by Cara Bristol
He could have torn off the restraints, but it reassured him a little bit that he didn’t have to. “The steward never made it on board.”
“That’s not optimal, but it doesn’t strike me as an emergency.”
“Have you ever been on a flight—any flight—with one crew member?”
“Well, no, but this is a small shuttle. And there are only two of us. So technically, the crew to passenger ratio is higher than the norm.”
“Section four, subsection sixteen, paragraph nine of the Interplanetary Shuttle Flight Regulations requires a minimum of a captain, a first officer, and a steward on all commercial passenger flights.”
“This isn’t a commercial flight. It’s a private charter.”
“It’s still considered a best practice. There should be a first officer as a backup pilot.”
“The captain is the backup pilot. All he does is key in the coordinates. The computer flies the craft.”
“You sound like Urgak.”
“I thought you and he were going to come to blows,” she said.
Instinct suggested the captain was disingenuous, but that didn’t necessarily mean dangerous. Perhaps the corporation had cut financial corners. The captain couldn’t control what the shuttle’s corporate owners did. “Maybe I overreacted,” he admitted.
“You think?” Pia arched her eyebrows.
She’d exchanged her travel uniform for a turquoise tunic and slacks. Though the clothing molded her curves, thankfully he couldn’t see through the opaque fabric. Perhaps he could better concentrate now that he didn’t have to stare at a naked Pia. But the color brought a glow to her fair skin, and the way the clingy material teased her curves somehow seemed more alluring than full nudity.
He stifled a curse and jumped to his feet. The boosters had been shut off so the floor no longer vibrated. He peered out the viewing window at the diminishing shuttle port. Before long, the lights would become so faint even his enhanced vision would be unable to detect them. With the captain ensconced on the bridge, he and Pia would be alone, hurtling through the dark, vast beyond.
Not since he’d become a cyborg had he spent time alone with a woman. There were a few female cyborgs, but, like him, they eschewed intimate contact with others and devoted themselves to the mission at hand. The men and women of Cy-Ops would die for one another, but exchange a confidence? Show one’s vulnerability? Get sweaty and do the nasty together? Never.
Brock tightened his jaw. None of those things would happen with Pia either. She was his protectee, and that required him to remain focused. His orders were to get Pia to Xenia, then Malodonus for the Summit, and back to Terra. Getting her naked and under him did not play into the mission.
From the navigation screen on the console, he accessed their coordinates and verified that they were indeed headed toward Xenia. Everything appeared normal. They could still run into pirates or a kamikaze Lamis-Odg drone, but that would be unlikely.
Still, the uneasiness wouldn’t dissipate. It appeared as if he’d overreacted. Later, when they slept, he’d run a full-system diagnostic to verify that his microcomputer was operating within parameters. Being an operative required good judgment, keeping his cool.
Pia had been correct in everything she pointed out: the private charter was not subject to the IFA crew requirements, and the captain was basically superfluous since the computer piloted the craft. No reason to abandon ship. Trouble was, his human side disliked Uragak for reasons he couldn’t pinpoint.
He peered out into space once more before turning to Pia. “Would you care for something to eat? Since the steward isn’t here, we’re going to have to fend for ourselves.” He strode to the refreshment station and jabbed the menu button. A list of delicacies popped up.
“Yes, thank you. I am a bit hungry. Is there anything from Xenia?” She set her PerComm on one of the empty chairs.
“Actually, there is.”
“What is it? Animal, vegetable, or mineral?” She smiled, and his heart did that funny hitch thing.
“Vegetable.” His language programming enabled him to read the description. “Slightly sweet with a high nutrient base.”
“I’ll try it.”
He punched in two codes, and the machine dispensed the Xenian snack for her and a Terran candy bar for him. It had been a long time since he’d had peanuts and caramel. “Drink?” he asked.
“Surprise me,” she said.
He chose two light sparkling beverages and returned to his seat.
They sat, munched, and drank.
“This is nice,” she said.
“What is?”
“Eating with you like this. When you protected me before, you acted so aloof.”
“That was my job. Protect you, but don’t get in the way. Don’t interfere.” He took a drink of his beverage to wash down the candy bar. “Now my job is to protect you by sticking close.”
“So, once again, I’m just a job.” Her voice resonated with hurt.
It would be better for him if he could maintain his professional detachment, if the only emotion she stirred was irritation—like she used to when she pulled her adolescent hijinks. She’d been smart, quick as a whip. Her schemes had been quite clever in ways he hadn’t appreciated until now. Her last stunt had gone over the top, but, if not for that, perhaps their relationship would have matured into one of cordial, professional regard.
Not this unexpected, unwanted heated yearning that twisted his insides. Not a necessity to make everything right for her because he cared. What the fuck was wrong with him? He’d tried to erect a protective barrier, but she’d blasted through before he could get the walls up.
She blinked, her eyes shimmering. Her mask of pretense had fallen to reveal a lonely young woman isolated from others because of functionaries like him who were doing their jobs. Her situation mimicked his, although for very different reasons.
Politics chewed up the vulnerable, the tenderhearted, the well meaning. For her own good, she should toughen up—or at least fake it.
Yes, you’re just a job. One simple comment from him in an impersonal tone, and she’d snap back into her shell and lock down her emotions. They would both be better off.
He sought her gaze. “You’re not just a job,” he said, and before he could stop himself, leaned over and kissed her. Her lips parted. With a groan, he deepened the contact. What began as a slow exploration ramped up to a needful communion.
Fire raced through his blood, heating his circuits. He curled a hand in the thick mane of her hair. Clinging to him, she rested one hand over his thumping heart and curled the other around his neck. She gave a little moan of desire, and one kiss became two, two became three, three became insanity.
He broke off.
Have you lost your mind? Kissing one’s protectee violated operation protocol and everything he believed in. If only he could remember what that was.
Their gazes locked. Breaths mingled.
She expelled a shuddering sigh. “I’ve wanted you to do that since I was sixteen.”
“I thought you hated me.” Brock pulled away and settled in his seat. She’d shouted that at him often. And when that failed to get the desired response, she’d set him up.
She shook her head. “I thought I hated you, wished you would leave me alone, but I wanted you to notice me, and when you didn’t, I….”
No need to say it. They both knew what she’d done.
“I couldn’t have given you that kind of attention, Pia. You were too young, and you were my protectee.”
“I’m still your protectee.”
Exactly. Kissing her had been a bad move. It weakened the detachment allowing him to focus on the mission objective and shifted his attention to how she warmed the cold places of his soul. Personal involvement could only be transitory and lead to heartbreak for them both, because nothing but his feelings had changed. He was still a cyborg. His super abilities didn’t provide him with extra protection—it thrust him into impossible situations where d
eath was a probable outcome. He couldn’t continue to beat the odds every time. One day, he’d lose. His enemies would jump at the chance to hurt people close to him as a way to exact revenge.
Fuck. Why did I kiss her?
Apologize. Keep your distance.
“I am so sorry,” she said, her eyes filled with remorse. “The things I accused you of…I can’t tell—”
He kissed her, hard, fast. “The past is done. We can’t change it. Let’s move forward.”
She nodded, leaning toward him, and his best intentions shattered. He stole another kiss. A good-bye kiss. No more, he promised himself.
With her lips still resting on his, she murmured, “You taste like a Terran candy bar.”
“You taste like a Xenian vegetable,” he replied.
At her giggle, a little pang stabbed at his chest. She jerked her head toward the refreshment panel. “I had no idea you could read Xenian.”
“Much as I’d like to impress you, the Terran English meaning was right next to it.”
“So you don’t speak Xenian?”
He did, but couldn’t admit it, not without spilling classified information. “Not without a translator,” he lied.
“Which I have in my pocket,” she said.
“What?”
“I found your translator in my carryall.”
“I didn’t put a translator in your bag.”
“Somebody did.” She pulled away and reached into her pocket and pulled out a metallic object.
In her palm was a bomb. An MED-21.
Chapter Six
Brock snatched the translator and streaked from the cabin so fast he blurred.
“What the hell?” Penelope jumped up, but before she could take more than two steps, an aurora of light exploded in space, flashing through the viewing windows into the cabin. She cried out and fell onto the chair, throwing her forearm across her eyes and squeezing them shut.
Had the shuttle been attacked? It hadn’t felt like they’d been hit by anything.
A hand landed on her shoulder. “Are you all right?” Brock asked.
She lifted her head. Flashes of red and blue tinted her vision, but she could see. Blinking rapidly, she shifted her gaze from Brock to the window. The illumination wasn’t blinding anymore, but it was still bright, as if they were at the edge of a corona. “I’m fine,” she said. “What happened out there?”
“A microexplosive device detonated. An MED-21. The one you carried in your bag.” His mouth was a slash across his face.
“That I carried?” Her heart slammed against her ribs. He was speaking clearly, but she couldn’t comprehend his meaning.
“What you thought was a translator was an MED-21. If you hadn’t mentioned it, and brought it out when you did, it would have exploded in the cabin.”
Her blood ran cold. She’d carried that thing around in her pocket! If the conversation hadn’t shifted to languages—
The captain burst into the lounge. “Is everyone all right? What happened?”
“There was a bomb in my carryall,” Penelope said.
“I shot it into space,” Brock explained.
“You brought a bomb on board?” The captain gasped.
Gingerly, Brock extracted the contents of her bag, one item at a time. He opened and crumbled her NutriSup bars, poured out and sifted through her travel bottle of ChemClean, ran his fingers over every square centimeter of the geode. Her face heated as he examined her undergarments.
He subjected the bag to detailed scrutiny, checking the pockets, the strap, the seams. He turned it inside out and repeated the process. “Clear.” Grimness still etched his features.
“I shall have to report this to the IFA,” the captain said. His skin had taken on a deeper blue tinge, and perspiration beaded his upper lip. “The Interplanetary Flight Authority may order us back to the shuttle port.”
Penelope was still shaking, but despite the near catastrophe, she hated to abandon her assignment. If she notified the Xenians she wasn’t coming, they would demand an explanation. They would never agree to see her again, let alone emerge from isolation. Why did this have to happen now? “Do we have to return? The threat is over.”
“I’m sorry. Regulations require I report it.” The captain spun on his heel and left the cabin. The door slid shut behind him.
“Are you okay?” Brock sank onto the seat next to her.
“Yeah,” she said, but her voice quavered. “How did you get rid of the bomb so fast?”
“There’s a vacuum tube down the passageway.”
“There is?”
He nodded. “Midship.”
Way down the passageway. He couldn’t have had more than seconds. She remembered him moving so fast he seemed to blur, but that couldn’t be correct. The stress of the crisis had altered her memories. The way she’d remembered it couldn’t have been the way it had happened.
“Thank goodness you were here,” she said. “I don’t understand how it got in my bag. I packed it myself and didn’t let it out of my sight. The only time it left my possession was when it went through the scanner, when you carried it—” She met Brock’s gaze. “And when the Arcanian grabbed it,” they finished together.
“That’s how.” Brock rubbed the nape of his neck. “They mugged you not to steal the bag, but to plant the MED.” His mouth tightened to a grim line. “MEDs are a weapon of choice of Lamis-Odg.” Penelope pressed a hand to her throat. “The whole shuttle would have exploded.”
Brock shook his head. “Not the entire shuttle; just us. MEDs come in several varieties. The MED-21 is a computerized bomb that detects and targets soft flesh. Damage would have been contained in this cabin. You and I would have been toasted, but the craft and the captain—provided he wasn’t in the room with us—would have been okay.”
“So the Arcanian pickpockets…”
“Must have been Lamis-Odg recruits.”
“Why snatch the bag? Why not slip the bomb inside? What if you hadn’t run after them?”
“Arcanians are masters at sleight of hand, but I think they didn’t have enough time to plant the MED, so they took the bag, and then probably intended to drop it so you could find it.”
“But you caught up with them first.”
“If I’d known what we were up against, I wouldn’t have let them go.”
Penelope scooped her clothing and personal items into the duffel. With the side of her hand, she brushed the NutriSup remains into a trash receptacle. If not for Brock’s quick action, they both would have ended up as crumbs. She swallowed. “If you hadn’t been here…I can’t thank you enough.”
“Just doin’ my job, ma’am.” He tipped an imaginary hat, obviously trying to lighten the mood.
She wished he would take her in his arms and kiss her again. Did he regret their kiss? Kisses. Several scorching ones that made her head spin and her stomach flutter. Why had he done that? He’d never given any indication he shared her feelings. But then she’d taken great pains to hide her true emotions. Had they both been pretending? Or, like any red-blooded man was inclined, had he merely taken advantage of what was offered? Emotions tangled into a knot of uncertainty, and she dropped her gaze to her lap. “Do you think the IFA will order us back to port?”
“Possibly. It could go either way, so—”
With a rumble, a massive vibration ripped through the shuttle. Penelope grabbed the armrest. “What’s that?”
A grinding noise like metal scraping on metal emanated from the corridor outside the lounge. A roar.
“Oh, fuck—” Brock ran to the starboard viewing window. “Son of a fucking bitch!”
Penelope dashed to the window. A small spacecraft zipped away. “Is that what I think?”
“It’s the escape pod.” He spun around so fast, he nearly knocked her over. He sprinted to the door, almost slammed into it as it failed to slide open.
“Was it released by mistake?” she asked.
He palmed the egress scanner, but nothing happened
. “We’re locked in.” He tapped the screen. “The pod didn’t leave unmanned. I’m pretty certain the captain is on board.”
“What do you mean we’re locked in?” Pia stared at him.
“Prepare for detonation,” the computer’s voice flooded the lounge. “Detonation in fifteen minutes. Countdown beginning.”
“What’s happening?” she cried.
“The captain activated the self-destruct program. That’s why he fled the ship.”
Chapter Seven
Brock readied his hand over the keypad. Numbers streamed across his field of vision like vitreous floaters, only fast. He minimized the codes to a corner of his mind and waited for the right one to pop up.
Every second mattered.
If the captain himself had locked them in, the code would be easier to break than if the lockdown had been activated by the self-destruct sequence.
“Don’t just stand there!” Pia hovered at his elbow. “We have to do something!”
“I am.”
“Let me try.” She nudged him.
T9X4558Z. The code popped out of the morass into his consciousness, and he typed it into the keypad. The door slid open.
“Detonation in fourteen minutes thirty seconds.”
Fuck, it had taken way too long to open the door. Brock shot for the bridge, conscious of Pia running after him. She had to be scared to death. He wished he could comfort her, assure her everything would be fine. But there wasn’t time—his microcomputer estimated their odds of survival at 23.2%, based on the probability of him cracking the self-destruct code. Depending on the strength of encryption, it might take hours, and, as the computer had pointed out, they had only minutes, and not a lot of them.
On the bridge, he flung himself into the captain’s seat, and slapped his left hand on the scanner. “Computer, abort self-destruct program.”
“Present authorization.”
Of course, that would have been too easy. He activated his wireless and attempted to hack into the ship’s brain only to hit a cyberbarricade. While his internal computer worked on that problem, he pivoted in the chair to access the navigation panel.
