by Cathryn Cade
She grabbed another roll and took a huge bite.
The blonde's head went back and she opened her mouth and then closed it. “I don't understand. Who are you?”
“You tell her, VX,” Ilya mumbled around her sandwich.
Taarina tipped her head back to look up into his masked face.
“She is Ilya Mondas, the new CEO of the Pleasure Palace,” he said. “She is intelligent, bad-tempered and skilled in tech of all kinds.”
Ilya nearly inhaled her bite of sandwich. As it was, she struggled to swallow, choking on laughter at his overly frank words, repeated in a rote monotone. Her laughter died as she realized they were no doubt verbatim from Joran Stark. Trust Stark to warn the Palace minions about her.
“Yep, that's me,” she drawled. “And I'm a dead aim with a laser weapon. Not bad with a flashbomb, either.”
Taarina stared at her, her glossy lips hanging open. “You are the new CEO? But ...” she snapped her mouth shut, a frown marring her flawless face as she surveyed Ilya from head to toe.
Ilya tried to enjoy the woman's incredulity, but heat worked its way up over her cheeks again. So what if she wasn't all buffed, combed and cosmeticized within an inch of her life? It was what she could do that was important, not how she looked.
“Oh, I'm sorry,” she said with a fake smile, “Did you think I'd be male, and worthy of your charms? Sorry. But here's a hint—next time you set out to seduce someone, may wanna keep your hands off the help.”
Taarina took her time moving gracefully away from VX, who stood impassively.
“My mistake. I will leave,” the dancer said, her face and voice smooth. But the look she gave Ilya before turning to sway from the room held an ugly gleam.
Ilya didn't bother to say goodbye. Wasn't her problem if the silly bitch had embarrassed herself trying to seduce the new boss, and gotten caught with her hands in the candy megapac instead.
And so what if the woman’s lip had curled as if Ilya were an Ingo? Didn't matter.
So why was it Ilya found herself peering at VX through her braids, and wondering what he saw when he looked at her?
Meeting his dark gaze was like looking into a black hole through a mega-telescope—too dark to see what was in there, but knowing it was a teeming mass of unexplored matter.
She blinked and scowled. Time to get her own mind off the help—she wasn't pawing him like the dancer, but she wasn't much better, ogling him like that.
“Thought you were gonna keep everyone out,” she said.
He didn't answer right away, and the hair on the back of her neck stood up again as his gaze remained blank. It was almost as if he was listening to some other conversation, one she couldn't hear. Then he focused on her, and Ilya felt an almost physical impact as their gazes met.
“It was thought you might prefer female company,” he said.
“What the fuck?” she whispered. Someone was watching behind the scenes, she could feel it. Why? Because they wanted her occupied and distracted, maybe? With a guard, with sex, with whatever it took to keep her out of their business.
Weren't those someones gonna be surprised when they learned their machinations only made her more determined to mine the secrets of this place.
“I prefer no company,” she said, giving VX an indifferent stare. “So how about you get your over-developed muscles out of my quarters and let me enjoy my meal?”
He gazed down at her for a long moment, and Ilya tightened her muscles in case she had to move fast, her free hand sliding inside her pocket to find the reassuring shape of her flashbomb.
Then VX nodded once, and strode silently to the wall. It parted as it had before, and he disappeared into the dark passageway. The wall began to close behind him.
Ilya lunged across the room, sliding the last meter on her knees. Just before the wall closed, she shoved a thin, flexible blade between them.
The small thumb-sized tech attached to the flexblade stayed there, a meter above the carpet, marking the opening. When she was ready it would also be her entree to the secret passageway.
It didn't take her long to make her preparations. She ate another yama, the Frontieran name for the stuffed meat rolls, a dish of tart, sweet moonberries and a few crunchy green veg that after the first cautious bite were actually tasty. Then she filled the cerametal mug—ivory with the currency symbol splashed all over one side—with hot, sweet Pangaean green tea, donned her boots, vest full of her favorite tech, and headed back for her office, her duffel rolling at her side and the hovertray of food floating along behind.
It was time to begin taking the Pleasure Palace apart—figuratively, at least.
CHAPTER NINE
Whoever had designed the tech system for the space station was good, but not as good as her. It took Ilya a galactic common hour to break into the system, but only a few more minutes to bring up the main bank of holovid screens with audio.
She pumped her fist into the air, grinning ear to ear. “Yeah. Nobody beats Ilya Mondas at this game. So take that, you secretive bitches.”
Grabbing one of the chocolate crispies—which she'd been saving as a reward—from the tray, she flung herself into the exquisitely comfortable leather throne behind the huge desk, and enjoyed her treat as she viewed her new queendom on the holovids.
It was big, gaudy as hells and teeming with activity. She winced at the noise and reached up with her free hand, fiddling with her com to bring down the volume to a bearable level.
The holovid cams showed the main galley, which produced elegant, mouth-watering fare and some strange shit that must be for guests from some of the outlying planets, all at speeds that had to be witnessed to be believed. Black-garbed employees scurried about, directing machinery and bots to cut, chop, slice, stir, simmer, sauté and roast, then to assemble the foods into a fantastical array of culinary offerings fit for royalty. The sounds were clanking, crashing, voices barking orders.
Ilya watched with her mouth watering, even though she was stuffed full as her duffel, having eaten five yamas, a plate of fruit and veg, and now a crispie. A being could wind up plump as a Bartian if she didn't watch herself—and probably farting like one from the richness of the food here.
The central galley serviced several dining rooms and smaller cafes and bars, all of which appeared to serve food along with fancy drinks of all colors that fizzed, shimmered, and even tried to slither out of the tall glasses in which they were served. Ilya winced as a short, stout Egglantian with a foaming lavender drink that matched his skin, nipped something that wriggled between his sharp teeth and chewed it with relish. Gah, she didn't want to know what that was.
Music played, overlaid by the babel of intergalactic voices
While the galleys were stark white and black, the rooms frequented by Palace guests were opulent on a scale that had to be seen to be believed. Vadyal had clearly found decorators who loved scarlet, metals and gems as much as he did, and given them a free hand. Any surface that didn't gleam or glitter, was covered in velvet or some other plush fabric.
The casino was mind-boggling, big as a Quasiball stadium. Ilya hadn't found the Palace schematics yet, but she reckoned the main casino must take up a good bit of the center of the station. Lights, lasers, holovids and faux fireworks filled the air above the pit where customers roamed.
The games were arranged inside big intersecting loops, so that customers were led along paths of temptation no matter which way they turned.
She squinted, not sure what some of the games even were. Holodice she recognized, and tiles. The one with holocards floating before each player was poker, and the big spinning wheel flashing sparks and numbers looked familiar—roulette, maybe?
Music played with a steady, rollicking beat, games tooted, whirred, chimed and cascaded. Voices shrieked, called, exclaimed, mourned and begged.
She'd learn them all. The games, the dealers, attendants and waitstaff garbed in white and gold were hers now ... until she squeezed what she wanted from them.
Three auditoriums featured singers with backup dancers, one a raunchy musical comedy involving Serpentians and a faux catamount, and two sex shows that made Ilya's lip curl. But the performers were all consenting, so she passed on.
Her brows flew up when she realized she could spy on any and all of the guest rooms as well. These ranged from tiny cubicles to suites as big as hers. And she did not need to see some of the shit that was going on in the rooms. It all looked consensual as well, so she grimaced and moved on.
She made a note to check in with her guard captain about the sex workers operating on the station. Make sure they were all here of their free will, and then wash her hands of them—because contrary to her friends' teasing, she wanted nothing to do with running that shit.
She found Bek himself featured in another holovid. He sat at a desk in a small office with windows that looked out into a larger area with other uniformed beings.
Smaller holovids on the edge of this screen showed ranks of small grid enclosures with beds and lavs. Some had beings, guests from their lavish attire, sleeping. A slim Serpentian was hunched dejectedly on the bed in another of the enclosures, head in his hands.
Ah, the guard station, complete with grid cubbies for guests who didn't play nicely. Looked like they were all treated decently, so for now, she wasn't interested.
She could revolve through a myriad of other passageways and offices. She saw Playa in her hoverchair in a big office that looked like maybe the management and accounting center of the casino. That would become a daily stop, Ilya decided. Just to let those folks know she noticed what they did.
She wandered virtually through other areas such as loading docks, garbage collection and the huge storage bay for customers' cruisers. A tour ship was docking on one side of the station, with a weary, hungover group of humans traipsing on board. Gullible fools. How much credit had they left behind?
At least they were getting off the station with their lives. Ilya glowered at them, resenting each and every one of them, bumbling back to their lives on a planet somewhere, not even knowing the best man to ever live had died here—for nothing.
And as for those who lived and worked here—she swept the other holovids with renewed vengeance in her gaze—she'd deal with them all, one by one if that's what it took. Until she knew who was responsible for Var's death here in this gaudy racket bucket.
And then, that being would wish he or she had never been conceived, much less born.
Unbidden, Var's broad, tanned face filled her memory, his lazy eyes grave as he tipped his head to look over at her while they waited to head out on her first raid with Il Zhazid's band.
'You ever killed anyone, baby?'
'No,' she'd admitted. 'Have you?'
He'd jerked his chin in the affirmative.
'Was it ... hard?' she'd asked, her stomach tight.
'No,' he'd replied instantly. 'Not hard to do. But then you gotta live with it. That's the hard part.'
A chill of understanding had swept over her despite the heat of the Frontieran afternoon. Easy to press a button and fire a laser. But then hard to look at the bloody, charred remains of a living being and accept responsibility.
He'd been right, too. She knew that now. She'd taken her place as one of the band's warriors, and she'd used her tech and their ships' lasers to take out a few pirates, even helped take down a slaver ship. At the time, she'd celebrated with the band, but later ... she'd awakened from nightmares afterward, sweating and shaking. Burrowing into Var's strong arms for reassurance.
But she'd made those righteous kills, and she'd do it again, when she found whoever was responsible for taking Var from her. Because only that would slake her burning thirst for vengeance.
And, in case any of Vadyal's cronies were still skulking on this station, no time like the present to let them all know she was here. Let them start shaking in their boots, like deerbitts being stalked by a gyrehawk. She was the hawk, gliding silently along up here in this aerie of an office, while they scurried around below.
Except, she realized with a familiar chill, she wasn't the only predator hunting these corridors and bays. Because in all her surveilling of this huge place, not even once had she glimpsed VX-900 or any others like him.
Where were 'the quarters' of which he'd spoken? And who controlled him? Who'd sent him to her?
She might be reckless, but she wasn't stupid. It seemed that perhaps another predator stalked the bowels of this place—or used the 'borg to do so. And while she had brains and tech savvy on her side, the other had at least one huge, dangerous cyborg at his command. Here was a horrible thought—had VX been used to kill, here? Would he be sent to get rid of her? He knew how to get into her bedroom. Shit, he probably had more hidey-holes and entrances, too.
Hells, she wasn't sure she even wanted to sleep here, now.
She snorted at herself. Not like she had a choice. A bit too far to commute to Frontiera and back every day, and anyway, what was to stop another craft from following her out of here if someone wanted to get rid of her?
Also, the camp wouldn't be where she'd left it. Joran Stark was moving on to his new job as Sheriff, and Ryder wouldn't stay there by the river, he'd move the camp on to some other remote, beautiful spot where the band could pitch their tonts, circle the cruisers and settle in to hunt, party and do whatever the hells they liked.
A wave of homesickness swamped her, not only for the camp, it's fresh air and freedom, but for the man who'd made it a paradise on planet. Var.
The exhaustion of her long, tension-filled day finally overcame her. She fell asleep there in the chair, her flashbomb in one hand, her little laser in the other.
She dreamed of Var's funeral. They’d lit a big campfire as funeral pyre, even though his body was gone, somewhere in space trash of the place where he'd died.
The band circled around the fire in the middle of camp, their faces grave, some tear-stained, gazes on her as she walked to toss his helmet with its silly crest onto the flames. The light and heat roared up into the night, a pyre for all her happiness.
But in her dream, a bellow of pain broke the fire lit darkness, and a huge man struggled up out of the flames. Only it wasn't Var, it was VX-900's eyes that glared accusingly down at her from the pyre, as if demanding to know why she'd destroyed the last remnants of him.
And his cerametal mask had become Var's crested helmet, fashioned after an ancient Roman warrior's helmet he'd seen in a museum and loved so much she'd had his aircycle helmet decorated as a facsimile.
'You've killed me,” he intoned, his deep husk just audible through the crackle of the fire. 'Now, you’ll live with it.'
Ilya woke with a start.
She sat up, rubbing her eyes. “No,” she mumbled. “No, I didn't do it. I didn't kill you.”
Wait, killed who? Quark, that had been VX in her dream, not Var. What was that about? She shuddered with reaction. The holovids played on, the empty room and the full casino mocking her with their indifference.
She hadn't killed anyone ... yet. Ilya took a deep breath and swallowed the guilt that swamped her, as if she'd already taken her vengeance. She let the sick feeling morph into the rage that lately she'd donned like a suit of custom armor.
Sliding from the chair, which had begun to feel like a cloying embrace, she stared at the beings in the myriad of screens. Her hands clenched at her sides.
She'd show them. She'd show them all the consequences of taking everything away from her. Before she was done, they'd beg to reveal Var's murderer to her and help her find justice.
She'd killed b
efore, she would do it again if she had to. And she refused to feel guilty about any of it.
CHAPTER TEN
Playa's com chimed. She set down her spork, her stomach jumping with excitement when she saw her new employer's face. The woman was wearing the scowl that seemed to be her default expression, which was too bad because she could be quite attractive if she'd only make an effort.
Silly. Playa shook her head at her own imaginings, patted her mouth hastily with her recycled paper napkin, brushed a hand down her jacket to make sure no crumbs marred the white and gold, and opened the link.
“Greetings,” she began. “How may I help—”
“Get up here to my office,” Ilya Mondas ordered. Then she broke the link.
Playa blinked. Then she looked up and met the gaze of one of the casino accountants, a young Serpentian called Staar. The woman widened her green eyes. “Was that her?” she asked.
Playa nodded, already gliding away from her table. The waitstaff would bus the remains of her breakfast.
“It's true then,” Staar murmured, shaking her head. “She does look like a reject from the Frontieran pirate gangs.” Her tiny smile said that she knew she looked her best in her tight white dress, with carefully styled auburn hair and cosmetics that enhanced her golden skin.
“And we will all do well to remember that she's now our employer,” Playa reminded her.
Playa frowned to herself as she glided from the employee dining hall. Staar was typical of the younger employees, so sure of their freedom now that Vadyal was gone, they spoke incautiously. None of them knew Ilya Mondas, and what Playa and Bek did know said they should move very cautiously.
She glided swiftly to the shaft that would allow her to bypass the elevators, slid into the hollow shaft that rose twenty stories through the station, and let the hatch close behind her. The first time she'd utilized this she'd been terrified it would malfunction and let her fall to her death, but thus far it had always performed faultlessly—probably because it had been built for the use of Dr. Annar Blu himself.
