BioCybe (3 page)

“I heard that the war is over.” Secombe cleared his throat
and waited a beat.

Sandon jerked up out of the slump he’d dropped into. “What?”

“I heard they’re signing an agreement. Not quite a truce,
but the two factions are looking for common ground. A way to end this damned
war.” Secombe relaxed into the red leatherette covering the chair. “If that’s
so, you won’t need me anymore. I hear the best pilots are already looking…”

Sandon shook his head. “Why the hell would I want some dried-up
old warrior to pilot my ship? They’ll only bring all their own problems and
prejudices with them. No. I need you.”

“I’m not staying past the first of the month. So, now that we’ve
cleared that up, how about we start the process of looking for my replacement?”
Secombe smiled, but it was brittle, as if the emotional distancing had already
begun.

Frustration filled Sandon. It was so simple for Secombe to
walk away. He had his family, his farm, and a future already mapped out. Sandon
only had the ship and the crew; his parents had died a long time ago. The
Golden
Echo
was his home, and those aboard it were his family. Secombe just expected
to leave when he wanted, without thought for anyone else.

Anger and sadness welled, but Sandon shunted the emotions.
“So, how do you…”

The door to the mess hall opened. Johnson, the cargo superintendent,
ducked his head around the corner, his face conveying both confusion and
caution. “Secombe? That pilot you invited aboard? Uhhh… The captain…uhh, person
is here.”

“Excellent.” Secombe turned in Sandon’s direction without a
shadow of embarrassment. “Sandon, this pilot is the best of the best. Take a moment
and see for yourself. Send the captain in, Johnson.” Secombe smiled, as if
pleased to have already found his replacement.

An itch took up residence in the back of Sandon’s neck.

Johnson gazed at Secombe owlishly. “Are you sure?”

Sandon frowned at Johnson’s uncharacteristic actions.
Something’s
wrong…

Secombe’s eyes narrowed. “Send him in.”

Johnson gulped, the sound loud in the sudden silence.
“O-okay…” His discomfort radiated, and Sandon leaned forward, ready to meet the
man Secombe considered an adequate replacement for himself.

When the door opened all the way, silence reigned. A woman
stood on the other side of the door, her gaze set. Her body, still and tensed, was
arrayed in the combat browns many of the fighter pilots had adopted. Sandon
could feel the tension rolling off her from the distance between them.

She has green eyes.
He couldn’t control the thought.
As his eyes scanned her body—toned, taut, and curved in all the right places—the
liquid in his mouth dried.

“Captain Daria? I’m…” She blinked, and he wondered if the
flash of insecurity he thought he’d seen had actually existed.

Probably not, he told himself. Why would a flyer feel any
level of insecurity?

“I’m Levia Endrado. Pilot Secombe requested my presence.”
She held out a hand, in friendship or entreaty, he wasn’t really sure.

Sandon turned in the direction of Secombe. “Well?”

Secombe opened his mouth then closed it again before
shrugging. She obviously wasn’t what he was expecting either.

The woman, Levia, stepped into the room and the door closed
silently. For a moment, he caught a hint of anxiety before it disappeared and instead
in front of him stood a confident woman. “You require a pilot. Someone with
long haul experience. I’m a pilot seeking a placement. So far, our objectives
are aligned.”

“No. I don’t want a woman piloting the
Golden Echo
.”
His voice was strangled and hoarse, and he watched as she blinked slowly. “I
don’t want issues with the crew.”

“It’s an all male crew, I understand?”

He nodded, numb at the thought of this woman, this gorgeous
female, somehow interacting with the other men on his ship. Of her forming an
alliance
…

“I’m not interested in a bed partner. Just a home and
employment. That
is
what the advertisement offered. You had an
opportunity to vet my credentials—” She stopped and her eyes narrowed.

“What?” The words cleared the fog that had settled in his
mind. “I haven’t seen…” Now, he turned to Secombe, who’d slouched further down,
horror clear on his face.

“I… Your dossier didn’t say you were…” Secombe’s mouth
dropped open, and his eyes widened further.

“It didn’t have to. Captain, I take it you didn’t scan the
dossier then?”

As Sandon shook his head, the woman’s nostrils flared
slightly and he caught sight of a deep emotion in the depths of her eyes. “Fine.
Then I fear this has been a waste of your time and mine.” He heard the husky
tones as she turned away. “I’ll leave immediately.”

The door slid open, and she was about to step through when
he bellowed, “
Wait
!”

The woman stilled, but didn’t turn around. He wasn’t sure
why that bothered him, but it did.

“Captain?”

“Your dossier. Could I…” He let the words hang in the air
between them.

“I don’t think…”

“I don’t pay anyone to think for me. Your file?”

When she spun back, her face was a mask of icy resolve. She
located the screen command on the table and shoved her arm against the reader
slot.

Information appeared; a brief overview of her skills and
awards. She was trained to fly an MX5, the same model and make as the
Golden
Echo
, also the GSL-23 and even the LD-5 mini-destroyer, he noted with
surprise. She was classified as competent on all land based conveyances and
even a variety of aquatic ones.

“What is your planet of origin?”

She stared at him, then her tongue flicked out and wet her
lips. “That’s need-to-know, Captain.”

“Fine. You’re obviously ex-military forces. What rank did
you hold?”

Her eyes narrowed at his question. “Is this somehow relevant
to our discussion?” She cocked her head to one side and he wanted to gulp. She
had an air about her now of leashed ferocity.

“Uh, I thought…”

“I was a commodore, but have been released from active
duty.”

“Why?”

She flinched just enough to let him know he’d somehow
triggered a nerve. “I was injured in the line of duty.”

He looked her over, but she gazed at a point beyond his
shoulder, as if such careful looks were an everyday occurrence. That knowledge
bothered him.

“Badly?”

The woman before him bared her teeth. “Enough, but not so
much as I am incapable of carrying out the duties of a pilot. Are you
interested in my skills, Captain Daria, or shall I leave?”

His lips thinned as he fought with himself. A woman aboard
the
Golden Echo
... Yet, here was a pilot with skill. “Mechanics?”

“I can take apart any vehicle I am classified as competent
in piloting.”

“I can’t pay…”

Her gaze whipped in his direction. “I’m not after anything
more than the remuneration quoted. I’m interested in finding employment away
from this sector.”

Sandon’s gaze pierced Secombe, and he cringed from the fire
he probably saw flickering in Sandon’s eyes. “I only quoted—”

“You and I will discuss this later, Secombe. When can you
start, Endrado?”

The tension in her shoulders disappeared at his words. “Immediately,
sir.”

“Good. Get your things. I’m offering you a trial.”
And
God help me
, he thought once the words were said.

Levia piloted her tiny personal shuttlecraft to the surface.
The ZZ8 was modified, kind of like herself, she thought. The computational
in-ports drew information and instructions direct from her cybernetic
syntha-derm. It made piloting and downloading updates a simpler affair.

Though she’d acquired abilities in piloting, driving, riding,
and sailing, among many other skills, during her time with the militia forces,
this time alone remained the one thing that made her life bearable. She could
look out at the stars and planetoids and think.

In the distance and growing smaller was the inter-spatial
cruiser,
Golden Echo
. It glowed in the reflected light of a small sun.
Up until several days before, she hadn’t known anything about it. A chance
meeting in a bar had brought the fact that they were seeking a replacement
pilot for their craft.

“Hey, Endrado! Heard you’re looking for a new gig.” The
bartender, Cample, plonked the brew down before her, and she watched as the
froth spilled over the sides of the cup.

“Don’t know. What have you heard?”

“The
Golden Echo
is looking for a pilot. They need
someone with deep space and long haul experience.”

She rubbed her hand across the scar at her left temple.
“I might be interested. What more do you know?”

He grinned and tossed a tiny data chip in her direction.
“It’s all on there. Don’t know much about the ship, but from what I’ve gleaned,
it’s an all male crew.”

He leered and it was a trial not to roll her eyes. Like
she was chasing any kind of romantic situation. After all, in her experience,
once people learned exactly
what
she was, they turned tail and ran in
the opposite direction.

Her hand closed around the chip and she carefully scanned
it, taking a gulp of the brew and lowering her eyes so no one knew she’d given
in to her interest already.

“I’ll get this back to you—”

Cample waved her away. “Got plenty more where that came
from. But…” He patted the syntha-wood bar. “You could always drop it off after
hours.”

This time she surrendered to the burble of laughter that
rose in her throat. “One of these days, you’re going to do that to the wrong
woman, and she might just take you up on it.” She grabbed the cup, downed the
rest of the bitter ale, and slammed it down on the wood. “Good brew! Thanks.”

Then she turned and left the bar.

For the next twenty-four hours, she’d hunted for information
on the
Golden Echo
. At thirty years old, the ship should have looked
dated, the outer skin pitted and marked. Instead, it had been cleaner than
expected, well cared for, and the exterior in pristine condition.

As for its owner? Captain Sandon Daria was an enigma. He’d
been running cargo for the last five years in this sector, and she’d found no
listed infractions or fines. Before that, he’d been running the Sigma route,
working with well-known and reputable companies. Again, his record was squeaky
clean. His cargo registration was paid on time, and it seemed he was rarely
without cargo.

Levia tapped her fingertip against pursed lips, thinking
back over how she’d heard of his need. Once she’d made contact with Secombe,
via text-tran, he’d extended the invitation to meet with himself and the captain.
She’d gone in with high hopes. Hopes that had nearly been dashed by the
enigmatic captain who
didn’t
want a female pilot.

“I should be thankful for the opportunity to even have a
trial, I guess.” Shooting through the darkness, she was able to embrace her
real self. The Levia she kept hidden, obscured by the glowing green implants
and syntha-derm. Her fingers shook on the throttle. “At least now I have a
chance to be someone real, not just…”
An assassin.

The nerves that had plagued her since the aborted mission to
Omega V rose; her pulse drummed and a droplet of sweat made its way down her
back.

“I survived. I’m stronger, fitter, and more capable.” The
words helped to keep her emotions level. “I have nothing and no one to fear.
I’m building a life of my own choosing, one day at a time.” The fear subsided
beneath the layers of carefully built affirmations.

With a shock, she realized alarms were blaring. She dragged
herself back to the matter at hand.

“Vessel Gamma-Vega-Gamma-Alpha-Zeta, confirm your trajectory
immediately.”

Her mind carefully, yet almost instantaneously, calculated
the most efficient route to the surface. “Air traffic control,
Kalistera
,
this is the vessel Gamma-Vega-Gamma-Alpha-Zeta seeking re-entry on route
Zero-Alpha-Five. Requesting bay allocation at location Nine-Theta-Gama-Phi.”

Static filled the tiny cockpit as she moved her craft into a
holding pattern, waiting for the confirmation. “Vessel
Gamma-Vega-Gamma-Alpha-Zeta, you are cleared for entry, and your allocation of
bay will be confirmed once re-entry is complete.”

A whispered sigh of thankfulness filled the air as she laid
her hands over the console.

* * * *

Sandon watched, amazed as the tiny craft hurtled toward
them. It was a ZZ8, modern and sleek, built for speed and maneuverability. The
dark gray camouflage paintwork bothered him, but his mind couldn’t grasp the
why
.
On the side, the call sign GVGAZ-0071 glared raucously in the usual fluorescent
orange tones of space identification numbers.

“She’s coming in damned hot,” Secombe muttered.

Sandon watched as the pilot laid his fingers against the
control pad, as if preparing to shunt the
Echo
to the side should her
tiny craft careen dangerously. He held his breath as it finally slowed, then
incredibly, it turned alongside the hull of the
Echo
. Since slowing,
every move was elegant and controlled, and the tiny shuttle slipped past the
ship as if she were carrying out an exterior inspection.

“Well, blast me. Did you see how she brought that beast
under control?” Secombe’s hushed voice betrayed his awe at the way the woman
made the craft dance beneath her fingers.
As if it were an extension of
herself
, Sandon’s mind whispered.

“And I fully intend to tear strips off her for the speed of
her approach.”

Secombe snorted. “Not even I could have pulled that off. It’s
as if she’s part of her ship.
Amazing
.”

Sandon rose and stalked off the bridge into the small
hyper-lift, which would take him down to the shuttle bay. He didn’t want some
show off jump-jockey taking control of the
Golden Echo,
and he was fully
prepared to tell her that.

The craft touched down like a lover’s kiss on the plastic
coated floor of the bay. Hydraulics hissed loudly in the confined space as the
whine of the engines ceased. Through the viewing screen, he could see her
rising from the chair, the shadow of her perfect form capturing his attention
and momentarily scattering his senses.

“Damned fine, huh?”

He spun around as the unmarried tech officer, Jorgenstein,
rested his hip against Sandon’s aging LGZ-9.

“What do you mean?” If this was a precursor of things to
come, the thought bringing a picture in his mind’s eye of the woman, then he’d
have problems on his hands.

“Well, I’ve wanted to get my hands on one of them for a long
time.”

Sandon wracked his mind. Surely Jorgenstein had been
downside recently? He was notorious for his penchant for the women. “Your
hands…” He let the words die away, an invitation to the man to confirm his
suspicions. His stomach turned in knots.

“Those ZZ8’s are the bomb. Wicked fast with integration
systems that would give a tech like me a hard-on.”

The craft, you idiot! He’s talking about the blasted
ship!
Sandon focused hard, bringing his mind back to the conversation as
his body released the suddenly pent-up tension. “Secombe’s of the opinion that
the ZZ8’s are ex-military.”

“Oh, they are, and a few well placed officers have them.
Along with the BioCybes.” Jorgenstein jerked upright, his face alight with
interest. “Hey, you don’t suppose
she’s
—”

BioCybes
. Legendary enhanced fighters and assassins
for the Juran Commonwealth. Whispers of these scary warriors had traveled far and
wide, but he’d never met one. Most said they were easy to spot, with bright
green or blue laser circuitry spanning their bodies. He sure hadn’t noticed any
of that on her skin. In fact, his memory reminded him of porcelain perfection,
and soft red lips.

“I doubt she’s anything other than purely homo-sapien. After
all, why would a Cybe…”

“Well, I’m glad those aboard the
Golden Echo
have
such interest in my craft. However, a word to the wise. This one? It’s not
worth messing with.”

Sandon wanted to cringe, realizing she’d probably heard the
last few minutes of his conversation with Jorgenstein.

“I, uh…” What was there to say? One quick glance in her
direction told him that there likely wasn’t anything he could offer her as an explanation.
Her face was tight, her eyes narrowed, and her body stiff beneath the gray,
leather bodysuit she wore. “Look, I was just explaining to Jorgenstein…” His
voice wobbled a little, betraying his discomfort.

“Explanation received and understood. If you could show me
to my cabin? Then I can stash my things.” Her voice was cold and remote, and
the don’t-touch-me air she carried like a cloak left him frowning.

It wasn’t quite the way he planned to start their
relationship of captain and pilot. He shook his head, clearing away any illusions.
Practical and businesslike was probably the best way forward.

“Fine. Along the way, I can apprise you of my plans.”

She gave a short, jerky nod, and picked up the large duffle at
her side and slung it over her shoulder.

“Do you require—”

“I’m fine.” Then she stalked in the direction of the shuttle
entrance.

He cast a look back at Jorgenstein who shrugged
nonchalantly.
Great start, idiot.
He followed her into the corridor.

* * * *

The door clattered open and Levia stumbled into the tiny
cabin. The speculation in the tech officer’s voice gutted her. He’d heard of BioCybes,
and the captain had too. She’d heard his dismissive use of the term
Cybe
and had nearly gagged.

What would happen if he learned she was one of them? Her
soul ached. She belonged nowhere. With no one. After all, Cybes were just
machines. She’d heard that often enough to understand most people weren’t just
terrified of them; they seemed to live in some kind of constant fear that
they’d kill and destroy everyone around them. Not that they usually did
anything like that. No, they were given a target, pointed in a direction… She
abruptly stilled the thought. “I’m not one of them anymore.”

She knew of the stories that were told to little children.
The stories where Cybes would come if they didn’t follow rules and instructions
ranked highly among those willing to scare children into submission.

Everyone knew Cybes weren’t real people. Hell, even the
Federation had seen them as tools rather than people. It had been one of the
reasons she’d bailed as soon as she could on the militia.

But here, she’d hoped to escape the degradation and taunts.
“You fucked that up.”

Her eyes stung, and not for the first time she was glad of
the lenses that blocked her tear ducts. Crying right now would compromise her carefully
applied makeup. She wasn’t about to let that happen though. Not now, and
certainly not on board this ship.

Levia placed her duffle on the narrow bed. She’d need to
find some way to jerry-rig her bio-system into the ship without it being noticed.
Glancing around, she noted an electronics board and set to work, making the
minor modifications that would let her plug in and replenish her power systems
without anyone being any wiser.

Once that was complete, she turned back to the bag and
tugged out the action suits she wore. They allowed her free movement, and while
she had noted the majority of the crew wore loose ship-suits, she’d already
considered and discarded the option of wearing them. Quickly, she slid the
suits into the bare cupboard.

Lastly, she tugged the small satchel of theatrical makeup
from her bag. It was long lasting and hadn’t yet failed her. “I’ll need to
replenish soon though. Otherwise, I’ll run out. Then they’ll know.” Butterflies
took to wing inside her stomach, and for a moment, the hysteria rose. “Control
it. Don’t let it control you.” Panic attacks had been a constant companion
since Omega V, but she’d learned to focus on what she could do to beat back the
terror that clutched at her.

“Pilot Endrado, please report to the bridge.”

The alert system jolted her from the worry, and she took a
moment to calm herself, to find the balance she relied on.

A small communication system sat beside the bunk and she
tapped the button. “Pilot Endrado. Instruction confirmed.”

She checked that her bio-net was out of sight then opened
the door and stepped into the corridor. A quick look assured her no one was
around to see.

She used the neural implant to call up the specs of the ship
and set a course for the bridge, then blinked it away, thankful that she hadn’t
been gifted lighting to her corneal implant that would give away her actions.

Before she moved, she set in place a tiny tracer that would
alert her if someone accessed her bunk. If anyone became aware of what she was,
she’d need to know.

Levia moved quickly, not quite jogging down the long walk to
the hyper-lift then activated it. It was silent and swift, and she smiled in
appreciation. Too many of these older ships had been left with substandard
systems.