War Games Part 27

"If I wasn't," Lith looked deep into her eyes, "what would you say to convince me?"

Laisen blinked at her then smiled. It was more a curve of lips than an obvious sign of happiness, fragile and hesitant in its tension. "I'd ask you to stay for dinner." Her tone was still a bit unsure, disbelief turning each sentence into a question. "As incentive, I'd tell you that I managed to find an illegal supplier of tawny life-water." She stopped, unsure of what to say next. It was a move so unlike the woman she knew that Lith almost laughed and kissed her again there and then.

"There seems to be an open bottle in the kitchen right now," Laisen said, after a long pause, her voice still faltering, "and it would be a shame to waste it."

"What about food?" Lith teased.

Laisen mirrored the smile on Lith's face but Lith noticed it didn't reach her eyes. She inclined her head. "Oh, I'm sure the house will come up with something while we have a drink."

"And afterwards?"

Laisen swallowed. "There's a guest room on this level. Or...there's the main bedroom. The bed there," she cleared her throat, "is much too large for one person."

Lith pursed her lips, pretending to consider the offer. "Sounds promising."

"Then you'll stay?" Laisen's gaze bored into hers.

There were still shadows there behind the smile, and the smile itself was small and reserved. The shadows would take time, love and trust to erase. The spontaneity would take equal effort to encourage. But it was a better beginning than many Lith had contemplated in the past.

"Thank you," she said. "I think I will."

About the author.

K. S. "Kaz" Augustin has loved science-fiction since she was little. She also comes from a military family. Her father, a highly-decorated career officer was an instructor at Officer Cadet School and, from a young age, Kaz got used to being around soldiers and weaponry.

You can reach her via email at She also has Twitter, Google+ and Facebook accounts (under the name "KSAugustin") although she knows she doesn't update them as often as all the social media handbooks tell her she should.

At her website (www.KSAugustin.com) you will find full first chapters of all her releases. She keeps an opinionated blog at blog.KSAugustin.com and is always on the lookout for new newsletter victims, er, subscribers. The sign-up page, should you wish to join the masochism, is here.

Other available t.i.tles

On Bliss (Total-E-Bound) The Dragon of Ankoll Keep (Samhain Publis.h.i.+ng) Prime Suspect (Total-E-Bound) Combat! (Samhain Publis.h.i.+ng) Guarding His Body (Total-E-Bound) In Enemy Hands (Carina Press) Singapore Sizzle (Total-E-Bound) Europa Europa (Total-E-Bound) Anthologies Cougars & Cubs (Total-E-Bound) Seeing Stars (Total-E-Bound) Coming soon Cloaks and Daggers anthology (Total-E-Bound) Genesis: Republic Diplomatic Corps (Sandal Press) Tainted Love (Total-E-Bound) Quinten's Story (Sandal Press) Writing as Cara d'Bastian The Check Your Luck Agency (Sandal Press, coming soon) Return of the Hantu (Sandal Press, coming soon)

Quinten's Story

One.

The call was waiting for Quinten in the morning, bounced off his carefully constructed piggyback network of commercial feed points, scientific arrays and even-like a tongue childishly stuck out at the Republic-some military outposts. He might be described by most people as grim but, underneath the scar tissue, Quinten did have a sense of humour. It was emaciated and under-nourished, beaten to within a nanometre of its life, but still stubbornly alive. And it made him twist his lips in cynical amus.e.m.e.nt when he read the entire message, pieced together by the bitcrypt spiders while he slept.

"So the pirate kids want to meet," he said to himself.

He wondered what they wanted. His last trade with the Neon Red cartel had been more than a year ago. He found them a skittish lot in general, too nervous to deal with goods of any real value, and ill-suited to the lifestyle of freewheeling racketeers. At times, he felt that the purchases he made from them amounted to little more than charity, a way of sustaining some tiny needles occasionally p.r.i.c.king the Republic's tough hide.

"And maybe that's enough," he muttered.

He commanded the s.h.i.+p to prepare the return message, indicating a rendezvous near Port Tertiary in six hours. That would barely give the Perdition time to get there but, if it was going to be a rush for him, then hopefully it lessened the chances of the Republic staging an ambush. And if the cartel couldn't make it in time...well, he wasn't in this for the popularity. Quite the opposite.

With the order received and in processing, there was nothing left to do until the s.h.i.+p entered normal s.p.a.ce near the rendezvous point. Quinten looked around the c.o.c.kpit of his pride and joy. The command centre was originally created with many more staff in mind-eight, to be exact. In the almost four years since he'd acquired the Perdition, he'd made extensive modifications to the original battle-scout design. He installed expensive, black-market AIs, paid handsomely for a string of labour-saving modifications, and incorporated the latest in s.h.i.+elding and sensor technologies. It might still resemble a Republic s.h.i.+p from the outside, but the Perdition's innards were pure Quinten Tamlan.

Restless, knowing the time had come for him to exercise, he muttered a quick curse and rose slowly to his feet. Some days were better than others, but this wasn't one of them. He thought his body creaked as it moved, aching and already weary, to the back of the c.o.c.kpit. There was experimental surgery available that could give him a cyborg body...for an astronomical sum. But the procedure was risky and there were too many good memories still a.s.sociated with the hulk his mind was still encased in, for him to seriously consider it.

Although officially cla.s.sed as a "scout", the Perdition was almost one hundred metres long, a k.n.o.bbly, clumsy-looking s.h.i.+p that dished out death with ease. Its primary c.o.c.kpit was buried just forward of centre, with a secondary c.o.c.kpit in the rear, up near the skin, in case the sensor feeds to the main hub of operations got cut during an attack. Bulbous protuberances marred the s.h.i.+p's surface, containing accommodation quarters, the s.h.i.+p's canteen, and cargo bays. Quinten converted those areas to hydroponics, and used one cargo bay to receive the rare, and only ever invited, guest. He cut through bulkheads, forming two long thoroughfares from the tip of the scout to its stern. It would make it easier for any enemy soldiers to barrel through the s.h.i.+p, but he knew he was in no physical shape to give them much compet.i.tion anyway. If the enemy was ever in a position to set an armed and armoured foot on the Perdition, then the game was over, and he was probably already dead.

The rumble beneath his feet changed tempo, became a jolt, then nothing-just an unnatural smoothness-and he knew he was in hypers.p.a.ce. It would take more than five hours, and four jumps, to make it to Port Tertiary. The journey would entail a litany of trembles, jolts and the absence of movement completely, leaving him with little to do, except trust the navigator to do its job while he worked his body into some semblance of suppleness.

His limbs were stiff, as they were most mornings, and he limped badly. Part of one cargo bay had been turned into an exercise area, and he had deliberately chosen the one closest to the stern so he would need to walk some distance to get there, d.a.m.n his self-knowledge. He knew his tendency to prevaricate too well.

It took him almost five minutes to walk the forty-metre distance, but he tried to keep the bitterness out of his thoughts. It could be worse. He could be floating in a bowl somewhere, condemned to a half-life peering at the universe through a mist of pastel rejuv-gel. He could be on Bliss, the Republic's h.e.l.l-hole prison planet. Or he could be dead. All those options made the agony of fifty sit-ups insignificant. With gritted teeth, he disrobed, sliding his gaze past the one mirror in the room, and began his regime.

He worked out for an hour, and was shaking and sweating profusely by the end of it. It took effort to merely lift himself from the exercise chair, and the steps to his quarters were truncated and staggering. He knew he could fall-had done so several times in the past-but he refused to give in to his body's frailties. Not yet. If he could not exercise just a small degree of self-discipline with his body, then it was no use being alive.

He turned the shower as hot as he could stand it, letting the steamy heat ma.s.sage his aching muscles and wash away the stink of his sweat. The water streamed over a bare chest, criss-crossed with surgery scars, a pale shadow of the muscled bulk he used to carry with pride. His arms, once bulging, were withered remnants, his legs-well, to call them maimed would have been a compliment. The only things that remained in perfect working order were his mind and his d.a.m.ned libido.

His mind, to force his body to do his bidding, and his libido, to remind him of all he had lost.

He remembered an ancient joke.If you lie on your hand for a while, it'll get numb and feel like somebody else. Even without that temporary anaesthesia, the fingers that touched himself, on the rare occasions when he gave in to the itch, still didn't feel like his. But who else would have him? An attractive woman, of her own volition? He grinned savagely as he laboriously dried himself. They would run pa.r.s.ecs in the opposite direction the moment they saw his unadorned form. He could pay for s.e.x-he appreciated the no-strings aspect of a commercial transaction-but could never be sure that while the women sold one part of their anatomy to him, they weren't using another part to betray him to the Republic. That only left his hand, thin yet loyal.

Moving to his wardrobe, he asked the s.h.i.+p for a progress report. Still three hours to go. He used the time to make sure that the Perdition was in full fighting trim. He primed the sensors to operate to their maximum limit, much further than that of the normal commercial craft that cruised the s.p.a.ceways, and even a bit further than the run-of-the mill Republic battle craft. Or, rather, he tried to prime the sensors, and met with only spa.r.s.e screens, bereft of their usual crowded detail. That indicated another problem, too worryingly close to the last. The solution would be something easy, he had captained the s.h.i.+p for long enough to get an intuition for that kind of thing.

Only two weeks ago, the missile bay doors had jammed shut. Thankfully, the failure hadn't happened during an actual emergency, only in one of the monthly simulations, but it still took him more than a week to laboriously hunt down the problem-an overloaded secondary relay-and thirty minutes to correct it. Now some of the sensors weren't functioning properly. His body wouldn't thank him for putting it through its paces again, so soon after the last bout of bending and crawling.

The Perdition was too big for one person to maintain for any length of time. He had known that when the opportunity arose to capture a battle scout almost whole, more than four years ago, and had still talked himself into claiming it as his own. He had worked hard to get it s.p.a.ceworthy and modified to his exacting requirements, but the time for continued delusion was gone. If he wanted to continue piloting the Perdition, while staying out of the Republic's ever-alert gaze, he was going to have to either take on crew or...get rid of the s.h.i.+p.

Neither option was attractive. New crewmembers could betray him as easily as making a stealth comm call. And, after getting the Perdition in exactly the kind of shape he wanted, he was loathe to part with it. It would take almost as much time removing all traces of his modifications as it did installing them in the first place. And the thought of tras.h.i.+ng such expensive, hard-won equipment was one he couldn't even begin to contemplate.

He stared at the uninformative screen. The front and back sensors seemed to be operational, with standby power below their maximum, but the side, top and bottom arrays appeared totally out of commission. He was hoping that the readings were false. Maybe everything would snap back into peak efficiency once he jumped out of hypers.p.a.ce and had time to properly calibrate them.

Yeah, and the Neon Red cartel might actually have something worth selling for a change.

One hour out from Port Tertiary, Quinten started getting ready. He walked the corridors of the Perditionunenc.u.mbered when he was by himself but, for guests, he made sure he looked as formidable as possible. The exoskeleton, graphite grey and gleaming, may have struck a note of ostentation, but only Quinten knew how necessary it was to his wellbeing. Out of the soft armoured suit, he was a limping and crippled man but, once inside, the finely tuned groups of micro-servos ensured that he could lift incredible weights, crush steel in his fist and run faster than a human. It was almost like being a cyborg, without the attendant risks. He hadn't chosen the full body cover, so the armour reached only up to the top of his neck, fully encasing him in a cloak of darkness and forcing his head erect. It looked constricting and uncomfortable. It wasn't.

Once in his quarters, he took the suit off its harness and stepped into it, pus.h.i.+ng his arms through the loose sleeves and fastening the front at three points. Reaching down, he touched a small indented point on his right thigh, and the suit's memory got to work, tightening against his skin and forming a profile of the man he used to be before the Gilgan disaster. The suit recreated the bulges of a chest that his body no longer remembered, the ripple of a taut torso, and the strong muscles of proud arms and two evenly-matched legs.

Fortified, he walked to the cargo bay, unable to stop his mind from contrasting the hobble from the exercise room to his current distance-eating stride.

Why am I doing this? Why not just give in and get a cyborg body, 80% failure rate be d.a.m.ned? Kiel wouldn't care. Kiel's past caring.

But he knew he couldn't. The worst part of it was, he loved life too much to give it up. Coward that he was.

He reached the bay just in time. With a practiced flick, he activated the filtering sensors and made himself comfortable on the modified gantry high up near the ceiling, its edge bristling with rows of serious firepower. The weaponry, and his position, masked a clear view of him, accentuated by the distinct lack of lighting near his position. His voice was captured by a mic in his suit and amplified through different points of the bay, also confusing his exact position. Of course, he could have transacted the entire visit remotely, from the comfort of his own cabin, but Quinten liked the personal touch. He felt it added a note of courtesy, even when dealing with pirates.

"Coming out of hypers.p.a.ce in ten minutes," his s.h.i.+p told him in masculine tones. He'd had the original, more soothing female voice replaced, soon after losing Kiel.

"Destination confirmed?" There had been unsettling rumours recently, of s.h.i.+ps ending up at different places to their originally logged destinations. Whether commercial, private, or Republic craft seemed to make no difference. There had even been cases-ones he'd been able to confirm-of s.h.i.+ps disappearing completely, lost in that chaotic trans-universal plane commonly known as hypers.p.a.ce. Although he wasn't sure there was anything he could do about it, it still paid to stay alert.

"Port Tertiary trajectory confirmed. Crease operating within normal parameters."

He rubbed his cheek, careful to do it softly so he didn't accidentally break his cheekbone.

"Initiate scanning upon insertion," he told the s.h.i.+p. "Set up a tumble algorithm, using front and back sensors as primaries, full spherical coverage, artificial gravity axes calibrated to this position."

"Continuity cannot be guaranteed. Periodic disorientation probable."

"Acceptable. Scan for all s.h.i.+p signatures while tumbling to the rendezvous point. Plot and execute an escape route in case of confirmed Republic signatures."

"Destination?"

"Make it Tor Prime."

That was the very heart of the Republic. With any luck, any ambushers would be expecting him to jump away from the heart of evil, rather than towards it. And, like his current route had been, it would take multiple jumps to get there. More than enough time for him to come up with an alternate destination. It didn't worry him to have the s.h.i.+p execute a plan autonomously. His reflexes couldn't match the Perdition, and he knew it. His strengths lay in other directions.

"Orders confirmed."

He sat in the chair at one end of the gantry. It ran on a rail so he could choose where, along the length of the metal platform, he wished to greet his guests. This time, he decided to stay in the corner. He strapped himself into the harness and tried to relax, while waiting for the insertion and the tumble to begin.

No matter how much stability the Perdition attempted to maintain, Quinten knew the short jaunt to the rendezvous point would be uncomfortable and disorienting. But it was either that, or be shot into sc.r.a.p through his carelessness.

The s.h.i.+p jolted, then the spinning began, and Quinten felt bile rise in his throat. Grimly, he kept his mouth shut and swallowed hard. Eyes opened or closed, it didn't matter. The cargo bay would settle into familiar lines for a second, then blur into nonsensical diagonals, and the vertigo played havoc with his sense of balance. It seemed to continue for an eternity, a brief reprieve followed by a dance of lines. If there was good news in the vertigo, it was that no ambushers appeared to be close to his position.

"One s.h.i.+p within scanning range." The Perdition voice was smooth and unconcerned, while Quinten's own fingers clenched the alloyed armrests of his chair, the suit's strength almost forming furrows beneath his hand. "s.h.i.+p identified as G.o.d's Harness, belonging to the Neon Red cartel."

So they still had that hulk, he thought, while the world spun around him.

It's probably in better shape than mine.

Then the physical spinning ceased, although the after-effects kept going for far too long. Quinten knew he either had to fix the sensor problem soon or resign himself to a constant state of budding nausea.

While he willed his stomach to some semblance of normalcy, the s.h.i.+p picked up and reported on a small pod that had detached itself from the G.o.d's Harness, traversing the distance between the s.h.i.+ps carefully, as if a two-person shuttle could simulate walking forward with bare hands stretched into the air. Quinten grunted in satisfaction. The craft was obviously piloted by someone who knew the routine. Good. He hated breaking in new guests.

The clang, as the pod docked with the circular hatch embedded in the bay doors, echoed through the void, then the unlocked hatch turned and opened inwards.

Quinten's finger was literally on a hair-trigger, waiting to blast whoever appeared into their component atoms. His touch relaxed fractionally when he recognised the second-in-command of the Harness, Setino Shaw. The man looked as he always did, like he'd woken up to find himself robbed and dumped naked in some s.p.a.cer alley. The sour look on his face didn't change as his pale gaze scanned the bare bones of the cargo bay.

There was a flash of white-Quinten's finger spasmed-that resolved itself into a woman, stumbling then catching herself as her bare feet touched the cold floor. She was tall, with short white hair and pale skin that looked like it had never been exposed to a planetside sun. Despite her appearance, however, there was something strange about her. Quinten kept quiet and observed her for a moment longer, taking in the jerky hesitation in her movements. Her dark, fathomless eyes looked around, much as Shaw had done, then her gaze narrowed in on Quinten's figure, unerringly finding him amid the high tangle of metal and weaponry.

Only one other person emerged through the hatch after the albino, Ifola Breit. It must have been he who pushed the woman through, causing her to trip.

Somehow, life had just got more interesting.

"Tamlan, you here?" Shaw asked belligerently, but Quinten detected the note of anxiety beneath the bluff.

"I'm here," he answered quietly, and had the satisfaction of seeing both men spin around crazily. He thought they would be used to his amplification system by now. Something else must be making them jittery. "How can I help you gentlemen?"

"We're here to sell something."

Breit jangled a nerve-chain, a combination restraint and control method for delivering excruciating pain to a captive's skin through their nerve-endings. Quinten's eyes followed it, from the small control pad in Breit's florid hand, down to where the chain's slack curved gracefully, and up to the wide collar that fitted snugly around the woman's neck, like a grotesque form of jewellery.

"What is it?" Quinten asked, although he was reasonably sure of the answer.

"Not sure. Type B humanoid, we think."

Yes, that would explain the subtle differences in how she moved. The Republic hated to admit it, but occasionally breeding occurred between humans and the rest of the galaxy. The results, cla.s.sified as Type Bs, were hated by both groups, regarded as too alien to exist in each other's communities. They often turned to crime to make a living. As Quinten was sure the young woman in front of him had done.

"So?" he drawled. "Why sell one to me?"

"You're probably the only person we know who can control it." Shaw snickered. "It tried to commandeer the Harness. It took four of us to restrain it until Ifola grabbed the nerve-chain and latched it round its neck. It hasn't been out of the collar since. And that was a week ago."

"Language?"

The pirate spokesman shrugged. "Don't know. She may be deaf. Stupid. Playing stupid. She's cunning though, like a Republic strike fighter. You know what these Subs are like."

Quinten started a.s.sembling the little facts together in his mind.

Perceptive. Female. Strong. Hated.

"Where did you catch her?" He wasn't going to play along with Shaw's petty xenophobic digs.

Shaw s.h.i.+fted his feet, his posture relaxing with each sentence he spoke. He even lifted his hands onto his hips and slouched a bit. It was obvious he thought he had this deal sewn up. In the darkness, Quinten's eyes gleamed.

"She was in a small pa.s.senger craft near the inner edge of the Chimpect sector. Must've killed the crew, some gentry family joy-riding around the galaxy, before taking control. We didn't find any bodies, but there was enough blood to supply a hospital."

Breit chuckled and jiggled the chain again, as if proud of some favoured pet's antics.