“Of course. Sorry.” “But long range is okay?”

“Long range is clear.” He hadn’t taken his eyes off it. Couldn’t afford to. The Venture was uncomfortably vulnerable right now, for all the protection afforded by the asteroids and the rafts. “We’ve got one more patch to try. If that doesn’t work, then it’s going to be a slow, careful ride back to Rumor.”

No. A slow, careful ride to the border. ~*~

Trilby heard the buckle on Rhis’s safety strap snap into place as she powered up her ship’s engines. “With no more surprises we’ll ETA at Rumor in about forty-three hours.”

“Unlocking landing grapples,” Dezi intoned. “Affirmative,” she replied. She angled the thrusters, felt the ship shimmy slightly. “You hear me, Vanur? Forty-three and you’re free.” “Will you miss me?”

His comment startled her. That and the playful tone in his voice. His evasiveness seemed to have dissipated.

She’d thought about it while she had wrangled with the repairs. Maybe he’d told her the truth when he said it was just a routine patrol. She had to admit he had a lot more experience in that area than she did. If the Venture jumped through hyperspace as quickly as she jumped to conclusions, she’d have to apply for a patent for a miraculous hyperdrive.

She shot a quick grin over her shoulder and found him looking quizzically at her. “I’ll miss you every minute of every hour of every day. Now stick your nose back in your station and holler like hell the second anything even farts out there.”

“Captain.” Dezi tilted his tarnished head. “I don’t believe this ship’s sensors are calibrated to detect the discharge of organic digestive—”

“Long and short range on full sweep,” Rhis said loudly. “Then we’re out of here.” She increased power. The Venture glided smoothly away from the raft.

Trilby watched the first coordinates flow across her screen. She let Rhis plot a course out of the asteroid field. He had, after all, gotten them in rather skillfully, and in one piece. There was still a bit of weaving to do before they could head for Port Rumor.

At the eight-minute mark the asteroids became smaller and more widely spaced. She gave her ship a little more power and was pleased with the way she handled. Maybe getting knocked around a bit had done the old girl some good.

At fifteen minutes they were at the outer edges of the last bands. At twenty, completely clear. “Log notes we have cleared the belt at nineteen minutes, thirty one seconds and—”

“Thanks, Dez. Got it.” She looked back over her shoulder and caught Rhis slowly shaking his head. She grinned then settled back, her smile fading. It might be about forty-three hours until they reached Rumor—and she was sure Dezi would be glad to give a more precise estimate of the time—but the next two hours were the most critical. If the ‘Sko mothership was still around,

she’d make her presence known before the Venture cleared Quadrant 84 and was back in Conclave patrol range.

 

It was one of the reasons she’d used Avanar for so long. No one, not even the Conclave, liked to come this far out. Except now her little secret had been discovered by the ‘Sko.

 

One hour out and the engines were purring at max. Long range and short range were blissfully silent. They were still too far from the trader lanes to see any merchant traffic on the screens.

Rhis had to be right. It was only bad timing that’d made them cross paths with the ‘Sko. Nothing was out here, now. It was almost peaceful. Trilby relaxed a bit and realized she was hungry. Soup sounded good. She unsnapped her buckle.

“Take the con, Dez. I’m going to see what I can scare up in the galley. Soup for dinner okay with you?” she asked Rhis as she stood.

“Need some help?”
“Nope. I’ll bring a couple mugs up here.”

She found two large packets of vegetable soup in the food locker and set the timer for three minutes. She turned and was looking in the galley lower racks for two mugs when she heard footsteps coming down the corridor.

She raised her head over the counter just as Rhis walked in. His hands were shoved in his pockets. His face wore the look of a small boy who knew he was about to get into big trouble.

 

“I need to talk to you.” His voice had the tight tone of a grown man who knew he was in trouble.

Her heart plummeted. Her mind raced over several things. First was the location and status of her hand weapons. She had never given him the codes to the weapons lockers, but then, he was Z’fharin. Still, his hands in his pockets didn’t appear to conceal a laser pistol.

The second was a reappearance of the ‘Sko. But her alarms were silent. And Dezi would’ve been on intraship long before Rhis could make the trek down the ladderway.

Then for a brief moment she wondered if he were ill. The crash of the Tark was no child’s play. And he had bounded—quite naked, she remembered—out of the regeneration unit long before he was completely healed. Her gaze raked him head to foot. No, he looked fit, disgustingly fit. If he dropped dead now he’d be the best looking corpse she’d ever seen.

So it had to be about that evasiveness that had settled over him after the ‘Sko attack. And his cryptic comments. Maybe there was something to his paranoia after all.

 

She patted the high counter. “Have a seat. Soup’s almost ready.”

The timer pinged while she was placing the mugs on the counter. He climbed onto a stool but was silent as she poured the thick, fragrant liquid full of sweetroot and goldbulb. Crisp chunks of greenlace floated to the top.

She perched on the stool next to him and wagged her spoon in his face. “Talk.” He took a spoonful of the soup first, sipped it thoughtfully. She wanted to smack him with her spoon but stirred her soup instead.

 

“I wasn’t involved in war games,” he said finally. “I was part of an infiltration mission. The ‘Sko took me prisoner. I stole the Tark and escaped.”

She let out the breath she’d been holding. That was it? Hell, she’d figured as much. There was no reason why she, or anyone in the Conclave, wouldn’t have been sympathetic to that situation. “Why did you lie to me?”

“I will explain that in a moment.” “So those ‘Sko were looking for you—” “Trilby, please. Hear me out.” She tapped her spoon on the edge of her mug, barely disguising her impatience. “Go ahead.” “They were looking for you, too.”

The spoon trembled in her fingers. “But that makes no sense. Why me? I’ve never even had a cargo contract worth more than—”

“It might have something to do with Grantforth.” She dropped her spoon. It clattered against the counter top. “Jag—What in hell are you talking about?”

“I recognized a transmission signature from the mothership during the attack, locked it in a capture feed.” He waved his hand. “Yes, I used that program I mentioned. Please. Let me finish.”

 

Trilby closed her mouth.

“What I snared was a coded transmission from the mothership to the Tarks. But I couldn’t run a decode until we destroyed them. There is only so much,” he said, splaying his hands on the counter in a depreciative gesture, “that I can do at once. Survival was more important.”

“No shit.” He let out a short sigh. “But I decoded it while you started your systems check.” And swore loud and long, Trilby remembered. And became evasive, not to lie to her, but to protect her.

“The mothership was sent to look for me. But your ship was listed in their kill file. As soon as they ID’d you, they changed course to follow.”

 

Kill file. Trilby knew about ‘Sko kill files. Anyone who worked the lanes did. But kill files were usually for revenge. You take out a ‘Sko squadron, a ‘Sko station, you’re in their kill file. “But I never did anything to them!” she protested. “Look at me. I’m a small hauler. I’m broke. I don’t go running raids on ‘Sko colonies, or—”

“I don’t know why you’re in the file. But you are. And the order, the code that I picked up from the mothership, also held a code that I know from the war. It relates to a double agent in your government, someone the ‘Sko call Dark Sword. And it relates, we now think, to this same agent using a Conclave transport company to help them. GGA is one of the possibilities.”

She sat back. Grantforth Galactic Amalgamated. Not Jagan. When Rhis said ‘Grantforth’ she automatically assumed he meant Jagan, personally. But why would he? There’s no way he’d know about her fiasco of a relationship.

“GGA would never work with the ‘Sko,” she protested. “I mean, hell, Garold Grantforth’s with the Trade Commission. Are you saying his family’s betraying him? It would ruin his political career, to say the least.”

This time it was Rhis who stirred his soup. “The message didn’t specially mention GGA But tell me about Garold Grantforth. Do you know him?”

“Sort of,” she admitted after a moment. What had it been, one or two cocktail parties? A year ago, maybe. “I met him at a couple of social events I went to.” She saw something odd in Rhis’s expression but couldn’t peg it. No doubt he was wondering where a low-budget hauler like Trilby Elliot would meet up with a high-powered politician.

Oh, Gods, she thought. He thinks I was a prosti. She waved her hand quickly. “Not those kind of parties. I knew his nephew. Jagan. Jagan Grantforth. He introduced me to his uncle. That’s all.”

 

Rhis’s spoon clunked hollowly against the sides of the plastic mug. He was staring at her, his silence urging her to speak. But she didn’t know what he wanted her to say.

“I dated Jagan Grantforth, okay? I know that’s probably hard for you to believe. I mean, he’s got money, right? A name. Position. But we dated. We…” and she stopped and had to look away from the intensity in his eyes. It wasn’t disbelief she saw there. It looked like pity.

Gods damn him and his Imperial arrogance! She might as well have a sign plastered on her forehead: I’m nobody and let somebody rich and powerful use me. She could see it in the way he was looking at her. Poor, stupid Trilby. Did you really ever believe someone like the Jagan Grantforth would want you?

“So you dated Grantforth.”

She turned back to him, raised her chin a little higher. “Yeah. So what?”
“So what did he learn from you?” “I beg your pardon?” Her voice dripped icicles.

“No, no.” He wiped one hand over his face. “About your routes. Your cargo runs. The things you told me that Neadi hears all the time in her bar. What did he learn from you?”

 

The icicles moved from Trilby’s mouth to her brain. Her thoughts froze, seized up like a clogged sub-light drive.

“I…I don’t know. Lots of things. I never thought....” She turned her face away, then propped her elbow on the counter and dropped her chin in her hand. How many times did Jagan go to Neadi’s? How many things did he hear? What could he possibly have gleaned from them that GGA or the ‘Sko would find useful? “I don’t know,” she repeated softly. “Are you sure about this?”

“I wasn’t. Until I went to S’zed’c’far looking for proof.”

It took a moment for the import of his words to register. She swiveled her face around. “ To S’zed?” She must have misheard. Last time his story was that he’d ended up near S’zed, by mistake. When dealing with the ‘Sko, the difference between ‘near’ and ‘to’ was usually life and death.

He nodded. “I, my team and I, managed to infiltrate a Syarian depot a few months ago.” First S’zed, now Syar. “That’s Conclave space!”

He shrugged. “We were following a trail of information. That trail went from the Syar Colonies to S’zed. In a roundabout way. But it went there.”

 

Port Rumor was in Gensiira, more than halfway across the system from Syar. She couldn’t see the immediate connection. “What do the Colonies have to do with Neadi’s bar?”

 

“Nothing, directly. But Grantforth has significant ties to the Colonies—” “So do lots of people. Rinnaker and GGA both have small shipyards there.” Jagan had promised her a tour.

 

“And Grantforth money, specifically Garold’s money, backs two of the mines and half a dozen other industries.”

Something hovered at the edge of Trilby’s thoughts, something deep and dark and ugly. She couldn’t quite see it, though. It was still too illusive, shadowy. “But why would GGA care about my shipping runs, or the schedules of freighters like Carina’s?”

“I don’t know. But the ‘Sko do, though why is not yet clear. We have a connection, but not a reason. That’s what we were looking for in S’zed.”

Where he was captured, and escaped. From what she’d heard of the ‘Sko, escape from S’zed’c’far was a near impossible feat. She might have to revise her opinion of Rhis Vanur, and of the kind of training mere lieutenants received in the Z’fharin fleet. Hero might not quite cover it.

“And the information your team found…?”

“Pointed to a relationship between a Conclave official, a transport operation and the ‘Sko,” he said softly. He held up one hand, ticked the items off on his fingers. “GGA or Rinnaker. The ‘Sko.” Trilby stared at him, at first in disbelief. Then as her mind sorted through the information, a chill crept up her spine. “You’re saying that Jagan’s uncle’s a traitor? Or that Rinnaker’s sold out to the ‘Sko?” Carina was missing. Chaser worked for GGA She knew others at Rinnaker. Were all her friends now at risk?

He shook his head. “I’m saying there is significant evidence that something is going on between the ‘Sko and someone in the Conclave. All the data is not in yet.”

 

“Why not?”

“Because, Trilby-chenka, I think some of that data resides on your ship. Remember that transmission I snared. This is why I can’t be delayed at Port Rumor.” He hesitated a moment. “This is why we’re now heading back to Yanir, to Imperial space.”

His tone was so soft, so kindly that his words almost slipped by her. We’re headed back to Yanir. Then reality kicked in. Hard. The ‘Sko wanted her dead. And her ship was headed for the Empire. Without her permission.

Someone other than Trilby Elliot was in control of the Careless Venture. Anger surged through her. “Wait one damned minute!”

He caught her hand as she made a grab for his arm. “Listen to me. Please. I have risked my life for this. The ‘Sko tried to kill me. They have a kill order out on you. Doesn’t this tell you that this is something beyond the profits of a one-up run?”

There was a pain in his voice, as vivid and raw as the bruises she’d seen on his body. Bruises inflicted by the ‘Sko. Who had issued a kill order on a destitute freighter captain because of something someone in the Conclave told them about her.

She clung to Rhis’s hand as if he were her lifeline. Her hero, no. More than just hers. Either GGA or Rinnaker was involved with the ‘Sko, trading dirty. That put everyone who had ever raised a beer at Neadi’s in a Tark’s targeting sights.

Uncovering that information had almost cost Rhis his life. And all she could think of was getting to Port Rumor and refilling her bank account.

 

Shame colored her words. “Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

 

“Tell you of corruption in your Conclave?” He stroked her fingers reassuringly. “Would you have believed me? A Z’fharin? A naked one, as I remember, who threatened to harm you?”

She recognized the little quirk of a smile under his mustache, saw how he was trying to add levity into the situation, take the sting out of his words. He had a right to chew her out. Jagan would have. But he made it sound like none of it was her fault.

“Maybe not right away, but—”

 

“You wouldn’t have. If I were in your position, I wouldn’t believe my story. But I didn’t make up what happened to Bella’s Dream. Or the ‘Sko by the rafts. You must see that I’m telling you the truth.”

A very disturbing truth that gave new meaning to Neadi’s rumors. The ‘Sko were infiltrating the Conclave. She clearly understood Rhis’s urgency, his need for her cooperation. Or rather, her ship’s cooperation, which he’d facilitated without her assistance. Her earlier anger drained from her. “How’d you get Dezi to—?”

“I showed him the transmission from the ‘Sko.”

Dezi’s linguistic files on Ycskrite had to be as meager as on Z’fharish. But she knew that certain key sequences, like a kill file order, he’d be able to translate. She nodded, suddenly grateful for her ‘droid’s usually aggravating overprotective tendencies.

And to Rhis. His Imperial Arrogance notwithstanding, he’d been nothing but helpful since she’d rescued him. And all she’d given him was grief, lumping him in with the likes of Jagan, thinking his only reason to get back to the Empire was because of some sloe-eyed beauty waiting for his return. “I feel like an idiot. I wish you’d told me—”

“I wanted to.” He brought her hand to his lips, brushed her fingers with a lingering kiss. “S’viek noyet. I am sorry.”

She had to remind herself to breathe. A thousand delirious sensations ran up her arm when his lips touched her fingers. And that heat that had sparked between them without warning over the past few days suddenly hung, thick and sweet, in the air.

Startled, she focused on his large, strong fingers clasped around her own. There was a faded white scar across his knuckles. A small example of his sacrifices for his Empire and, in a way, for her. Maybe that’s all she was feeling: gratitude. She sought a distraction from her warm tingles radiating through her body. “Did your team try to rescue you?”

 

He hesitated. “They were under orders not to. That is one of the risks of my position. The information they had, and the ship we’d used in the mission, were more important.”

Lives were expendable. But make sure the hardware comes back in one piece. And the Z’fharin, no—T’vahr. Rhis was assigned to the Razalka. Senior Captain T’vahr had taken the possibility of Rhis Vanur’s death as an acceptable loss. It fit with everything she’d heard about the man.

“So they abandoned you to the ‘Sko?” Her voice shook. She had seen what the ‘Sko could do when she was contracted to Herkoid. Those few that survived were little more than broken minds in misshapen bodies, now haunting the dark corners of Port Rumor.

Rhis leaned forward and framed her face with his hands. “I’m fine. I’m alive. Not even the vampire snakes,” and he traced her mouth with his thumb, “had a chance to get to me. Because of you, you know. Everything is going to be all right, Trilby-chenka. When we get back to my— ”

She launched herself against him. Her arms locked around his neck, her right foot hooked into the rung of the stool so she didn’t topple over. Her mouth pressed hard against his. He tasted slightly salty, a little like soup. And when his mustache scraped against her face and he groaned her name she knew she was lost.

And she didn’t give a mizzet’s ass.

She wanted him. She wanted to give in to that primal heat that erupted every time they got within a few feet of each other. She wanted to dive into the seductive looks that made his eyes glitter like an explosion in a reactor chamber. She wanted to explore every inch of him, kiss away the pain of every scar on his hard and perfect body. She wanted to show him that life was worth living, even if his infamous commanding officer, T’vahr, didn’t think it was so.
So when his hands fumbled with her t-shirt, she didn’t stop him. She nibbled on his ear, instead.

And when he pulled her off the stool and into his arms, she didn’t stop him. She kissed his neck, instead. And when he carried her into his small cabin, and lay her down on his small bed, murmuring things in Z’fharish she didn’t understand but that sounded awfully wonderful, she didn’t stop

him. But let her hands slide slowly down the front of his shirt, undoing it. And, as he kneeled over her, she unfastened his pants, ran her hands over the hard planes of his body. And let her mouth take over where her hands had been.

He rasped her name and drew her face up to his. “No,” he said. “I want....” His mouth covered hers, his tongue probing. Then he pulled back, sucking lightly on her lower lip before he slid his hand underneath her, pressing her up against him.

“I want,” he repeated. He trailed hot kisses down her neck, across her breasts until she was shivering. His other hand cupped her breast, then stroked one taut nipple, but gently, teasingly. His tongue followed.

Then just when she thought the explosions of delight in her body could get no better he kissed her again. Hard, this time. A molten wave of passion rolled over her.

 

“I want you. Yav chera.” His hoarse whisper filled her ear. “Yav chera, Trilby-chenka. Tell me you want me.”

 

She turned her face slightly to look at him. There was a softness in the lines of his face she’d never seen before. An openness. A vulnerability. It tugged at her heart.

 

“Yav chera,” she replied softly.

 

His thumb covered her lips. “Yav cheron. If you want me, it is yav cheron. When I want you, which is all the time, it is yav chera.”

He moved his thumb and brushed his lips against hers.
“Yav cheron,” she told him. She laced her fingers through his hair and pulled his face back to hers.

He returned her kisses with a hungry passion, pressing his hardness against her. She arched against him and wrapped one leg around his thigh. He murmured in Z’fharish. She understood only her name, though his hands and his kisses spoke a language that needed no translation.

Then he was inside her. She clung to him. He was trembling, his kisses intense as he thrust into her. She felt a long ripple of passion surge through her, felt his body respond in kind. And the heat that had been building between them mushroomed into a fireball.

He held her tightly, his face buried against her neck. And whispered those damned Z’fharish words of his over and over against her skin.

They sounded wonderful.
CHAPTER EIGHT

Trilby thrust her head through the neck of her dark green sleeveless t-shirt, wriggled her arms through the straps. But another pair of hands pulled it snug down her body, then moved up to trace the light outline of her breasts underneath.
She sucked in her breath, laughed nervously.

“Umm?” Rhis’s face was warm against her neck. His fingers had found the edge of her underpants and smoothed the lace against her hipbone. “Going somewhere?”

 

“I should check in with Dez on the bridge,” she said. I should’ve checked in an hour ago. She glanced at the clock inset in the wall. Two hours ago. Damnation!

 

Rhis snaked his arms around her waist. She could feel the heat from his bare skin against her back, through her t-shirt, and against her own bare legs.

 

The sensation alternately thrilled her, and mortified her. What in the Seven Hells had she done? Well, she knew exactly what she had done. And it had been delicious. She just didn’t completely understand what had prompted her to do it.

He was a stranger! A Z’fharin. She knew nothing about him other than he was a lieutenant on the Razalka—and her stomach clenched at the name—and that he had a great body that she had unashamedly explored for the better part of two hours.

“Trilby-chenka?”

Half the time he didn’t even speak Standard! All those passionate sounding words could be nothing more than a recitation of a navigational checklist. Or a recounting of his family’s genealogical chart. The Z’fharin were famous for their pride in their families.

Families. She closed her eyes for the moment. Oh Gods, he might even be married! She pulled out of the steamy warmth of his embrace. Her pants were crumpled on the floor. She grabbed them. “I really have to—”

“You did not want this, with me. Did you?”
His voice was soft. She thought she heard an echo of dismay.
Shit!

She turned. He sat on the edge of the bed, his dark hair mussed, the bed sheet halfway around his waist. He looked magnificent.

 

And confused.

 

“No. I wanted….” She remembered just what it was she wanted. And he wanted. And he’d taught her to say it in Z’fharish.

 

Yav cheron.

 

She let her pants slip through her fingers, came and sat down next to him on the bed. “No, I wanted this. With you. I just would’ve liked it under different circumstances.”

 

He touched her face. “So would I. But sometimes the universe does not listen, even to me.” He offered her a small smile. “You’re afraid.”

She nodded.
“So am I.”

His admission bolstered her dwindling confidence. She had to smile back. “You don’t seem like someone’s who’s ever been afraid of anything.”

 

He stroked her cheek. “I never was. Before. But this… this….” He shook his head. “This has me dravda gera mevnahr. What you might call ‘ass over teakettle’.”

 

“Because?”

“Because if you were to talk to all the people who know me, and tell them that I have this beautiful air-sprite in my bed, and that I cannot stop thinking about her. Or touching her. They would all not believe you.”

“Rhis?”
“Umm?”
“Are you married?”
Dark brows slanted over startled eyes. The fingers stroking her cheek halted. “No.” Ahh, the feared ‘m’ word. Gets ‘em every time.

“And I’m not husband hunting.” She leaned away from him, grabbed her pants again. “So don’t get jumpy.” She shoved her foot through one pant leg. “But I also don’t get involved with married men.” She hazarded a glance at him. His hands had dropped down to his knees and his face wore a slightly sheepish expression.

 

She pushed her foot through the other pant leg then stood. “Have you seen my socks?” She peered under the chair. He lifted the blanket that had fallen to the floor. His socks were there. Hers weren’t.

 

He reached over and grabbed the pillows and flipped them over. Then he turned back to her. “No. They’re not in your boots?”

 

She had a very distinct memory of clothes flying. She didn’t think either one of them had stopped to tuck socks into boots. She tried to convey that in the look she shot him.

 

He chuckled.

 

She picked up her boots, wriggled her fingers inside just in case. “I’m not going to the bridge barefoot. I’ll meet you up there in five?”

He stood. The sheet was knotted at his waist. “In five,” he said, reaching for her. He pulled her back against him, kissed her soundly. She melted against his warmth for a moment, then with a sigh, stepped back.

“You know, if you’d done that in my sickbay,” she said as she backed toward the door, “instead of grabbing me by the throat, the past couple of days would’ve been a whole lot nicer.”

“Recommendation logged and noted. Captain.”
She grinned as she strode towards her cabin. Captain. For the first time, he said her title with a definite note of respect. This was getting better and better.

~*~

Rhis stood in the center of his cabin and closed his eyes. The scent of perfume and powder rose off the heat of his skin. The sheet was slipping out of its knot around his waist. Slowly, deliberately, he exhaled. Then just as slowly, just as deliberately, he drew in another deep breath.

When he found his heart still pounding, every muscle of his body still twitching with energy, and his thoughts still racing in an almost giddy delight, he knew it was true.

 

He was crazy. Unequivocally, undeniably crazy. He’d lost his mind. His control was shattered. His discipline, nonexistent.

And he didn’t give a damn. He opened his eyes, turned his face just enough to catch a glimpse of himself in the mirror.

He didn’t look any different. Except for the wide grin plastered across his face. That was different. That was…

 

Trilby. His air-sprite. His gutsy little fool who infuriated him and enchanted him and mesmerized him. Who delighted him.

 

When she haltingly said yav cheron he thought his heart was going to explode. Which would probably have shocked most of the Empire, as most of the Empire knew he didn’t have a heart.

 

He didn’t. He’d given it to her. Which was, he grudgingly admitted as he pulled on his clothes, one of the wisest things he’d ever done.

Now all he had to do was save civilized space from the ‘Sko and life would be wonderful. ~*~

“I’ve got to tell Neadi where I am,” Trilby told him as he eased into the copilot’s seat. He clicked the straps around his chest.

 

“And,” she continued, “I’ve got to get someone to pick up my Ba’grond run.”

He leaned over, enfolded her hand in his. A slight blush rose on her cheeks. That pleased him. “I agree. Both must be done but not here. The security of your communications is not…” he hesitated. She may be his lover but this was her ship he was criticizing. Even lovers had to tread that ground carefully.

“The best?” she asked. “I’d even agree to nonexistent. This is a freighter, not a military ship.” He squeezed her hand. “My point. And we’ve just had an encounter with the ‘Sko. And are still two hours from my border at Yanir. When we get back to the Razalka—”

 

“You sound so sure we’ll find her.”

 

He nodded. “Of that I am, yes.” He knew standard procedure would be followed in his absence. He knew—barring an all-out war—her most likely locations, who she’d be in contact with. Finding the Razalka was simply a matter of going down the list. “An Imperial patrol isn’t going to try to shoot my ass off when we cross the border?” She pulled her hand from under his and cocked her fingers at him, mimicking a gun.

 

“No. Dezi, did you upload the program I created?”

“Yes, lieutenant.” Dezi’s metal fingers ran down a series of touchpads at his station. Data flashed on a small screen on his left. “We commence broadcasting an Imperial ID when we are forty minutes from the Yanir border.”

Lieutenant. For a moment he thought he’d misheard. Then he remembered. He hadn’t told Dezi, wanting to tell Trilby first. And he’d never gotten around to telling Trilby.

 

He turned back to her. His timing couldn’t be worse. He wondered where to start and found her staring at him, her eyes wide.

 

“You hacked into my system!” Her tone was accusatory but she was grinning.

This wasn’t the topic he had intended to discuss. But something in her amazement fed that part of his ego that took pride in the wogs-and-weemlies he could create. And she, the queen of wogs-and-weemlies. “Well, yes. I mean, no.”

“What do you mean, no? You can’t change a ship’s ident code. It’s illegal. That’s a sealed program. How in the Seven Hells did you hack—”

 

“I do not hack.” He let a haughty tone return to his voice. “I professionally amend system codes to perform at a more optimal level.”

 

She reached over, playfully punched him in the arm. “You promised me no wogs-and-weemlies!” “They’re only wogs-and-weemlies if you don’t know they’re there. You know. And I will show you how it’s done. And undone. Fair?”

 

She nodded. “Fair.”

He looked forward to that. Working with her, challenging her, teaching her. Learning from her. There were a few fail-safes on the Razalka that needed attention. He’d throw the problem at her, see how creative she could get.

He glanced at their coordinates. It was ‘night’ by their bodies’ biological clocks but they still had a ways to go. Freighters weren’t known for speed; an old Circura II even less so. Dragging his air-sprite back down to his cabin would be a nice way to pass the time, but it would be too easy to fall asleep afterwards, and there were other things to attend to. Once they got back to the Razalka things would start happening quickly. He wanted to be in a position to take action.

He swiveled the comp screen up from the armrest, motioned for her to do the same. “I think you should see what we’ve learned from the ‘Sko. And I want to play this against that chart we created on the missing ships. Including Bella’s Dream.”

And there was something else, something he needed to discuss with her. But then the data he’d entered into her ship’s memory banks flashed on his screen and everything but the ‘Sko left his mind.

~*~
Trilby listened to Rhis translate the ‘Sko data, watched him overlay schedules and coordinates from the missing freighters. She was alert to coincidences, spotted one he missed. But he didn’t miss many.

He was, she decided, brilliant. And dedicated. He attacked the problem before them as if he were personally responsible for saving the universe from the ‘Sko. Not just an officer who, when they got to the Razalka, would become part of the team again.

Lieutenant Rhis Vanur. She glanced at him, her heart doing a little flip-flop. She was suddenly glad he was just a mere lieutenant. He knew what it was like to be on some C.O.’s shit list. Knew what it was like to have his life often controlled by powers other than his own.

Rhis was someone with whom she could share her frustrations. Jagan only bragged about all the lives he controlled. How people jumped when he snapped his fingers.

 

Like she had. But Rhis was different. Oh, he had that Imperial arrogance but she understood it. It was pride. Not unlimited power. He didn’t snap his fingers. Bark orders. Change people’s lives without consulting them. He held her hand. Worked with her by his side. A tiny hope flared in her heart. She thought of Neadi and Leonid. Would Rhis give up a military career for the freighter business?

You’re getting ahead of yourself , she warned. But it was a tiny hope she didn’t want to let go. The ‘Sko symbols for Dark Sword blinked at her on her screen. Rhis was frowning at them. She tapped at the symbols. “You’re sure this has something to do with me?” “I wish it were otherwise, but yes.” “And that it’s tied in to Rinnaker, or GGA?”

He closed his eyes briefly, nodded. “Tell me again about Secretary Grantforth. How many times did you meet him?”

 

An image of Jagan’s lean-faced uncle flitted through her mind. The man’s reputation was impeccable. Rhis had to be wrong.

 

“Three times. Three different parties. One on Ba’grond. That was the first time. The other two were on Q’uivera.”

 

She saw his eyebrow arch. Both worlds oozed money. “But Jagan was the reason I was there. Not Garold Grantforth.”

 

“Then perhaps we have to start with him. How did you meet Jagan?”

The thought that Jagan might be involved with the ‘Sko made her equally as unsettled. He might be a cad and a womanizer. But he hated the ‘Sko as much as she did. She couldn’t imagine anyone in the Conclave who didn’t.

“I had a three-month contract with Norvind to Crescent City on Ba’grond. That was a bit over a year and a half ago. Grantforth has a depot in Crescent. One day Jagan just showed up at my loading dock.” She shrugged.

“And?” “And we got to talking. Just little stuff. I don’t know. I think he came at me with some stupid line. What’s a nice girl like you,” she waved her hand. “You know.”

It really sounded stupid now. She wondered why it had seemed so cute then. Probably because it had been uttered by Jagan Grantforth. The Jagan Grantforth. She made a mental note to never again fall in love with any man who could have ‘the’ plastered in front of his name.

“And he asked you, what? To dinner?” “Lunch. At GGA’s executive club.” “And he never said why he was interested in you?”

That sounded like an inane remark from someone who’d just spent two hours ravishing her body. She knew he was trying to uncover Jagan’s real motives but the question still piqued her. She glared at him. “Trilby-chenka.” He grabbed her hand again. She’d ask him later what this ‘chenka’ business was all about. First she wanted to see him wriggle his way out of this one.

 

She waited. “Don’t deliberately misunderstand,” he said. “But I know much of Jagan Grantforth’s reputation. And yes, I want to know what a lovely woman like you was doing with something like him.”

“I know. I’m sorry.” She patted his hand, then pulled hers away. “And yeah, I thought about things like that, too. Or rather, I tried not to. I was just so flattered that ‘the’ Jagan Grantforth was showing an interest in me. Saying nice things. Telling me he loved me.” She glanced at his face to see if he had any reaction to her words. He was scowling. Good.

“Which I found out later, he didn’t. At least, that’s what I have to assume since he married someone else.”

“Zalia Auberon.”
“How’d you know that?”

He gave a quick shrug. “I think someone mentioned it. We do keep tabs on what GGA does from time to time.”

“So okay, he married Zalia. But that doesn’t make him a spy for the ‘Sko.” Still, she thought about his transmits in her files. She had intended to delete them. But maybe there was something in them that might now make sense. Maybe his secretary, or one of his assistants at GGA, had access to her letters. She wouldn’t discount that Jagan might leave one onscreen in his office, in a boastful fashion. She’d have to go over them, but privately. No use airing her dirty laundry any more than she had to.

“How often did you go to Neadi’s?”

 

“At least ten times with me, on the Venture. But then sometimes he’d use a GGA shuttle and meet me there.”

 

“He worked runs with you?”

Worked? No, Jagan didn’t work. “He’d do a trike, or a one-up from time to time, when....” And she let her voice trail off. She wasn’t completely comfortable discussing her past sexual exploits with the man she’d just spent two hours making love to. But there were larger issues here.
She looked away from him, toyed with the tail of her safety strap. “You have to understand Jagan and I got pretty involved. I mean, okay, maybe it was stupid but there was a point in the relationship when I really thought we had a future together. A real future.

“But our schedules were different.” Hell, their entire lifestyles were different. But she didn’t want to see that, back then. “So sometimes he’d hang with me, for a trike, on board. But he never really got involved in the mechanics of my runs. He was here strictly for… my company.”

She glanced back at him. “I can understand that,” he offered quietly.

“Yeah, well I can and I can’t. He had, he has this attitude, you see. He’s better than everybody. Has all the answers. He’s way up there,” she said, raising one hand, “and I’m way down here. Eventually he made sure I knew that.”

Rhis started to reply but Trilby turned away. Her admissions to Rhis hit a raw spot she hadn’t realized was still so sensitive. “Hey, Dez. Can you check logs for me? How many times was Jagan on board recently?”

“Of course.” The ‘droid accessed the data quickly. “Sixteen times in the past twenty-one months.”

“Send that to my terminal here, okay?” She turned back to Rhis. “Crazy thought. Jagan’s assistants and secretary always knew when he was with me. They had to. Maybe this contact you’re looking for is one of them.” That made more sense to her. “Let’s play those dates against shipping schedules out of Rumor. While you do that, I’ll try to pull up all the times he met me at Neadi’s as well.”

Rhis nodded. “That could bring up something interesting. But the ships haven’t been missing during your entire relationship. Only the last two months.”

 

“True, but if they also had access to my transmits to him, we might be able to see a pattern. I always gave him my run schedule ahead of time. And we sometimes talked market gossip.”

Rhis held her gaze for a moment. “Excellent suggestion.” He sounded slightly amazed. She grinned. “I do come up with one on occasion.”
“It must be my influence.”
She groaned, then swiveled her comp screen and pulled up her files of Jagan’s transmits.

~*~

It was about two and a half hours later, just a little after midnight by Trilby’s bio-time, that the Careless Venture confirmed contact with an Imperial outpost. She glanced at the time-date stamp on the top of her screen as the unfamiliar Z’fharish words scrolled by. And realized she’d known Rhis Vanur for five days.

A full hand, in freighter lingo.
And in five days her whole life had been spun around.

Rhis’s fingers flew over the console in front of him. “Should be able to initiate voice contact… yes.” A series of lights in the center panel blinked from red to green.
She heard a male voice from the outpost identify himself, and the name of his station, she assumed. She understood very little of the ensuing conversation between Rhis and the outpost,

other than a few ‘vad’s and ‘nav’s, and common terms like ‘dock’ and ‘schedule’. And Razalka. That name she caught, along with T’vahr, and Vanushavor. Those were mentioned frequently as well. But as to putting it all together in a sensible fashion? She leaned back in her chair and waited.

Rhis seemed relieved, calmer, when he ended his communication. “This is good.” He was nodding, not at her but at nothing in particular in the dark viewport of the bridge. “Fortuitous. A tactical team has been on Degvar Station for the past trike. Lieutenant Gurdan is in command. I know him.”

“You’re not thinking of trying something against the ‘Sko now? I thought you had to wait for the Razalka .”

 

“Of course. But Gurdan has much experience, and with the facilities at Degvar I can go deeper with this information.” His fingers drummed absently against his mustache.

Deep enough to save Carina? Reluctantly, Trilby held out little hope for that. More likely, the Imperial Fleet would be looking for links and patterns between this Dark Sword and the ‘Sko— the loss of Carina didn’t really concern them, and she doubted they’d listen to a mere lieutenant if he suggested it should.

No, all they’d be looking for were answers to who and when and how. She wanted to know that, too. Then additional questions surfaced. More personal ones. Like, what would happen to Trilby Elliot and the Careless Venture once Rhis got back to the Razalka? The war was over. She had no fear of being taken prisoner. So that meant only one thing: they would part company at Degvar. She’d be free to go back across the border.

 

But she knew a part of her would forever reside with the Empire and a certain mere lieutenant. So much for finders keepers. She’d found him, but there was no chance she could ever keep him. CHAPTER NINE

Lieutenant Gurdan was a thin man, almost as tall as Rhis, but his hair was a sandy brown color and he was clean-shaven. Trilby halted in her conversation with a Degvar dockhand and watched the two men salute each other. She thought they would’ve clasped hands, exchanged a few hearty thumps on the back. Rhis had intimated they were friends, or at least, as she recalled his words, that he knew Gurdan. And seemed pleased Gurdan was here.

Oh well. Military. Trilby shrugged it off, turned back to the problems of securing a Conclave ship, and a nonmilitary one at that, to an Imperial docking system.

 

“I think we’re set now,” she told the dockhand. All ramp side panel lights finally flashed green.

“I am pleased I could be of help.” His round face creased with a smile. His accent was thicker than Rhis’s. He motioned to her ship, tethered to the docking rim of the station. The Venture was visible through the large, square viewports. “She is not common, no? Many years she has served, vad?”

You mean how do I keep this bucket of bolts in the space lanes? She remembered saying that to Rhis. It was a quip she was used to making. “She’s a good old gal. Not too fast, but reliable.” “Not what he is used to.” The dockhand made a short motion with his chin to where Rhis stood talking to Gurdan. Trilby glanced at Rhis just as he turned in her direction. He nodded, held up his index finger. He wanted her to wait.

Well, it wasn’t like she knew anywhere else to go. She needed to send a message to Neadi, but every damn sign she’d seen so far was in Z’fharish. She could easily end up in the commissary instead of communications.

She realized the dockhand had said something about Rhis and her ship. Oh yeah. The man probably knew Rhis was assigned to the Razalka. “A little slumming is good for the soul.”

“Slum-ming? I am not familiar with this term.” She grinned, waved off his comment. “It means, well, point is, we made it. He made it.” “Well, yes. Of course he did!”

Imperial arrogance, Trilby thought as she logged out at the rampway pad. It must be a compound they put in their drinking water.

 

She heard Rhis shout something to Gurdan. He was headed her way. The dockhand finished his work and backed up abruptly, saluted.

 

Rhis returned the salute crisply but with noted disinterest. Trilby saw the smaller man didn’t seem perturbed, though he scurried away quickly enough. Military!

“Everything’s okay?” he asked, with a quick glance at the ramp pad.
“Vad.” She grinned up at him. “And that’s all I can remember of your language right now, tired as I am.”

“I have a few hours ahead of me with Gurdan. Then I will be back. But you don’t have to stay up. Why don’t you—”

“I’d like to send Neadi that message. Can I use the comm system here, or is that restricted?” “It’s restricted, but yes, I’ll make sure you can use it.”
“Do you have time now?”

He shook his head. “I wish I did, Trilby-chenka. But there have been some additional moves on the part of the ‘Sko in the past trike. Serious moves. The information I have is vital.”

 

She knew what it meant when the ‘Sko went on the offensive. It wasn’t a thought she wanted to dwell on. “Go do what you have to with Lieutenant Gurdan. I’ll wait—”

 

“No. I’ll get someone to take you to communications. I know you understand the necessity to be not too detailed in what you send to Neadi? Our system is secure, but it is not foolproof.”

 

“She just needs to know I’m safe. Especially after Carina.”

 

Rhis hesitated, glanced over his shoulder to where Gurdan and two other officers stood. “Trilby-chenka, there is something… I need to talk to you. But I—”

The sharp trill of a comm badge interrupted him.
Trilby was startled. She hadn’t noticed the metal disk on his jacket until now. Gurdan must have given it to him.

Rhis had already tapped at it, listened to a short spate of Z’fharish words. He replied, tapped it off, and turned back to her.

“I’m sorry. Something urgent. Go send your message to Neadi.” Loud footsteps approached from behind him. Gurdan and the other officers.

“I will be back in two, three hours. Yes?” He started to reach for her but Gurdan said something. His hand came out towards the thin officer instead.

 

He replied to Gurdan’s comment with a several short commands. He turned back to her. “Major Mitkanos will be here shortly, to escort you to Communications. I must go.”

She leaned against the docking ramp console and watched him stride down the corridor, flanked by the tactical team officers. Yav cheron, she said silently. In a few more hours, I’ll tell you in person, again.

~*~

Major Mitkanos was a muscular man in a gray uniform. His short-cropped black hair was sprinkled with silver, his jaw was ruggedly square and his nose had a slight bend that told of more than a few fistfights. His appearance was gruff, until he smiled, his wide mouth softening the hard, chiseled edges of his face.

He shook Trilby’s hand with a firm grasp. “Be glad to help. I have heard something of your adventures. That he stole that Tark. Takes your ship. Then you find that you have the ‘Sko in pursuit again.” He didn’t quite take my ship, Trilby wanted to say. Was more like a cooperative agreement. But then she knew how stories changed as they filtered through the ranks.

“It’s been a bit harrowing,” she agreed and followed him down the corridor. Except for the signs in Z’fharish, Degvar looked similar to most other stations she’d seen, though more utilitarian. The constant blinking, flashing, chirping and trilling adverts that floated from most Conclave stations commercial corridors were missing.

Degvar had nondescript gray bulkheads and gray decking. Doorframes on the dock level were red; when they exited the lift three levels up, they were yellow. Entry palm pads were larger, with a series of touchpads on the left. And on this level, armed personnel were more conspicuous.

Most were in gray, like Mitkanos. Only a few wore the black that Rhis and Gurdan’s team did. She was about to ask why when he halted in front of a set of double doors, yellow ringed. He lay his hand on the pad, then tapped three touchpads with his thumb. The doors cycled open. Two officers in gray uniforms, one male and one female, sat at the consoles. The woman turned, nodded to Mitkanos and spoke in Z’fharish. He grinned, tapped her playfully on the shoulder.

“Corporal Rimanava will help you,” he told Trilby. He motioned for her to sit next to a young woman whose long dark hair was pulled back into a thick braid. Mitkanos turned to the other officer, leaned on the back of his chair and dropped into a low conversation.
“Corporal Rimanava.” Trilby offered a handshake before she took the chair. “I’m Trilby Elliot. Captain of the Careless Venture.”

“Farra Rimanava.” She accepted Trilby’s hand with a wide smile. “Sit, please. I understand you need to send message to Gensiira. In Conclave, vad?” She spoke haltingly, as if searching for the proper words in Standard.

Trilby relayed Neadi’s transit code. That Farra Rimanava, or rather the Empire, already had the codes for Gensiira and Port Rumor didn’t surprise her.

 

Farra showed Trilby how to activate the holocam in the console. It wasn’t that different from other comm systems she’d seen, except for everything labeled in Z’fharish.

 

“This ends message,” Farra said, pointing to a square touchpad. “If you wish, I will get cup of tea while you record. So you have privacy, vad?”

 

“That’s okay,” Trilby motioned with her hand. “It’s only a short message.” “Then I will wait. This is okay? We will get tea with Yavo when you are finished. It is end of shift for me.”

Trilby activated the holocam and started her message. There was good news and bad news, she told Neadi. She’d run into a ‘Sko nest. But she was safe, across the border in Yanir. “I’m going to have tea with two Imperial officers in a minute,” she said, with a smile to Farra, “so everything’s fine. Have Leonid’s cousin take my Ba’grond run.” She gave the details and contact name.

“I don’t have an exact ETA on my return. They’re real interested in what happened to Carina. They think the nest I found might have something to do with that.” She didn’t want to reveal anything more.

“I’ll be in touch. Don’t worry. Tell Leonid and Chaser I’m okay. Dezi sends his love.” ~*~

She was tired, but the tea was excellent, pungent with a spicy aroma. It shook some of the cobwebs out of her head, fed some life back into her veins. There were still a few hours before Rhis returned. If he finished his urgent meeting early, she felt sure someone on station would know where to find her.

She sat with Farra and Yavo Mitkanos at a table in the far corner of the officer’s lounge, a long room that curved along on the outer frame of the station’s ring. The floor to ceiling viewport showed the immense blackness of space. The lights of a small maintenance craft winked out of view as she watched.

No one else was in the lounge. She counted eleven tables, and six stools at a bar. A bank of food replicators was adjacent to it.

 

The tea was fresh brewed. She sipped it appreciatively as Mitkanos answered her question about the gray uniforms.

“Ground forces. Like your marines,” he said, plucking at the insignia of crossed swords on his chest, “but we call ourselves Stegzarda. ‘Stegzarda’ means perhaps ‘strength command’ in your language. We assist the Imperial Fleet when it comes to border outposts.”

Farra nodded. “Especially with recent jhavedzga— ”
“Aggression.” Mitkanos corrected her.
“Vad. Aggression by the Ycsko. That is why Gurdan’s team is here. And now the Razalka comes.” Mitkanos snorted. “Uncle!” Farra slapped his arm playfully.

“Niece!” he replied, grinning. And Trilby saw the same wide mouth, the same lines in the jaw of Farra Rimanava and Yavo Mitkanos.

“He’s your uncle?” Trilby asked. “Vad. Yes. And the reason I am here.” She blew him a kiss.

“What, you think I let my sister’s child join the Fleet? What the Fleet teach my Farra-chenka, eh? To think? No. To follow orders, from T’vahr the Terrible. Or maybe she spends her time running away from the admiral’s son, who cannot keep his hands from women.”

“There are hundreds more ships. The Fleet is large.” Farra was trying to sound serious but a few chuckles slipped out. “My beloved Uncle Yavo. He has no love for the Fleet.” “Arrogant rimstrutters!” Mitkanos made a dismissive wave with his hand then pointed at Trilby. “Ask her. She knows. Probably complained about her ship from the moment he walked on board.”

“He didn’t walk. He was carried,” Trilby said, not without some mirth. Perhaps Rhis’s Imperial Arrogance did come from something the Fleet put in the drinking water, as she suspected. But she didn’t discount that Mitkanos had his share of arrogance as well. More likely, she was listening to the usual rivalry between military branches. She’d known many a Norvind crew to trade verbal insults with crew from GGA

“Carried?” Mitkanos’s eyes widened. “He permitted this?”

“He was out cold. Flat on his face in a jungle swamp. But yeah, when he woke up, he made it pretty clear my ship was a lot less than what he was used to.” She grinned. All Rhis’s blustering, which had so infuriated her, now seemed almost endearing.

“It is easy to get spoiled on a ship like the Razalka,” Farra said in a conciliatory tone. Mitkanos snorted again. “The Razalka is not a ship. It is a kingdom. T’vahr’s kingdom. He is emperor and, yes, sometimes executioner.”

 

Trilby heard the anger in his voice. What did he call the Razalka’s captain, T’vahr the Terrible? No wonder it had taken Rhis so long to loosen up, to smile. “But he’s just the captain,” she said.

“Senior captain,” Mitkanos interjected. “Most of the admirals fear him. For good reason.” “Why do they tolerate it? If he’s such a tyrant—?”

“They created him.” Mitkanos folded his hands on the table, leaned towards Trilby. Farra shook her head but said nothing.

“You know it is true,” he said to his niece. He looked at Trilby. “They created him. Forty, what, forty-two years ago? I know you have rumors of this in the Conclave. He is, what you call it, a crèche-ling? An experiment. Bred in a genetics lab like a recipe for boulashka.”

Trilby nodded. She vaguely remembered some whispers during the war. T’vahr was rumored to be some kind of super-human. Stronger. Smarter. But genetic manipulation had long been illegal on both sides of the Zone. And, Leonid had pointed out, immoral in the Empire. Clan history and lineage were sacred. A crèche-ling, a test tube-formed human of unknown genetics had no definite lineage.

She’d forgotten that conversation until now.

“Some say Vanushavor blood runs in his veins. Some say even Vanurin,” Mitkanos said quietly. “But the list is much longer than that. So they don’t know what he is. Or who he is. But he came out smarter and stronger than they wanted him to. And now they can’t stop him.”

“Nor can the Ycsko,” Farra pointed out. “I have fought the ‘Sko many times and won.” Mitkanos thumped his hand on his chest. “The victory record of my platoon is glorious. All the Stegzarda is known for bravery.”

 

“And so is the Fleet. We work with them here, on Degvar, uncle.”

Trilby began to suspect that Farra might have a tender spot for someone in a black uniform. Well, she knew the feeling. She didn’t think many of her friends back in Rumor would be any happier about her involvement with a Z’fharin Fleet officer than Mitkanos would.

He said something to Farra in Z’fharish. Trilby recognized a few words but her brain was too tired to try to translate them.

Mitkanos turned to her with an embarrassed grin. “I apologize. I forget, you do not understand. I tell my niece, we are brave because we are a, what is the word? A unit. A family. We are bound by mutual trust. Loyalty. But the Razalka, she operates on fear. It is different, no?”

Trilby thought of Grantforth Goods Amalgamated. Jagan’s opinion of his family’s employees as ‘underlings’ became apparent to her as she’d come to know him. It was one of the things that had unsettled her about him, one of the things that had made it easy to walk away from his flattering words, and his lavish gifts. She’d given them all back. It hadn’t been a pretty scene.

She nodded. “We’ve got our share of tyrants, too, Major. I try to avoid them best I can.”

Mitkanos patted her hand. “Well, you had only to deal with him a short time, yes? Now you can go home, and tell your friends you survived what, four, five days with T’vahr the Terrible on your ship. They will be impressed.”

But T’vahr wasn’t… Trilby started to say and stopped. Something ominous, something cold and fearful suddenly wrapped around her like an icy blanket. Something about Mitkanos’s surprise that Rhis had been carried on board the Venture. And before that. He took your ship, Mitkanos had said. It was the way he said ‘he’. With a capital ‘H’. Underscored. In lights. As if ‘the’ resided before his name.

‘The’ Senior Captain T’vahr.

She closed her eyes for a moment, her head spinning. She felt Mitkanos’s large hand on her arm. “Niece, we have tired her. This has been much stress. She has had Captain T’vahr on her ship and now me, frightening her.”

T’vahr. On my ship. T’vahr.

 

She opened her eyes. “He told me his name was Vanur.” Her voice sounded thin. “Not… T’vahr. Rhis Vanur.”

 

Farra and her uncle exchanged quick glances. A low, guttural curse passed Mitkanos’s lips. Trilby leaned back in her chair. Mitkanos’s hand fell away. A few choice curse words of her own tumbled through her mind, but she didn’t have the energy to voice them.

“Khyrhis T’vahr,” Mitkanos said quietly. “I saw him come down your rampway on my security screen.” Farra shot a question at him in Z’fharish.

“I do not know,” he answered in Standard. “Captain Elliot. It appears now perhaps we have been too forward in our talk. But there was no indication from him,” and he looked back at Farra, “that you did not know who he was. He identified himself properly many times when your ship made contact with the station. I was in Ops. I heard him myself.”

All the conversation she’d listened to on her bridge came back to her. She understood little of it. Only basic words like ‘dock’ and ‘schedule’. And the names: Razalka. Vanushavor. T’vahr.

She shook her head. “You heard him in Z’fharish.” She gave him a weak smile. “Other than vad, nav and dharjas taf, viek, I don’t understand very much of it.” Except for yav cheron, a small voice reminded her. She pushed it away.

Farra asked something else.
“No,” Mitkanos said. “He did not put her under any security restrictions.”
Trilby frowned, not comprehending his answer.

“My niece said that perhaps he felt he had to protect his identity from you, because you are Conclave. But you would have been confined to your ship, then. Not permitted access to this station. You would have a Level Three, or more, status. He said to me Level One. And yes,” he nodded to Farra, apparently anticipating her question, “I clarified. I have not been Stegzarda Chief of Security for three years and not know this.”

He sat back, folded his arms across his broad chest. “T’vahr was very clear when he spoke to me on the comm. ‘Level One’, he said, for Dasja Captain Elliot.”

 

“Then is not a problem, uncle.” Farra lifted her cup, drained the last of her tea. “Is nothing more than oversight. Or perhaps Captain T’vahr did not want Captain Elliot to be afraid of him.”

“He would not be so considerate of her feelings, no,” Mitkanos disagreed. “He lives for fear. More likely, he knew that was the easiest way to get her to cooperate with his plans. He is a master at that, manipulating people.

“But regardless,” he said, standing. “What he has given you is an interesting tale to tell, no?” He took her empty cup, and Farra’s. “Come. My niece and I will walk you back to your ship, and we will talk of pleasanter things. For T’vahr is our problem now. Not yours. Your trouble now is over.”

~*~

 

But it wasn’t pleasanter things that ran through Trilby’s mind as she wrapped herself in her purple quilt and propped herself up against the headboard of her bed.

It was everything she’d learned about T’vahr the Terrible. Emperor and sometimes executioner on his own ship. And a master manipulator of people.
She glanced at the chair in the corner, secured to the floor with the decklock. It would feel real good to unclip it and throw it at something right now. Like the bulkhead.

Or the Captain T’vahr. If he dared walk through her cabin door again. It was with that pleasant thought that she fell into an exhausted sleep, purple quilt wrapped tightly around her, catching her tears of anger as they fell.

 

CHAPTER TEN

The words on the screen in front of him blurred. Rhis reached for his tea and, as his fingers closed around the mug, realized it was cold. He’d been sifting through the data Gurdan supplied him for, what, two hours now?

He sought the time stamp on his screen. Two and a half.
Bloody hell.

With all the changes he’d quietly made to the Venture’s systems the night before, he’d had little or no sleep. He felt it now, as his side began to ache again. Even he had his limits. Forty-eight hours with only two hours sleep was one of them.

“Run a comparative on my analysis. I need about four hours downtime. Have it ready for me by then.” Gurdan looked up from his own screen and tabbed at the touchpads on his right. He was quiet for a moment, his gaze moving rapidly over the data now streaming down his screen.

 

“We may need more than four hours, captain.”

 

Rhis stood, leaned his fists on the edge of the briefing room table and glared at the thin man. Gods, he was tired. And he needed to sink against something Trilby-soft and Trilby-scented.

“Four hours,” he repeated. “Do I make myself clear?”
Gurdan’s mouth tightened but he nodded. “We will do what we can in four hours.”

“No. You will supply me with a thorough and complete analysis in four hours. Or I will find someone to replace you, who can.”

His boots echoed sharply as he strode down the corridor. The situation with the ‘Sko had worsened considerably, even in the few days he’d been absent. No, it was more than a few days. He’d spent five on the Venture. Two in ‘Sko captivity. And two and a half weeks before that, slowly infiltrating the Ycsko system with his team. He’d been away from the Razalka for almost a month.

He’d been away from Trilby Elliot for a little less than three hours. He wasn’t sure which discomforted him more.

 

Trilby, he decided as he hit the call button for the lift. But Gurdan’s lackadaisical response to his analysis request ranked right up there on the discomfort list as well.

 

Hell and damnation! Was he the only one able to elicit results in the Fleet?

Gurdan’s team was good, but his team on the Razalka was better. Had to be. Or they wouldn’t be there.
He sagged tiredly against the metal wall of the lift, thankful no one else occupied it. His thoughts drifted back to the ‘Sko. The information he’d stolen from S’zed. The tie-ins with Rinnaker, and now, with the attack on the Venture, GGA He had an uneasy suspicion Garold Grantforth might be involved. The man was power hungry. But his political success and well-known image made it difficult to see how he’d worked it, if he had. Or how Rhis could prove it.

Jagan Grantforth, or someone in his office, as Trilby suggested, could well be the key. He’d have to look further into that, follow the same kind of trail in Rinnaker as well. The Empire wasn’t in the position to openly criticize the Conclave. Not yet.

That was something else he had to attend to.
That and….

His mind fogged. He had the disturbing sensation he’d forgotten something. Something important. But that was ridiculous. He never forgot anything important. He tolerated lapses in himself even less than he tolerated them in his crew.

The lift slowed smoothly, easing to a stop at the dock level. It was good to be back with Imperial technology again. He remembered some of the public lifts in Syar and Ba’grond. Shuddering things, swaying and jerking. Outdated. Antiquated. Quite useless. Typical Conclave technology.

He stopped just short of the Venture’s rampway. The aging freighter’s rounded bow was visible through the viewport. In the dim light on her bridge, he saw a small movement, recognized Dezi’s tarnished form.

A wry smile played across his face. One of the more entertaining examples of Conclave technology. He’d talk to Trilby about getting the ‘droid a complete overhaul. His tendency towards verbal ramblings was, if nothing else, a waste of energy.

He strode up the rampway, some of his lassitude abating. It was almost 0330 on his bio-time. His and Trilby’s. His mind filled with a dozen different ways to wake her. He could almost feel the softness of her skin against his mouth, smell the intoxicating powdery scent of her. He imagined her saying yav cheron in a shy, but passionate, voice. He laid his hand against the Venture’s palm pad and realized his hands were sweating, the front of his uniform pants uncomfortably tight.

He heard the lock cycle, then click twice. But the hatchway door stayed closed.

 

Conclave technology, he reminded himself but wiped his hand down his sleeve before trying again. Conclave technology and hormones.

It cycled, clicked twice, and went dead. The red ‘entry denied’ light glowed brightly. He frowned. Perhaps an interface glitch? The ship was segued into Imperial technology now.

He stepped back to the docking podium at the foot of the ramp, activated the intercom. “Venture, the hatchlock is not responding.”

He waited. Nothing happened.
“Venture, there is a problem with the hatchlock. This is Rhis.”

Nothing. He checked the status lights on the podium. Everything showed green. Maybe Trilby was asleep and Dezi involved in some maintenance function that prevented his responding. Several more minutes passed. The ache in his side resurrected itself. He punched the intercom button again.

“Trilby? Dezi? Open the—” It opened.

Trilby Elliot stood in the airlock in her faded green t-shirt and baggy flight pants. Her service jacket, embroidered with the Venture’s name on the sleeve, was tied around her waist. Her pistol, holstered but not locked, hung from underneath it.

The strap of her laser rifle looped over one shoulder. She cradled the weapon in her hands and as he took a step forward, he heard the distinctive snick of the safety being unlocked.

 

He stopped. Her face was pale, her lips drawn in a thin line. There were smudges down her cheeks but her eyes were dry, steady, penetrating. And as cold as the glaciers on Chevienko.

 

His throat felt hot in comparison. He rasped out her name. “Trilby-chenka?”

 

“This,” she said in an eerily quiet voice, “is one of the rifles that works.” She tilted the barrel slightly upward. If she pressed the trigger, the charge would hit him in the throat.

“I don’t understand.”
“But I do, T’vahr. You’re a lying, manipulating bastard.”
Lying? He hadn’t lied

T’vahr. She called him T’vahr. Some of Chevienko’s icy chill gripped his chest. He now knew what he’d forgotten.

Once he explained, surely she’d understand. The precariousness of his position. The urgency of the situation with the ‘Sko. The way that his feelings for her had so completely obliterated everything else from his mind.

She raised the rifle, braced it against her shoulder.

 

“Get. Off. My. Ramp.” She activated the target lock. He saw the thin red beam flick on, knew without looking down it highlighted the center of his chest.

 

“Bastard,” she hissed.

He backed up a step. Anger surged through him. Anger and a sense of loss, of desolation so complete that it took all his strength not to double over. It sucked the air out of his lungs, the life from his body, would have stopped even his heart from beating.

But he didn’t have a heart anymore. He’d given it to her.
“Please. Trilby.” His voice was raw. “Let’s discuss this. Calmly.”

“Discuss?” She laughed harshly. “Yeah, that’s what Jagan said, too. Let’s discuss this, darling. Fucking liars. Both of you.”

 

Her comparison stung like crazed firewasps against his skin. Jagan’s duplicity and smooth words surfaced, prickling against his conscience.

 

“I am not Jagan Grantforth,” he protested.

“No. You’re T’vahr. The Senior Captain T’vahr. You say ‘jump’ and the entire universe says ‘how high and when’. Well, I’m not jumping any more. And you have ten seconds to get off my ramp. Nine.” She shifted position, locked her fingers on the trigger. “Eight—”

“We will talk tomorrow. I can explain everything, I promise.” “Six…” He turned, shoved his hands in his pockets and made sure he held his head high as he walked away.

~*~

He stared at the ceiling of the small barracks sleeping room and realized he didn’t even know his cubicle number. Nor did he care. Just as he didn’t care about the odd look the quartermaster in Ops gave him when he’d demanded a sleeping room. Nor about the raised eyebrows of two of Gurdan’s team he’d stormed past in the corridor. He’d made it clear he was going back to the Conclave freighter. What in hell was T’vahr the Terrible doing on the barracks level?

What in hell, indeed.

 

He swallowed hard. This was hell. Worse than his interrogation by the ‘Sko. Because the ‘Sko he could fight against. The ‘Sko he could hate.

He didn’t want to fight with Trilby. He wanted to make love to her. And he couldn’t hate her. Because she was right. He had lied, not so much to protect himself, but to ensure her cooperation. He wanted her—

Yav chera.

 

—for selfish reasons. And he saw her flirt and laugh with Rhis Vanur in ways that he knew she never would with Khyrhis T’vahr. T’vahr the Terrible.

 

He knew what people called him, not only here but in the Conclave. Saw the fear that had flickered in her eyes at the mention of the Razalka.

And so Rhis Vanur was born. Rhis, who could be everything that Khyrhis was not. He shed the legend, the superstition, the rumors. And the truths. And reinvented himself. Into someone he hoped Trilby Elliot might love.

And she had. Hadn’t she?

 

Yav chera.

 

~*~

The crowd in the officer’s mess annoyed him. What in hell were all these people doing eating at this ungodly hour of the morning? The lines at the replicators were long, and trays were heavily laden with portions.

Morning. The numbers on the time panel caught his eye. Eighteen thirty. It was dinnertime on station. But to his body, it was almost 0600. Oh-five-forty-five to be exact. He had lain in the sleeping room for two hours, slept maybe twenty minutes.
He stepped away from the line, headed for the coffee dispensers. A broad body blocked the panel in front of him. The gray-uniformed man filled a mug, then turned. Something flickered in the man’s eyes, then he nodded.

“Captain T’vahr.” It took a moment for Rhis’s brain to register the rank on the man’s collar. “Major.” He shouldered brusquely past the man, grabbed a mug and held it under the spigot.

There were no unoccupied tables in the lounge. The gray-clad Stegzarda filled most of the room. Fleet personnel sat by the door. He saw the burly major—Mitkanos, he remembered now, recognizing the wide mouth, the bent nose—at a table with a young woman. Security Chief Mitkanos. He had turned over the problem of Trilby’s message to Neadi to him.

He was standing at Mitkanos’s table before he realized he was there. Mitkanos and the young woman were staring at him. “I assigned Captain Elliot to you last night.” Mitkanos leaned back in his chair. “That was this afternoon. Sir.”

He blinked. Station time. Of course. “I’m aware of that, Major,” he snapped. “Was her request handled?”

 

“Rimanava sent Captain Elliot’s message herself.” Mitkanos nodded to the young woman, whose hands tightly clenched her mug of tea.

Rhis saw the apprehension in her eyes, just as he saw the defiance hinted at in Mitkanos’s casual posture. He’d never met the man before yesterday—this afternoon, he corrected himself. But the battle crests on Mitkanos’s sleeve told him the older man had been around a while. Long enough to remember when the Stegzarda held power in this sector. Long enough to remember when the Fleet had taken it away from them.

He turned to the young woman. “What’s your rank, Rimanava?” “Corporal, sir!” “You on duty now, corporal?” “No, sir. Not until tomorrow morning.”

“I don’t have that kind of time to waste. Send a copy of Captain Elliot’s message to me in Briefing Room One. You have five minutes.”

 

He turned and strode for the door, ignoring the table of Fleet officers who rose and saluted as he stormed by.

 

~*~ He saw alarm flash in Gurdan’s eyes when he stepped into the briefing room. The lieutenant stood up, stiffly. “You’re early, captain.”

 

“There’s work to do, lieutenant. And unless I’m around, it doesn’t seem to get done.” He took his seat at the head of the conference table, tabbed on the screen. It blinked into solidity in front of him.

He scanned the files. “How far have you gotten?” “We should have a complete analysis within the hour.” “Should? Should is unacceptable. You will.” “Yes, sir.” Gurdan nodded briefly, then bent over to speak to one of his team at a wall console.

Rhis tapped the screen, opened one of the files he’d taken from the ‘Sko. Dates and coordinates spilled past him. But now, ship names and cargo overlay the data. Good. Good. Gurdan’s people had picked up on the patterns he’d found, fleshed them out.

He drummed his fingers against his mustache. His mouth was dry. Coffee— He glanced to his right. Then his left. Coffee. He’d left his coffee at Mitkanos’s table.

The briefing room doors slid open. Corporal Rimanava walked in. She put a cup of coffee on the table next to him. Then clasped her hands behind her back and stood, waiting.

Waiting for what? Surely she didn’t expect him to thank her for bringing his coffee.
“Yes, Corporal?”
“I sent that copy you requested three minutes ago, sir. I wanted to make sure you received it.”

Copy ? Oh, bloody hell. He touched his screen, moved the analysis data, saw his message box flashing. His fingers reached for it before he could stop them. The transit ID grayed out then Trilby was staring at him, her large green eyes sparkling, her mouth pursed in a small smile.

He knew that mouth, knew what it felt like, knew what it tasted like.

 

“Captain Trilby Elliot here, Independent freighter transit ID 1015-2711.” She paused after the requisite ID. “Hello Neadi, old friend—”

 

His fingers darted to the screen, freezing the message, halting her greeting. But her face still looked at him, her lips slightly parted to begin her next word. Or to entice a kiss.

He blanked the screen, but he could still see her. See her smile. The way she wrinkled her nose. He swallowed hard. He thought her message to Neadi might give him some clue as to how to reach her, to get her to talk to him, again.

But it only made him want to bolt out of his chair and take the maintenance stairs two at a time down to the station docks. Outrun even the lifts.

 

But he couldn’t do that. She still had one laser rifle that worked.

 

He slumped back in his chair, covered his eyes with one hand. And then remembered the efficient Corporal Rimanava was still standing there.

 

Bloody fucking hell.

 

Fatigue washed over him. He wiped his hand down his face, turned to her. “Thank you, Rimanava. I got the message,” he said quietly.

“You’re welcome, sir.” She nodded curtly, spun on her heels and walked out.
He turned back to his screen but saw Gurdan first. The lieutenant’s thin face was expressionless. Rhis read volumes in it.

“Reports are ready?” He forced a harsh note into his voice. “Compiling the final tabulations now, captain.”

“Advise me when they’re done.” He touched the report he’d been working on when Rimanava had walked in, dragged it back to the center of his screen, concentrated on it.

But he was drawn to the time-stamp on his screen. Eighteen-forty-five. To Trilby’s body, it was more like 0600. She might be awake. Maybe he should try to reach her. But if she were, then she’d had almost as little sleep as he did.

No, let her sleep. Let her anger die down. They were both overly tired. Tempers were thin. Brains were foggy.

 

Let her sleep. The Venture wasn’t going anywhere. At least, not until he said so. And not just because of the docking clamps securely locked onto her ship.

 

But because of another of those wogs-and-weemlies she’d been so afraid of.

He’d amended all her command codes. Her ship would respond to maintenance, life support, communications. But her engines, for all intents and purposes, were dead. Unless he was on board to input his overrides.

He initially intended to use the program if she refused to return to the Empire. He’d left it in place when he became worried she’d go dashing off into ‘Sko territory, looking for Carina. Keeping her safe was becoming a passion for him.

It never occurred to him to mention the program when they made Degvar. He’d done nothing to make her feel like a prisoner. If she wanted to leave, she most likely would request permission to depart through Degvar Ops, which would come to him.

And they would… discuss it.
Then he remembered the way she’d stared at him down the barrel of her rifle.

He hoped she wouldn’t try something crazy, like breaking dock and bolting off station. There wasn’t enough juice left in her laser banks to even singe the docking clamps. And besides, when she went to bring the engines online, they weren’t going to respond.

And that, he knew, would really piss her off.

 

He leaned back in his chair, realized with mild surprise that Gurdan was gone. He hadn’t noticed him leave. But his message file was flashing. The report was done.

 

Good. His gaze drifted out the viewport. His mind traveled down seven decks and halfway around the station. He drummed his fingers on his mustache.

No, not his air-sprite. She wouldn’t be that crazy.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Lieutenant Gurdan rose stiffly from one of the well-worn chairs in front of the lounge viewport and nodded to Trilby. “I appreciate your time, Captain Elliot.” He closed his datapadd with a snap, tucked it under his arm.

Trilby stood also, the strap of the laser rifle trailing through her fingers. Gurdan was polite and professional during their entire one-hour interview about Bella’s Dream, Rinnaker and GGA He never once mentioned the weapon lying casually on the small table next to her. Nor that the small green indicator lights showed it was fully primed.

She hooked the strap over her shoulder, offered him her hand. “I appreciate your thoroughness, Lieutenant. Bella’s Dream is just another Indy freighter to you. But Carina and her brother are my lifelong friends.”

“ Bella’s Dream is symptomatic of a much larger problem. One that threatens not only the Independent freighter trade and your Conclave, but our Empire as well. Every incident must be looked at very closely right now.”

She walked him to the airlock, her hand tightening on the rifle as the hatch slid open. But only a Degvar dockhand lingered in the waiting area. She relaxed.

“Is there anything else you’ll need from me?” she asked. “I cannot think of anything.” He patted the datapadd. “Your logs are very complete.” “Then I’m free to go?”

He stepped through the hatchway and turned back to her. “I personally do not know of any further information my team needs from you. But perhaps you should check with Captain T’vahr. He’s most likely still in Briefing Room One. The Razalka is due in at 0200. Station time,” he added.

That was about six hours from now. Middle of the afternoon for her. Middle of the night for Degvar. “Why would that delay me?”

 

“The Razalka has their own personnel working this problem. And this is their sector. They may want to view your logs and schedules.”

“Can’t they just use your notes?” She pointed to his padd. “You have everything right there.” “The Razalka prefers to conduct their own investigations.”

Well, then this was just a phenomenal waste of time. Trilby secured the hatch door behind Gurdan’s retreating figure and stomped down the corridor to the bridge.

She braced her arms against the back of her chair and stared out the wide forward viewport. Degvar curved off to her right. She could see various lights winking from the viewports on the different levels, and large darkened areas where the space station’s outer hull hid recessed weapons bays. Another docking ramp spiked out in front of her, about six ship lengths away. It was empty. She wondered if the Razalka would dock there, or if it were too large and would simply hang in geo-synchronous orbit, utilizing shuttles.

She heard Dezi’s footsteps as he clanked over the hatch-tread. Her fingers smoothed down a wrinkled piece of duct-tape that patched an old tear on the headrest.

“I need you to plot me the shortest course to the border.” “We’ve received clearance to depart?”

“No. And I doubt we will.” She traced the frayed piece of tape, her mind working. “The docking clamps Degvar uses are similar to the ones on Ba’grond. Remember the time their main

 

system fritzed out? We were all stuck. But I had that real good trike run to Q’uivera waiting. We had to go.”

 

“I remember the incident well, captain.”

 

She turned, a wicked grin on her lips. “So do I, Dez. So do I. I’m going to get my tool kit and drag out the old EVA suit. If anyone asks where I am, I’m in the shower. Or napping.”

She trotted down the forward ladderway, whistling.
~*~

She lectured herself while she worked. All bad things happen for a good reason, Trilby-girl! There you were, locked onto the station, the Q’uivera run dwindling before your eyes. So you got pissed off enough to get out there and gut the damn clamp locks… and learn a thing or two about station mechanisms.

Little knowing, she continued as she spliced a datafeed cable, that two years later that source of frustration would become a source of freedom.

 

It was easier this time to create a bypass around the station controls. She could now unlock the docking clamps with a signal from her ship.

 

She tabbed her helmet mic, set for short-range private channel. “Reel me in, Dez.”

 

She stripped off her EVA suit and grabbed her service jacket. Her skin felt clammy and cold from working outside. She thrust her arms through the sleeves as she trotted up the ladderway to the bridge.

She slid into her seat, clicked her safety strap over her chest and looked at Dezi. “We’re back in control of our lives again.” She tapped her touch pads, brought her course on screen. “Priming sub-light engines.”

She brought up her codes, entered them, then started the auxiliary thruster sequence. “We’ll be halfway into next septi by the time they figure—”

 

“Engines are not responding, captain.”

 

Her hands froze over the controls. “Impossible.” She dumped her sequence string, started over. “Gods, I knew I should’ve replaced that thruster board before we worked on the communications system.”

She tapped the pads.
Nothing.
“Damnation!” She reached over, ran a quick diagnostic on the thruster boards. All lights showed green.

She unsnapped her safety harness. “I’m going to go down to the engine room and see if something’s rotted out. Again.”

She pounded down the stairs. Twenty minutes later, she was back. She almost threw the datalyser across the bridge. “Everything is optimal, I take it?” Dezi asked.

“Too damn optimal. Let’s try again.” And again. And again. After the third again, Trilby swiveled around, yanked her harness off and thrust herself from her chair. She stopped just short of the open hatchway, braced her hands on either side of the doorframe.

“Damn him, damn him, damn him!”
She kicked the bulkhead. Hard. Her foot throbbed.
“Ships are usually referred to as ‘she’,” Dezi said.

She spun around. “I’m not talking about the Venture.” Her words were clipped, terse. “I’m talking about that ungrateful, arrogant, motherless son of a Pillorian bitch.”

“Oh. Lieutenant Vanur.”
“Recently reincarnated as the Captain T’vahr. Master manipulator. Boy genius. Gods damned hacker!” “I was under the impression you were rather fond of him.”
“Fond?” Trilby gasped. “Of that Ligorian slime weasel?”
“He appears rather fond of you.”

“Appears. That’s the operative word, Dez. Appears. He’s a pro at appearances. Especially false ones.” She crossed her arms across the back of her chair and leaned her forehead against them. “Damn. Damn. Double damn.”

She closed her eyes, listened to the quiet click and hum of her ship, the slight squeak of Dezi’s joints. And to the small voice in the back of her head that chanted, ‘Stupid, stupid, stupid.’

She raised her head. “Dezi.”
“Yes, captain?”
“He had you run a program. The one that changed the Venture’s ID codes.”
“That’s correct.”
“You still have it?”
“He retrieved his original but I did make a copy that I believe he was not aware of.”

She turned her head. “Have I told you lately how much I love you, Dez? You are the joy of my life. The song in my heart.”

 

“I am not programmed to respond to human emotions, but I do appreciate the sentiments. I take it you would like to view the copy of the program?”

 

“You’re a veritable mind-reader as well.” She slid into her seat, swiveled the screen up from the armrest. “Let’s see just how good this son of a bitch really is.”

He was good. Beyond impressive. She looked at what he’d done, how he’d circumvented certain code requirements and fooled others, and thought of Shadow.

Shadow could’ve done this. Would be doing this, if he’d lived. He’d been gutsy enough, and crazy enough, to use some of these same tactics.

She felt a twinge of regret. Damn him, for lying to her! For being T’vahr and not Rhis Vanur. A man who could be this creative, this downright devious, could hold the key to her heart. Just as Shadow had, but they’d been children then. She’d never told him and he would’ve laughed if she’d made mizzet-moon-eyes at him anyway.

She exhaled a long sigh of frustration. She had no doubt he’d hacked into her primary system codes and either deleted hers, or amended his own. And she had no doubt that that program was as beautifully convoluted as this ID-altering one before her.

She could undo what he’d done. It wasn’t impossible. But it would take time. A long time. A trike, maybe a septi. He had traps, fail-safes. Tweak something wrong and ten other key functions would scatter, attach themselves to alternate functions, and there’d be a worse mess.

It would be like plucking hairs off a felinar, one silky strand at a time.
She didn’t think there was enough gin on her ship to get her through it.

She leaned her head back, stared at the ceiling of her bridge, at the toy felinar dangling from its red ribbon. He had to know she’d find this wog-and-weemly. He surely didn’t think she was going to abandon the Venture, spend the rest of her life on Degvar. Therefore, he must have put this program in place while he was still pretending to be Rhis Vanur, still pretending he cared about her.

She couldn’t think why he would’ve done it, then. Except as a silent but incredibly well-crafted parting gesture to show how little she meant to him.

If she weren’t so busy hating him, she could have admired his handiwork more.
~*~

Rhis made five copies of Gurdan’s report, one for each member on the Razalka’s tactical team. He highlighted certain sections, based on what he knew each officer’s analytical strengths and weaknesses to be. Then he bundled them and sent them to his personal file, to be uploaded when his ship arrived.

In four hours.
He’d feel about four hundred years old when they got here.

He rose, wincing as pains shot through his back. Make that five hundred years old, he thought and reached for his empty coffee mug.

He ran into Gurdan in the corridor, datapadd under his arm.
“The debriefing with Captain Elliot is completed. Report filed.”

Debriefing? It came back to him. Gurdan’s team needed Trilby’s impressions for their files. Plus information on Neadi Danzanour. And Bella’s Dream. He’d okayed the interview when they first arrived on station. Then forgotten it was scheduled.

That meant she was awake. He glanced at his time cuff. Of course she was. It was damn near their lunchtime.

 

“Will you be needing a copy of my report, captain?” “Yes, I will. Code it to my transit file on the Razalka.” Which should be arriving. Soon. He hoped soon. He hadn’t slept in his own bed in a month. He hadn’t slept in any bed for more than an hour in a trike.

“…and she did request permission to depart. However, I told her to speak with you first.” “She…?” Gods. Trilby was leaving. No. She couldn’t. But she wanted to. She might try. But Ops hadn’t called him.

“When did she request this?” He tried to marshal his scattered thoughts, put some firmness back in his voice, which was starting to sound distinctly hoarse.

“I left the Careless Venture two hours ago.”
Two hours. Ops hadn’t called him.
Bloody hell.

He shoved his empty coffee mug into Gurdan’s hand and strode purposefully down the corridor to the lifts.

 

He arrived just as one opened. Three dock techs exited. He stepped inside. “Dock Level!” The doors closed. He leaned on the safety rail and tapped his comm badge.

“T’vahr to Ops.”
“Ops. Lieutenant Gramm.”
“Has the Venture requested permission to depart?”
There was a moment of silence. “No, sir.”
He slapped the badge again. “T’vahr to Security.”
“Security. Mitkanos.”
“Any unexplained explosions on Dock Level? Unusual activity?”
“None reported, sir. Monitors show nothing unusual.”

The doors opened. He ran halfway around the ring, only slowing as he came to the Venture’s rampway. Her round, pitted bow was still clearly visible through the viewport.

Her bridge was dark. Empty. But the ship was still there. He keyed in his access codes, slid back the cover on the rampside docking controls. Everything looked normal. He tapped in a status verification request. Dock clamps were secure.

Then something flickered across the screen and disappeared. If he hadn’t been so tired, if he hadn’t been leaning against the control podium, his chin almost in his chest, he never would’ve seen it. The small flicker was gone now. But he’d created enough of them to know what they looked like.

A hidden bypass.
Someone had altered the clamp release codes. And not from this terminal.
Out of everyone on Degvar, he knew of only two people who could’ve done that.
And he hadn’t.
He activated his comm badge. “T’vahr to Ops. Patch me through to the Venture.”
He waited, wondering how many requests it would take this time to bring her to the airlock. “This is the DZ-9 ‘droid.”
Hearing Dezi’s voice so quickly startled him. He began to reply in Z’fharish. “Yaschjon

T’vahr— this is Rhis. Let me talk to Trilby. Captain Elliot.” “I regret Captain Elliot is not available at the moment.” “Where is she, in the galley? Put me through, Dezi.” “I’m sorry. She’s not on board.” Maybe she left right after talking to Gurdan. Or maybe… He sprinted to the viewport, scanned the perimeters of the ship for a small figure in an EVA

suit. That’s how he would have accessed the clamp controls. He saw nothing. “Where is she, Dezi?” His tone was insistent. “I do not know, captain.” “I have to talk to her. There were some programs I installed on the Venture. She might not

understand—” “If you are referring to the one that invalidates her primary command codes, she is already

aware of that.” He closed his eyes briefly, leaned his forehead against the viewport’s thick glass. “She is.” “Yes. And she’s not very happy, Captain T’vahr.” He didn’t think she would be. “You have a penchant for understatement,” he told the ‘droid. “Sir?” “Where is she?” “I do not know.” “Dezi—!” “She did not relay her destination to me.” And he’d given her full clearance on the station. No required escort. No check in. And no

trackable badge. Damn! He pushed himself away from the viewport. “If you should hear from her, I need you

 

to give her a message from me.” “Of course, sir.” “Tell her, tell her I said yav chera.” “Yav…?” “Yav chera. Tell her I said yav chera.” “Yes sir.” “T’vahr out.”

 

~*~

Trilby swiveled the chair away from the console and looked with surprise, and gratitude, at the burly man seated behind the desk. It had been a risk coming here. But she realized she had two problems to solve when, overwhelmed with frustration, she’d stalked down the Venture’s ramp. The first was that her tinkerings with the dock clamps had probably been caught on security cameras. She needed to provide a reasonable explanation for her actions before someone stumbled on the truth.

The second was that she needed an ally.
She took a chance that Mitkanos was the answer to both.

He was chief of security on station. And her earlier conversations with him hinted that he was not a fan of the Captain T’vahr.

 

The conversation she’d just overheard had been in Z’fharish, but some of the words Leonid had taught her had come back to her. Plus she knew his voice.

 

“You didn’t have to do that, but thank you. It was uncommonly kind towards someone you don’t know.”

 

Yavo Mitkanos shrugged. “I did nothing extraordinary. I was asked a question about explosions on Dock Level. Had there been any, I would have reported them.”

 

“But unusual activity?” “I saw, on my monitors, a captain conducting an exterior inspection of her ship’s hull. I do not find that to be an unusual activity. Do you?”

She’d done it dozens of times. But only once before for that very reason.
“You also,” she continued, “didn’t tell T’vahr I was here.”

Another shrug of his broad shoulders. A comically innocent expression played across his gruff features. “He did not ask me.”

“You know,” she said softly, “I think you’re the first security grunt I’ve ever liked.”
He grinned broadly.

“Thank you,” she said again. She glanced at the screen behind her. Save for herself and Mitkanos, the Security Office was empty. Whether this was the usual state of operations on Degvar, she didn’t know. But it had been damned convenient, and damned lucky, for her.

“I gather the Razalka’s within shouting range.” She motioned to the data on the screen. “Five hours, though she’ll make it in four. Her crew knows well their captain does not like to be kept waiting.”

“Then he’ll leave?”
“That is what I have been led to believe.”

“Gurdan said I have to talk to the team on the Razalka now. If that’s all he wants, he should’ve told me.” She was annoyed, embarrassed and angry over her current situation. But she still held onto the small hope that something she knew might help find Carina. For that she was willing to tolerate annoyance, embarrassment and anger. And the Captain T’vahr, although in limited doses. “He didn’t have to disable my ship for that.”

“Captain T’vahr has not shared his objectives with me.”
“Then you have no impound order on the Venture?”
“Nav.”
“So this is strictly T’vahr’s doing?”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
She didn’t miss his choice of words. “And you don’t know if he’ll let me go after I talk to his team?”

“As I said, he has not shared his objectives with me. But I am aware, of course, that you have recently found your ship’s engines to be inoperative. Perhaps you took damage from the ‘Sko attack you were not aware of. Should I hear of something that would assist you in better allocating your repair time, I would be obliged to inform you.”

She stopped in front of his desk as she headed for the door. “Major Mitkanos,” she said, holding out her hand. “I have no idea what your pay grade is here. But whatever it is, the Stegzarda don’t pay you enough.
He shook her hand firmly. “It is a good thing then, that I love my work, vad?” He glanced at the monitors on his desk. “Go get a cup of hot tea. You need it and he is back on the barracks level now. No one will bother you.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

He awoke with a jolt. He didn’t know if it was the sharp trill of the cubicle intercom in his ear, or his own internal sense of impending urgency. The two things happened almost simultaneously. He sat up, snagging his boot heel on the blanket. He’d fallen asleep fully clothed.

“T’vahr here!” His voice rasped. But his body, and his mind, felt marginally better than before his—he glanced at the time panel—one-and-a-half hour nap.

One and a half hours. The Razalka was due in a half hour from now. “Captain, we’ve received confirmation that the Razalka has cleared the outer beacon.” Make that fifteen minutes. “Acknowledged. On my way.”

Not even time for a cup of tea. He snatched his jacket off the wall hook, slipped it on, then fumbled with his collar. He ducked his head, caught his reflection in the mirror. He still wore the white shirt Trilby had given him. No wonder the collar seemed wrong.

Trilby. More than his collar was wrong.

He sealed his jacket, ran his hand through his hair. His uniform betrayed the fact that he’d worn, slept in and, thanks to Trilby, washed the same one for a month. His white shirt was non-regulation. His jacket held no ship’s insignia, no bars signifying rank. His comm badge bore Degvar’s emblem, not the Razalka’s.

And he was way overdue for a haircut.
Hell. It was just his crew. They’d seen him come ragged off missions before.
Eleven minutes.

The door, sensing his presence, opened. Light from the corridor glared in his face. Gray uniforms hurried past him, blending in with the gray bulkhead.

There was a queue at the lift. But when the doors parted, the gray line waited. He stepped inside first. “Ops,” he said.
Two of the Stegzarda crew were going there as well. The remaining four gave other destinations.

He clenched his fist by his side as the lift sped up the levels. He fought the urge to tap his comm badge, to see if Trilby was back on the Careless Venture. Not that he could make time to talk to her right now. Probably wouldn’t be able to for at least two hours after his ship arrived. But he wanted to know. Needed to know.

But not in a lift full of Stegzarda.

There were more black Fleet uniforms on the Operations Center Level. The Stegzarda worked the station. But Fleet personnel ran it. He returned several salutes and strode through the wide doors as they irised open.

Ops was fully staffed, even though it was the station’s red-eye shift. The approach of the Empire’s premier huntership required nothing less.

The room was a large half circle that encompassed two levels, with a viewport spanning its height and breadth. He entered on the upper level, which was half the width of the lower. Degvar Approach Control was immediately in front of him.

“Status?” he asked the young woman who turned upon his arrival. “The Razalka’s just locked onto our escort tugs.”

He nodded, took the ladderway to the lower level. There was a small landing at the halfway point, where the stairs angled to the left. The landing overlooked Communications and the large viewscreen bordering the far edge of the viewport. He didn’t stop there, as he could already see the Razalka’s upper bridge on the screen—his bridge. And standing at perfect attention, his Executive Officer.

The silver-haired man saluted as Rhis reached the last step. He was younger than indicated by the color of his hair. His dark eyes were bright and there was an air of amiable trustworthiness about him. “Captain T’vahr.”

“Commander Demarik.” He returned the salute crisply. “Tell Jankova I need her full team in my ready room in twenty minutes.”

“Acknowledged, Captain. However, Lord Minister Kospahr has been using it as his office.” “What—?”

“Captain T’vahr.” A portly man in an elegant dark suit pushed himself out of the chair behind Demarik. The captain’s chair. Rhis clenched his teeth, felt a muscle in his jaw begin to throb. Kospahr. What in hell was that egotistical bureaucrat doing on his ship? In his command chair? Why in hell hadn’t he been warned about this?

 

He saluted Kospahr, wishing he could offer a different hand gesture instead. “Lord Minister. What a surprise.”

“You’re out of uniform, T’vahr. You look a disgrace.” “I don’t think you’ve come all the way from Council Chambers on Verahznar to tell me that.”

“I came all the way from Council Chambers because you’ve been absent for over a month. Captain.” Kospahr took a step forward. Demarik took a step away from him, a brief flash of distaste on his usually pleasant features. The shorter man didn’t seem to notice. “My cousin the Emperor needed answers.”

His cousin the Emperor. Kospahr always said those four words as if they were one. More likely, his cousin the Emperor—who was in truth his second cousin—was tired of listening to him whine. Rhis inclined his head with the barest semblance of respect. “I’ve already prepared a detailed report for Emperor Kasmov.”

“Good. I’ll review it before you send it to him.”
Demarik moved across the bridge behind Kospahr, leaning over shoulders, conferring with various bridge crew. Rhis recognized the familiar procedure. The Razalka was preparing to lock into synchronized docking orbit with the station. She was too large to use any of the ramps.

Rhis purposely looked past Kospahr. “Mister Demarik.” Demarik turned. “Sir?”

“Get Jankova’s team in my ready room. Minister Kospahr will have to find someplace else to have his tea party. I’m on my way to the shuttle now.”

 

He strode towards the lower level doors and was glad when they shut behind him, cutting off Kospahr’s sputtering protestations.

 

~*~

He strapped himself into a seat on the left side of the shuttle, knowing that as the small ship pulled out of the station’s bay, he’d have a clear view of the Venture through the viewport. The freighter was dwarfed by the station, looking small and battered. Her bridge lights were still dark. No reason to sit on the bridge if the engines were dead.

The long, deltoid form of the Razalka came into view as the shuttle turned. Spiky with weapons turrets and braking vanes, she was an example of Imperial technology at its best. Her hull sparkled with lights. All departments were active. The captain was on his way in.

Demarik and the Razalka’s Chief Medical Officer were waiting in the airlock when the shuttle docked in the large bay. Overhead lights blinked green twice as enviro kicked on.

 

He returned Demarik’s salute, then held up his hand to stop his CMO’s anticipated order. “No, I am not going to sickbay right now. I need to change my uniform and meet with my team in my ready room.”

“Your report indicated you suffered injuries.” The CMO rocked back on his heels and eyed Rhis from head to toe. He wasn’t a tall man, but stockily built, with a round face that looked even rounder under his balding head.

“And my report also stated I am suffering no ill effects from those same injuries.” “And if you were, you wouldn’t tell me anyway.”

“Very astute, Doctor.” Rhis handed Demarik a small packet. “There’s some classified data in there I’d like you and Jankova to review. After the meeting,” he added over his shoulder as he headed for the airlock. Demarik hurried to keep up with Rhis’ long strides.

“Additionally,” he said as they proceeded into the corridor, “I need an explanation from you regarding Kospahr’s presence on my ship. I need to know how long he’s been here, what’s he’s done, who he’s spoken to.”

They halted in front of the lift. “I don’t like surprises, Demarik.” “Yes, sir. I’m sure you know I did everything I could to prevent this.” “Not enough, obviously,” he said coolly. “Not enough.” ~*~

Rhis rested his chin in his hand and watched Commander Jankova and her team pull his data apart. On one end of the conference table in his ready room, a multi-level holograph of the shared border regions of the Empire’s Yanir System and the Conclave’s Gensiira rotated slowly just above the small projector set into the table top. Cosaros and Bervanik argued quietly, adjusting the projection’s parameters as it turned.

At the center of the long table, Hana Jankova stood in front of a thin screen, her copper-colored hair glinting as the room’s overhead lights played down on it. Her arms were crossed over her chest. Her brows were drawn into a frown over her bright blue eyes.

Standing next to her was Lieutenant Osmar, a lightpen in his hand. He stabbed at a line of data. Jankova shook her head in disagreement.

Rhis watched, listened and, at least for now, said nothing. He knew where the problems were, knew the locations of gaps in the data, the glaring inconsistencies. But pointing these out to his tactical team wasn’t the same as letting them find and follow the trails themselves.

For the trails, he knew, would eventually lead to the source.
The Ycsko.
And GGA.

The ready room doors slid open with an almost silent hiss. Rhis glanced to the left, saw Demarik enter and give a small nod to Jankova. The slightest upturn of her mouth was her only answer. Rhis had known about their relationship for over eight months. Had tolerated it only because Demarik was the best exec in the Fleet, and Jankova had one of the sharpest tactical minds in the Empire.

He’d said nothing to either of them when he realized what was going on. He didn’t have to. He’d worked with Zak Demarik for more than ten years. He’d mentored Jankova for five, since she’d come out of the Academy at the top of her class. His opinion of ‘emotional entanglements’ as a waste of valuable time and energy was well known not only to them, but to every one of his crew.

Malika had taught him that well, twenty years ago. It was a lesson he’d never forgotten. Until he met Trilby.

He turned his face towards the room’s high viewport, letting his hand drop from his chin. He rested it on the arm of his chair and clenched his fist. Maybe it was a lesson he now had to remember. His air-sprite had already skewed his life, deprived him of sleep, muddied his thinking. She was giving him an out, with her lone working laser rifle. He should be thankful. Let her go. Forget her.

Something squeezed his chest, hard. Painfully.
In his mind, he saw the kill order in the ‘Sko transmit. It was his duty to protect her.

But, another part of his mind argued, let the Conclave protect her. She was an Indy trader. She was their responsibility, not his.

He had to let her go. She’d do all right. She was bright, gutsy. A survivor. They hadn’t really become involved. They’d made love one time. A response to the stress of the situation. It had made them both overly sensitive, overly emotional.
There was no place for emotions on the Razalka. She wouldn’t fit in here. She was unorthodox, impulsive. Distracting.

Enchanting. Enticing. Damn it! He had to forget her. He had to let her go. “Captain?” There was a note of urgency in Jankova’s voice. He sat upright. “What is it?” She hesitated only slightly before answering. “You’ve cut your hand.”

He looked down; saw the thin stream of blood flowing down his wrist. In his fingers were the shards of his lightpen. He didn’t remember grabbing it from the table. He didn’t remember snapping it in half. He pushed himself to his feet, saw the looks of concern and confusion on Jankova and Demarik’s faces. Osmar’s eyes were wide. Cosaros studied the holograph with a new intensity.

 

Bloody hell. Literally. “It’s nothing. I’ll go clean up.” He tossed the broken pen on the table, belatedly remembering the units were supposed to be indestructible.

 

So much for Imperial technology. He strode through the ready room doors, his fist still clenched. ~*~ She had tea by herself, though both Fleet and Stegzarda personnel wandered in and out of the mess hall during the twenty minutes she sat, steeped in the game of ‘hurry up and wait.’

 

With every heavy footstep she heard Rhis. She steeled herself, forced herself not to turn but to stare at the darkened viewports, looking for the reflection of a tall, broad-shouldered form.

Degvar was filled with a goodly assortment of tall, broad-shouldered forms. But none set off her internal warning sirens, nor made her heart skip a beat. She didn’t have to turn around. She’d know if he were walking towards her.

He never did.

She damned him, damned herself and finally shoved her empty mug in the disposal and trudged back to her ship. It was the middle of the afternoon on her bio-clock but she was exhausted. The hot tea, instead of reviving her, made her lethargic.

She wrapped herself in the purple quilt and told her cabin lights to dim. The Razalka was due in shortly. Might already be sitting out on skim, for all she knew. If someone needed to talk to her, they’d know where to find her. It wasn’t like she could go anywhere else.

Damn him.

 

~*~ The plaintive tones of her cabin’s intercom woke her. She climbed out of a muzzy-headed sleep, aching and disoriented. It took her a moment to slap the touchpad on the wall next to her bed. “Elliot,” she croaked. She kicked the quilt off her legs. “Captain, I have a Corporal Rimanava at the airlock.” Dezi’s voice was irritatingly chipper. “She would like to know if you care to join her for breakfast.”

 

Breakfast? The red numbers on her time panel showed ship’s time of eighteen hundred hours. Dinner, her stomach told her.

 

She pushed her hand through her hair. She’d slept over six hours. “A minute, Dez.” She muted the intercom.

“Lights.”
The illumination in her cabin increased, flickered, then steadied. Damned generator! What next?

She tabbed off the mute. “I fell asleep,” she told him. “I’m…” she peered in the mirror. Gods. She looked like she’d slept in a windstorm. But she was hungry.

 

“I’ll be a few minutes. Hell. Send her down to my cabin.” Farra Rimanava looked like an understanding sort. After all, she’d survived with Mitkanos as her uncle.

 

She dragged a clean t-shirt over her head and managed to do something with her short mop of thick hair when her cabin door chimed.

“Come.”
Farra walked in, her long hair neatly braided, her gray uniform spotless.

Trilby grabbed her service jacket. Dark green and frayed on the cuffs. She returned the young woman’s smile.

“Welcome on board the Careless Venture. Sorry I didn’t meet you at the ramp. I just woke up.” “Uncle Yavo says it takes full day to get body and station on same time, vad?”

“Usually, I ignore station time. I hit too many of them.” Which was why spaceport pubs like ‘Fly-boy’s’ and stations bars in places like Ba’grond prospered. Someone was always coming in, hungry and thirsty and looking for a good time. Or trouble. Which often turned out to be the same thing.

“You have seen many places, then? This I find fasten-ing. No.” Farra shook her head. “Fascinating.” Trilby supplied, pulling on her jacket.

“Ah, yes! Fascinating. I need much to learn Standard. We have breakfast, share tea. You talk to me in Standard. Uncle Yavo says I learn much.”

 

“I’d like that, thanks.” She stepped into the corridor, motioned Farra ahead of her. They climbed the ladderway to the bridge corridor and found Dezi waiting by the hatchlock.

 

“I’m going with Corporal Rimanava to have some dinner. Or breakfast. If anyone comes looking for me—”

 

“Captain T’vahr was here several hours ago,” Dezi said.

Trilby froze. “While I was sleeping?” She’d given Dezi strict orders not to permit T’vahr on board. But she doubted that the DZ-9 would be able to stop him, if the Senior Captain of the Razalka really wanted access. So that meant he’d left of his own accord. She wondered why Dezi hadn’t called her.

“No. Before you returned,” the ‘droid said. “But when you came back on board you said to hold all messages for at least two hours.”

 

Yes, she did. She remembered that now. Her eyes had been rapidly closing. “And then when I checked on you, you were asleep. May I say I think you needed the rest? Besides, Captain T’vahr’s message did not appear to be urgent.”

 

“What message?”

 

“He said, ‘Yav chera’.” He looked at Farra. “Did I pronounced that correctly, corporal? My linguistic chip does not contain many Z’fharish parameters.”

 

Trilby leaned against the bulkhead and closed her eyes briefly. Her throat felt suddenly tight. She swallowed hard.

“Bastard!” she hissed.
“No,” Farra said, with a slight frown. “It does not mean that. It means—”

“I know what it means,” Trilby said hurriedly. She pushed herself away from the bulkhead, slapped at the hatchlock release. The hatch slid sideways, letting in a gust of cool station air. “It means,” she said, as Farra stepped onto the ramp beside her, “that he’s not only a bastard, he’s a lying bastard.”

They threaded their way past station technicians and dockworkers in silence. But they were the only ones waiting for the lift. Farra spoke after the doors closed.

 

“He said this, when he pretends to be this Vanur person? He tells you yav chera?”

 

Trilby stared at the numbers flashing on the overhead readout. “Yeah,” she said after a moment, feeling her cheeks starting to burn.

 

Farra shook her head knowingly. “Maybe not tea then, Captain Elliot. I think, no, you need something stronger. Coffee? Or you like to try a glass of our famous Yaniran fedka?”

The Yaniran liquor was highly potent. Leonid let her try a sip once. It had made her eyes water. “At breakfast?” Trilby asked with a wry smile.

“We have saying on my home station. When mizzet farts in air duct, high and low suffer stink.” She clasped her hand on Trilby’s shoulder. “Come. We go see Uncle Yavo. Drink a toast to farting mizzets. Then we go eat. Breakfast. Dinner. No matter.”

Drink a toast to farting mizzets? What the hell. It was the best offer she’d had in a long time. ~*~

Trilby folded the thick slice of bread in half and dunked it in her soup. “Looks like we got here just ahead of the crowd.” She motioned to a large group of black-uniformed personnel coming through the doors of the officers’ lounge.

Farra’s knife hesitated over her breakfast as she glanced up. “Not our people.” “I know. Fleet.”

“Razalka,” Farra said. She stabbed a thick chunk of fried fruit. “They are Razalka crew. See their....” And she shoved the fruit into her mouth, her free hand circling the emblem on her uniform. “Insignia,” Trilby said. So this was crew from his ship. Interesting. After two glasses of fedka with Yavo Mitkanos, that information barely fazed her.

She nibbled on her bread. It was deliciously soggy. “In-sig-ni-a.” Farra tested the word. “How long have they been docked here?” “Not docked.” Farra’s hand circled in the air this time.

Trilby nodded. “Synchronous orbit. We call it ‘sitting out’, or ‘sitting out on skim’. The big tri-haulers have to do that a lot. And if they’re in for more than a trike, we call them ‘shuttle sluts’.”

“Sluts?” Farra giggled wickedly. “You know. Big ships have a lot of personnel. They suck up all the available shuttles.” “Good language, your Standard!”

Trilby studied the group waiting at the replicators. She could see the difference now. It was more than just the design of the insignia. It was their spotless uniforms, their unmarred boots. Their datalysers, weapons holstered perfectly as if they’d all been stamped out by the same machine.

It was also in the way they held themselves, backs straight, shoulders level, eyes straight ahead. Arrogance on the hoof.

And not a one of them was smiling.
Poor bastards. She sipped her coffee.

Three more Fleet officers strolled in and she immediately recognized they weren’t off the Razalka. For one thing, they strolled. For another, the two men and one woman were talking animatedly. They had Degvar emblems on their chests. And smiles on their faces.

They headed for her table and only as she saw the widening smile on Farra’s face did she realize this wasn’t a chance meeting.

 

Farra introduced them. “My friend Lucho, his sister Leesa. And cousin Dallon.”

Lucho had a shy smile and the same thick brown hair as his sister. He unclipped two chairs from an empty table and dragged them over, locking his into place next to Farra. So this, Trilby thought, is the reason she defends the Fleet to Uncle Yavo.

She shook his hand, then Leesa’s, while Dallon unclipped an empty chair from a table farther away. He hooked it to the decking between Trilby and Leesa.
“Dasja Captain.” He took the hand she offered, but instead of shaking it, brought it to his lips and brushed it with a light kiss.

His hair was a richer glossy brown than his cousins’ and he wore it longer, pulled back and tied with a black cord. He was several years older. Mid thirties, Trilby guessed. Not boyishly cute—she had to admit Lucho was cute—like his cousin. But attractive, in a rugged, almost roguish way.

“ Dasjon Dallon.” She smiled and pulled her hand away. He grinned, the craggy planes of his face softening. “You speak my language?” “Badly.”

“We talk Standard,” Farra said. Trilby noticed she’d slipped her fingers through Lucho’s. “I need practice. I learn new word just now. Shuttle slut!”

 

“A useful term to know,” Dallon said. His accent was light compared to Farra’s, and he spoke Standard easily. “Especially if you want to get a good bar fight going.” He chuckled.

 

“Sounds like you’ve worked the Conclave.” Or else maybe the freighter lingo she knew wasn’t that unique after all.

Dallon winked at her. “I’ve worked many places.” Lucho laughed. “Our illustrious cousin just gets promotion to supply ship captain.”

He was, Trilby realized, somewhat her counterpart in the military. She turned, interested in learning more.

“It’s a good job,” Dallon said. He lay his hand on her left arm, leaned towards her conspiratorially. “You know why? Because no one shoots at a supply ship. And everyone wants to be my friend, to see what little goodies I have this trip.”

She could imagine Dallon at Fly-boy’s. With his easygoing, good-natured personality, he reminded her of Chaser. It wouldn’t take long before everyone was his friend. Even there.

“I’ll bet the free samples you hand out make even more friends,” she said. When the cargo wasn’t solely your responsibility, it was easy to have a case here or there turn up missing. Later found, of course, in the captain’s personal quarters.

He chuckled, winked at her again. “Captain Elliot.”

The lounge was noisy. She didn’t hear his approach. But she heard his final footstep, saw the tall shadow fall across the table. Heard the cold, authoritative tone in his voice.

Her heart thudded hard against her ribs for a few beats, then slowed to normal, as if the potent fedka had kicked in again. She drew a deep but quiet breath, pasted on her best professional captain smile and looked up to her left. “Captain T’vahr.”

His face was impassive and for a moment it was if she could find nothing of Rhis Vanur in him at all. But then something flickered in his eyes, something loosened the rigid line of his mouth. He was Rhis again. And he looked disappointed, like a child learning the circus had come and gone, and he’d missed it. Just as quickly, the rigidity was back. His lips thinned.

“Commander Jankova will need to talk to you. You will make yourself available at 0730.”

She bristled at his tone. Arrogant bastard! What had Mitkanos called him? A pompous rimstrutter. Try to intimidate her, would he? She tilted her face, let her mouth curve into a sly smile. “Your place or mine?”

She saw the startled look in his eyes before they narrowed. “Commander Jankova will be at your ramp at 0730. Any delays on your part will not be viewed favorably.”

 

She almost rose to her feet and clocked him one across the mouth right then and there. Would have, if Dallon hadn’t been holding onto her arm.

“Let’s talk about delays,” she said, anger simmering under her words. “Let’s talk about who raped my ship’s primaries and totally disabled my engines. It wasn’t me, T’vahr. You want my cooperation? Then give me the Gods damned release codes.”

“This is how you help your friend Carina?” he countered harshly. “This is how much you care?”

Trilby sucked in her breath as if she’d been slapped. “Don’t you dare.” Her voice was deathly calm. “You lying, manipulative, son of a bitch. Don’t you dare question my motives. Or by all I hold holy, you will regret the day you slithered out of that test tube and thought you could ever be a real man.”

He held her gaze for three very long, tense seconds. Then turned on his heels and strode stiffly for the doors.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN “Do you think that was wise?” Farra Rimanava asked softly. She glanced at Lucho, then back to Trilby.

Trilby sagged against the hard back of her chair, let some of the roiling emotions drain out of her. “Of course not.” She gave Farra a wan smile. “But then, wise people don’t run freighter businesses with no funds and only a dilapidated Circura II.” Nor do they, she knew, try to play finders keepers with a Z’fharin officer dumped in their laps courtesy of the ‘Sko.

She glanced towards the wide entrance of the lounge to see if he was really gone. He was and no one around seemed to notice, nor care. Her brief verbal exchange with him hadn’t been audible to anyone other than those at her table.

“He has much power,” Leesa put in, with a nod to Farra. “He also has some essential codes to Captain Elliot’s ship,” Dallon added.

Trilby looked at him. He’d removed his hand from her arm and now had both hands folded in front of him on the table. His jovial demeanor had turned serious.

 

“Or did I not hear correctly?” he asked her.

She nodded. “He hacked into my primaries. He told me, promised me, the only thing he changed was my Conclave ID to an Imperial one.” He’d promised her other things as well. Things she didn’t want to think about right now.

“And you thought that was all someone like T’vahr would do?” Lucho asked.
“He did not tell her he was T’vahr,” Farra answered, before Trilby could figure out where to start. “He told her his name was Vanur. And not a captain, no?”

“Lieutenant,” Trilby said. “He said getting back to the Razalka was urgent because of information he found on the ‘Sko.”

 

“So he changed your primaries, forced you to come here?” Dallon asked.

“No, that’s not it at all.” She glanced at the frowning faces around her. Was it so inconceivable that she’d cooperated? “I came willingly. There never was any coercion—” Well, at least, not after the incident in sickbay— “once he explained he’d been captured. Then, just after we left Avanar, I got a report that a friend’s freighter had been attacked by the ‘Sko. She’s still missing.”

Leesa sighed softly. “That is the Carina mentioned?”

“Carina and her brother, Vitorio, of Bella’s Dream. He told me that the Empire might be able to help. So no, he didn’t force me here, didn’t take over my ship in some wild gun battle. He....” Seduced me. No. I seduced him. “We worked together.” She amended and damned the heat rising to her face again.

“Then why did he change your primaries?” Dallon asked. “Damned if I know.” “And why did he not give you the release codes when you arrived?” Lucho added.

Trilby shook her head. Then noticed Farra looking quizzically at her. But the young woman said nothing until they were alone in the corridor, her friends having departed with promises to get together again, later.

“I go on duty shortly. But first, I need ask something, Captain Elliot.”
“Trilby. And what do you need to know?”

“ Vad. Trilby. I need to ask, but you not need to answer, okay?” She stepped back against the bulkhead. They were a few feet from the entrance to the lounge and station crew filtering in and out in small groups. “These words, this message T’vahr left for you.”

Yav chera. Trilby nodded, hesitantly.

 

“This has special meaning. Between man and woman. It is not like ‘I want cup of tea’. For that, we say Yav chalka about something. You know this, or not?”

 

“Sort of.”

 

“So a man does not say yav chera and then talk to that woman, so cold the way I see now. At least, not in so short a time. You understand? It is not my business, but…”

 

Trilby crossed her arms over her chest and drew a deep breath. “If you’re asking if something happened between us, yes. But this T’vahr you see here isn’t the man I knew as Rhis Vanur.”

 

“Uncle Yavo thinks he force you.” Farra ducked her head a bit shyly. “To bed.”

“No, it was— Why would your uncle think that?” Why was Mitkanos even aware that something had happened between T’vahr and herself? Farra had only learned of T’vahr’s message an hour ago. And they’d seen Mitkanos, but spoken only in Standard. Had T’vahr said something, bragged about his sexual conquest?

“Because of several things. Because of what I tell him I see when Captain T’vahr watches the message you sent to your friend.”

 

“He viewed my message to Neadi?” Great! He probably suspected her of broadcasting Imperial secrets all over civilized space.

 

“He had big sad look on his face. And Lucho’s older brother works with Lieutenant Gurdan. And he hear Gurdan say Captain T’vahr has much concern for this Captain Elliot.”

Farra wagged her finger in Trilby’s face, as if reprimanding her. “Everything must be perfect for Dasja Trilby Elliot. Gurdan, he say other crew take you to Communications, to send message, vad? But T’vahr, no. He want top person. Who is Security Chief, he ask. He give orders to Gurdan. And Lucho’s brother, he hear this. Dasja Trilby has much value.”

Trilby bit her lip. “Because I know Jagan Grantforth?” she ventured.
Farra shrugged. “I know the Grantforth name, but not this person.”
“His family is GGA His uncle’s a politician in the Conclave.”

“The way T’vahr looks at your face on screen, this does not look like politics.” Farra grabbed Trilby’s hand, gave it a reassuring squeeze. “I must go. We will have tea later, vad? And things work out. You have friends here, Lucho and myself. Dallon. Leesa. And of course, Uncle Yavo.”

Trilby returned her friendly gesture, watched as Farra headed for the lift and merged with a small group of Stegzarda crew waiting there. Farra turned, waved as she stepped into the lift. Then the doors closed, and Trilby was left alone.

The time panel in the corridor read 0722. She had eight minutes to get back to the Venture for her meeting with Jankova. The Razalka’s commander, she knew with irritating certainty, would no doubt be early.

~*~

Two things surprised Trilby about Commander Jankova. The first was that Jankova was female. The second was that she was a genuinely pleasant person. Not stiff like Pavor Gurdan. And not overbearing and arrogant like T’vahr.

The interview went quickly. Forty minutes passed and Hana Jankova was standing, offering Trilby her hand.

 

“Your valuable time is appreciated, Captain Elliot.”

Trilby wasn’t one to whine, but she also wasn’t one to let an opportunity slip by. “It’s not like I have anywhere else to go. Your captain’s locked me out of my own primaries. My ship’s dead. I’m stuck here until he decides otherwise.”

They stopped at the door to the Venture’s lounge. “I wasn’t told anything about that.” “Then he didn’t give you my release codes?” “No.”

“Do you know if he intends to release me? Or should I start looking for work on a maintenance crew?” She didn’t bother to hide the bitterness in her voice. “I’ve already lost time, and the Gods only know how many cargo runs. I’ve got a ship to keep up and pay for. I’d appreciate it if you’d remind Captain High and Mighty T’vahr about that fact.”

She saw Hana Jankova’s mouth twitch into a small smile at her description. “I will inform the captain of your request.”

Trilby leaned against the open hatch lock as Jankova descended the short ramp. Maybe if enough people on Degvar learned what a bastard Rhis really was, they’d support her in a mutiny. The thought of rallying the Stegzarda and the Degvar Fleet techs temporarily cheered her. Maybe she’d even commandeer the Razalka. Mess around with a few of his command codes. Teach him what it felt like to have everything important in his life ripped away. To be at the mercy of someone who didn’t give a damn about his needs or existence.

She slammed the side of her fist against the hatchway rim, and wished it was his smug face she hit, instead.

 

~*~ Rhis slammed the side of his fist against the top of his desk. He wished he could slam it against Kospahr’s face but he knew that action wouldn’t sit well with Emperor Kasmov. “You are not in charge of this ship,” he told the portly man sitting diffidently in the chair in front of him. “I’m the captain. The senior captain, may I remind you. You have no authority—”

“And I’m Second Lord Minister of Defense, Senior Captain T’vahr. My cousin the Emperor has empowered me to examine this situation. I have done so. I’ve read your report, and Gurdan’s. I’ve yet to see Commander Jankova’s, but that doesn’t matter.” He waved a fleshy hand. “I doubt it’ll change my mind. This Elliot woman can be used to bait the Ycsko faction. And trap Secretary Grantforth. And maybe even that weakling pup, Jagan Grantforth. We’re looking at tearing open the Conclave, T’vahr. Breaking open GGA”

“We have no definitive proof Grantforth, or GGA, is behind this. To take actions now based only on suspicion could risk—”

 

“This is worth any risk! We’re talking about accomplishing what even a war against the Conclave could not. You’d deny the Empire this victory? What kind of officer are you? Where are your loyalties?”

Rhis folded his hands on top of his desk, clenching them tightly. “I’m the best captain in the Fleet, and you bloody well know that. I’ve given my life to the Empire. But Captain Elliot is a Conclave citizen. You can’t demand she risk her life to take down her own government.”

“I can and I will. Her government is corrupt. And she’s in a position to expose that.” “And if the ‘Sko get to her, first?”

Kospahr shrugged. “At that point, she’ll already have dragged Grantforth, or whoever is involved, out into the open. If the ‘Sko get her, well, she’s only a bloody Indy. Of little value, other than she was Jagan Grantforth’s whore.”

Rhis shot to his feet. Blood pounded in his ears. He wanted to leap over his desk, throttle the man. “Don’t push me, Kospahr. You won’t win.”

His office comm trilled. He jabbed the touchpad. “Yes?” he bellowed as Jankova’s face appeared on the small screen angled into the top of his desk.

“Sir. I have my report on Captain Elliot.”
“Perfect timing,” Kospahr said smoothly.
“Send it here. To my private files,” he told Jankova then flicked off the screen.
He glared down at Kospahr. “Get out. Lord Minister. I have work to do.”

~*~

 

He wondered if Trilby appreciated the fact he was trying to save her life. He brought Jankova’s report on screen, paged past the requisite opening.

 

No, she probably didn’t appreciate it. She hated him. If he had any doubt of her emotional state before, that was gone after their conversation in the lounge on station.

Well, it wasn’t really a conversation. He’d ordered her to talk to Jankova, knowing damn well how she’d react. But he hadn’t liked that man’s hand on her arm, or the way he’d leaned so close to her. He’d glimpsed an insignia on the man’s black uniform. He was assigned to a Fleet supply ship. There were two in on Degvar at the moment.

More than that Rhis didn’t know, didn’t care to know. Except he wanted that glorified shit hauler away from Trilby.

 

Even if she hated him for doing so.

Jankova’s report was good. He could tell by Trilby’s answers that they’d gotten along. She was more open with Jankova than she had been with Gurdan. It might just be because Jankova was a woman, but he didn’t think so. People felt comfortable with Hana Jankova. She didn’t let her brilliant, incisive mind overshadow her heart.

Like he did.

 

But then Jankova hadn’t, as Trilby so succinctly put it, slithered out of a test-tube. She had a large, supportive family. A clan heritage.

 

And now Zak Demarik.

Rhis had a report to read. And an interfering Second Lord Minister of Defense to appease. And a whole other list of problems mentally filed away under the heading of ‘Trilby’ that he couldn’t afford to look at right now.

Then he found the addendum to Jankova’s report. Captain Elliot would like to remind Captain High and Mighty T’vahr that he still had her release codes. And she had a ship to pay for.

 

The release codes. Kospahr wanted to use Trilby and her ship. But if Captain Elliot and her ship were no longer on station…

 

He slapped at the deskcomm. “Prep my shuttle. Five minutes.” He made it in three and a half. ~*~ He listened as Dezi identified himself and the ship, then said the only words he knew would guarantee Trilby’s appearance.

 

“Tell Trilby I have the release codes for her primaries.”

 

It didn’t take her long. The hatchlock slid open. She had the rifle slung over her shoulder. “This better not be some kind of game. I’m not in the mood.”

He recognized the t-shirt she was wearing as the one she’d worn that first day in Sickbay. She only had five, all dark green. He knew that well. But this one had a small tear in the wide shoulder strap and the strap of the rifle now pulled on it.

He dragged his mind back to more pressing matters. Like getting her the hell off station as quickly as possible. “Requesting permission to come aboard, captain,” he said quietly.

Her eyes narrowed. He knew she didn’t trust him. “You brought the codes?”
He tapped one finger against his head.

“Oh, terrific.” She hesitated; she’d clearly been hoping he was simply going to hand her a coded disk. Clearly not wanting him on board. For a moment, something ugly gripped his gut. What if she had that supply officer in her cabin?

He’d be obliged to kill the man. But he’d give her the codes, first. “This won’t take long.” Reluctantly, she stepped back, and held out her hand towards the corridor behind her. “After you. Captain.”

 

He sat at the copilot’s station, brought up the initialization primaries. Her scent of powder and flowers surrounded him. The toy felinar dangled over his head. Behind him, Dezi’s joints squeaked. He locked the moment in his memory. It would be the last one he’d have of her for a long time. “You might want to record this,” he told her before he brought up his program. “You might need it, sometime.”

 

Surprise flashed through her eyes, then she nodded at Dezi. He heard the ‘droid’s metal fingers tap the touchpads at navigation.

It took him three minutes to undo his program, to reinsert her codes, align her commands in proper order. It would have taken him longer, but she’d already been working on it, he saw. Done pretty damn well. He saw the two minor errors that had stymied her, kept her from unraveling it further. Had she known about those, she would’ve been gone long before now.

He sat back, motioned to her controls. “Go ahead.”
“Not until you answer one question.”

This surprised him. He thought she’d toss his ass and get the hell away from Degvar at her first opportunity.

“If I can.”
“Are you schizophrenic?” “What?”

“You’re a rude, arrogant son of a bitch. You’ve got an ego half the size of civilized space and a temper to match. You don’t give a damn about anyone or anything. Other than yourself. And then every so often, you’re actually a nice person. Like now.” She reached over, tapped her finger on his armrest as if to get his attention. “You really ought to see a doctor. I’m serious.”

He pulled himself out of the chair. She was too close to him. He needed something between them, starting with the metal and padding of the copilot’s chair. And then, eventually, the vastness of space, of the Empire and the Conclave.

“I appreciate your advice. And ask now that you follow mine. It is important.” She swiveled around to follow his actions. He looked down at her.

 

“Two things, Trilby-chenka.” The affectionate term slipped out before he could stop it. He saw spots of color form on her cheeks. But her eyes flashed in anger.

He held up his index finger. “First, do not use the Venture’s ID until you reach Port Rumor. Use the Imperial code I created. The ‘Sko kill order is keyed to your Conclave ID. Change the name of your ship, get a new code when you get home.”

He raised another finger. “Second, you have ten minutes to depart Degvar. After that, my real evil self will reappear and I will once again be that arrogant, loathsome bastard intent only on crushing everyone and everything in his path. Do you understand?”

She nodded. Her fingers flew to the controls. “Bringing sublight engines on line.” Green lights flashed and he felt the familiar, out of synch trembling under his boots.

Her voice stopped him at the hatchway to the corridor.
“T’vahr.”

He looked back into the bridge, saw her turn around in her seat. “I never said you were loathsome. Now get the hell off my ship.”

 

He tapped his comm badge as her rampway sealed behind him. “T’vahr to Ops. Emergency departure clearance for the Careless Venture. My authorization.”

 

He didn’t wait for a reply. No one on Degvar would dare question a command from the Senior Captain T’vahr.

 

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Trilby held her breath when she contacted Degvar Departure for clearance. It was entirely possible Rhis was up to something. She didn’t know what, but the fact that she was back in control of her ship made her feel a bit more confident. Whatever it was, she could handle it. Now.

Degvar Departure cleared her, even withdrew the docking clamps. She didn’t have to use her own wog-and-weemly after all.

 

She powered the thrusters as the ship dropped away from the station. She would’ve loved to crank the engines to full power, blast a few holes in the Imperial outpost’s outer hull. But she didn’t wish all Imperials to hell. She thought kindly of Farra and Mitkanos. And Farra’s friends.

Only Rhis… Khyrhis T’vahr, she corrected herself. She’d reserve judgment on T’vahr until she was safely back in Port Rumor. She banked the Venture and headed for the Degvar inner beacon. Twenty minutes later, she

cleared the outer beacon and cranked her drives up to full power. All lights showed green. All conditions were go. “Let’s get the hell out of here,” she told Dezi and retracted the vanes flat against the Venture’s hull. No one out here to complain about her energy wake. She had a clear path to the border.

Three hours. Three hours, thirty-one minutes and seventeen seconds, according to Dezi. Three hours, thirty-one minutes and sixteen seconds. She’d be back in Conclave space, could pick up the first jumpgate. She could forget all about the Captain T’vahr. It’d be a trike to Port Rumor from there. She could forget all about Rhis Vanur. She could—

—bring her weapons systems on line. Alarms wailed through the small bridge. Her short

range scanners went into overload. “What in hell we got, Dez?” she shouted over the din. She slapped at the alarm cut off. “A full squadron of attack fighters. ETA ten minutes.” “’Sko? Out here?” “Imperial.” Imperial? “We’re broadcasting that Imperial ID!” “Affirmative.” “Hail the bastards. Something’s wrong!” “Hailing frequency open.” “This is Captain Elliot. I’ve got clearance through your space from Degvar.” “Maybe they’re an escort,” Dezi posited. She glanced at the scanners. The fighters were armed and under full power. “Fat chance.” “Captain Elliot, this is Imperial Squadron Leader.” She turned towards the speaker at the

sound of the pilot’s voice. It was a stupid habit. She couldn’t see him. She’d have to break herself of it one of these days. Right after she broke herself of the habit of trusting Gods damned arrogant Imperials.

“Power down,” the pilot said. “Or we will be forced to take aggressive action.” “Look, I’ve got clearance—”
“Power down, captain. Or—”
She cut off his transmission, whirled towards Dezi. “I need a jumpgate. Any jumpgate.” “Captain, this ship’s guidance system isn’t reliable in an Imperial—”
“Get me a Gods damned jumpgate!”

“Locating a jumpgate.” She banked the Venture hard to starboard, away from the fighters. They followed, effortlessly. “Anything?”

Three coordinates flashed on her screen. “Shit.” They were far away and she didn’t even recognize the energy signature on the closest one. She changed course for it, anyway.

The fighters pulled closer. “Dezi, disconnect life support. Or we’re not going to make it.”

The ‘droid ambled quickly off the bridge. She sealed it behind him. “Damn you, T’vahr,” she murmured. “Damn you, damn you.”

She knew now what he’d done. He set her free so he could arrange a convenient ‘accident’. No record of what happened on Avanar, or her unwise conversation with him on Degvar. No one to have to pay reward money to. Probably wouldn’t even be enough left, after the fighters were finished with her, to line a mizzet’s nest.

Her ship bucked as the drives surged with the increase in power. Life support was off line. All power was cut off except for the bridge and the drive room.

 

She searched frantically for signs of the jumpgate. Imperial energy signatures were different. Her equipment was all Conclave issue. Incompatibilities were rampant. But they might not be fatal. The fighters racing up behind her looked damned fatal, indeed. Then the familiar three-tone chime pinged from her console. She had a lock on the jumpgate. Five minutes, they’d be in range.

Its outline coalesced on her screen, shimmering. She had to reach it before the fighters intercepted her. There was no guarantee they wouldn’t follow her in, but it was, she hazarded, a fifty-fifty chance. And as long as she stayed in the gate, they couldn’t fire their weapons.

She’d be going hell-bent for the Gods knew where, but they couldn’t kill her. And it would give her time to send out an RFA No. An SUA Somebody, somewhere, would have to hear her.

 

“Four minutes,” she told Dezi. “Bringing hyperdrive engine on line. Secure—”

She slammed against the bulkhead panel beside her chair. Her safety straps dug into her ribs. She screamed an angry, hoarse cry of fear. Sparks erupted behind her. The bridge plunged into darkness and the horrifying sound of metal tearing and buckling was the last thing she remembered.

~*~

It was a flawless plan. Perfect. If what he suspected was true, it would bring Dark Sword out into the open. It would expose his dealings with the ‘Sko. It would show how he threatened Rinnaker, unless they followed his orders. And it would destroy Jagan Grantforth and GGA

He sat back in his office chair, justifiably pleased with himself. It had taken him only two-and-a-half hours to draft it. He’d throw it at Demarik and Jankova, let them tear it apart, and then put the final touches to it.

Then all that was needed was about six months to implement it. Six months and nothing in the Conclave would be the same again. Except places like Port Rumor. Things rarely changed there, no matter who was in power.

He’d wait another three months after that, give things time to settle down. Then he’d contact her. Through Neadi Danzanour, probably. He might be an arrogant bastard, but at least he wasn’t loathsome.

He swiveled his chair to one side, intent on a cup of hot tea when his office door chimed. He looked at the overhead ID. Demarik and Jankova.

He shrugged. They probably were working on some ideas of their own. “Come.”
The doors slid open.

“More suggestions, commanders?” He started to rise, started to motion them into the chairs across from his desk. But he stopped, half out of his seat, his right hand in mid air.
Demarik and Jankova looked like death. No, they looked like they brought news of death. They stood stiffly, hands clasped behind their backs, bleak expressions on their faces.

He waited until the doors slid closed, then braced both hands on the top of his desk. “Tell me.”

A quick glance between the two of them. Neither wanted to tell him the news. Kasmov, he thought. Someone had assassinated the emperor. But no, that would come to him first. Through Vanushavor’s office—

Rafi. Rafi was—
Oh Gods. No. Trilby.
“Tell me!” he ordered.

Jankova spoke first. “An Imperial fighter squadron intercepted the Careless Venture out by the Sachor jumpgate.”

 

“What was she.... she had no reason to head there!” He looked from Jankova to Demarik. He found it hard to breathe. He forced himself to speak. “On whose orders?”

 

“Kospahr’s.” Demarik’s voice held an undisguised note of derision.

 

“Kospahr sent a squadron....” He felt like something had just kicked him in the gut. “Status of the Venture!”

 

“She took a direct hit, sir.” Jankova stepped towards him, her arms loose at her sides. “I’m sorry.” He’d never felt so cold and so raging hot at the same time. For a moment, his mind locked. He heard only Jankova’s last words: S’viek noyet. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.

 

Unbearable anguish flooded through him. He lunged past his desk, intent only on finding Kospahr. And killing him.

Trilby was gone. Nothing mattered anymore.
He felt Jankova tackle his waist. Demarik grabbed his shoulders, tried to block his mad charge.

Fools! I could snap both their necks, right now. He ripped Demarik’s hands from his shoulders, turned to wrench Jankova off of him but the woman was repeating something, over and over again.

It finally sank in.
Trilby might still be alive.

He swung around, leaned one arm against the wall for support and grabbed Jankova by the elbow. He yanked her against him.

 

“She’s alive?”

 

“It’s possible, sir. But you can’t go after Kospahr, now. You have to listen.” She lay one hand against his chest, stepped back. “Please. Listen to what Zak found out.”

She looked back at Demarik, who was gingerly lifting himself off the floor.
Rhis released her.

“Sit, Captain. Please.” Demarik motioned to one of the chairs. It was skewed from its decklock, its covering torn, but still in one piece.

 

“I’ll stand.” He was breathing hard, the pain in his chest coming in long waves, crashing against that open space where his heart used to be.

 

Jankova retreated to the battered chair. Demarik stood behind her, one hand on her shoulder.

“We know about Kospahr’s plans for Captain Elliot. We know you gave Captain Elliot the release codes,” Demarik began. “And that you authorized departure clearance. However, Kospahr doesn’t know you authorized it. He only knows, or rather he thinks Captain Elliot escaped.”

“But Degvar Ops—”

“A Lieutenant Lucho Salnay has confessed to assisting her escape,” Jankova said. “You may not remember him, captain. He’s a good friend of Corporal Rimanava’s, in station communications. They were seen talking to Captain Elliot in the station lounge earlier.”

He met Jankova’s level gaze. She knew he’d been there. And he knew Salnay’s confession was a sham. To save him, T’vahr the Terrible.

“If Kospahr knew the orders came from you,” Jankova continued, “you’d be facing a court-martial. At the very least, he’d order Zak to take over command of the Razalka. We’d have to do so, at least until an investigation was initiated.”

He nodded. The stupidity of the blatantness of his actions came home to him.

 

“You wouldn’t be able to help her from the brig. And if she is beyond help,” she added, her voice softer, “I don’t think she’d want you to throw your career away over someone like Durwin Kospahr.”

“If he killed her?” His voice was raw. He couldn’t believe he was saying those words. “Then we’ll deal with that. Trust us, captain. Zak and I will deal with that.”
“And this Salnay?”

Demarik gave him a ghost of a smile. “Major Mitkanos is handling Salnay. He’s Rimanava’s uncle, you know,” he added casually.

Mitkanos. And people accused him of having his own little kingdom on the Razalka! “Who told Kospahr the Venture was gone?”
“We’re not sure, yet,” Demarik said. “Possibly Pavor Gurdan.”
“Bastard! I’ll see him and Kospahr in hell.” He slammed his fist hard against the wall. Jankova stood, stepped towards him, her face gentle with heartbreaking compassion.

He drew a deep breath. “Tell me everything you know about what happened. About Trilby. When will you know if she’s still alive?”

“The squadron was based on Degvar. Mitkanos—”
“Let me guess. Has a brother in the squad.”

“Sister-in-law, I believe,” Jankova said. “But she’s not squad leader. She’s managed to leak the information that it appears enviro’s still working on the bridge. But not the rest of the ship. They’ve got the Venture in tow, now.”

Rhis stood rigidly still. Thoughts, images played through his mind. He clasped his hands, threading his fingers together and brought them up to cover his mouth. Did he dare voice his small hope?

He dropped his hands, motioned towards Jankova. “She does that. Cuts off life support when she needs extra power for the engines. She’s got that ship rigged, well….” He shook his head. “You wouldn’t believe how she’s got that ship rigged.”

He thought of a small toy felinar, dangling from a red ribbon. His throat tightened. He had to turn his face away from Jankova.

“How long before the squadron returns?” he asked after a moment. “At tow speeds, an hour,” Demarik said. “But we could—

“—meet her! Gods!” He barreled towards the door, shoving it aside when it didn’t slide open quickly enough. “Mister Demarik,” he called to the man hurrying down the corridor behind him. “I want us moving in five minutes. Plot an intercept course.”

“Aye, sir!” He slapped his comm badge. “T’vahr to Sickbay! Tell Doc Vanko to get his ass out of that poker game and get a full emergency med team assembled on shuttle deck six in fifteen minutes.”

He slapped it off and was five feet from the doors to the upper bridge when Jankova grabbed his arm. “Captain, remember. You knew nothing of this until we told you of her escape. You have to keep focused on that. You have to play it like—”

“I’m the usual arrogant, manipulative, loathsome bastard I always am? Yes, commander, I think I can do that.”

 

“I’ll be on the bridge at my station, should you need me.” She stepped towards the lift. Her station was on the lower tier.

 

“Hana,” he said. “Thank you.”

 

She gave him a soft smile, but no hopes. No hopes. Trilby might be alive. But he had to accept the fact she might not be.

 

He strode onto the upper bridge, bellowing orders, making sure everyone felt his anger at being made a fool of by a little no-account Indy freighter captain.