Escape Velocity (Off-World Series, Book 7): Sexy Science-Fiction Romance Novel

by Rebecca York

  Coming here had sounded like a good idea when they’d talked about it. That was before they’d been greeted by an armed contingent that outnumbered them almost five to one.

  “You got a reason for being here?” one of the men called out in a challenging voice.

  Before Max could answer, Amber pushed her way between the two men and stepped in front of them.

  Max made a grab for her, but she was too fast for him as she took several steps away from the ship, her hips swaying seductively.

  Kahlad, now what?

  She stood tall, her lithe body commanding the attention of every guy in the clearing as she executed a sexy little dance.

  As she moved her hips and arms, she began to sing what might have been a love song in the high clear voice that had captivated him the first time he’d heard it.

  Max quickly saw that she was an excellent performer, snapping her fingers in rhythm to her voice, executing a captivating dance to the music she was making.

  Like everyone else, he watched transfixed, and as the words registered in his brain, he struggled to keep his jaw from dropping open in astonishment. She wasn’t singing a love song. The words were about wearing apparel—about the shirts and pants and dresses they had brought.

  She was telling the watching men that they had come bearing comfortable and beautiful clothing that everybody would want. She went through the sales spiel, then repeated it a second time, making the melody a bit more elaborate.

  When the song came to an end, she lifted her arms in a flourish, bent a little at the waist, and slid one foot in front of the other.

  Long seconds of absolute silence passed, and Max wasn’t sure of what would happen next. Then the man who had first spoken stepped forward. He was carrying a beamer, but he had lowered it, with the business end facing the ground.

  “We keep our distance from outsiders,” he said. His voice was stiff, but his eyes traveled over Amber as he said, “But your chere just did a star turn.”

  “Yeah,” Max answered.

  “She shares other talents?”

  Max wasn’t sure how he had planned to answer, but he heard himself say, “Her other talents are for me. She’s my wife.”

  Amber whirled toward him, her eyes wide, and he knew his words had been the last thing she had expected to hear. But he had seen the swamp rats’ reaction to her performance. If they thought she might be a loose woman aiming to pick up some extra credits on the side, he wanted to make it very clear that she wasn’t for rent. He drew her close and explained, “She loves the chance to brag about our merchandise in her unique way.”

  “Quite unique. Does she know more songs?”

  “Many,” Max answered, squeezing her arm and hoping she wasn’t going to jump into the conversation.

  “You trained her bon,” the spokesman said.

  When Amber stiffened, Max answered quickly, “I didn’t train her. She has natural talent.”

  Rafe interjected a comment designed to steer them back to business.

  “She’s wearing a sample of the clothing we’ve brought.”

  The man reached toward her skirt, but Max pulled Amber back. “Your women may want to examine the fabric of this dress and some of the others, but I do not allow strange men to touch my wife.”

  “No harm meant.”

  “No offense taken,” Max answered. “I’m Maxwell Cassidy. And my wife is Amber.”

  Rafe stepped forward. “And I’m Brad Cambridge.”

  They hadn’t discussed names, but Max understood why his friend had come up with an alias. They were all hiding out from Elgin Tudor, but Tudor didn’t know Max’s name, only Rafe’s.

  “And I am Salvo Dubois,” the spokesman said.

  Max looked around at the other swamp rats, who had relaxed somewhat during the conversation. He turned back to the speaker. “Are you the leader of this group?”

  “I oversee . . . I think you would call it security.”

  “You saw us flying over and came to investigate?”

  “Oui,” which must mean yes, Max figured.

  “When can we show our goods to your people?” he asked.

  “After you come back to our camp.”

  Max eyed the weapons that the men carried. “There are dangers in the swamp, and you are armed. May we bring our own weapons?”

  “No need. Our kin group will keep you safe.”

  Max didn’t like it, but he bit back a protest.

  “Bring your goods.”

  “We will bring some of them.”

  “You don’t trust us?” Dubois shot back.

  “We can’t be sure of your tastes. In case you don’t buy, we won’t have to carry them all back.”

  Apparently, that made sense because the swamp rat nodded and said. “Allons.”

  Max and Rafe each took a carry bag of clothing before Rafe set the door lock on the shuttle.

  Dubois and some of the group led them across the open field to a trail hidden in the thick vegetation. Other swamp rats walked behind the trio.

  “Don’t step off the trail,” the security chief cautioned.

  Max could see why. The dirt track wound past mud holes, trees so tall he couldn’t see the tops, and patches of swamp. The branches overhead dimmed the light around them, and in the bushes, he kept hearing the rustlings of unseen creatures.

  There was danger here—but also beauty. Bright flowers, lush greenery. And above them birds with brilliant foliage flitting through the trees.

  Dubois, who saw him taking in the surroundings, said, “The bayou’s got snakes, gator lizards, wild hogs, and other beasts you wouldn’t want to meet.”

  “You call the swamp the bayou?” Max asked.

  “Oui. The word is from our home place back on old Earth.”

  Max nodded. “Thanks for the warning.” As he spoke, he was calculating the odds of getting back to the ship on their own if this gig went sour.

  They rounded a curve in the path, and at first Max thought he was staring at a huge patch of greenery. Then he realized that a group of perhaps two dozen small wooden houses was hidden under the branches of large trees. All the dwellings were elevated on stout poles that lifted them about two meters off the ground. Guarding the perimeter of the settlement was a fence made of narrow poles, sharpened to a point at the top. And beyond the houses was a wide, slow-moving river and a wooden dock where several homemade boats were tied up.

  As the party approached, Max heard barking, and several lean brown hounds leaped toward the returning men.

  One came bounding toward Amber, and she shrank back against Max. From her reaction he guessed the creature was new to her.

  He put himself between her and the animal, leaning down to let it smell his hand before stroking its head. “Good boy. That’s a good boy,” he crooned.

  “What is it?” Amber asked as she kept her gaze on the beast.

  “A dog. You never saw one before?”

  “They don’t have. . .,” she started to say but bit off the end of the sentence before she could slip up and mention Naxion. Eyeing the sizable teeth, she asked. “Will it bite?”

  Dubois was listening to them and answered, “Non. Unless you threaten one of us.”

  The security man kept his gaze on Amber. “You’ve never seen a dog? Where’d you grow up?”

  She froze. “Why do you ask?”

  “You are a curiosity.”

  She shot Max a quick glance before saying, “My parents ran a shop on the Freedom Station.”

  “Ah. That is interesting.”

  Embroidering the lie, she added, “It’s quite different from here. You have so much . . . open space. And such pretty plants.”

  “Oui.”

  “Our marketplace is in a huge chamber within the station.”

  Max jumped in to change the subject. “You say this is a camp, but it looks like a village.”

  “It’s better for us to move from time to time, when we have hunted out the game in the area, or if the waters r
ise in one location.”

  Max nodded, thanking the fates that there was no more time for a private conversation as men, women, and children had come out of the houses to stare at the newcomers. Some of the women and children looked fearful.

  “No need to worry. They are traders,” Dubois called out.

  A tall man with iron gray hair stepped forward. “What do they have to trade?”

  Dubois gave the man a respectful nod. “This is our chief among equals, Charner Gatroux.”

  “Thank you for allowing us to speak to your people,” Max said. He, Rafe and Amber all introduced themselves.

  “We have unique handmade clothing from off world,” Rafe said.

  Several women scoffed. “We can make our own clothing,” one of them said.

  Amber fingered her skirt. “I am wearing one of the dresses we brought. They’re for special occasions, when you want to look your best for your man.”

  She held out the delicate fabric, then let it fall gracefully back into place before raising her arms and executing a couple of twirls.

  A crowd of women rushed forward to have a closer look, and Max could hear them exclaiming.

  A tall woman with salt and pepper hair and wrinkled skin gave Amber a speculative look, and Max wondered what she was thinking. But his attention was pulled back to the gray-haired chief.

  “You have not come here in the past,” he said. “Why do you venture into the bayou country now?”

  “Because we are always looking for new customers,” Rafe answered.

  “We were hoping we could stay the night,” Max said, “And talk about what other goods might interest you.”

  “That can be arranged,” Gatroux said.

  “Can Madam Amber show us more of the dresses?” one of the women asked, her gaze fixed on the head man.

  “Yes.”

  “We brought two carry bags,” Rafe said. “We have more clothing in the shuttle.”

  Gatroux looked toward the female contingent, then back at Amber. “You go off with the woman. The men will talk.”

  Her gaze shot to Max. “Is it allowed?”

  He didn’t love being separated, but he said, “Okay.”

  ###

  Amber followed the ladies and some of the children to a cleared space between two of the houses. A couple of the younger women had gone off and now came back with blankets which they spread on the ground.

  “Lay your goods out where we can see everything,” the woman with salt and pepper hair said.

  “Thank you. What is your name?” Amber asked as she took dresses from one of the carry bags. The other had men’s shirts, and she spread them out, too.

  “Camilla,” the woman answered as she held up a dress that drew murmurs of approval from the ladies. But Amber noticed that they didn’t just admire the pretty fabrics; they also examined the seams and other details to assess the workmanship.

  “What is the cost?” a petite blond asked.

  Amber thanked the gods that she’d talked about this with the men. She told the women what Rafe had said.

  “We don’t have the machines where you pay,” one of the women said.

  “Paper credits are fine.”

  It seemed that some of the women badly wanted to buy dresses—and shirts for their men.

  A couple of them went off and came back with the kind of money Max had used on the space station when he’d paid the forger.

  Many of the women bought the dresses and shirt, and in a very short time, Amber had collected a lot of money. She was relieved when Max and Rafe showed up.

  “Look how much I’ve sold,” she said, turning over the payments.

  “That’s great,” Rafe approved, like this was their prime reason for being at the camp.

  “It wasn’t hard. The dresses sell themselves.”

  “We’ll have to bring back more,” Rafe said, keeping up the pretense that they were traders focused on business.

  “The head man has invited us to have dinner with them,” Max said.

  “Then we’d best get the meal together,” Camille said.

  The women stood, put the unsold clothing back into the carry bags, folded up the blankets and took them away.

  When they were alone, Amber spoke in a low voice. “Did you mention anything about. . .?”

  Max gave a quick shake of his head, and she didn’t finish the question.

  “Later,” he said.

  She badly wanted to know if they could trust these people and if they could get some help, but she saw that Max didn’t think it was safe to discuss the subject.

  He led her back the way they’d come to a spot where women were setting up long wooden tables with short legs.

  “No chairs?” she asked.

  “I guess not.”

  She went over to one of the ladies who had bought a dress and a shirt. “Can I help get the meal ready?”

  Camille came over and looked her up and down. “You know how to cook?”

  “Yes.”

  “Real cooking—with fire? Not food from those . . .” she stopped and thought. “Those syntho things they use in town?”

  “I know how to do it the real way.”

  “Where did you learn?”

  Maybe she should have just kept her mouth shut, she thought as she murmured. “My mother.”

  She was relieved when the older woman said, “Then we’d appreciate the help.”

  She followed Camille to another open area where cooks were busy stirring pots, cutting bread and putting food into serving bowls. Babies were in a penned-off area. Some older children played quietly at the side of the kitchen.

  “Can you fry vegetables?”

  “Yes.”

  Camille pointed to a grill set over an open fire. On a table beside it was a large bowl of vegetables, some of which looked vaguely familiar. She thought she saw chopped onions and maybe carrots, but the color wasn’t quite right. Then there was a green thing that looked like a small tree.

  “I need a pan and fat. What do you use?”

  “Butter, made from sheep’s milk.”

  After the woman brought a slab of butter, a skillet, and a large wooden spoon for stirring, Amber set the pan on the grill, added butter and waited for it to melt. Then she added the vegetables and stirred them while they cooked.

  All too aware that the others were watching, she took extra care not to overcook the contents of the skillet. When it seemed like the vegetables were getting done too quickly, she grasped the handle of the pan with a wadded cloth and moved it to the side.

  One of the women came over and inspected her work, pronounced it “bon.” Next, she was given a knife to cut up bread and put it onto shallow trays made of what looked like long strands of woven grass.

  When the meal preparation was finished, she and the other women carried the food to the eating area and set it on the low tables. In addition to the vegetables she’d cooked and the bread she’d cut, there was a meat stew and chunks of yellow fruit she didn’t recognize. Dark was descending over the swamp, and the area was lighted by torches on long poles driven into the ground.

  She’d been worried about when she’d see Max and Rafe again and had mostly succeeded in repressing her anxiety. Now she felt a little surge of relief when she saw them again. They were standing at one side, talking to the men and drinking glasses of amber, bubbly liquid. She recognized the first among equals and the security chief and some of the others who had surrounded the ship when they’d landed.

  Because none of the other women were approaching the males, she hung back.

  When Max saw her standing at the edge of the female group, he motioned her over.

  She came slowly, ready to step back if one of the swamp rats objected to the intrusion, but none of them indicated she was unwelcome.

  “What are you drinking?” she asked Max, gesturing toward the glasses.

  “Beer. But you probably won’t like it.”

  “Maybe I would.”

  When he hande
d her the glass, she took a taste, then wrinkled her nose. “You’re right. It’s bitter.”

  “You can get used to it—like coffee.”

  Most of the women, along with the children old enough to join the group, were gathered together at one of the long tables, but before Amber could detach herself and sit with them, Max took her hand and gestured to a seat beside him.

  “It’s okay to sit with you?” she whispered.

  “It better be.”

  Hoping the defiance of the group’s customs wouldn’t cause a problem, she sat down.

  Everybody passed around the serving dishes, and Amber took a little from each. Then she watched what the swamp rats were doing and saw that they scooped up the stew on pieces of bread and ate the vegetables with their fingers. When she’d been a slave, she’d eaten without utensils, and she had no trouble doing the same here. But she saw that both Max and Rafe were a little awkward as they imitated their hosts.

  She was hungry, and the food was surprisingly tasty.

  The talk turned to the dresses and shirts the “traders” had brought.

  “Where did you get these goods?” one of the men asked.

  Rafe paused with bread and stew on the way to his mouth. “From the Hawkings colony.”

  “You go there often?”

  “Not in the past, but we will now.”

  “Where else do you trade?”

  He and Max talked about some of the other stops they’d made during their careers, and she listened with interest since she had never been to anywhere but Naxion until a few days ago. Their stories made her realize how little she knew of the universe and how much of a chance she’d been taking by putting her fate into the hands of a man she’d just met. One of their stops was a colony on a planet called Palamar that had been settled after a plague had wiped out all the women on the settler’s home planet. Only men and their sons were sent to the new world.

  “So, they had no gals to fek,” one of the swamp rats said.

  “Not for almost twenty years.”

  “There must have been a lot of flogging the log.”

  Male laughter around the table followed the comment. Amber felt her cheeks flame. She had never heard the term before, but she had a good idea what it might mean.

  Max jumped in to refocus the conversation. “Bride ships have been arriving for the past few years.”