Mandrake Company- The Complete Series

by Ruby Lionsdrake

  “Viktor, isn’t it?” her mother asked, her smile on the wan side. At least it was there.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Well.” Her mother looked at Ankari, a hint of humor in her eyes. “He’s politely fierce, at least.”

  Ankari swatted Viktor on the stomach, hoping to draw some humor—or personality—from him. “Stop being fierce.”

  He looked at her out of the corner of his eye. “I thought I had.”

  Perhaps personality would have to wait for an in-person meeting. Besides, if her mother had so far only seen him as the news portrayed him, mowing down enemies like so much grass, then seeing him smiling and cheerful might be alarming. Not that cheerful was ever a word Ankari would attribute to him, but he did occasionally smile. Not always fiercely.

  “Think of it this way, Mom. You wouldn’t want me out here in the dangerous part of space without a suitable protector, would you?” As soon as Ankari made the argument, she worried it had been a mistake to remind her mother that she was in a dangerous part of the system. That had been the reason for the earlier objections, after all. “But he’s quick to send me away if the ship is heading into trouble,” she rushed to add. “Our business has its own shuttle. Nobody would mistake it for a combat unit and target us, not anymore. I painted it pink. And renamed it Ladybug.”

  Viktor opened his mouth, as if he meant to make his usual objection to the name, but he closed it again, doubtlessly seeing that she was trying to assuage her mother’s fears. However ineptly.

  “A pink shuttle named Ladybug?” her mother asked. “Are you sure that will deter people from wanting to destroy it?”

  Viktor’s eyes glinted.

  “Er. Was that a joke, Mom?”

  Her mother had a sense of humor, of course, but it rarely came out when she was worried. Maybe this meant she had relaxed an iota?

  “I’m not entirely certain.”

  “I’m sure nobody would want to target a flying medical clinic, Mom. As I was saying, Viktor sends our shuttle away if the ship is going into trouble, so you really don’t need to worry.” Remembering that her mom had seen the Midway 5 news and that it had included her climbing that two-hundred-foot-tall oak tree, she added, “He wasn’t responsible for anything that happened on that station. I found that trouble by myself.”

  Her mother snorted. “Oh, that I believe.”

  The glint in Viktor’s eyes turned into a full-fledged gleam. “I like her,” he murmured.

  Well, she had wanted personality.

  “As you can see, Mom, I’m doing well. There’s no need for you to worry. Not any more than usual. How’s everyone back home? Has Dad found work?”

  The door chime rang, and Viktor walked over to answer it, leaving Ankari to finish the catching up without an observer. Her stomach rumbled again, prompting her to keep the conversation as short as she could without being accused of being a standoffish daughter. When she signed off, she was glad she had succeeded in introducing Viktor and toyed again with the idea of finding a way to take him home someday, especially if her mother took the family house-hunting and home became a pleasanter place to visit.

  “Oh, you’re having dinner?” came a man’s drawl from the doorway. Sergeant Tick poked his head inside, oblivious to the fact that Viktor had not stepped aside in invitation. “Good,” Tick added. “I was afraid I’d catch you two, ah, celebrating your victory on Midway 5.”

  “What do you want, Sergeant?”

  “Well, I got the short straw, you see. Actually it was a cherry stem that had been painted black. I think the others rigged the draw. Back home, there would have been a possum race, and I would have had much better odds, on account of me having a way with critters and races like that being tough to rig, but I reckon that’s enough by way of introduction.” Tick cleared his throat and looked his captain up and down, perhaps noticing that Viktor hadn’t stepped aside. Tick looked—and sounded—nervous. He always trotted a few backwoods references out of his stable, but those sentences had been denser with them than usual. “May I come in, Cap’n? The men are a mite fidgety, and as I was saying, I got elected to visit you and represent them. On account of us being so close.”

  Viktor’s brows rose, but he finally stepped aside. He would want to hear about any mention of a problem among the men, even if he, too, was thinking of dinner and a return to bedroom activities.

  “It’s about the leave nobody got,” Tick said. “Nobody except you, Borage, and Azarov.”

  “Leave?” Viktor asked. “I was either in jail or fighting ninety percent of the time I was on the station.” His gaze flicked to Ankari.

  She kept her expression bland. She wouldn’t reveal what he had been doing the other ten percent of the time.

  “Yup, we know about that, Cap’n. Saw the news. Appreciated the way you handled those mafia men. Everyone did, I reckon. You saw the clips they showed with some of the other captains in dock, saying good things about you? Even that squirmy mercenary, Sherkov, said you were every bit the fighter you used to be, pink shuttle notwithstanding.”

  “Sherkov said that?” Viktor asked.

  Ankari was just as surprised, but maybe after that encounter in the smoky docking bay, Sherkov had decided Viktor was not someone he wanted to hold a grudge against him. Or maybe the Fleet had retracted the money it had been offering to anyone who caused him to be tossed in jail, and the mercenary had decided it was no longer worth being on Viktor’s bad side. Either way, after the ribbing Viktor had been taking when they first docked on Midway 5, and also after the tragedies of the Nimbus battle, Ankari was pleased that some of the system’s starlight was finally shining on him. He deserved to be recognized as a good man. A hero, even.

  “Yup, said anyone would be stupid to tangle with you. And we like that, Cap’n. Like having a ferocious leader, that is, but let me get back to this leave that we’re all aching for. Will there be another opportunity for a break before we get back to work? It wouldn’t need to be anything so fancy as Midway 5. The men don’t need casinos or shops or trees. Just a place where they can get their co—” Tick glanced at Ankari. “Uhm, get their shoulders rubbed.”

  “Their shoulders?” she asked mildly. “Is that what’s going on in those bordello rooms?”

  “Of course, Ms. Markovich. A man survives a brutal battle, he can use a good shoulder rub.”

  “Tick, I hear you,” Viktor said, “but the repair costs were high after Nimbus. We may need to take another job or two before we can—”

  A bleep came from the comm-patch on Viktor’s shoulder. He held up a finger to Tick, then crossed the cabin to answer it.

  “Ms. Markovich,” Tick whispered, “will you talk to him on our behalf? Try to convince him that men need...”

  “Shoulder rubs?”

  “Exactly. And a little time to drink and be stupid. To not have to do P.T. every morning.”

  “I’m not sure if he’ll take advice about his ship and crew from me, but I know he understands a man’s need for shoulder rubs.”

  “That’s good to know. There was a time there when we all wondered.” Tick cleared his throat. “Say, there’s something else I was wondering about.” He glanced at Viktor, but he’d gone to his desk and was peering at a display as he spoke quietly with someone. “You know Laur—I mean Dr. Keys well. While you were in the shuttle or on the station, did she ever say if she had any interest in any of the crew?”

  “You mean in a shoulder-rubbing way?” Ankari had heard a few of the men speculate as to whether Lauren might ever consider leaving her lab for fun times, especially now that Jamie was happily taken by someone whom nobody on the ship wanted to cross, but this was the first time that Tick had expressed an interest, at least to her. It might have more to do with being cooped up on the ship without leave for so long than anything else; she didn’t think Tick had ever spoken more than a few words to Lauren, and that had been down on that awful jungle planet with the raptors trying to eat them. Lauren had probably blocked out the whole
thing.

  “Ah, possibly so,” Tick said. “If that’s something she would ever be amenable to. She never comes to the gym to eye anyone with appreciation, and I hear she’s rebuffed everyone’s advances, so it’s hard to know her preferences. Some of the men wonder if she prefers... shoulder rubbing with other ladies. Which of course caused some speculation as to what you all do in that shuttle when you fly off, if there’s nudity involved and such. Not that I take any part in those conversations. It’s not any of my business, even if she is, er, you are. Erm.” Tick pushed his hand through his hair, then dug his gum tin out of his pocket, removed a piece, and popped it in his mouth. “I didn’t mean to ramble on there. I was just curious. I don’t suppose she’s ever brought up my name?”

  “Sorry, I don’t think so.” Ankari chose not to mention that Lauren might not even know which one of the crew Tick was.

  “You’ll have to sign up for her trial,” Viktor said, returning to the door, his eyes narrowed in speculation, or perhaps irritation. He must have heard some of Tick’s rambling about shuttle nudity.

  “Her what?” Tick asked.

  “To be a specimen in her first round of human trials. I understand she may be looking for more men.”

  “That’s true,” Ankari said. “I think she even knows the names of the men who signed up.”

  “Huh.” Tick chomped thoughtfully on his gum.

  “Tell the men they’ll get their leave.” Viktor held up his tablet, though he had folded it, and the display had disappeared. “That was an alert from the company bank. Midway 5 just transferred a reward to us for rescuing their CEO and other officers. Apparently, some of the mafia men we killed had bounties on their heads, as well, so that will be a bonus. A small one. Those weren’t the bigwigs. It sounds like that whole fiasco was a result of someone’s little brother trying to prove himself.”

  “Meaning you—we—might have killed someone who has an angry and powerful big brother?” Ankari asked.

  Viktor shrugged indifferently. Ankari wished she could feel that blasé about collecting enemies.

  “Good to hear, sir,” Tick said, in a distracted tone.

  Ankari was not sure if he had been paying attention to anything other than the promise of leave. Or maybe his brain was stuck on the idea of volunteering to be Lauren’s test subject. Ankari did not know whether to hope that turned out well for him or not.

  “I’ll tell everyone.” Tick waved and walked out, the door sliding shut.

  “Dinner time?” Ankari asked, stepping toward the table.

  Viktor intercepted her, wrapping his arms around her waist. “I don’t know. Thanks to my tactless sergeant, I’m now imagining you naked in your shuttle.”

  “Oh?” Ankari asked, leaning into him. He lowered his lips to her throat, nuzzling her and tasting her. “Those fuzzy seat covers do feel nice on bare skin,” she said, sliding her hands up to his shoulders. “You should come down and try them sometime.”

  “On second thought,” Viktor grumbled, “maybe I’ll imagine you in Alpha Shuttle.”

  “With all that cold gray metal? And all those bristling weapons?”

  “Now you’re getting me excited.”

  THE END

  The Pirate Captain’s Daughter

  1

  A man with a bloodied nose and puffy lip flew out the doorway of the Broken Bucket, hit the grubby gray floor, skidded several feet, and crashed into a kiosk. A robot rolled out of the kiosk and immediately tried to interest his supine visitor in bodyguard protection services. The man’s eyes rolled back in his head, and he slumped unconscious.

  Sergeant Marat Azarov paused so he would not step on the fallen figure. He tapped his comm-patch. “Striker? Deck Sub 3? Are you sure this is the right place?”

  “Of course, I’m sure,” came Sergeant Striker’s drawl over the patch. “You’re almost there. Take a right at the end of the corridor, go down the stairs, and swipe your chip so they know you have money. Come on, hurry. They’re about to start.”

  “Have money?” Marat mouthed.

  Striker had promised that this place where they were “sure to find women” was not a brothel.

  Several men were crowding the doorway of the Broken Bucket, a bar with a charming wooden plaque hanging out front, making it look like a pub from medieval times on Old Earth. The laser scorch marks that charred the bottom half of the sign somewhat ruined the effect, as did the holographic displays of caterwauling announcers covering sports events from all over the system.

  Two bystanders crept out and rifled through the fallen man’s pockets, eyeing Marat as they did so. He eyed them right back. Even if they didn’t see his Mandrake Company patch and think twice about targeting a mercenary, his six feet, broad shoulders, and muscular frame usually convinced thieves to look elsewhere.

  The opportunists slunk away from Marat’s frank stare, or maybe the disapproving scowl he was still wearing after talking to Striker. He stepped over the downed man, waved away the pushy sales robot, and spotted the right turn his colleague had mentioned.

  A laser weapon screeched at the other end of the corridor. A woman screamed, and alarms went off. Two security androids stomped out of an alcove, their electronic eyes not quite human, their skin even pastier than that of most of the sun-deprived station goers. “Illegal use of personal protection systems. Halt and prepare to be arrested.”

  Marat ducked into the alley, stepped over a drunken man marinating in his own piss, and kept his hand close to his laser pistol as he headed for the stairs.

  “Hell of a place to spend shore leave,” he grumbled, already wishing he had saved his days for a more appealing port. But when one made a living fighting wars for others, appealing destinations were infrequent stops.

  The stairs were busy with men pushing and jockeying, trying to get into a room at the crowded bottom. The air stank of human sweat, alcohol, and at least three kinds of hallucinogenic drugs that one smoked. What had Striker found? Some sporting event? Marat used his elbows and shoulders to push his way through, scarcely feeling the return jabs that found his ribs. He had muscles enough to armor them, and he had battled scarier things than human beings in his life; it would take more than a crowd to make him falter.

  He almost faltered when he reached the bottom and saw why the crowd was there. Eight naked women stood on raised platforms, each woman—prisoner—bound with energy chains to an eyelet in the middle. Marat would have turned right around if a meaty hand hadn’t reached out of the press of bodies to latch onto his arm.

  He spun toward it, a fist readied. But the broad face and spiky brown hair that appeared out of the crowd were familiar. They belonged to Marat’s putative squad leader, Sergeant Striker, self-titled Chief of Boom aboard the Albatross. That almost wasn’t enough to make Marat lower his fist.

  “A slave auction?” he growled. “This is your idea of a great place to find women?”

  “Just one woman.” Striker winked. “Come here. Let me tell you the plan.”

  Marat didn’t move his feet, but he found himself tugged deeper into the room. He might be strong, but Striker was even bigger and brawnier than he was, and Marat had been pulled over to a support post shimmering with holographic wanted posters before he thought to resist.

  “Instead of renting some woman by the hour,” Striker said, “I figured we could get one for keeps.”

  “We?”

  What in all the worlds in the system made Striker think Marat would want to be a part of this scheme? Was this because of the time on Vasquelin that he’d gone to a brothel with Striker? That whole experience had been a nightmare, at least for Marat.

  “Slaves aren’t cheap,” Striker said. “I can’t afford one on my own, but I figured we could go halfsies.”

  “Halfsies?” Marat found his fingers tightening into a fist again. “You can’t be serious. Even if you are serious, the captain wouldn’t let you bring a slave onto the ship. The married men can’t even bring their wives. You’re either crew, or y
ou’re not.”

  “Yeah, I know, but I’ve been thinking.” Striker tapped his finger to his temple. Striker thinking. Now there was a scary thought. “The captain’s business partner—” he put special emphasis on the word, as if everyone didn’t already know the captain was sleeping with Ankari, “—says she’s not real fond of the rations we get most of the time. I heard her telling Mandrake that the ship needs a cook. You know how he listens to her.”

  Yes, and Marat knew why. He had been stuck on a space station with the captain and Ankari when the mafia had been trying to take it over. He knew first-hand that Ankari was a capable ally, not simply some decorative piece of fluff, and that Mandrake had been smart to get her on his side. But Striker was right in that Ankari often lamented the lack of a cook on the ship. And she wasn’t the only one who curled a lip at the prepackaged “food logs” that passed for meals.

  “So, we get us a nice slave here. I was eyeing that one.” Striker smiled and nodded toward a black woman that reminded Marat of a less muscular version of Sergeant Hazel, whom Striker had been known to try to seduce a few times. “She cooks.” He fished in a pocket and drew out a folding tablet. He opened it, and a holodisplay formed in the air, showing bios of all eight of the women, along with their talents.

  Marat glimpsed “gives amazing head” as one woman’s talent and “liking it in the ass” as another, and he smacked his hand to his forehead. How was it even possible that Striker outranked him? It was purely based on seniority and the man’s uncanny ability to blow things up with the accuracy of a cyborg marksman.

  “I figure we get one who can cook,” Striker said, “bring her back to the ship, get the captain to hire her, and she’ll be so grateful that we got her out of this situation, that she’ll want to thank us. Lots. Every night.” He gave the black woman a lurid grin.

  She was standing with her legs apart and her arms folded over her bare breasts while wearing a pissed expression. She was about thirty and one of the older women up there. Half of them were clearly teenagers, most trying their best to cover themselves up and avoid the eyes of the grabby would-be buyers circulating the room. Their cheeks flamed red. Marat’s cheeks would be red too. He wished he could shoot all the idiots in the room and end the charade.