Claimed by Noatak

by Tamsin Ley

  “Your ionic levels dropped another six percent since my last scan.” Mek pulled the med scanner from his belt and pulled up Noatak’s record. “I ran some models, and it’s only a matter of time before your secondary heart gives out completely.”

  “I strap in and Joy will know something’s up. Soon as she knows, everyone will. Last thing I need is the entire universe knowing I’m weak.”

  “Let me put this into terms you’ll understand.” Mek lowered the scanner and focused on Noatak. “If you keep using your ionic powers, even for small things, you could die.”

  “Could is a lot different than will.” Noatak rolled his shoulders. He’d faced death many times. But he’d always imagined going out in a blaze of glory, not dying from ionic failure like an old man. “Besides, aren’t you looking into some procedure to fix me?”

  “I am, but there isn’t a lot of research available on Denaidan physiology, especially with what’s left of our planet under quarantine.” The Termination had not only killed all females of their species, it’d also poisoned their home world beyond repair; no one had set foot on Denaida-daru in over fifteen years. Mek shook his head, lips pressed into a thin line. “Until I can determine a course of action, I recommend no shielding, no sensing enemy heartbeats, and definitely no burn without a nav-grav seat.”

  “What the fuck good am I for our cause if I can’t do any of that?” Noatak crossed his arms. “Next, you’ll tell me not to ping the women I’m about to interview.” The applicants were going to join the pirates not only as crew, but potentially as mates; it was vital he select ones who would also be receptive to the nanites.

  “Unfortunately, yes.” Mek’s stoic face softened. He opened his mouth as if to say more, then shut it again.

  Noatak narrowed his eyes. Mek was usually abrupt. If he was holding back, it must be bad. “What else?”

  Mek looked down, mouth pursed. “If these women accept the nanites, you’ll need to avoid sexual activity.”

  The news was like a physical blow. They were about to bring a female crew onto the ship—the first ever—and he was being told not to touch? “Ellam Cua.” His voice rose like a growl from deep inside his chest. “You’re serious?”

  “During sexual climax, your secondary heart automatically engages—”

  “I don’t need an anatomy lesson, doc. I get it.” He let out a sigh, thinking about soft skin and pliant mouths and all the things he and the other Denaidans had been dreaming about for fifteen years. Before the discovery of the nanites, non-Denaidan females died during sex. Now it might be him. He rubbed his bearded chin. “Might be worth it, though.”

  Mek’s eyes narrowed. “It’s not only you at stake in that scenario, you know. If a mate bond were to form, you’d make her a widow before she even understood what was happening.”

  Noatak felt the blood drain from his face. He hadn’t thought of that. Not every sexual encounter created a mate bond, but when it did happen, the bond was for life.

  Mek put a consoling hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry. I’ll keep working on a fix.”

  Noatak shrugged the hand away, every muscle in his body tight. “I’d better go.”

  “Noatak,” Mek called, but Noatak didn’t slow down.

  Numb from the shock, Noatak reached the cargo bay and climbed aboard the small craft, going through the motions for takeoff automatically. He settled into the pilot’s seat next to Joy, unable to look at her—female, mated, a partner for Kashatok in every sense of the word. Noatak would never know what that felt like. That’ll teach you to hope.

  “You okay?” Joy asked, the camera in her eye dilating as she adjusted her filters to look at him. Filming, as usual.

  “Yup.” He flicked the controls to close the hatch and initiate launch. “Have everything you need?”

  She reached overhead and pulled the nav-grav harness over her head and shoulders. “I think so. There are a surprising number of people interested in the resistance.”

  After being called a pirate for fifteen years, he doubted the general population would stop thinking of them as criminals just because they adopted a new name. “Or they just want to gawk at some real pirates. How many are we interviewing this time?”

  “Eight or so. Some may bring friends.”

  He grunted in response, privately hoping there were a bunch of no-shows. After Mek’s little talk, he wasn’t thrilled about interviewing a bunch of women he could never touch.

  Signaling the cargo bay doors to open, he maneuvered the craft out into space and began programming the burn frequency to jump to Whylon Station. The shuttle cleared the Hardship’s perimeter, and he hovered a finger over the button to engage the burn drive. He glanced at Joy. No fucking way was he strapping in. Even a human could endure a short burn cycle without shielding. He’d have a killer headache and fatigue, but that was nothing new. “Engaging burn.”

  Before he could second-guess himself, he hit the button.

  Chapter Three

  Fuming, Marlis waited at Whylon Station’s public IGC booth, watching the finofan ahead of her extend and retract his ear fans as he spoke to the comm screen. He finished, and she barely let him escape the booth before pushing inside. The hard plastic seat was still warm from his backside, and the interior of the booth smelled like moldy lettuce, but she didn’t care. She was going to murder her father.

  Hours ago, she’d strutted into her first interview full of confidence. Attie’d set everything up, from the time and place of the meeting to information about the owner. Getting a job should’ve been a cakewalk. Instead, the portly owner had told her they were no longer looking for help. The receptionist at the second interview smiled condescendingly, patted her hand, and told her they didn’t want any trouble with the law. By the time she walked into the offices of the third shipping company and the flushed young man at the desk told her she should call home, she’d pulled up her seldom-used charm and asked why not. Flushing even more, he’d shown her his polycom.

  On her profile at a social media site she’d abandoned years ago, her face now appeared with the word MISSING and contact information for her father. She’d only set the account up because her therapist thought it would be good for her to interact with friends, but Marlis had no interest in pretending to like people’s baby pictures and stupid quotes. Apparently potential employers checked these sites and must’ve contacted Dad.

  Scanning her credit chip, she punched in the code and waited for Dad to answer. The moment his pallid face appeared on-screen, she leaned forward. “How could you?”

  He didn’t bat an eyelash, as if he’d been expecting her call. “Come home now, Marlis. I’m making arrangements for you to have a job here.”

  “I could’ve had my pick of jobs here, except for your interference!” Marlis’s blood was boiling, and the incessant thrum of Twerp’s vibration against her wrist had all but numbed her hand. “What did you tell them?”

  “You can barely remember to tie your shoes, Marlis. You’re not ready to be out on your own. It’s not your fault, considering what happened to your mother. Syndicorp’s military division owes you for that. They owe us all. I’m going to make sure they take care of you.”

  She ground her teeth. “By take care of me you mean let me push papers or scrub toilets for the other soldiers. No, thank you.”

  “Now, Marlis, everyone has to earn a living, and you can’t be good at everything.”

  “I’m good at wielding a gun, Dad. Get me a job doing that.”

  “You’ve never been on your own. You have no idea what kinds of trouble you can get into.”

  “I’d be fine if you’d just let me.”

  “If you were going to school, maybe, or taking a retail position in a reputable establishment. But becoming a hired gun is ludicrous. I don’t know why your sister would’ve suggested it.”

  “Because she knows it’s the only thing I’m good at. The only thing I want to do.” The little amber light at the corner of the comm screen began blinking that
her time was nearly up, requesting more credits to continue.

  Dad shook his head, frowning. “Come home and we’ll discuss your options. I love you, Marlis. I only want you safe.”

  The burning in Marlis’s gut was making her feel like she was about to spew acid all over the screen. She loved her dad, loved her family. But the one-way ticket to the station had cost her nearly her entire savings—which wasn’t much, since she’d spent almost every dime she collected on weapon upgrades. If she went back now, she might never make it off the Syndicorp carrier again. The comm light shifted to red for the final ten-second warning.

  “I’m staying here. Talk to you later, Dad.” She ended the call and swung out of the booth, shouldering past the others waiting in line. She paused in the middle of the teeming corridor, drawing a blank on which direction to turn.

  Ever-helpful, Twerp chirped from her wrist, “Do you wish to return to the hostel, Marlis?”

  “Sure.” Where else was she going to go? Her feet felt heavy as she considered how she was going to keep paying for a bunk without a job, let alone the rental for the weapons locker. The station frowned upon average citizens tromping around with MCS6’s and pulse cartridges, although she’d kept her E-11 holstered beneath her waistband.

  “Turn left,” Twerp advised.

  Marlis began trekking through the crowd, then changed her mind and shifted course toward a nearby cantina. Maybe a drink would settle her nerves.

  Entering the bar, she passed a massive Yanipa-nimayu bouncer kicked back on four of his six massive legs. One of his four eyes shifted to her holster, but he didn’t stop her from passing. Inside, a sign flickered over the central bar—The Junk Heap. The soles of her shoes clung to the tacky floor, and the herbal stink of cirripi weed drifted from the back. Two human servers flitted among the scattered booths and high tables.

  As Marlis looked for a seat, Twerp piped up over the music wailing from speakers in the ceiling, “I have taken the liberty of accessing the station’s want ads and can locate no advertisements for guards or weapons specialists. Would you like me to look for alternate employment opportunities?”

  On the barstool next to her, a thin man with grease-stained fingers looked at her from the corner of his eye, gaze flitting to her wrist before returning his attention to the bubbling drink in front of him. He was seedy, but not a threat, and Marlis settled onto her stool before lifting her wrist close to her mouth. “Not so loud, Twerp. Geez.”

  She’d forgotten her earbud on the carrier and didn’t have the time or money to get a new one at the moment. Not that she ever remembered to wear it, anyway. She signaled the Posungi bartender, who waggled his bright orange facial tentacles her direction to indicate he’d be right there. While she waited, she spoke toward her wrist in a low voice. “Twerp, do any of the independent vessels post ads with the station? If I can’t get a job with the shipping companies, maybe I can freelance.”

  “Checking.”

  The guy next to her looked at her again. “You’d be better off searching the boards.” He lifted his chin toward the far wall. “Though a good-looking gal like you might make more money on her back than on a ship.”

  Marlis reconsidered her assessment of him, but when he shrugged and turned back to his drink, she decided her first guess had been right. Looking over her shoulder toward where he’d gestured, she spotted a bulletin board covered in haggard scraps of paper near the restrooms.

  “How archaic,” she muttered as she headed toward them. All manner of languages covered the pages, some typed, some scrawled. The few she could read in Corporate Common were selling items or services and one ad for a room rental. There were even two posters she could only assume were cartel, offering bounties for information about a dark-haired woman and her brother. As she was attempting to decipher a splotchy note requesting someone willing to perform a sexual position she’d never heard of, an argument broke out near the restroom door.

  “I said you mistook my words.” A petite woman around Marlis’s age was jerking ineffectually against the grip of a human male who looked like he’d taken one too many puffs of cirripi. “Just let me go.”

  “C’mon, baby, I just want to talk.” He grinned, exposing a dead front tooth.

  Marlis didn’t like the way his fingers clamped around the woman’s upper arm. She took a single step toward them, her right hand tensed to whip out her pistol if need be. “Everything okay?”

  The brunette shook her head fiercely enough to bounce her curls, her wide eyes full of alarm. “No.”

  “Back off, Blondie,” said the man with barely a look toward Marlis. “You ain’t my type.”

  Marlis wasn’t particularly good at hand-to-hand combat, preferring the sure results her E-11 provided, but she’d had some training. Lightning quick, she reached out and twisted the man’s grip free of the woman’s arm. The man fell to his knees. “Ow! What the fuck, woman?”

  Pathetic. Not even worth getting angry over. She leaned in close enough to smell his reeking, weed-tainted breath. “She asked you to let her go. Now get out of here before I call that bouncer over there. Unless you think he’ll be more polite?”

  He pulled his arm against his chest the moment she let go, his hateful gaze still on her face. But she could tell he wasn’t the type to put up a fight. Most likely he’d slink off to lick his wounds until he found another easy target.

  The smaller woman watched the man scramble upright and retreat out the door then extended a hand to Marlis. “Thank you. My name’s Emmy.”

  “Marlis.” Marlis accepted the handshake.

  “Let me buy you a drink.” Emmy adjusted her blouse hem around her plump hips. “It’s the least I can do.”

  Marlis shrugged. “I won’t say no.”

  At least she’d get a free drink. If she couldn’t find a job, maybe she’d spend her time saving damsels in distress at bars. Marlis followed her to two empty stools at a high top table in the back. Nearby, a group of women held their heads close together while they murmured and glanced around nervously. A female Posungi in the corner nursed a drink, her thin facial tendrils swaying in time to the music.

  After the server took their order, Emmy smiled brightly at Marlis and leaned in to speak over the loud music. “Are you here for the interview, too?”

  Marlis perked up. “I am looking for a job. Who’s interviewing?”

  “Oh,” Emmy’s face blanched. “You didn’t get an invite? I just assumed…”

  Her brief hope dashed, Marlis picked up the drink the server had just delivered and took a long, burning swallow. “That’s okay. From your appearance, the job isn’t likely for a Weapons Specialist, anyway.”

  “Wow!” An appreciative grin split the woman’s face. “I’ve never met a Weapons Specialist!”

  “What do you do?” Marlis asked, more out of politeness than anything else. She already couldn’t remember this woman’s name, and would probably forget all about this conversation by the time she left the cantina.

  The woman’s excited smile collapsed. “I trained as a therapist. But I’m looking for something else this go-round.” She looked over her shoulder as if worried about being overheard. “I hear they’re interviewing for all kinds of skills. I could ask them to include you.”

  Marlis leaned forward. Okay, so maybe she wouldn’t forget this conversation that easily. “Maybe. Who would I be working for?”

  Pulling out a polycom, the woman—what was her name? Jenna?—plopped it down on the table in front of Marlis and tapped the screen. “Here.”

  A video popped into motion of a charming, dark-haired woman speaking with the biggest, most copper-skinned man Marlis’d ever imagined. “Is that a cyborg?”

  “No, they call themselves Denaidans. Have you heard of them?”

  The underlying thrum of conversation in the cantina changed tone, and Marlis glanced toward the door. A tall beast of a man blocked the light from the outside corridor. He scoped the area, then took the arm of a tall woman next to him and m
oved between the tables, directly toward Marlis’s table. Marlis itched in that way that usually told her trouble was brewing, but this itch was centered low in her belly and had nothing to do with her trigger finger. “Holy hotness.”

  Jenna or Emma or whatever her name was looked up from the video and gasped. “That’s them! I recognize the woman.”

  Now that she mentioned it, Marlis did recognize the woman as the one from the video, but she couldn’t stop looking at the man. His black beard was plaited with small silver beads, and his long hair hung down his back in banded ropes. As he scanned the cantina, his eyes locked with hers, a steely, gunmetal blue that sent tingles straight to her core.

  Against her wrist, Twerp vibrated gently to inform her of her increasing heart rate.

  She picked up her drink and finished it in one gulp. That guy looked like he could hold his own in a gun fight, knife fight, or any other fight she could imagine. Against her will, Marlis could imagine other things she’d like him to hold, as well.

  Without taking her eyes off him, she said, “I think I’d like to apply for a job.”

  Chapter Four

  The interior of The Junk Heap was the same as Noatak remembered—cirripi-laced air and the thrum of scattered conversations. The headache from taking the burn without shielding made his head throb in time to the wailing music, and a familiar little voice in his head said, nothing a hit wouldn’t cure. It took all of Noatak’s willpower to look away from the jittery stim vendor skulking near the front door. He hadn’t felt this much need in a very long time. Does it matter if you lapse?

  Keeping his hand lightly on Joy’s arm, he focused on their task. He might not have a future, but his crew was relying on him for theirs. Not that he believed this bar was the place to find decent crew, let alone suitable mates.

  Joy leaned close and murmured to him, “We should order drinks to fit in. You okay with that?”

  His gaze flicked to the stim vendor once more. The wiry human met his gaze with the bloodshot eyes of a heavy user. Noatak swallowed and turned toward the back of the bar. Alcohol was her captain’s vice, not his, but a drink sounded pretty good right now. “Sure. Whatever.”