Collision Course 8w-1 Page 9

  A remembrance lingered darkly in his mind. Once, an 8th Wing pilot had been captured by PRAXIS. Kell had led the rescue mission. By the time they’d gotten to the pilot, the man had been tortured—Telemian leeches. Black Wraith Squad brought him back to base, but his torment hadn’t ended with the rescue. Months went by before the rescued pilot could sleep without being restrained.

  Without the restraints, the pilot would have torn the skin from his body. Every psych protocol was used to finally cleanse him of the memories.

  Mara did not have to be restrained, yet, as she slept, she wrestled with memories painful enough to make her gasp and writhe. Her hands knotted into protective fists, warding off unseen enemies.

  “What have you endured, Mara?” he whispered.

  She did not answer, mired deeply in sleep.

  He hated to think about it. Hated to think how brutal her education had been.

  As she twisted and muttered, Kell drew her into his arms. “Come here, princess.”

  At once, she quieted. But his thoughts did not. He dozed, briefly. Most of the night, he kept a watchful vigil over her. The locks on the door to their room gave him no confidence. Even though they’d deactivated or destroyed all the listening bots, he felt he needed to be ready for anything.

  Beskidt By roused the animal of vigilance that had been an integral part of him on Sayén. Instead of safeguarding himself, now he safeguarded Mara. Cautious. He had to be cautious, his motive greater than ever before.

  The odds she had survived…She could take care of herself. Of this, he had no doubt. Yet she incited in him a fierce protectiveness despite, or because of, her own ferocious will to persevere.

  They were both feral, but usually his uniform hid the nature of his beast. Now he lay in a bed on a smuggler’s planet, holding Mara close to the protection of his mind and body. Stripped of his gray uniform, stripped of everything. His nakedness revealed a truth he’d never known; only with her was he truly himself.

  The thought wove like smoke in his mind as he held her throughout the night.

  They stood outside the lodging, squinting in the glare.

  “Morning doesn’t flatter Beskidt By,” he murmured.

  “Nothing does. Only unconsciousness.”

  Yellowish light cast by the storm bathed the city and threw the dirt-streaked buildings and streets into high relief. The streets themselves held fewer people. Most of them were likely still passed out somewhere. A few vendors stood with their vend-pods, moodily selling kahve and rolls to red-eyed citizens. Everyone seemed to be nursing a hangover.

  Except Kell and Mara. They moved through the maze of the city, the only two people with clear eyes and sharp minds. He couldn’t remember feeling this energized and alert in some time. He never gave the 8th Wing less than everything, yet somehow, this morning, he felt sharp as a laser, ready to meet or cut down any obstacle in his path.

  Strange. He hadn’t even slept very well.

  As he and Mara walked, she cast quick glances toward him—guarded, contemplative—the same glances she’d been giving him all morning. Something had changed between them. Neither spoke of it, yet it was there. The air was fraught with this change, the biggest uncertainty in the midst of the mission.

  He growled to himself, fighting the jumble of his thoughts. He needed to focus on the goal: find Lieutenant Jur and her ship. Get them both unharmed to the 8th Wing base. He added another objective: keep Mara safe. Nothing else mattered. Once he set a goal for himself, the only thing that could keep him from fulfilling it was death.

  He hoped like hell it didn’t come to that.

  People thronged in the elevator bay leading up to the club. Most were bleary, and surly, elbowing each other as they jostled into the waiting elevator.

  “Seems it’s worth crawling out of the gutter for this merch,” Mara said under her breath.

  He found himself wedged tightly into a corner, but didn’t mind so much since Mara was pressed against him, chest-to-chest. Her body felt as delicious and sleek as it had last night. And his hunger for her hadn’t decreased. Knowing the sharp little sounds she made when climaxing, the hot silk of her surrounding him, only fueled his need.

  Something had to be wrong with him, because, during the long, crowded elevator ride up to the club, he seriously considered hiking up her skirt and stroking her to completion, feeling her come against his hand.

  I’ve gone mental. Over a dozen people in here with us, and I want to seduce her.

  Despite his attempts to control himself, he hardened, his cock pressing into Mara’s belly.

  The damn witch felt it and smiled at him, wicked provocation in her eyes and lips. She even wriggled against him, teasing him into aching need.

  “What did I say about provoking the wild animals?” His low words were for her ears alone.

  “Didn’t learn my lesson.”

  “I’ll teach you again—later.”

  Her eyes gleamed. “Never been a good student. Some one-on-one tutoring— that will get the job done.”

  Finally, the elevator reached the club. Everyone rowdily filed out, and he wished he had a coat or missile silo to cover his giant erection, but he didn’t, so he slowly, stiffly made his way into the club.

  Fortunately, everyone was too preoccupied with the impending announcement to notice his state of arousal. Only Mara saw, and gave him a heavy-lidded stare that nearly set him off. It had been decades since he’d come without being touched, but she lit him like a plasma charge.

  He did eventually get control of himself and took in the scene. Today, in the morning, the club lacked the desperately carnival atmosphere. Tinted glass in the windows muted the daylight, yet the details of the place—its grime and disrepair—still appeared. Same with the people. These smugglers and scavengers lived hard, and it showed in their hard faces, their tense, weary bodies and greedy eyes.

  Dangerous people who would do anything to survive.

  Would Mara look the same in five, ten years? Embittered and callous? Assuming she was still alive.

  He drew close to her, wrapped a protective arm around her shoulder. At her raised eyebrow, he murmured an explanation. “Pleasure slaves see to the protection of their mistresses.”

  Maybe she believed him, or maybe she saw this as the justification it truly was. Pleasure slaves weren’t bodyguards. Still, she nestled closer against him, her own arm circling his waist. Slim and warm, she felt precisely right, and he tried without success not to imagine future days with her exactly the same way—tucked against him, taking his strength, but having her own too.

  He met the gazes of Bern and Leyon, who stood on the opposite side of the club. He stared back,

  tightening his grip on Mara’s shoulders. Staking his claim. The two smugglers at last gave barely noticeable nods, conceding. She was not theirs, and never would be. And if, some day, she did decide to take them to her bed, he didn’t ever want to know. Her life in the future belonged to her alone, and she could take as many lovers as she wanted, but that didn’t mean he needed to revel in it.

  A dark-haired woman sauntered toward them. She wore a skin-tight jumpsuit—obviously the preferred garment here on Ryge—revealing lavish curves. Heads turned as she approached. He noted the plasma pistol on her hip, the knife on her boot, but other than her potential threat, little else about her caught his notice.

  Mara stiffened beneath his arm.

  “So, this is your new Halu pleasure slave.” The woman ran a finger down Kell’s chest.

  Mara knocked the woman’s hand away. “No touching my property, Delayna.”

  The woman affected a pout. “Not fair to hoard your toys.” She stared at him with blatant interest.

  “You know I like to play.”

  He felt like a piece of raw meat dangling in front of a macskacat—not a pleasant sensation.

  “Go play with Leyon and Bern,” snapped Mara. “Kell is mine.”

  All at once, he hardened again.

  “You never used t
o be this selfish.” Delayna sulked. “Remember that time we shared those Makarios triplets?”

  What?

  Mara’s scowl matched his own. “Get the hell out of here, Delayna, before I cut your tits off.”

  “Fine,” she sniffed. “I’m here for the merch, not a bedroom tussle.” With a huff, the woman stomped away. Leaving a web of tension between him and Mara.

  “Triplets?”

  She actually blushed. “A lot of Hanako liquor was drunk that night.”

  But what she did in the past, or future, was none of his concern. He had to keep reminding himself of that. Difficult, when she said things like, “Kell is mine.” He understood it was part of the mission, and it wouldn’t be safe if she loaned out her pleasure slave—who was, in fact, an 8th Wing fighter pilot—but he couldn’t stop the rush of satisfaction he felt hearing her claim him for herself.

  A stocky man shoved his way through the crowd and climbed on top of a table. “Everybody, shut the hell up.”

  The crowd, amazingly, quieted.

  “The transmission from Gavra’s going to come in a minute. After that, I expect each and every one of you fucks to buy a drink, and then get out of my bar. Got me?”

  “Screw you, Kusa,” somebody shouted.

  Kusa grabbed a knife from his belt and threw it at the shouter. His aim was good, because the knife hit the intended target right in the bicep. The man yelped in pain as blood spurted from the wound, staining his shirt. A roar of laughter went up from the crowd.

  “Buy a goddamn drink, then leave. Got me?”

  “Yes,” the crowd muttered.

  “You keep refined company,” Kell murmured into Mara’s ear.

  She gazed up at him through eyelashes pale as clouds. “My taste is improving.”

  He burned with the need to kiss her, savor her again after too many hours without. Hesitation lasted only a moment. He was a pleasure slave, after all. What he knew was giving pleasure—hers. So he took her mouth, and she responded immediately, opening for him. Her fingers curled over his shoulders, gripping tightly, as he pulled her closer. She was spice and sweetness, more potent and addicting than specerij.

  The withdrawal was going to be hell. He couldn’t make himself care.

  It was she who broke the kiss, reluctantly. “The transmission. About to start.”

  He shook his head, clearing it. Gods, she was dangerous, especially now that he knew what it was to kiss her, to make love to her.

  Forcing himself to focus, he noticed that the club owner, Kusa, had set up a holo transmitter atop a table. Kusa punched a few buttons on the transmitter, and then an image flickered to life. It showed a red-haired woman of middle years, with a polished Jereian ruby where her right eye had once been.

  “Listen up, trash,” the woman said without preamble. “I’ve got prime merch to sell to the highest bidder. A Black Wraith ship and an 8th Wing pilot, both in excellent shape. The pilot puts up a fight, but that’ll make things interesting for whoever gets her.”

  A coarse chuckle rose up from the mob. Kell struggled to keep his breathing even. Like hell would he let anyone lay a hand on Lieutenant Jur. He could only hope she was largely untouched at this point.

  “How do we know you’ve got the merch?” someone yelled.

  “Yeah—you could be pulling a bait and switch,” seconded another.

  The woman, Gavra, sighed, and rolled her one eye. “Proof.”

  The holo image flickered again, and then the crowd gasped collectively as the sleek, dark lines of a Black Wraith ship appeared.

  He swore under his breath. 8th Wing protected even the images of Black Wraiths, ensuring that PRAXIS didn’t get enough visual information to make educated guesses about the ships’ construction.

  But this scavenger clearly cared less about 8th Wing security.

  “That satisfy you pieces of shit?” sneered Gavra.

  “Show us the pilot,” a barrel-chested man shouted.

  Lieutenant Jur appeared in the holo image. Except for a fading bruise on her jaw, she looked relatively unharmed. Kell was expecting the crude catcalls, the vulgar suggestions—Celene Jur, with her long, dark hair and silver eyes, was a beautiful woman in addition to being an excellent pilot. She glared defiantly at the camera. The crowd reacted to her appearance just as he anticipated they would, but it still made him want to bash people’s heads in with a barstool.

  “She’s stunning,” Mara murmured beside him. “Gavra could net a lot of creds for her.”

  He made a noncommittal noise, not trusting himself to speak.

  “If all 8th Wing pilots are that fuckable,” Barrel-chest hooted, “I’m gonna join up tomorrow.”

  Kell didn’t realize he was growling until people nearby started edging away, glancing nervously in his direction.

  Mara stretched up on her toes to whisper in his ear. “Throttle down, Kell. We’ll need that fury,

  later.” She held his gaze meaningfully.

  He nodded, and took a deep breath. Later. Save it for Lieutenant Jur’s rescue. And recovering the Black Wraith ship.

  The face of Gavra reappeared in the holo image. “That’s all you galactic asses get for free. Both the ship and the woman will be on display at the auction site.” She glanced down, presumably at a keyboard, because suddenly numbers began to scroll at the bottom of the holo. “These are the coordinates for the auction location. I’m holding the auction in five solar hours—energy storm or no.

  If you aren’t here by the time bidding starts, you’re screwed. We clear?”

  The mob grumbled its assent.

  “Bring your creds.” Gavra smiled unpleasantly. Then the transmission winked out.

  More muttering from the crowd before it began to disperse. To the annoyance of Kura, few bought drinks as people drifted toward the waiting elevator.

  Kell led Mara to an unoccupied corner. “Can we make it to the auction site in five solar hours?”

  “Without the storm blocking us in, I’d say no problem.” She planted her hands on her hips,

  considering. “Just fly up, out of the atmosphere, and fly back down. A quick, straight shot. Storm hasn’t let up, though. Meaning we’re going to have to stay under it, adjust our speed accordingly.”

  “We’ll make it.”

  “Yes—but it’s going to be a squeaker, time-wise.”

  “So we need to get the hell out of here. Every minute costs us.” He glanced over toward the crowd, thick around the elevator. It was going to take an hour just to get out of the damned club. “The crowd’s moving as slow as a drunk laiskasloth.” He looked around, eyes alert, attentive. “There’s got to be another way out of here.”

  “Wouldn’t be much of a smuggler’s club if there wasn’t.”

  “Somehow, out of everyone here, I figured you would be the one to know the location of this hidden exit.”

  She grinned wickedly at him. “Very sharp, pleasure slave. I made a good purchase—more to you besides muscles and a pretty face.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Pretty is the least of my qualities.”

  “True.”

  He wasn’t vain, but that stung a little.

  “Never seen a more gorgeous man.” She said this softly, almost too softly to be heard, with a kind of shyness he never would have anticipated.

  Their gazes held, and he was lost in the crystal green of her eyes, the depth there. She showed him a rare fragility—and he understood how privileged he was to be given this extraordinary insight.

  It took strength to show her vulnerability, much more so than bluster and bravado. It was humbling.

  Precious.

  There wasn’t time to explore this further. They had to get to her ship and reach the auction site before the bidding began.

  “You’re our guidance system. Take us to that secret exit.”

  She nodded, taking his hand. Yet he couldn’t help but feel as though he had squandered a rare opportunity.

  Mara guided them through the club, away fr
om the crowds waiting to leave. She slipped into one of the smaller side rooms, empty except for a cleaning bot listlessly circling the floor. Booths and tables stood waiting for the next round of patrons eager to drink themselves into nothingness. The performance platform in the center of the room seemed bereft without people writhing atop it in the throes of impersonal pleasure.

  “Never been here in the morning.” Mara glanced around and grimaced. “Shabby. Sad. This place was a kind of…home. Emphasis on was.” She strode toward a booth in the corner.

  “That’s a shame,” he muttered without remorse. She deserved better than this pit.

  Once they reached the booth in the corner, Mara braced her hands on the round table. She turned it like a giant wheel. It stuck for a moment, so he stepped beside her and lent his strength to rotating the table. There was a hissing sound, and then a panel in the wall beside the booth slid open, revealing a passageway.

  “How did you find out about this?”

  “Charmed it out of Kura one night. And by ‘charmed,’ I mean I poured Girilal brandy down his throat until he gave up every one of the club’s secrets. Then he gave up the rindroast he’d eaten—all over my new boots.” She smiled wryly. “Disgusting, but worth it.”

  They stepped into the passage. It was an unadorned, dimly lit corridor lined with pipes, the floor mottled with stagnant puddles. Scuttling sounds revealed that at least one szemét rat called the passage home.

  “This leads to a cargo lift.” Mara’s voice echoed in the corridor. “That takes us to the ground level.”

  She headed down the passage, but something prickled Kell’s awareness. He turned around,

  plasma pistol in hand, just in time to see a man also stepping into the corridor. The panel slid shut behind the stranger, closing all of them in. Kell recognized him as the blocky man from the night before, the one who thought he remembered Kell.

  “I know who you are.” Blocky had two plasma pistols out, one trained on Kell, the other pointed at Mara. “And you aren’t a Halu pleasure slave.”

  “Turn around.” Mara had her own weapon aimed at the interloper. “Then get the hell out.”