays hell with the sensors. Nullifies any transbeams.
“Drop our shields. Helm, bring us alongside.”
“Captain?”
“Do it! She can’t hurt us. And that’s one less level of interference you’ll have to compensate for.”
A moment of silence. Her bridge crew probably thought she was crazy. But her crew—save for Perrin Rembert, Cisco Garrick, and Cal Monterro—didn’t know she was his Lady Sass. And he was her flyboy.
“Lowering shields.”
“Engaging thrusters.”
She walked back to her command sling, surprised her knees didn’t buckle. She tapped open the link to the shuttle bays. The transbeams were useless. But a shuttle at close range could use lasers to punch a hole in the shields. “This is the captain. Prep the Liberty.” She had to get on board. She had to know. She had to see. Even if it tore her heart in half.
Rembert stepped away from his console. “I strongly advise against—”
“Noted.”
“I’ll go with you.”
“I go alone, Remy. But thank you.”
“At least take Tank.”
She nodded. That she would do. He had a right to know too. Days after they left the Dalkerris, Serafino had explained that the furzel’s link to Kel-Paten was because she and the admiral had made love. Bonded. Tank was grieving too.
“Captain, wait.�
� Not Rembert’s voice but Lieutenant Lucari at communications. “I’m picking up a voice signal. No. Lost it.” Her fingers moved rapidly across her console. “Got it. Voice and visual. It’s coming in on an old Alliance stream we used to synch our datalyzers.”
Sass grabbed for the back of her chair, waved Rembert off as he stepped toward her. “Center screen, now.”
Something flashed below her. Tank, Blinking into her seat. Mommy!
Her fingers trembled as she touched his head.
The Regalia’s center screen flickered, shifting from the starfield to a green-tinged bridge. Upper tier. She recognized it, recognized the U-shaped command center, the double-command sling, and, in front of that, the curve of the railing.
And a tall dark-haired man, gloved hands braced against it.
“Branden.” She breathed his name.
He raised his face as if he heard her. “United Coalition huntership Regalia, this is Branden Kel-Paten. I don’t know if you can hear me. Our comm array is down. Life support is failing. We can’t control the shields, though we’re trying.” He glanced over his left shoulder at a man sitting at a nearby station.
Gods. Ralland Kel-Tyra, nodding. It was then she realized no one on the Vaxxar’s bridge was in Triad uniform. Kel-Tyra’s shirt was light-colored. Kel-Paten’s was collarless, slightly darker. Freighter grays.
“I repeat. Our comm array is down. Weapons banks, life support depleted. We’re not a threat. We are…we are all that’s left. The Triad is no more.”
“Lucari! Get me a voice link, anything, with the Vaxxar!” Sass ordered.
“Working on it, Captain.”
“Regalia, if Tash—if Captain Sebastian is on board or anywhere in your Fleet, reach her. Please. Tell her I…tell her Branden Kel-Paten hopes—prays—her offer still stands. If you can hear me, Regalia, send us a signal. We have only two hours of air left—”
“Remy, alert Monterro, prep the shuttles.” She spun back to communications. “Lucari!”
“Still trying!”
Damn it! Branden… She wanted to scream in frustration.
BrandenFriend! Tank go Blink!
“Tank!” The seat in front of her was empty. She stared back up at the center screen and suddenly the furzel was there, balancing on the wide railing in the green-tinged darkness, plumy tail flicking back and forth.
Kel-Paten flinched, Ralland Kel-Tyra behind him rising swiftly from his seat. Then, in a blur of movement, Kel-Paten grabbed the furzel, clasping him tightly against his chest as, head bowed, he dropped slowly on his knees to the floor.
The Liberty—the first of the three shuttles to launch—glided easily under Perrin Rembert’s touch, with only a few small thumps as she aligned with an exterior docking port on the Vaxxar’s command tower. Sass was at the shuttle’s airlock hatchway; she’d spent the entire five-minute trip there, boots set wide for balance, fingers grasping a handhold. She couldn’t sit. She sure as hell couldn’t be strapped into a seat like Dr. Monterro and his assistant were. Regulations be damned.
“We may have to manually engage the lock,” Rembert was saying. “Sensors show widespread outages in her power grid.”
Something thunked, clanked. Whirred.
“Negative that. Receiving signal from the airlock. Synchronizing.” Rembert keyed in the codes.
Sass sucked in a long, shuddering breath. She had died a hundred deaths on the way over, would die a hundred more until they got that godsdamned mullytrocked hatchway—
The airlock panel light blinked from red to green, air quality and structural data flashing on. She slapped at the release button with a sweaty hand and squeezed sideways through the sliding hatchway door as it groaned open, wiggling as her utility belt momentarily snagged on something.
Then she was free, running down the short rampway tube, her boots clanging sharply against the metal grid plates. The shipside airlock was already open, but she saw him before she cleared it, saw him moving toward her, his eyes luminous, his lips parted as if in uncertainty.
She surged through the airlock hatch tread and he grabbed her, arms tight as metal bands circling her back and waist as he spun her around. His face—rough, unshaven, wet—rasped against hers until their mouths met, fusing in a kiss of blinding passion, of reckless desperation. Of surrender.
She raked her hands up his neck and through his hair. It was longer, felt thick and wavy to her fingers. She grasped a handful and kissed him harder.
He groaned, his hands caressing, kneading her back, her hips, skewing her utility belt, then traveling back up and over her shoulders, splaying against the nape of her neck.
She broke the kiss and framed his face with her hands. In the white glow of the only working overhead light, she saw silver sprinkled through his temples, deeper lines at the corners of his pale eyes. He’d lost weight. She felt it when her hands explored him, saw it in the hard planes of his face.
“Damn you, flyboy,” she whispered.
“I love you, Sass,” he whispered back. “I need you. I’m sorry—”
She kissed him gently, halting his apology. His breath shuddered against her mouth.
Footsteps came up behind her.
“Admiral Kel-Paten,” Rembert said as Sass stepped away. Kel-Paten, arm around her waist, drew her back against his side. Remy, gods love him, was saluting. “Glad you made it, sir.”
Kel-Paten nodded but didn’t return the salute. “Thank you. It’s not admiral anymore. Just Kel-Paten. Or Branden.”
“Sir, you will always be Admiral Kel-Paten.”
Kel-Paten drew a breath, then stopped. Sass knew he hadn’t expected Rembert’s earnest reply.
“I need to start with your most seriously injured,” Cal Monterro said as Sasha, his orange-striped furzel, sat down at the CMO’s feet to lick a spot on his haunch.
Kel-Paten nodded. “Timm Kel-Faray. My First Officer. Sick bay’s gone, but we rigged a stasis chamber in my office. He’s been on basic regen for four months. Tank’s in there with him and Rissa. If you could—”
“On our way.” Monterro waved his med-tech forward, the furzel trotting briskly behind.
“We have two more shuttles en route,” Rembert said. “They’re waiting for clearance from you to dock. Then we can start with the evacuations. How many on board, sir?”
“Besides Timm and Rissa, twenty-six others, plus Rall—Captain Kel-Tyra and ten of his crew.” He drew in a deep breath. “Thirty-nine. And me. That’s all that’s left of the one hundred eighty-two who stood by me when we mutinied against the Triad, against the Ved. Four months ago. They’re on the bridge or in the ready room.”
“And working airlocks?” Rembert asked.
“Just these two.” Kel-Paten indicated them with a wave of his hand.
“I’ll get the shuttles in position, sir. If you’ll bring your officers and crew?”
Kel-Paten hugged Sass tightly against his side again, then stepped back, slipping his hand through hers. “We’ll go now.”
She followed him down the darkened corridor, remembering he didn’t need light to see. Remembering what he just said. “Four months ago? Why in hell didn’t you contact me?”
He guided her around a broken pylon. “We were dragged into the void. When I finally got us out, they grabbed Ralland’s pinnace from the Dalkerris, on his way to meet me on the Vax. Eight top crew and officers and Ralland. He’s my brother, Sass. I couldn’t leave them—I couldn’t leave him in there. So I went back in. Three hours ago we managed to get out. To here.”
Suddenly she knew how. “The vortex—”
“Using a vortex is an idea I’ve worked on for a few years. I told you and Eden that after we captured Serafino. It’s not perfect yet. I had to bastardize the weapons system and the shields to do it, but it works. No jumpgate, no Nasyry pilot required. And oddly, any Ved on the ship perish in transit, even though they survive through a normal jumpgate. I thought the U-Cees—the Alliance—might find it useful.”
Useful? How about the
gods’ gift—no. The Tin Soldier’s. She followed him up two flights of green-tinged stairs to the upper tier of the bridge. The damage she saw to the once magnificent command center appalled her. The sight of thirty-seven people standing in unison and saluting her when Kel-Paten announced, “Captain is on the bridge,” made her throat close up and tears come to her eyes.
“At ease. Thank you,” she managed, then, “Welcome home. Now let’s get you to safety—and to hot coffee and cold beer.”
Ralland Kel-Tyra, the last to leave the bridge, brushed her cheek with a kiss as he filed by.
Kel-Paten cuffed him lightly on the shoulder, then slipped his hand back in hers, tucking something between her fingers.
She pulled her hand away to examine the object, knowing by touch what it was before she even held it up in the dim light. Five diamond-studded stars riding a slash of gold lightning.
“Keep it this time. Please.” He secured it to her shirt, just over her captain’s bars.
She knew she would never let it go again. A part of him, a part of Branden Kel-Paten. And a promise of forever.
She threaded her hand back through his and let him lead her through his ship’s dark and dying corridors to the airlock’s hatchway. A fat, long-furred black and white furzel sat patiently waiting for them in the bright glow of the only working overhead light. Guardian of their safety. A beacon to guide them home.
A former news reporter and retired private detective, Linnea Sinclair has managed to use all her college degrees (journalism and criminology) but hasn’t soothed the yearning in her soul to travel the galaxy. To that end she’s authored several award-winning science fiction and fantasy novels, including Finders Keepers, Gabriel’s Ghost, An Accidental Goddess, Games of Command, and, coming in 2007–2008, The Down Home Zombie Blues and Chasidah’s Choice. When not on duty with some intergalactic fleet she resides in Naples, Florida, with her husband and their two thoroughly spoiled cats. Readers can find her perched on the third barstool from the left in her Intergalactic Bar and Grille at www.linneasinclair.com.
ALSO BY LINNEA SINCLAIR
Finders Keepers
Gabriel’s Ghost
Games of Command Page 40
