Coriolis: Intergalactic Dating Agency: Big Sky Alien Mail Order Brides (Mermaids of Montana Book 2)

by Elsa Jade

The reminder of how he’d dreamed of lava-leaf all those years choked him, and he focused on that data scrolling across his board on the Axis. Though it was running unlisted, the Axis had always been a favorite of the Cretarni. Bigger and faster than the Bathyal. Of course. And actually armed. All had been taken by the soil-suckers when they abandoned Tritona.

  Shriveling grak-cret, why couldn’t his world be left alone?

  “Evasive maneuvers, code chiton,” he told the AI. The Cretarni—who else would know or care that the Bathyal would be in-bound to Tritona?—were no doubt nearly as familiar with Tritonyri tactics as he was. With no real resources and no chance of support, the Bathyal’s options were limited.

  Mostly, one: Run.

  They just needed to make it into Tritonan territorial space where planetary defenses would give them cover. As much as he hated leaving an enemy at his back, it was more important to return home with these new lives—Marisol, Lana, and the cryoed creatures.

  He prepped power to the engines, ready to pull everything from their disguise and even life support. As Marisol had discovered, they could go without water for awhile—

  A strangled cry from the seat behind him was worse than the spear-tipped memories of his youngest, frightened fighters. Sacrificing a nanosecond, he swiveled to reassure Lana and found her cowering from the massive shape blocking the cockpit entrance.

  In the ominous emergency lighting, Sting looked even larger than he was. “We fight.” His rasping voice was low enough to rattle molecules out of the air.

  A Titanyri always wanted to fight, and denying one outright never ended well. Coriolis nodded toward the Earther females. “Getting them home is the fight.”

  Sting’s rumbling growl echoed through the cockpit.

  Flickering movement drew Coriolis’s wary eye off the other male. Marisol had an eating utensil from the galley clutched in her fist. Did she think she could use it against a Titanyri?

  To focus them all, he explained his strategy. Though why a commander of the western fleet should have to explain to an Earther and a subordinate… Except the war was supposed to be over.

  Someone should tell the Cretarni.

  But in the midst of his explanation, Sting interrupted. “I’m hungry.” His white-clouded gaze was impossible to track, but his gills flared crimson as he angled toward Lana. “And you smell like breakfast.”

  She huddled into her seat, her eyes painfully wide.

  “Sting,” Coriolis snapped. “Hook it. We’re under attack here.”

  “Let the hunger out,” Sting rumbled. “Out there.”

  Coriolis thought quickly. He’d told the Tritonesse he could rehabilitate the huge predator with a little time and quiet. Since the trip to Earth was supposed to be basically a supply run to fetch the bride, they’d been working on impulse control, interpersonal dynamics, and polite alternatives to absolute carnage.

  It had been…slow going. Like a sunseeker mollusk in an iceberg, really. But they’d been making progress. If he let the beast out now…

  “We allow them to broadside and initiate a boarding,” he agreed reluctantly. “Then we launch a skim attack—”

  “Let them broadside, and I will board them,” Sting declared. “We take their ship.”

  Absolute carnage. Coriolis sighed. “We go together.”

  But the Titanyri never blinked. “I go. You take them”—his chin jerked toward the Earthers—“back to the deeps.”

  Coriolis sucked in a breath. It was the right call, prioritizing their future over their past. Amazing that it came from the beast. But the thought of losing another fighter now, when they were supposed to be done…

  With a growl of his own, he slammed through a defensive code, bringing the Bathyal around hard enough that even Sting swayed in the doorway and the battle mode let one disapproving beep of an alarm leak through.

  But the maneuver also let out a burst of energy that would read as an engine burnout to the attacking Axis. He sent the Bathyal into listing spin, one engine guttering.

  Sting flashed him a vicious smile. “I feed the beast.” In a chillingly sinuous flow of motion for such bulk, he whirled away.

  But then he caught himself in the doorway. “And please download the episodes of ‘So You Think You Can Marry Your Fated Mate’. I need to know what happens next.”

  The moment the Titanyri sprang away, Coriolis twisted to Marisol and grabbed her wrist. “Here. This toggle.” He plucked the eating utensil out of her fingers and held her hand over the controls. “When I say, max this.”

  She strained against his hold. “Commander—”

  “Yes, I am,” he snapped. “So listen.”

  As he surged out of his chair, Lana cringed farther back. “You told us you lock him in at night.”

  “He locks himself in. And it’s always night in the deeps.”

  He sped after the Titanyri.

  They’d sent half their remaining hand weapons with Mael and Ridley, since they’d predicted those two would be most at risk. Coriolis cursed under his breath. He should’ve known the Cretarni wouldn’t give up after losing a ship on Earth.

  Well, they’d just have to lose another one.

  Pounding after Sting, he reached the hatch just in time to see the bigger male closing himself into the EVA access.

  He was running out of curses… Slamming his flat palm against the viewport, he scowled at the Tritonyri, who gave him another ferocious smile before swiveling to face the outside.

  On the small screen above the hatch controls, the Axis ship veered closer. Of course the Cretarni would be wary; they’d lost the war on Tritona, after all.

  But the temptation of a seemingly drifting enemy was irresistible.

  The Axis matched the Bathyal’s helpless spin and began to extend its mobile gangway. On the other end, the Cretarni would be armed and readying themselves—

  Sting overrode the hatch safeties and ejected himself into space.

  With another sigh, Coriolis shook his head.

  What even was the point of being a commander if no one listened to his orders?

  Sting sprang across the open space between the hatch and the reaching gangway. A rutting hectopi enraged from feasting on fermented froth berries was less alarming then a Titanyri in a battle rage.

  The Cretarni felt the same. Though the gangway started to retract—the Axis ship AI was likely rejecting any attempt to retreat with the gangway still extended; which was what came of not programming battle overrides, even on a pleasure cruiser—the Cretarni pilot obviously tried to adjust their spin to throw off Sting’s momentum. If he missed the grab, he’d go sailing into deep space with neither the Axis nor the Bathyal to retrieve him…

  With one long-armed grab that would’ve impressed even a hectopi, Sting snagged one of the gangway struts. The gangway was meant to be light, maneuverable, its thin skin just sturdy enough to contain a suitable atmosphere for transfers between ships. Sting shredded it like seaweed.

  As the gangway ripped apart, revealing a glimpse of the Axis hatch, partly ajar with suited Cretarni just within. Although Coriolis couldn’t see inside their masks, the frantic waving of their arms at the sight of a Titanyri chewing through their technology toward them was a simple language all its own.

  Twinkling beads of the Bathyal’s humid air vented around Sting like a cloud, turning blackest space to shimmering silver for just a heartbeat before he grabbed the narrowing gap in the hatch and wrenched it wide. Plasma bursts vaporized the fog in a glimmering display that made Coriolis squint. By the time his dazzled vision cleared, the Axis hatch was empty. Two bodies floated nearby, both of them in Cretarni uniforms.

  His throat tight with orders he couldn’t give across the vacuum, he slapped his hand over the comm. “Marisol, get out of here.”

  “Your friend? Is he—?”

  “Now,” he roared.

  The Bathyal leaped like it had been stung by a hectopi’s rutting arms. He slammed hard against the bulkhead, but the jolt was noth
ing compared to the condemnation of his conscience.

  He’d had to leave behind fighters before. But that had been the sacrifice of war. That was supposed to be over.

  It wasn’t over.

  As the ship’s movement smoothed out into streaming spacetime, he limped back to the bridge. As he went, he barked, “Systems status report.”

  The AI responded in what sounded like a subdued tone. “All systems operational standard. Authorization to return regular power to standard subroutines?”

  “Authorization granted. Initiate code nephos two and continue with priority to mimic shield upon reentry to standard spacetime.”

  “Confirmed,” the AI responded.

  In the cockpit, the Earther females were still strapped in tight. Not that they had anywhere else to go…

  They were both staring at the comm panel beside Lana. She’d figured out how to play back the ships scanners and they were watching Sting’s final moments, their eyes even wider than before.

  “How could he do that?” Lana asked in a strangled voice.

  “He’s a merman,” Marisol noted. “Presumably he knows how to hold his breath.”

  “In space?” Lana’s tone was incredulous.

  “Even an Earther would have several moments in space before being overcome by the cold and vacuum.” Coriolis took the captain’s seat and ran through the in-flight checklist to review.

  Lana swiveled to face him, and now her normally friendly eyes narrowed. “He ripped a spaceship apart,” she said, very calmly, maybe too calmly. “Laser beams bounced off of him.”

  “Just plasma,” Coriolis muttered, focusing on the AI’s report. “He has armored scales.”

  All systems were within normal parameters. And he’d only had to sacrifice one more fighter. The scent of spilled lava-leaf—all he’d ever dreamed of on patrol—mocked him.

  “Commander,” Marisol said quietly. “Should we go back for him?”

  “Would I not have told you to go?” Bitterness sharpened his tone. He forced himself to take a breath. “Sting is a Titanyri. This is what he was made for.”

  “Made?” Lana whispered. “That’s not mentioned in the history of your war.”

  “Secret weapons are not something we share with outsiders.”

  Marisol sat back in her seat, her dark gaze accusing. “I think there are a lot of secrets you aren’t sharing, Commander.”

  The ache where he’d struck the bulkhead spread through the rest of him. “True. But you’ll see it all yourself soon.”

  “Don’t you think it would help if we knew it all going in?” She gestured vaguely around them, as if all of streaming space were hers to order to her whim.

  Frustration speared through him again. “I don’t know it all. The Tritonesse…” He hissed out another breath. “I fought where I was aimed, same as Sting. Once you join the matriarchs, likely you’ll have more insights that I was ever given.” With their jump locked in, he pushed to his feet. “I need to do a walk-through of the ship. The AI will keep watch, and if you require anything, query it.”

  “Commander?” Lana’s whisper now was almost inaudible. “You’re bleeding. Uh, it’s green?”

  Had he hit the bulkhead that hard? Not that it mattered. If he was still walking and talking, he was better off than the Axis Cretarni. “Thank you for letting me know. I’ll add that to my task list.” Though he wanted to stalk away before he dripped on the controls, he gave them both a steady look. “I apologize for that unfortunate interlude”—he ignored Marisol’s sputtering—“and I hope you might see this as a measure of how valuable you are to our world.”

  Even without Marisol’s huff of disbelief, he knew it sounded ridiculous. But he’d been fighting all his life. What other gauge did he have to explain how they mattered?

  Pivoting on his heel, he went to secure the ship. And if he left a few drops of blood behind, that was much, much less than everything else he’d lost.

  Chapter 5

  With datpad in hand and the AI providing its expertise, he reviewed the entire ship. Reassured that the Bathyal and its precious cargo had taken no damage—and not been infected with any sort of tracker during the attack—he returned to the empty bridge.

  It had been a long, frightening experience for the Earthers; no wonder they had fled. Mostly sure of the Bathyal’s secured status, he allowed the AI to drop them into standard spacetime in preparation for their next and last jump.

  After a tense moment where no one shot at them, he let out a breath.

  “Incoming messages,” the AI informed him.

  “Forward to comms but jump us first.” No sense giving away their position or waiting for the shooting to start up again.

  With the stars streaming around them again, he went through the messages. Each one relaxed him more, and he couldn’t hold back a pained groan as he slumped in the pilot’s chair.

  They might actually make it home.

  As if the artificial gravity had suddenly been cranked to bone-crushing, it took all of his strength to lever himself out of the chair. He’d been going too hard, too long. At least there was no one around to see his weakness.

  Even when he left the bridge, he found no sign of the Earther females—not that they could go far since they were in space and the Bathyal was so small, or so he’d heard—but there was a container of ebb porridge left in the galley tagged with a small, bright orange piece of vellum decorated with blue-green geometric shapes. He hadn’t seen anything like it on the Bathyal before, so one of the Earthers must have brought it. He studied the looping letters of the written language that translated in his brain to his name. “For the commander” it said.

  Underneath in an embossed script that must have been pre-printed on the note was a saying: “The journey of a thousand miles begins with one” except the last part had been scratched off and replaced with a handwritten spaceship.

  With the honed instincts of a warrior, he suspected the posted note must be from Lana.

  He would have to thank her for the porridge—and apologize for his temper.

  Even before the attack, he’d been too on edge and brusque. The Earthers had been innocently exploring the cuisine of his world, enjoying themselves even.

  But in that moment, thinking he was about to watch his would’ve-been bride blistering and dying in front of him when they hadn’t even yet made it to Tritona—it had just broken his calm control, the very qualities that had elevated him to commander the youngest in the fleet. Like Tritona’s clear currents, his control was obviously near its dregs, and the Axis attack had drained what was left.

  Reviewing the Bathyal’s AI instructions one last time while he finished his porridge, he couldn’t go any longer without a rest. Though he’d slept with all three eyelids open on more than one occasion, he’d stretched himself too thin if he was snapping at the Earthers. He would cleanse himself and then make use of the sleep enhancement options, calming himself for arrival to Tritona.

  Though each berth had its own basic hygiene unit, the one-time vacation rental also had a true bathing room with a large basin suitable for holding a Tritonyri male surrounded by water. While Tritonyri breathed air easily enough, they needed to submerge occasionally, hydrating their gills for their physical and mental health. Knowing the Earthers were secure in their bunks—and probably avoiding him, rightly so—he stripped to his battle skin and padded down the corridor to the bath.

  Lack of soaking had made him snappish as a hai-aku. Even his battle skin was feeling a little brittle, as if the biodynamic synthskin was equally worn out. The ship’s recycling abilities made the pool not too much of a drain on their resources, for which he was grateful, especially now when he just needed—

  A screech tore across his ears like an auditory plasma burst, and he jerked to a halt.

  “Close the door!”

  He yanked it shut.

  “With you on the other side!”

  In his startlement—apparently his brain was all dried out too?—h
e’d closed the door behind him. With Marisol Wavercrest naked in the pool in front of him.

  In the nanosecond before he slammed his eyes closed, having noticed that Earthers had stricter notions of modesty than Tritonyri, she was emblazoned across his imagination. His water-starved brain hungrily absorbed the silhouette of her body like a sinuous pool of ethanol…and spontaneously burst into flame.

  He took a long step back, his spine slamming into the closed door, bruising every contact point that had hit the bulkhead before. Though he groped for the control panel, he couldn’t find it with his eyes closed. And now all his senses were on fire: the rasp of her aggravated breath, the whisper of steam over his mostly bare skin, the fragrance of Tritona’s salty seas, heated enough to release the aroma of its unique minerals—spiced by a muskier scent.

  Earther pheromones, the natural perfume of his alien should’ve-been bride.

  He sucked in a ragged breath, tasting…her. The trigger of hot, damp air on his palate made his gills feather, just more surface area for the taste of her. He couldn’t stop a pained groan.

  She made a more strangled noise. “Commander? Are you…hurt?”

  Though the bathing room had hooks and storage for toiletries and coverings, he hadn’t brought anything because he’d planned to just soak and drip dry, like any Tritonyri with a few moments on his hands. Now, his hands felt the need to go…somewhere. If he could just find the soiling door control… “Just my gills,” he croaked. “Little dry.”

  “Is that why you stormed in here?”

  Unable to stop himself, he slitted one eye open to glare at her. “Why didn’t you lock the door?”

  “I didn’t know how. Why don’t you leave?”

  With enough vision to find the controls, he pointed vigorously. “Lock it here. Like so.” He locked it. Oh, by the swirling seas, if the lock jammed…

  Frantically, he unlatched it again.

  It released easily under his trembling fingers. Which was good, fortunately.

  “Commander, wait.”

  The shy note in her voice made him close his eyes again. She had never been tentative with him or with anything about this shriveling mission, even though it must all be confusing and new, even the door controls.