CHAPTER 12

The smugglers arrive two days later.

To nobody’s surprise, Hon gets here first. We await him and his crew outside the docking bay. This occasion feels like an odd juxtaposition of the last time we met, but I hope we don’t have the same fallout here on Emry. Though it’s no real reassurance, I can’t think of any one faction that would have the ordnance to blow up an emergency station, now that Farwan has split into various splinter cells.

The Syndicate, March tells me silently.

Thanks. I needed that.

He flashes me a roguish grin as he steps forward to greet Hon with a handclasp. With his hair shorn, the pirate seems more warlike. Since that’s what we’re planning, I figure it’s fitting.

“You bastard,” Hon says to March. “You must have nine lives.”

“You, too. You remember Jax, Dina, and Doc?” At Hon’s nod, March introduces the others: Rose, Hit, and Argus.

“You’re not still traveling with Fugitive scientists?” Doc asks warily.

Hon shakes his head. “Learned my lesson. Farr was too crazy, even for me.”

I want to ask if he knows anything about those breeding experiments, but I suspect he’d just lie, and we’re trying to work for a common cause now. Whether I like it or not, I have to follow March’s lead.

The smuggler starts naming his crew, and I log a number of new faces. His jumper, Jory, is a tall, fair-skinned woman with dark hair and twinkling gray eyes. Ship’s mechanic, Dobson, is a taciturn man, whose face has been weathered by the sun; he wears his iron gray hair in a braid down his back, and his dark eyes look like currants. But it’s the fourth member of their group who holds my attention. He stands quiet at the back, still and watchful, but I think I know him. I do know him.

His hair is shorter now, shorn like Hon’s, and his face shows hard living. Whatever he’s been through, he’s lost that untouched expression as well as his unearthly prettiness. But the deep blue eyes are the same.

“Loras,” I breathe.

I remember how it hurt, letting him sacrifice himself for March and me. All this time, I never dared hope he might’ve made it. Between the raiders and Farwan blowing the space station, I didn’t think he had a chance. Mary, I’ve never been so happy to be wrong.

The others start, conversations falling still. I push past Jory and Dobson toward him, intending to grab him in a tight, relieved hug—and then I realize he may not be happy to see us. After all, we left him to die. I draw up short.

Uncertain, I offer him my hand. I can’t believe he’s here.

Loras regards me for a moment. I can’t read his expression. A glance at March tells me he’s equally in the dark. Hit never even knew him, so she looks puzzled, while Dina doesn’t seem sure what to say, either. He shakes my hand briefly, as if we’re strangers, as if we never huddled in a corrugated metal shed together, afraid for our lives.

“I’m so glad to see you. We thought—” Well, I’m sure he knows. “Why didn’t you get in touch with us? We’d have come for you, no matter where you were.”

“Because he’s mine now,” Hon tells me. “I saved him, first from the beating he took from the raiders, then when Farwan attacked.”

There’s a sinking in my stomach because that’s true. Because of physiological adaptation to a drug humans introduced on his homeworld, Loras belongs to whoever protects him best. So he won’t be rejoining us; I failed him. But it’s not about me. I’d rather see him safe with Hon than dead like a sacrificial goat.

“It’s true,” he says then. “Hon is my shinai now. It never occurred to me that any of you would want to hear from me.”

As if he were a burden we couldn’t wait to shift. Mary, we were such sorry bastards. We never made him feel welcome among us, never gave him the sense of belonging the rest of us enjoy. Beside me, March flinches. He used to joke about getting rid of him, and I can feel the guilt flowing off him in waves.

“I’m sorry,” March mutters. “I didn’t realize how you felt. I should have. Loras—”

“Forget it.” Loras shrugs like it doesn’t matter, but I can see it does.

I have to figure out some way to make this up to him. Hon and March get busy explaining to the others how we know each other. That story carries us from the corridor outside the docking bay back to the lounge. We lose a few along the way, as our crew decides to give Hon’s a tour of the station.

Eventually, it’s just me, March, Hon, and Loras. We settle in with drinks to talk terms. While I listen, March outlines the deal he’s put together with Tarn’s sanction.

“I can offer you full amnesty for all your past crimes, right now, on the condition you sign an agreement to act as a subcommander in the Conglomerate Armada.”

Hon raises a brow. “The what?”

“We’re building an army,” I say. “And we need ships . . . but not just ships. If we have any hope against the pirates and smugglers—”

“You need them manned with clever crew,” Hon finishes. “What’s in this for us?”

March asks, “Besides a full pardon?” But even I know that’s not enough. He grins and continues. “You’d be out there raiding anyway . . . without backup. You lost most of your ships running from Farwan at DuPont Station, so it’s harder than it used to be. Plus, now you have Syndicate ships to contend with, along with other pirates.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.” Hon takes a slug of his drink, eyes narrowed.

“We hire you to patrol,” March says. “You answer distress calls, bounce messages to a closer ship if necessary, and act as the Conglomerate’s eyes. You’ll have the authority to treat your sector as a killbox, eliminate threats by any means you deem necessary. In addition, you can claim any hostile ship, including cargo and contraband, as hazard pay. In exchange, you leave the merchantmen and cargo vessels alone. You’re already at war with other raiders, so you might as well do some good out there.”

“You putting together an army full of mercs and smugglers.” The pirate grins. “Only you would think of deputizing outlaws to uphold the law.”

March shrugs, but by his expression he’s thought of the irony himself. “We were never fighting the Conglomerate. It was always Farwan. If we don’t step up, if we don’t try to shape the authority that governs us, then we have no right to complain about it later.”

“True,” Hon says thoughtfully. “But I was never one to complain . . . or follow the rules. What makes you think I won’t take your credits and do what I want out there?”

A tight smile curves March’s mouth, but it doesn’t quite hit his eyes. “There’s a limit to my trust. We’ll equip your ship with technology that logs your encounters with other vessels. As long as you act as we’ve agreed, we won’t have a problem.”

“Technology isn’t infallible,” Hon points out. “And what if there’s a dispute regarding the way I handle a situation?”

It’s sad he has to wonder about that, but it’s a valid question. He could very well save some merchantman from imminent doom and have the asshole owner complain that he took too long about it.

“If any other ship lodges a complaint against an Armada vessel, we will send the matter before a review board comprised of randomly selected officers,” March answers.

The pirate considers that, then inclines his head. “Well thought. It eliminates bribery, and it should be an impartial hearing. All right, I’ve heard enough.”

“And?” I ask.

“I’m in. Draw up the contracts.”

March nods, tapping his comm. “Constance, I need that agreement you worked up earlier. Forward it to me?”

“With pleasure,” she replies.

“Who was that?” Hon perks up at the feminine voice I gave my PA back when she was just a little silver sphere.

I stifle a grin. Not this again.

Should we tell him? March asks me silently.

Maybe not just yet. I owe Hon for plying me with pheromones that made me think I wanted to sleep with him.

The lightning exchange takes only seconds, so I answer aloud, “Her name is Constance. Maybe you’ll meet her later.”

“Oh, I’ll find her. Count on it, pretty.” The pirate does everything but rub his hands together at the prospect of meeting the female that owns such a great voice.

Loras has been listening silently, as he used to, but he interrupts now. “Have you considered a uniform? Historical precedent suggests that any police force is taken more seriously by the populace if they offer conformity in their dress.”

“I’m not covering myself in bars and symbols,” Hon mutters. “This isn’t worth going around dressed like a fascist ass.”

“Something simple should work,” I say. “Plain, but vaguely military. The important thing is that everyone wears it.”

Nodding, Loras says diffidently, “I have some ideas.”

March is busy beaming the contract to Hon’s handheld, but he spares me a nod. “Do you mind working with him on this?”

Mind? I was hoping for a chance to talk to Loras alone. I smile.

“I think that’s our cue. Shall we hole up somewhere and compare notes?”