He heard a sharp intake of breath. “I’m right here. I won’t leave you.”
She sounded confused. Why? He wondered. She had to know how he felt. He’d kissed her, hadn’t he? After their song? Yes, he knew he had, he couldn’t have imagined that fierce rush of hot sensation. How could you imagine something you’d never felt, never even known was possible?
But he’d been angry with her, afterward. Very angry. Because she’d scared him. Or something had. Why? He couldn’t seem to remember. If he couldn’t remember, it couldn’t be very important, could it?
He tried to tell her that, but his mouth didn’t seem to want to work. So he squeezed her hand instead. When she squeezed back, satisfaction welled up inside him. He could rest now. He let the blackness come.
CALIFA FELT ODDLY suspended. The crew treated her as they always had, which told her they didn’t know the secret she had let slip with her own foolish tongue. Roxton, Nelcar, and Rina had clearly not informed the others. They were no doubt awaiting a decision from Dax.
And Dax wasn’t talking. To anyone, from what she could gather.
Nelcar had told her he was recovering, that the effects of the blow to the head, delayed by the adrenaline flow that had kept him going, had been alleviated after a full day’s cycle of sleep. When she had asked about him, Nelcar had looked at her rather intently before he answered. She had supposed, because of his knowledge of her past, he was pondering whether to tell her anything. But then he had surprised her with his quiet words.
“He talked about you. While he was half conscious.”
“He . . . did?”
Nelcar nodded. “He said your name and something like ‘sings like an angel, can’t be a demon.’”
Califa’s breath caught. Hope leapt up to lodge behind the lump in her throat that had stopped her breath, and the combination tightened her chest unbearably.
“Then he went under for good,” Nelcar said. “Rina and I had to wake him every few hours, to make certain he hadn’t slipped into a coma.”
That explained the young man’s obvious exhaustion. “But he’s awake now?”
“He’s awake, but he’s not talking,” Nelcar had said. “He won’t say a word, to me or anyone, except to tell us to get out and leave him alone.”
That conversation had been three days ago, and Dax still wasn’t talking. Not to Roxton, or to any of the crew. Not even to Rina. He never left his quarters, and the ship seemed somehow empty without his vital presence. Califa caught herself looking up at every set of approaching footsteps, and scanning the lounge every time she entered. It was as if, she thought ruefully, she missed him. Eos, she thought, shaking her head at her foolishness, the man was half inclined to kill her, and she missed him.
But he had spoken of her. Even in pain, half delirious, he had been thinking of her. She tried to fight down the pleasure that thought gave her. She had too much else to think about.
Roxton had come to her, after he had helped to carry the unconscious Dax to his quarters. She had half expected him to accuse her of being responsible for Dax’s state, but he had gruffly informed her Nelcar had told him it was a result only of his injury from the fight catching up with him.
He had also told her that she was to restrict herself to quarters and the lounge for meals until Dax regained consciousness and decided what to do about her. And until then, he had added grudgingly, her secret would be kept.
But that decision had never come, even when Dax had regained consciousness. He was still cloistered in his quarters, refusing to talk. His silence was weighing on them all, but most of all on Rina. In one day the girl had lost both her confidants; she wouldn’t talk to Califa, and Dax wouldn’t talk to her.
Califa sighed, trying to stop herself from beginning to once more pace the small quarters she still, to her surprise, shared with Rina. She’d expected to be moved, but Roxton must have decided that would raise too many questions. And apparently they trusted her with the girl; for that much, she supposed she should be thankful, although it was clear Rina hadn’t made up her mind about Califa.
She lost the battle to stop her pacing. She was on her second circuit when the door opened. She turned, grateful for any distraction, only to retract the thought when she saw Roxton’s glowering expression.
He came in without a word, waiting until the door slid shut behind him. Then he crossed his arms over his chest and glared at her.
“I want to know what happened on the observation deck.”
Califa tensed. She’d been afraid of this. “What . . . happened?” she said, staffing.
“Something must have. What did you tell him that’s got him holed up in there, ripping himself apart?”
She couldn’t tell him. Dax had kept his birthplace a secret, even from Roxton, for years, and for good reason; she couldn’t give him away.
“Nothing,” she said.
Roxton swore pungently. “I’ve seen him, woman, and I’ve seen eyes less tortured on a corpse. He’s on the edge of breaking. What did you talk about?”
Califa bit her lip. “I . . . the battle, mostly. And his fighter. He was fine, then he passed out.”
“Nothing else?”
He wasn’t going to be satisfied, Califa realized. She would have to give him a little more. But she would not betray Dax’s secret, not when he had kept her own.
“I did yell at him,” she admitted.
Roxton blinked. “You what?”
“I yelled at him. For being so reckless. So careless with his life.” She gave him a slightly wan smile. “He got very angry at me.”
Roxton looked at her for a moment, assessingly. As if he hadn’t expected such an admission from her. Was it that she admitted to her actions that puzzled the older man, or that she had cared enough to chastise Dax?
After a moment he sighed, and the crusty first mate disappeared, to be replaced with the grizzled old man who loved Dax like a son.
“Well, that’s nothing I haven’t done myself. I’ve never managed to make him angry, however. He merely laughs at me.”
“Too bad he takes so little heed.”
“Yes.” He relaxed enough to uncross his arms. “I don’t understand. I haven’t seen Dax like this since I first picked him up on Clarion.”
Califa lifted a brow quizzically. “You picked him up?”
Roxton nodded. “Found him in a taproom, pickled, trying to start a fight with three Omegans who outweighed him five times over.”
Califa’s mouth quirked. “Sounds like he hasn’t changed much.”
She won a slight smile from the man. “No, not much.”
“You stopped the fight?”
Roxton snorted. “No one stops an Omegan who wants to fight. Just ask Hurcon. I merely distracted them until we could slip out the back.”
She’d begun this as a distraction herself, but now she was too curious not to ask.
“Why did you step in, if you didn’t know him?”
“I’m not sure. There was something about him . . .”
She certainly couldn’t argue with that, Califa thought. Then Roxton’s eyes narrowed as he looked at her.
“Perhaps I’d just had enough of bullies.”
He said it pointedly, the allegory to the Coalition clear. Califa didn’t bother to protest.
“And then?”
“After he sobered up, he was like this. Silent, refusing to eat, even sleep, looking like something was chewing him up inside. Finally we talked. We found we both had nowhere to go, and no one left there anyway. Dax suggested we take something back from those who had left us that way.”
“And so you became skypirates.”
“Yes.” His mouth twisted into a wry smile as he tugged on his beard. “But I almost killed him, first.”
“After saving him?”
>
“I was angry. No,” Roxton corrected, “I was furious. He took every coin, all the funds we had and risked it on a single toss in chaser. And an honest toss, at that, if you can believe it.”
Califa smothered a smile. “He won, I presume?”
Roxton’s mouth twisted again, but this time into an affectionate grin. “Of course he did.”
“So you were rich?”
“In a manner of speaking. He won this ship.”
Califa blinked “He what?”
“And enough money to outfit her, and make a few changes. One toss of the dice and we were in business.”
Califa shook her head in amused wonder. “Are you certain those dice weren’t rigged?”
He nodded. “They were the other man’s, the owner’s. Besides, Dax doesn’t need to cheat. He has the devil’s own luck.”
Califa sobered. “Even that kind of luck runs out, Roxton. He’ll get himself killed, if he keeps on like this.”
The beard took a fierce tugging this time. “Do you think I don’t know that? Do you think I haven’t tried to get him to stop, to take care, to stop acting . . .”
“Suicidal,” Califa suggested when his voice trailed off.
“Exactly,” Roxton agreed, his tone grim. “I try to rein him in, but he’s so damn stubborn.”
“I’ve noticed.”
Roxton chuckled humorlessly. “I suppose you have.” He studied her for a long, silent moment. Then, shaking his head, he asked, “Are you sure you were a Coalition officer?”
She stiffened, but there didn’t seem to be any threat in his words. “Quite.”
“You don’t seem like one.”
“I’m not. Not anymore. Nor will I ever be again.”
The man’s eyes narrowed shrewdly. “And if it weren’t for that collar they slapped on you?”
Califa straightened, meeting Roxton’s gaze levelly. “I would still never be again.”
“Had your eyes opened, have you?”
“As have all of you. It was just harder to see from the inside.”
Roxton looked startled. “Well, now,” he said, stroking the beard this time, “I hadn’t thought of it that way. But I suppose that could be true.”
Califa felt a small spurt of hope at his words. If Roxton could see that, could Dax? Later, when the shock of all she’d told him ebbed, could he see that she was, in her own way, a victim of the Coalition as well? Because if he could believe that, he might be able to one day believe that she had truly changed, that she—
The opening of the door cut off her thoughts. Rina came in, barely sparing a glance for either of them. Califa guessed from the slump of the girl’s shoulders that Dax was maintaining his ominous silence. Rina’s distress was clear on her young face. Califa’s heart ached for the girl; she wished she could try to comfort her, but she was far too uncertain of her welcome. Roxton seemed willing to at least consider her side; Rina, on the other hand, was full of young, volatile emotions that ran hot easily, and were slow to cool.
“He’s still not talking?” Roxton asked the girl gently.
“No.” Rina’s voice quavered as she sat down on her bunk. “He just sits there, staring out the viewport. He won’t talk, he won’t eat, he doesn’t even sleep.”
Califa thought of Roxton’s story. “Is he drinking?”
Rina glanced at her, as if considering whether to answer her. Finally her concern over Dax won out.
“No.”
“That’s something, I suppose,” Roxton said.
Rina slammed a small fist down on her bunk. “It’s nothing!” she exclaimed, fighting tears. “I even told him I was going to take the fighter out this afternoon, to be sure it was fixed.”
“Blast it, Rina,” Roxton exclaimed, “you know he would never let you fly that—”
“I know. That’s what I mean,” the girl interrupted. “He never even blinked. He should have been furious.”
Roxton closed his mouth on whatever the rest of his sentence would have been. His grim expression told Califa just how serious the situation was. Yet still there was a softness in his eyes when he looked at Rina.
“He knows I would never let you do such a thing. Besides, he can never be truly angry with you, little one.”
Roxton’s wry words came back to her. I’ve never managed to make him angry, however. He merely laughs at me.
She looked from Rina to Roxton. Perhaps there was something she could do. Something she seemed to be very, very good at.
“If neither one of you can make him angry,” she said grimly, “I’ll wager I can.”
Chapter 13
CALIFA SPARED A brief moment, as she stood in the passageway, to wonder at the irony of the fact that Dax’s door—and everyone else’s on the Evening Star, for that matter—had no lock, while a Coalition captain’s quarters required a voice and retinal scan to get in. That as much as anything, she thought, underscored the differences between the world she’d left behind and the one she found herself in now. The skypirates were far more open and trusting than the Coalition had ever been. Somehow Dax had managed to instill the Triotian respect for privacy in this varied crew.
And outside of Rina and Roxton, who were practically family to him, no one had dared violate it.
Until now.
She took in a deep breath. She wasn’t quite sure why she was doing this. Wasn’t sure why she should care if he stayed barricaded in brooding silence indefinitely; at least if he wasn’t speaking, he wouldn’t be ordering her returned to Coalition custody. Or her execution. If she did this, she could easily wind up infuriating him to the point of making a decision she personally would long regret—if she survived.
But she couldn’t help feeling she had to. He obviously still intended to tell no one of his origins. Only she knew the truth of why he was in such torment, so it followed that only she could induce him to talk.
And she told herself that the memory of a kiss, and the fact that he had thought of her even in near-delirium, had nothing to do with it at all.
Before she could change her mind, she took that last step forward. The door opened with a quiet whoosh. As she stepped inside it closed behind her with the same soft sound.
The clutter of the room contrasted distinctly with the neatness she’d noticed before. An untouched meal sat on the table, boots were haphazardly thrown on the floor, and a trunk sat open against the wall, contents tossed in a jumble.
He was on his bunk, propped up by a thick cushion at his back, one knee raised. He was, as Rina said, staring out the viewport into the endless darkness. A flicker of irritation crossed his beard-stubbled face as the door opened, but he didn’t look in that direction. His eyes closed for a moment, and she heard a short, compressed breath escape him. Then his lashes lifted and he resumed staring literally into space.
Califa was grateful he hadn’t looked up. It gave her a chance to catch her breath, and deal with the two things that had hit her with the impact of a disrupter. First, he had discarded his shirt along with his boots, leaving an expanse of sleek, golden chest and flat, ridged belly bare to her view. And second, in his hands was the knife from his boot.
He was toying with it, holding it at both ends with his palms, the pommel of the handle resting against his right palm, the deadly sharp point against his left.
Califa steadied herself. “Planning on slitting your throat?” she inquired pleasantly.
He jerked convulsively at the sound of her voice, his head snapping around to stare at her in shock; obviously, she was the last person he’d expected to find standing there. In nearly the same instant he swore, low and harsh, as he yanked his left hand away from the knife. Blood pooled up on his palm where his sudden movement had sent the blade digging in.
He stared at the blood for a moment, then curled his hand int
o a fist. He refused to look at her again, closing his eyes once more as blood welled up through his fingers.
Nelcar had left a can of healer’s spray on the table. Califa picked it up, and the clean cloth that sat on the tray of uneaten food. She knew if he thought about it he would resist her; she didn’t plan on giving him that much time.
She quickly crossed the distance between them, sat on the edge of the bunk, grabbed his hand, and pressed the cloth against his palm before he had a chance to jerk it away.
“It will take you forever to bleed to death this way,” she said in conversational tones. “If you’re going to do it, do it right. Go for the throat.”
He swore again, and tried to pull his hand away. Quickly she grasped his little finger and bent it back. “Hold still,” she ordered.
He seemed startled at her strength—and her commanding tone—but tried again to pull away. She bent his finger back further, until he winced.
“I said hold still.”
His right hand curled around the grip of his knife. She saw the motion when he lifted it, saw the flex of taut muscles in his bare arm, knew the power there. He could kill her with a flick of his wrist. Her pulse sped up, but she schooled her voice to an amused calm.
“Changed your mind about killing the messenger?”
For an instant he was motionless, knife readied. Then, slowly, he lowered it. He sank bank against the cushion, letting out a long, weary breath. He closed his eyes again.
“Just get out,” he muttered.
“In a minute.”
Eos, Califa thought as she checked the bleeding beneath the cloth she’d pressed to the wound, Roxton had been right. She’d seen that the moment Dax had looked at her. She, too, had seen eyes less tortured on a corpse. He looked like a man utterly drained of all will and drive and life force.
He let her clean the cut, and apply the combination disinfectant and cell renewal formula. She glanced at him as she worked; the only sign of his shoulder injury was a slight reddening of golden skin, and the mark on his temple was now only a red line beneath the neuskin graft Nelcar had done.
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