Chapter 2

Her ship looked terrible. But then, that had been Simon's intention. Gillie walked in silence by Admiral Makarian's side as he inspected the exterior of the starfreighter. Four loading bays, two starboard, two port, gave the stern a bulbous silhouette. The main rampway and airlock were just aft of the bridge. By all appearances, a common Rondalaise-class short-hauler, a teardrop shape of matte gray and black metal platings, one of thousands out there.

At least that's what the passing Khalaran patrol ship's files had revealed to Simon while their ship had been cloaked, and she'd been on the floor, unconscious. Thank the Gods the cloaking function hadn't been damaged by the Fav'lhir fighter craft.

And thank the Gods that Simon had realized, long before she did, that they were not only somewhere they didn't belong, but somewhen.

It had been left to her to figure out the rest of the bad news.

"How many ships did you say fired on you?" The admiral's dark eyes narrowed as he examined the large blackened area of hull plating forward of the starboard bay door.

"Two, sir." She repeated what Simon had felt was reasonable, based on what he could draw from this station's tactical databanks. "But I never got a visual. And I don't know what my logs will show."

"Let's find out."

Admiral Makarian was not happy. Gillie didn't need her telepathic senses to figure that out. It was in the tension in his broad shoulders, in the way the tall man moved like a jungle pantrelon, poised to jump on its prey.

He reminded her of a pantrelon, with his dark hair and eyes, his black uniform accenting his sleekly muscled body. Pure Khalar, and definitely attractive. His people had changed little in three hundred and some odd years. Except to become a little less warlike, a little more tolerant than she remembered them. And a lot less careful.

Though Makarian might be the exception.

It's your fault.

Simon's teasing comment reached her as she palmed open the ship's main hatch. He found the temple, and her attendant goddesshood, amusing. She didn't.

It's not my fault! She could feel Makarian's breath on her hair, the heat from his body brushing hers as the hatch slid open. He didn't trust her more than five inches away from him.

The Holy Guidelines of the Goddess Kiasidira-

We're all Tridivinians. There is no Goddess Kiasidira and you damn well know it!

My Lady...

Stuff a sock in it, Simon. I don't have time for that right now.

The small bridge was appropriately disheveled. She sent Simon a mental nod of appreciation. She'd been out cold while he'd altered the ship into something suitable for this situation, place and time. He'd done a damn good job of it.

Gillie slid into the pilot's chair, dusted some debris from the console in front of her. It was her first look at Simon's rendition, and deception, but she'd helmed a variety of starships most of her adult life. She let her fingers play over the touchpads, knowing the pads wouldn't respond right away. They weren't supposed to. Not until she and Simon could figure out who they were supposed to be and provide the wary admiral with information that would make him leave them alone. They needed privacy, secrecy to effect the repairs.

She let out what she hoped was a convincing sigh of frustration. "Systems aren't responding."

Makarian leaned around her, repeated her sequence on the console. Tried two more. The screens before them flickered, then died.

"I'll need some time to work on her system synchs," she told him.

He took the copilot's seat next to her. "Don't try to play games with me, Captain. You won't succeed."

She swiveled to face him. "Sir?" Had she let something slip? Did he suspect the truth?

"This ship's on lockout. Yes, that's a safety measure to prevent hijackings. But there's not a smuggler I've boarded that didn't have his ship rigged to mimic a safety lockout, just to keep Fleet from accessing his files. And I've opened every one."

He leaned his elbows on his knees, his narrowed eyes sending a clear warning. And a clear message that he thought she was a smuggler. Not a goddess. She let out a slow sigh of relief as he continued, "You have two choices. We can do this the easy way, and you unlock those files now. Or we can do it the hard way. And you'll face not only smuggling charges, but obstruction of an investigation and any other charge I can throw at you while I'm unscrambling your codes. And unscramble them, I will."

I think he likes you.

Shut up, Simon.

She put on her most conciliatory expression. "I assure you, Admiral, there's no deliberate obstruction on my part." Well, not for the reasons he thought anyway. "My ship was damaged. Send someone below decks to verify that while I try to realign my databanks, if you want. Only make sure they're willing to help, and not just be decorative. I've a lot of work just to get this ship operative again. The sooner I do, the sooner my existence here will cease to be a problem for both of us."

"Anxious to get home?"

Home wasn't a possibility. Home had ceased to exist, three hundred and forty-two years ago. The best she could hope for was to get back to Raheiran space as quickly as possible and leave the erroneous legend of the Lady Goddess Kiasidira far behind her. However, Simon was in no condition to handle the complexities, and stresses, of transiting the Rift right now. His initial three-week estimate might have been overly optimistic. "I'm anxious to be somewhere my every move's not questioned."

One dark eyebrow lifted slightly. "Open those files."

"I can't." Simon hadn't finished constructing them. She sure as hell wasn't going to show him her real logs. The damn Khalar would probably deem them sacred texts, or some such nonsense. "I need time."

He sighed. His disappointment filtered over her. She pulled her telepathic field in more tightly. It was one thing to prudently monitor the enemy. It was totally another to let his emotions become a distraction.

I told you. I think he likes you.

"The hard way, then, is it?" Makarian shoved himself to his feet.

"Admiral Makarian." She rose as well. In the small confines of the bridge, they should have been nose to nose. They weren't. They were her nose to his chest. Gillie tamped down her irritation. His size gave him the obvious advantage in an intimidation contest.

But only the obvious. To reveal the unobvious would cause more problems than she was willing to deal with.

She let her arms rise and fall to her sides in a gesture of exasperation. It wasn't totally feigned. How much longer do you need, Simon?

A few hours, at most. I'm still not functioning at full capacity. And this station's databanks are singularly disorganized.

He wants to see something, now.

Those new trick shots of yours at billiards are quite impressive.

Simon!

"Willing to cooperate, Captain Davré?" Makarian's deep voice was a low rumble.

Simon, give me something.

I snagged a block of shipping manifests. They're not perfect. By the time you take him below decks, I might have them passable.

Lock him out of everything but that, then. Gillie gestured toward the bridge hatchway. "My databanks are yours, Admiral. I've nothing to hide." She prayed she had something believable to show him.

She took the ladderway stairs just aft of the bridge down the two decks to engineering. Makarian's heavy bootsteps thudded after her.

Her stomach clenched when the admiral stopped midcorridor, dark head angled slightly to the right. His casual posture, with his hands shoved carelessly in his pants pockets, didn't deceive her. Simon's layout didn't completely match the freighter he was simulating. Makarian had just caught that.

A distinct sensation of suspicion broke through her telepathic shield. Damn it! If she locked her own senses down any further she'd be useless. It wasn't as if she were probing for his feelings; Raheirans were taught to respect others' privacy.

And as much as she understood his suspicions, she had no desire to experience them. She had to appear calm, innocent, cooperative. Not flinch every time he did.

"You've done some modifications to this ship," he said when their gazes met.

"I'm not the original owner."

He seemed to accept that. His disquiet lessened but continued to simmer as he followed her down the corridor.

She palmed open the door marked "Engineering." A small room, left and right interior bulkheads lined with long consoles, and a narrow walkway between them. It wasn't dissimilar to her ship's actual layout. Since Makarian had already caught some differences she hoped he might see this only as further evidence of her admitted modifications.

She sat at the primary console. It showed power active. Unlike the bridge, basic screens responded here, verifying life support, fuel levels and hull integrity. Those functions survived all but total destruction of a ship.

She brought up the ship's main databanks and stood. "Be my guest."

He gave her a glance that was unreadable to everyone but a telepath. He wanted to trust her, to believe her. Why, she didn't know, nor would she probe to find out. It was only a fleeting emotion she sensed. But for the moment it changed her categorizing him as the enemy. And it unsettled her.

Then it was gone, his concentration focused on the screens before him. He keyed in a string of commands and for the next twenty minutes she watched him play games with Simon.

There was a moment of satisfaction when he found the file of manifests. She held her breath while he gave them more than a cursory glance. They looked fine to her, but she didn't know exactly what he was looking for.

They must have looked fine to him, too. He tagged them, refiled them, and went back to his hunt.

From that point, all she could sense from him was frustration.

Finally, he dragged one hand over his face and swiveled toward her. "You're either very, very good, Davré, or you've got a very big problem."

She felt Simon's gleeful chortle, ignored it. "I've had two system failures in the past six months. Been running on patches. This new damage compounded my already existing problems."

"You should never have left Ziami if that were the case."

"Where we stumble is never as important as how often we get up again," she quipped. Only after the words were out of her mouth did she realize her error.

An expression of mild surprise crossed Makarian's rugged features. "I've not met many Ziamians who could quote the Lady."

Damn. She'd deliberately chosen Ziami as her feigned homeport because it was loosely allied with the Khalar and didn't share the Khalarans' obsession with their Lady Goddess. That granted her a much needed anonymity, except it was difficult to be anonymous about herself. She shrugged. "I hear that stuff spouted all the time when I'm here."

"That stuff," Makarian said, rising, "forms an important basis of a lot of people's lives. My people, the Khalar, might not be here but for her sacrifice."

I was right. He does like you.

Not me, Simon. A fraud. The sincere reverence in Admiral Makarian's voice unsettled her. "I meant no disrespect."

He locked his hands behind his waist. "I'm putting this ship under a Level Two impound. You can have access to her, but she can't leave this station. Nor can you." He strode for the doorway but stopped. When he turned back to her, his dark eyes were hard. "Be in Ops Main at oh-eight-hundred tomorrow. You'll be issued a restricted ID at that time. I'll advise you then of what repairs you'll be permitted to perform. And what reports I will require you to file, daily, with me."

"But-"

"I still have a lot of unanswered questions, Captain Davré. You will provide me answers to each and every one of them. Is that clear?"

She felt as if she were back in basic training. She gritted her teeth and answered like the dutiful junior cadet she'd never been. "Yes, sir. Very."

He nodded tersely. "Cirrus has only recently come under Fleet jurisdiction. There are still some unsavory areas. Do me a favor and stay out of trouble."

She stood in the middle of engineering, jaw clenched, until she could no longer hear his heavy bootsteps thudding through the ship.

He's gone.

She knew that but Simon's reassurance felt good. He doesn't trust us, but for all the right reasons, I think. I'm a smuggler and I insulted his religion.

Then we passed the test.

Had they? Gillie clearly remembered the admiral's comment about unanswered questions. She didn't know how much more scrutiny she and Simon could stand. How are you feeling?

Tired. Though I did enjoy the diversion. He's more knowledgeable than I expected.

She stepped over the raised hatch tread and into the corridor. She needed a stiff drink and, unless Simon had moved it, the small ready room and galley should be aft of the bridge.

He's not more knowledgeable, she told him. You're not taking those damned three hundred years into account.

Three hundred forty-two years, three days-

Three, already? She gave a short, dry laugh as she climbed the stairs.

Three, already. And I am considering the time factor in my appraisal of Admiral Rynan Makarian. He is very knowledgeable. I thought it prudent to pull his service record. You might want to look at it.

She agreed to that. Know thy enemy was almost as important as know thyself.

Is that one of your Holy Edicts, or is it found in the Lady Goddess's Guidelines for Life?

"Those guidelines were just a game we played one night at the pub." Simon hadn't moved the ready room. Good. She tabbed in a request for Devil's Breath, neat with a twist. Her headache had returned. It was easier to speak out loud until the pounding subsided. "None of us were sober. Someone, I don't know, maybe it was Bex or Ethan, someone started compiling a list of all those little quips I make." She retrieved her drink, let herself collapse in the closest chair. "Hell, Simon, most of them are yours."

I endeavor to be not only succinct, but inspirational.

"And I repeat them."

And now the Khalar revere them. And you.

Yes. And her. Gillie sipped her drink and pondered that terrifying thought while the liquor burned a trail down her throat.

She had absolutely no interest in being revered, worshipped. She had absolutely no interest in being the Kiasidira, but hadn't had much choice in that particular matter. Though she'd avoided it for as long as she could.

Then somehow, after three hundred years, the Khalar had mixed everything up. Gotten it all wrong, right down to her name. There was no Lady Kiasidira. There was, or had been, she realized belatedly, Lady Gillaine Davré. Also known as Captain Gillaine Davré, Raheiran Special Forces Division 1. Also known as Gillaine Kiasidira. Kiasidira, like captain, was a title, not a name.

The Khalar had gotten it wrong, all wrong.

But it had been wrong for over three hundred years. Their culture, their traditions were now intertwined with this legacy of error.

A legacy she would like nothing better than to correct.

But to do so might disrupt the very people Captain Gillaine Davré had worked so hard, three hundred and forty-two years before, to keep alive.

She finished her drink. Simon had another saying: You can't make decisions in a vacuum. That was why he'd spent the past few hours pilfering information from Cirrus's databanks.

It was time for her to do a little information gathering of her own. She needed to have her answers, her new persona squarely in place before she faced Makarian again. And she could think of no better places to do that than the ones he'd just about ordered her to avoid.