Текст книги "Collision Course"

Автор книги: Zoë Archer

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Collision Course
8th Wing – 1
by
Zoe Archer

Chapter One

Mara Skiren knew there was a venerable expression that perfectly captured her current situation: she was screwed. Completely, unreservedly screwed.

Walking down the corridor toward her ship, she should have been headed toward freedom.

Instead, she was being forced into a mission she didn’t want.

The ranking captain briefed Mara as they headed to the docking bay. His words were clipped,

efficient, and combined with his standard-issue severe haircut and his crisp gray 8th Wing uniform, made him exactly the type of person she avoided as much as possible. As they walked, they passed more people in 8th Wing uniforms, all of them staring at Mara with undisguised curiosity. Guess it wasn’t every day that scavenging smugglers like her were allowed to roam free through the station.

“Any questions?” the captain asked.

“Just one,” she said. “Why me?”

He frowned at her. “Clarify.”

“You’ve got dozens, maybe hundreds, of good pilots. All of them perfectly happy to take on this mission. Why do you need me to carry it out?”

He stopped walking, then glanced around and lowered his voice. “Our missing pilot and her ship disappeared inside the Smoke Quadrant.”

Mara couldn’t hide her wry smile. “The 8th Wing doesn’t know their ass from their nose inside the Smoke.”

“We’re not familiar with the region, no.” The captain pressed his lips together tightly. “Between the natural barriers and the information network in place, the 8th Wing lacks sufficient intel to adequately appraise the situation.”

“Meaning, you aren’t smugglers, scavengers or pirates, so the whole place is a giant question mark.” She chuckled. “That’s exactly why us scum like it there. Both the 8th Wing and PRAXIS leave us to drink, brawl and murder in peace.”

At the mention of the 8th Wing’s old enemy, the captain’s mouth tightened. “Even if the PRAXIS Group cannot breach that quadrant, either, it is vitally important that we locate and retrieve our pilot and her ship.” He consulted the readout on his digitablet. “Lieutenant Jur’s ship was damaged in an ambush. Her last communication indicated she and her ship were being overrun by scavengers. Her ship’s tracking device stopped functioning within the Smoke Quadrant. We can only assume she has been taken, but by whom and precisely where in the Smoke Quadrant is unknown.”

Mara processed all of this information. It made sense to assume that if the lieutenant and her ship had been seized by scavengers, they would be taken to the Smoke. It was the best place for dealing in black market goods. In the Smoke, no opportunity for profit was ever wasted. Mara never took on human cargo, but an 8th Wing fighter ship would definitely tempt her.

“This rescue mission must be conducted in secrecy,” the captain added.

“If the 8th Wing tries to move in force,” Mara deduced, “all signs of the good lieutenant will vanish.”

The captain nodded. He resumed walking. “At best, Lieutenant Jur will disappear and we won’t ever find her. At worst, she’ll be killed.”

That’s why they needed Mara. She knew the Smoke Quadrant better than anyone. That didn’t reflect well on her character. Fortunately, she didn’t give a damn.

“Your objective,” continued the captain, “will be to infiltrate the quadrant, then find Lieutenant Jur and her ship. You have already been apprised of the repercussions if you refuse to cooperate.”

“I’ve been apprised.” She’d be tried as an enemy combatant and most likely thrown onto a prison scow. Her beloved scavenge ship would be impounded, broken up and used for scrap. “It’s bullshit, you know. I’m not your enemy and I am definitely not a combatant.” She went out of her way to avoid a fight, anyfight. She’d had enough of that in her other life.

“It would not be difficult for our courts to prove otherwise. You sell scavenged parts to the PRAXIS Group.”

“I sell scavenged parts to the 8th Wing too,” Mara shot back. “I sell to anybody, so long as they’ve got the credits.”

“Semantics. A guilty verdict can and will be found if you don’t cooperate.”

She fought to keep herself from snarling. Yes, she was truly screwed. She hated being forced to do anything. And she hated going into the Smoke as an operative of the 8th Wing. The Smoke was herplace, damn it—rough, wild and unprincipled. Everything the 8th Wing wasn’t.

But she didn’t have a choice. Choice had been taken from her when the 8th Wing had found her in that Kauri bar and brought her in to their station on some flimsy tariff pretext.

“I’ll want an exoneration in writing.” She stepped closer to him, her chin jutted forward aggressively.

“Once you, Lieutenant Jur and her ship return, you will have an amnesty certificate inscribed in your ship’s spec imprint.”

That was something, at least. She just wanted to lead a nice, quiet life of scavenging and smuggling.

She and the captain reached the bay. After he punched in his security code, the doors slid open and Mara let out a little sigh of relief. There she was. Her baby. The Arcadia.

She wasn’t the prettiest ship—Mara had repaired her too many times, and the old girl showed her age now. But Mara was older too. Older didn’t mean less useful, less capable. The Arcadiawas still sleek, still fast, and could still tow payloads ten times her size, and that’s all that truly mattered. The ship belonged to Mara, and Mara alone, and for simply that reason, she loved the scruffy thing.

“You didn’t do anything to her?” she demanded. “Tear her open or put a tracking pod on her?”

“Your ship is exactly as it was when you last saw it.”

Mara planned to run a scan later, just to be sure. She’d configured some black market tech so it could detect even the most hidden tracking devices. Her hatred of being monitored or tethered—like a Pabu dog on a leash—was another relic of her old life.

She began to walk toward the Arcadia, drawn by the irresistible pull of everything the ship represented. Her steps faltered and then stopped when a man walked around from the other side of the ship.

Sweet meteor candy.Mara had been back and forth through the galaxy more times than most people changed their socks. She’d seen everything from the Fire Caverns on Tawhiri Rho to the Ice Ghosts haunting the cliffs of Janxa. She’d been to every inhabitable planet and done business with their natives. Seen species both hideous and beautiful, miserable and sublime. Nothing’s appearance shocked her.

Thisman amazed her.

No way around it. He was one of the most physically attractive men she had ever seen, including the famed Halu pleasure slaves bred specifically to be the most aesthetically appealing creatures in the galaxy. Broad shoulders, powerful arms, long legs. His immaculate 8th Wing uniform brought into gorgeous display his lean, tight muscles. A plasma pistol was strapped to his thigh. Even simply walking, his movements radiated power and strength. His body was hard, lethal. A warrior, this one.

And his face. Far too rough to be considered handsome. He had the face of a man who had lived tough—and nothing appealed to Mara more. The clean delineation of his jaw contrasted the curves of his mouth. Thick, dark hair cut very short. Dark brows, dark eyes. Dark all over. And gazing intently at her as he strode toward her.

Her life danced along the edges of respectability, often straying into outright dishonesty. When she took a man to her bed, she picked him specifically because he was equally shady, the kind of man who wanted nothing more complicated than a night of physical pleasure before they went their separate, nefarious ways. Then she could go back to her happy solitude until her body’s demands for release had her searching out a new, very temporary partner.

She avoided men in uniform. Too much stability, too many expectations of reliability.

Looking at thisman in uniform, Mara began to seriously reconsider her policy.

Yes, please.

Whoever he was, he stopped just a few feet from her, and the two of them stared at each other as if the captain, the bay, the station and the entire galaxy didn’t exist. The heat of his gaze went through her like a solar flare, lighting up parts of her that had been cold for eons. Dimly, she was aware of the commander’s bars on his uniform’s shoulders, and beneath that, the patch indicating he was a member of the 8th Wing’s elite flying squadron. Up close she saw the tiny crescent of a scar at the corner of his eyebrow, and she suddenly wanted to lick it.

Maybe when she returned from her mission, she would find this man. They could share a bottle of Raijin whiskey and lock themselves in his quarters for a week. With thatkind of incentive, she would be sure the mission went well, and quickly.

The forgotten captain cleared his throat. “Mara Skiren, this is Commander Kell Frayne, of the 8th’s Black Wraith Squadron.”

Automatically, she stuck out her hand. She was a scavenger, but she still had manners.

The commander’s warm hand enfolded hers. At his touch, breathing became suddenly difficult.

She saw his pupils widen, heard his quick inhalation, and knew her touch affected him too.

“Commander Frayne,” she said. She smiled. “I’ll definitely remember your name for my return trip to the station.”

The commander pulled away and frowned. He turned to the captain. “You didn’t tell her, sir.” His voice was gravelly, deep.

Even though the older man outranked the commander, the captain reddened with embarrassment.

“The opportune time never came up.”

Something wasn’t right here. Unease chilled Mara’s spine, cooling her immediate response to the commander. “Tell me what?”

“I’m your partner.”

The scavenger’s eyes widened, and Kell couldn’t help but feel pulled toward their ice-green depths.

Extraordinary, her eyes. Filled with intelligence and heat and cunning—and anger.

“No,” she said. “Impossible.” She glared up at him. “I work alone.”

“Not on this mission,” he answered.

She scowled and folded her arms across her chest. Even furious—or maybe becauseshe was furious—Kell had never seen a more stunning woman. He’d read her file, slim as it was. Seen her on the holovids. Those images had shown her to be attractive, and he’d gotten some ribbing from others in the squad about what a hardship it was going to be, spending many hours in close proximity to such a beautiful criminal. Kell had laughed, but said with complete confidence that it didn’t matter if Mara Skiren was the reincarnation of the love goddess Oshun—the mission was everything. Not once in his whole decorated career had he strayed from his objective, which was just another reason why he was considered the best in the squad.

He still did not doubt himself, but seeing the scavenger in the flesh made him realize he would have to call on all his discipline and training to keep his focus.

She had the tawny skin and almond shaped eyes of an Argenti, her cheekbones high, her lips ripe with erotic promise. Almost aristocratic, her features. Ivory-hued hair tumbled loose around her shoulders, and he wondered if it felt like cool white silk against bare skin. Her battered nyyrikki-skin jacket hid the shape of her upper body, but he suspected she was slim all over, as attested by her body-hugging cargo pants. But the slenderness of her body misled one to think she could be easily overpowered.

Kell had been in the 8th Wing for over fifteen years. Before that, he knew his way around a battle pit. He had learned quickly how to judge someone, how to read them and what external signs were deceptive. One look at this woman, and he knew. She was ferocious.

Never more so than when she felt herself cornered.

“Bad enough I’m being blackmailed into this.” She folded her arms across her chest. “But I draw the line at teaming up with anyone. Especially some 8th Wing puppet.”

His own temper flared. “I’m not a damned puppet. I’m a pilot, just like you.” One of the Black Wraith Squadron, which meant he was a fucking greatpilot.

She stepped nearer, so that the toes of her boots nearly touched his own. The closer she got the more beautiful she became, even as angry color stained her cheeks. “Hundreds. No, thousands of missions I’ve flown. Alone. You aren’t necessary, Commander.”

“Commander Frayne is the 8th Wing’s best pilot,” Captain Esen said.

The scavenger looked unimpressed. “He’s not touching my ship.”

“It’s not your ship I’ll be touching.” Kell planted his hands on his hips.

Her eyes rounded. Her cheeks grew even more flushed.

Damn, that didn’t come out quite right. Or maybe it sounded a lot more like what he wanted to do, rather than what he had to do. “If Lieutenant Jur is too injured to fly her ship back to base, I’ll have to pilot it.”

“The Arcadia’s magnetic tow net can handle the lieutenant’s ship.”

“She flies a Wraith, just like I do. They’re too valuable to risk to a tow net and if we’re being pursued, it’ll make too good a target. The safest option is to have me fly the Wraith if Lieutenant Jur can’t.” He stared down into Mara’s eyes, willing her into subordination with just a look. He’d made ensigns and new recruits shake in their flight suits.

Not this scavenger. She just glared right back up at him. “I’ve never lost a payload. Not once. I’m not going to lose your damned ship.”

“We can’t take the chance that this will be the first time.” He didn’t back down, either.

She opened her mouth to speak, but Captain Esen cut her off before she could say something cutting.

“The Wraith ships that the Black Wraith Squad pilot are extremelyvaluable,” he explained, “but it’s the tech they use that makes them of incalculable worth. If that tech fell into the wrong hands—”

“PRAXIS,” she said at once.

“They’ve been trying to get their paws on a Wraith for years.” Kell’s voice was hard as he recalled the skirmishes and battles fought just to keep that crucial tech away from the PRAXIS Group.

Lives lost, many of them his friends. He hoped that Lieutenant Jur wasn’t one of them, but there would be no way of knowing until he got inside the Smoke Quadrant.

Provided, of course, that the stubborn scavenger gave in and took him on as her partner for the mission. Whether she agreed or didn’t, he was going to the Smoke Quadrant. Her compliance did not matter, especially with a mission this critical.

“Then I’ll pilot the Wraith ship,” she said, “and put the Arcadiaon auto pilot for the return journey.”

“Only members of the Squadron can fly a Wraith,” he answered.

She snorted. “Please. You 8th Wing hotshots aren’t the only ones with skills. Give me fifteen minutes and I can fly any ship.”

“Not a Wraith.” He held up his left hand, revealing the square of slightly raised flesh in the center of his palm. “Biotech implants. Without this, the Wraith is an inoperable hunk of metal. But with the implant, the pilot and the ship become one. And that’s what PRAXIS wants for themselves.

They get a hold of a Wraith, they copy the tech, and the shitstorm that is the PRAXIS Group is going to get a whole lot worse. Even for scavengers.”

Her lips tightened, but she wouldn’t speak, wouldn’t yield.

He had had enough of playing nice. “One of my squad is missing. She could be injured. Or maybe whoever has Celene is torturing her.” His jaw tightened, thinking of the lieutenant, alone, hurting.

They were all trained on how to survive and endure torture, but that didn’t make it easier to contemplate one of the squad being abused. “We’re wasting time because of your temper tantrum.

You don’t work with a partner? Tough. Now you do.”

For a moment, he and Mara simply glared at each other. He saw the calculation in her gaze, saw her mind working to find some way out. But there wasn’t one. Kell had a mission, Mara Skiren was part of that mission, and there was nothing further to discuss. He’d get the job done. He always did.

And if he could hurt the PRAXIS Group in the process, so much the better. World-eating bastards.

Suddenly, Mara turned and stalked toward her ship. She punched in the entry code, and the hatch opened with a hiss.

She said over her shoulder, “If you’re not on the Arcadiain five minutes, I’m leaving without you.” Then she marched into the ship, muttering.

Captain Esen looked at the space where Mara Skiren had stood, and he did the same. He expected her to leave an afterimage, like a solar flare burned into the eye.

“Her file doesn’t do her justice,” the captain murmured.

“Not much would, sir.”

“It’s not going to be an easy mission.”

“That is an understatement, sir.” Breaching the natural barriers surrounding the Smoke Quadrant,

infiltrating the region of the galaxy known for its ruthless criminals, finding Lieutenant Jur, getting both her andher ship to safety. A challenge, yes, but Kell had undertaken missions just as perilous.

When it came to himself or other members of the Black Wraith Squad, he had complete confidence.

Throw a wild card like Mara into the situation, and all of his carefully planned stratagems became lunar dust. She unbalanced everything. Including him.

“I’ll bring Lieutenant Jur back, sir.”

Captain Esen nodded as if this had never been in doubt. “Her Wraith, too, Commander.”

“And if the Wraith is too damaged to fly…” He knew the 8th Wing’s protocol for such situations but wanted direct confirmation from the captain.

“Destroy it.”

Which meant that there was a possibility he might be stranded, or consigning himself to capture or death.

“Of course, sir.” He knew without consulting the chrono on his wrist brace that his five minutes were almost up, just as he knew Mara would leave without him if he didn’t get his ass on to her ship.

“Time to go.” He gave the captain a salute, which was returned.

“Good luck, Commander.” Captain Esen glanced meaningfully at the scavenger ship.

Kell grabbed the duffel bag he’d stowed nearby. “Black Wraith Squad doesn’t need luck.”

“This mission, you just might.”

Taking a deep breath, he boarded the scavenger ship. He had already familiarized himself with the ship’s specs. The cockpit at the front connected to a galley, and sleeping quarters lay just beyond that. For one person, the ship would be small but comfortable. For two, however, the situation would be less accommodating. Extremely uncomfortable, actually.

He navigated quickly through the narrow passages to stand just outside the cockpit. Mara sat in the captain’s chair, running a diagnostic and plotting a course. Her shoulders stiffened at the sound of his boots on the floor. She didn’t turn around.

“I’d tell you to grab a seat for take off,” she said, “but there isn’t one.”

“Incorrect.” He dropped his bag and strode toward the galley. There, at a tiny table, were two seats, the only grudging acknowledgment that someone other than Mara Skiren might be on her ship.

He unlatched one chair and carried it back to the cockpit. She did turn around then, watching as he latched the chair down to the metal grid on the floor of the cockpit. Right beside her. He gave it an experimental shake and was glad to see that it didn’t budge.

“Now you have a copilot.” He dropped into the seat and fought his smile when she scowled at him.

Swiveling back to the control panel, she punched in the launch sequence. The ship hummed to life. The bay doors retracted, revealing the darkness of space, the multitudes of star systems and the gleaming lights of 8th Wing ships on patrol. His pulse kicked a little just to see it. Didn’t matter how many times he launched for his own patrol or on a mission. In some ways, he was still that dirty-faced kid staring up at the night sky, wishing himself among the stars.

This wasn’t a routine mission, not by a long shot. He had a difficult task ahead of him, and an even more difficult woman beside him.

The lights from the control panel illuminated her face, and again he was struck by how incongruously aristocratic she looked, how coolly beautiful. The sidelong glance she gave him,

though, revealed that she was profoundly unnerved by his presence.

Well, she rattled him too. They were even.

“Launching,” she murmured, “in five, four, three, two, one. Hang on to your balls, Commander.”

They blasted off.