Hiding his fear that he’d never again see her, alive.
~*~
They were moving away from the station in five minutes. In ten, Kospahr was by his side, gloating.

“See, T’vahr? You thought you knew it all. But she fooled you, fooled your whole team. If it wasn’t for my close association with Lieutenant Gurdan, she would’ve gotten away.”

 

“Gurdan? I’ll remember that.” “Be sure I won’t let you forget it. You owe all this to me.” He waved his hand towards the enhanced images of the squadron, and a small, elliptical freighter, on the viewscreen. “All this.” “I won’t forget, Kospahr. Don’t worry about that.”

He pushed himself out of the command chair as if intent on something on a console to his left. He stared over a bridge officer’s shoulder, seeing nothing, then turned. The stairs to the lower bridge were before him. He forced himself to descend leisurely, as if waiting to pounce on an unsuspecting crewmember, errant at his duty. But he sought Jankova’s station.

“Anything?” he asked her softly, pretending to stare in the opposite direction. He knew she was tied into the flow of chatter between the squadron fighters. And was, at the same time, now actively scanning the battered remains of the Venture for anything the best of Imperial technology could discern.

“She took two direct laser strikes to the stern. Starboard cargo holds and engine room took the most damage. Enviro must be running off an aux somewhere. I’m picking up a faint energy output amidships.”

“She has a small generator there.”
“Then that must be it.”
“The bridge?”

“I’m showing a humanoid heat signature. More than that, I can’t tell from here.” There was a body. But there was no way to know if the body was alive. He chanced at look at her. “Thank you, again, Hana.”

“I think it’s pretty good possibility she’s still alive, sir.”
“I think it would be damned, damned good if she were still alive.”
He stepped away, before his voice cracked and betrayed him.

~*~

 

At three minutes to intercept he was in the small holding room outside shuttle bay 6-D. He splayed his hands against the glass wall. His CMO and emergency med team waited a few feet behind him. The bay lights blinked twice, then turned to red. One minute warning. Vessel on final approach. All air was sucked out of the bay.

The great bay doors rumbled. A crack appeared between them, and the first glimpse of a large grayish mass being dragged in by his ship’s tractor beams, above and below. When the doors opened sufficiently, a third beam would lock on, pull the craft forward. Landing pads would rise from the floor.

He watched his ship’s tow systems perform with unerring precision. He’d never been so afraid in his life.

The Venture was dragged in at a crab angle, her bow tilted away from him. He could see only the starboard viewport. Dark. Lifeless. Then the bay’s overheads flared and whatever else he could see there was lost behind the reflections.

Her starboard hull was blistered, scored. Her main exterior hatch door had buckled. He clenched one fist, would have shoved it through the glass if he could.

Her starboard cargo bay was…gone. Obliterated. A gaping chasm in its place, cables dangling. More damage on either side. Hull plates missing.

 

He looked quickly back at the bridge, at the lights still flashing red in the bay. Come on! Come on! He pushed past the sliding door the second they turned green, squeezing himself sideways to get through.

 

The landing pad hydraulics still hissed, the emergency ramp rising. He grabbed the railing with one hand, clambered to the top and kicked at the exterior access.

 

“Captain! We can cut through with a—”

 

There! The panel gave way. He thrust his hand into the searingly cold metal, groped for the three levers he knew had to be there. One. He found one. Pulled. Then two. Pulled.

 

Where was three? He shoved his arm further into the raw opening, felt something slice the top of his hand. Blood dripped through his fingers.

 

Three! He pulled.

 

The hatchway door slid open about six inches and stopped. He placed both hands against it and forced it sideways.

 

The corridor was dark and icy cold. He careened off a crooked wall panel, pounded towards the bridge.

 

The hatch was locked. She would have sealed it when she turned off enviro.

 

He dropped to his knees, feeling in the darkness for the emergency access panel near the floor. Then a bright light illuminated the panel.

 

Demarik, behind him, with a crowbar and a light.

 

Rhis pried off the panel cover, found the three levers. But Demarik was in front of him, blocking his way, going in first.

 

Zak. You don’t have to protect me.

 

He lunged after his exec. The bridge was in shambles but his gaze was riveted to the captain’s chair. And the small blonde head hanging awkwardly to the right.

 

A tangle of cables blocked his path. He ripped them from the ceiling, stepping over and through them. He wedged himself between her chair and navigation, sliding down almost to his knees.

 

She was still strapped in the safety harness. Her eyes were closed, her face pale in Demarik’s hand-held beam. Her right hand reached out towards him, towards nothing.

He grasped it. It was cold. His own blood stained her palm.
“Trilby-chenka?” He breathed her name.
He heard the snap of Demarik’s datalyser open and the pounding of footsteps from the corridor. Then

his CMO bustled in, shoving Demarik backwards. Medi-stats appeared in hands. Medical jargon barked back and forth.

He stared at her. She wasn’t moving. Someone touched his shoulder. Demarik. “Captain, you have to get out of here. You’re in the way.”

He pushed himself shakily to his feet, only part of him understanding what was said. Demarik grasped his arm, pulled him across the twisting debris and out into the corridor.

 

But he grabbed the edge of the hatch, hung on stubbornly. “I can’t leave her. She’s cold. It’s so dark—” “Khyrhis, listen to me. She’s alive.” Demarik shoved the datalyser under his nose. “She’s been beat up a bit. But she’s alive. Let Doc handle her. For now.”

 

Alive? It took a few seconds for him to understand, to see the life form readings dancing across the small screen. She was weak. She was injured. But she was alive.

 

He stumbled away from Demarik, grabbed the railing to the ladderway just aft of the bridge, and leaned against it.

 

She was alive. He felt himself sliding, his legs shaking. He landed on the top step, his knees almost in his chest.

 

Tears of joy and relief trembled through his body, spilling out of that great empty place where his heart had been. He buried his face in his hands and cried in relief.

 

CHAPTER FIFTEEN Everything was dark and cold. And then everything was bright and uncomfortably warm. Prickly. Things poked her. Sounds drifted, garbled. She wanted desperately to sneeze.

 

Then she was thirsty. Gin. A tall iced gin. Double limes. Sounded good. Trilby Elliot opened her eyes. Everything was dark again. No. Dim. Her vision hazed, then focused like her old binocs. Red rimmed numbers. An annoying beeping sound.

 

She tried to turn her head, decided the effort wasn’t worth it. She moved her eyes through the dimness. Red numbers to the left. Damned beeper over her head. On her right…

 

It took a moment. A chair. Empty.

 

Her nose itched again. She raised her hand to scratch it, bumped her wrist against something. She crossed her eyes and looked down.

 

A cylinder. Over her.

 

She was in Sickbay. It didn’t look like hers but hey, maybe she’d made a big profit from that run to… to…

 

She licked her lips, swallowed. Tried her voice. “Dezi?”

 

A door slid open, sending a shaft of bright light into her eyes. She squinted, saw the outline of a stocky form.

Not Dezi. “Lutsa,” a male voice said as the lights slowly came on. Lutsa? “No. My name’s Trilby.” Her voice sounded rusty. She really needed some gin.

The stocky form was at her side. She heard the snick of a medi-stat opening. She blinked as her eyes adjusted to the light.

The guy who thought her name was Lutsa was about sixty, broad shouldered and balding. She didn’t recognize him, hoped she wasn’t supposed to. She knew who she was. It would be hell if she didn’t remember anyone else.

Like who she’d been out drinking with. That’s the only way she would’ve ended up in some unknown sickbay. Pub crawling.

 

“How are you feeling?” Baldy said. He had an accent. She couldn’t quite place it. He also had on a blue lab coat. Not a med tech, like Chaser, whose white coat carried the GGA Med-lab logo. So this one was a doctor.

 

Why did all doctors always ask how you’re feeling? She thought it was a stupid question. “I don’t know,” she told him. “You went through med school. You tell me.”

He seemed momentarily startled then he chuckled. “Much better, much better. I can hear that. This is good.” He snapped the sensor shut. “Your head hurts, yes? And your shoulder. Right side. Anything else all my years in med school might have missed?”

“I’m thirsty. And my nose itches.” “Good! Good! We can handle both those things, I think, Captain Elliot.” “Then you know who I am?” He slanted a glance at her as he unlocked the regen cylinder. “But of course.”

For a moment she tensed. Not because he said he knew her name. But because he was sliding the unit down, uncovering her body… covered by a thin but soft shift. Newer regen units could read through fabric. She relaxed.

“Then why’d you call me Lutsa when you came in?” “Ah. Lutsa is Z’fharish for ‘lights’. It is our command to increase room illumination.” Z’fharish? Z’fharish. As in Z’fharin. As in… T’vahr. She closed her eyes, a gasp of anger escaping her lips. “You have pain? New pain?” She heard Baldy’s sensor snick open again.

“No.” She raised her hand, waved at the sensor then gratefully rubbed at her nose. “I just....” She sighed. “I forgot where I was. I’m not sure I know what happened. I’m not sure I want to know what happened.”

Baldy pursed his lips. “It is better for me to talk about your injuries. You were seriously hurt. But in the past three days—”

“Three days?” “Three days you have recovered well. Due, of course, to my excellent care.” Ah yes. Imperial arrogance. And an Imperial fighter squadron. The alarms wailed again in her head. “Your ships attacked me.” “Not ours.” He adjusted her pillow, raised her head so she could take a sip of water. She swallowed. “I know Imperial fighters when I see them.” “I am sure you do. But they were not ours. Not from the Razalka.” He looked at her for a long moment. She wriggled up into a sitting position. He raised the head of the bed another few inches. “Better?” “Thank you. But if they weren’t from the Razalka—”

“I am a doctor, Captain Elliot. I can answer any medical questions you may have. Anything else, well, they did not teach me such things in medical school.”

She sipped her water, watched Baldy pull data from the regen unit that still covered her from the thighs down. It felt like the shift went farther than that. She ran her hand down its pale silver surface. Nice material.

“Where’s T’vahr?”
“Being a pain in the ass somewhere, I imagine.”
She laughed, completely surprised by his answer. “I am on the Razalka?”
“You are.”
“And yet you feel free to call your captain a pain in the ass?”

“I have known Khyrhis for more than twenty years. I think in that time I have gathered sufficient evidence to support my conclusion.”

“I could probably give you some more, if you need it.”
“My file overflows.”

She laughed again. Her shoulder hurt like hell, but it didn’t matter. If felt good to laugh. “Thank you, Doctor…?”

She waited for him to fill in the gap.
“Vasilivankovich. But everyone calls me Doc Vanko.” He grinned.

“Thanks, Doc. So who do I talk to about my ship?” And Dezi. Her heart suddenly plummeted. Dezi. “There was a ‘droid. An envoy ‘droid. He was my copilot. Would you know what happened to him?” Doc shook his head. “Not my department. I am sorry. But I should be able to get Captain T’vahr to answer your questions. Or Commander Jankova.”

She wasn’t ready to see T’vahr yet. Not until she could throw a good punch at his face. “I’ll take Jankova.”

He nodded. “I will see what I can do. There is more water there, next to your bed. The emergency call button is here, by your right hand.”

 

And my one working laser rifle? She wondered, but didn’t voice it. She had more things to worry about.

Dezi.
~*~
Hana Jankova arrived five minutes after Doc left. “You gave us a good scare.”

Trilby looked at the auburn-haired woman. She could see no deception in her blue eyes. “I could probably turn that around and say you, or rather the Empire, gave me one. But Doc tried real hard to get me to read between the lines. He wants me to believe the Razalka had nothing to do with the attack on my ship.”

Jankova reached back, hit the palm pad for the door. It slid shut. “In time, you will be told, and shown, everything. But no, those fighters did not come from this ship. They came from Degvar. But the command to send them, yes. That did originate here.”

“T’vahr.” Trilby spat out the name. “No.” Jankova’s voice was firm. “You must believe me on this. And yet you must, until I tell you otherwise, act as if you think it was T’vahr. Or else your life, and his career, will be in jeopardy.” “But that makes no sense!”

“Please.” She leaned against the edge of the bed, lay her hand on Trilby’s arm. “I know I am not Neadi or Carina. You have no reason to trust me. But you must. Lucho Salnay is being held as your co-conspirator in your escape.”

“Lucho? Farra Rimanava’s Lucho? But he—” “Helped you.” Jankova’s gaze pinned her. “Lucho helped you.”

Something began to work in Trilby’s mind. If Lucho was covering for T’vahr, then it could only be because Farra Rimanava had asked him to. And Farra wouldn’t ask unless Mitkanos approved. Trilby’s gut told her to trust Mitkanos. “Oh, right. Lucho helped me. Tell me what else I’ve forgotten. I’ve been seriously injured, Doc says.”

Jankova smiled, relaxed a bit. “Lucho helped you. He didn’t know that Captain T’vahr altered your primaries. You told him only that you were having integration problems between your ship’s technology and ours. Lucho manually released the docking clamps, because you told him the mechanism wasn’t accepting your signal.” She heard echoes of Mitkanos in Jankova’s recounting. Only Mitkanos knew Trilby had tweaked the clamp mechanisms.

“Right. What happens to Lucho because of this?” Sacrificing that handsome young man for T’vahr the Terrible didn’t seem just.

“Because there was no hold order on your ship in Degvar Ops, very little. His only crime, if you will, is that he didn’t advise the Razalka of your departure. For that oversight, he is in Major Mitkanos’s hands. I believe he is forcing him to study the history of the Stegzarda. Confined to his quarters, of course. Mitkanos’s trusted niece, Corporal Rimanava, is the only one permitted to bring him meals. Poor man.”

“So Lucho helped me and I escaped. What made T’vahr send the squadron after me?” “Captain T’vahr was well aware that you were to remain on Degvar until Lord Minister Kospahr authorized your release.”

 

“That’s the certain someone who wants to kill me?”

Jankova cringed slightly. “Not exactly, no. Rather I think he has little value for any one life when political decisions are made. We cannot prove that, of course. But he is someone who, if he knew T’vahr had let you go, deliberately, and not Lucho, accidentally, would certainly see the captain stripped of command.”

Well, it would do the son-of-a-Pillorian-bitch good if that happened. But Trilby understood Jankova’s point. She made a rude noise. “T’vahr, let me go? You’re daydreaming, commander. He’s a Ligorian slime weasel. No, wait. I apologize. That’s an insult to Ligorian slime weasels.”

“Then who helped you escape, Captain Elliot?” Jankova fell into the part.

“I don’t know. Some cute, hunky guy. Met him in the lounge on Degvar. Think his name was Luke, or something like that. He wanted to inspect my…” she wiggled her eyebrows, “auxiliary thrusters. Then I found out he worked in Ops. Things fell into place after that.”

“Yes. That is what he said, also.” She rose, but Trilby reached out her hand, delaying her. “Dezi.” Her voice caught, the silliness of a moment ago fading. “I have to know.”

“He was in your engine room, yes. Port side. Your ship took considerable damage, but mostly to starboard. I do not know if your ship can be repaired.”

 

Trilby’s heart plummeted.

 

“But Captain T’vahr is working on Dezi.” Jankova patted Trilby’s hand. “We needed something to keep him occupied. He is being a royal pain in the ass.”

 

Trilby leaned back against her pillow after Jankova left, let everything sift through her head and fall back into its proper place. Everything except Khyrhis T’vahr.

She had no idea what to do with him, nor where he belonged.
~*~

His quarters looked like a salvage shop. His dining room table was covered with safety netting. Cables and coils of plasteel thread, small containers of bolts, stacks of thin interface panels were visible underneath. Two long tarnished metal legs lay strapped to one of the chairs. A tarnished hand, its fingers curled inward, was netted on the serving table behind him. A large metal torso lay open in the center. And a long black box rotated slowly in a holo-vise.

The high whine of a crystal splicer filled the air. Then his door chimed. He looked over his magnifying goggles, saw Hana Jankova’s ID. “Come.”

 

She walked in, the lower half of her body disproportionately large. He pushed the goggles off his nose and let them fall on their cord around his neck.

She looked normal again. “News?” “She’s awake. And fine.”

“Awake?” He jumped to his feet, fortunately remembering to flick off the splicer before he shoved it in his shirt pocket. He smacked his shin on the table leg but ignored the pain as he quickly strode into his small living room. He and Jankova met in front of his couch.

“She’s awake? She’s fine?” “Yes. And yes.”

“You should have called me.” He pulled the goggles over his head, tossed them across the room. They landed on top of a box of spare parts. “I could have—-”

 

“You know our agreement.” She poked her fingers in his chest. “Yes, but that’s when she was unconscious. Kospahr would get suspicious if he caught me keeping vigil over her. But if she’s awake and talking… she’s talking?”

“Gave Doc an earful, I gather.” “Then I should be able to see her. To interview her. Interrogate her. Whatever the hell an arrogant, loathesome bastard like me would do.” He looked around for his jacket. Where in hell was it?

“Captain…”
“I’ll just be a minute. Let me get my jacket.”
“Captain T’vahr.”

He stopped. He was breathing heavily. He brought his right hand up, then let it fall in an exasperated gesture. “Hana, don’t. It’s been three days. Almost four. I haven’t seen her in all that time. Damn it, she almost died! I almost lost her!”

“Doc gave her a light trank. She needs to sleep for awhile yet.”
He collapsed onto the couch. “You’re not going to let me see her, are you?”
“You’re still....” She hesitated.
“Dravda gera mevnahr?” he supplied. Ass over teakettle.
“Yes.”
He covered his mouth with his hand, then pulled on his mustache. “I know,” he said softly. “I know.”

“So will Kospahr.” She sat next to him on the couch, patted his shoulder. “Another day. Give it another day.”

“Just let me see her, a little bit. Today. That’ll help. Make it easier. I won’t be quite so crazy. I promise.” She chuckled. “Liar.” “Yes. I know.” Dejection colored his words. “Captain—” “She’s still angry over that, is she?”

“She didn’t say. She was worried about Dezi. And I had to make sure she understood what she had to remember. That’s all we really talked about. I didn’t want to tire her.”

“How’d she look?”
“A few bruises. But fine. Better than she did three days ago.”
Three days ago she had been cold and lifeless, terrifyingly still. And had his blood smeared on her hands.

He looked down at his own. They were completely healed. No scars, not from the unbreakable lightpen he’d snapped. Not from the impenetrable metal he’d tore in half. Thank you, Imperial genetics and technology.

“Tomorrow?” He couldn’t keep the hope out of his voice.
She stood. “Tomorrow.”
He walked her to the door of his quarters, then leaned against the wall after she left.

Tomorrow was technically only six-and-a-half hours away. But he knew it would be at least another six after that before any visit he could make to Sickbay would be considered reasonable. Twelve-and-a-half hours. Thirteen, knowing Commander Hana Jankova. He found his jacket in the other room on his bed, on top of a large stuffed felinar that smelled like powder and flowers. He’d go play Loathsome Arrogant Bastard Captain for a while with his crew. It would help pass the time.

Unfortunately, Durwin Kospahr caught up with him twenty minutes later, just as he left the bridge. “Captain T’vahr! Quite remarkable!”
“What is, Lord Minister?” he asked without caring.

Kospahr had to quicken his stride to keep up. “I’ve been reviewing Lieutenant Gurdan’s report, as well as the data from Captain Elliot’s ship. Her knowledge of the traders’ lanes is quite remarkable.” Rhis stopped before the lift, palmed the button. “She’s a freighter operator. It’s part of her job.” He decided to head down to engineering. Surely this idiot wouldn’t follow him there?

 

“But some of these lanes haven’t been used in centuries! And there are other routes, into our Empire.”

He’d seen Trilby’s files on those, recognized a few of them. But Trilby had a few even he hadn’t known about. As she told him, everything sooner or later ended up at Port Rumor.

“I’m aware of the routes in her nav banks. The old ones were abandoned because they can’t support the faster, heavier ships. And newer technology. The guidance beacons, especially the Conclave ones, are weak. Or nonfunctional.”

“Yes. Of course.” Kospahr seemed disappointed he hadn’t found something else to prove the fallibility of the Captain T’vahr. “But perhaps they could be put to some use in the commercial sector? I could bring this up to my cousin, the Emperor.”

“They’d be of more use to the Imperial Fleet.” The lift arrived. Rhis stepped quickly inside and swore silently when Kospahr followed.

“Engineering,” he said. “But you said the guidance beacons are weak? Old?” “They are.” “But how then could we use them?”

Rhis glared down at the man. He’d been playing with just that theory for a while. He didn’t need Kospahr’s interference. “That, Lord Minister, is on a need-to-know basis. And you don’t have a need to know.”

“But the ‘Sko! Grantforth!” “I already thought of that. And have discussed it with Emperor Kasmov.” “But, but I didn’t see any report.” “I didn’t issue one.” The lift indicator beeped twice. “Engineering Deck,” said a tinny autovoice.

Rhis turned. “I have work to do. If you’ll excuse me.” He nodded, then strode out into the corridor. And swore again when quick footsteps thudded behind.

 

“Captain T’vahr!” Rhis stopped and counted to ten before turning around. Two engineering techs caught the look on his face and fled in the opposite direction.

“You talked to the Emperor without speaking to me, first?” “Several times.” “I demand to know the content of those conversations!” “You will if, and only if, I deem it advisable for you to do so.” “But we will be making a move on the Conclave within two weeks! We—”

“Kospahr!” Rhis grabbed the front of the man’s expensive jacket, drew him up to his toes. He watched Kospahr’s face turn purple, heard the man choke. Gods, that felt good.

 

He released him. Kospahr stumbled, his hand coming up to his throat. “You fool! You—” “No. You’re the fool. We’re in an open corridor and you’re blabbering about an upcoming mission. Against a neighboring system.” Rhis’s voice was a low, angry growl.

“But this is your ship! The Razalka,” Kospahr whined. “It is my ship. And on my ship, discretion is the rule. Either you follow this rule, or I will have you removed to Degvar. Do I make myself clear?” Kospahr stepped back. “You don’t have to tell me the rules. Captain. I am the Second Lord Minister of Defense. The Emperor is my cousin.” He turned on his heels and stalked away. Rhis took two long deep breaths. Well, that’s an improvement. It’s no longer ‘my cousin the

Emperor’. Now it’s ‘the Emperor is my cousin’. He pulled back his sleeve, glanced at his watch. Eleven hours, fifteen minutes to go. He rearranged the scowl on his face and headed for Engineering.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN
He called Sickbay on intraship from his office at 0600. “Doc—”
“Jankova says no.”

Hana Jankova, he wanted to tell the man, did not run this ship. He did. But Jankova ran his tactical team, his special operations missions. He put her in charge of those areas three years ago. And Captain Trilby Elliot had become part of a special operations mission. So for now, Jankova was in charge.

Which was, Rhis knew, for the better. For the moment. He didn’t get where he was in the Fleet by surrounding himself with stupid, incompetent people who didn’t know their strengths from their weaknesses. Jankova knew his as well.

He paced the length of his office. Straightened some of the plaques and awards in his wall cabinet that had shifted when he’d slammed into it during his mad charge yesterday. Poked his fingers into the rip in the chair in front of his desk. He could patch it with duct tape. That’d give it a nice, familiar feel.

His door chimed. He looked up. Jankova and Kospahr.
Oh, joy.
He reached for his coffee, leaned a hip on the edge of his desk. “Come.”
Kospahr bustled in. “The Commander tells me I’ll be able to talk to that Elliot woman this morning.” “Eleven hundred hours.” Jankova met Rhis’s gaze levelly.

Kospahr strode past the large desk as if it were his office, and not the Razalka’s captain’s. He stood with his back to them for a moment, stared out the viewport. A portion of Degvar’s upper levels was visible.

“I want you there, T’vahr,” he said, turning. “She probably doesn’t know enough about Imperial politics to appreciate who I am. But I’m sure she’s afraid of you, especially after all that’s happened. And if she isn’t, I’m sure you can give her reason to be.”

“She saved my life.” Rhis ignored the warning look from Jankova.
“In exchange for reward money, your report said. Understandable, given the level of person she is. Port Rumor.” A distasteful look crossed Kospahr’s face. “Never been there, but I’ve heard.”

“Why do you need to talk to her? You have the reports. The Emperor and the Council are in agreement with our recommendations. Your job is done, Kospahr.” Something in him balked at the idea of having Trilby and Durwin Kospahr in the same room. He didn’t want her tainted by the man’s sliminess.

Kospahr shot a quick glance at Jankova before answering. “Many reasons, but if nothing else, curiosity. I’ll admit that. You may have been impressed by her technical skills. I was, too. But I’d like to see what a Grantforth whore looks like, myself. Gurdan said she’s a looker.”

He was already moving before Kospahr finished his sentence, but so was Jankova. And he had to clear his desk to get to the Lord Minister. Jankova only had to step right in front of him, hand on his arm, delaying him as if she’d just thought of something.

“Oh, by the way, Captain T’vahr. As long as we’re on the subject of Grantforth, I’ve some new information you might want to look at.” She squeezed his arm, hard. He got the message. Don’t go dravda gera mevnahr now.

He sat down in his chair as if that’s where he was headed all along. He swiveled away from Kospahr, worked on composing his features back to a semblance of normalcy and tapped at his screen. “It’s in my private files, Commander?”

“Not yet. I just learned of it as I went to meet the Lord Minister at his quarters. I should have more details by the time we talk to Captain Elliot.”

“You didn’t tell me this!” Kospahr’s tone was accusatory.
“I’d only have to repeat it twice, Lord Minister. I’m telling you and Captain T’vahr now.”

Rhis admired her gumption at standing up to Kospahr. He began to understand that Hana Jankova was more than just an inquisitive mind and compassionate heart. There was a good chunk of gutsiness in her, too. Not unlike his air-sprite.

He leaned back in his chair, steepled his fingers over his face. Ignored Kospahr. “What’s the nature of this information, Commander?”

“A communiqué from GGA offices.”
“To Tril— to Captain Elliot?”
She nodded. “It carries Jagan Grantforth’s transit code.”
He raised one eyebrow. Another good-bye letter? Or a plea to resume the relationship?

“It’s privacy locked, however.” Jankova glanced at Kospahr, who stepped away from the viewport, his fleshy face angled towards her in interest. “And as the Careless Venture took considerable damage, we can’t use her own comm pack to open it. My team’s working on it. We hope to have something before eleven hundred hours.”

“Get on it, then, get on it!” Kospahr waved his hand angrily in her direction. “This could be important.” “I’m well aware of that, Lord Minister.”

Rhis glanced at the timestamp on his screen. Oh-seven-thirty. Three and a half hours. “I agree with Minister Kospahr,” he said. “The message may contain something of import. I’ll accompany you over to Tactical, take a look at the code structure.” He stood. He knew damn well he could unlock that message. So did Jankova. He didn’t think she’d withheld its arrival but that it probably happened just as she’d said: she’d learned about it at Kospahr’s door.

He knew now she would’ve told him about the transmit as soon as Kospahr left. His own stupid reaction to the Lord Minister’s words had forced her to reveal it, to divert him.

 

“I’ll go with you, too.” Kospahr was already trying to get into step with him.

Rhis bit back his original reply, changing it quickly to something he knew would work. “Fine. Then I’ll contact the Emperor myself about this new development. You can wait in the Tactical Division while the—”

“No, no! I’ll talk to my cousin the Emperor at once. You’re not a diplomat, T’vahr. You don’t know how to phrase things. You go take care of the minor technical parts. I’ll handle the Emperor.” Kospahr walked down the corridor, puffing.

~*~

He thought it was time to show Jankova Trilby’s “J” file. He got himself tea, glared over the shoulders of her team while she watched the transmits in the privacy of her office, across the corridor from the Tactical Briefing Room.

Then he crossed the corridor again, waited a moment until her door slid sideways. “Innocent enough,” she said as he took the solitary seat across from her desk. “Until you consider the players.”

 

“Just your normal love affair between an unknown, destitute freighter operator and one of the wealthiest C.E.O.s in the Conclave.”

“If she’d sought him out, it would make more sense.” “He sought her out. Right after Uncle Garold was appointed Chief Secretary.”

“Coincidence?” She said it in such a way he knew she didn’t believe that. “And now he wants her back. Zalia’s not making him happy.”

 

“Coincidence,” he said. He finished his tea, then stood. “It’s ten-thirty.”

She glanced up at him, her mouth opening, but he held up one hand. “I’m going to go down to Sickbay and harass Doc and the med techs. Promise I won’t go to her room until you arrive with Kospahr. I leave to you the pleasant duty of escorting him.”

“Making me suffer for making you suffer?”

 

He stopped in the doorway. “Something like that.” He stepped through.

 

~*~

 

He knew the picture he presented, standing stiffly in the corner of the room. Military perfection. Imperial arrogance on display. Shoulders level, back ramrod straight, chin high, hands clasped behind his waist.

Kospahr probably thought he was doing it to intimidate Trilby. In truth, he was doing it because it was the only way he could keep from reaching for her, dragging her into his arms. His hands were shaking. He saw something flicker in her eyes when he followed Jankova and Kospahr in. But she looked away quickly and then studied the Second Lord Minister of Defense. He caught the hint of a wry smile curve on her lips as Kospahr introduced himself, listed his credentials.

Imperial Arrogance at its worst. “If it weren’t for the Empire’s impressive medical technology,” Kospahr told Trilby, “you might not be here.”

“If the Empire didn’t require its officers to be Gods damned liars, I wouldn’t have to be here.” She pointed at Rhis. “I pulled his ungrateful ass out of a swamp. So he tries to kill me, then takes my ship. Promising me reward money. Promising me I’m free to go once I get him back here.”

Rhis heard the venom in her voice, had the feeling that much of Trilby’s ire was not feigned, in spite of Jankova’s explanations.

“So what do I get?” She spread her hands. “Nothing. A cup of tea. A meal. And lies. Then a squadron of his fighters blows my ass into next septi.” She glared at Rhis then looked back at Kospahr. “Do you blame me?”

“Yes, captain, I do!” Kospahr replied. “You obviously have no understanding of what has transpired in the past two months with the ‘Sko. Nor do I expect you to. But we are engaged in some very serious business, and your petty needs will have to wait.”

“You have no right to hold me here. I’m a citizen of the Conclave. I file a report on what he did, and you might find yourself in the middle of another untidy war.”

Kospahr took a step back. Clearly, that glaring fact had escaped the sharp mind of the career politician. But it was something Rhis had been aware of all along. It was time for him to pick up his part of this drama.

“You might want to rethink your position on that, Captain Elliot. We have reason to believe an official in your own government has negotiated a kill order on you with the ‘Sko. The Conclave may not be as concerned with your safe return as you think.” Unfortunately, that was the truth.

Trilby shot him a haughty look he remembered well. “So you say. You know damn well I can’t read Ycskrite.”

 

“Believe me,” Kospahr said, “we are not trying to protect you because we find your company charming!”

 

“Protect me?” Trilby turned quickly towards the portly man and Rhis saw her wince from the movement. “You damn near killed me.”

“Because you departed a military outpost without permission,” Rhis said evenly. “And you refused to respond to a request to power down.” That, too, was true. If she hadn’t run, Degvar’s squadron would have towed her back unharmed.

“That was very foolish on your part,” he added.

 

“No. The only foolishness on my part was not leaving you on Avanar to play tiddlywinks with the vampire snakes. They’d probably find your company charming.”

Kospahr moved closer to her bed, gave her an oily smile. “Perhaps we should both admit there have been some misunderstandings. If Captain T’vahr has been harsh in his methods, you must understand it is because that is what he was trained to do. But I am here, now. To take over, to rectify his mistakes. You should be thankful a Second Lord Minister such as I takes an interest in your case.”

Kospahr reached for her hand. Trilby snatched it away. Rhis started to snicker, turned it into a cough when Jankova jabbed him with her elbow.

 

Kospahr didn’t bother to turn around to see what the commotion was about. “The reality is, my dear, you need our help. And we need yours. There is no reason this cannot be a comfortable partnership.”

“More lies?” She looked over his shoulder at Rhis. Her face was pale, her eyes looked larger than he remembered. Sooty with shadows. There was a bruise fading on the edge of her jaw. Another across the base of her throat where the safety harness had branded her. Her soft, pale hair looked like disheveled moonlight.

Yav chera, he wanted to tell her but she had asked about lies. Not about what was driving him crazy. “In any military operation, there is certain information that is restricted,” he answered her. “However, if you agree to cooperate, I guarantee you will be apprised of all that we feel is pertinent at the time.” “Need to know, T’vahr?”

He nodded slowly, watched her mouth spread into a wry grin. Felt the corresponding warmth spread through him at the same time. The last time she’d thrown that phrase at him they’d been on the Venture. They were almost friends, about to be lovers. He wanted desperately to pick things up from that point.

He turned to Kospahr. “She will cooperate.”

“Wise decision, my dear.” Kospahr patted the edge of her bed. “I’m sure you’ll find life on this side of the zone a bit better. Especially someone as attractive as you are.” He leaned closer. “Not all men are fools, like Grantforth.”

“No, Lord Minister,” she said quietly as Kospahr turned away. “Some are worse.”

 

Rhis followed them compliantly through Sickbay but stopped just as the doors closed behind them. They took several steps down the corridor before Jankova turned, slanted him a glance.

 

“Commander, you’ll accompany the Lord Minister back to his quarters. I need to speak with the Doctor.”

 

“You ill, T’vahr?”

 

“Obviously not, Lord Minister. But I must sign off on Captain Elliot’s medical reports and make sure they properly reflect all we’ve done for her. Just in case, of course, the Conclave should ever request them.” “Ah! Yes. You must make sure they properly reflect that we did all we could to prevent her being injured.” He waved his hand over his head as he turned. “Carry on, captain.”

 

Jankova hesitated, then fell into step with Kospahr. He waited until they disappeared around the corner before spinning on his heels and striding back through Sickbay’s doors.

 

“Jankova approved this?” Doc intercepted him in the middle of Sickbay.

 

“No. But she didn’t disapprove it, either.” He put his hand on the shorter man’s shoulder, nudged him out of the way. “Go hide in your office. I’m supposed to be in conference with you. Over Trilby’s medical records.”

He hit the palm pad, stepped through. She was still sitting propped against the pillows, a light blanket over her. But she’d pulled her knees up to her chest and crossed her arms on top of the tent made by the blanket. She looked startled to see him standing there.

The door closed. He thumbed the lock on. Fear flickered in her eyes, and in his chest, a corresponding pain at the sight of it.

 

“How are you feeling?” he asked softly. He slid his hands in his pockets. Better there than reaching towards her when that wasn’t what she wanted.

“You came back to ask me that? Go ask Doc. He’s the one with the medical degree.” “You are angry with me.”

“No. I’m overjoyed to lose my ship and my best friend. To have damn near died. This has been great fun. We really ought to do it again, sometime.”

 

“Trilby-chenka-” “Jettison that, T’vahr. Jankova told me you’re on the shit list if Kospahr finds out you gave me the release codes. I told her I’d cooperate. You don’t have to be nice to me, anymore.”

He pulled his hands out of his pockets, wiped them over his face. “Jankova’s concerns are not mine.” And he realized as he said it, that it was the truth. He didn’t give a damn about his career. Not if keeping it meant losing Trilby.

She glared at him. He sought the chair, sat in it, rested his elbows on his knees. This might take awhile. “I did not send the fighters after you.” “She said that. I gather that was Kospahr’s idea.” “He wants to use you to trap Grantforth.” “Which one?” “Both.” “I hate to disappoint Chubby Boy there, but I don’t think either’s interested.” “Jagan is. He’s sent you a transmit.”

“Jagan sent— you read my mail? Again?” She shook her head in disbelief. “You’re unbelievable. You have no respect for anyone. I’d like to be there the day someone finally says ‘no’ to you. It ought to be a sight.”

“Someone in GGA is closely involved with the ‘Sko. I decoded the transmit because it could help us take action against them.”

 

“And my transmit to Neadi? You read that, too.”

 

The efficient Corporal Rimanava. He wondered what she’d told Trilby. “That was wrong of me, yes. But you were so angry with me. I was looking for anything that might tell me how to get you to talk to me again.”

“Locking me out of my ship’s primaries was a big step in that direction.” “I put that program in place when I was afraid you would go searching for Carina.” “Oh, yeah. The friend I don’t care about. I remember now.” “Trilby—” “Look. Captain. I’m not as stupid as your friend Kospahr thinks I am.” “He’s not my friend.”

She waved his comment away. “I know something pretty dirty is going on with the ‘Sko and GGA. Maybe even the Secretary Grantforth. And that you and your team think Jagan used me and the Venture to set all that up. I don’t like it. I’m not even sure I buy it. I think it stinks. But I told Jankova, and I’m telling you, again. I will cooperate. Which means,” she said, holding up her hand as he leaned forward, intent on putting forth his own explanation. “Which means that you have no right, outside of those parameters, to be involved in my life. You may be emperor on this ship, but I’m not one of your little peasants. Is that clear?”

He clasped his hands together. “You are very angry with me.”
She fell back against the pillows, murmured something to the ceiling that sounded a bit like, ‘why me?’. He could tell her, but he didn’t think she wanted to hear it right now.

~*~

Trilby hated the look on his face as he left her room in sickbay. He’d missed the circus again. Disappointment under an ‘it’s okay’ mask. He was either a very good actor or her rejections really pained him.

Either way, it didn’t matter. Because as far as she was concerned, there were only two ways to look at Khyrhis T’vahr: as a liar, who felt that his continued attentions would guarantee her continued cooperation; or as a lover, one so far above her station and social circle— like she really had one of those!— that they stood no chance of success in a relationship. Someone was bound to get hurt and that someone, she had recently learned from Jagan Grantforth, was Trilby Elliot.

But she’d work with him. In spite of what she’d told him just now, she wasn’t totally sure GGA was innocent. Neadi’s rumors still bothered her.

Plus, she owed it to Carina to find out the truth. And Mitkanos. And Farra. And the rest of them, in gray uniforms and black, right down to the crew of the Razalka. Because if the ‘Sko got a foothold in the Conclave, life in civilized space would become a living hell.

Only a greedy fool like Jagan Grantforth would think otherwise.

 

Only a crazy fool like Trilby Elliot could stop him.

 

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

 

A middle-aged female med-tech brought Trilby’s lunch on a tray. Doc trailed in behind, leaned against the open door jamb after she left.

“I’m a really good cook,” Trilby told him, between mouthfuls. “If you had a galley, I’d prove it. This is replicator, right?” “One hundred per cent balanced nutrition.”

She flipped a few clumps of brown mush with her fork. “Tastes like rice that was ashamed of its identity.”

He laughed. “It’s our replicator’s version of a Yaniran rice dish, yes. It is quite wholesome.” “Give me the original recipe. I’ll make it delicious.” “There are a few personal galleys on board. But I would have to clear the matter with the captain.”

She pointed the fork at him. “Ask him about my cooking. I never saw a man eat so much food in my life.”

 

“You cooked for him, yes?”

“I cooked for us. My ship doesn’t have replicators. And as most of my runs are trikes, I stock up on fresh from station hydroponics when I need to.” She thought for a moment. “You got a hydroponics on board?”

“A small one. Again, I would—”

 

“Have to ask the captain, I know.” She took a another mouthful. This stuff was pitiful. She might have to pull a favor. “Well, when I get out of here… by the way, Doc. When am I getting out of here?” “Another day perhaps. You’re healing nicely.”

“And then?” She didn’t know if Doc was in the information chain as far as it included her deal with T’vahr and Kospahr. For all she knew, he might believe she was going from here to the brig. Or to Degvar. She was sure he knew she had no workable ship to go back to.

“I believe Commander Jankova is in charge of arrangements after I release you.”

That wasn’t totally bad news. She liked Hana Jankova. Then she thought of someone she didn’t like. Whose presence didn’t quite mesh. “What do you know about this Kospahr that was here this morning?”

“Second Lord Minister of Defense. Cousin of Emperor Kasmov.”
“So he informed me. But what do you know about him?”
“I take it you are not asking about his blood type?”

She grinned. Doc was okay. “No, but I thought you might know more about his species. Been a long time since I’ve seen a free-floating asshole with legs.”

 

Doc had a deep, rumbling chuckle. It filled the small room. “Then you must not know too many politicians.”

“One other comes to mind and you’re right. There are distinct similarities. So what’s he doing on the Razalka? I’m surprised T’vahr tolerates him.” From everything she’d heard about the senior captain, he wouldn’t.
“The captain was absent when Kospahr came on board. There was a point, and this is strictly off the record, that we did not know if Captain T’vahr was returning. Jankova came back with the news the ‘Skohad captured him.”

“Jankova was on the raid?” This surprised her. The woman was smart, and tough, Trilby admitted. But she didn’t look that tough. Must be something the Imperials put in the water.

Doc nodded. “She heads Special Operations. I thought you knew this.” “Probably, but it didn’t sink in until now.” “So the captain told you about the raid?”

“He told me a couple of versions. The only consistent thing was that he got left behind in S’zed’c’far. I thought it was pretty shitty they abandoned him.”

 

Doc frowned. “They didn’t abandon him. He voluntarily stayed behind to facilitate their escape. He, out of all of them, is the best suited to survive unfavorable conditions.”

 

“Avanar at noon is unfavorable conditions. Capture by the ‘Sko is generally fatal.” “For most people, perhaps. But the captain....” And Doc hesitated. Trilby wondered if he thought he had said too much.

 

“Is not most people,” she finished for him. She hoped he might volunteer more, confirm some of the rumors Mitkanos had talked about. But he only took her tray from her, laying her napkin across the top. “I shall see about finding you someplace to cook, Captain Elliot. I think I might be able to justify it for the improved health of my patients.”

 

He left her with orders ‘to rest’, as if she could do anything else, dressed in a soft silvery shift that hung past her knees. And no socks or boots. And not a laser rifle in sight.

But her body took Doc’s command seriously, even though her mind labeled it ‘only a ten-minute nap’. When she woke, her door was closed and the lights in her room were dimmed. She glanced at the time panel on the far wall, saw it was 1830. Time for dinner and she just finished lunch.

Then she saw something else. T’vahr, in the chair. She blinked, rolled over on her side. “Don’t tell me. Studying my sleeping habits will help you defeat the ‘Sko.”

 

“No. Though it is a tempting suggestion.” There was a smile in his voice. But whatever expression his mouth held was invisible under his dark mustache and the dim light.

She didn’t want to discuss tempting suggestions lying down. She didn’t want to discuss tempting suggestions at all. She pulled herself upright, plumped the pillow behind her, and leaned back. “What are you doing here?”

“Do you know that we have known each other for only eleven days?”

She did, but didn’t want to admit she’d thought about it. About how on day four she’d thrown herself at him, torn his clothes off while he’d removed hers with equal enthusiasm. It had been an incredibly stupid move on her part, considering what happened on days five and six, and every one after that. Back then, on day four, she’d seen him as a kindred spirit. A tweaker of wogs-and-weemlies, like herself. And, when she found out he’d survived capture by the ‘Sko, a hero. Unlike herself. Those two things fed the attraction she’d felt for him since she first saw him lying on her sickbay regen bed. Magnificently naked.

He’d made it increasingly clear that he wanted her, and it seemed so very okay. Because he was just a lowly lieutenant. And she, a lowly freighter captain.

 

But he wasn’t a lowly lieutenant. And she was just a lowly freighter captain. She had to remember that. Had to forget day number four of those eleven days.

 

“In freighter lingo,” she told him, pulling the sheet up around her and tucking it under her arms, “we call eleven days a ‘single dex’. A deuce dex, what you’d call twelve, is a ‘stinker’.”

 

“Why?” “Because unless you got a real good enviro system, and most short haulers don’t, that’s what your ship’s going to smell like after eleven days in the lanes.”

 

He laughed. Of course he would. He’d never experienced a ship on an eleven-day run with a failing enviro. Or no fresh water. Or no money for docking fees.

 

He didn’t know what it was like to patch all your equipment, your clothes. His uniform was spotless, almost elegant with its fitted black jacket, tailored pants, polished boots.

And he’d gotten his hair cut. Probably had his own personal stylist. “Doc says he might release me tomorrow,” she said, as his laughter died away. “What then?”

“Then we take a look at what we know about the ‘Sko and Grantforth. And we decide how you will answer the transmit from Jagan.”

“He probably doesn’t expect me to answer. We didn’t part on the best of terms.”
“I know.”

It took a moment for his comment to sink in. Irritation flared in her. “All my personal transmits. Everything. You read them all, didn’t you?”

 

“It was necessary.”

 

Oh, Gods! They were so… intimate! The earlier ones. And the last few, the things Jagan called her… She was beyond mortification.

 

She grabbed the pillow from behind her back and flung it at him with all her might. It hit him square in the face. He let out a satisfying ‘oomph’.

 

“You have no morals! No morals at all!” Damn, that hurt. She rotated her injured shoulder. “And damn you, stop laughing!”

He was laughing at her. Standing, clutching the pillow in his arms, and laughing.
She held out her hand. “Give that back. I’m sick and injured. I need it.”
He sat down on the bed, facing her, and reached around her to tuck the pillow behind her back.

Wrong request, Trilby-girl. This was not where she wanted him to be. Not this close, with his breath in her hair, his arms brushing against hers. His mouth, hot against her skin, his mustache rasping against her cheek. He dusted her face with kisses of exquisite tenderness.

She was lost, and she couldn’t afford to be. She squirmed away from him, brought her hands up to his shoulders, pushed him back.

“Don’t, damn you. Stop it!” Her voice cracked. She hoped he thought it was anger. “Trilby-chenka—” A knock on the door. Three quick raps.

He pushed himself off the bed, ran his hand through his hair. He faced the door as it slid open. Doc’s solid form blocked the incoming light.

 

“Time, captain. I told you no more than thirty minutes. It’s now forty.” “Yes. Of course.” He stood by the edge of her bed. Trilby examined the hem of her blanket, knew he was looking at her. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Doc step closer.

“We do not want to tire our favorite patient.” “No.” “Time to leave, Captain T’vahr.” “You are releasing her tomorrow?” “I will let you know in the morning.” He stepped away. Trilby raised her eyes, saw him hesitate in the door.

“Vanko,” he said to Doc. Then a long sentence in Z’fharish. Her name. Some other words she thought she recognized but she couldn’t be sure. She’d have to get hold of a language program. There was too much at risk here.

Like being left alone in a small room with Khyrhis T’vahr. Risky, very risky. Doc answered him, a few more sentences back and forth and then he was gone.

She smoothed out the blanket and drew her knees up again. Wondered if Doc could see the flush of anger and shame on her face.

“ Lutsa,” he said. The lights brightened. “You have a good nap?” “Delightful.”

“And your visitor?” Doc flipped open his medi-stat, ran it down her arms as he talked. “No, let me guess. A royal pain in the ass, no?”

“A royal pain in the ass, yes,” she told him. “He doesn’t seem to understand the word ‘no’.” “You’ll have to teach him.” “Thanks, but I’ve already got a job.”

He closed the sensor. “Two more hours in the regen. Then tomorrow I will issue your release. You may have some soreness in your shoulder for a few days. And of course, do not enter any marathons for a least a week. But other than that, you’ll be fine.”

He patted her arm. “Ilsa will bring your dinner in a little while. Rest, for now.” Rest. She hugged her knees against her chest, stared at the closing door. She wasn’t tired, didn’t want to sleep. She was afraid she’d have nightmares. And T’vahr would be in every one of them. ~*~

Her breakfast arrived at 0800, along with clothing and a pair of boots. She picked up the familiar drab green flight pants only to find the material unfamiliar. And unpatched. She examined the t-shirt and service jacket. All the same. And her ship’s ID was gone from the jacket sleeves.

Even her underclothes were new. Someone—she had a suspicion as to who—had replicated her uniform, matching her size but improving the quality of the fabric. Far beyond anything she could ever afford.

She dressed, ran her hand down her jacket sleeve. Nice. Wow.
~*~

Nice. Wow. She turned around slowly, took in the appointments of her cabin and only half-listened to Hana Jankova’s apologies.

“This is not ‘basic’. This is—” Compared to what I’m used to. “—very nice.” A small seating area with a couch opened to a private galley on the left. On the right, a separate bedroom. With a door. A real bedroom. Access to the sani-fac from both the bedroom and the seating area.

Carpet. Wall insulation. Padded stools with armrests at the galley counter. Two viewports behind the couch. Big ones, not the small round ports that graced the Venture’s hull.

And not an inch of duct tape in sight.
The couch was soft. She sat, leaned back, patted the cushions. “Nice.”
“I’m glad it pleases you. Most of our visitors complain.”
“Kospahr, you mean?”
Jankova grinned wryly. “He’s the latest in a long list.”

“He should try living for five years in a sixty-five year old short-hauler. Or better yet, crew quarters on a Herkoid tanker. Herkoid would’ve crammed twenty people into here and expected a big thank you.” “Do you feel up to meeting with my team in an hour?”

 

The message from Jagan. Jankova had given her an overview, but she’d yet to see it. “I’ll meet with them now.”

 

Jankova shook her head. “Take time to get settled. Have a cup of tea. Captain T’vahr wants to be at the meeting as well, and he’s tied up with Lord Minister Kospahr at the moment.”

“They deserve each other.” She pushed herself out of the couch. “He’s not as bad as he used to be.”

“Who, Kospahr?” Trilby deliberately misunderstood. She didn’t want to hear nice things about Khyrhis T’vahr, but knew she’d opened herself up to the subject with her remark.

 

“The captain. He’s not the same man who stayed behind on S’zed.” “A short vacation at Club ‘Sko will do that.” She wandered over to the small galley. Hot coffee and tea on demand. Top-notch replicator. But also a cook top. Even better.

 

Jankova leaned on the counter. “He’s very… concerned about you.” “I’m fine.” As fine as anyone could be who just lost her ship, her livelihood and was struggling with her self-respect. “So where do I meet you in an hour?”

 

“The Tactical Briefing Room on Deck Seven. But don’t worry about finding your way. I’ll send someone to escort you.”

“Not T’vahr.” The words escaped her mouth before her brain had a chance to edit them. Damn! She liked Hana Jankova, but wasn’t willing to let the woman into her own personal nightmares. She murmured a weak explanation. “I just… he’s busy. I don’t want you to bother him.”

“I’ll probably send Lieutenant Osmar, from my team. He needs to practice his Standard. It will give you a chance to get to know him. We’ll be spending a lot of time together in the next few days.” “Sounds good.”

Jankova left. Trilby saw a series of letters flash on the overhead ID panel as the door slid closed. HNJNKV. Ident scanners on military ships evidently recorded both entrances and exits. She’d have to remember that, start memorizing the codes.

She didn’t want any surprises on the other side of her door. ~*~
ADZSMR.
Okay, she thought. Doesn’t look remotely like T’vahr, if Jankova’s ID was anything to go by.
“Come,” she said. Someone had evidently coded the cabin to respond to Standard. The door opened.
“Captain Elliot? Lieutenant Andrez Osmar.” He saluted, stepped inside.

Andrez Osmar was about her own age, with curly black hair cropped close to his head, a wide nose and a golden skin color that hinted at the possibility that someone in his past had spent some time on Bartravia.

“Come on in, lieutenant. Let me just grab my jacket.” She pulled it off the back of the stool in the galley and placed her empty coffee cup in the sani-rack.

She followed him down the corridor to the lift, looked up at him while they waited. He was tall, probably as tall as his captain. Good set of shoulders. Neadi would approve.
She made small talk with him in the lift. He’d been on the Razalka two years. Before that, he was under Captain Rafiello Vanushavor’s command. No, he’d never been to the Conclave. At least, not socially. Three years ago, they’d been at war. Then, he’d only seen the Conclave’s Fleet. Not the worlds, or stations. But he’d heard stories.

“Port Rumor? Vad! Much interesting place. Much trouble. Good fun!” “If you ever get the chance, there’s a bar called Fly-boy’s. My friend Neadi and her husband Leonid run it. Leonid Danzanour.”

“Z’fharish name. Is good.” “Is great. Maybe I’ll see you there, sometime.”

The Tactical Division on the Razalka spanned both sides of the corridor. Trilby followed Osmar through the double doors into the briefing room where she met the other two members of Jankova’s team: Grigor Cosaros and Cadrik Bervanik. Cosaros was about Osmar’s age, but Bervanik was older. Late forties, possibly early fifties. He reminded her of Doc, squat and balding. Cosaros was wiry, more intense.

T’vahr stood at the head of the long table at the far end of the room, arms folded across his chest. A three dimensional holo chart hovered in front of him. He turned when she entered but said nothing while Osmar performed the introductions.

Then Jankova came in, followed by a man who was introduced to her as Commander Demarik. Gray haired, but prematurely gray, Trilby guessed. He had a likeable face, and gorgeous dark eyes. The Razalka’s Executive Officer, Jankova told her. She heard the pride in the woman’s voice, noticed the slight brush of her fingertips across Demarik’s arm as he turned.

More than pride. She was glad for Jankova. They seemed right together, somehow. Jankova handed T’vahr a thin datatab. He pushed it into the slot in the table. “Captain Elliot?” T’vahr motioned to the seat next to his at the table.

Reluctantly, she walked over and sat. The holo chart disappeared, to be replaced by a wafer thin screen.

 

T’vahr took his seat, leaned slightly towards her. “This is the message from Jagan Grantforth that we intercepted.”

 

Pilfered, you mean. She noticed Jankova’s team were suddenly busy at their own consoles. At least they were willing to grant her privacy.

The message was longer than she expected. Jagan looked tired, harassed. And like he’d been drinking too much. Marriage to Zalia was not bringing him happiness. He realized now that money wasn’t everything. He needed to see her. He apologized for all his rude words. But he felt so strongly for her. It made him so afraid.

His life was falling apart. He was desperate. Could she at least contact him, assure him she was okay? He was worried. She hadn’t been to Fly-boy’s in awhile. If they could just be friends, he’d be happy. Maybe he could even offer her some work through GGA, to make up for the pain he’d caused her. They could be business associates. He knew he didn’t deserve more than that.
“You’ll always be the only woman I’ll ever love.” He ended his message with a weak smile.

She leaned back in her chair as the GGA logo winked off. She thought she was going to throw up. CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

“It’s absolutely out of the question.” Rhis knotted his hands together, rested them on the tabletop. He wanted to knot them around Kospahr’s neck. “Captain Elliot isn’t trained for a mission of this complexity.”

“She doesn’t need training,” Kospahr replied smoothly. He lounged at the opposite end of the long conference table in the Tactical Briefing Room. Osmar, Jankova and Trilby were on the Lord Minister’s left. Bervanik, Cosaros and Demarik on his right. “She’s a freighter captain. All she has to do is fly the runs we tell her. The rest is up to the ‘Sko.”

Bait, Rhis knew. Again, Kospahr wanted to use his air-sprite as bait. They’d had this discussion before and it’d almost killed Trilby. Now, at least, Kospahr was willing to admit the Razalka had to be involved. The Minister’s first plan had been to have the Careless Venture lure the ‘Sko, then have the Razalka’s fighter squadrons move in. But Rhis’s ship would have to be a considerable distance away from the Careless Venture in order to avoid detection. An unsafe distance, in his estimation. In his expert opinion. And it would put Trilby and whoever else was on board in great physical danger.

The ‘Sko were not particularly careful about whom they killed.

But Grantforth’s pleading missive to Trilby hinted at a possible shipping contract with GGA Rhis believed Jagan wanted access to her ship, again. He toyed with several possible reasons. The trouble was, there wasn’t much of the Careless Venture left to show him. And rebuilding her would take time.

He made that clear to Kospahr, who dismissed the objection with a wave of his hand.

“So scrap the idea of repairing that derelict ship of hers. I agree, it would take too long and frankly isn’t worth the Empire’s time or money. You can rig one of our new freighters, dangle that in front of the ‘Sko and GGA Add whatever weapons array you want.”

Rhis saw Trilby’s head jerk at this latest proclamation. Jankova evidently wasn’t editing her whispered translations to Trilby. Which was just as well. He wanted to make sure Trilby understood Kospahr’s priorities. And opinions.

Lieutenant Osmar looked up from his datapadd, voiced his own concern. “The Conclave and the ‘Sko might pick up on an unusual weapons array as well, Lord Minister.”

“I can design around that somewhat,” Rhis conceded. In fact he already had. “But it still doesn’t lessen the risk. Nor does luring the ‘Sko give us the connection to Garold Grantforth. I say we wait and see what develops with Jagan Grantforth. When he contacts her again—”

Kospahr slapped the table with the flat of his hand. “The entire Empire could be at risk if we permit the ‘Sko to gain entry into the Conclave!”

“I don’t think the situation has escalated quite that far,” Rhis replied levelly. He picked up his lightpen from the table, balanced it in his fingers. “And dangling Captain Elliot before them without thoroughly preparing for all eventualities, and thoroughly protecting her safety, could precipitate even more complications. As I said, she’s not trained—”

“Then train her. Or send a team with her, who is,” Kospahr said. Rhis felt Jankova’s gaze on him, saw Osmar look up again from his datapadd. Cosaros and Bervanik said nothing, but he knew if he asked for volunteers, they’d all stand up in unison.

But that would be almost as foolish as sending Trilby out alone. “Jankova’s team just returned from an assignment. I’m not going to send them back out again. Cosaros and Osmar haven’t recovered from their injuries. This was their third mission in six months.” And Jankova’s absence hadn’t done Demarik any good, either. For the first time, Rhis sympathized with his Executive Officer.

 

“Then don’t send Jankova’s team. Lieutenant Gurdan’s people are available. I’ve already spoken to him.”

“But I haven’t.” Nor did he intend to. “And you don’t have final say here, Lord Minister. I do.” “We don’t have the time to waste while your people lick their wounds.”

Rhis’s eyes narrowed. The man was not only insulting, he was an idiot. “Sending injured personnel on a mission is the height of stupidity. The only possible answer is to delay a month while Commander Jankova’s team recovers, and Captain Elliot’s ship is repaired.”

“A month? We don’t have a month. That young Grantforth’s hot for her again. We can’t afford to—” The mention of Jagan sent anger sizzling through Rhis’s words. “My answer, Kospahr, is no!”

“Cordag merash!” Trilby’s voice cut between them, ordering him, ordering them all to listen to her. In perfect Z’fharish.

He glanced at her, caught Jankova’s slight smile of surprise. Trilby was learning quickly. Too quickly, for Kospahr’s liking. The Lord Minister started to rise.
“Viek,” Trilby added. Please.

Rhis noted her smile to Kospahr was as forced as the courtesy she added. He banked his irritation, let her continue.

“I think I understand pretty well, from Commander Jankova’s translations, what you want to accomplish. And Lord Minister Kospahr is correct: I do know freighter operations. And for that reason, Captain T’vahr’s plan won’t work.”

Kospahr preened, not bothering to hide his self-satisfaction. But Rhis knew Trilby had more to say. He didn’t think, in the long run, she’d be siding with the Lord Minister.

Trilby gestured to Cosaros and Bervanik, then nodded to Jankova on her right. “No offense to any of you. But on the freighter docks I’ve worked, you’d all stand out like a well-fed felinar in a mizzet colony. You say you want to create a fictitious freighter company, a Z’fharin-Indy joint venture, with me as hired captain. And have this company agree to do business with GGA Well, if you’re going to do that, you going to a have to let me, as captain, choose my crew. And it wouldn’t be any of you, because you’re all too… respectable.

“And Gurdan’s people,” she told Kospahr, “all walk around like they have a rod up their ass.” “You have a unique way with words,” Kospahr said dryly.
“It’s part of my charm,” she shot back at him.

Rhis rapped his light pen on the table. Trilby’s comments were valid, but only pointed out the problems. She didn’t offer any solutions. They still had work to do. Before he could remind them of that fact, Osmar leaned forward, put his thoughts out in accented Standard.

“Captain Elliot is right. We do not have merchanter training. Not that we could not learn lingo, or methods. But it would take time. If we could delay this project, as Captain T’vahr says, work with Captain Elliot on some runs, then we are in better position to fit in at places like Port Rumor. We could be,” and he grinned at Trilby, “less respectable.”

And physically sound. Cosaros had taken two laser hits to the leg during their escape. Osmar had broken his left arm, suffered a concussion. Doc still had them on injured reserve.

 

Trilby was far from healed as well. Her injuries were more recent. He saw the shadows under her eyes, saw her wince when she moved too suddenly.

 

But Kospahr wasn’t interested in reasons for a delay. He started to object, but Jankova snapped her fingers.

“We might not have to delay. Mitkanos,” she said. Rhis saw Demarik look towards her, nod in agreement. “I didn’t think of it until Andrez mentioned merchanter training. Mitkanos’ family runs a depot in Port Balara. We could talk to him about filling in on our team.”

“He’s Stegzarda,” Cosaros said. He didn’t have to add ‘not Fleet’.

That could be a problem and not just because of the rivalry between the two branches. Rhis intended to be part of Trilby’s ‘crew’, whether she liked it or not. And whether Mitkanos agreed with it or not. He had a feeling Mitkanos wouldn’t.

The major’d already done Rhis one favor by deleting all records of his authorization for the Careless Venture’s departure. And made it clear he did so only because Demarik asked. They had a tie from a long ago. Rhis never asked what it was. Only that it was this history with Demarik and, his exec admitted, Mitkanos’ fondness for Captain Elliot, that engineered the ruse of Lt. Lucho Salnay’s ‘assistance’, and Trilby’s ‘escape’. Not because Mitkanos had any interest in protecting the Captain T’vahr.

He admittedly owed Mitkanos for that. That didn’t make the prospect of working a mission with the Stegzarda chief any more pleasant.

 

~*~

Yavo Mitkanos accepted Rhis’s offer of a chair with controlled courtesy, listened to his brief preliminaries with a professional attentiveness. But Rhis clearly saw the expected: the man didn’t like him. It was in the control, in the professionalism, in the way the burly man looked levelly across the wide desktop between them.

Rhis was used to people being, if not intimidated by his presence, at least deferential. But Mitkanos had been casually unconcerned when Rhis had stood at his table in the officers’ mess on Degvar. And was only marginally more cooperative now.

The only thing that seemed to motivate the man was Trilby’s safety.
“She’s willing to work with you?” Mitkanos asked.
“Yes.” “This surprises me. I’ll overstep my bounds here and say you’ve treated her most unfairly.”

Rhis sat back in his chair. “You’re right. You’re overstepping your bounds, major. But I didn’t send those fighters after her.”

 

“I’m well aware of that. But I’m speaking of things that happened before that incident.”

A wave of anger, then shame, washed over Rhis. He knew he’d hurt Trilby by not telling her who he was. He didn’t think she would’ve cried on the shoulders of someone like Mitkanos. “I’m not interested in your opinions on my interaction with Captain Elliot. I asked you here solely because Commander Demarik believes you can assist us in an operation to force Grantforth and the ‘Sko into the open.”

“Zak Demarik is correct. I grew up on my family’s merchanter docks. Spent ten years working the freighter trade before joining the Stegzarda. That’s what you wanted to know, correct?”

“How long ago was that?”
“Twenty-three years. But my family still runs the depot. I follow their business.”

“I’m looking to create a believable, workable freighter crew of five. Myself and Captain Elliot are already part of that roster. I need three more. If Captain Elliot agrees, can you provide us with personnel with military training and freighter experience that fit those parameters?”

“You need two more, Captain T’vahr. If you’re going to operate out of both Rumor and Saldika, you need me on board. And yes, I can provide you with people who will fit the bill.”

 

“I’d prefer someone from Degvar Fleet personnel—”

“I have several in mind, both Fleet and Stegzarda. But I think Captain Elliot has to have the final say. She has the most to lose out of all of us. And she’s already lost more than is fair. Can she accompany me back to Degvar, or has she been confined to quarters?”

Rhis clenched his fist. “Do you always speak your mind so freely, major?” So carelessly as well? “When I feel it’s necessary.”

“I could also find it necessary to remove you from this mission.” He knew Demarik had faith in Mitkanos, but if he had to, he’d find somebody else. Someone who’d remember who was in command. “Your only other choice then, on this short notice, would be Pavor Gurdan. I don’t recommend him.” And Kospahr would be gleeful to have Gurdan on board. No, he was stuck with Mitkanos and they both knew it. He stared hard at the man, made sure the major knew he wasn’t pleased with the situation.

“Captain Elliot isn’t a prisoner here,” he told Mitkanos. “She’s cooperating fully. You have an hour to assemble your best personnel for her consideration. Send a full dossier to me when you’ve made your choice. I’ll present that to Captain Elliot, give her time to review it. Then at,” he glanced at the time stamp on his desk screen, “sixteen-hundred hours, I’ll accompany her to your office. She can meet with your candidates, make her final decision at that time.”

Mitkanos looked as if he was going to say something but thought better of it. Rhis took it as a positive sign.

 

The Stegzarda major stood. “Dossier in one hour. My office at 1600.” He strode out the door. Rhis unclenched his fist. ~*~

Rhis waited while she read the dossiers. She sat in the same chair Mitkanos had occupied earlier. Mitkanos had filled it. Trilby simply perched in it, a slender form in dark green against the gray fabric. His office auxiliary screen was swiveled towards her. Her lightpen tapped, highlighted, selected.

He’d read the files before he called her to his office, entered his opinions on Mitkanos’s six candidates. “You want coffee? Tea?”

 

She looked up, frowned at being disturbed. “Um, no. Thanks.” Bowed her head again. Tap. Tap. His office replicator was recessed in a corner. He requested tea for himself. She was reading his final notes when he walked behind her chair to bring the steaming cup back to his desk.

“Okay.” She breathed the word, nodding more to herself than to him. He adjusted his desk screen, pulled the data from hers.

Yavo Mitkanos. Of course. He expected that. Then three more names. Two from Fleet. Basil Enzio. Dallon Patruzius. And one Stegzarda. Farra Rimanava, the young woman with Mitkanos in the mess. Not surprising. All good choices, judging from a quick glance at their service records. Just one too many.

He tapped his own lightpen on the list. “You have four here.”
“Yes.”
“I don’t want to use six. Just five—”

“I’m giving you five. Myself, as captain. Patruzius as copilot. Enzio, Rimanava and Major Mitkanos. That’s five.”

“And me.” For a moment he thought his participation in the mission had slipped her mind. Then he saw the line of her mouth tighten. She was excluding him. “I am in charge of this mission,” he said softly. He didn’t want to sound overbearing. He wanted her to see that he valued her. Trusted her.

But she didn’t seem ready to trust him. “That doesn’t mean you have to be part of my crew.” “Trilby—”

“You asked my opinion.” She leaned forward, pushed the auxiliary desk screen out of the way. “I’m giving it. Mitkanos, Enzio, Rimanava and Patruzius. You don’t belong.”

 

He did. He had to. He was putting her back in touch with Jagan Grantforth. He had to be there. “I’ve spent a good part of my life doing intelligence work. I can belong and will. I am in charge of this mission,” he repeated.

“Then let me make it clearer. I don’t want you there.” She leaned back, crossed her arms over her chest.
She was still angry with him, pushing him away every chance she got. He saw that, hoped in time she’d understand why he’d had to lie about who he was. It took some of the sting out of her rejection, but not all. A small cruel voice in his head whispered that it might not only be anger. That it might be something else. Something she had alluded to in the officer’s lounge on Degvar.

Something that labeled him a freak. An unholy experiment. Or worse; how Malika had seen him. A curiosity to be conquered, bragged about, laughed at.

 

“I will be on board as copilot. And mission leader.” He touched his screen, sent the list back to her. “And I think we both agree on Mitkanos. So the last two choices are yours. But only two.” She glared at him for a moment. “Rimanava,” she said. “And Patruzius.”

He tabbed down to their bios, scanned them. Patruzius was Fleet, currently assigned to the Degvar Quartermaster’s office. He’d worked Saldika, was fluent in Standard. That would’ve been one of his choices as well. Something flickered in his mind when he looked at Patruzius’s image, something familiar. But he couldn’t place the face with the neatly clipped beard, close-cropped hair.

Rimanava wasn’t fluent in Standard, but then, their cover was that of a mixed crew. She grew up in Port Balara, worked for two years on the merchanter docks. He could find no flaws in her record and perhaps her inclusion would placate Mitkanos.

“Good,” he said. “I’ll tell Mitkanos. We’ll meet with him in two hours.”
~*~

He recognized the man as soon as he and Trilby walked into Mitkanos’ office. The beard was gone; the hair longer and now pulled back at the nape of his neck and secured with a black cord. Black, like his uniform. A Fleet supply ship captain.

Patruzius. The man who’d sat so close next to Trilby in the officer’s lounge, who’d placed his hand in such a familiar manner on Trilby’s arm, was Dallon Patruzius. And Rhis had just authorized his placement on the mission team. On Trilby’s ship.

Rhis suppressed a groan and wondered, not for the first time in the past few days, if a permanent place had been etched for him on the Divine Shit List.

 

He nodded to Mitkanos. The young woman standing next to him was the Stegzarda corporal, Farra Rimanava.

Trilby was already shaking Rimanava’s hand, then Patruzius’s. The bastard winked at her. “Good to see you again,” she told him.

Actually, no, it isn’t . Not as far as Rhis was concerned. Things were said at that table in the lounge, and Patruzius and Rimanava had been there to hear them. Suddenly he wasn’t as pleased with his new crew as before.

But Patruzius was Fleet. One of his own people. His allegiance was to Senior Captain T’vahr. He’d make sure Patruzius didn’t forget that.

 

CHAPTER NINETEEN

She couldn’t bring herself to sit in this captain’s chair. Not yet. The ache of losing the Careless Venture was still too new. The pull of this ship, an Endurance Class freighter only a few years old, was too enticing. The Empire was handing her this beauty. T’vahr had made that much clear. It was hers to keep after the mission. Regardless of how the mission turned out.

Helluva reward for returning their prized senior captain. Providing, of course, she survived. Shame Dezi was still in a hundred pieces and not here to see it.

She ran her hand over the back of the captain’s chair. High backed and cushioned, upholstered in a soft fabric that felt like woven leather. No duct tape. No lumpy welds holding the armrest to the frame. On the console, a micro-thin screen that slid noiselessly up at her touch, blinked on instantly.

She felt T’vahr standing behind her, waiting for her reaction. She’d kept herself in check all the way through the large freighter bay on Degvar. Not the commercial bay, nor the docks the Stegzarda used. But one that required them to pass through three security checkpoints.

She assumed, by that point, he wasn’t leading her to a generic Imperial cargo ship. But it still took some discipline on her part not to let a well-deserved ‘hot damn’ slip through her lips.

An Endurance Class short-hauler. Hot damn, indeed. He grasped her elbow lightly, guided her to the front of the chair. “Sit.” She felt his touch like firewasps in her veins, jerked away. “In a minute.”

She wrapped her arms around her chest, continued her methodical check of the command console. Then turned to her right and inspected the copilot’s screens and, behind that, navigation.

 

This was a real bridge, with space, walkable space between the stations. Not like the Venture, whose bridge hadn’t been much more than an oversized cockpit.

 

Enviro. Communications. Weapons. As for the last, she could see the modifications still underway. Cables snaked over that console and into an open access panel underneath.

 

She heard him step towards her. Turned, because she didn’t want to feel his breath on her hair again, or the heat of his body against her back.

 

“Where’d you steal this from?” And then, a sickening thought. How many Conclave crew had died defending it?

 

He shook his head. “It’s not stolen.” Oh, right. She forgot. During the war, the Empire labeled any captured ships as ‘transferred property’. “Okay, who involuntarily transferred this ship to you?”

 

A small grin crossed his lips. He reached for the back of the captain’s chair, swiveled it around, then sat. “No one.”

 

Why was he grinning like that? She didn’t see anything funny in standing where some of her own people may have fought for their freedom.

 

“You really think this is an Endurance C-2? Trilby, Trilby.” He shook his head. “Come. Three more minutes. I’ll give you three more minutes.”

For a moment she didn’t understand. Of course this was an Endurance C-2. She knew a C-2 when she saw one. She— —uncrossed her arms, stared around the bridge again.

Then she stormed off the bridge and down the corridor. T’vahr’s boots thudded behind her. She could hear him chuckling, damn him!

She clambered down the ramp, her hand sliding on the railing, grasping it just as it ended and used her own body weight to swing herself around. She darted under the thick landing struts and peered up at the belly of the freighter. Saw the square drain locks, red-ringed fuel ports, docking clamp interfaces. The latter, especially, looked all too familiar.

Damn! Damn! Double damn! She emerged on the starboard side, ran her gaze down the length of the ship, seeing now what she’d missed before. Differences. There were differences. Hull plate size and configuration. Viewports. She took a few steps backwards, saw braking vane patterns that didn’t belong. And stumbled against something hard but soft and warm.

T’vahr locked his arms around her waist, pulled her against him, laughter still rumbling in his chest. She pounded her fists half-heartedly against his hands at her midsection. She was too intrigued by the ship to be completely annoyed at him.

“Okay, so it’s not an Endurance C-2,” she admitted. She leaned her head back against his shoulder to get a better look. It wasn’t even a Conclave produced ship. “What is it?”

His voice was low and sexy in her ear. “I like to think of her as an illegitimate but well loved offspring. You know, perhaps this Dasja Conclave freighter falls in love with a Dasjon Imperial huntership. This is the result of their liaison.”

“Seriously, Rhis. Where’d you get her?”

His arms tightened around her, the fingers of his right hand threading through her own. She suddenly realized what she’d done. Rhis. She hadn’t called him Rhis since she’d found out who he was. He’d been T’vahr since then. Or preferably, Captain T’vahr.

“T’vahr,” she said with a warning tone, as much to herself as to him. She damned her tongue and wished her brain wouldn’t go into stasis every time he got near her. Her body certainly didn’t respond that way. She wriggled against him and he released her, reluctantly.

“She was built here,” he told her when she turned. “No, not on Degvar. But she was constructed at an Imperial shipyard and yes, to resemble an Endurance C-2. Oddly enough, your military has never been able to see through her deception. But I’ve yet to be able to pass her by a freighter captain.”

Now she knew how the Empire, how T’vahr conducted intelligence missions in Conclave space. “What’s her name?”
“She’s had many. None of course can be used again once we cross the zone.”
Changing a ship’s sealed ID program was easy for the likes of T’vahr.
“She’s got to have a name.” It was almost sacrilegious.
“You’re her captain. That honor is yours.”

The thought immediately thrilled her, then alarmed her. Whatever she was, she was magnificent. Far too magnificent for the likes of Trilby Elliot.

 

Jagan had bought her bracelets, silk blouses, perfume. T’vahr was giving her a ship.

 

And just like the bracelets, silk and perfume, she’d give this gift back, too. But this one she’d regret for the rest of her life.

 

But for a while, just a little while… A name rose suddenly in her heart. Her throat tightened and she wiped her hand over her eyes, smearing the dampness there.

 

She stared at the ship, an Endurance C-2 but so much better, with systems and capabilities that bordered on brilliant.

 

“Shadow’s Quest,” she said softly. It fit. Because in the end, she’d lose this Shadow, too. ~*~

It was the second message she’d received from Jagan since she’d agreed to work with T’vahr. But the first to come to her on Shadow’s Quest. She sat in her office—small, but it was hers— behind the bridge and listened to it twice.

Then she got herself a fresh cup of coffee from her replicator—her replicator—and listened to it again.

Jagan Grantforth seemed greatly disturbed she was no longer in command, and in possession, of the Careless Venture. “I’m worried about you. You must be devastated, Tril. You’re all alone. I know how much that ship meant to you.”

He didn’t know diddlysquat. He’d never given a damn about the Venture before, except to make sure the mattress in her cabin was soft enough for him.

 

“Did this transport company let you transfer all your map files to this new ship? Make sure they know how useful all your years of experience in the business are. All those shortcuts you know.” Map files? The Venture’s map files?

 

She couldn’t place the term, thought for a minute it might be an acronym. MAP, with the M standing for Major, Minor something…

Map. Charts. Navigational charts.
The Venture’s nav banks.

She bolted out of her office, skipped down the stairs two at a time. The lift would probably be quicker, but she kept forgetting about it. Besides, her brain seemed energized by the pounding of her feet on the resilient decking.

T’vahr was in engineering. A real engineering room. Two techs from the Razalka and one from Degvar’s Ops were making a last minute install. They had a deadline of 0600 tomorrow. Shadow’s Quest would officially enter the freighter business at that time.

She spotted him kneeling on the floor, holding a small datalyser into an access hatch. “ Vad,” he called in approval to the gray-clad tech at the far end of the console. “The signal’s balanced now.” She barely noticed that she understood his Z’fharish response to the tech. She squatted down beside him, grabbed his arm. “It’s not me. It’s my ship!”

He sat back on his haunches and stared at her. She felt almost giddy with relief. And idiotic for not seeing it before.

“It’s not me,” she repeated. “Jagan. He’s not, he’s never been interested in me. It’s my ship. The Venture. He’s having shit fits in his latest transmit because he thinks I junked her nav banks.”

The same nav banks that held, not only the data on all of her routes and runs, but the routes and runs of every captain the ship had ever had in the past sixty-five years. All the old trade routes that no one used anymore because the guidance beacons were outdated.

No one, maybe, except the ‘Sko.
~*~

T’vahr followed her into the lift, and up three decks to her office. She turned her desk screen towards him. He sat on the edge of her desk, sipped the coffee that she’d gotten for herself and watched the playback of the transmit.

“He could just be saying how sorry he is because he’s trying to get back in your good graces.”

Yeah, you’d know about playing those kinds of games, wouldn’t you? She leaned forward in her chair. “Jagan doesn’t even know a ship has nav banks. Trust me. Someone fed him that line. He refers to the shortcut in my map files. He couldn’t even get the line right. He’s an accountant, for the Gods’ sakes!”

“His family owns GGA—”

 

“And he’s an accountant. Has no military or merchanter flight time. He goes to the depots on his family’s private yachts and takes inventory. He wouldn’t know a star chart if it bit him in the ass.”

She could see his mind working. He took another sip of her coffee. She wondered if he was coming to the same conclusion she had. She couldn’t be the bait because she wasn’t what Jagan or the ‘Sko wanted. The Empire could let her go now, if not in Shadow’s Quest—and she didn’t remotely think they’d just hand her this ship, especially if the mission were scrubbed—then at least with a one-way shuttle ticket in hand back to Port Rumor. There’d be plenty of people there willing to help her find Carina.

But he shot her hopes down with his next sentence. “We can integrate the Venture’s nav banks onto this ship. It will take us only another six, eight hours.” He slapped his hand against his thigh. “Bloody hell! I should have thought of that.”

“But they’re damaged—”

“The data’s intact. Only the retrieval programs and some of the hardware integrators were lost.” He put his empty cup down then pulled his lightpen from his jacket pocket, tapped the end against his mouth while he thought. “We could trap them. Set it up so they obtain the nav banks. But I can put in a code, traceable by us. We can track who the data goes to, and how.”

He swiveled the screen back to her. “Compose a message. Send it in an hour or two. Praise your new employers, Vanur Transport, who had, of course, been more than happy to integrate your nav banks.

And paid you well for it.” He was grinning but his smile had distinctly feral undertones.

She voiced her supposition. “The ‘Sko are looking to use the old lanes to move in and out of the Conclave undetected. And someone in GGA is supplying them with the means.” She couldn’t quite believe what she was saying. GGA working with the ‘Sko. Is this what Carina found out, or maybe Vitorio? Vitorio’d had contacts in GGA through Chaser, long before Trilby had met Jagan. She pushed the ugly thoughts from her mind.

T’vahr seemed to sense her discomfort. “I suspected that for awhile. Now I think we have proof.” “Then why all the attacks on Rinnaker, on…?” She shook her head. Stupid, stupid, stupid! It was the one common thread she’d seen but ignored. She answered her own question before he could.

“Most of Rinnaker’s ships are older.” She pointed her finger at him as if lecturing him. “They’ve been in business for almost eighty years. Longer than Norvind or GGA Only Herkoid was around longer.” Over one hundred and twenty. And their ships, when they still traveled the lanes, looked it. “When Herkoid folded, Rinnaker’s nav data was the oldest in the lanes.”

“Which the ‘Sko want. And GGA wants.” T’vahr repocketed his pen. “So they hit Rinnaker’s old freighters, force them to sell them as scrap.”

“To GGA Who also graciously gives them low cost loans to buy new ships.” Things were starting to fall into place in Trilby’s mind. But not everything. “But GGA’s got Rinnaker’s data. Why do they need mine?”

“We’ll have to take a look at that data to answer that.” He slid off the desk then turned, planted his hands on top of it and looked at her. “You worked for Herkoid, didn’t you?”

She nodded. “So did Vitorio. Carina’s brother.”
“You ever take nav data from their ships?”
Oh, Gods. She closed her eyes for a moment. “Shadow did.”
“Shadow?”

She waved one hand in the air. “This ship’s namesake. Shadow was a genius. Even when he was a kid, he could’ve run circles around the stuff you create. We grew up together, Carina, Vitorio. Shadow. Chaser. And me.”

“And he took the Herkoid files from you, or Vitorio?”

“No. He worked with me and Vitorio on a Herkoid long-hauler. Died on it, too. He started copying Herkoid’s command files and nav files and the Gods only know what else before he was killed. He had this beat-up old datapadd. He listed me as his sister in his personnel file. Herkoid gave me his things, including the datapadd after he was killed.”

“And the files?”

 

“When I got the Venture, I dumped everything into her banks. Not just Herkoid nav data. Everything. Everything Shadow ever created, every program he ever wrote. I got some fail safes—”

“I saw them.”
Hell, of course he had. Sometimes she felt so naked around him! In more ways than one… Bad choice of words, Trilby-girl.

“The original fail-safe was his program. Some of my diagnostics were, too. I just expanded them, customized them to what I needed. And the programs he didn’t finish, I did.” “And Jagan knew about this?”

“He knew we worked for Herkoid.” She was thinking hard now. “He met Vitorio. Chaser. He heard some of the old stories. It was common for one of us to brag about what Shadow had done. What he could’ve been. But there’s no way Jagan would know what to do with information like this.”

“But somebody does.” He pushed himself upright and ran a hand over his face. “And somebody still wants that data. Jagan’s the link. Send him that message about the wonderful people at Vanur Transport. I’m very interested to see how he responds.”

He stopped as the door slid open. “And by the way, also inform Jagan Grantforth you’re neither heartbroken nor alone. Tell him your fiancé is making sure you’re well taken care of.”

“My fiancé?” For a moment she thought he was going to recruit Dallon Patruzius for that position. Or, Gods forbid, Mitkanos. Then she saw his sly grin and wished she could wrench the screen from her desk and chuck it at him.

“Yes, your fiancé. Rhis Vanur, C.E.O. of Vanur Trading.” She shot to her feet. “You are not!”

“Did I forget to tell you about my promotion, darling? Yesterday a mere lieutenant. Today, a corporate C.E.O. Hard work does pay off.” He shrugged, then ducked quickly. An empty coffee cup sailed past his head.

~*~

There was a palpable hush in the Tactical Briefing Room. The overhead lights were dimmed, better to see the data highlighted on holochart suspended over the middle of the table. Rhis strode quietly around the table, glanced down at Jankova’s padd. She was linked with Demarik’s. His Executive Officer had returned to his usual seat at the far end of the table. A seat Kospahr occupied during their last meeting, four days ago.

But Rhis had somehow forgotten to inform the Lord Minister of this late meeting. Oddly, so had Demarik and Jankova. Of course, they were delegated the duty of fetching the new team on board: Mitkanos, Rimanava and Patruzius. When the Stegzarda Major offhandedly noted the lapse with an undisguised grin of pleasure, everyone exchanged glances and shrugs. Undoubtedly, they were all working too hard. It was an understandable oversight. And the general consensus was that the Lord Minister wouldn’t want to be disturbed at this late hour.

They’d accomplished much in those four days. The transferal of the files to Shadow’s Quest, and the implementation of the tracking codes, delayed them only six hours. Vanur Transport would be up, operating and—barring any other unforeseen revelations—departing Degvar by 1200 hours tomorrow, with Captain Trilby Elliot at the helm.

And Captain Khyrhis T’vahr—Rhis Vanur— in command.

He stopped behind Trilby’s chair, smoothed a wrinkled section of her jacket collar. She flinched away, but not as much as she had yesterday, when he’d wrapped his arms, briefly, around her waist. Or the day before, when he’d rested his hand on her shoulder, then touched her face.

One step at a time. He would get her back, one small touch, one small step at a time.

He was also sending a message. Not to Demarik or Osmar or Cosaros or Bervanik. Demarik and Jankova knew what Trilby meant to him before he’d set foot on the Razalka. His Executive Officer often received information that no one else did.

And Jankova’s team followed her lead. They had eyes, and brains, as well. As did Doc Vanko, who greeted Rhis’s first appearance in Sickbay after Trilby’s accident with two words: “Excellent choice.”

 

They’d known each other a long time. Nothing more needed to be said.

 

No, the message he was sending had two destinations. The first was to Trilby. He wasn’t giving up on her, nor on what he knew they could have.

 

The second was to Mitkanos and Patruzius, seated across the table from her. She’s mine. Don’t even think about trying to change that fact.

He was having second thoughts about permitting Dallon Patruzius on the team. The same easy-going manner that marked the supply captain a natural on the freighter docks, and on this mission, also made him a natural flirt with Trilby. And Farra Rimanava. But Rhis wasn’t concerned with Rimanava.

Nor did he think Trilby or Mitkanos would find his objection valid. And they had an ETD of 1200 to concentrate on, a little more than ten hours from now.

 

“It is something in Herkoid’s data, there’s no doubt.” Mitkanos was shaking his finger at the holochart in the same way Trilby shook her finger in Rhis’s face earlier. And in response to the same information.

“ Vad! Yasch— Yes, I have examined these stats from Rinnaker, too.” Osmar gave a quick nod to Trilby as he switched from Z’fharish to Standard. “They all reference a Herkoid route. Here, so to save you time.” Osmar tapped his padd, sent his summation to Mitkanos’s team.

This was the first time Mitkanos’s team viewed the total picture. Rhis was interested in their input, especially Patruzius’s, as much as he was reluctant to admit it.

 

Patruzius had come to Fleet out of the merchant sector five years ago. Before that he worked with Fennik Import-Export, based in Saldika and, when the war ended, with runs to Port Rumor. Patruzius had even, Trilby told him, been to Fly-boy’s. But not when she’d been there. “That’s Herkoid’s Black Star route.” Trilby pulled up Osmar’s summation from her files. Rhis leaned on the back of her chair, read over her shoulder.

 

“Strezza ebohr,” he said in her ear. He knew she was learning more and more of his language. He wanted her to. She would need it.

Trilby touched her padd. The trade route shimmered into solidity to the left of the holochart. She dragged her lightpen, superimposed it. It went from Marbo to an empty spot in the Yanir Quadrant. Imperial space.

It should have gone somewhere else. Rhis slid into his seat, brought up Trilby’s file, checked the coordinates. No, everything was correct. Except that it only had a Point A. Not a Point B. Not a station, not a planet, not even an intersection with another trade route.

He heard Rimanava and Cosaros arguing the same thing. In Standard, fortunately, for Trilby’s sake. “Mister Demarik, what are the oldest starcharts we have on the Razalka?”

Demarik looked at him through the swirl of colors in the middle of the table. “Five years in our banks, ten in archive, captain.”

 

Bloody hell. Sometimes he was too efficient for his own good. Herkoid went out of business fifteen years ago, but this data looked to be at least thirty years old, if not older.

“We’ve got older than that on the Nalika Gemma.” Dallon Patruzius leaned forward, looked at him past the bowed heads of Mitkanos and Rimanava, comparing data on their padds. “Let me borrow your ship’s comm and I’ll see what I can find for you.”

Farra Rimanava’s hand on his arm stopped him from rising. “Degvar Ops—”
“Doesn’t need to know what we’re doing.” Patruzius stood.
Rhis nodded his approval. Damn it! The man was good.
“Use my office, Captain Patruzius.” Jankova swiveled her chair around, rose to meet him. “Dallon,” he told her, grinning.

Rhis waited until the door slid closed behind them before meeting Demarik’s gaze. His exec shrugged. Rhis went back to the data on his padd, scowling.

 

His shipbadge pinged. He answered with a tap to his padd. His screen shifted to a view of the duty officer at communications.

 

“Captain, a Delta Priority One transmit from Admiral Vanushavor’s office.”

“Transfer it here.” He didn’t like Delta Priority Ones, usually took them in the privacy of his office where he could swear long and loud without disturbing his bridge crew. But he didn’t think his bad habits would come as a surprise to anyone in the Tactical Briefing Room.

“Disturbing news, T’vahr. Unconfirmed at this point.” Neville Vanushavor’s dark eyes narrowed. He was in his formal dress uniform, had probably been called out of some elegant social function to deal with this latest development. Medals glinted on his chest; gold braid dripped down his left shoulder. He was in his late 60s, but still powerfully built. Still in control of the Imperial Fleet.

“Sources tell us that there is an ‘open trade’ agreement being negotiated between the Beffa Trade Cartels and the Conclave government. I know we’ve heard rumors before. I’m bringing this to your attention now because a name’s been mentioned. Garold Grantforth.”

Rhis saw Trilby stiffen in her seat next to him. The Admiral’s message was in Z’fharish. He didn’t know how much she understood, though he knew her vocabulary had grown in the past few days. However, Grantforth’s name needed no translation.

“I’m sending a copy of our information with this transmit. So there’s no need to go into the details at this point.
“This much, however, I will tell you. Whatever your schedule is with your current mission, it needs to go into doubletime. Now. There’s no such thing as ‘open trade’ with the ‘Sko. Once they devour the Conclave, they will be coming after us.”

The screen shifted to an image of the seal of the Imperial House of Vanurin, then flashed off. There was a palpable silence in the room. Rhis stood, jerked his thumb towards the door. “Get Jankova,” he told Demarik, who was already rising.

 

He glanced down at Trilby, saw her eyes dark and wary, her mouth pursed in distaste. “Did you understand?”

 

“Some. Maybe too much. Grantforth’s bringing the Beffa cartels in.” He pointed to the holochart. “When Jankova and Patruzius return, I’ll bring up that transmit. Then we will talk about pushing up our departure time.”

“We can be ready in two hours,” Mitkanos said with a quick glance at Farra Rimanava. “Two hours,” Trilby agreed.

Rhis drew a deep breath, pushed down the sick feeling rising in his stomach. This was too fast, too soon. He had been so sure Grantforth would wait until his nephew met with Trilby, obtained the Herkoid data he now knew they needed.

Something had changed their mind. He didn’t know what it was. And he didn’t like that feeling one bit. CHAPTER TWENTY

It would be a deuce to Port Saldika, then a trike to Port Rumor. A waste of five valuable days, in Rhis’s opinion. But to head straight to Rumor would raise too many red flags. They needed Saldikan transit stamps on their manifests, Saldikan clearance codes in their personnel files.

Files that made Khyrhis T’vahr into Rhis Vanur. And showed Farra Rimanava as recently hired out of the Port Balara Freight Consolidation office.

Patruzius and Mitkanos’s profiles needed only a little muddying. Both had ties to the freighter community. And Mitkanos’s contacts allowed Port Balaran origination codes to be added to the ship’s registry, no questions asked.

But five days! A full hand, he corrected himself, knowing that’s how Trilby termed it. He tapped the end of the lightpen impatiently against the desk. Even with the rest of the Herkoid files to unravel, and then the addition of the final tracking codes, it was more time than he wanted to waste.

The door to the small office slid open. A flash of gray beyond it. They all had new uniforms: Vanur Transport gray. Trilby stepped in, laughing, then turned and took a playful swipe at a man just out of her reach. Patruzius.

“You watch yourself, mister!”

 

“Aye, captain!” Patruzius saluted her, stuck his head through the open doorway. “Captain.” He nodded to Rhis, then disappeared. His heavy footsteps echoed down the corridor.

Rhis flipped the lightpen in his fingers, rapped it against the edge of the desk in a brisk staccato. Trilby sat in the chair across from the desk, leaned casually against the armrest. “We’re clear of Degvar’s outer beacon.”

He’d been on the bridge with her when Shadow’s Quest had departed Degvar over an hour ago, wanting, if nothing else, to watch his air-sprite handle her new toy. But there was little for him to do once the ship took a heading for Saldika. Via trader’s lanes. Not military ones.

His time was better used on recoding the Herkoid files. He’d told Trilby to join him in her office as soon as they hit the lanes. He just didn’t count on Patruzius being her escort.

 

“You auditioning for the percussion section of the Imperial orchestra?” She pointed to his lightpen. “Or sending a message in code?”

 

He stilled the lightpen, then dropped it onto the desk. “Have you heard anything from Grantforth yet?” Another individual he wasn’t keen on in Trilby’s vicinity.

 

“Jagan? No. He probably figures he has time, knowing we’ve got a trike to Rumor.” “Not if someone else is dictating his timetable.” He’d mulled over Trilby’s earlier comments on Jagan’s transmit. It did look like someone was feeding the man his lines.

 

“Do you think they’ll try to intercept this ship?”

It was a possibility he’d considered, after learning of the sudden negotiations with the trade cartels. It was also why he ordered Mitkanos to have the weapons systems on a cold standby. No heat signature to pick up. But ready. Even though Grantforth had no way of knowing their exact location.

“Stage an ambush before we reach Saldika? It would surprise me. You know your answers to him show a Port Balaran code.” Courtesy of the Mitkanos family and a touch of Rhis’s wizardry. “More likely between Saldika and Rumor. ‘Sko activity, if that’s the route they take, is more prevalent there.”

It wouldn’t be a true kill order, he knew. They’d want the ship’s nav banks intact. And her captain alive. They’d do a ram boarding. Just like they had with Bella’s Dream.

 

He had every intention of letting them have the altered nav banks. He’d kill every last one of them if they even looked in Trilby’s direction.

 

Trilby tilted her head, peered at the data on the desk screen. “Is that Hana’s report?”

Jankova had performed a thorough analysis on a small section of the Herkoid data from the Venture. With the change in schedule, there hadn’t been time for her to do more. He nodded. “Your Black Star route integrated with the old charts from the Nalika Gemma.” Old, but not old enough. Twenty-five years, with sections going back twenty-seven. “It is a place to start,” he said.

“Agreed. Can I have my chair back?” A small smile crossed his lips. The five days wouldn’t be a total waste if he could enjoy himself with Trilby. He let a thick Z’fharin accent lace his words. “You may share it with me.” “And you may get out of it, now.” She mimicked his accent, wrinkled her nose at him. Her tone was light and teasing. Very much the Trilby he missed. Very much the Trilby he wanted to find again.

“Come to the Ready Room, then.” Shadow’s Quest had a small one, complete with workstations, at the opposite end of the corridor. “Work with me. We can trade a few wogs-and-weemlies.” He could tell immediately she didn’t like his suggestion. He’d only been thinking of the camaraderie they’d shared on her ship. She was remembering, probably, what he’d done to her primaries.

She stood, dismissed his suggestion with a shrug. “Dallon’s using the Ready Room. Go work with him.” Dallon. So Patruzius was Dallon, now. Or had been for a while, judging from the teasing going on in the corridor. He reached for his lightpen. Tap. Tap. Tap.

 

She leaned over the desk, snatched the pen from his fingers. “Get out of my chair, T’vahr. I’ve got work to do. And I don’t need an amateur drummer in my ear when I do it.”

He saw his chance, wasn’t about to let it pass him by. He stood, feigning a grab for his pen. His hands found her shoulders instead. He pulled her onto the narrow desktop as he sat down on it, covered her mouth with his own when she started to protest.

She wrenched her face to the side. “Damn you!” She swore softly at him, tried to pull back from his kisses but was off-balance, ended up sprawling awkwardly on one hip on the desktop. He yanked her against him, one arm solidly against her back, the other threading into her hair.

He had no intention of letting her go until he wiped all thoughts of Dallon Patruzius from her mind, until he branded her once again with his own heat, his own scent. He kissed her through her squirmings, through her hands pushing ineffectively against his shoulders, trying to break his hold on her.

Then her struggles ceased, her body arching against his. Her scent of powder and flowers intoxicated him. She nuzzled her face into his shoulder. He held her tightly, trailed kisses down her neck.

“ Trilby-chenka… ow!”
She bit him, hard, sinking her teeth right through his shirt into his shoulder.
He jerked backwards just enough to see her grin of triumph.
He was about to kiss that, too, when the office com pinged.

She twisted abruptly out of his arms, leaned in front of him and tapped the flashing box on the desk screen. “Elliot.” She sounded more than a bit breathless.

“Farra here. I, oh…!” Farra Rimanava’s face tilted on the screen to match Trilby’s odd angle. “I’m on the other side of the desk. Wait.” She swiveled the screen around. “What’ve you got?”

Rhis rested one hand on her waist, out of Rimanava’s line of sight. She tried to push it away but he caught her hand, held it and knew she wasn’t about to get into any further wrestling match with him as long as the screen was on.

“I am checking through this septi’s freighter schedule at Saldika. The data is now just in. Logs show a GGA wide-body scheduled in depot. First time,” Farra glanced back at her data, “in four months.”

Coincidence? Rhis looked over Trilby’s shoulder. Gods, he hated coincidences. “On-loading or off?” “Off-loading, sir. But I do not know what. She is Conclave. Manifest details are not public—” “Resource code,” Trilby cut in. “Two alphas, one numeric. Right after their docking bay assignment.” “EV-7.”

“Spare or replacement parts for enviro systems,” Trilby said. “Could be anything from link cables to containers of filters. Not a real profitable item for a wide-body. Short haulers usually get those small runs. Or they piggy-back them to something else.”

Farra nodded. “Very true. Does not feel right to me either.” “Send the whole schedule to the Ready Room.” Rhis slid off the desktop, turning the screen with him as he did so.

 

“Aye, sir.” Farra’s image blinked off.

He held his hand out to Trilby. She flashed him a narrow-eyed look and hopped down from the desk. There was a telltale blush of color on her cheeks. She may not have wanted to respond to his kisses, but her body had.

He took that as a small point in his favor, for now. Changed the subject to the more pressing concerns. They had time, yet, for personal things. A deuce, then a trike.

 

He palmed open the office door. “Why would GGA use a wide-body for enviro parts?”

“They don’t. Wide-bodies have a lot of mass, use a lot of fuel. Bulky as hell.” She followed him into the corridor, her hands clasped firmly behind her back, as if she didn’t want to chance brushing against him. “They’re for moving big things. Pre-fab housing domes. The military likes them for moving armored ground tanks, like P-95s.”

He knew what the Conclave’s platoon tanks looked like. Massive, turreted, heavily plated. He could house four fighters in the same bay as…

He stopped, grabbed her arm. “How many cargo bays does a GGA wide-body have?” She shook him off, stepped back. “Six, if it’s B-class. Four, if it’s F-class. Why?” “You tell me. How many ‘Sko fighters could a wide-body haul?”

He saw her eyes widen, saw her mouth open in disbelief, then close quickly as if to let the words escape would damn them all.

“No,” she said finally, sounding clearly unconvinced by her own denial. “They couldn’t. Someone would notice on off-load. Customs inspectors, dockhands. Come on, T’vahr, you can’t believe they could sneak—”

“Who said they’re off-loading them on Saldika? Or any port? Why not drop them into the lanes, those lanes that Herkoid loved to use, and then continue on to their scheduled destination with the small, easily movable cargo of enviro parts?”

“Shit.” She said the word softly, almost under her breath, then bolted down the corridor and squeezed through the parting doors to the ready room.

 

“Dallon!”

 

Rhis strode after her. He stepped through the still open doors. Trilby was in a seat at the end of the table and already had Farra on screen.

 

“Both of you, listen to me. I don’t want to repeat it twice.” She glanced at Rhis as he sat next to her. “Three times,” she amended. “Yavo, you listening?”

 

“Here.” Yavo’s voice came from behind Farra’s image. They were both on bridge duty. “GGA might be hauling something other than enviro parts in that wide-body. Farra, pull from Saldika all GGA wide-bodies who logged through there in the past four—”

 

“Six,” Rhis said.

 

“Six months. Then, Yavo, I need the same from your people on Balara. I also need arrival times and especially, any delay advisories.”

“Anything else, captain?” Farra asked.
“Not for now. Thanks.” Trilby tapped off the screen, looked at Rhis.

“They could also just figure their delay for the drop-off into the ETA,” he told her. It’s what he would do. Consistently late arrivals would eventually raise someone’s curiosity. If GGA were doing what he suspected they were, they couldn’t afford questions.

“Someone want to clue me in?” Patruzius asked.

 

Rhis swiveled towards him. “Grantforth’s using wide-bodies to transport low-volume cargo across the border.”

 

“Unprofitable.”

 

“Unless they’re transporting more than cargo.” Rhis explained his theory briefly. Patruzius’s previous experience with the freighter industry didn’t require more than that.

 

Trilby tapped her fingers on his arm, drawing his attention. “Bogus arrival times. You said they’d just schedule later ETAs”

 

That’s where their discussion had left off when Patruzius had interrupted. He nodded.

“But they can’t alter their departure. I know, we know,” she made a small gesture towards Patruzius, “pretty accurately how long it would take a fully-loaded wide-body to go from Rumor, or even Q’uivera, to Saldika. Or an empty one, for that matter. I should be able to pick up departure times, or at least out-system transits at the border beacons on my side of the zone. Then compare that to their arrivals.”

“Without alerting the Conclave government?” Patruzius leaned forward. “You can’t be positive Grantforth doesn’t have someone watching for a pull on that data.”

“The government,” Trilby told him, folding her hands in front of her screen, “isn’t the only one who tags that data.” She arched her eyebrows slightly, looked at him with a patient expression, as if waiting for comprehension to dawn.

“In the Empire, the border beacons are all military,” Rhis said, puzzled.

But Patruzius was nodding in agreement with Trilby. Rhis damned his own lack of familiarity with the commercial freighter industry. And the too-slick supply ship captain’s experience in it. It put Patruzius and Trilby on the same side of the fence, if only for a moment. He didn’t like that at all.

Patruzius rapped his fist against his forehead. “Sorry. My lapse. Your Intersystem Commerce Department—”

“Sends all their data to the Freight Traders Union as well. And as a member of IFCA—” “Independent Freighter Captain’s Association,” Patruzius told Rhis.

“I’m aware of that,” he snapped, fingers drumming lightly on the table. He’d just recently paid Trilby’s outstanding dues, amending her license to Vanur Transport.

 

“As a member,” Trilby continued, “I have a right to that data. For marketing purposes, of course.” “What’s the downtime?” Rhis knew that if ships’ movements across the border were collected only once a month, it might not be useful at this point. At least, not for this current ‘coincidence’.

“A cycle,” she said. “Twenty-four to twenty-six hours, depending on how you define your day. The F.T.U. harvests the lists every shift change, then it’s massaged and sent to their offices at all the ports and depots. At the worst, we’d be a deuce behind realtime if someone’s late in posting it.”

“Posting it?” The Z’fharin military was an integral part of the Imperial government. Rhis wasn’t used to the idea that what he considered government data might be hanging out there for all to see.

“Posting it,” she told him. “F.T.U. has a link in their Grid. But I can get I.F.C.A’s link easier, hit their archives, backdate my auto-grab command. I should be able to get the past four to six months in a couple hours.”

“Do it,” he ordered, but she was already saying another word. A word that he didn’t like. “If…” She hesitated.
Bloody hell. What now? “If?”

“If the Venture’s comm pack still has my authorization codes. If they were lost in my little encounter,” she smiled thinly, “then I’ve got to pick up a link from someone else through their code.” “Patruzius, get what you can from Rimanava and Mitkanos.” Rhis stood. “Captain Elliot and I have to go perform some last minute surgery.”

 

~*~

Trilby recognized the tangled mass of data on her office screen as something that used to be her main comm pack structure. Programs filled with direct links and passwords that facilitated the flow of information every time she made port, or accessed a major beacon in transit. And uploaded to her, simultaneously, everything she needed to know to get to her next run: changes in transit schedules, alerts on ion storms, new tax structures for certain classes of freight. Everything I.F.C.A. and the government thought she should know.

And all, at the moment, totally unreadable.

She pointed her lightpen at the screen. “How’d you grab this?” She thought she knew but wanted to hear T’vahr’s explanation. Wanted to keep him focused on the problem at hand and not that they were alone, again, in her office.

He leaned against the edge of her desk, one hand on the back of her chair. “Remember that invasive filter we discussed?”

 

So. Imperial technology wasn’t flawless. She suppressed a grin of satisfaction and nodded. “That’s what I thought you did. Tried it through an internal link, right?”

“Obviously, it skewed a few things.” “Obviously you forget that competition for contracts is tough in my neighborhood. That same captain that’s buying you beers is also pumping you for information on your runs, your agent’s set-up. And probably has some jump-jockey trying to tap into your ship’s logs at that very moment. Which is why he’s got you off-ship and buying you beers in the first place.” She shot a narrow-eyed glance up at him. “You’re military. You’re supposed to be used to espionage.”

“You had a trap set?”

“We all have traps set. And we change trap keys at random. You never know who some dockhand’s sister-in-law might work for.” She tapped at the keypad, segued in a line of alpha-numerics. The data on the screen shifted, but was still muddled.

“But I had your primaries—,” T’vahr began.

“Which I changed after I left Degvar. Of course.” She scanned for a familiar line in the data, saw it, froze it with a tap of her light pen. She entered the final sequence and this time permitted herself a wide grin at his hushed: “Well, I’ll be damned.”

“We can pick up that F.T.U. data now.”

 

Or rather, Trilby knew as she entered the request into the ship’s systems, she could reactivate her link to the Grid. Hopefully they’d have something to work with in ten to twelve hours.

For now it was back to a waiting game. And T’vahr seemed intent to spend it by her side. She didn’t want him there, didn’t want to be with him any more than she absolutely had to. “Why don’t you check and see if Dallon’s got something more?”

“Patruzius knows where to find us if he needs us.”
He wasn’t taking the hint. “I’ve got work to do, now that I know you rescued my old files.” “I can help.”
“No. Leave me alone, T’vahr.” She jerked her chair around, tried to unsuccessfully to dislodge his hand.

“What are you so afraid of?” There was a quiet note in his voice that didn’t match the tension in his body, the rigidness of his arm that kept her facing him.

 

You! She wanted to throw that at him. I’m afraid of you. But that wasn’t quite the truth. More so, she knew that admission would open a flood of other questions, requests for clarification on her part. She didn’t want to say out loud why she was afraid of him. It was hard enough dealing with that in the relentless litany in her mind. And in her heart.

Something about Khyrhis T’vahr reached her, touched her deeply. She thought maybe it was because she still saw flashes of Rhis Vanur in him from time to time. But over the past few days she discovered it was more than that.

It wasn’t the Rhis she saw in Khyrhis, but the Khyrhis in Rhis.

He’d always been there. Remote, aloof, in control. That was the unwavering dedication she’d seen in Rhis from the beginning, the competence. That rock-solid something that said to her, Lean on me. I’ll never fail you. I’ll always be there.

No jump-jockey gossip ever tagged Senior Captain T’vahr as unreliable. Or a quitter. Or a coward. If anything, it was acknowledged that T’vahr the Terrible didn’t give up. Impossible wasn’t in his vocabulary.

It was Khyrhis—not Rhis—who sidelined his physical pain to get the Careless Venture up and running. It was Khyrhis—not Rhis—who flawlessly, expertly avoided the attacking ‘Sko fighters. And it was Khyrhis—not Rhis—who admitted to her that no one would believe he’d taken Trilby, a beautiful air-sprite, to bed. Or rather, that such an air-sprite had gone, willingly.

Mitkanos thought the Razalka’s captain had forced her into his bed. Dallon, Lucho and Leesa assumed he took her ship by force, as well. That fit with the image of the Captain T’vahr. He entered a briefing room or officers’ lounge and chatter died, shoulders straightened, faces became serious.

The competent, dedicated, tireless T’vahr the Terrible. He wore those traits like impenetrable armor. But Trilby’d gotten through, and that’s what scared her. She’d gotten through, and when she did, it was Rhis who taught her to say yav cheron.

 

She avoided looking at him. “I’m not afraid. I’m busy. Now go away.” She reached for the screen, tabbed down a line of data.

 

She heard his deep growl of frustration, like a rumbling sigh, then her chair shook slightly. He pushed himself to his feet.

She stared blankly at the screen after her office door slid closed behind him. A deuce to go to Saldika. Another trike at least after that. And then who knew how many more runs until they uncovered what GGA was doing with the ‘Sko?

The last thing she needed was all that time with T’vahr. The last thing she needed was to fall in love again.

 

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Saldika Terminal was noisy, crowded. So she was didn’t know he was there until he grabbed her, clamping his mouth, hot and wet, on hers, his tongue thrusting like some kind of convulsing snake. She heard T’vahr’s harsh growl come up behind her, a string of untranslatable Z’fharish words that questioned everything, from Jagan Grantforth’s lack of legitimate parentage to the location and inadequate size of his reproductive organs.

Only much more graphically.
She pushed him away and fought the urge to wipe her mouth on her sleeve. “Jagan. What a… surprise.” The sandy-haired man grinned lopsidedly down at her. “I’ve always loved surprising you, little darling.”

Little darling. She’d forgotten he called her that. It used to bring a thrill to her senses. Now it only chilled her, colder than the snowy landscape outside the terminal’s wide spaced windows.

 

It had just started snowing when she’d brought Shadow’s Quest in on approach, not quite an hour ago. Cargo Hangar 47-L was covered and heated, a necessity on a frigid world like Chevienko.

Customs inspectors, thanks to Mitkanos’s connections, were almost as warm as the large hangar. Ten minutes later they’d hopped a pod to the main terminal, intent on finding out what Grantforth Galactic Amalgamated was up to.
But it looked like Grantforth had found them. A trike earlier than anticipated, too.

“I didn’t expect to find you here,” Trilby said. But maybe she should have. Admiral Vanushavor’s message detailed an unexpected move by Secretary Grantforth and the ‘Sko. Yet, she still had a hard time believing Jagan was in on any kind of conspiracy. Flirtations were more his style. Not political machinations.

Jagan’s gaze traveled past her shoulder, then up and down. T’vahr was behind her. That would be the up. Mitkanos was next to him. A slight down in height. Off to her right, she heard Farra’s lilting laugh over the chatter of freighter crew and dock techs moving hurriedly through the terminal corridor. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Farra and Dallon standing in the queue at a nearby newsstand that displayed local newsdisks the Imperial Grid often didn’t carry.

“I couldn’t wait to see you.” Jagan reached for her hand but Trilby turned away, hastily made introductions as T’vahr and Mitkanos flanked her.

 

“Yavo Mitkanos, Rhis Vanur. This is Jagan Grantforth, of GGA” “Vanur, eh? You speak Standard?” Jagan had evidently caught, but didn’t understand, T’vahr’s opening diatribe moments before.

“The basics, yes,” T’vahr said.
“Vad,” Mitkanos replied.
Both men spoke more than the basics, Trilby knew, but they wanted Jagan to think otherwise.

Jagan stepped closer to Trilby, held his hand out to T’vahr. “So you’re the one funding your own little shipping company. Well, I for one am glad to see it. Risk takers, that’s who make a name in this universe. Risk takers.” His smile was picture perfect.

Trilby had forgotten how Jagan could do that, sound friendly and open while at the same time delivering small cuts and barbs. Little shipping company. A cut buried under the hearty professional patter of an entrepreneur.

If T’vahr picked up on it, she couldn’t tell. It was Mitkanos who responded first, his accent even more pronounced than usual. “True. Very true. There are big, how you say, profits to be made now between Empire and Conclave. Little companies, as you put it, can open doors for you.”

Jagan laughed, clasped Mitkanos on the arm. “And we want those doors open, don’t we? Profit’s profit. Credits glitter as bright in a palace as they do in a whorehouse.” He winked at T’vahr. “I bow to your knowledge of that.” T’vahr’s tone was clipped. She felt his hand rest on her shoulder in a move that was clearly proprietary. Maybe he was seeing the same Jagan she was, beneath the veneer. Something dark flashed briefly through Jagan’s eyes but then Dallon and Farra stepped out of the crowd. Trilby shrugged off T’vahr’s hand and introduced them.

 

“Market news,” Dallon held up a thin disk for Jagan to see, then handed it to Mitkanos. “Right on top of things,” Jagan said. “That’s good to see. That’s what GGA needs now. Someone who knows trade on this side of the zone.”

He sounded so sincere. Trilby could almost believe this was a genuine business meeting, and not something with a deeper, hidden agenda. And one that possibly involved the ‘Sko.

She studied the man standing next to her. He was still handsome, in his expensively tailored dark suit. Though now she clearly saw signs of stress and dissipation. His blue eyes were puffy and his usually well-maintained tan, faded.

He seemed to notice her scrutiny, shoved his hands in his pockets and tilted his head down towards her. His expression was sheepish.

 

“I really need to speak with you, Tril.” There was a notable hesitancy in his voice. “I’ve made some mistakes. I’d like to change that.”

“Jagan, I—” Next to her, T’vahr shifted slightly. She glanced at him, saw his eyes narrow. He’d heard, or heard enough. Best to keep the talk to business. They had to find out what was going on with Grantforth and she didn’t need the Razalka’s captain bringing his male ego on line. “Your transmits said you were interested in a shipping contract.”

“I am. But—” His glance went up again. T’vahr .

“ Dasjon Vanur makes the decisions in that regard. I just fly the ship.” She motioned towards one end of the corridor. “Should we find a bar and sit and discuss things? Or do you want to see Shadow’s Quest first?”

He seemed to finally understand that he had only two options right now: business or business. The only choice she gave him was location.

 

“A bar sounds good. Better. I, uh, I could use a drink. You up for a beer or two?” Jagan gave a short nod to Dallon, Farra and Mitkanos. He was trying, Trilby noticed, not to look at T’vahr. She wondered briefly if Jagan recognized the Razalka’s Senior Captain. No, he would’ve said something, she was sure of that. She heard Dallon’s enthusiastic response and a grunt from T’vahr. “I know pub of decent quality, not far,” Mitkanos offered. “Lead the way, my friend. And of course, I’m buying.” Jagan held up one hand. “Won’t hear any arguments about it.”

 

Trilby had a feeling that if T’vahr had his way there’d be plenty of arguments, the least of which concerning who was paying for the beer.

 

~*~

The bar’s name was also its location: Seventeen Blue. Saldika Terminal’s corridors were color-tagged with a wide stripe on the floor, and another on a wall, designating Blue and Yellow for commercial freighter access, Red and Gray for passenger ship travelers. The pod deposited them in Yellow, where Jagan had found them, not far from the intersection of Blue. Mitkanos was right in that it was only a short walk. But flanked on one side by Jagan and the other by T’vahr, Trilby felt as if she were on a forced march rather than a leisurely stroll in search of a beer.

The pub was t-shaped, the entrance narrow, but it opened to clusters of tables on the left and right. Farra spotted an empty, round table on the left and there was a moment of jockeying for position when both Jagan and T’vahr made sure they sat next to Trilby. Mitkanos reached for the center of the table, tabbed up the menu on a cylindrical holoscreen. Fly-boys didn’t have such high-tech luxuries, nor did it have liquid-image walls that rippled colors and shapes matching the cadence of the music. The soft but upbeat tune filtered down through a ceiling covered intermittently with large panels of blue fabric.

Trilby looked around. Definitely not a freighter bar. At least not a freighter crew bar. Those patrons in uniform looked like officers. Those out of uniform looked well paid and well fed. She leaned back in her chair, encountered T’vahr’s fingers on her shoulder.

She glanced at him. He raised one eyebrow slightly. She sighed.

A ‘droid server wheeled up, announced that the Iceberg was the drink of the day. Trilby understood but let Mitkanos translate the Z’fharish for Jagan’s sake, then glanced around the table. “Perhaps just beer for now?”

“Chevienko brews a good red ale,” Dallon said, pointing to the cylindrical menu. Mitkanos glanced at Jagan, who nodded. “Sounds fine by me. Two pitchers to start?” He handed the ‘droid his credit chip while Mitkanos relayed the order.

“Got our banking interests already started in the Empire,” he commented when the ‘droid returned the chip to him. “GGA’s always been aggressive in new territories, you know. Not as aggressive, of course, as your Imperial Fleet.” He chuckled. “But then, you didn’t win the war.”

“No, peace was declared by a mutual treaty,” Dallon put in.

 

Jagan tilted his head, seemed to look at Dallon as if for the first time. “You speak Standard very well, Patruzy, is it?”

 

“Patruzius. Dallon Patruzius. I’ve spent a good amount of time in the shipping lanes. Been to Marbo, Port Rumor when I worked with Fennick I.E.”

 

“And now you’re with Vanur, eh? Good move.” Jagan turned towards T’vahr. “Got yourself a real fine captain in Trilby here. I hope you know that.”

“I do.”
“She knows Gensiira like no one else.”
“I value Trilby more than you know, Dasjon Grantforth.”
“Jagan. Just Jagan. After all, we’re going to be partners.”
T’vahr’s smile was tight. “That is what we are here to discuss.”

“Business first. Then later,” Jagan reached over, patted Trilby’s hand, “time for some pleasure. Tril and I go back a long way. That’s why this is so important to me.”

 

T’vahr leaned forward as Trilby pulled her hands away from Jagan, into her lap. “What can Vanur Transport do for GGA?”

 

Jagan sat back, crossed his arms over his chest. “Heard some good things about you, you know. Reliable. Honest. Even here, GGA has a way of checking reputations. And that’s

 

important to us. We have our own reputation to consider, especially in something as new as this.”

Trilby listened to the words flow from Jagan’s mouth as if they were coated with oil. What an unbelievable liar he was! No. A very believable liar. He had the right tone, the right demeanor, the right smile. His only problem was the facts. Vanur Transport was totally fictitious, and hadn’t even existed two septis ago, except for the falsified history created by T’vahr and Mitkanos. She knew damn well he hadn’t checked out anything more than the fact that the Venture’s navbanks were now in the Quest’s.

“But we’re not the only ones who know this,” Jagan was saying. “That’s why two things are important at this point: one, that we be the first. And second, that we be the fastest. GGA was built on efficiency and prompt delivery times. Once we bring a long-hauler into a depot, we need those goods out and on their way.”

“Not always that easy,” Dallon said, “when the workable routes between the Empire and the Conclave are so few.”

 

“Right. My point exactly.” Jagan nodded. “Now Tril here—”

 

But the ‘droid server rolled up with a tray and two pitchers and for the next few minutes, conversation stilled as beer was poured, and frosty mugs passed around the table.

Jagan took a large mouthful then continued. “You know our problem. As my friend Dallon over there said, because of past political incompatibilities, trade routes are few. There’re already complaints about delays at the major jumpgates in Gensiira. And more problems with faulty guidance beacons. Seems your technology just doesn’t like ours sometimes.” He laughed.

Trilby glanced at T’vahr. His face had a feral smile she’d seen before.

“But my little darling here,” Jagan motioned to Trilby, “well, I know she’s got some tricks up her sleeve. I worked some runs with her, you know. She can get from Point A to Point B quicker than anyone I know, when she wants to. Even with her old ship. Not the fastest thing in the lanes.”

“ Shadow’s Quest is an Endurance C-2 that I have personally modified,” T’vahr said. “You an engineer, then?” Jagan asked.
“I have considerable experience in that area, yes.”

“You ever see her old ship?” Jagan’s question would’ve sounded offhand, if Trilby hadn’t known exactly what he was searching for. Her ‘map files’. She held back a snicker.

“Yes.” T’vahr paused. “I know her intimately.” He stressed the last word.
Jagan shifted in his chair. Clearly, he was catching an undercurrent and wasn’t sure what to do with it.

“ Dasjon Vanur,” Trilby said, making sure she stressed the formality of the Z’fharish title, “worked with me on some last minute upgrades to the Venture just before she was destroyed.” She wished T’vahr would remember their primary objective: find out what was going on with GGA Whatever relationship she did—or did not—have with him was not an issue here.

“She loved that ship,” Jagan told T’vahr. “Put everything she had into her. Five years, wasn’t it, darling?” He smiled at Trilby. “We had such good times, so many memories—”

“She took serious structural damage, but we were able to recover most of her databanks.” Let’s get to the point here, Trilby pleaded. Jagan’s false sentimentality was starting to turn her stomach. “Dasjon Vanur and I amended all her data to the Quest. What the old Venture could do, the new ship can do, even better.”
“That’s just what I wanted to hear.” Jagan beamed and raised his mug. “This signals the start of a beautiful and profitable relationship.”

The second pitcher of beer was poured and numbers flew back and forth across the table. Percentages based on turn-around times. The cost of insurance recognized by both the Empire and the Conclave. Dock fees. T’vahr and Mitkanos lapsed into Z’fharish for much of it, with Dallon translating. Trilby followed it all but let Jagan think she understood very little, save for dharjas taf, viek—cold beer, please.

Jagan drained the last of the ale from his mug. “I’ve got ten containers here in port, if you’re interested.” T’vahr glanced at Mitkanos. The older man nodded.
“I am,” T’vahr said. “To Port Rumor?”
“No. Syar Colonies. But for certain reasons, I want to avoid the beacons at Marbo.”

Trilby saw Dallon tilt his head in interest. Her conversations with him over the past deuce told her he knew that many Marbo personnel had strong ties to Norvind. And that GGA wouldn’t want their competitor to know what they were doing, just yet. Plus, if they had to deal with poke-nosies, better the ones at a GGA-friendly depot, like Syar.

At least, she hoped that was Jagan’s reasoning.
“We can do that,” Trilby said.
But T’vahr was frowning. “Syar is a seven day run —”
“A full septi,” Trilby corrected him.
“—in my ship. A long-hauler could do it in five. Why do you need us for that?”

Trilby wanted to kick him. Jagan was letting them into GGA, which was their sole purpose here. Trust T’vahr to want to be a stickler for regulations, and details. She shot him a narrowed glance. “Because a long-hauler can’t bypass Marbo like we can.”

Jagan chuckled. “My little darling knows what she’s talking about, Vanur.”
T’vahr’s face was expressionless. “You are willing to pay for the extra fuel, then?”
“I’m willing to pay whatever it takes to get from here to the Colonies.”

T’vahr made a lazy gesture with his hand towards Dallon, posed a question in Z’fharish. His voice was light. But his words, as Trilby translated them, were not. “The bastard is setting us up for something, and it’s not just to avoid Marbo. Am I wrong, or is a run to Syar a bit unusual for a small ship?”

Dallon’s smile was easy and, Trilby knew, false. “For a smuggler, no. But I can’t see GGA working contraband. He has an agenda. I just don’t know what it is.”

 

“Problems?” Jagan directed the question to Dallon.

“We haven’t worked that deep into the Conclave yet,” Dallon replied smoothly in Standard. “Captain Elliot’s clearance codes will get us past Marbo. But we’ll need an authorization packet for Syar transmitted to us before we get there, or someone might realize we didn’t go through Marbo.” Jagan answered Dallon with a wave of his hand. “Not required. You’ll be flying GGA’s flag. Plus, you’ll have a GGA officer on board.”

“A GGA officer?” T’vahr asked tightly. Oh, no, Trilby thought. No, no, no. Don’t tell me. Don’t say it. Jagan beamed. “Me.”

~*~

Trilby leaned back in the captain’s chair, listened to Farra at communications as she went over schedules with the portmaster’s office looking for a preferable departure slot. While Trilby’s command of Z’fharish was good, it wasn’t sufficient for the kind of negotiations going

on now on the bridge of Shadow’s Quest. Vanur Transport not only had to amend their ETD, but arrange for cargo transfer as well.

T’vahr, in the copilot’s seat, turned a lightpen over and over in his fingers in undisguised irritation. At least he wasn’t drumming it on the console. Trilby’s shipbadge pinged. She tapped at the square emblem on her collar. “Elliot.”

“Patruzius here, captain. We’ve got Grantforth’s baggage. He’s checking out of the overnight now. We should be back on board in thirty minutes, if the pods are on time.”

 

“No rush,” T’vahr growled out under his breath. For once, Trilby was in complete agreement with him. “Acknowledged. Farra’s finalizing a departure for early tomorrow right now. Looks like 0700’s a go.”

“I’ll tell Grantforth. But there’s something else you should know.” Trilby saw T’vahr straighten in his seat, the lightpen stilling in his hand. “Problems?” she asked.

“Not exactly. But while Yavo and I were waiting in the overnight’s lobby, the local ‘cast showed a newsvid. The Conclave announced that trade agreement with the Beffa cartel.”

 

“Acknowledged. Thanks for the info, Dallon. Elliot out.” She tapped off the badge, angled herself towards T’vahr. “You think Jagan knew about this?”

T’vahr thought a moment. “It would explain why he showed up here. We knew from his last transmit he wanted your nav banks. Now it looks like he wants to be the one who delivers the data. Perhaps Garold’s deal with the ‘Sko hinges on that. And if he is Dark Sword, that data will lead us right back to him.”

It was hard for Trilby to believe that something she had could be so important to the likes of the ‘Sko. Or be involved in destroying the career of Garold Grantforth. But then, Shadow had often hinted that he had ways of making big money someday. He just died before he could explain what he intended to do.

On their deuce run to Port Saldika, Trilby had examined the old star routes Shadow pulled from Herkoid. A few she’d known about. Many she didn’t. She could definitely see their utility, especially, as T’vahr pointed out, their utility to an invading faction who wanted to move undetected. She didn’t have to read between the lines as he, Dallon and Mitkanos poured over the data. If the Z’fharin had those charts, the war might’ve ended differently three years ago.

Or at least, things would’ve favored the Z’fharin for a while. But not forever. Even she could see that. Sooner or later, the Conclave would figure out the old routes had been resurrected. Trilby wasn’t the only one alive who still knew they existed. Thousands of people had worked for Herkoid.

But the only data the ‘Sko wanted was the one snatched by Shadow, the data she and Carina had. And aside from the obvious, neither she nor her shipmates could yet figure out why.

 

“But this does,” T’vahr said, turning the lightpen between his fingers again, “make me feel somewhat better about having our friend Jagan on board.”

 

Trilby frowned. “Why?”

“Because at least I know they’re not planning to have the ‘Sko ambush us between here and Syar.” He rapped the pen twice against the console. “He’s our babysitter, our guarantee of safety, if you will. It’s only after he gets us to the Colonies that I am now worried about.”

Trilby was, too, though she said nothing for now. T’vahr’s mission—the one that had dropped him in her lap on Avanar—had taken him from the Syar Colonies to S’zed’c’far. Now they were headed back to Syar, again. She hoped S’zed wasn’t the next stop on their travel plans. The ‘Sko were even more serious about finders keepers than she was.

 

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO Loading ‘droids and anti-grav pallets buzzed under and around Shadow’s Quest. Trilby leaned against a set of servo-stairs and thought wistfully of Dezi. But it was Jagan’s voice she heard, soft in her ear. “You don’t need to supervise the loading, Tril. How about you and I hop the next pod to the terminal, do some dinner, catch up on old times?”

Trilby turned. With all the clank and clatter, she hadn’t heard Jagan come up behind her. Last she’d seen him, he was arranging his luggage in the crews’ quarters, a deck below the bridge. Then Dallon was going to show him how to use the comm terminal in the Quest’s small mess so he could send out his contracts to GGA Legal on Ba’grond. She’d left the ship, purposely to get away from him. But now here he was, still in his expensive dark blue suit and pale blue band-collared shirt. All very trendy. All completely out of place in a star-freighter cargo hangar.

She crossed her arms over her chest, her fingers resting against the new ship’s patches on her sleeves. “All of us will go over in a bit. But if you’re hungry, go on ahead. Dallon will give you a shipbadge. We’ll call you when we’re on our way.”

 

The eyes that studied her face spoke of a different kind of hunger. He patted his left breast pocket. “Already got one. How about the others catch up with us, later?”

“Thanks, but no, Jagan.” There was the loud clang of a cargo bay door shutting. She turned away, grateful for the distraction. She had no intention of going anywhere with Jagan Grantforth, alone. It was bad enough he’d be on the ship for a septi; tolerable only because, as T’vahr said, he was their guarantee of safety. At least until they got to the Colonies.

T’vahr and Mitkanos were talking to a loading ‘droid across the hangar. They had their backs to her, but as if he felt her watching him, or as if, even more, he knew who stood beside her, T’vahr looked over his shoulder in her direction. He reached for Mitkanos’s arm, leaned over and spoke to the burly man. Then he pivoted on his heels, heading towards her. He wore the same dark gray service jacket she did, the same type of dark gray flightsuit. Basic, functional freighter clothing. Definitely not trendy. Yet on him it looked somehow… different. As if the fabric knew it should also bear a set of bright captain’s stars. Five of them. Senior captain.

 

“You don’t want to go, or he won’t let you?” There was a distinct peevishness in Jagan’s tone. The last time Trilby had heard that, he was saying, “Mother always said…”.

She glanced back at Jagan. “How’s your mother? And while we’re on the subject, how’s Zalia? “You don’t understand—”
“You’re right, I don’t,” she snapped.

He dropped his gaze, chewed for a moment on his lower lip, looking decidedly uncomfortable. She softened her tone, even though she knew he deserved her anger. “You have your life. I have mine. Let’s keep it that way, okay?”

“And is he, this Vanur, part of your life now?” He jerked his chin in the direction of the man striding closer.

 

“He owns the ship. And he’s… a friend.” She found herself struggling with the word. But she didn’t know what term to use in place of it. “He understands my goals.” That much was true. Khyrhis T’vahr understood her love of her ship, the lure of star travel, the freedom of life in the lanes. And her need to find out what happened to Carina, whatever the cost.

“He’s probably just using you, Tril. I mean, look at the facts. He’s got one ship, maybe a little spare money or some investor he’s bamboozled. And where’d you meet him, doing runs to Degvar you said, right? You’re out of your element. Hell, you don’t even speak the language. Then after your ship’s attacked, he’s there with this offer. Am I right?”

As off base as Jagan’s suppositions were, they still rankled her. Possibly because, while the facts were wrong, she remembered T’vahr pretending to be Rhis Vanur. She had felt used. Bamboozled. She pushed the hurt away. “It really doesn’t matter—”

“You let him fuck you before or after he offered you the job?”
Her closed fist cracked hard against his jaw before she was even aware she’d swung her arm.

Jagan staggered backwards, his flailing arms tangling in the servo-stair railing. Heavy footsteps thudded quickly behind her, coming closer.

 

“You bitch!” Jagan tried to jerk his arm free of the metal stanchion. There was a slight ripping sound. “You Gods damned bitch!”

 

“Grantforth!” T’vahr shoved Trilby aside, grabbed a handful of Jagan’s suit jacket. Jagan struggled to stand and push T’vahr away at the same time.

 

Trilby was breathing hard. She sucked on her raw knuckles and watched Jagan try ineffectively to wriggle out of T’vahr’s grasp. Shit, but her hand hurt!

 

But hitting Jagan had felt good, so good. “What’s going on?” T’vahr bellowed at Jagan. He had a two-handed grasp on the man’s suit. The front of the jacket pulled away from the long tear in the sleeve, revealing the lighter shirt underneath.

Jagan glared up at T’vahr. “Bitch hit me.”
T’vahr looked back at Trilby, his dark eyes glittering dangerously. “Explain.”
She took her hand out of her mouth. “It’s personal.”
“Personal.” He clearly didn’t like her response.

“Leave it go, T’v… Vanur.” In the heat of the moment, she almost said T’vahr. Damnation! She had to watch herself. She drew in a long, slow breath.

 

T’vahr let go of Jagan, releasing his hold on the fabric as if he touched something slimy. Jagan took a step to his right but T’vahr’s arm shot out, blocking him. “Wait. I am not through, yet.”

 

“Hey, friend.” Jagan twisted his mouth into a frown. “I’m the victim here, remember? I’m also,” and he raised his fingers to gingerly touch the darkening bruise on his chin, “your employer.” “A contract to haul freight doesn’t give you the right to abuse someone,” T’vahr said through clenched teeth. He lowered his arm.

“She hit me!”
“But I guarantee you provoked her.”

Jagan stared past T’vahr, directly at Trilby. She made sure she met his gaze, head held high. If he knew what was good for him, he’d shut up now. Questioning T’vahr over his employment methods, and his relationship with her, just might get his other sleeve torn.

Jagan seemed to finally realize that as well. He dropped his gaze, studied the tips of his boots, or the streaks and stains on the hangar floor, for all Trilby knew. “Yeah, well, there was something between us one time,” he said when he looked up. “I’m sure she told you.”

T’vahr said nothing but Trilby felt, for the first time, something very frightening in his silence. It was a condemning, accusatory silence. She could imagine whole squadrons of ensigns quaking in their boots. “Maybe I had it coming,” Jagan said finally. He massaged his jaw. “We were a pretty hot item for awhile. Guess she hasn’t forgotten that.” He voice held a note of bravado.

 

Trilby wanted to throw up. Or clock him again. She spun on her heels and stomped back towards the rampway.

 

~*~ Rhis watched Trilby head for the ship then turned back to Jagan. “Stay away from her.” It was clearly a command, not a request.

 

The blonde-haired man shrugged. “It was just a little lover’s spat. She’ll get over it.” Rhis read Jagan’s message loud and clear: I had her first. I can take her back again. If he didn’t need

Jagan to find out what GGA and the ‘Sko were planning, he would’ve gladly thrown him across the hangar. In pieces.

But Jagan also, he knew, needed Trilby and the information from Trilby’s ship. He’d have to make sure Jagan wasn’t planning any late night rendezvous to gain her cooperation.

 

“I will not repeat myself. You will stay away from her. Or I will have you confined to your cabin.” “You’re not the captain. She is.” Jagan dismissed him with a slanted glance, strode back towards the ship. Back towards Trilby.

 

In three steps Rhis was behind him, his hand clamped on Jagan’s shoulder. “Where do you think you’re going?”

Jagan jerked back. “To change my jacket. Friend. And then go get myself a drink.” His fists clenched, then relaxed. He shrugged. “Since Tril’s not interested, I’m sure I can find some sweet little thing who is.”

Rhis saw the shift in mood, the way Jagan’s gaze darted impatiently over his shoulder. The man’s anger simmered just below the surface. Hell, Rhis was clearly provoking him. Stupidly. He could blow this whole mission if he weren’t careful. Because provoking Grantforth he was. But Grantforth wasn’t rising to the bait.

He wanted to. The tense set of his shoulders, the clenching of his fists, the way he bit off the ends of his words. The way ‘friend’ sounded anything but friendly.

Jagan Grantforth wanted to fight almost as badly as Rhis wanted to fight with him. But something held him back. He had, as Patruzius noted, an agenda. Rhis felt that strongly now. Almost as strongly as something else: that agenda was based on fear.

Rhis deliberately took a step back, gave Jagan some space. “Chevienko has many long, cold nights. You should have no trouble to find some Saldikan lady looking to stay warm, no?”

 

Jagan seemed to accept that as the closest thing he was going to get to an apology. “That’s my plan. We have a seven o’clock departure?”

“Correct. But you will not be needed on the bridge, so if you chose to sleep late…”
“Just as long as I’m not in the captain’s cabin, right?” He laughed, but it had a brittle note. In spite of all his training, all his mental chastisings, Rhis tensed visibly.

“Just kidding.” Jagan raised his hands in mock self-defense. “It took me awhile but I caught on, okay? You and Tril. Who am I to say anything about that? I mean, she’s a decent piece of ass. Just be careful when you finally get bored with her.” He rubbed his jaw. “She’s got a mean right hook.”

In pieces. Torn, shredded, dismembered and strewn about the cargo hangar. Flattened into the grit-covered floor by the wheels of uncaring cargo ‘droids. Rhis held onto that image of Jagan for a moment while he froze a smile onto his face.

No, better yet, he’d drag Grantforth back to the Razalka somehow. His ship had a specially designed training chamber with holo-sims that exactly duplicated the harsh, jagged outcroppings in the mountains on Stegor. He wouldn’t even bring a weapon. Just his fists. The mountain sands were red. He’d work on Jagan Grantforth until the man’s body, and the ground, were virtually indistinguishable. His forced smile became almost genuine. “I am glad we understand each other. And your advice is noted.”

He let Jagan trudge back to the ship, unaccompanied. Let him think he trusted him, believed him or at least, understood him, man to man.

But he’d watch him, very carefully. Jagan had an agenda. And Trilby was but a small part of it. ~*~

Rhis waited five minutes before climbing the ramp to Shadow’s Quest. By that time, Jagan should be down on the crew deck. He touched the CLS panel to the right of the main airlock on the cargo level and keyed in a request for Trilby’s location. She was in her quarters.

He tapped his shipbadge. “Vanur to Captain Elliot.”
“Elliot.” She sounded tired. No doubt dealing with Jagan was a strain for her.

“It’s Rhis. I’ll be there in five minutes. I want to stop by the bridge first.” And his quarters as well, but he didn’t mention that. He tabbed off, without giving her a chance to say no.

 

He took the lift up, found Farra in her seat at communications, with a clear view through the forward viewports of everything that had transpired between Trilby, Jagan and himself.

 

“Dasjon,” she greeted him. They all knew not to use any other title while Jagan was on board. Just as they all knew to pretend to speak less Standard than they did, with Patruzius being the exception.

They also spoke to each other only in Z’fharish.
“Everything’s a go for oh-seven-hundred?” he asked.
“Affirmative, sir.”
“And the loading?”
“Uncle Yavo’s code-sealing the last of the containers in Hold Three now.”

He nodded. “Dinner in an hour, my treat. I leave where to you and your uncle. Tell Patruzius, too. We’ll seal the ship and meet at the ramp at…” he glanced at the time stamp on her screen, “eighteen forty-five.”

“And Dasjon Grantforth?”
“I believe he has alternate plans.”

“Probably for the best.” Farra grinned then motioned out the forward viewport. “Our captain has good reflexes.”

In Rhis’ estimation, Trilby Elliot had many, many fine qualities, reflexes not withstanding. He stood in front of her quarters, one hand hidden behind his back. He touched the palm pad on the side of the door with the other. It chimed softly.

The door slid open.
“Don’t start with me.” Her eyes were shadowed underneath. She’d doffed her gray service jacket. It hung haphazardly over the arm of the small couch in her sitting area.

He fought the desire to pull her into his arms, surround her pain with his hardness, his certainty that nothing would ever hurt her again. But he had something to give her, first.

“May I come in?”
She stepped aside, nodding, motioned him in.

He hesitated. Tension and fatigue wrapped around her like a suffocating cloak. His timing with his surprise was either perfect, or abysmal.

 

He pulled his hand from behind his back, held the small, plush felinar out to her. Its red ribbon dangled through his fingers.

 

She gasped softly, reached for it, but at the last moment she hesitated. Brought her gaze up to his. He could see a light film of tears shimmering in her eyes.

 

He tried to smile. His throat felt tight. “I thought you might want this,” he managed to get out.

Her fingers closed around the small toy that had decorated her bridge. “Thank you.” She clutched it against her chest, glanced up at him again. There was a tinge of warmth in her eyes now, and a small flush of color on her cheeks. She sighed. “I mean that. Thank you.”

The thin screen on the low table in front of her couch was activated. He glanced at it as he followed her into the room: Z’fharish vocabulary lessons.

The small smile he permitted to play across his lips was nothing compared to the warmth that spread through his chest. He hoped that learning his language meant she wanted to stay in the Empire. With him. Maybe his timing with the toy was better than he’d realized.

She propped the plush felinar against one edge of the screen, picked up her empty coffee cup. “Want some? I was just going to get a refill.” Her tone was light, but without any real energy behind it. “Yav chalkon gara reling, viek.” He casually requested a cup of tea, trying to sound, not teacher to student, but as if speaking Z’fharish to her were an ordinary occurrence. He wanted it to be. She was already turning. “Yellow tea or that black— oh! Sorry.” She shrugged. “I understand better than I answer.”

 

He stepped closer. “It takes practice.” He wrapped his fingers over hers as she held the cup. She pulled away. “I’m surrounded with it here. But I’ll probably forget it all once I get back to Port Rumor.” She pushed her cup into the replicator, ordered coffee. “You never said, black tea or yellow?”

“ Trilby-chenka—”
“Don’t, please.”

He was silent a moment, tried to read her discomfort in the straight line of her back, in the set of her shoulders. She was pushing him away again. “I’m not.” Asking. Prying. Condemning. “Black tea is fine.” She keyed in the request.

He waited until she handed him the steaming cup. “We will have dinner off-ship, tonight. Eighteen forty-five. I told Farra to choose where,” he added, when he realized his first comment sounded too much like an order. “Grantforth’s already left, for places unknown.”

She relaxed a little, sat in front of the screen on the low table. Picked up the little felinar again, smoothed its fur. “I don’t know if I’ll last a septi without killing him.” She tabbed off the screen. It slid from sight. He grinned, eased down next to her on the couch. “You’d not lack in help.”

“The best the Imperial Fleet and Stegzarda have to offer?” She leaned back against the overstuffed cushions, a wry smile on her lips. It faded. “It’s none of my business,” she said after a moment, “but can I ask you something?”

He forced himself to relax, to ignore the one question he feared her asking. At least, asking now, when things were so tenuous between them. He didn’t need anything else to drive her away. Or make her look at him with disgust, as Malika had.

“Ask,” he told her easily, as if his very life didn’t hang in the balance. “What’s the problem between you and the Stegzarda?”

He soundlessly let out the breath he’d been holding. The Stegzarda? That’s all she wanted to know? He felt as if, for once, he’d received a reprieve from his habitual spot on the Divine Shit List. “The Stegzarda are primarily ground and security forces. The Fleet patrols Imperial space. When it comes to certain outposts and stations, we share jurisdiction.”

“I know that. But what’s the problem? And don’t tell me it’s just common rivalry.”
Oh. That. He turned the cup around in his hands. “It’s rather complicated.”
“Then just give me the basics. I can probably figure out the rest.”

She’d been talking to Mitkanos. He could hear that clearly now, in the even tone in her voice, could see it in the slight tilt of her chin. She’d been given an opinion, a strong opinion. He tried to keep his recital impartial.

“The Stegzarda base, and academy, is in the Yanir Quadrant. Has been, for over two hundred and fifty years. The Fleet was much smaller then. We didn’t have ships with the long-range capabilities we do now. As the Fleet expanded, especially in the last ten, fifteen years, we rightfully took over jurisdiction in Yanir, as we did with all the outlying quadrants in the Empire.”

“We?” she asked, raising one eyebrow.

He damned Mitkanos. “The Razalka was assigned to Yanir. Our authority then superseded the Stegzarda’s.” His authority, actually. That had been almost ten years ago. He didn’t regard the transfer of powers as one of the sterling moments in his career. Looking back, he knew he wouldn’t have done things any differently. But they could have been handled better.

She was nodding. “So they’d been very efficiently taking care of their quadrant for, oh, two hundred or so years, and then you come in with your brand-new, shiny huntership and tell them you’re in charge now.”

“The transition was not without its share of problems.”

 

“Did you know Mitkanos then?”

“Only by reputation, service record.” But he should have, he knew. The man had been chief of security on station for three years, worked in security longer than that. The Razalka had stopped on Degvar dozens of times.

“But you trusted him enough to bring him on this mission.” Actually, he wasn’t given much of a choice, as he remembered it. “He has an excellent record and the necessary contacts in Imperial shipping.”