Collision Course (3 page)

But it did. It mattered.

He stared at Mara’s unmade bed. It was definitely wide enough for two. Had she brought them here, those men? Did she get these sheets twisted by writhing around with some brash space privateer? The image of her, sweaty and wild and sleek on the bed, came all too quickly into his mind, but it was
him
he pictured with her, not a swaggering pirate.

As he stepped into his civilian pants, he felt the strange urge to find those random men and beat them into cosmic powder.
For fuck’s sake, get a hold of yourself.
He didn’t even feel jealousy about the women he
did
take to bed, let alone a smuggler he had no intention of bedding. A smuggler with creamy hair and taunting eyes.

This is about the mission
, he reminded himself.
Nothing else.

Still, after picking the one shirt that wasn’t either transparent or cut down to the navel, Kell took a grim satisfaction in using his regulation blade to shred the rest of the men’s clothing. He threw the remains into a waste compartment.

Brilliant. Why don’t you just piss on them while you’re at it?

He finished dressing, and was glad there wasn’t a mirror in her quarters. He didn’t want to know what he looked like.

If the expression on Mara’s face was any indicator, he looked damn good. He ambled back to the galley, dressed in his closest approximation of a smuggler. She sat in the cockpit with her seat swiveled around to face him. Her eyes went wide, and he waited for her to laugh. Instead, a flush crept across her cheeks and she slowly licked her lips.

“That’ll…work.”

He glanced down. His pants were standard black cargos, and he’d strapped his blaster back onto his thigh. The shirt was also black, sleeveless, and cut for a smaller man. It fit Kell a little snugly, revealing every ridge and contour of muscle. Judging by Mara’s glazed eyes, she didn’t mind at all. Her gaze lingered over his exposed arms. He had to check the impulse to flex for her.

“What’s that?” She pointed to his shoulder.

He absently touched his fingers to the tattoo, an image of a serpent and a hawk locked in combat. “Something to remind me of home.”

“Home.” She repeated the word as if she didn’t understand its meaning. “Where’s home for you?”

“With the 8
^th
Wing, now.” Her question robbed him of any bravado he might have felt from her approving gaze. Coldness swept through his body, reminding him not just of the mission, but the reasons why he’d enlisted with the 8
^th
Wing in the first place. “You?”

“This is it, now.” She waved a slim hand to indicate the ship.

Neither of them asked where home had once been. Before the 8
^th
Wing, before the
Arcadia.
Yet the answer was there, just the same. A darker place. The kind of place that made them both find new homes for themselves, new lives. He wondered where she was truly from, what had driven her away.

It didn’t really matter what had happened. She was a scavenger and smuggler, and she had made it abundantly clear that she wanted nothing to do with the ongoing war between the 8
^th
Wing and PRAXIS. Profit was her motivation, and that was all.

Yet as they stared at one another, he felt the edge of desire cut through him. Desire, and the uncharted map of a life he might have lived if he hadn’t found the 8
^th
Wing. A kid with dreams of something more, something better in the sky—he could have wound up just like her, another scavenger stealing a living. Stealing freedom.

Is that what made her who she was now? Is that what he saw when he looked at her, what drew him to her?

A warning beep suddenly filled the cockpit, breaking the moment. Mara spun to the control panel and softly cursed.

He slid into the cockpit and took his seat. “Trouble?”

“PRAXIS.” She tapped a few keys, and a PRAXIS patrol-class cutter appeared on the display. It wasn’t the biggest or most dangerous PRAXIS ship, but it had a goodly compliment of weapons that could blast a little towing ship like the
Arcadia
out of the sky.

He tensed. “Tell me your ship is armed.”

“She is, but it won’t be necessary.”

The comm line shrilled. “Scavenger ship, prepare to be boarded.”

“Affirmative.” She cut the comm line.

He braced a hand on the control panel. “Don’t let them on the ship.”

They both watched as a shuttle detached from the PRAXIS cutter and headed toward them. One shuttle could hold at least six PRAXIS troops. He wondered how many were on the shuttle now, and if he could take them all down. His plasma pistol was charged. He eyed the narrow passages of the
Arcadia
. They didn’t offer much room for combat, but he was trained.

“Either I let them board peacefully, or they force their way on.”

“I’ll pilot. Use evasive maneuvers.”

But she shook her head. “Forget it.”

The ship shook slightly as the PRAXIS shuttle came alongside and linked. He rose to his feet and drew his plasma pistol.

“Holster that, flyboy.”

As she started to rise from her seat, his grip on her arm stopped her. “Going to turn me over to PRAXIS?” It made sense. She could rid herself of her 8
^th
Wing escort, forget the mission, and possibly earn herself some leniency from PRAXIS.

She stared up at him, eyes burning cold. “Just keep your mouth shut, and I’ll get us both out alive.” When he still wouldn’t release her arm, she said, “Trust me.”

“Why should I?”

Their eyes locked. “No reason. But you should.”

Trust her? The woman was a scavenger, a smuggler. She lived only for herself. Yet, as their gazes held, he looked deep. His instincts had kept him alive his whole life, from his home world to the space battles in far-away solar systems, and they were the only thing he’d been able to count on when even technology failed. They told him that, yes, he could trust Mara Skiren.

His fingers slowly unclasped from around her arm. He nodded tightly.

Something shifted in her expression, a momentary hint of surprise that he would trust her, followed by a flutter of…gratitude. His trust was an unexpected gift—they both understood this at the same time.

They turned when they heard the sound of the bay door open, and footsteps on the metal floor of the galley.

“Don’t say anything,” she warned.

He nodded again, and together, they moved into the galley. Kell kept himself loose, ready for anything. Mara asked for his trust, and he gave it, but he never trusted PRAXIS. They’d broken too many treaties, overtaken too many worlds, destroyed too many lives.

A PRAXIS officer and two armed troops stepped into the galley. Kell fought down the demand to just take the fuckers out. If anything happened to the officer, the clipper would open fire, and then everything would be over.

Unlike the 8
^th
Wing’s gray uniforms, the PRAXIS Group’s uniforms were a spotless, gleaming white, as if they still believed themselves to be an influence for positive change and progress in the galaxy. Once, long ago, they had been, but greed had superseded the impulse toward advancement and worlds fell underneath the unstoppable force of PRAXIS’s demand for more. More wealth. More planets. More power. Any who disagreed or wanted their own governance were crushed.

Only the 8
^th
Wing stood between PRAXIS and their complete domination of the galaxy.

The officer—a captain, judging by the bars on his collar—stepped into the passageway as if he owned it. He stared insolently at Mara and then Kell. Kell tensed, half expecting the captain to recognize him as the enemy. But the 8
^th
Wing was always careful about keeping the identities of personnel hidden, especially his squadron.

Mara greeted the PRAXIS officer calmly, despite the weapons that were likely trained on her ship at that very moment and the presence of the two armed troops. Her composure reminded Kell of top fighter pilots, level-headed in even the most dangerous situations.

His admiration for her struck him unexpectedly, like an elbow between the shoulder blades.

Mara kept her focus on the PRAXIS officer. “This day gets better by the minute.”

The officer’s eyes lingered on Mara, liking what he saw. Kell’s fists curled and tightened. If that bastard so much as breathed on her, he would tear the captain’s limbs off.

“What brings you to this part of the galaxy, scavenger?” the captain drawled.

“Business.”

The captain smirked. “Of course. Bottom feeding, as usual.”

She didn’t respond to the taunt, even though Kell had the strangest need to punch the smirk off the captain’s face—not because he was PRAXIS, but because of his rudeness to Mara.

“Can we make this quick?” She gazed toward the cockpit. “I’ve got a schedule.”

Annoyed that she wasn’t going to rise to the bait, the captain frowned. “You know why I’m here.”

She did?
Kell resisted the urge to shoot Mara a glance. Instead, he stared impassively at the captain.

Mara sighed. “Give me a minute.” She turned and left the galley, but not before sending Kell a quick look that very clearly said,
Do not beat the captain into unconsciousness.

Easier to make the request than to obey, especially when the captain openly leered at Mara’s ass as she walked away. His leer faded when he caught the murderous look on Kell’s face.

“Do I know you?” the PRAXIS bastard asked.

“You don’t want to know me.”

For a moment, the captain blanched, then he puffed out his chest as his hand rested meaningfully on the blaster at his waist. “Careful, scavenger. I could have that disrespectful mouth of yours welded shut.”

“Please try,” Kell said.

“Please don’t,” said Mara, returning. She gave the captain a vaguely apologetic shrug. “He’s new. Doesn’t know how things operate.”

“Make sure he learns, and soon.” The captain’s voice dripped with derision. “Before he gets himself and you into trouble.”

“He’ll learn,” Mara answered. She glared at Kell.

I’m standing
right here,
damn it.
But he clenched his teeth until they ached to keep from speaking aloud.

“The tribute?” the captain asked.

Wordlessly, Mara handed him a small metal container. The captain opened it and smiled, then his smile faded. “These had better be real Ingvarian emeralds.”

“I’m not stupid.”

The captain held up one of the stones, light catching in the deep green facets. The container was full of the gems, each the color of forest shadows, each worth more than an Ingvarian miner could earn in five solar years.

Satisfied, the captain returned the emerald to its container. He tucked the box under his arm. “This will suffice. PRAXIS appreciates your tribute.”

“Are we done here?” Mara asked.

“For now.” The implicit threat was obvious. “You can proceed. See you again soon, scavenger.”

Mara’s lips tightened into a flat line. She clearly wanted to fire back a cutting retort. All she could do was nod, then watch as the PRAXIS captain and troops exited her ship.

Neither of them spoke until the shuttle disengaged from the
Arcadia
and returned to the PRAXIS cutter. They watched as the cutter flew off, presumably to collect more graft.

She sat in the cockpit and busied herself at the control panel, but Kell was still too tightly wound to just sit. He stood in the galley, staring at her back.

“I don’t want to hear it.” She hunched over the controls. “And I’m putting the cost of those emeralds on the 8
^th
Wing’s tab.”

He couldn’t stop himself from pacing, which was the only way he could work off even a fraction of the anger and energy surging through him. He wished this ship had an exercise bay. What he wouldn’t give to go up against a combat holo, punch out his frustration.

“This is why the 8
^th
Wing and their allies fight against PRAXIS. To stop them from taking whatever they want.” As he paced, he ricocheted like a plasma shot. “They take from everyone. Even you. But you don’t have to accept it. You can join the fight.”

She turned and stared at him. A war was waged behind those eyes of hers. Beneath the carefully wielded cynicism he saw apprehension.

“Join the fight.” Doubt weighted her words.

He battled against his own frustration. How could anyone pretend to be neutral when PRAXIS ran roughshod over everything? They would devour the galaxy unless more people took a stand.

Something shimmered through her expression, the barest hint of uncertainty, as if questioning the course she had plotted. Such a contrast from the brash scavenger.