Moonstruck (3 page)

“I’ll simply assign the bulk of the Horde to the propulsion room belowdecks and out of sight. The overflow will go to the ship’s load master. They can work on keeping the cargo bays polished. As for the Earthlings, I can’t decide if their number is too small to be of concern or just enough to get in the way.”

“No, Brit. The crew will be integrated, not segregated. We’re going to make peace work. We’re going to prove everyone can get along. And if you don’t feel up to the task, Bandar, I’ll remove you right now and send you back to the
Vengeance.
”

Shock vibrated through her with the unexpected reprimand. She deserved it; she’d angered him with her impertinence. The prime-admiral’s intensity reminded her of the times they’d sat around a war table in their younger days, planning strategy to thwart Drakken onslaughts. He’d been one of the Coalition’s greatest tacticians before moving into positions of power that took him off the bridge of a warship. For that reason, Brit had refused to follow in his footsteps. She wanted to be close to battle. She wanted to hear it, to feel it. She would not be denied the satisfaction of victory. The creation of the Triad wouldn’t change that. Serving with Horde wouldn’t change that. It would just…complicate it a little.

She squared her shoulders, keeping the knuckles of her left hand pressed to her back. “That will not be necessary, sir. I’ll take the assignment…and obey your orders.” No matter how much she’d prefer serving on the
Vengeance
to taking part in an ill-advised political experiment that would never work! “You have my word.”

Zaafran’s expression gentled unexpectedly. He took a few pacing steps away and drove a hand through thick salt-and-pepper hair. Once more, he seemed to struggle with what he wanted to say. “Gods, I’m sorry, Brit. My gut told me this may have been asking too much of you—or of anyone who experienced what you have. Your ties to the Arrayar Massacre…Gods, Brit, any normal person would—”

“No.” She almost showed emotion.
Almost.
Her posture was perfection, her expression utter serenity. “We will not speak of that.”

“It was a terrible tragedy—”

“The subject is closed.” True to her nickname, her tone and her expression were cast of stone. “Sir,” she added, conscious of how close to insubordination she skated. Zaafran would know what few others did. Only a few high-ranking officials had access to her personnel records and a need-to-know regarding her life prior to her selection as a cadet in the prestigious Royal Galactic Military Academy. Zaafran had every right to doubt her ability to carry out his orders; her connection to Arrayar Settlement cast her objectivity into doubt and thus her ability to function as captain of the
Unity.
She wouldn’t fail, however. Her career was her life. Blast it all, her career was all she had left. She wouldn’t let the Drakken destroy it whether directly or indirectly.

“I am not unbiased when it comes to the Horde,” she conceded. “Who amongst us is, Prime-Admiral, after all these years of war? Yes, I may have more reasons than most to distrust them, but I will not let it interfere with my duty. I regret that my flippant remarks regarding shipboard assignments led you to believe otherwise. I will complete this mission as ordered.” She shot him a sly glance. “You never said I had to like it, though.”

His mouth twitched at her intentional humor. “There’s something else not to like, I’m afraid. Your new second-in-command. We’ve chosen Finnar Rorkken. He holds the Hordish rank of Warleader.”

“Rorkken?” The blood drained from her head. Rorkken, that bastard, that thief. The wily brigand who’d evaded her every effort to ensnare him. “He’s the Scourge of the Borderlands!”

“Was,” Zaafran corrected.

“
Was
one of the most notorious pirates in the disputed territories, I’ll have you know. I came close to capturing him once or twice. Had my primary focus not been on protecting Coalition worlds from the Imperial armada, Rorkken would have been mine.” Oh, how she’d longed for that face-to-face encounter: her triumphant, him in wrist and ankle cuffs. She’d have made him pay for the secret admiration she harbored for the man. “It’s been years since I’ve heard his name. I assumed he was dead. Though in truth, I haven’t given his pitiful soul much thought.”

“He accepted a commission in the Imperial Fleet seven years ago. He’s commanded a medium-size battle-cruiser ever since.”

“But you mustn’t forget what he was. Of all the Hordish officers to choose from, this is the best you could do?”

“He’s the only Drakken of any respectable officer rank who isn’t dead, in hiding or on trial for war crimes.”

“My, what impressive qualifications—last cookie at the bottom of the box, and a broken one, at that.”

“Or, if you’d rather, we can return you to the
Vengeance
while it sits in retrofit on Ninfarr.”

Ninfarr. Not that damn stink pit. Brit drew her shoulders back. “My ship is not in need of a retrofit.”

“Any ship can use a thorough go-over. One never knows what one will find that will require extensive repairs.”

The prime-admiral’s amusement at her indignation didn’t quite cover the fact he was dead serious. Unless she cooperated, Zaafran would make her sit in Ninfarr for who knew how long, stuck in a locale she’d hate, out of commission and useless. “Your alternative is even more unpalatable than sharing the bridge with a Drakken.”

“My hands are tied, Brit,” he said, softening the blow. “The reunification laws governing the
Unity
insist that she be commanded by a former Coalition officer with a Drakken officer as the second. Rorkken was the best we could find for the reasons I’ve already stated. He’s a good officer. I think you’ll be pleased in spite of your reservations.”

“Good, eh?”
The only “good” Drakken is a dead Drakken.
Brit took another, controlled sip of wine.

A noise at the office entrance signaled an arrival.

“Ah, he’s here.” Zaafran gave her upper arm a cautionary squeeze before striding away to meet the newcomer.

Two security guards entered the alcove across the spacious office. Then a barbarian stomped inside in heavy boots and stopped. So this was the Scourge of the Borderlands. Brit sneered, studying him in profile. His Hordish attire and adornments fluttered, tinkled and clanked in contrast to the clean and silent black uniforms of his escorts. He was formidable in build: lean, powerful, broad shouldered. His nose had a small hump where it was probably broken at some point. Other than that, he seemed to be clean-featured, even handsome in a raw, compelling way.
Good looks, wasted on a barbarian.
Like most Horde, his clothing revealed a good bit of skin. His tattooed flesh wasn’t filthy or sweaty as she was used to seeing on his kind, but golden and smooth, although his uniform, if one could call it such, was faded and quite obviously mended by hand in several places. Brit couldn’t imagine life without self-repairing nano-fabric.

Upon seeing Prime-Admiral Zaafran approach, the Drakken came to attention, bringing the knuckles of his right hand to his forehead. “Warleader Finnar Rorkken reporting as ordered, sir.”

Zaafran answered with a fist over his chest. “How was your journey?”

“Long, sir.”

“And your in-briefing?”

“Also long.”

Zaafran chuckled. “I’ll pass along kudos to Star-Major Joss for a job well done. Come, I want to introduce you to your new commanding officer.”

Brit assumed an at-ease but impeccable posture as both men turned and walked in her direction. Rorkken slowed, noticing her for the first time. His eyes crinkled at the edges as they narrowed at her: warm, thickly lashed brown eyes under a pair of neat, dark brows that drew together in boyish inquisitiveness at the sight of her.

Her breath caught.
Seff.
Oh, gods. He looked like Seff.

Brit’s heart convulsed like a wounded animal, her mouth going dry. How could this be? The Drakken resembled an older version of her long-dead husband, the love of her life, lost so long ago that she could hardly remember his face, the feel of his arms, the sound of his voice. Now he was here, standing before her in the very form of the monsters who took him from her.

The wine in her glass sloshed. She put the glass down on a side table with an overly loud clatter. Prime-Admiral Zaafran glanced at her with surprise. Rorkken, the shrewd bastard, contemplated her with a gaze that was far too penetrating and perceptive for her liking.

She couldn’t seem to rip her focus from his face. She knew exactly what he’d look like if he threw his head back and laughed. Grief simmered inside her, along with shock and joy, and attraction—physical attraction.

No
. Damn it all, not that, anything but attraction for a Horde. There was only one kind of lust she was capable of feeling for a Drakken, and that was a lust for vengeance.

The bands of control were now clamped so tightly around her chest that she could hardly breathe. Her heart raced; perspiration prickled her skin. Brit Bandar was a mess.

Admiral Bandar, however, would reveal nothing.

She dragged her attention away, keeping her narrowed eyes averted until she’d gained control over what was displayed in them. Rorkken’s resemblance to Seff was slight at best. Yes, of course it was. The barbarian was taller, and older. He was bigger boned; even the skin tone wasn’t the same as her late husband’s. In fact, the more her shock abated, the more she realized the differences she should have noticed in the first place. Yet that first impression had been enough to rip open the old scars, allowing her to feel what she’d worked so hard for so many years not to.

By the time she’d let go of the wineglass, resuming her impeccable military bearing only seconds later, she was certain no shock registered in her face. She was less sure about what she’d exposed in that moment of being caught off-guard, though. The warleader peered at her in bewilderment, as if he were unsettled himself. What had he seen?

Brit made the first strike, a defensive measure. “You’re staring, Warleader. Do you not know who I am?” Her brow went up. “Or is it that you do?”

The warleader stopped to think before answering. Smart man, that. Prime-Admiral Zaafran interrupted. He seemed anxious to regain control of the proceedings. “Admiral Brit Bandar,” he told Rorkken, introducing them. “The commanding officer of the
Unity.
”

Shock flickered in the Drakken’s golden eyes.
Stone-Heart.
She saw him think it, as clear as day. Her mouth formed into a not-quite smile she knew he didn’t miss.

Rorkken brought the back of his hand to his forehead in a salute. She’d expected he’d recoil in fear meeting her, to be somehow less than a man in her awe-inspiring presence.

Not Rorkken. The knowledge of her identity only intensified his interest, it seemed. She wished she could erase what she’d revealed to him but time could never be turned back. She of all people knew that.

“Admiral,” he said. She was acutely aware of the tilt of his head and the timbre of his voice—
hell
—and the way he watched her with Seff’s eyes—
double hell.
That damned physical attraction. How dare the barbarian make her think of Seff? How dare he make her respond to him as a male? “It is an honor,” he finished.

He said it as if he meant it in the most respectful way possible, and yet…he pondered her as no man had dared ponder her in more years than she cared to remember.
He makes you feel like Brit again.

She stiffened. Insolent bastard! Yet, she couldn’t condemn him for disrespect if the interpretation of what she saw in his gaze was all hers. For the first time in her long career, she didn’t know how to react. She chose what had always worked best: cold silence and a haughty glare. Her trademark, some said.

Rorkken’s expression was unflinching. He seemed to be working hard to read her. “I don’t expect you to feel the same about serving with me,” he said.

“As a matter of fact, I’d rather cough up blood.”

“And waste good blood? We Drakken would rather use it for a nice, warm bath.”

Outrage boiled until she met his eyes and realized his remark was meant as a self-deprecating jest. He’d teased her. No one teased her. She was Admiral Bandar. No one would dare.

This Drakken dared.

Heat flared in her cheeks at the realization. Her reaction swung between hate, surprise and respect—hate for his kind, surprise that he recognized how society viewed the Drakken and respect for what appeared to be brash self-confidence moderated by self-awareness and intelligence, traits she didn’t expect from a Hordish barbarian. Murderers, all, but she was going to have to find a way to tolerate this one. For duty’s sake.

For her
career’s
sake, she qualified.
“Any ship can use a thorough go-over. One never knows what one will find that will require extensive repairs.”
Zaafran had given her no way out. It was either work with Rorkken or sit with the
Vengeance
in dry dock, far from the front lines. The choice was clear. Rorkken. Dry dock would give her too much time to think.

W
HAT IN FREEPIN’ HEAVENS
just happened? Finn blinked, shaking his head. That was one hell of an introduction. It felt as if he’d been stunned by a plasma grenade. First the woman acted as if she recognized him. Then came the pain. In a flash of a moment, a half breath, her soul had been exposed for him to see. His reaction had been visceral. The snap of physical attraction hit him hard.

Finn couldn’t merge the woman who’d locked gazes with him with the reality of who she was.
Stone-Heart.
She was gods-be-damned Admiral Bandar, and all he wanted to do was freepin’ strip off that impeccable uniform of hers and put his hands on that sweet-as-sin body.
“Hey, sweetheart, why don’t we get the hells out of here and find someplace to be alone?”
That’s what he’d like to say. He could imagine how
that
would go over. This wasn’t a Borderlands drinking hole, and Bandar wasn’t just any female. He had to behave; he had to stop thinking of her as a woman, to stop thinking with his cock. To stop noticing her long, graceful neck, or the deep curve under her full lower lip that he wouldn’t mind suckling.

To stop thinking about kissing her senseless.

Good thing he hadn’t known what she looked like back in the old days, or he might have
wanted
to be caught. But it wasn’t the old days any longer, and his worries ran far deeper. The loyal band of men and women on his crew were depending on him to come through. As first officer on the
Unity,
he had a shot at bringing everyone serving on
Finn’s Pride
with him. He’d told them as much. He’d better hold up his end of the bargain.

Then what were you thinkin’ telling the most infamous Coalition officer that you bathe in blood?

It had been a gut reaction to her pain, compelling him to lighten the mood with a joke, to put her at ease, to see if he could make her smile. Her name might be synonymous with war, but Brit Bandar
the woman
had been badly hurt. Whoever was responsible for that hurt, she still loved.

Finn had gone through life wringing humor from often-depressing circumstances—at times it was the only way he’d made it through with his sanity intact—but blast it all, he damn well knew when to be serious. This was one of those times. He needed this gig.

Unfortunately, his remark fed into what Bandar already believed about him: he was a barbarian. Closed-off and haughty, she fixed him with a glare, wearing her hatred for the Drakken like a war medal. It was obvious she’d decided to pretend their initial reaction to each other had never happened.

He’d play along. He’d play almost any game with the prospect of starvation staring him in the face.

Nevertheless, he returned Bandar’s cold gaze without insolence and without fear. He’d survived this long relying on his gut. Those instincts now told him an apology would be a mistake.

She’ll see it as weakness.

“Please, let us eat.” Zaafran waved almost too eagerly in the direction of the dining table. It was clear the officer sensed tension between them.

Turning on the heel of one flawlessly polished boot, Bandar glided after her superior. Nothing wrong with admiring her, ah…assets, Finn decided as he walked in trail. What man wouldn’t? More than her beauty, he admired her grace. From the curve of her long, slender back to the sway of a very sexy bottom, every move was pure elegance. Street rat beginnings, a hardscrabble life, years in the military, he’d never been around a woman like her. A real lady.

At the table, Prime-Admiral Zaafran waited until Bandar had taken her seat at the table before he did the same. The officers’ chairs glided to the table, subtly adjusting height and angle.

Smart chairs, Finn thought with dismay. He’d experienced the likes of one once already at his shipboard in-briefing and orientation with Star-Major Joss. It was not something he cared to repeat.

Finn remained standing, both in deference to the other two officers’ higher rank and his not wanting to reveal his ignorance on advanced tech. Smart chairs were programmed to adjust to hundreds, maybe even thousands of individual seating and comfort preferences. Finn’s wasn’t one of them. Those occupied by the two admirals clearly were, but the one he’d occupied earlier had acted anything but smart.

He sized up his chair like he would an opponent in a fight. With as much of an air of cocky confidence as he could muster, he lowered his rump into the seat. The chair rocked, sliding sideways and almost colliding with Admiral Bandar’s before Finn caught the edge of the table to stop himself. “They’re not used to Hordish asses yet,” he said with a chuckle.

A sidelong glance at Bandar revealed her expression of disdain. She thought him a barbarian; that much was obvious. His unfamiliarity with advanced tech served only to shore up that opinion he’d already reinforced by the bathe-in-blood joke. By the gods, he’d damn well prove himself worthy to be here, to serve with her. Just as he’d fought all his life to hold on to what rare good things came his way, he’d fight to hold on to this.

I’m skilled with a few things I guarantee you’ll remember more than a chair, sweetheart,
he thought, then jerked his wandering mind away from visions of sin with his new commander.

Zaafran waved off Finn’s clumsiness. “The smart chairs on the
Unity
will obey you, Warleader.”

“I damn well hope so, sir.” Or he’d consider dismantling them all and tossing the scrap out the airlocks.

Black-uniformed aides circled the table, pouring wine. They, too, were clean and well-fed. Finn tried not to stare in wonder. Everything he’d seen so far while in Coalition hands was shiny and clean. It was truly the Realm of the Goddesses. The contrast to his world was sharp.
Your old world.

The amazing feast so tempted him that he fisted his hands in his lap to keep from grabbing a helping until served. If only Zurykk and the rest of the crew were here with him. The food displayed on the table was far more than three diners could consume. Maybe he’d take some back for the crew.

You’re not a street urchin anymore, living in a basement of a warehouse with a pack of other children. These are not stolen spoils brought into the den to be grabbed by ravenous hands.

Aye, he was a Triad Alliance officer now with certain behaviors expected of him. Triad soldiers did not stuff their pockets full of food. They didn’t need to, Finn realized as he breathed in the aromas. Every day he’d be able to eat like this, and soon his crew, as well, gods willing. Rumor had it that the Coalition had plenty more where this came from. Now he knew the legends were true. They fed their warriors well. Hot meals would no longer be a luxury. If anything, Finn would have to be on guard against overindulging and going soft.

“Moor-steak?” an aide asked politely.

“Thanks be,” Finn said, almost on a sigh, fists on his thighs to restrain himself as fragrant, grilled filets were added to his plate. It took all he had not to start eating before the meal was fully served.

He couldn’t wolf down the meat like he wanted. He’d need to use proper utensils; he needed to make a good impression. At least until he got his sorry ass and his crew’s sorry asses on that ship. Once everyone was aboard, it would be that much harder to get them off. Between now and then, he could afford no mistakes.

Finally, the aides backed away and left them to their meal. Finn’s right hand was almost shaking in anticipation by the time he took hold of his fork. In the corner of his eye, he observed how the other two officers used their utensils and handled the consumption of the various types of foods.

He cut a slice of meat and slid it inside his waiting mouth.
Praise be.
He was a self-admitted carnivore; the taste and texture of the moor-steak nearly had him singing aloud. Another slice followed quickly, and then another.

He’d not had a meal this good in a long time. Perhaps not ever. Well, except for maybe the time they raided the prison warden’s pleasure vessel on Indra…. Ah, well, he’d best not share that now; there was more than food to be sampled that night. Smiling, Finn took the largest socially acceptable bite of meat he could.

Chewing, he glanced up to find Bandar watching him with hooded, observant blue eyes while she sampled a delicate bite of a kind of fruit he’d never seen. Again, curiosity surfaced about the pain she’d revealed and the reason for it. Her eyes were a solid wall, allowing no hint of the woman he’d glimpsed earlier. It was almost as if he’d dreamed it. Maybe he had. A former Drakken street rat dining with two top Coalition Fleet officers on board the Ring could easily be explained away as a hallucination.

Enough thinking. Back to eating.
Hungrily, he lifted a hunk of fresh bread to his mouth when Bandar interrupted. “When was the last time you ate?” she asked.

Finn worked his jaw. His first impulse was to lie. He detected no pity, yet to admit he and his crew had been existing on the brink of starvation wasn’t something he took pride in. On the other hand, lying to her seemed distasteful on several fronts. “Yesterday. It’s been weeks since we had a hot meal, though.”

“Weeks?” Zaafran put down his fork.

Finn did the same with his bread, but gods, how he wanted to dredge the crust through a puddle of gravy on his plate and shove it into his mouth. Hordish tradition was to devour first, talk later, if they talked at all during a meal. Drinking, on the other hand, loosened tongues. That’s where the talking occurred, not at mealtime. Dining was linked too closely with actual survival. “I’ve not had the money to feed my crew. The Imperial Fleet operated on a scrip system. We’d exchange scrip for legal tender. Now the scrip is worthless. I used up what real money I had left and most of the food and liquor last week bartering for repairs.”

“You were forced to choose between repairs and food.” Was Bandar appalled? Saddened? What? Why did that perfectly neutral blue gaze irk him so?
Because you glimpsed what is there underneath.
Aye, he was a pirate at heart. Once a pirate got a peek at the treasure, he wouldn’t rest until it was his.

“I’m not the only captain having to make that choice. It’s happening across the Borderlands, and across what’s left of the Empire. They don’t trust the Coalition, and what they’ll face when they come into port. They’d rather risk starvation than spend their years rotting on a prison world. But with money running out, and the scrip worthless, it’s getting mighty desperate.”

“Desperation leads to instability,” Zaafran said.

“And instability leads to war,” Bandar put in. Finn had the strangest feeling she wouldn’t be sorry to see peace collapse. “What do you suggest we should do, Warleader?”

Rorkken took a moment to ponder the rich meal in front of him, a feast that would remain an elusive dream for most eking out survival in his old haunts. “We make an effort to reach out to rogue Hordish ships and lure them into the Triad with the promise of food and fuel and a blanket pardon.”

Bandar gave a soft cough, bringing her glass of wine to her lush lips. “Pirates serving on Coalition ships, and pardons for Hordish criminals,” she muttered. “What is next?”

Stone-Heart laughing at one of my jokes, naked and in bed?
Finn willed his tongue to stay put.

Bandar took a double-take at him. It was almost as if she read the mischief lurking behind his eyes. A flicker of pain showed in her face, and for a breath he thought her composure might falter again, but she replaced her glass carefully and returned her attention to her meal. To avoid looking at him, he suspected, but to his relief, at least they were back to eating. He hurried through what was left on his plate, in case they stopped again for conversation.

“I say a timely move would be to have the
Unity
’s first deployment be to the Borderlands, Prime-Admiral,” Bandar said, continuing to dine, thank the gods. “I’m familiar with the territory, and we know Warleader Rorkken is. The warleader and I can discuss ways to lure rogue Hordish vessels out of the shadows.” Her eyes met his. “A blanket pardon is out of the question. That will have to be decided on a case-by-case basis.”

“If you’re looking for a clean record, Admiral, you won’t find it.”

“The fact that you are my first officer proves your point, yes?”

“Aye, I’m the best of the worst, they tell me.” He let out a self-deprecating chuckle. His chair rocked precariously. He grabbed the edge of the table to steady himself. Damn chair. “But before this voyage is over, you’ll consider me the best of the best, Admiral,” he vowed.

“I expect no less from any member of my crew, Warleader.”

“Speaking of a good crew…” Finn took a breath and said what he’d come here to say. “There’s space for seventy-seven Drakken on the
Unity
. I understand from Star-Major Joss that you’re in need of seventy-six more. With the situation in the Borderlands unpredictable, do we want to delay here, waiting to round up stray Drakken?” He didn’t wait for them to answer. “I have fifty-two on my ship. I would like to bring them aboard with me.”

Zaafran sat back in his smart chair. “I don’t know. I have some concerns about taking on a whole crew. Fragmented, their loyalty would be to the Triad and Admiral Bandar. Intact, their loyalty is to you.”

“I’ll talk to them, sir,” Finn offered. “I’ll explain what we require. They’ll listen to me. They’re hard workers.” Without this chance they’ll go hungry, he wanted to put in, but he’d better play the sympathy card as a last resort only.

Zaafran rubbed the side of his index finger across his chin. Food was once again forgotten. By now Finn was too concerned over the fate of the men and women who waited for him back on board the
Pride
to eat. “I assume you agree, Admiral,” Zaafran said to Bandar.

“Actually, I do not.”

They both glanced at her, surprised.

“Their loyalty to Rorkken may prove to be an advantage.” Her plump lips closed around another berry. She chewed carefully, swallowed, the slender column of her throat moving. “They answer to Rorkken, who answers to me. If there is a problem, Rorkken remedies it. But there won’t be any problems, will there, Warleader?”