Finders Keepers (11 page)

He took a spoonful of the soup first, sipped it thoughtfully. She wanted to smack him with her spoon for the minor delay but stirred her soup instead.

“I wasn’t involved in war games,” he said finally. “I was part of an infiltration mission. The ’Sko took me prisoner. I stole the Tark and escaped.”

She let out the breath she’d been holding. That was it? Hell, she’d figured as much. There was no reason why she, or anyone in the Conclave, wouldn’t have been sympathetic to that situation. “Why did you lie to me?”

“I will explain that in a moment.”

“So those ’Sko
were
looking for you—”

“Trilby, please. Hear me out.”

She tapped her spoon on the edge of her mug, barely disguising her impatience. “Go ahead.”

“They were looking for you too.”

The spoon trembled in her fingers. “But that makes no sense. Why me? I’ve never even had a cargo contract worth more than—”

“It might have something to do with Grantforth.”

She dropped her spoon. It clattered against the countertop. “Jag—What in hell are you talking about?”

“I recognized a transmission signature from the mother ship during the attack, locked it in a capture feed.” He waved his hand. “Yes, I used that program I mentioned. Please. Let me finish.”

Trilby closed her mouth.

“What I snared was a coded transmission from the mother ship to the Tarks. But I couldn’t run a decode until we destroyed them. There is only so much,” he said, splaying his hands on the counter in a depreciative gesture, “that I can do at once. Survival was more important.”

“No shit.”

He let out a short sigh. “But I decoded it while you started your systems check.”

And swore loud and long, Trilby remembered. And became evasive, not to lie to her, but to protect her.

“The mother ship was sent to look for me. But your ship was listed in their kill file. As soon as they ID’d you, they changed course to follow.”

Kill file. Trilby knew about ’Sko kill files. Anyone who worked the lanes did. But kill files were usually for revenge. You take out a ’Sko squadron, a ’Sko station, you’re in their kill file.

“But I never did anything to them!” she protested. “Look at me. I’m a small hauler. I’m broke. I don’t go running raids on ’Sko colonies, or—”

“I don’t know why you’re in the file. But you are. And the order, the code that I picked up from the mother ship, also held a code that I know from the war. It relates to a double agent in your government, someone the ’Sko call Dark Sword. And it relates, we now think, to this same agent using a Conclave transport company to help them. GGA is one of the possibilities.”

She sat back. Grantforth Galactic Amalgamated. Not Jagan. When Rhis said “Grantforth” she automatically assumed he meant Jagan, personally. But why would he? There was no way he’d know about her fiasco of a relationship.

“GGA would never work with the ’Sko,” she protested. “I mean, hell, Garold Grantforth’s on the Trade Commission. Are you saying his family’s betraying him? It would ruin his political career, to say the least.”

This time it was Rhis who stirred his soup. “The message didn’t specifically mention GGA. But tell me about Garold Grantforth. Do you know him?”

“Sort of,” she admitted after a moment.
What was it, one or two cocktail parties? Three? A year ago, maybe
. “I met him at a couple of social events I went to.” She saw something odd in Rhis’s expression but couldn’t peg it. No doubt he was wondering where a low-budget hauler like Trilby Elliot would meet up with a high-powered politician.

Oh, Gods,
she thought.
He thinks I was a prosti.

She waved her hand quickly. “Not those kind of parties. I knew his nephew. Jagan. Jagan Grantforth. He introduced me to his uncle. That’s all.”

Rhis’s spoon clunked hollowly against the sides of the plastic mug. He was staring at her, his silence urging her to speak. But she didn’t know what he wanted her to say.

“I dated Jagan Grantforth, okay? I know that’s probably hard for you to believe. I mean, he’s got money, right? A name. Position. But we dated. We—” and she stopped and had to look away from the intensity in his eyes. It wasn’t disbelief she saw there. It looked like pity.

Gods damn him and his Imperial arrogance! She might as well have a sign plastered on her forehead:
I’m nobody and let somebody rich and powerful use me.
She could see it in the way he was looking at her.
Poor, stupid Trilby. Did you really ever believe someone like the Jagan Grantforth would want you?

“So you dated Grantforth.”

She turned back to him, raised her chin a little higher. “Yeah. So what?”

“So what did he learn from you?”

“I beg your pardon?” Her voice dripped icicles.

“No, no.” He wiped one hand over his face. “About your routes. Your cargo runs. The things you told me that Neadi hears all the time in her bar. What did he learn from you?”

The icicles moved from Trilby’s mouth to her brain. Her thoughts froze, seized up like a clogged sublight drive.

“I . . . I don’t know. Lots of things. I never thought . . .” She turned her face away, then propped her elbow on the counter and dropped her chin in her hand. How many times did Jagan go to Neadi’s? How many things did he hear? What could he possibly have gleaned from them that GGA or the ’Sko would find useful? “I don’t know,” she repeated softly. “Are you sure about this?”

“I wasn’t. Until I went to Szedcafar looking for proof.”

It took a moment for the import of his words to register. She swiveled her face around. “
To
Szed?” She must have misheard. Last time his story was that he’d ended up
near
Szed, by mistake. When dealing with the ’Sko, the difference between
near
and
to
was usually life and death.

He nodded. “I, my team and I, managed to infiltrate a Syarian depot a few months ago.”

First Szed, now Syar. “That’s Conclave space!”

He shrugged. “We were following a trail of information. That trail went from the Syar Colonies to Szed. In a roundabout way. But it went there.”

Port Rumor was in Gensiira, more than halfway across the Conclave from Syar. She couldn’t see the immediate connection. “What do the Colonies have to do with Neadi’s bar?”

“Nothing, directly. But Grantforth has significant ties to the Colonies—”

“So do lots of people. Rinnaker and GGA both have small shipyards there.” Jagan had promised her a tour. That tour, like a lot of his promises, had never materialized. “And Grantforth money—specifically Garold’s money—backs two of the mines and half a dozen other industries.”

Something hovered at the edge of Trilby’s thoughts, something deep and dark and ugly. She couldn’t quite see it, though. It was still too illusive, shadowy. “But why would GGA care about my shipping runs, or the schedules of freighters like Carina’s?”

“I don’t know. But the ’Sko do, though why is not yet clear. We have a connection, but not a reason. That’s what we were looking for in Szed.”

Where he was captured, and escaped. From what she’d heard of the ’Sko, escape from Szedcafar was a near-impossible feat. She might have to revise her opinion of Rhis Vanur and of the kind of training mere lieutenants received in the Zafharin fleet.
Hero
might not quite cover it.

“And the information your team found . . . ?”

“Pointed to a relationship between a Conclave official, a transport operation, and the ’Sko,” he said softly. He held up one hand, ticked the items off on his fingers. “GGA or Rinnaker. The ’Sko.”

Trilby stared at him, at first in disbelief. Then, as her mind sorted through the information, a chill crept up her spine. “You’re saying that Jagan’s uncle’s a traitor? Or that Rinnaker’s sold out to the ’Sko?” Carina was missing. Chaser worked for GGA. She knew others at Rinnaker. Were all her friends now at risk?

He shook his head. “I’m saying there is significant evidence that something is going on between the ’Sko and someone in the Conclave. All the data is not in yet.”

“Why not?”

“Because, Trilby-
chenka,
I think some of that data resides on your ship. Remember that transmission I snared? This is why I can’t be delayed at Port Rumor.” He hesitated a moment. “This is why we’re now heading back to Yanir, to Imperial space.”

His tone was so soft, so kindly, that his words almost slipped by her.
We’re heading back to Yanir.

Then reality kicked in. Hard. The ’Sko wanted her dead. And her ship was headed for the Empire. Without her permission.

Someone other than Trilby Elliot was in control of the
Careless Venture
.

Anger surged through her. “Wait one damned minute!”

He caught her hand as she made a grab for his arm. “Listen to me. Please. I have risked my life for this. The ’Sko tried to kill me. They have a kill order out on you. Doesn’t this tell you that this is something beyond the profits of a one-up run?”

There was a pain in his voice, as vivid and raw as the bruises she’d seen on his body. Bruises inflicted by the ’Sko. Who had issued a kill order on a destitute freighter captain because of something someone in the Conclave told them about her.

The import of his words hit her like a battering ram. She clung to Rhis’s hand as if he were her lifeline.
Her
hero. And more than just hers. Either GGA or Rinnaker was involved with the ’Sko, trading dirty. That put everyone who had ever raised a beer at Neadi’s in a Tark’s targeting sights.

Uncovering that information had almost cost Rhis his life. And all she could think of was getting to Port Rumor and refilling her bank account. Shame colored her words. “Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

“Tell you of corruption in your Conclave?” He stroked her fingers reassuringly. “Would you have believed me? A Zafharin? A naked one, as I remember, who threatened to harm you?”

She recognized the little quirk of a smile under his mustache, saw how he was trying to add levity into the situation, take the sting out of his words. He had a right to chew her out. Jagan would have. But he made it sound like none of it was her fault. “Maybe not right away, but—”

“You wouldn’t have. If I were in your position, I wouldn’t believe my story. But I didn’t make up what happened to
Bella’s Dream
. And I didn’t invent the ’Sko by the rafts. You must see that I’m telling you the truth.”

A very disturbing truth that gave new meaning to Neadi’s rumors. The ’Sko were infiltrating the Conclave. She clearly understood Rhis’s urgency, his need for her cooperation. Or rather, her ship’s cooperation, which he’d facilitated without her assistance. Her earlier anger drained from her. “How’d you get Dezi to—”

“I showed him the transmission from the ’Sko.”

Dezi’s linguistic files on Ycskrite had to be as meager as on Zafharish. But she knew that certain key sequences, like a kill-file order, he’d be able to translate. She nodded, suddenly grateful for her ’droid’s usually aggravating overprotective tendencies.

And to Rhis. His Imperial Arrogance notwithstanding, he’d been nothing but helpful since she’d rescued him. And all she’d given him was grief, lumping him in with the likes of Jagan, thinking his only reason to get back to the Empire was because of some sloe-eyed beauty waiting for his return. “I feel like an idiot. I wish you’d told me—”

“I wanted to.” He brought her hand to his lips, brushed her fingers with a lingering kiss. “
S’viek noyet.
I am sorry.”

She had to remind herself to breathe. A thousand delirious sensations ran up her arm when his lips touched her fingers. And that heat that had sparked between them without warning over the past few days suddenly hung, thick and sweet, in the air.

Startled, she focused on his large, strong fingers clasped around her own. There was a faded white scar across his knuckles. A small example of his sacrifices for his Empire and, in a way, for her.

Maybe that’s all she was feeling: gratitude. She sought a distraction from the warm tingles radiating through her body. “Did your team try to rescue you?”

He hesitated. “They were under orders not to. That is one of the risks of my position. The information they had, and the ship we’d used in the mission, were more important.”

Lives were expendable. But make sure the hardware comes back in one piece. And the Zafharin—no: Tivahr. Rhis was assigned to the
Razalka
. Senior Captain Tivahr had taken the possibility of Rhis Vanur’s death as an acceptable loss. It fit with everything she’d heard about the man.

“So they abandoned you to the ’Sko?” Her voice shook. She had seen what the ’Sko could do when she was contracted to Herkoid. Those few that survived were little more than broken minds in misshapen bodies, now haunting the dark corners of Port Rumor.

Rhis leaned forward and framed her face with his hands. “I’m fine. I’m alive. Not even the vampire snakes,” and he traced her mouth with his thumb, “had a chance to get to me. Because of you. Everything is going to be all right, Trilby-
chenka
. When we get back to my—”

She launched herself against him. Her arms locked around his neck, her right foot hooked into the rung of the stool so she didn’t topple over. Her mouth pressed hard against his. He tasted slightly salty, a little like soup. And when his mustache scraped against her face and he groaned her name, she knew she was lost.

And she didn’t give a mizzet’s ass.

She wanted him. She wanted to give in to that primal heat that erupted every time they got within a few feet of each other. She wanted to dive into the seductive looks that made his eyes glitter like an explosion in a reactor chamber. She wanted to explore every inch of him, kiss away the pain of every scar on his hard and perfect body. She wanted to show him that life was worth living, even if his infamous commanding officer, Tivahr, didn’t think it was so.

So when his hands fumbled with her T-shirt, she didn’t stop him. She nibbled on his ear instead.

And when he pulled her off the stool and into his arms, she didn’t stop him. She kissed his neck instead.

And when he carried her into his small cabin and lay her down on his small bed, murmuring things in Zafharish she didn’t understand but that sounded awfully wonderful, she didn’t stop him. But let her hands slide slowly down the front of his shirt, undoing it. And, as he kneeled over her, she unfastened his pants, ran her hands over the hard planes of his body. And let her mouth take over where her hands had been.