The Skypirate

by Justine Davis

  “Because we’re in a position of strength, that’s why. Many have tried to take us, both Coalition and our own kind. None have succeeded, and for their efforts have paid a high price. It makes us stronger, and makes the next one who looks at the Evening Star as a sloeplum for the picking think twice before attacking us.”

  “I understand that,” she admitted. She did, she knew he was right, but it did little to ease her agitation over his seeming lack of any concern for his own life. “But must you do it by constantly risking yourself so recklessly? Do you really know how slim your chances were that a trained Coalition captain would lose his nerve and run?”

  She knew instantly she’d gone too far. Dax’s expression went utterly flat, his eyes frosty.

  “Perhaps not,” he said, in a voice colder than the chill that had dimmed the vivid green of his eyes. “But you do. You know to exactly what lengths a Coalition captain would go, don’t you?”

  She’d lost him. “Dax—”

  “Which brings me back to my original question. Why did you do it?”

  She didn’t pretend to misunderstand; she knew exactly what he meant. But that didn’t mean she had an answer for him. She didn’t. She didn’t know if she ever would.

  “Does it matter?” she asked wearily.

  “Does it matter why a former Coalition officer committed treason to save a skypirate’s vessel? It might.”

  She couldn’t look at him, couldn’t face the coolness in his eyes, which was somehow worse than the anger. “I don’t know why. I didn’t think; I just did it.”

  “You didn’t think before warning Roxton of the tactics the cruiser would use? Tactics you yourself had devised, that have been taught to what? Hundreds? Thousands?”

  “Including you, it seems.”

  “Yes. Including me. Even on Trios, you were known. Well known. Your texts are required study in our flight school.”

  She looked away, lifting her hands to rub her temples. Paradoxical, she thought; he was the one who had taken a blow to the head, but it was she who had the headache.

  “Why did you do it, Califa?” he repeated.

  “I told you I don’t know. Why do you persist in trying to get yourself killed?”

  “I don’t—”

  “Don’t you? Isn’t that what all this craziness is about? Fifteen-foot leaps across rooftops? Taking on a squad of guards singlehandedly? Or going up against a fully armed war cruiser alone?”

  “Calculated ri—”

  “Damn you!” She whirled. “And your calculated risks! Even the Coalition at its most asinine moments wouldn’t have considered what you do risks. It’s suicide, nothing less. The odds just haven’t caught up with you. Yet.”

  “I’ve survived five years—”

  “If you survive five more days, it will be a miracle. So will it be if you don’t take us all down with you.”

  “I see.”

  “You see what?” Califa snapped. She was tired, drained, and beginning to feel a growing resentment that she had let this man do this to her.

  “That’s your concern,” he said coldly. “You were trying to save your own ass, not the Evening Star.”

  She never even blinked at the coarseness. “I told you, I didn’t think about it.” She gave him a sideways look that she hoped matched his for coolness. “I should have, though. If I had thought about it, I would have grabbed the chance to retrieve the controller.” Instead she had sat here mourning a man who would throw her own pathos back in her face. “I was a fool to give it to you. A fool to trust it to a man so determined to get himself killed, and leave me to the mob.”

  For a moment he didn’t speak. Then he asked, very softly, “Why did you give it to me?”

  “Because I am a fool,” she grated. “I thought it might show you—never mind. There’s no point in trying to explain reason to a man who’s suicidal.”

  “I’m not—”

  “I begin to think all Triotians are slightly touched.”

  He went rigid then. Califa was too exhausted to care. “If you recall,” he said icily, “there aren’t enough of us left alive to make that judgment.”

  “There are enough left to prove my point,” she muttered. “Who else but a bunch of suicidal partisans would dare think their little rebellion had a chance against a conquering machine like the Coalition?”

  Dax went as pale as if his injury had truly drained away his lifeblood. He stared at her, eyes wide, his expression unreadable. When he spoke, his voice was oddly hoarse.

  “What did you say?”

  “I said Triotians are genetically crazy. Did I hurt your feelings?” Califa asked sarcastically. “Sorry. Perhaps you should think of the feelings of those you leave behind when you go off on one of your wild, brollet-brained—”

  He moved then, swiftly, his hands shooting up to grab her shoulders in a grip so fierce it hurt.

  “What did you say about a rebellion?”

  She shifted, trying to free herself from his painful grasp. It had no effect. His eyes were boring down into hers, his gaze so intense it took all her nerve to hold it, and to answer him with a coolness she was far from feeling.

  “I realize it’s hardly worth the name, but—”

  He cut her off with a string of sharp, urgent questions. “What rebellion? Where? What partisans? Are you saying there are other Triotians? Alive?”

  It came to her then. That’s where we’ve been for nearly a year. In a storehouse on the back side of Alpha 2. And there was nowhere inside the system more remote. More out of touch. She stared up at him.

  “You . . . don’t know?”

  His expression gave her her answer. Eos, he didn’t know. Are you saying there are other Triotians? Alive? She caught her breath. Had he thought himself and Rina the only survivors of their devastated world?

  She thought of his reaction when he had deduced that Wolf was alive, or had been less than a year ago. Had it been not just the shock of finding a friend—and your king—had survived, but learning you were not the only ones left of your people?

  She didn’t know what possessed her to do it. Didn’t know what made her think he might let her. But she lifted one hand and gently rested it on his chest, over his heart.

  “You’re not alone, Dax.”

  And she felt her own heart quiver at the pounding of his beneath her fingers.

  Chapter 12

  DAX’S JAW CLENCHED as he stared down at her. He felt her fingers flex against his chest, and wondered if she could feel the hammering of his heart. He never thought of moving her hand, his shock was too great. His words came as if fired from a thermal cannon, each one enunciated with painful precision.

  “Tell me. Now. All of it. Everything you know.”

  “I don’t know much. It all began shortly before”—she gestured at the collar with her free hand—“this.”

  “Tell me!”

  She let out a long breath. “There were always rumors that a small number of Triotians had survived. Some believed them, some didn’t. But then . . .”

  “Califa,” he said warningly as she trailed off.

  “All right, but you’ve got to see that by the time I heard this, I was already a slave. I don’t know how accurate it is.”

  He tried to say “Tell me” again, but couldn’t form the words. Instead he tightened his already inescapable grip on her shoulders. Califa took a long, deep breath, and started.

  “There were no signs of any survivors outside the Coalition boundaries around the capitol of Triotia for years. Everyone thought the entire population had been wiped out.”

  “Or enslaved,” Dax ground out bitterly.

  Abruptly he let go of her; he didn’t want her to see that his hands were shaking. An expression flashed across her face that looked oddly like pain, b
ut he couldn’t dwell on it now. An incredible thought had come to him, an idea so overwhelming he could barely breathe. It made his already aching head pound.

  Dare. Could he be—

  He broke off his contemplation; he couldn’t wonder, couldn’t even wish, or hope would inundate him, and hope was not something that went well with reason or logic. Which was what he desperately needed now. He resisted the urge to rub at his throbbing temple.

  “Yes,” Califa said at last, sounding reluctant. “That’s what they assumed. But then the raids began.”

  “Raids?”

  “Small ones. Acts of sabotage, an occasional theft, an assault on a supply caravan, nothing that couldn’t have been just the usual resistance to Coalition annexation.”

  He no longer had to worry about hope; rage flooded him instead at her use of the Coalition euphemism. “Annexation?” he said, in the quiet tone his men knew meant trouble. “I believe you mean invasion. Or perhaps conquest? Subjugation?”

  Califa flushed, the color showing harshly on pale Arellian skin. “Old habits are hard to break,” she explained in a small voice.

  And some new ones, too, Dax thought. Like spending too much time thinking about this woman. Like giving a damn about why she had looked hurt a moment ago. Like—

  “Never mind,” he snapped.

  She wet her lips, and Dax’s hands curled into fists. Never had he felt so at the mercy of an unruly body as he had since this woman had boarded his ship. Even now, amid the chaos in his mind, that simple movement of her tongue, stealing out to slide over soft, full lips as his own had once done, had the power to disorient him. And distract him.

  “Go on,” he muttered.

  “No one had ever seen them. There was never any warning. They never made a sound, and left no traces. They clearly knew the terrain, and they had weapons and transport. At first it was thought to be just resistance,” she said carefully. “But then they captured a communications station. They took a base transmitter and handheld comlinks. And they left the station’s crew alive—and talking.”

  “It is not our custom to indiscriminately murder anyone who gets in our way.” His tone was vicious, but he couldn’t help it; he never remembered being so on edge as he was at this moment. And his head was getting worse.

  “No. So there were witnesses left, to describe their attackers.”

  “It would have been figured out eventually anyway, even if they’d slaughtered the lot of them. Triotians wouldn’t feel the gaining of a little time worth the destruction of that much life.”

  Califa looked at him, as if his words puzzled her. “Even the lives of their enemies?”

  “Triotians considered no people their enemy.” He laughed—a short, harsh, unhumorous sound. “Perhaps that was our downfall.”

  Her eyes took on a contemplative look. After a moment she said, “Shaylah said your own laws and innate kindness were used to destroy you.”

  Dax’s eyes narrowed. “Your friend was wise as well as brave, I see.”

  Califa nodded, an unexpected softness coming over her face as she let out a barely perceptible sigh.

  Dax would give a great deal to know how a woman such as that could call a slave owner friend. Had she known another Califa? Dax wondered. Or guessed at her existence? Had she, too, seen the fleeting glimpses he thought he had seen, of a gentler, vulnerable woman, like the one who worried about Rina? Like the one who had berated him for his recklessness?

  Like the woman who had betrayed the training of a lifetime to warn a skypirate?

  “The thing I didn’t understand,” Califa said when he didn’t speak, “was why they waited so long. The fall of Trios was five years ago. But some said it took them that long to regroup.”

  Dax was yanked out of his speculation. “When the Coalition murdered our king,” he said, voice taut, “they did more than destroy a figurehead. His death would have taken the heart out of our people.”

  “Shaylah said he was . . . different.”

  “She spoke the truth. King Galen ruled with the aid of a council of the wisest elders. He was beloved, and he loved and respected his people. Every Triotian knew they would be treated fairly, so they were free to make the most of themselves and what they had.”

  Califa stared, then slowly shook her head. “It sounds . . . too perfect to be real.”

  “Perhaps it was,” Dax said, bitterness tingeing his voice. “Or perhaps we lounged too long in our own euphoria, forgetting what it took to arrive there. Forgetting that others had not yet fought the battles we had fought, and ultimately discovered the uselessness and waste of them. We foolishly thought that every world had to find its own way, so stayed impartial.”

  Since she had made a career out of those kinds of battles, and later of teaching others to fight them, Dax knew there was little she could say. Cursing his tangled emotions around Califa, he forced his still stunned mind back to dealing with the shocking news she had delivered.

  “Weapons, transport, communications,” he murmured. “So it is truly a rebellion?”

  Califa’s expression became unexpectedly gentle, and only then did Dax realize he’d sounded like a child struck by the wonder of the impossible coming to pass.

  “Yes,” she said, her tone as gentle as her expression. “They’re fighting back, Dax. I don’t know how many, but it’s enough for them to send three tactical wings, from what I heard. They recalled some forces from leave. And—”

  At her sudden stop, Dax focused on her once more. The gentleness had been replaced by a taut wariness.

  “And what?” he prompted, suddenly equally wary.

  “I . . .”

  “You’ve already told me enough for them to execute you,” he pointed out. “Don’t stop now.”

  “It’s not them I’m worried about.”

  She drew back the moment the words were out, as if she hadn’t meant to say them.

  Dax’s jaw clenched. “If I’d wanted to execute you,” he ground out, “I would have done it the moment I found out the truth.”

  “‘It is not our custom to indiscriminately murder anyone who gets in our way.’” she quoted.

  “It’s not our custom to kill the messenger, either. What were you going to say, Califa?”

  She hesitated, then warned him. “I heard it in the slave quarters on Carelia, before they threw me into the prison. I don’t know if it’s true, it was only rumor—”

  “I’d sooner trust the accuracy of the telerien than any official sources. Go on.”

  “They said the Triotians were succeeding. So well that Legion Command had decided to send General Corling back to Trios.”

  Dax went cold, barely having time to wonder at the iciness that swept him before it was replaced by the rushing heat of rage.

  Corling. The mastermind of the downfall and conquest of Trios. The vicious, brutal officer who had destroyed the world that had been the source of much of the goodness and beauty in an entire system. The man who had used deceit and treachery to slaughter a people who had welcomed him under a banner of peace.

  The man who had murdered a king. Who had thrown a queen to his barbarous, raping troops. And who had personally condemned a royal prince to the worst kind of slavery.

  Dare. Dear God, if he had survived, if by some miracle he had gotten back to Trios, surely he was dead now. Corling would know now he should have killed Dare when he had the chance. From what Dax had heard of the man, he would have made the extermination of the last living member of the royal family his primary goal.

  But could anyone except Dare have done this? Could anyone other than the brilliant, dauntless, audacious Dare, the man who had apparently survived five years of torment, degradation, and punishment and still managed to escape, could anyone less than the rightful king of Trios have accomplished this?

 
Dax shuddered under the pressure of his whirling thoughts. His head was beginning to pound viciously. His mind felt muddled, vague, but he realized he must be in reaction, with the last of the adrenaline of the battle fading, and the shock of what he’d learned battering him. Everything seemed a little distant, fuzzy around the edges, as it had after that piece of the fighter had clipped his temple.

  He swayed on his feet. Califa reached for him, to steady him. He meant to wave her off, but had to admit that he needed the support.

  “You’d better rest. I’ll help you to your quarters,” Califa said, her voice sounding soft and gentle in his ringing ears. As if she meant it, as if she cared that he was about to keel over.

  Perhaps she did, he thought dazedly. She’d saved them, hadn’t she? She’d warned them, reminding him of a long-forgotten flight school lecture, based on her own teachings, that had set out the course of action the Coalition ship would take. He tried to turn to look at her, but the floor seemed to be moving.

  “Maybe you’d better just sit down.”

  She sounded truly worried now. It made him feel good, that tone of concern. Which was silly. She was a Coalition officer. He hated her.

  No, she was a slave. She’d been betrayed by the Coalition, too. She’d been punished enough, hadn’t she? And she’d trusted him with that thing, the controller, which was like trusting him with . . . what? Her soul?

  So he didn’t hate her. Did he?

  He felt his knees start to give way. He tried to stop it, but then he was falling. Sort of. Califa was there, helping him, softening the drop. He knew it was her; he could see the black of her hair, the blue of her eyes, although he wished she’d hold still so he could look at her. Brave little snowfox. He liked to look at her.

  “I’ll go get Nelcar.”

  “No,” he said, pleased that his tongue still worked. His hand wasn’t as cooperative, though; it took a moment for him to find and grasp her hand. “Don’t go.”

  She seemed to be staring at him, then at their joined hands. “Dax?” she whispered.

  “Don’t go,” he repeated. “Stay with me.”