by Zoë Archer
“What’s that?” She pointed to his shoulder.
He absently touched his fingers to the tattoo, an image of a serpent and a hawk locked in combat. “Something to remind me of home.”
“Home.” She repeated the word as if she didn’t understand its meaning. “Where’s home for you?”
“With the 8th Wing, now.” Her question robbed him of any bravado he might have felt from her approving gaze. Coldness swept through his body, reminding him not just of the mission, but the reasons why he’d enlisted with the 8th Wing in the first place. “You?”
“This is it, now.” She waved a slim hand to indicate the ship.
Neither of them asked where home had once been. Before the 8th Wing, before the Arcadia. Yet the answer was there, just the same. A darker place. The kind of place that made them both find new homes for themselves, new lives. He wondered where she was truly from, what had driven her away.
It didn’t really matter what had happened. She was a scavenger and smuggler, and she had made it abundantly clear that she wanted nothing to do with the ongoing war between the 8th Wing and PRAXIS. Profit was her motivation, and that was all.
Yet as they stared at one another, he felt the edge of desire cut through him. Desire, and the uncharted map of a life he might have lived if he hadn’t found the 8th Wing. A kid with dreams of something more, something better in the sky—he could have wound up just like her, another scavenger stealing a living. Stealing freedom.
Is that what made her who she was now? Is that what he saw when he looked at her, what drew him to her?
A warning beep suddenly filled the cockpit, breaking the moment. Mara spun to the control panel and softly cursed.
He slid into the cockpit and took his seat. “Trouble?”
“PRAXIS.” She tapped a few keys, and a PRAXIS patrol-class cutter appeared on the display. It wasn’t the biggest or most dangerous PRAXIS ship, but it had a goodly compliment of weapons that could blast a little towing ship like the Arcadia out of the sky.
He tensed. “Tell me your ship is armed.”
“She is, but it won’t be necessary.”
The comm line shrilled. “Scavenger ship, prepare to be boarded.”
“Affirmative.” She cut the comm line.
He braced a hand on the control panel. “Don’t let them on the ship.”
They both watched as a shuttle detached from the PRAXIS cutter and headed toward them. One shuttle could hold at least six PRAXIS troops. He wondered how many were on the shuttle now, and if he could take them all down. His plasma pistol was charged. He eyed the narrow passages of the Arcadia. They didn’t offer much room for combat, but he was trained.
“Either I let them board peacefully, or they force their way on.”
“I’ll pilot. Use evasive maneuvers.”
But she shook her head. “Forget it.”
The ship shook slightly as the PRAXIS shuttle came alongside and linked. He rose to his feet and drew his plasma pistol.
“Holster that, flyboy.”
As she started to rise from her seat, his grip on her arm stopped her. “Going to turn me over to PRAXIS?” It made sense. She could rid herself of her 8th Wing escort, forget the mission, and possibly earn herself some leniency from PRAXIS.
She stared up at him, eyes burning cold. “Just keep your mouth shut, and I’ll get us both out alive.” When he still wouldn’t release her arm, she said, “Trust me.”
“Why should I?”
Their eyes locked. “No reason. But you should.”
Trust her? The woman was a scavenger, a smuggler. She lived only for herself. Yet, as their gazes held, he looked deep. His instincts had kept him alive his whole life, from his home world to the space battles in far-away solar systems, and they were the only thing he’d been able to count on when even technology failed. They told him that, yes, he could trust Mara Skiren.
His fingers slowly unclasped from around her arm. He nodded tightly.
Something shifted in her expression, a momentary hint of surprise that he would trust her, followed by a flutter of…gratitude. His trust was an unexpected gift—they both understood this at the same time.
They turned when they heard the sound of the bay door open, and footsteps on the metal floor of the galley.
“Don’t say anything,” she warned.
He nodded again, and together, they moved into the galley. Kell kept himself loose, ready for anything. Mara asked for his trust, and he gave it, but he never trusted PRAXIS. They’d broken too many treaties, overtaken too many worlds, destroyed too many lives.
A PRAXIS officer and two armed troops stepped into the galley. Kell fought down the demand to just take the fuckers out. If anything happened to the officer, the clipper would open fire, and then everything would be over.
Unlike the 8th Wing’s gray uniforms, the PRAXIS Group’s uniforms were a spotless, gleaming white, as if they still believed themselves to be an influence for positive change and progress in the galaxy. Once, long ago, they had been, but greed had superseded the impulse toward advancement and worlds fell underneath the unstoppable force of PRAXIS’s demand for more. More wealth. More planets. More power. Any who disagreed or wanted their own governance were crushed.
Only the 8th Wing stood between PRAXIS and their complete domination of the galaxy.
The officer—a captain, judging by the bars on his collar—stepped into the passageway as if he owned it. He stared insolently at Mara and then Kell. Kell tensed, half expecting the captain to recognize him as the enemy. But the 8th Wing was always careful about keeping the identities of personnel hidden, especially his squadron.
Mara greeted the PRAXIS officer calmly, despite the weapons that were likely trained on her ship at that very moment and the presence of the two armed troops. Her composure reminded Kell of top fighter pilots, level-headed in even the most dangerous situations.
His admiration for her struck him unexpectedly, like an elbow between the shoulder blades.
Mara kept her focus on the PRAXIS officer. “This day gets better by the minute.”
The officer’s eyes lingered on Mara, liking what he saw. Kell’s fists curled and tightened. If that bastard so much as breathed on her, he would tear the captain’s limbs off.
“What brings you to this part of the galaxy, scavenger?” the captain drawled.
“Business.”
The captain smirked. “Of course. Bottom feeding, as usual.”
She didn’t respond to the taunt, even though Kell had the strangest need to punch the smirk off the captain’s face—not because he was PRAXIS, but because of his rudeness to Mara.
“Can we make this quick?” She gazed toward the cockpit. “I’ve got a schedule.”
Annoyed that she wasn’t going to rise to the bait, the captain frowned. “You know why I’m here.”
She did? Kell resisted the urge to shoot Mara a glance. Instead, he stared impassively at the captain.
Mara sighed. “Give me a minute.” She turned and left the galley, but not before sending Kell a quick look that very clearly said, Do not beat the captain into unconsciousness.
Easier to make the request than to obey, especially when the captain openly leered at Mara’s ass as she walked away. His leer faded when he caught the murderous look on Kell’s face.
“Do I know you?” the PRAXIS bastard asked.
“You don’t want to know me.”
For a moment, the captain blanched, then he puffed out his chest as his hand rested meaningfully on the blaster at his waist. “Careful, scavenger. I could have that disrespectful mouth of yours welded shut.”
“Please try,” Kell said.
“Please don’t,” said Mara, returning. She gave the captain a vaguely apologetic shrug. “He’s new. Doesn’t know how things operate.”
“Make sure he learns, and soon.” The captain’s voice dripped with derision. “Before he gets himself and you into trouble.”
“He’ll learn,” Mara answered. She
glared at Kell.
I’m standing right here, damn it. But he clenched his teeth until they ached to keep from speaking aloud.
“The tribute?” the captain asked.
Wordlessly, Mara handed him a small metal container. The captain opened it and smiled, then his smile faded. “These had better be real Ingvarian emeralds.”
“I’m not stupid.”
The captain held up one of the stones, light catching in the deep green facets. The container was full of the gems, each the color of forest shadows, each worth more than an Ingvarian miner could earn in five solar years.
Satisfied, the captain returned the emerald to its container. He tucked the box under his arm. “This will suffice. PRAXIS appreciates your tribute.”
“Are we done here?” Mara asked.
“For now.” The implicit threat was obvious. “You can proceed. See you again soon, scavenger.”
Mara’s lips tightened into a flat line. She clearly wanted to fire back a cutting retort. All she could do was nod, then watch as the PRAXIS captain and troops exited her ship.
Neither of them spoke until the shuttle disengaged from the Arcadia and returned to the PRAXIS cutter. They watched as the cutter flew off, presumably to collect more graft.
She sat in the cockpit and busied herself at the control panel, but Kell was still too tightly wound to just sit. He stood in the galley, staring at her back.
“I don’t want to hear it.” She hunched over the controls. “And I’m putting the cost of those emeralds on the 8th Wing’s tab.”
He couldn’t stop himself from pacing, which was the only way he could work off even a fraction of the anger and energy surging through him. He wished this ship had an exercise bay. What he wouldn’t give to go up against a combat holo, punch out his frustration.
“This is why the 8th Wing and their allies fight against PRAXIS. To stop them from taking whatever they want.” As he paced, he ricocheted like a plasma shot. “They take from everyone. Even you. But you don’t have to accept it. You can join the fight.”
She turned and stared at him. A war was waged behind those eyes of hers. Beneath the carefully wielded cynicism he saw apprehension.
“Join the fight.” Doubt weighted her words.
He battled against his own frustration. How could anyone pretend to be neutral when PRAXIS ran roughshod over everything? They would devour the galaxy unless more people took a stand.
Something shimmered through her expression, the barest hint of uncertainty, as if questioning the course she had plotted. Such a contrast from the brash scavenger.
She returned her attention to the control panel before he could be sure. “I’m just a bottom feeder. What I do doesn’t matter.”
“Mara—”
“Drop it.” She punched buttons on the panel with unnecessary force. “The only reason I’m on this mission is because the 8th Wing blackmailed me into it, not for some greater good.”
A strange double sensation of both remorse and righteous anger pierced him. He didn’t like the fact that the 8th Wing had coerced her into cooperating. It made them little better than PRAXIS. But how could anyone insist on neutrality in a war that affected everybody?
“Your allegiances are clear.” He started pacing again, because that was all he could do.
“And if we’re drawing lines in the sand,” she added, “you’d better stay on your side.”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning I don’t need you getting into a dick-measuring contest when PRAXIS comes calling.”
He felt the blade of her words between his ribs. “Right. Better to just play Nitikkan checkers while that PRAXIS jackass assaults you.”
“I was assaulted?” She batted her lashes with mock astonishment. “It must have happened without me noticing. Not a very good assault, then.”
He glowered at her. “Lesson learned. Next time I feel like protecting you, I’ll punch myself in the face as a reminder not to.”
The anger in her expression slowly dissolved, giving way to uncertainty. “Protecting me? Is that…Is that what you were doing?”
He didn’t answer her, but the look he shot her was answer enough.
“Protecting your way into the Smoke Quadrant,” she said. “Right?”
She saw only what she wanted to see. Nothing he said made a difference. Frustrated, he turned and kicked the little table in the galley, denting it. “No wonder you work alone.”
He stalked off, but wasn’t going to get very far. From a porthole, he saw the retreating lights of the PRAXIS ship. For now, it wasn’t a threat. PRAXIS wasn’t crazy enough to follow them into the wilds of the Smoke Quadrant.
As Mara guided them toward their destination, he looked through a front-facing porthole and saw the faintest trace of red in the distance. Before anyone could enter the Smoke, they had to breach Ilden’s Lash.
He didn’t know what was going to be more dangerous—the ring of fire encircling the quadrant, the murderous thieves and scoundrels who lived there, or the woman piloting this ship.
Chapter Three
They shared an awkward meal at the cramped and now-dented table in the galley. Neither Mara nor the commander spoke as they ate. She burned with questions about him—where he came from, what made him join the 8th Wing, if he liked reading or preferred watching vids—and her curiosity unsettled her. Normally, she didn’t give a damn about someone’s life story. Learning more about them made her own life too complicated.
But something about Commander Frayne spoke to her, reached her, no matter how much she wanted to preserve her isolation. And that bothered her.
She spent most of her time silent, going about her business without speaking to another person for hours, if not days. Yet the silence between her and Frayne grated, reminding her how those silent days were often more lonely than peaceful.
“Food’s not too spicy, is it? I developed a liking for Tulian peppers and put them in everything.” Gods, could she be more banal?
“Not too spicy. I like it hot.”
Of course he did. More than the Tulian peppers made her face heat. She took a long pull from her bottled water and vowed to keep quiet.
As soon as they finished eating, they returned to the cockpit. He filled the small space, not just with his size, but his presence. A radiance of energy around him, male and potent.
She needed to get away from him.
With almost eighteen solar hours to kill before reaching the outer perimeter of the Smoke, the best use of time would be to get some rest. She had navigated Ilden’s Lash dozens, maybe hundreds of times. But it was still dangerous, no matter how familiar, and she needed to rest before threading her ship through the belt of neoplanets and magma. A tired pilot was a dead pilot.
“I’ll take the controls while you sleep,” Frayne said when she told him her plans.
“Nobody touches the Arcadia’s controls but me.” She punched in the directional coordinates and set the ship to autopilot. All sensors were engaged, so if anything or anyone came within a solar hour of the ship an alert would sound, waking even the deepest sleeper. Just one of the many modifications she’d made to her baby. “Can’t be a solo flyer without a little technical assistance.”
The commander didn’t look pleased to be superseded by the autopilot, but she didn’t care. This was her ship, her rules.
“If you don’t like it,” she suggested, “you can get out and walk.”
He did not bother to respond to this. Instead, he stared out the front display, eyes intent on the red miasma of Ilden’s Lash in the distance.
From the corner of her eye, she followed the hard, clean lines of his profile, the strong nose, full bottom lip. A few creases in the corners of his eyes from years of squinting in the unfiltered starlight. That tiny scar at the very edge of one eyebrow—it looked like it came from a knife, not a plasma weapon. He was rugged. A fighter.
She had to wonder—what truly made him want to protect her from the PRAXIS captain? Had Frayne
been a fellow scavenger or smuggler, she would immediately know the answer to that. Self interest. Had the commander been anyone else in the 8th Wing, she would make the same guess.
But he wasn’t a scavenger, smuggler, pirate or some lackey trying to protect the 8th Wing’s agenda. She was beginning to learn that Commander Kell Frayne was his own man, with his own drive, his own strength. Both of which he had been ready to use to protect her.
No one had done that in…ever.
She slid out of her seat and ducked into the galley. She didn’t want to think about Frayne defending her, or his reasons for doing so.
“Heading back,” she said. “You may as well get some rest too.”
He turned and stared at her. “This ship has only one sleeping quarters.”
She felt a thick pulse of heat through her body at the unspoken words. One sleeping quarters. One bed. A bed they both knew could accommodate two, even if one of its occupants was Frayne’s size. And wouldn’t she love climbing over that big, hard body of his, exploring and learning its potential and promise. She’d seen his reaction to her back at the 8th Wing base. They could do some wicked things to each other.
The cosmos knew she’d taken men to bed on shorter acquaintance. But the circumstances had been very different. She’d been able to say goodbye, or, in some situations, kick them out in the morning. Not an option with the commander. Their mission together had barely begun. Sure, she could enjoy his body for the next few hours, but what about afterward? She didn’t know what would be worse: if he dismissed her, or if he wanted something more. She had no desire for anything lasting, anyone that wanted true intimacy.
And he was 8th Wing. The other side of the law.
Complicated. Too complicated. She wanted simplicity. That’s what her life had been about, ever since leaving Argenti.
She broke away from his gaze. “I keep a hovermattress, in case of emergencies.” From one of the bulkheads, she pulled out the compacted mattress, then tossed it toward him. “It should fit in the galley.”
He caught the foil-wrapped mattress, his expression of disappointment disappearing almost as soon as it appeared. “This’ll work. The conditions are better than camping in the marshes of Jenufa Ten.”
