Finders Keepers (19 page)

“I’m the usual arrogant, manipulative, loathsome bastard I always am? Yes, Commander, I think I can do that.”

“I’ll be on the bridge at my station, should you need me.” She stepped toward the lift. Her station was on the lower tier.

“Hana,” he said. “Thank you.”

She gave him a soft smile, but no hopes. No hopes. Trilby might be alive. But he had to accept the fact she might not be.

He strode onto the upper bridge, bellowing orders, making sure everyone felt his anger at being made a fool of by a little no-account Indy freighter captain.

Hiding his fear that he’d never again see her alive.

They were moving away from the station in five minutes. In ten, Kospahr was by his side, gloating.

“See, Tivahr? You thought you knew it all. But she fooled you, fooled your whole team. If it wasn’t for my close association with Lieutenant Gurdan, she would’ve gotten away.”

“Gurdan? I’ll remember that.”

“Be sure I won’t let you forget it. You owe all this to me.” He waved his hand toward the enhanced images of the squadron, and a small, elliptical freighter, on the viewscreen. “All this.”

“I won’t forget, Kospahr. Don’t worry about that.”

He pushed himself out of the command chair as if intent on something on a console to his left. He stared over a bridge officer’s shoulder, seeing nothing, then turned. The stairs to the lower bridge were before him. He forced himself to descend leisurely, as if waiting to pounce on an unsuspecting crew member errant at his duty. But he sought Jankova’s station.

“Anything?” he asked her softly, pretending to stare in the opposite direction. He knew she was tied into the flow of chatter between the squadron fighters. And was, at the same time, now actively scanning the battered remains of the
Venture
for anything the best of Imperial technology could discern.

“She took two direct laser strikes to the stern. Starboard cargo holds and engine room took the most damage. Enviro must be running off an aux somewhere. I’m picking up a faint energy output amidships.”

“She has a small generator there.”

“Then that must be it.”

“The bridge?”

“I’m showing a humanoid heat signature. More than that, I can’t tell from here.”

There was a body. But there was no way to know if the body was alive. He chanced a look at her. “Thank you again, Hana.”

“I think it’s a pretty good possibility she’s still alive, sir.”

“I think it would be damned, damned good if she were still alive.” He stepped away before his voice could crack and betray him.

At three minutes to intercept he was in the small holding room outside Shuttle Bay 6-D. He splayed his hands against the glass wall. His CMO and emergency med team waited a few feet behind him.

The bay lights blinked twice, then turned to red. One minute warning. Vessel on final approach. All air was sucked out of the bay.

The great bay doors rumbled. Between them appeared a crack and the first glimpse of a large grayish mass being dragged in by his ship’s tractor beams, above and below. When the doors opened sufficiently, a third beam would lock on and pull the craft forward. Landing pads would rise from the floor.

He watched his ship’s tow systems perform with unerring precision. Throat dry, heart hammering in his chest, he’d never been so afraid in his life.

The
Venture
was dragged in at a crab angle, her bow tilted away from him. He could see only the starboard viewport. Dark. Lifeless. Then the bay’s overheads flared and whatever else he could see there was lost behind the reflections.

Her starboard hull was blistered, scored. Her main exterior hatch door had buckled. He clenched one fist, would have shoved it through the glass if he could.

Her starboard cargo bay was . . . gone. Obliterated. A gaping chasm in its place, cables dangling. More damage on either side. Hull plates missing.

He looked quickly back at the bridge, at the lights still flashing red in the bay.
Come on! Come on!

He pushed past the sliding door the second they turned green, squeezing himself sideways to get through.

The landing-pad hydraulics still hissed, the emergency ramp rising. He grabbed the railing with one hand, clambered to the top, and kicked at the exterior access.

“Captain! We can cut through with a—”

There! The panel gave way. He thrust his hand into the searingly cold metal, groped for the three levers he knew had to be there. One. He found one. Pulled. Then two. Pulled.

Where was three? His fingers stung, throbbing, from the contact with the icy metal. He shoved his arm further into the raw opening, felt something slice the top of his hand. The warmth of blood dripped through his fingers.

Three! He pulled.

The hatchway door slid open about six inches and stopped. He placed both hands against it and forced it sideways, then plunged forward, distantly aware of voices, clanking, clanging noises behind him. The corridor was dark and icy cold. He careened off a crooked wall panel, pounded toward the bridge.

The hatch was locked. She would have sealed it when she turned off enviro.

He dropped to his knees in the darkness, probed blindly with scraped and stinging hands for the emergency-access panel near the floor. Then a bright light illuminated the panel.

Demarik, behind him, with a crowbar and a light.

Rhis pried off the panel cover, found the three levers. But Demarik was in front of him, blocking his way, going in first.

Zak. You don’t have to protect me.
He lunged after his exec. The bridge was in shambles, but his gaze was riveted to the captain’s chair. And the small blond head hanging awkwardly to the right.

A tangle of cables blocked his path. He ripped them from the ceiling, stepping over and through them. He wedged himself between her chair and navigation, sliding down almost to his knees.

She was still strapped in the safety harness. Her eyes were closed, her face pale in Demarik’s handheld beam. Her right hand reached out toward him, toward nothing.

He grasped it. It was cold. His own blood stained her palm.

“Trilby-
chenka
?” He breathed her name.

He heard Demarik’s datalyzer snap open and the pounding of footsteps from the corridor. Then his CMO bustled in, shoving Demarik backward. Medistats appeared in hands. Medical jargon barked back and forth.

He stared at her. She wasn’t moving.

Someone touched his shoulder. Demarik. “Captain, you have to get out of here. You’re in the way.”

He pushed himself shakily to his feet, only part of him understanding what was said. Demarik grasped his arm, pulled him across the twisting debris and out into the corridor.

But he grabbed the edge of the hatch, hung on stubbornly. “I can’t leave her. She’s cold. It’s so dark—”

“Khyrhis, listen to me. She’s alive.” Demarik shoved the datalyzer under his nose. “She’s been beat up a bit. But she’s alive. Let Doc handle her. For now.”

Alive? It took a few seconds for him to understand, to see the life-form readings dancing across the small screen. She was weak. She was injured. But she was alive.

He stumbled away from Demarik, grabbed the railing to the ladderway just aft of the bridge, and leaned against it.

She was alive. He felt himself sliding, his legs shaking. He landed on the top step, his knees almost in his chest.

Tears of joy and relief trembled through his body, spilling out of that great empty place where his heart had been. He buried his face in his hands and cried in relief.

15

Everything was dark and cold. And then everything was bright and uncomfortably warm. Prickly. Things poked her. Sounds drifted, garbled. She wanted desperately to sneeze.

Then she was thirsty. Gin. A tall iced gin. Double limes. Sounded good.

Trilby Elliot opened her eyes. Everything was dark again. No. Dim. Her vision hazed, then focused like her old binocs. Red-rimmed numbers. An annoying beeping sound.

She tried to turn her head, decided the effort wasn’t worth it. She moved her gaze through the dimness. Red numbers to the left. Damned beeper over her head. On her right . . .

It took a moment. A chair. Empty.

Her nose itched again. She raised her hand to scratch it, bumped her wrist against something. She crossed her eyes and looked down.

A cylinder. Over her.

She was in sick bay. It didn’t look like hers but, hey, maybe she’d made a big profit from that run to . . . to . . .

She licked her lips, swallowed. Tried her voice. “Dezi?”

A door slid open, sending a shaft of bright light into her eyes. She squinted, saw the outline of a stocky form.

Not Dezi.

“Lutsa,”
a male voice said as the lights slowly came on.

Lutsa?

“No. My name’s Trilby.” Her voice sounded rusty. She really needed some gin.

The stocky form was at her side. She heard the snick of a medistat opening. She blinked as her eyes adjusted to the light.

The guy who thought her name was Lutsa was about sixty, broad-shouldered, and balding. She didn’t recognize him, hoped she wasn’t supposed to. She knew who she was. It would be hell if she didn’t remember anyone else.

Like who she’d been out drinking with. That’s the only way she would’ve ended up in some unknown sick bay. Pub-crawling.

“How are you feeling?” Baldy said. He had an accent. She couldn’t quite place it.

He also had on a blue lab coat. Not a med-tech, like Chaser, whose white coat carried the GGA med-lab logo. So this one was a doctor.

Why did all doctors always ask how you’re feeling? She thought it was a stupid question. “I don’t know,” she told him. “You went through med school. You tell me.”

He seemed momentarily startled, then he chuckled. “Much better. I can hear that. This is good.” He snapped the sensor shut. “Your head hurts, yes? And your shoulder. Right side. Anything else all my years in med school might have missed?”

“I’m thirsty. And my nose itches.”

“Good! We can handle both those things, I think, Captain Elliot.”

“Then you know who I am?”

He slanted a glance at her as he unlocked the regen cylinder. “But of course.”

For a moment she tensed. Not because he said he knew her name. But because he was sliding the unit down, uncovering her body . . . covered by a thin but soft shift. Newer regen units could read through fabric. She relaxed.

“Then why’d you call me Lutsa when you came in?”

“Ah.
Lutsa
is Zafharish for
lights
. It is our command to increase room illumination.”

Zafharish?

Zafharish. As in Zafharin. As in . . .

Tivahr.

She closed her eyes, a gasp of anger escaping her lips.

“You have pain? New pain?” She heard Baldy’s sensor snick open again.

“No.” She raised her hand, waved at the sensor, then gratefully rubbed at her nose. “I just . . .” She sighed. “I forgot where I was. I’m not sure I know what happened. I’m not sure I
want
to know what happened.”

Baldy pursed his lips. “It is better for me to talk about your injuries. You were seriously hurt. But in the past three days—”

“Three days?”

“—you have recovered well. Due, of course, to my excellent care.”

Ah, yes. Imperial arrogance.

And an Imperial fighter squadron. The alarms wailed again in her head. “Your ships attacked me.”

“Not ours.” He adjusted her pillow, raised her head so she could take a sip of water.

She swallowed. “I know Imperial fighters when I see them.”

“I am sure you do. But they were not ours. Not from the
Razalka
.” He looked at her for a long moment.

She wriggled up into a sitting position.

He raised the head of the bed another few inches. “Better?”

“Thank you. But if they weren’t from the
Razalka
—”

“I am a doctor, Captain Elliot. I can answer any medical questions you may have. Anything else, well, they did not teach me such things in medical school.”

She sipped her water, watched Baldy pull data from the regen unit that still covered her from the thighs down. It felt like the shift went farther than that. She ran her hand down its pale silver surface. Nice material. “Where’s Tivahr?”

“Being a pain in the ass somewhere, I imagine.”

She laughed, completely surprised by his answer. “I
am
on the
Razalka
?”

“You are.”

“And yet you feel free to call your captain a pain in the ass?”

“I have known Khyrhis for more than twenty years. I think in that time I have gathered sufficient evidence to support my conclusion.”

“I could probably give you some more, if you need it.”

“My file overflows.”

She laughed again. Her shoulder hurt like hell, but it didn’t matter. If felt good to laugh. “Thank you, Doctor . . .”

She waited for him to fill in the gap.

“Vasilivankovich. But everyone calls me Doc Vanko.” He grinned.

“Thanks, Doc. So who do I talk to about my ship?” And Dezi. Her heart suddenly plummeted. Dezi. “There was a ’droid. An envoy ’droid. He was my copilot. Would you know what happened to him?”

Doc shook his head. “Not my department. I am sorry. But I should be able to get Captain Tivahr to answer your questions. Or Commander Jankova.”

She wasn’t ready to see Tivahr yet. Not until she could throw a good punch at his face. “I’ll take Jankova.”

He nodded. “I will see what I can do. There is more water there, next to your bed. The emergency call button is here, by your right hand.”

And my one working laser rifle
? she wondered, but didn’t voice it. She had more things to worry about.

Dezi.

Hana Jankova arrived five minutes after Doc left. “You gave us a good scare.”

Trilby looked at the auburn-haired woman. She could see no deception in her blue eyes. “I could probably turn that around and say you—or, rather, the Empire—gave me one. But Doc tried real hard to get me to read between the lines. He wants me to believe the
Razalka
had nothing to do with the attack on my ship.”

Jankova reached back, hit the palm pad for the door. It slid shut. “In time you will be told, and shown, everything. But, no, those fighters did not come from this ship. They came from Degvar. But the command to send them, yes. That did originate here.”

“Tivahr.” Trilby spat out the name.

“No.” Jankova’s voice was firm. “You must believe me on this. And yet you must, until I tell you otherwise, act as if you think it was Tivahr. Or else your life, and his career, will be in jeopardy.”

“But that makes no sense!”

“Please.” She leaned against the edge of the bed, her hand on Trilby’s arm. “I know I am not Neadi or Carina. You have no reason to trust me. But you must. Lucho Salnay is being held as coconspirator in your escape.”

“Lucho? Farra Rimanava’s Lucho? But he—”

“Helped you.” Jankova’s gaze pinned her. “Lucho helped you.”

Something began to work in Trilby’s mind. If Lucho was covering for Tivahr, then it could only be because Farra Rimanava had asked him to. And Farra wouldn’t ask unless Mitkanos approved. Trilby’s gut told her to trust Mitkanos. “Oh, right. Lucho helped me. Tell me what else I’ve forgotten. I’ve been seriously injured, Doc says.”

Jankova smiled, relaxed a bit. “Lucho helped you. He didn’t know that Captain Tivahr altered your primaries. You told him only that you were having integration problems between your ship’s technology and ours. Lucho manually released the docking clamps because you told him the mechanism wasn’t accepting your signal.” She heard echoes of Mitkanos in Jankova’s recounting. Only Mitkanos knew Trilby had tweaked the clamp mechanisms.

“Right. What happens to Lucho because of this?” Sacrificing that handsome young man for Tivahr the Terrible didn’t seem just.

“Because there was no hold order on your ship in Degvar ops, very little. His only crime, if you will, is that he didn’t advise the
Razalka
of your departure. For that oversight, he is in Major Mitkanos’s hands. I believe he is forcing him to study the history of the
Stegzarda
. Confined to his quarters, of course. Mitkanos’s trusted niece, Corporal Rimanava, is the only one permitted to bring him meals. Poor man.”

“So Lucho helped me and I escaped. What made Tivahr send the squadron after me?”

“Captain Tivahr was well aware that you were to remain on Degvar until Lord Minister Kospahr authorized your release.”

“That’s the certain someone who wants to kill me?”

Jankova cringed slightly. “Not exactly, no. Rather, I think he has little value for any one life when political decisions are made. We cannot prove that, of course. But he is someone who, if he knew Tivahr had deliberately let you go, would certainly see the captain stripped of command.”

Well, it would do the son of a Pillorian bitch good if that happened. But Trilby understood Jankova’s point. She made a rude noise. “Tivahr let me go? You’re daydreaming, Commander. He’s a Ligorian slime weasel. No, wait. I apologize. That’s an insult to Ligorian slime weasels.”

“Then who helped you escape, Captain Elliot?” Jankova fell into the part.

“I don’t know. Some cute, hunky guy. Met him in the lounge on Degvar. Think his name was Luke, or something like that. He wanted to inspect my”—she wiggled her eyebrows—“auxiliary thrusters. Then I found out he worked in ops. Things fell into place after that.”

“Yes. That is what he said also.” She rose, but Trilby reached out her hand, delaying her.

“Dezi.” Her voice caught, the silliness of a moment ago fading. “I have to know.”

“He was in your engine room, yes. Portside. Your ship took considerable damage, but mostly to starboard. I do not know if your ship can be repaired.”

Trilby’s heart plummeted.

“But Captain Tivahr is working on Dezi.” Jankova patted Trilby’s hand. “We needed something to keep him occupied. He is being a royal pain in the ass.”

Trilby leaned back against her pillow after Jankova left, let everything sift through her head and fall back into its proper place. Everything except Khyrhis Tivahr.

She had no idea what to do with him, nor where he belonged.

His quarters looked like a salvage shop. His dining-room table was covered with safety netting. Cables and coils of plasteel thread, small containers of bolts, stacks of thin interface panels were visible underneath. Two long tarnished-metal legs lay strapped to one of the chairs. A tarnished hand, its fingers curled inward, was netted on the serving table behind him. A large metal torso lay open in the center. And a long black box rotated slowly in a holovise.

The high whine of a crystal splicer filled the air. Then his door chimed. He looked over the rim of his magnifying goggles, saw Hana Jankova’s ID. “Come.”

She walked in, the lower half of her body disproportionately large. He pushed the goggles off his nose and let them fall on their cord around his neck.

She looked normal again.

“News?”

“She’s awake. And fine.”

“Awake?” He jumped to his feet, fortunately remembering to flick off the splicer before he shoved it in his shirt pocket. He smacked his shin on the table leg but ignored the pain as he quickly strode into his small living room. He and Jankova met in front of his couch. “She’s awake? She’s fine?”

“Yes. And yes.”

“You should have called me.” He pulled the goggles over his head, tossed them across the room. They landed on top of a box of spare parts. “I could have—”

“You know our agreement.” She poked her fingers in his chest.

“That was when she was unconscious. Kospahr would get suspicious if he caught me keeping vigil over her. But if she’s awake and talking—she’s talking?”

“Gave Doc an earful, I gather.”

“Then I should be able to see her. To interview her. Interrogate her. Whatever the hell an arrogant, loathsome bastard like me would do.” He looked around for his jacket. Where in hell was it?

“Captain—”

“I’ll just be a minute. Let me get my jacket.”

“Captain Tivahr.”

He stopped. He was breathing heavily. He brought his right hand up, then let it fall in an exasperated gesture. “Hana, don’t. It’s been three days. Almost four. I haven’t seen her in all that time. Damn it, she almost died! I almost lost her.”

“Doc gave her a light trank. She needs to sleep for a while yet.”

He collapsed onto the couch. “You’re not going to let me see her, are you?”

“You’re still . . .” She hesitated.

“Dravda gera mevnahr?”
he supplied. Ass over teakettle.

“Yes.”

He covered his mouth with his hand, then pulled on his mustache. “I know,” he said softly. “I know.”