Handsome Devil (7 page)

He pauses. At a really inopportune time, I might add. “You plan to fight?”

“
Of course I plan to fight! The only space pirates I want around me are my mom, my sisters, and my aunt Rosie.
Maybe
my cousin Jaxx, if he ever gives up the sauce. So you really need to point me to the armory.” A thought hits me and I hold up a finger. “Oh, hey, maybe it
is
my cousin Jaxx. But point me to the armory anyway.”
 

It's good to have a goal, to be able to turn my attention on something as immediate as, I don't know,
staying alive
. I'm surviving on little sleep and more than a little shock, but I sure as hell do not want to spend the next few minutes analyzing the almost-seduction scene that just came out of left field. I don't think I'd like the answers.
 

M'anu spends 3.5 seconds considering me before jerking his head in a single nod. “This way.”

Something that sounds like the distant roll of thunder echoes in the hall as I follow him. We're being boarded. That's the only explanation. How the hell did someone do that without the ship sounding an alarm sooner? Or rejecting the command of the other tub? Something is wonky here and the first thing I'm going to do when this is over is take a deeper look at M'anu's security. The last thing I want is to be boarded every twenty minutes by a jerkoff looking for a pay day.

I'm not a short woman, but I feel like a kid following a giant as I walk behind M'anu. Man's got a back as wide as Gibraltar.

We enter the armory in less than a minute. It's a room full of cases with locks on them that are, of course, keyed to M'anu's prints. He's thought of everything. He pulls out a blaster and only hesitates the briefest of moments before handing it to me. I know it goes against his grain to give me any kind of weapon, but part of me is also impressed that he's overcoming his reserve. I know what I'm doing, and he's smart enough to realize he could use all the help available. For the moment we're united in a cause. What happens after that will have to be discussed...well, after.  

I don't even have trouble looking at him when he addresses me, the heated scene of a few minutes ago taking a backseat while we talk strategy.

Or, in other words, while M'anu tells me what to do.

“
Do not leave my side,” he instructs, loading himself up with a hell of a lot more than one blaster. What are the darts for, again? “Do not speak, especially not in any Earth languages. We will try to come out of this as peacefully as possible.”

That's surprising coming from a Ferissian, but really, it makes sense. There's two of us and who the hell knows many of them. It's a good move to talk first, shoot later. So I nod, raising my chin. “Lead the way.”

His space-blue eyes sweep over my face, looking for something I can't define, and then he turns on his heel to briskly stride in the direction of the airdock.

It's the logical entry point. No matter how cool M'anu wants to play this, though, I am keeping my blaster at the ready. No way am I getting taken by anybody else. M'anu is a strange, changeful, aggressive Ferissian, but he's the one I know and he's not trying to kill me.

I can't say the same for the other guys.

M'anu, the crazy bastard, does not check his speed before he goes into the hangar. Part of me wants to slap a hand on my forehead in consternation. Does the man know what self-preservation is? But the platform is empty except for a few cages that are more advanced than mine was. I glance around. I don't see anyone.

Suddenly there's a voice on the intercom. “Occupants of the ship, this is Captain Zarek of the
Plunder.
Your vessel has been disabled and our ports connected. You will use the gangplank to enter our ship and surrender the Agmoiria, or you will find yourself blasted into a million bits without me losing a second of sleep. You have one minute to comply.” The transmission ends.
 

M'anu makes a sound of deep, dark irritation. Can't say that I blame him. We don't have a choice though, and the next thing I know we are making our way through a gangplank that reminds me of the boarding decks used at airports. The only thing between us and space is a giant suction cup affixed to our ship. At least it's not a transparent tube. I don't think I could have handled walking across “nothingness”.

The door on the other ship slides open. We're in another hangar, a lot bigger than the one we just left. M'anu keeps his blaster at his side and I follow his lead, standing at his right and just slightly behind him. Above us, hanging onto rails of an upper deck, is a row of the ugliest looking cutthroats I have seen in a long time.

And that is a hell of a number of guns pointed our way.

The guy in the middle, an older man with gray hair (and a serious resemblance to all the actors in black and white pirate movies I used to watch) lifts his brows in surprise. “Well well,” he says. “I didn't expect to see you here.”

I frown. He's not talking to me.

xxxxx

“
M'anu,” Zarek greets with a nod of his head.

I return the gesture. We have worked well together in the past. There is a slim—almost nonexistent—chance that he will take our professional relationship into account.

He doesn't holster his weapon.

Neither do I.

“
I should have known you would be the one to get to the Agmoiria first.”

I widen my stance. “Yes, you should have.”

“
This might make our future dealings a little awkward,” he muses.

“
Then you don't intend to stand down.” It's not a surprise.

He shrugs. “Well, thirty million is a little hard to pass up.”

“
Thirty million
?” the Agmoiria shrieks loud enough to make my ear ring. “The president doesn't even make that much!”
 

My head whips around and I snap my teeth at her in warning. Has she no idea how much of her identity she's given away?

She jumps at my aggressive display before she can catch herself, but the white flash of surprise quickly gives way to annoyance. “Oh, fuck this.” Suddenly she primes her laser pistol and aims it right at Zarek's head. “You've got two choices, dude. Stay and be blasted or go and live another day. And just so you know, I'm trigger happy.”

Zarek eyes the gun and grins. “So am I.”

He fires.

I know before his pistol comes up what's going to happen—I've been in too many firefights on Zarek's side not to know the signs. He won't risk killing the target, but he will have no compunction about burning a few holes in her first.

I push the Agmoiria on the shoulder a millisecond before the blast. My strength sends her flying sideways and crashing into the metal siding of a shuttle with a substantial clang. Pain lances through my arm. The smell of burning flesh and synthetic materiel fills the air an instant later, but I've already raised my weapon and returned fire while I bend and pull my dagger from my boot. It's long and wicked, the blade designed to claw at flesh going in and out, maximizing the level of damage exponentially. It was my coming of age gift, and it fits into my palm as easily as a extra limb. I let it fly.

Zarek ducks, the lucky
zimtam
, and the knife buries itself in his comrade's chest with a squish and a squeal. I roar, the challenge echoing off the walls with raw power.
 

People freeze, but not Zarek. He dashes forward, still firing from his higher position. I run to meet him in the middle, my speed faster than many can see, my blood pumping with the thought of the  battle. This is what I am built for. This is the reason for which I am intended.

Carnage.

The call of war thrums through my system like a siren's drum. I hear the sound of blaster fire in the distance, my concentration reserved for more important things. I am focused on Zarek, the leader, without whom none of these pitiful paid-for-chaos humanoids will fight. They are not Ferissian. They are players, not kings in this game.

They swarm over the banisters like Earth locusts, dropping down over the railing and charging forward. As if they are a match.

I throw myself into their fray.

I grab one male and snap his neck without a thought, his whiskers rasping my palms as I whip him to the side, into the next fool that thinks to take me on. They crash to the floor, leaving me open for the next opponent. I pull the darts from my belt and let them go, each landing in a throat, an eye, an arm. I grab the nearest arm holding a blaster and pull it down over my shoulder as I turn away. The breaking of bone thrills me, his scream of pain a song I never get tired of.

I toss him away.

Three are dead, two incapacitated, two more with serious injuries that I cannot determine the viability of. No matter. I am interested in Zarek alone.

The Agmoiria strangles out a cry.

I turn. Someone—yet another male, this one whip thin and gangly—has hoisted her into the air by the throat. One of her arms dangles uselessly at her side, the blaster on the floor. She claws at him with her free hand.

I hear a blast, and pain explodes in the back of my left thigh. I go down with another roar, this one of fury, before turning on Zarek.

He nearly fires again but I grab his wrist and lift high. The shot goes wild. I am up and in his face, my fist smashing into his jaw with all of my might. Bone crunches. Blood flies. It is a beautiful sight, but not enough. Not nearly enough.

Bam, bam, bam
. I hammer him in the chest, arms, and face again. He stumbles back, trips, falls to the ground, his visage a bloody mess. I do not know if he is dead. I do not care. I hear the Agmoiria
cry out again.
 

I am running toward her before I can consider alternatives. She has kicked her attacker somehow, causing herself to be released. I see her as she falls to the floor. She screams as she lands on her arm.

There is not much distance between us in this hanger, and my speed is legendary even amongst my people. Yet I cannot seem to cross quickly enough. He kicks her in the ribs.

She curls up around the foot, hanging on. When he tries to shake her off he trips. That is all she needs.

She is up, spinning and kicking him across the face.

I am almost there when a gun blast cuts me off. I barely dodge quickly enough to avoid the shot to the head. I turn. It's Zarek, somehow having gained his own feet, only able to see out of one eye. His hand is as steady as ever though.

Not for long.

True bloodlust is not common among my kind. We live for the physical challenge of combat, but we do not seek the kill. Perhaps once, eons ago, but that part of our character has buried itself over time. Death is a part of life and battle, but to relish the ending of a life is something we no longer condone.

Today I am going to enjoy the kill
, I think as I bare my teeth in the death snarl.
Today I will be what my people once were.
 

Chapter Five

I grew up around pirates. I know how they think. The second Zarek or whatever his name is mentions exactly what I'm worth, I know this won't end well. I can't figure out why M'anu even bothered. No pirate has ever walked away from thirty million. There's no point in pretending otherwise.

So whether it's considered Dumb Heroine Move Number Two or not, I decide no more Miss Mary Sunshine. I'm not going to cower behind a Ferissian; I'm going to stand my ground.

It never once occurs to me to think that M'anu will hand me over. He knows Zarek, but he kept his gun out. No trust there. Logically I shouldn't assume M'anu will rather pick a fight than hand me over and save his own butt.

But I do. It's this piece of knowledge that's as solid as the blaster I've got aimed at Zarek's ugly face. Outnumbered or not, I'm not going anywhere.

I expect Zarek to try and outgun me. I'm a hell of a shot—thanks, Mom—and have it lined up to plug one right in the middle of his forehead when this
hand
plants itself on my shoulder and
shoves me clear across the fucking room.
 

I slam into the shuttle. There's this horrific popping noise I hear over the madness of blasters and I know my shoulder just dislocated.

I'm not going to try and describe the pain. My joint is out of the socket it should be in, the socket it was made to occupy. Use your imagination.  

It all goes to hell in a handbasket from there.

M'anu roars loud enough for the other side of the universe to hear him, and it is flippin' terrifying. Did I say it was lion-like? I take it back: it's pissed-off Silverback gorilla level. The floor rattles with it. My heart stutters.

It lasts maybe three, four seconds, but I will never forget what it's like to have that wash over me. To know that I will never able to produce that sound—that, in essence, something as basic to him does not exist in me—illustrates our differences in a fundamental way. I feel like a helpless, half-broken bug that's just waiting for the natural order to give it a slapdown.

 
M'anu goes from zero to sixty almost before I can register he's moving. Pure instinct has me reaching for the blaster with my left hand; I get off a few shots but they go wild. I'm no leftie, and I realize in milliseconds that I might do more harm than good at this distance. I drag myself up from the floor and dash around the shuttle for cover, only to bump into the one sonofabitch that managed to get around M'anu.

Agony shoots through me. I hit him with my bad arm and I nearly black out from it.

It doesn't get better.

The blaster goes flying, knocked right out of my grip. Butterfingers.

The tall, jerky-thin guy slaps a hand with fingers that are way too long around my neck and lifts.

Holy mother of mercy!
Do not damage the goods, asshole.
Pirate rule number one!