Finders Keepers (15 page)

Rhis tapped the screen, opened one of the files he’d taken from the ’Sko. Dates and coordinates spilled past him. But now ship names and cargo overlay the data. Good. Good. Gurdan’s people had picked up on the patterns he’d found, fleshed them out.

He drummed his fingers against his mustache. His mouth was dry. Coffee—

He glanced to his right. Then his left. Coffee. He’d left his coffee at Mitkanos’s table.

The briefing-room doors slid open. Corporal Rimanava walked in. She put a cup of coffee on the table next to him, then clasped her hands behind her back and stood, waiting.

Waiting for what? Surely she didn’t expect him to thank her for bringing his coffee. “Yes, Corporal?”

“I sent that copy you requested three minutes ago, sir. I wanted to make sure you received it.”

Copy? Oh, bloody hell
. He touched his screen, moved the analysis data, saw his message box flashing. His fingers reached for it before he could stop them. The transit ID grayed out, then Trilby was staring at him, her large green eyes sparkling, her mouth pursed in a small smile.

He knew that mouth, knew what it felt like, knew what it tasted like.

“Captain Trilby Elliot here, Independent freighter transit ID 1015–2711.” She paused after the requisite ID. “Hello, Neadi, old friend—”

His fingers darted to the screen, freezing the message, halting her greeting. But her face still looked at him, her lips slightly parted to begin her next word. Or to entice a kiss.

He blanked the screen, but he could still see her. See her smile. The way she wrinkled her nose. He swallowed hard. He thought her message to Neadi might give him some clue as to how to reach her, to get her to talk to him again. But it only made him want to bolt out of his chair and take the maintenance stairs two at a time down to the station docks. Outrun even the lifts.

But he couldn’t do that. She still had one laser rifle that worked.

He slumped back in his chair, covered his eyes with one hand. And then remembered the efficient Corporal Rimanava was still standing there.

Bloody fucking hell.

Fatigue washed over him. He wiped his hand down his face, turned to her. “Thank you, Rimanava. I got the message,” he said quietly.

“You’re welcome, sir.” She nodded curtly, spun on her heels, and walked out.

He turned back to his screen but saw Gurdan first. The lieutenant’s thin face was expressionless. Rhis read volumes in it.

“Reports are ready?” He forced a harsh note into his voice.

“Compiling the final tabulations now, Captain.”

“Advise me when they’re done.” He touched the report he’d been working on when Rimanava had walked in, dragged it back to the center of his screen, concentrated on it.

But he was drawn to the time stamp on his screen: 1845. To Trilby’s body, it was more like 0600. She might be awake. Maybe he should try to reach her. But if she were, then she’d had almost as little sleep as he had.

No, let her sleep. Let her anger die down. They were both overly tired. Tempers were thin. Brains were foggy.

Let her sleep. The
Venture
wasn’t going anywhere. At least not until he said so. And not just because of the docking clamps securely locked onto her ship.

But because of another of those wogs-and-weemlies she’d been so afraid of.

He’d amended all her command codes. Her ship would respond to maintenance, life support, communications. But her engines, for all intents and purposes, were dead. Unless he was on board to input his overrides.

He initially intended to use the program if she refused to return to the Empire. He’d left it in place when he became worried she’d go dashing off into ’Sko territory, looking for Carina. Keeping her safe was becoming a passion for him.

It never occurred to him to mention the program when they made Degvar. He’d done nothing to make her feel like a prisoner. If she wanted to leave, she most likely would request permission to depart through Degvar ops, which would come to him.

And they would . . . discuss it.

Then he remembered the way she’d stared at him down the barrel of her rifle.

He hoped she wouldn’t try something crazy, like breaking dock and bolting off station. There wasn’t enough juice left in her laser banks to even singe the docking clamps. And besides, when she went to bring the engines online, they weren’t going to respond.

And that, he knew, would really piss her off.

He leaned back in his chair, realized with mild surprise that Gurdan was gone. He hadn’t noticed him leave. But his message file was flashing. The report was done.

Good. His gaze drifted out the viewport. His mind traveled down seven decks and halfway around the station. He drummed his fingers on his mustache.

No, not his air sprite. She wouldn’t be that crazy.

11

Lieutenant Gurdan rose stiffly from one of the well-worn chairs in front of the lounge viewport and nodded to Trilby.

“I appreciate your time, Captain Elliot.” He closed his datapad with a snap, tucked it under his arm.

Trilby stood also, the strap of the laser rifle trailing through her fingers. Gurdan was polite and professional during their entire one-hour interview about
Bella’s Dream,
Rinnaker, and GGA. He never once mentioned the weapon lying casually on the small table next to her. Nor that the small green indicator lights showed it was fully primed.

She hooked the strap over her shoulder, offered him her hand. “I appreciate your thoroughness, Lieutenant.
Bella’s Dream
is just another Indy freighter to you. But Carina and her brother are my lifelong friends.”

“
Bella’s Dream
is symptomatic of a much larger problem. One that threatens not only the Independent freighter trade and your Conclave, but our Empire as well. Every incident must be looked at very closely right now.”

She walked him to the air lock, her hand tightening on the rifle as the hatch slid open. But only a Degvar dockhand lingered in the waiting area. She relaxed. “Is there anything else you’ll need from me?” she asked.

“I cannot think of anything.” He patted the datapad. “Your logs are very complete.”

“Then I’m free to go?”

He stepped through the hatchway and turned back to her. “I personally do not know of any further information my team needs from you. But perhaps you should check with Captain Tivahr. He’s most likely still in Briefing Room One. The
Razalka
is due in at 0200. Station time,” he added.

That was about six hours from now. Middle of the afternoon for her. Middle of the night for Degvar. “Why would that delay me?”

“The
Razalka
has her own personnel working this problem. And this is their sector. They may want to view your logs and schedules.”

“Can’t they just use your notes?” She pointed to his pad. “You have everything right there.”

“The crew of the
Razalka
prefers to conduct their own investigations.”

Well, then this was just a phenomenal waste of time.
Trilby secured the hatch door behind Gurdan’s retreating figure and stomped down the corridor to the bridge.

She braced her arms against the back of her chair and stared out the wide forward viewport. Degvar curved off to her right. She could see various lights winking from the viewports on the different levels, and large darkened areas where the space station’s outer hull hid recessed weapons bays. Another docking ramp spiked out in front of her, about six ship lengths away. It was empty. She wondered if the
Razalka
would dock there or if it were too large and would simply hang in geosynchronous orbit, utilizing shuttles.

She heard Dezi’s footsteps as he clanked over the hatch tread. Her fingers smoothed down a wrinkled piece of duct tape that patched an old tear on the headrest. “I need you to plot me the shortest course to the border.”

“We’ve received clearance to depart?”

“No. And I doubt we will.” She traced the frayed piece of tape, her mind working. “The docking clamps Degvar uses are similar to the ones on Bagrond. Remember the time their main system fritzed out? We were all stuck. But I had that real good trike run to Quivera waiting. We had to go.”

“I remember the incident well, Captain.”

She turned, a wicked grin on her lips. “So do I, Dez. So do I. I’m going to get my tool kit and drag out the old EVA suit. If anyone asks where I am, I’m in the shower. Or napping.”

She trotted down the forward ladderway, whistling.

It took her less than five minutes to suit up and exit from the
Venture
’s portside airlock. She lectured herself while she worked, dangling in zero g from the side of her ship not facing Degvar Station.
All bad things happen for a good reason, Trilby-girl! There you were, locked onto the station, the Quivera run dwindling before your eyes. So you got pissed off enough to get out there and gut the damned clamp locks—and learn a thing or two about station mechanisms.

Little knowing,
she continued as she spliced a datafeed cable,
that two years later that source of frustration would become a source of freedom.

It was easier this time to create a bypass around the station controls. She could now unlock the docking clamps with a signal from her ship.

She tabbed her helmet mic, set for short-range private channel. “Reel me in, Dez.”

She stripped off her EVA suit and grabbed her service jacket. Her skin felt clammy and cold from working outside. She thrust her arms through the sleeves as she trotted up the ladderway to the bridge.

She slid into her seat, clicked her safety strap over her chest, and looked at Dezi. “We’re back in control of our lives again.” She tapped her touchpads, brought her course on screen. “Priming sublight engines.”

She brought up her codes, entered them, then started the auxiliary thruster sequence. “We’ll be halfway into next septi by the time they figure—”

“Engines are not responding, Captain.”

Her hands froze over the controls. “Impossible.” She dumped her sequence string, started over. “Gods, I knew I should’ve replaced that thruster board before we worked on the communications system.”

She tapped the pads.

Nothing.

“Damnation!” She reached over, ran a quick diagnostic on the thruster boards. All lights showed green.

She unsnapped her safety harness. “I’m going down to the engine room to see if something’s rotted out. Again.”

She pounded down the stairs. Twenty minutes later, she was back. She almost threw the datalyzer across the bridge.

“Everything is optimal, I take it?” Dezi asked.

“Too damned optimal. Let’s try again.” And again. And again. After the third again, Trilby swiveled around, yanked her harness off, and thrust herself from her chair. She stopped just short of the open hatchway, braced her hands on either side of the door frame. “Damn him, damn him, damn him!”

She kicked the bulkhead. Hard. Her foot throbbed.

“Ships are usually referred to as ‘she,’ ” Dezi said.

She spun around. “I’m not talking about the
Venture
.” Her words were clipped, terse. “I’m talking about that ungrateful, arrogant, motherless son of a Pillorian bitch.”

“Oh. Lieutenant Vanur.”

“Recently reincarnated as
the
Captain Tivahr. Master manipulator. Boy genius. Gods damned hacker!”

“I was under the impression you were rather fond of him.”

“Fond?” Trilby gasped. “Of that Ligorian slime weasel?”

“He appears rather fond of you.”

“That’s the operative word, Dez.
Appears
. He’s a pro at appearances. Especially false ones.” She crossed her arms across the back of her chair and leaned her forehead against them. “Damn. Damn. Double damn.”

She closed her eyes, listened to the quiet click and hum of her ship, the slight squeak of Dezi’s joints. And to the small voice in the back of her head that chanted,
Stupid, stupid, stupid.

She raised her head. “Dezi.”

“Yes, Captain?”

“He had you run a program. The one that changed the
Venture
’s ID codes.”

“That’s correct.”

“You still have it?”

“He retrieved his original, but I did make a copy that I believe he was not aware of.”

She turned her head. “Have I told you lately how much I love you, Dez? You are the joy of my life. The song in my heart.”

“I am not programmed to respond to human emotions, but I do appreciate the sentiments. I take it you would like to view the copy of the program?”

“You’re a veritable mind reader as well.” She slid into her seat, swiveled the screen up from the armrest. “Let’s see just how good this son of a bitch really is.”

He was good. Beyond impressive. She looked at what he’d done, how he’d circumvented certain code requirements and fooled others, and thought of Shadow.

Shadow could’ve done this. Would be doing this, if he’d lived. He’d been gutsy enough, and crazy enough, to use some of these same tactics.

She felt a twinge of regret. Damn him for lying to her! For being Tivahr and not Rhis Vanur. A man who could be this creative, this downright devious, could hold the key to her heart. Just as Shadow had, but they’d been children then. She’d never told him, and he would’ve laughed if she’d made mizzet-moon-eyes at him anyway.

She exhaled a long sigh of frustration. She had no doubt he’d hacked into her primary system codes and either deleted hers or amended his own. And she had no doubt that
that
program was as beautifully convoluted as this ID-altering one before her.

She could undo what he’d done. It wasn’t impossible. But it would take time. A long time. A trike, maybe a septi. He had traps, fail-safes. Tweak something wrong and ten other key functions would scatter, attach themselves to alternate functions, and there’d be a worse mess.

It would be like plucking hairs off a felinar, one silky strand at a time.

She didn’t think there was enough gin on her ship to get her through it.

She leaned her head back, stared at the ceiling of her bridge, at the toy felinar dangling from its red ribbon. He had to know she’d find this wog-and-weemly. He surely didn’t think she was going to abandon the
Venture,
spend the rest of her life on Degvar. Therefore, he must have put this program in place while he was still pretending to be Rhis Vanur, still pretending he cared about her.

She couldn’t think why he would’ve done it, then. Except as a silent but incredibly well-crafted parting gesture to show how little she meant to him.

If she weren’t so busy hating him, she could have admired his handiwork more.

Rhis made five copies of Gurdan’s report, one for each member of the
Razalka
’s tactical team. He highlighted certain sections, based on what he knew each officer’s analytical strengths and weaknesses to be. Then he bundled them and sent them to his personal file, to be uploaded when his ship arrived.

In four hours.

He’d feel about four hundred years old when they got here.

He rose, wincing as pains shot through his back.
Make that five hundred years old,
he thought, and reached for his empty coffee mug.

He ran into Gurdan in the corridor, datapad under his arm.

“The debriefing with Captain Elliot is completed. Report filed.”

Debriefing? It came back to him. Gurdan’s team needed Trilby’s impressions for their files. Plus information on Neadi Danzanour. And
Bella’s Dream
. He’d okayed the interview when they first arrived on station. Then forgotten it was scheduled.

That meant she was awake. He glanced at his time cuff. Of course she was. It was damned near their lunchtime.

“Will you be needing a copy of my report, Captain?”

“Yes, I will. Code it to my transit file on the
Razalka
.” Which should be arriving. Soon. He hoped soon. He hadn’t slept in his own bed in a month. He hadn’t slept in any bed for more than an hour in a trike.

“. . . and she did request permission to depart. However, I told her to speak with you first.”

“She . . .” Gods. Trilby was leaving. No. She couldn’t. But she wanted to. She might try.

But ops hadn’t called him.

“When did she request this?” He tried to marshal his scattered thoughts, put some firmness back in his voice, which was starting to sound distinctly hoarse.

“I left the
Careless Venture
two hours ago.”

Two hours. Ops hadn’t called him.

Bloody hell.

He shoved his empty coffee mug into Gurdan’s hand and strode purposefully down the corridor to the lifts.

He arrived just as one opened. Three dock techs exited. He stepped inside. “Dock Level!” The doors closed. He leaned on the safety rail and tapped his comm badge. “Tivahr to ops.”

“Ops. Lieutenant Gramm,” a female voice replied.

“Has the
Venture
requested permission to depart?”

There was a moment of silence. “No, sir.”

He slapped the badge again. “Tivahr to security.”

“Security. Mitkanos.”

“Any unexplained explosions on Dock Level? Unusual activity?”

“None reported, sir. Monitors show nothing unusual.”

The doors opened. He ran halfway around the ring, only slowing as he came to the
Venture
’s rampway. Her round, pitted bow was still clearly visible through the viewport.

Her bridge was dark. Empty. But the ship was still there.

He keyed in his access codes, slid back the cover on the rampside docking controls. Everything looked normal. He tapped in a status verification request. Dock clamps were secure.

Then something flickered across the screen and disappeared. If he hadn’t been so tired, if he hadn’t been leaning against the control podium, his chin almost in his chest, he never would’ve seen it. The small flicker was gone now. But he’d created enough of them to know what they looked like.