Captive of Pleasure; the Space Pirate's Woman (The LodeStar Series) (47 page)

Mecham, who had been running ident numbers on some of the large, fast, expensive craft on the ground below, swallowed hard against the sickness that tried to force its way up her throat. She and Arc had been nothing but pawns, just like Joran Stark and his crew. Cerul hadn’t really cared what they reported, because she was going to destroy them anyway.

“Sir. One of the main business owners in Bone Arch is—”

Cerul looked up, her gaze pinning Mecham like a blue laser charge. “Masterson. Yes, I am aware, sergeant. I am also aware that while he may style himself as legitimate now, the man is simply another pirate who has found easy pickings on Frontiera.”

“He’s here, sir,” Mecham said doggedly. “In Bone Arch. I’m transmitting idents for other ships coming in, too. You may want to look at them.”

“Silence, Sergeant.” Cerul waved an impatient hand.
 

Mecham disobeyed. She had to, because there was one name in particular, the most recent, that made cold sweat break out in her armpits and run down to pool in her soft bra.
 

“Sir,” she went on, even though Arc was shooting her murderous glances from his holovid, and the officers around Cerul were eyeing her with fascination and disbelief.
 

“And is The Storm there?” Cerul interrupted, her voice light as ice crystals.
 

“Yes, sir.”

“And are several known slave runners even now flying in to meet with him in a secretive fashion, in a known outpost of criminal activity?”

“Yes, sir.”

Cerul’s slight smile disappeared. “Then I think, if you’ll pardon me for doing so, sergeant, that we may assume this is not a rendezvous that any of these beings wish to be noted, no matter who they are.
 

This was not true, Mecham knew first hand. But she didn’t have time to argue, because one last name was scrolling onto her readout.
 

“Logan Stark,” she said, her stomach falling away as if the winds buffeting her craft had reached inside to claw at her. “Quark. He’s here too.” Surely Cerul wouldn’t ignore him. And he had others on his cruiser, which Mecham could see making the banking turn to come in below the pass, and down toward Bone Arch.
 

But she didn’t have time to attend to the rest of the readout, because her commander had had it. This was evidenced as her back snapped straight in her seat, and she waved Mecham away like a pesky insect.
 

“Arc, take over command until reinforcements arrive. Mecham, you are relieved of duty. Report back to base immediately.”

She began to speak rapidly to her officers, who attended her, nodding and ignoring Mecham.

Ren sat in her craft, holding it steady as thunder boomed outside and a lightning strike shattered the darkness just on the other side of the lodge, striking the edge of the rocks in a display of profound violence.
 

It echoed the turmoil inside her.

She’d just been relieved of command. That was a slap so profound she knew her career, indeed her usefulness as an active officer would never recover. She sat, holding the controls of her ship, Cerul’s words echoing in the thunder outside.
 

Until another voice spoke in her ear, this one male and somewhat familiar.
 

“Hey, Mecham. Y’know, you’re better off without that bitch. Wanna come down here and do somethin’ worthwhile?”

“Huh?” She started, and scowled at the new holovid that popped up to one side of her console. One of Stark’s men. Haro, that was his name. “How did you intercept this link?”

Haro waggled his brows at her. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” Then he sobered. “Listen, Cerul’s gone rogue, you get that, right? You need to duck and cover.”

“She’s the commander of Frontieran Intergalactic Space Forces,” Mecham said. She blinked back the moisture that threatened her eyes.

He gave her a pitying look. “Not for long, she does what she’s planning. You’re right, there are some influential folks here in beautiful, downtown Bone Arch this fine evening. She blows them off the map, or even tries...” he shrugged.

Mecham stiffened. “We have to stop it,” she said, then froze as she heard her own words.
 

“We do,” he agreed. “You in?”

Was she in? She was an officer of the IGSF, sworn to serve and obey. But, this was why she’d joined up, to save people, not to destroy them in vindictive strikes. Mecham cast a hunted look at Arc’s holovid and saw that he was ignoring her.

“He can’t hear or see us,” Haro said. “Ilya’s tech is stellar, so’s Lodestar’s. Few tricks up their sleeves you eppies don’t know about.”

Mecham took a deep breath. “I’m in,” she said, and then swallowed hard, hoping she wasn’t about to vomit in her cockpit. The smell was hells to get out.

Chapter 28

The Bone Arch lodge was not a genteel resort. Built of huge logs and pieces of quarried rock, it towered over the rest of the settlement, the hide awning and flag flapping like harbingers of doom as Joran swung down from the hovercycle before the porch, and turned to lift Zaë down.

He’d insisted she wear the helmet of her flight suit, and the clear facial screen seemed to magnify the awe in her blue eyes as she took it all in. But she stayed close, following him up the hewn steps and across the broad porch to the open doors.
 

The main room of the lodge was just as startling for those unused to the less refined venue. It doubled as a bar and restaurant, with a bar along the back wall, tables and chairs ringing the floor and rows of hologames flashing above, waiting to be beckoned for play. Waiter droids stood blinking in the center of each table.

On the rough hewn walls hung the mounted heads of big game. Skrog, with their massive horns curving out from their shaggy heads. Catamounts with eyes slitted, fangs gleaming ferociously, and velvet-muzzled hormoose with graceful drooping ears and flared black antlers. Some joker had mounted a deerbitt and hung it out from the wall, caught in endless flight away from the catamounts.

And for those who preferred their entertainment alive, a monumental holovid glimmered above the tables. A pair of singers undulated in sparkling costumes as they sang of lost love and loneliness among the stars. Their image and sound wavered each time the thunder boomed outside, and once a lightning strike took them out in mid-note. They reappeared a few secs later, their images the worse for wear.

An area had been cleared in the center of the big room, and a hover stage floated, waiting.
 

Joran deposited Zaë to a stool behind the bar, with Ryder standing by to guard her. The bartender, a sturdy woman with the scent of hookah pipe wreathed about her, gave them a jaundiced look but said nothing. Since she was also the owner of the lodge and being paid extremely well for the night, Joran ignored her except to tell her to get Zaë anything she wanted.

“Joran,” Zaë called. “Wait.”

He looked back, a shade impatiently.

She grabbed his arms, and his look turned wary. “Bunny, you’ll be fine—“

“I know.” She was sending him into battle, in a way. She had to be strong for him, so he could do what he needed to do, and not worry about her. “I just wanted to wish you luck.”

She shoved up the facial screen on her helmet and tiptoed up to press a kiss to his mouth. For a moment she stayed there, memorizing him. Then she stepped back, and smiled at him. “:So, good luck.”:

Surprise and then pleasure moved over his face. He lifted his chin. “Thanks, sweetheart. Now go with Ryder—and stay put.”

“I will,” she promised.
 

But most of all, you stay safe, Joran Stark. Because
I love you,
she added silently, and then froze. She was in love with him. She loved Joran Stark, the Storm, scourge of the Frontieran plains. And if anything happened to him here tonight, she would never get over that. Oh, she’d picked a terrible time to realize that.

He gave her one glinting glance over his shoulder and then strode on, out to take the stage for his bold play, which she prayed would not come crashing down around his ears.
 

***

Thus far, everything was happening according to plan. Masterson’s people were in place, Bronc Berenson and the LodeStar people and tech secreted on site, Joran’s top people were here. Although he couldn’t see them, he knew because they gave regular status reports.
 

Slidi arrived with fanfare, two silent and beautiful creatures at her sides, one the slim, dark-eyed male Joran had noted at the Pleasure Palace and one a female with ebony skin, both foils for Slidi’s vivid auburn beauty. They were surrounded by her Mau and Gorglon guards, who shoved chairs and tables out of their way to create an open space around one large table. Joran walked to greet her, and did so with a kiss on the hand she lifted, ignoring her guards, one of whom poked his weapon into the side of Joran’s neck.
 

She allowed this, then watched as Joran was shoved back away from her. He glared at the Gorglon. “Hey. I have men here too, you big, ugly slab of space rock, so lay off.”

“Keep your distance, little raincloud,” the Gorglon answered, his guttural utterance translated by Joran’s com. The Maus grinned at the good joke.
 

Slidi sank into the chair they held for her, her two slaves standing at her shoulders. “Enough. When does it begin?”

“Now that you’re here,” Joran said, watching with what he hoped looked like lust and admiration as she threw back her fur cape to reveal a tight, gold catsuit cut low to reveal a swath of cleavage. “Whenever your buyers arrive.” They were on site, he knew from reports, landing in several craft on a rock shelf just behind the lodge.

“They are coming now.” She lifted a languid hand to the door, a gesture which belied the avid spark in her sloe eyes.
 

As the thunder rolled outside, more guards paced in the open doors, these Serpentians, slim and hard-eyed. In their midst walked the Serpentian brothel owner who had bid on Zaë at the slave auction.
 

Next came a human, also heavily guarded, a trio of Mauritians and then a pair of Vulpeans on hoverchairs who skated watchfully to a table. More humans, and another Serp. A cloaked figure slid in and to one side, to stand in the shadows.
 

“Got eyes on him?” Joran murmured.

“I do,” Haro said. “Let you know who he is as soon as I figure it out.”

The droids went into motion, zipping to the bar and back to the tables, laden with bottles and beakers of drinks, frosty ales, bottle of wine, jewel hued drinks hissing with vapor.

Stone Masterson strolled in as if he owned the place, his golden raptor’s gaze mocking as he surveyed those filling the tables. His pilot, Steele loomed behind him, a blond giant in black leather and iridium chains.
 

“Ready?” Joran asked.

“Ready,” Haro replied.

“Ready.” That was Ilya.

“Ready.” Bronc Berenson’s deep voice.
 

“Ready.” Pede, his voice tense.

“Excellent.”

Joran leapt onto the hover stage. He snapped his fingers and the singers gyrating above their heads cut out in midnote, aided by another crack of lightning outside. He smiled at those gathered, with as much pride as if he’d engineered the strike himself.

“Thanks for coming all the way up here tonight,” he said, his voice magnified. “As promised, got somethin’ special for you, make it worth your while. Now, the bidding is starting high, but if you didn’t have deep pockets, you wouldn’t be here, right?”

He chuckled, ignoring the fact that his audience not only didn’t respond, but gave him looks of varying disdain and boredom.

“And we’re not talking mere slaves tonight,” he went on. “You can find whores on any street corner or settlement, am I right? But the beings you’re about to view are special.”

The doors at the back of the bar opened, and a large crate glided into the room. It rose, and veered over their heads. Several of the guards cocked their weapons, watching suspiciously as it paused over the hoverstage.

Then it opened, and a cage dropped down, surrounded by a crackling grid of power, and containing a beautiful, woman, nude except for a tiny thong.

She landed hard on her hands and knees, and then sprang up into a wary, defensive crouch, hands clawed, every muscle in her body taut. Her blonde hair flowed down her back in a sleek swathe, and her dark eyes glittered as she glared at them.
 

Drawing back her lips, she snarled, a chilling sound. But there was an edge of terror in her gaze as well. A fierce creature, trapped with no way out.

The room was dead silent for a sec. “Meet Sharena,” Joran called. “The deadliest female ever trained by the famed Serpentian guard academy. She’s killed five males and seven females. And she can be the headliner at your next event—fighting or fucking, whichever you command. Or both—winner take all, as they say.”

“Gladiators,” someone gloated aloud. “I like this.”

“I’ll fuck her,” another man called. “If you’ll hold her down.”