Cold Victory

by Fiona Jayde

  “That's right. A war hero.” A trace of sarcasm in those words. “And being a Prim, he wouldn't let his body be repaired.”

  She waited for the cold numbness to overtake her, the same numbness she had always used as a shield against grief or rage or worse. “The Primus colony advocated against enhancing the human body. General Pazlov honors that edict.” She paused for a thin smile. “As do I.”

  “I see.” He kept nodding his head, pretending to be listening. “So General Pazlov can't move his lower body?”

  Zoya forced herself to remain still, her pulse even. “That is correct.”

  “I see.” Another nod followed by an ugly smile. “So could he get it up when you sucked him off?”

  He'd hoped for shock. She shouldn't have obliged him. The snickers and the gasps washed over the familiar cold numbness laced with a low, bubbling rage. Zoya let him gloat for a short moment before she plowed her fist into his nose, sending him stumbling back into a group of open-mouthed pilots.

  “I fucking hate the military,” she muttered to herself and felt a gleeful stab of satisfaction when her knuckles sang.

  * * *

  “Let me make sure I understand.”

  She didn't want to look at him. Instead, Zoya discreetly glanced around his quarters, noting the maps of various systems projected on the walls and the blueprints of human and Murk ships. No holograms of friends or lovers, no whimsical Earth or Martian or Saturn views. Nothing but chrome and lights of comm systems. Nothing with color. Nothing personal. She didn't care for the fact that she could understand exactly how he felt.

  Stark kept looking at her as if expecting her to speak, his gaze a hot, subtle caress over her lips.

  “We were off duty, sir. And I didn't like what Squad Lead Poll was saying.”

  He looked at her with cold, hard eyes. “Therefore you broke his nose.”

  She let her lips curl in a smile. “That's correct. Sir.”

  He shoved back from his seat, a motion she had to admire. He was too big a man to move this smooth, had too much nano-built muscle on that brutal frame. She knew plenty of men who pumped their bodies with technology to build athletic shapes without straining their muscles. Commander Stark, with his huge arms and deck-wide shoulders, probably fit into that category. Zoya really hoped that was the case.

  Poll, sporting a white stripe over his swollen nose, stood at attention next to her like a good little soldier. The perfect military type, one who kissed superiors' asses and followed every order.

  “You knowingly punched a superior.” Stark's voice dipped just a bit, soft with an edge of danger. The sound of it sent lances of arousal into her blood.

  At this point, she would welcome the transfer he would surely demand. The heat between her thighs intensified with every word, as if his rich, clipped baritone strummed on a pleasure cord inside her.

  “As I said, I didn't care for the conversation.”

  His steel blue gaze wouldn't let her go. “And why is that?”

  She swallowed, nearly trembled. Hoped that he couldn't see her pulse pounding inside her throat. “It was of a personal nature. Sir.” She pushed away the urge to lick her lips, focusing instead on the rank insignia on his chest, reminding herself that he was military. Everything she despised.

  Her hormones didn't seem to care.

  When his gaze finally let her go, Zoya allowed herself a single tiny tremble.

  The dark gray fabric of his uniform exaggerated the strange mix of blue and silver in his eyes. His face, when she dared to look at him, was a harsh study of features: a granite jaw, a slash of lips, heavy, dark eyebrows. Short military buzz of dark hair only brutalized his features more.

  “Squad Lead. Anything to add?”

  She knew what would come next. After a riot act, she would be told to pack her gear and shipped off somewhere else. And a small part of her really hoped that he'd go through with it.

  “She shouldn't be here, Commander.”

  As Poll spoke, she permitted herself a tiny smirk. Pazlov would have a field day transferring her, but then she wouldn't have to deal with this dance of hormones.

  “She shouldn't be flying for the military. She shouldn't be allowed anywhere near a ship.”

  “I agree, although that isn't our issue.” Those soft, dangerous words scraped with delicious roughness at her skin. “Officer Scott would not disclose your conversation. I suggest you do.”

  Typical. A chance for Triple Ace to show how he was merely joking, trying to uplift morale of his new squad. She clearly overreacted; she didn't fit in with the rooks.

  Poll shuffled slightly next to her. “I commented about Scott's relationship with Admiral Pazlov. She clearly has no sense of humor.”

  “About her mentor's cock?”

  Shock had her nearly gaping. Zoya made the mistake of looking at Stark's face and got lost in that silver and blue electric gaze.

  “Officer Scott, did you find the comment about the admiral's cock funny?”

  She hoped she didn't flush even as shock slowly spread through her system. “No, sir.”

  “Why is that?” Rough, rich words.

  She really hoped she didn't shudder. “I said already, it was personal.”

  “Cock conversations tend to be.” His mouth curled in a short and lethal smile, making heat surge through her once again. Desire hummed over her skin, coiling somewhere in her belly.

  She had to get away from him.

  “I would have followed up with a good kick to his balls. To keep it personal and remind the squad lead he is lucky to feel them.”

  Third time today that she was shocked. Third time in years.

  Beside her, Poll noisily sniffed through broken cartilage.

  Stark lifted up a heavy eyebrow. “You have something to add?”

  “No, sir.”

  “That's good.” That blue gaze pinned her once again, held her immobile, helpless. “I've tried my damnedest to get you transferred off Victory. Since I wasn't successful, you'll have to deal with the crew.”

  “Yes, sir.” For a short second, Zoya wanted to make him understand. For a short second, she contemplated telling him about strangers huddling in tents, rivers of waste, empty-faced, hungry children. Her nephew's body shriveled up in the dirt.

  “I take full responsibility for my actions. Sir.” She tried to force the cloak of numbness to come back, to protect her from the wild color of his eyes and the coil of unwarranted arousal.

  “I'm thrilled to hear it.” If she wasn't mistaken, his eyes flared wild and hot for a short moment before returning to cold, hard steel. “Dismissed.”

  And the alarms went blaring.

  The shrill noise of code red throbbed in a jagged rhythm. Stark pounced to his comm, called up a hologrid of the surrounding space. Beyond the wide cluster of planetoids concealing the resupply station, Zoya saw rapidly approaching oblong shapes.

  “Murk fighters. Nine. Four more.” She heard Sub-Commander Dex over the comm unit. “Nobody knows how the fuck they got through the blockade.”

  “Transmit to Tactical. We're going to need cover.” If possible, Stark's eyes went even more intense. “Scrounge two finger-four formations, three if we got enough pilots with experience.”

  His voice stayed calm, intense, and gorgeous.

  “Poll, Techeon, you're leads. Your choice of crews. Get birds out there.”

  “Commander.” She didn't know why she stepped into Stark's path. Somehow it became vital. “I have field experience. I can lead a formation.”

  “You've no business flying.” He tried to step around her, as if careful not to brush against her arms.

  “You need me.” She grabbed his wrist, ignored the flash of heat bursting through her and echoed in his gaze. “Your two squads will be outnumbered. I can even the score.”

  He pulled his arm out of her reach, as if her very touch disgusted him. “I don't have time for squad disputes.”

  “Which is my point.” She rushed after him into t
he garbled noise of Victory's command post. “I have the skills.” She didn't know why suddenly the fight became important. She simply knew she had to be out there, flying a team, taking down a Murk or two before the final course.

  Stark didn't look at her as he reached Central Communications. “Squad leads, you have a third leader.” He frowned at the holodisplay. “Let's not regret it, Scott.”

  Chapter Two

  She shoved through the confusion of orange techs and excited rook pilots. Alarms blared in silent flashes of yellow light, reflecting off the dull gray floors and wired bulkheads. Over the blur of voices, she heard the barked commands for Sabres to be prepped for flight.

  “I need two wingmen and a second lead.” Zoya fought to keep her voice above the roar of engines. “You.” She pointed at the fresh-faced rook with one star on his collar. Poll and Techeon had already chosen their guys. “You're with me. Nouvelle. Ortega. Find a bird.”

  All three stared at her, not moving.

  “Now, pilots!” She grabbed an orange suit, shook him when he tried to scramble away. “I need four birds. Right now!”

  Amid the blur of noise, she suited up into a pressure suit and hauled herself into a fuel-reeking Sabre as orange suits finished last-minute checks. The ear comm already hooked into her helmet, Zoya furiously fought with the display for visual output.

  Two squads of four were already out. She concentrated on the countdown for her guys. Three. Two. She held her breath for one.

  The move between air and vacuum slapped Zoya back into her seat, her suit automatically adjusting for loss of gravity. Victory remained starboard, cannons in position, sensor arrays unfurled to battle mode.

  The other pilots moved into finger-four formations, two triangles of four Sabres heading toward the field of spinning planetoids.

  “Nouvelle, you're second. Rest of you are wings.” She felt their apprehension, the excitement of being out for the first fight. She'd heard them talk about it plenty of times on the transport to Victory.

  Ahead, the squads skirted the first few large planetoids on the fringe of the field. No fire, no energy signatures. If she hadn't seen them on Stark's grid, she would have called this trip an exercise in readiness paranoia.

  “Don't see the bastards.” Poll's voice was laced with the authoritative arrogance of a squad lead. “Probably hid their asses as soon we got out of the air lock.”

  She really didn't like the lack of energy sigs. Watching for them, Zoya kept her speed steady while her squad slid into a messy finger four. “Freshman, steady on the throttle. Nouvelle, your verticals aren't on mark.”

  Over the empty glow of the display, she felt excitement curling in her muscles, the slow pound of her blood, the dark resolve to take at least one bastard down.

  “Squad leads.” Even through the ear comm, Stark's voice sent a small shiver through her nerves, a shiver Zoya forced herself to deal with later. “Main goal is to protect the supply station. Keep comms open at all times.”

  The first finger four got well inside the field of planetoids but still didn't incite any fire. The shape of the supply station loomed just above the much smaller Victory.

  “They are too quiet.” She hadn't meant to say the words out loud.

  “Your squad stays back.” To her surprise, Poll actually addressed her. “Make sure none of the strays get through.”

  She squinted as the planetoids got near, felt the small pull of grav from the few large ones on the fringe. Her grid stayed empty even as her nerves started to fray.

  “Turn back!” She hit the single shots, sprayed rapid-fire above Poll's wings.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” Loud voice over loud static.

  “They're using gravity to move.” She split her focus between the squads and the holo-output. “No energy sigs, not until you get close enough for a straight shot.” Somebody cursed, vicious and low, inside her ear comm.

  “You're fucking crazy.” A lead bird—she assumed Poll—skirted a planetoid ahead. “I'm not taking orders from—” He was cut off by rapid flashes of single shots as Murk ships swarmed them.

  She fought to keep her eyes on target, blinking back sudden sweat. “Freshman, Ortega, you're support. Nouvelle, you're free on the triggers. Now!”

  She met a Murk head-on, overshot, then spun into a split S to compensate. Ortega stayed steady on her wing; Nouvelle sprayed fire alone, while Freshman fought to hold his Sabre steady.

  Orange gas smashed into her canopy. The grid showed a lead bird leaking ignited plasma fuel. Poll would be dead in just a few more hits.

  Another crazy spin, the G stabilizers flashing a warning light Zoya ignored.

  “I'm hit!” Poll spiraled above her and went nose to nose with an enemy ship. “I'm fucking hit! I'm gonna take a bastard with me!”

  Freshman spun hard somewhere to her left; Nouvelle spat out single shots in rapid-fire rhythm. Both of them with Murks on their tails.

  Poll spun into reverse and nearly clipped a good-sized planetoid. Zoya streaked a burst of fire just under his wings and managed to hit the Murk ship on his ass, somewhere close to the fuel lines.

  The force of the explosion pushed her back enough to get caught in a grav field. She nearly dived into a rock before throttling up, despite the whine of engines.

  “Cut your damned vents!” The orange glow was in her face; she almost felt its foul scent pressing into the canopy. “Throttle up! Do it!”

  “I'm hit, damnit!”

  “Throttle up! Tech, he needs cover!”

  The burst of fire nearly blinded her. Poll cut his vents. She finally could see the exhaust line of his Sabre through the thick orange burned-up fuel.

  “Cut power on my mark.” Somehow her voice remained ice-cold. She knew her pulse thundered like crazy, knew somewhere behind her a Murk burned on a nameless rock.

  “Three. Two.” She edged closer to Poll and aimed her nose shots at his exhaust. “Mark. Cut your power.”

  He did. The suddenly dropped noise level allowed her to hear the command post calling back the birds. Ahead of Techeon, Murk fighters pulled back, probably seeking their baseship to lick away the wounds, which left them free to do the same.

  She exhaled with a sudden force, as if she'd held her breath for hours. Exhilaration mixed with a strange, grim need to laugh. She had forgotten how much she loved to fly, feeling the Gs slapping against her.

  She'd just killed off a Murk and became full-fledged fucking military.

  “Good work, Scott.” This from the commander, a clipped, low tone, and if she wasn't mistaken, a hint of a grudging respect.

  She could've told him that she'd learned plenty of tricks stealing supplies under the military's stout noses. “Thank you, sir.”

  Poll neatly cut her off now that she'd gotten him close enough for Victory to have the safety guides take him through the launch tubes.

  She'd saved his ass. At this point, Zoya figured she should watch her own. Then Freshman rolled his bird from side-to-side, simulating the wiggling of a rear, and Zoya let out a quick and startled laugh.

  * * *

  “You're ordering rooks to defend a supply station.” Rage was concealed inside closed fists. Showing emotion was a weakness, something a soldier never allowed an enemy to see.

  On the holo-output, his father's square face remained impassive. “We're thin on personnel. Tactical needs everybody they can get to staff the ships and fly the Sabres. Your rooks have been signed off. They'll have to do.”

  Stark pushed away the urge to pace. The rooks had been signed off in virtual combat since fuel for the single shots and engines was too precious to waste on training exercises. Most of them never went though actual battle in real time. “We still don't know how Murks got past the blockade. And Tactical can't afford to lose supplies if my rooks can't contain them.”

  “You'll have to ensure they can.” Cool words, steel-colored eyes.

  Stark had an image of himself smashing his fists into the comm unit. Instead,
he forced his voice to remain calm. “Get me another squad of pilots. I need field experience, not virtual ace stars.”

  “All experienced pilots are at the blockade.” Finally, a small sign of impatience when the general huffed out a breath.

  Stark ignored it. “Perhaps that is a sign the blockade should move inward.”

  “We'll make that call when it's appropriate.” The man who sat in front of him was a tired-eyed stranger. “You wanted extra hours of field training. You have those hours now.”

  What he had was a squad of rooks shoved into combat without any backup. “Our data suggests we're dealing with a single baseship.”

  “I concur. When you engage, I want detailed readings on the hull. Anything you can get on tactical advantage.” Another sigh. Years into the war, they still had minimal intel on the composition of the Murk ships.

  “I've already considered it.” Ancient Japanese fighting technique: go with the enemy before you redirect him. “Perhaps it's a good time to engage Central Diplomacy. If Victory gets close enough—”

  “You're leaving Central Tactical?” The general dragged his fingers through a shock of white hair, a rare sign of true annoyance. “It's not enough that you're the youngest commander in the fleet? You're bucking for the blue bars of Central Diplomacy? Chained to a desk?”

  Again, Stark clenched his fists outside of the holo-input field. His next words came out slowly, carefully chosen. “I have no interest in diplomatic relations. However, since we will be in proximity—”

  “If you're in proximity, you shoot the motherfuckers.” Steel-cold eyes locked with his. “You're a soldier, and you commit. We aren't trained for talking.”

  But they were trained to lead rook fighters to their death. “Yes, sir, General.” He fought the grim, ironic laugh that welled inside him.

  “You think because we're in Beijing we aren't connected to reality?” Another swipe of his palm through thin white hair. “We're trained for our specialties. Central Diplomacy will tell us when and where they want talks. You”—he pointed a finger—“will fight Murks and follow orders.”