Hotter on the Edge

by Erin Kellison

  Oh, please, no. The tag was a six-moon survey permit for Encantada, a cluster world at the edge of the Han System. It was the kind of tag a xenobioform engineer would need among a crew exploring a new world. He'd seen one once before. Five years ago. When she left him.

  His balance faltered. Vision narrowed. The universe condensed to a name, printed above the tag code.

  Mica Sol. Once his. Forever his only.

  He could've killed her…

  A shock of pain staggered him for a moment. He braced his hands on the ground.

  No. Alive. Still alive. He hadn't killed her.

  He drew on his plugs. Worked up a swallow to get his body functioning again.

  And she was well enough to kill a capu before it took a bite out of her.

  Damn it, Mica. A bitter laugh escaped him. She would end up here, now. He thought she'd had another year on her contract. The expense to pull her out must have been—he frowned—the expense would have been nothing to her family, especially with the wedding.

  And she was fast enough to get herself out of the range of bloodthirsty scavengers. He was, in fact, seeing red.

  And smart enough, brilliant even, to attempt to lead her pursuers in the direction of the city wall, when he knew very well that she wouldn't head there.

  His woman would head for the Way Station—for the place they'd built together.

  Chapter Two

  Mica shivered as she jogged forward, her initial adrenaline-fueled panic giving way to sluggish limbs and goose bumps. Rough roots and cold-packed earth made progress quick. The dense growth, a sleeping green, made her shield her face with her arms. Her feet ached, and her toes were numb. The day's cool temperature waned with the setting sun, the sky deepening. The night's freeze would follow.

  She couldn't keep up her pace. She was already stumbling. Her chattering teeth rattled her head and messed with the irregular beat of her heart.

  And something was bugging her shoulder. The emergency pack. Right. She dug inside and pulled out a thermal poncho, a tiny square that unfolded into a feather-light rectangle that covered her from shoulder to mid-thigh. The silver reflective material was a safety concession she had to make. That, or start dying.

  Stop.

  She couldn't afford to think like that. Couldn't afford mistakes. She'd been given a test, that's all, just like her competency exams for T-forming onsite collection and research. She had a task: get to the Way Station. The obstacles were her sorry state of dress, the cold, her meager supplies, and…the very real threat of capture by scavengers.

  Scavengers. Here. Now.

  Of course they would be here.

  What better time for them to send a message to her father than during the lavish wedding of her sister? Mica gripped her skull as the full impact of the situation hit her. Pilar's wedding was the lead ticker on all comms. Who was who. Who was wearing what. Personal slights and related corp business. A dramatic display by the scavengers would bring the sector's attention sharply to them and their plight: had the terraforming worked completely, they would have been the rulers of Sol, not the corp that had come in to mine.

  Mica shivered under the poncho.

  Her family had extended aid over and over again. The scavengers wouldn't take it, wouldn't acknowledge in any way what they considered the Sol family's dominion over them. Nor did they trust the off-world medics who came to treat the deformities wrought by human mothers ingesting Sol biomatter. Not even the safe rations and genetic buffers that had been dropped by remote craft. The aid was supposedly tainted by the dependence that went along with it. Sol should be theirs. Her family members were usurpers.

  And Mica had seen what the scavengers had done to her father's emissaries who'd tried to convince them that a life in the mines was a good life. If she were hurt, her father would strike back, brutally, and they would retaliate, and so on and so forth.

  No mistakes. This was a pass/fail scenario, in the extreme.

  What next, then?

  Trekking by starlight would only get her lost. Lack of sleep would weaken her. The cold would immobilize her. Some creature would finish her off.

  She needed shelter for the night.

  She kept up her pace to keep her blood moving as she considered her situation. What did she have to work with?

  She could use the long and wide leaves of the summa tree, though it would be difficult pulling them from their branches. They were good insulators and would camouflage the structure to all but those standing very close. With the summa, she could make a pocket of warmth…which would awaken and attract predators just coming out of stasis.

  The heat of any shelter would awaken and attract predators.

  So no fire either, a skill she'd perfected for her comps.

  She could do this, a thought at odds with the rushing sensation behind her eyes that threatened tears. She crouched to conserve the heat that was slipping out from under her poncho. Something tickled her foot, pinched. She swatted, and got a burrow spider. The spiders burrowed into the ground, but also into flesh. Even the earth under her feet was responding to her warmth—though her feet felt like blocks of ice. A thin smear of blood arched across the bridge of her foot.

  She was damned at every turn.

  Keep walking, then? From her crouch, she lifted her gaze to the frigid tangle of trees ahead, now darkening with the setting sun. Wait a sec…She lowered her gaze a fraction to a depression in the ground between two close-set trees, like an underground cradle, grown over with caterpillar moss. The makings of a nest. And she knew to whom it belonged.

  Solus lasiorhinus xerinus.

  A large wombat-like animal, herbivore, that hibernated in packs. Their Terran brown fur had developed into soft spines. The acidity and stench of their dung kept pests away during the Sol winter stasis, while insulating their nests from the cold—another Sol adaptation.

  Mica eyed the mossy brown opening. Grinned.

  Room for one more?

  ***

  Simon ran his thumb over Mica's name on the ident-tag. The dragon had to be registered to her as well. Nice ride, sweetheart. Proof of her identity would be all over the craft. In about three minutes, his crew would know that they'd scored a Sol princess. There was no hiding it to protect her. Not that he would let her go free.

  Because, yeah, she, of all people, could survive here. And he had no doubt that she could do it barefoot, during winter, in an environment otherwise deadly to humans. She wasn't just a daughter of a corp family; she was a daughter of this planet. She was Sol, through and through, and Sol seemed to love her back.

  There was no other way. Not when his crew knew her identity. These men—criminals like himself—had no reason to go soft on the princess, not when her father had exiled them to almost certain death outside the city walls.

  "Pax!" Simon shouted. His voice was grim, but his crew wouldn't hear anything but money. The intergalactic standard currency—pax—was a misnomer just about everywhere.

  O dropped the plasma and looked over from his crouch near the nose. Jace suddenly appeared above, interest alight in his eyes. How much pax did a princess go for these days?

  "Anyone opposed to hostages?" Simon asked with a huge smile while his chest burned in opposition. He knew the answer already. And this way, he could make sure she was delivered, safe and unmolested by beast or man, to Sol City.

  O jerked his chin toward the ident-tag. "Who is it?"

  "It's a sign." Simon flicked the tag in the air. "Mica Sol, daughter of the very wealthy Drummond and Michaela Sol, sister of Pilar Sol, the glorious bride-to-be."

  O was already striding toward him. "A sign, indeed! A little more mica to add to our bounty?"

  Their ultimate target, for which they needed this flyer, was Pilar's dowry, now on ostentatious display in the palace plaza. Her dowry was five hundred books of the glittering mineral that gave the Sol family their wealth, and after which they'd named their firstborn. Mica. The mineral, particularly the large uniform sheets of m
uscovite, was used in interstellar engines. Paper thin, flexible, resistant to heat, chemicals, and gases, mechanically stable; a stock that large was worth a fortune. And this particular stash—red mica, also known as solyite—was the most sought after variety for deep space travel.

  All that glitter was going to right a wrong, and then get him off this world—far away from the mines, this planet, and this trap of a life. Drum Sol had stolen his stake—earned in sweat and blood and lives—and Simon was going to take it back in the spoils they flaunted to the sector. He'd distribute it appropriately to the others who had been cheated, whom he could never fully repay, not remotely, and then he'd get out.

  "Found a footprint somewhat north of here, heading toward the wall," Simon said.

  "No way she'd make it." Jace dropped down from the tree and approached. "Pampered woman."

  "Mica Sol is a trained xenobioform engineer," Simon told them, lifting the tag. "She's got the skills. But I don't think she'd make it to the wall, either. It has to be at least four days on foot." Only one day to the Way Station, though. "And she's worth nothing to us dead. Do you think you two can get the flyer ready?"

  "What, so you can go off and enjoy a soft woman?" Jace spit on the ground, and immediately small insects emerged to feed on the warm moisture.

  "Okay, I'll sleep in the bug-tight, predator-free dragon tonight. I'll eat what's sure to be generous rations, or maybe even real food, while you go after her." Simon looked at the whitening sky. "The night freeze is coming on. O and I will save you some drink."

  O licked his lips and glanced up the flyer. "She's bound to have the good stuff."

  Simon picked up Mica's bag and dumped the clothes on the ground. He had the wild urge to pick up a wrinkled undershirt, put it to his face, and draw deep. Take her scent inside him where it could torture or heal—he didn't care which one. At least it was her. "Let's see if we can't pack you some supplies for the trek," he continued.

  "She took the survival kit," Jace said.

  Simon dropped her bag back on the ground. "Okay, well, you'll have what's left of that when you find her. She went north." He pointed toward the wall. Jace could trek all he wanted in that direction. Simon would be gearing up to head to the Way Station.

  "Well, why are you so bent on going after her, then?" Jace asked.

  "I met her once," Simon replied. "And it didn't end well."

  Mica. Mia. His.

  Simon set his jaw. "Selling her back to her family will be well worth a day or two in hell."

  ***

  A night in wombat dung and a daylong, breathless hike through a sleeping jungle, and Mica's smell offended herself. Something about the acidity of the dung had relaxed the cinch in the waist of her sleep pants. A strip of bark acted as a belt. Her improvised footwear—moss-padded booties—were made out of her emergency blanket, impervious to tears. Luckily, her survival pack had come with a laser knife to cut what pieces she'd needed. She'd eaten the last energy bar, slurped the last of the water, and had downed the emergency antibiotics, too. She wasn't feeling so well.

  The sense of lonely exposure had been wearing on her confidence. She'd feel eyes on her back, but when she'd whip around to fight, the jungle behind her would be silent and cold. The quiet was playing tricks on her mind. Deep breath. Move on. Another hour or two, and she'd be at the Way Station. A shower, fresh clothes, a call to the keepers, and she'd be home.

  "Well, if it isn't Mica Sol," came a familiar, low voice. She didn't know if it came from inside her head or outside. But she halted mid-stride, heart twisting in her chest. She scanned the trees around her again. No one there.

  Auditory hallucinations. The dung must have been toxic, affecting her nervous system; the stimuli of the environment must have elicited memories of her last visit to the Way, and the man who'd accompanied her.

  Either that, or she was finally losing her mind.

  She started walking again. Only a little bit farther, and she could go insane in safety. She didn't mind being haunted by him. Not at all. His voice made her want to give in.

  "Rough night?"

  His voice was always warm. It seeped into her skin, and for a second she didn't feel the harsh shiver that had kept her tense and achy for the last day and a half.

  "You have no idea," she answered the memory ghost.

  "I think I can imagine. I had a rough one myself," he drawled. "I'm better, now that I've seen you."

  "Oh, yeah," she snorted. "I'm a sight, all right."

  She stumbled forward on clumsy, tired feet. Caught herself on the ground with her palms.

  And felt strong hands take her under her arms from behind and lift.

  Scavengers.

  She reached upward, and simultaneously dropped her weight to slip through a tight grasp. Planted an elbow in a man's gut, before scrabbling away to face her attackers.

  Or rather, attacker.

  He huffed for breath, his hands braced on his knees. The eyes were the same. Hair longer. Beard coming in.

  Homo sapiens simonus, aka Simon Miner. Only one of his kind. Male. Predatory. Highly adaptable. Dark brown hair and deep blue eyes. 6' 3". His well-muscled frame was agile and strong. His deadly smile incapacitated his victims. Voice promised safety. Sexual prowess compromised victim's intellect (temporarily). Yet he was intent on one vital organ—the heart.

  He grinned, his mouth pulling into a half smile. That mouth knew every inch of her skin.

  Which made her face burn. She was covered in wombat shit. Her matted hair was in a sweaty and greasy knot. Who knew what was on her face? Well, Simon did. Later, she would cry about this. Bitterly, and at great length.

  "What in Sol hell are you doing out here?" The humor went out of his voice.

  He was dressed as any intelligent person in the jungle should be: a full-gear second skin, which muted all life signs, including body heat, while maintaining body temperature in any environment. Its fibers mimicked the surroundings, which was why she hadn't spotted him a moment ago. Camouflage.

  "Scavengers, Simon," she said, wheezing with panic, relief, embarrassment, and some emotion that made her heart leap in her chest. "They shot my flyer down."

  What was he doing in the jungle? She'd have thought he'd be working his stake in the mines.

  He straightened, looking over his shoulder in the direction she'd come from. "Are they following you?"

  "I don't know." The unrelenting jungle and constant fear of capture had made her jumpy. "They have to know by now who I am." So it stood to reason that they'd follow. She trusted her reason. "And with the wedding, it makes sense that they'd move in and cause trouble."

  Her heart stalled as Simon strode toward her, as if remembering its previous Simon-inflicted injuries.

  A tap to her chin brought her face up to his. He'd raised an eyebrow. "No one would hurt you. Pica, maybe. But not you."

  Pica, his nickname for overly demanding Pilar based on an appetite disorder common on Sol, compelling humans to eat dirt, chalk, or the like for extra minerals not readily absorbed via engineered foodstuffs. The name rhymed with Mica, and it took Pilar's pride down a notch.

  Mica gave a shaky laugh. "I'm pretty sure the scavengers wouldn't discriminate. For them, one dead Sol is just as good as another."

  In fact, they'd better get moving again. She looked back—by now a compulsive twist—searching for movement.

  "You're safe now." Simon stroked the line of her jaw before dropping his hand. "No one else is near. Just me."

  She looked back at him. Smiled tremulously.

  Looked like she'd made it, after all. She was still trembling all over—so the "safe" message hadn't quite made it through her system. But she was ready for some Sol-styled comforts. A little pampering never killed anyone. She couldn't fathom why she'd objected to it so much before she'd left for the survey on Encantada.

  "We're an easy hike to the Way Station," he said. "We've done it many times before, you and I."

  The thought of which wound her
tight inside. They'd engaged in one primary activity at the Way. She'd had sex since then, some of it good, but nothing that made her feel so easy and happy in her skin.

  "I could use the shower," she said wryly. She wrapped her arms around herself to get her tremors under control. The cold? No. Something still not quite right.

  "You're perfect in any state." Simon's eyes going as dark as her father's rare Iluvian whiskey.

  The winch in her belly twisted even tighter, while the rest of her flooded with heat. Was this really happening? Together again, as if nothing had ever happened? No. Couldn't be that easy. Something was definitely wrong.

  "Are you staying at the Way?" She went for a light tone, but it came out a little too high. What could he possibly be doing there? Unless…"I don't blame anyone for wanting to get out of the city and far from the wedding chaos."

  "Ah, no." He dropped his pack on the ground and riffled inside it to draw out a man-sized shirt.

  "Thanks." She pulled the shirt over her head and rolling up the sleeves. Already she felt warmer. And it smelled like him. "Then what are you doing out here?" He'd be dragged away by the scavengers if he were caught. Anyone city-born was dirt to them. Death was probably a better fate. Why didn't he seem more concerned about them moving into this territory?

  "I live inside the Eye now." He handed her a canteen. "Made myself a tight little dig there."

  She took a deep swallow of warm water to cover the three seconds she needed to think.

  The Eye was right next to the Tear, where she'd almost come down. Where she'd been shot down with a deadly, illegal weapon. Her disquiet found a sticking point there.

  No. That was just a coincidence.

  He had a sugar bar unwrapped and waiting as she lowered the canteen. She ate it, silence falling between them. A current of energy spread through her system. Her heart might be weak around Simon, but her brain was just fine now, growing sharper, and cutting through the muzzy glow that had descended upon seeing him again.

  There's no such thing as coincidence.