by JC Cassels
A slow smile touched his lips.
Blade scratched at his bearded cheek. “Well now, that puts a whole different spin on things, doesn’t it?” Perhaps it wasn’t as hopeless as he’d feared.
“I do not understand the question.”
“No, that’s all right, Sundance,” Blade said. “Release the hatch, would you?”
“I’m afraid Commander Barron has given orders that you are to be contained.”
Blade sighed. “Are you going to make me use the Sovran Overrides again?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’d have been disappointed if you didn’t. Release the hatch on my quarters and countermand Bo’s orders limiting my access to the ship and to your computer, Sovran Overrides authorization Daavin Marin. Confirm.”
“Sovran Overrides accepted. Command recognized.”
The hatch slid open. “Thank you, Sundance,” Blade said. “Remember the usual protocols. Not a word to Bo about it. That’s an order.”
“Understood.”
Blade glanced down the corridor before stepping from his erstwhile prison.
In the past, Bo had seldom ventured to the port side of the ship. The lockers lining the bulkhead stored non-essentials and a few cached weapons in case of emergency.
Noiseless as a shadow and favoring his leg, he headed aft and descended the stairs to the engine compartment and cargo holds. Cargo compartment one contained the infirmary. That was his first stop.
The lights flickered on as he entered. Glancing around in the harsh, cold light, he assured himself that the gyrotable still hovered in the center of the converted hold. An array of medical devices and scanners dangled from the ceiling over the table like the tentacles of some primordial aquatic beast. One side of the hold was devoted to storage, with drawers and lockers below a long countertop. The refrigerated apothecary usually housed an array of meds that would have put a trauma facility to shame.
Blade smiled to himself. Aboard ship, Bo’s domain was the flight deck. The infirmary was his. He’d trained as a medic when he’d joined the Consular Guard as a teenager. Over the years, he’d honed his skills far beyond field medicine. As he’d been able, he’d kept his certifications up-to-date, adding skills and training as the opportunities presented themselves.
He headed straight for the drawer where the dermal re-generator and medical scanner were housed.
As a kid, he’d joined the Mighty Eighth Search and Rescue out of a desire to help people. The Inner Circle had trained him to be a cold-blooded killer, but that wasn’t who he was. It had taken him a long time to come to terms with that.
He tugged on the drawer, but something kept it from opening more than a few centimeters. Leaning down, he applied gentle pressure when he met resistance.
“How is that not opening?”
Every piece of equipment had its own place, hollowed out of shock-absorbing material. He’d made sure of that. The drawers should slide open smoothly.
With one sharp tug, he yanked it open, and frowned at the tangle of cables and equipment.
“What the hell, Bo?” he muttered.
Shaking his head, he dug through the mess, coming up empty. Moving to the other drawers, he repeated the process until he found the equipment he was looking for. Setting the scanner and dermal regenerator on the tray, he limped over to the apothecary.
The refrigerated unit looked like it had been ransacked. Some of her meds were dangerously out of date, and her supply of basic pain suppressors was shockingly depleted.
Setting his jaw, he managed to find a cocktail suitable to his needs and fitted them into the hypospray, setting the dosage. He pressed the hypo against his neck and depressed the trigger. Immediate warmth flooded the area as the meds rushed into his system. As prepared as he’d been for the wave of drugs, it still rocked him back on his heels.
He sucked in a deep breath and set the hypospray aside. Hopping onto the gyrotable, he pulled the tray close. Quickly, and with professional efficiency, he cut his trouser leg away from the burned area, then sprayed the wound with a cleaning agent. Using the scanner as a guide, he painstakingly picked fabric from his burned flesh. Once he’d cleaned the wound, he switched on the dermal regenerator and patiently reconstructed his leg from the inside out.
He was lucky she’d adjusted the power setting to low. He knew it had been more to keep from breaching the hull than to avoid any serious damage to him, but still, he was thankful for that small grace.
“Sundance, when was the last time Bo resupplied the infirmary?”
“It has been twenty-seven months, four days and six hours since we put in to a Redmaster Blue base for supplies and maintenance.”
His brow furrowed. “Why so long?”
“Our last stop on Altair, Commander Barron encountered an independent group of contractors from the Assassin’s Guild.”
“Get me the log entry on that,” he said.
“Stand by.”
After a moment, Bo’s voice came over the grille. “Thought I’d stop by Altair today,” she said, tightly. “Nice welcoming party waiting for me.” She sucked in a deep breath through her teeth. “Cross Altair off the list of safe ports.” She hissed something unintelligible.
“End of entry,” Sundance said.
Blade frowned. “That was terse, even for Bo,” he said. “How badly was she hurt?”
The diagnostic screen attached to the side of the gyro table flashed with the timestamp from twenty-seven months ago, followed by a diagram of a female form, highlighting a rundown of her condition. A knot twisted in his gut as Sundance scrolled through a lengthy list of injuries that told him far more about what had happened than Bo’s cryptic log entry.
She’d been ambushed and overwhelmed. Defensive wounds showed that after they’d attacked her with energy weapons, she’d fought them in close quarters.
“How many were there? Four? Five?”
“Six.”
Blade nodded. He bent closer to his own injury. “Sounds about right,” he said. “She hasn’t put into a Redmaster Blue base since?”
“Affirmative.”
He grunted. “She’s going to have to resupply from somewhere, and soon. She doesn’t have the medical stores she needs. If she runs into another ambush like that one, she’s going to feel it.”
Switching off the dermal regenerator, he took one more reading from the scanner before he covered the wound with a synthiflesh patch. It melted into his thigh, leaving a slightly darker, shinier patch to distinguish it from his natural skin. As healthy flesh filled in, the patch would flake off and fall away, not to mention it was going to itch like crazy.
“Table diagnostics show that you have other injuries, sir.”
A male image filled the screen, with several spots lighting up, indicating areas of trauma and damage. Blade glanced over the list and shook his head.
“Most of those are old and minor, Sundance. I’ll pass on treatment.”
Blade busied himself putting away the items he’d used. He couldn’t help but tidy up the worst of the mess as he went. After he’d returned order to her equipment drawers and sorted her apothecary, he left the infirmary.
He touched the panel beside the hatch leading to cargo compartment two, and it slid open with a whisper. The interior lights flickered on as he stepped through.
In the surreal bluish light, he took in the array of containers. A large, ornamental, free-standing wardrobe had been fastened to the bulkhead. Ornately carved and polished to a high sheen, the dark wood wardrobe dominated the compartment. Other containers of all shapes and sizes were secured to the bulkhead with cargo netting and straps. His curiosity piqued by the out-of-place furniture, Blade ignored the other containers. Unable to resist, he touched the latch and the door creaked open.
Fluttery shimmersilk in a rainbow of colors caught the light. An old-fashioned mirror hung inside the door – Marissa Kiara’s wardrobe. Blade stared at the feminine frills Bo had worn to pass herself off as his Joy Babe Companio
n. A bit of filmy, soft green fabric caught his eye. He reached for the garment, but stayed his hand. Curling his hand into a fist to keep from stroking the dress, he reluctantly closed the wardrobe. It was unlikely Bo would keep his things with her Kiara alias. That wasn’t how her mind worked. With one last look at the closed wardrobe, he turned his attention to the other containers neatly stowed against the bulkhead.
“Any hints on which one is mine?” he asked the ship.
“Negative.”
“Of course not,” Blade sighed. “That would be too easy.”
Stripping off his jacket, he tossed it on top of the nearest container. Taking his time, he released the straps and netting, then went through each of the cargo containers. He sorted through spare parts, clothing, blankets, survival gear, treasures from her childhood, data cards, and things he couldn’t begin to identify.
He was dirtier than ever and sweating profusely when he finally found what he was looking for, tucked inconveniently away in the back where she wouldn’t have to see it when she ventured down into her hold. He knew it immediately. She had labeled it well.
Smiling to himself, Blade traced the markings burned roughly into the side of the container, probably with a plasma torch. BFD. She only ever gave him a middle name when she was angry or annoyed with him. Knowing her, she’d probably been fantasizing about scorching the letters into his flesh instead of the hard gray fuseform shipping container.
Shaking his head, he reached for the ringlock, a U-shaped tool he’d been using to open the containers. He set it over the top and keyed the release. Air hissed as it pressurized. He lifted the lid. Setting the tool aside, he scrubbed his hands against his thighs and peered into the container.
“So that’s where those went,” he muttered. He retrieved a pair of scuffed black riding boots from the container and set them on the deck plates.
Bracing his forearms on the edge of the container, he confronted the evidence of who he’d been.
It was all there, like an open wound that had refused to heal: finance cards for accounts that were no longer frozen, even the toiletries he’d favored when he’d cared about such things. The vacuum seal on the container had kept everything as fresh as the day she’d packed it.
Pushing away from the edge of the container, Blade’s jaw tightened. It was a time capsule for someone who had been more monster than man, consumed with lies, deceit, rage and insecurity. No wonder she hated him. Truth be told, he’d hated himself.
Reaching into the disorganized mess, he sorted through fripperies he’d once thought himself unable to function without, taking only the useful and leaving the rest. He pulled out a gray undershirt bearing the colorful Pintubo Racing logo. His lips twisted in amusement at his own expense over the undisputable evidence of the spoiled playboy he’d been.
Blade Devon, the holofeature actor, had been a dissolute bastard with little more to worry about than roaming from one high stakes Five-Point tourney to another, fending off overzealous fans and ambitious actresses along the way. He’d been an attention whore, running from every responsibility and risking his neck for the thrill of the moment. For all his training, he’d only played at being a hero. The only times he’d done anything remotely heroic had involved Bo.
That was a lifetime ago – someone else’s life. Thank the Maker that part of his life was over.
He set his few practical belongings on the deck and dug through the pile again. Unless he could find a use for expensive designer clothing that was most likely out of fashion, it seemed unlikely he was going to turn up much more.
The only things he couldn’t find were the weapons he’d left on board.
His lips twitched. He doubted she’d return them, even if he asked nicely…or if she did, he probably wouldn’t like her method of delivery.
After he got cleaned up, he’d check out the weapons cache in the port lockers. It was unlikely he’d need anything before they reached Chiron, but it paid to be careful. The kid was a variable in the equation. He’d have a better idea once he took the boy’s measure.
He set the lid back on the container and used the ringlock to seal it. He spent another half-hour restoring order, careful to leave everything exactly as he’d found it.
When he finally tugged on the last knot holding the webbing tightly against the containers, he stepped back and surveyed his work. There. That should do it. That load wouldn’t shift in any kind of turbulence.
He scooped up his salvaged belongings and tucked them under one arm before he hooked the prison issue jacket with his index finger and swung it over his shoulder. A self-satisfied grin split his face as he turned his back on the past and, whistling softly, headed for the lav.
***
Ducking his head, Nix pulled off the display helmet and climbed out of the flight sim. A glance at the ship’s chrono told him he’d been running sorties for hours. Those things were addictive. He wouldn’t have stopped if his bladder hadn’t grown insistent. Setting the helmet on the seat, he glanced around uncertainly.
“Um…hello?”
He would be in trouble if the ship didn’t answer him.
“Computer? I mean, Sundance?”
“How can I help you, young Nix?”
Breathing a sigh of relief, Nix smiled. “I…which way is the lav?”
“The sanitary facilities are located in the aft section of the ship on your current deck. For your convenience, you may follow the lights.”
Emergency lights set in the deck plates chased after one another.
“Thanks.”
Following the lights, Nix hastily made his way aft. He stepped around the narrow ladder leading down into the engineering section, and the hatch to the lav slid open at his approach.
The unmistakable sounds of someone in the bathing cubicles drifted through the opening.
Nix hesitated.
Did he dare walk in if Bo was getting cleaned up? Would she kill him if she thought he was trying to get a peek at her like some perv?
The need to empty his bladder spurred him into motion.
“I’ll just go in, do my thing, and get out,” he muttered.
His gaze darted nervously around the lav. A row of three uni-cans lined up against the bulkhead, separating the sanitary anteroom from the bathing cubicles. Another row of washbasins lined the opposite bulkhead. A thin haze of steam thickened the air.
Moving quickly, Nix unfastened his trousers and did his business, sighing with relief as he did so.
A deep, very masculine cough followed by a growl came from the bathing cubicles.
Nix’s head snapped up. Stepping back, he put himself to rights and glanced toward the closed hatch. Bo hadn’t said anything about anyone else being aboard.
His heart thudded in his chest. Did she even know there was someone else? If she was in medical stasis like she’d said, it was up to him to secure the ship. He had to keep her safe. Too many people wanted her dead.
Before he could talk himself out of it, he tiptoed to the opening and peered around the bulkhead.
The man filling the bathing cubicle had muscles on top of muscles. Head bowed, he braced his hands on the wall underneath the spray heads, letting the water beat on the back of his skull and drip down his face. Scars of all kinds slashed across his back and shoulders. Puckered blaster burns punctuated the other injuries.
Everything about this guy screamed bad news.
Nix swallowed hard, and his knees shook. He’d seen men like that before. Big, mean, and dangerous. His brother Gray dealt with them all the time. Akita was full of men like that.
He looked around for something he could use as a weapon; something that wouldn’t require getting too close.
The man lifted his head and shook the water from his face.
Nix stilled, his heart pounding so hard this guy could surely hear it over the sound of the water.
“She knows I’m here,” the man announced over one massive bicep. He turned slightly, and pinned Nix in place with his laser-sh
arp stare.
Nix opened his mouth to say something, but no sound came out.
The man reached over and shut off the water. “Hand me my towel, would you?” He gestured toward the white cloth hanging on a hook. “It’s over there.”
Responding to the authority in his tone, Nix had the towel in his outstretched hand before he realized that he’d moved dangerously close to the big, scary man.
“Thanks.”
He took the towel and proceeded to dry his face and hair. After a couple of rough swipes with the cloth, he lowered it, giving Nix a good look at his face for the first time. His apprehension drained away like the water gurgling through the grate in the floor.
“Holy crap!” Nix said. “Blade Devon?”
Blade’s lips twisted in a wry smile. He lifted his hands in surrender. “In the flesh.” He resumed drying himself.
It took a few seconds for Nix to register the pun. He cleared his throat and took a step back. His face heated in embarrassment.
“Hey, I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t recognize you when I walked in.”
Blade chuckled. “It’s not like I have my name tattooed on my ass.”
Nix shifted his weight from one foot to the other, unable to meet the man’s amused stare.
“What’s your name, kid?”
“Um…Nix.”
“Nix?” he echoed. “You sure about that?”
Embarrassment forgotten, Nix glared at him. “I know my own name.”
Blade smiled and draped the towel around his neck. “You didn’t sound too sure.”
“I’m sure.” Nix said. His eyes narrowed as he considered the situation. “Are you sure Bo knows you’re on board?”
Stepping out of the cubicle, Blade reached for the clothes hanging from another hook.
“Yeah,” he said. “She knows. We talked a while before she turned in.”
A synthiflesh patch gleamed against the skin of his thigh.
“Hey, you’re hurt,” Nix said pointing at his leg.
Blade glanced down at the patch and shrugged. He shook out his trousers and pulled them on. “Nothing major,” he said. “Bo shot me.” He grinned at the boy. “She thought I had it coming.”
