Mercenary Instinct (a science fiction romance) (9 page)

“I don’t know. Maybe only to people who know
you.”

“We’ll see.”

* * *

Viktor was changing into his exercise togs
when his comm chimed. Just when he thought he was off duty for the
day...

He didn’t recognize the face that popped into
the air above his desk, along with the request to speak. The
unshaven man had a nose as pointy as a spearhead, wore a bandana
over greasy dark hair, and his eyebrows had been pierced twenty or
thirty times, each little ring sporting a small colorful gem.
Wryly, Viktor wondered if any of them were made from aliuolite. The
man’s scruffiness—and jewelry choices—meant he wasn’t fleet, but
didn’t proclaim much else. Viktor called up the communications and
intelligence station before answering.

“Yes, sir?” Lieutenant Thomlin asked.

“Someone’s calling my private line. Any idea
who?”

“No, sir, but I can find out.”

Viktor could find that out for himself in
about two seconds, but he said, “Do that and trace where he’s
calling from too.”

“Yes, sir.”

Viktor answered the request—the caller had
waited rather than leaving a message. “Captain Mandrake here.”

“This is Captain Goshawk.”

The name was vaguely familiar. A bounty
hunter? That sounded right.

“I reckon you’re a busy feller, so I won’t
take much of your time, Mandrake. You’ve got some prisoners that
Lord Felgard wants right now. Actually he wanted them last
week.”

Viktor folded his arms over his chest. He
hadn’t told anyone outside of the ship about the prisoners except
for Lord Felgard himself. It was possible he had a spy on board—it
wouldn’t be the first time—but it seemed even more possible that
Felgard had put the word out in an attempt to hasten Viktor along
his course.

“So?” Viktor said.

“You’re a man of many words, aren’t ya,
Mandrake? The
so
is that I’m willing to offer you eighty
percent of what’s on their heads, take them off your hands right
now, and deliver them straightaway to Felgard while you finish your
business on Sturm. You’ll get paid right away, and I’ll take over
the risk in delivering them, for a fair percentage of the bounty of
course.”

Interesting. Had Felgard suggested this to
Goshawk personally? Or had he merely made Mandrake Company’s cargo
and coordinates known to those who might be able to get him his
prisoners more quickly? Either way, it pissed Viktor off.

“Risk in delivering them?” Viktor asked.
“They’re three academic women. They’re not much of a risk.” No need
to mention that one of them had already escaped a couple of
times.

“Even if they’re not a threat, there are
always external risks, Mandrake. You know this. Space is dangerous.
You never know what obstacles might fall out of the stars and into
your path.” A smile spread across Goshawk’s face. It was as greasy
as his hair.

Viktor knew a threat when he got one.

Lieutenant Thomlin’s face popped up in the
air beside Goshawk’s, and he made a keep-him-talking hand motion.
He must be close to pinpointing the location of the bounty hunter’s
ship. Good.

“Do you even
have
eighty percent,
Goshawk?” Viktor asked. “That’s a lot of money, and you look like
you can’t even afford razor blades.” Or soap.

“Not everyone likes that military look,
Mandrake. I’m surprised you, of all people, keep it up.”

“What does that mean?” Viktor asked, though
he already knew. Anger welled in his chest in anticipation of an
insult.

“It means I know you’re a deserter, Mandrake.
Everyone does. And nobody would miss you if you were to disappear.
I also know your people are trying to trace me, but you know what?
I don’t care to have you showing up on my doorstep uninvited. Think
about my offer. I’ll be in touch again.”

His face winked out, leaving only Thomlin
staring back at Viktor. Actually Thomlin was frowning down at his
control panel. “He’s got a scrambler, sir. A good one.”

Viktor grunted, never enthused with
excuses.

Thomlin rushed to add, “I can tell he was
calling from a ship, though, and that it’s in orbit around Sturm,
not on the planet or any of the other moons.”

That was more information than Viktor had
expected. Did Thomlin think he’d wanted to know the pub Goshawk
would be drinking at that night? When he’d been in the fleet, his
unit had possessed equipment that would have allowed that sort of
precision, but Mandrake Company couldn’t afford anything that
sophisticated, so Viktor kept his expectations realistic.

“So he’s waiting for us,” Viktor said.

“Maybe so, sir,” Thomlin said.

Goshawk might have been in the area for other
business when Felgard had contacted him, but for the promise of a
hundred thousand aurums, he would have made this his only business.
For twenty thousand, he might not have, but Goshawk probably hadn’t
been sincere when he’d made that offer.

“Get me everything you can on Captain
Goshawk, and pass the word to keep an eye out for him, but we’ll
continue with our mission on Sturm.” Viktor stopped himself from
saying “as planned,” because he decided, in the middle of that
sentence, to change one thing.

“Yes, sir.”

As soon as Thomlin’s face disappeared, Viktor
called up his second-in-command, who was on shift at the
moment.

“Yes, sir?” Commander Garland asked from the
bridge, his short gray hair and leathery face coming into view.

“Our shuttles are scheduled to dock at
Morgan’s Rest tonight. Cancel that. We’re going to go down
unannounced. Pick a spot in the jungle, somewhere close to Sisson’s
camp. Don’t tell anyone except the pilots.”

Garland’s brows rose. He clearly wanted an
explanation—Viktor would apprise him later—but all he said was,
“Yes, sir.”

In case there
was
a spy, Viktor
wouldn’t make these updates widely known. He would also make sure
they left some good men behind on the ship, in case Goshawk decided
to come knocking on the door while most of the crew was gone. The
Albatross
had weapons and shielding enough to defend itself,
even with a minimal crew, but bounty hunters tended to be crafty.
The ones who survived in the business, anyway.

Another chime came in as soon as Garland
disappeared from view, and Viktor grumbled to himself. He was
supposed to join some of his men for a workout, and the need to
pummel people was building in him like water set to boil.

“Sir? It’s Cutty from the brig. One of the
prisoners has been bugging me all day, saying she needs to talk to
you. I didn’t want to bother you when you were on shift, but she
harassed me until I promised I’d at least ask you. Says she wants
to thank you.”

To thank him? For the return of their
equipment? That was all Viktor could think of, and he promptly
assumed it was part of some ruse. She probably wanted to steal his
tablet so she could check to see if that acquaintance of hers had
replied. Viktor found himself curious about what that acquaintance
might have come up with too. And he wouldn’t mind talking to her,
to get answers to some of the questions he had, of course.

“Sir?” Cutty asked. “Should I tell her you’re
busy?”

“Is it Ank—Markovich?” Viktor wasn’t sure why
his brain wanted to insert her first name. It wasn’t as if she had
invited him to use it. He was probably the last person she would
invite to use it.

“Uh. I don’t know. It’s the one with brown
hair, dimples, and a mouth you wish she’d use for something other
than talking.”

Viktor snorted. So, he wasn’t the only one
who had noticed Markovich’s attributes, the ones the jumpsuit
didn’t hide anyway.

“All right.” Viktor checked the time again.
He needed his exercise session, and people were waiting for him,
but after that, he was off duty and free of expectations until they
reached Sturm. “Take her to the mess hall in an hour. I’ll meet her
there.”

“You
will
?”

Viktor didn’t know how to respond to the
shocked tone, but felt he had to say something, lest rumors get
started about how the captain was rolling one of the prisoners. He
supposed it didn’t really matter, but some might question his
professionalism. He had flaws enough for an entire army, but he
wasn’t one to take advantage of his position when it came to
personal desires. He had already seen Markovich more often than he
had seen any other criminal they’d turned over to the law—or the
highest bidder—and the crew might be wondering about it.

“I have questions for her,” Viktor finally
said.

“Oh, about the business? Striker said we
might be able to make some piles if we got in on that. Too bad
she’s going to Felgard, eh? Or
is
she still going to
Felgard?”

Striker had a big mouth. And a poor
understanding of what pre-revenue meant. But if he had started
rumors about that instead of about the captain asking a prisoner to
dinner, then that suited Viktor well enough, at least for the
moment.

“She’s going to Felgard,” Viktor said, “but
her research may have some interesting applications that might
serve
us
. It’s worth learning more about.” In truth, he was
skeptical about her business, but he doubted anyone would question
his desire to improve the health and stamina of his crew, if
something like that was truly possible.

Cutty chuckled. “So she goes and her research
stays, and we either use it or sell it to someone else? Crafty,
sir.”

Crafty, right. That was him. “Mess hall in an
hour, Cutty.”

“Yes, sir. She’ll be there.”

The captain wasn’t in the mess hall. A
handful of crew members were sitting in pairs, eating from plates
of food that looked somewhat more promising than breakfast logs,
but not much more. If anyone who served in the capacity of chef or
cook worked on the ship, it wasn’t apparent.

Ankari quickly moved on from inspecting the
food to inspecting the people. She spotted a bulge in a mechanic’s
pocket that might have been a tablet. Maybe she could accomplish
this part of her mission before she met with the captain.
Pickpocketing a random mechanic ought to be easier than
pickpocketing him.

Unfortunately, her guard, the all-too-alert
Corporal Cutty whom she had been wrangling with all day, had her
handcuffed. Her wrists were in front of her instead of behind, so
she might still be able to pick a pocket, but it wouldn’t be easy.
The flexible material that comprised the cuffs might be pliant
enough to conform to a prisoner’s wrists, but it was still stronger
than steel.

“The captain is coming here?” Ankari asked,
even though Cutty had already explained that to her.

“To question you, yes.”

Not for coffee, eh? “So, I should sit and
wait?” Ankari lifted her hands toward a table on the other side of
the one where the mechanic and another man in coveralls were
dining.

Cutty shrugged. “Can if you want.”

All day, he had vacillated between being
laconic and being exasperated with her, sometimes both. It had made
her long for the witless lust-infused conversational style of
Striker.

Ankari strolled toward the table she had
indicated, pausing at the side of the mechanic. She bent to peer at
the men’s plates—and to place her hands close to his cargo pocket.
She would be disappointed if that bulge was nothing more than some
rolled-up gloves stuffed in there. But it had more of a rectangular
form. She kept her back to Cutty, hoping to hide the movements of
her hands.

“What are you two eating?” Ankari asked when
the men gave her inquiring frowns. “It smells—” good wasn’t quite
the right word, “—better than the wrapped bars they’ve been giving
us.” A truth, though that might simply be because this food had
been heated up. The plates had the lumpy, even portions of a meal
that had come out of a box or a bag.

“This is supposed to be a quiche,” the
mechanic said, “and that’s a dogeater.”

As he pointed at his comrade’s plate, Ankari
checked his pocket. Buttoned, naturally. She tilted her chin toward
the second plate as she worked to thwart those buttons without
touching the man’s leg and alerting him. “A
dogeater
? I
haven’t heard of that, er, dish. What is it?”

“Your guess is as good as mine,” the man
eating it said. “A meat patty of some kind. It might have been
something big enough to eat a dog. It might have been a dog
once.”

Ankari finished with the buttons and slipped
her hand into the mechanic’s pocket. Yes, those were the hard
corners of a tablet. She leaned closer, touching her chest to his
shoulder. She would have made a poor professional thief, because
she always felt sleazy using her body for misdirection, but in her
experience, men were less likely to notice their pockets bring
picked if there was a boob pressed against some part of their
anatomy. “Wouldn’t the people who supply all of your fine and
hearty fare have called it a dog log, if that were the case?”

“Uh,” the mechanic said, glancing at her
chest—and not, fortunately, his pocket— “I think a dog log is
something else.”

“Who
are
you?” the second man asked
and glanced past her to Cutty. Uh oh, if the direction of his
glance was correct, Cutty wasn’t in the position she had left him
in.

Ankari smiled and slid the tablet toward her
own pocket as she straightened. “I’m—”

“A prisoner,” Cutty said from behind her
ear.

His hand clasped about her triceps, and
Ankari almost dropped her prize. She fumbled it, caught it, and
stuffed it in her pocket, all the while keeping her face bland and
friendly and giving no indication that her heartbeat had just
tripled.

“One who’s waiting to see the captain,” Cutty
said.

“Should she be roaming around the mess hall
while she waits, Corporal?” the mechanic said, an edge in his tone,
along with that subtle snottiness that implied that he outranked a
corporal.