Rystani Warrior 04 - The Quest (2 page)

“How’s she looking?” Petroy pretended to be worried, but his tone of impatience told her he was as eager to hear good news as she was to give it.

“Good. The metal alone should keep the
Raven
flying for a few more months.” Even better, when Angel hauled the salvaged ship into Dakmar, a moon orbiting a gaseous planet with no life forms, she doubted the former owners would quibble over ownership, and she would be able to sell it immediately. Back in the Central Federation, she’d have to fill out endless computer forms and wait for the authorities to track down the original owners to ensure she hadn’t attacked the ship just to gain salvage rights. But Dakmar existed in a less-traveled region of the Federation, where the laws encouraged free enterprise. The strongest and the fittest and the smartest ran Dakmar—an efficient system that would allow Angel to turn a tidy profit without a long wait for authentication of salvage rights. She might eventually earn more on a Federation world, but the downtime would erode the extra profit.

“And?” he prodded.

She flew a slow perimeter check. “From the char marks, it looks as if an explosion took out the stern. Perhaps they lost shielding and collided with an asteroid.”

“What’s wrong?” Petroy asked, perhaps sensing her tone wasn’t as jubilant as he’d expected. Or perhaps he just knew how to read her better than she wanted to acknowledge.

Although the evidence showed the disaster had occurred a long time ago and likely the ship had been tumbling for years, she still hoped the Vogans had escaped unharmed. The ship had obviously been abandoned, yet the hair on her arms prickled, as if in warning of danger.

“Any sign of our competition?” she asked.

“None. But it’s possible a small ship could be hiding from our sensors behind some of the local asteroids.”

“Are sensors picking up any contaminants on board?”

“She’s as clean as a hyperdrive engine.”

“Re-check.”

“Nothing. There’s not so much as a nano enzyme clinging to the food processors. Why?”

She tried to shrug away the tightness between her shoulder blades. “I don’t know. But I feel
…
”

“Go on.”

“… As if something’s waiting for me in there.”

“Then don’t go in.”

She appreciated his concern, but they both knew she wouldn’t turn back now. Luckily she was the captain and no one could order her to turn back. Even though adrenaline had kicked in and she could taste sweet success, she remained wary. “I’m armed. The sensors are well calibrated.”

“Machines can make mistakes.”

“My instincts might be wrong,” she countered.

“When was the last time you were wrong?”

“Point taken.” Angel was rarely incorrect about recognizing trouble, except when it came in the form of the opposite sex. Twice married, twice divorced, of late, she’d kept her relationships short, her expectations confined to sating her physical appetites. She now looked for men who fit her lifestyle, those who wanted no more than good company for a short time and who didn’t mind when she left without a backward glance.

Angel flew under the belly, taking extra care to look for any details that appeared out of place. Giant mawing holes in the hull and ports gaped where the crew had popped safety pods to abandon ship, a sign they’d safely escaped. Most damage had probably occurred after they’d left when tiny asteroids had collided with the hull.

While inspecting every exterior inch, she tried to calm her racing pulse. Her instincts were extraordinary. She had a knack for finding trouble, of being in the exact right place at the right time—where things happened. If she’d been into sports, she would have been the star player, the one who always seemed to be around the ball during a critical play. If she’d been in the military, she would have been the general on the front, in the exact location where the enemy attacked. As a scavenger, her success rate was phenomenal, considering the equipment she had to work with.

However, when her scalp prickled and anticipation rolled in her gut, when her fingers itched on her blaster trigger for no damn reason that she could discern—like right now—she’d learned to be extra careful. Angel had even read up on the phenomena. Supposedly, her subconscious picked up signals her brain couldn’t interpret—tiny signals that her conscious mind didn’t see or hear or notice, but ones that could still broadcast loud and clear to her subconscious.

“Talk to me.” Petroy’s voice pulled her from her thoughts.

“I’m taking the flitter through a blast hole in the fuselage.” She came through the damaged hull in a cloud of dust. Her exterior landing lights revealed an empty dock, and she set down with no problems.

“I’ve landed, and the shuttle bay is full of wreckage.”

She’d expected no less. Still, she couldn’t keep the disappointment from her tone. It would have been wonderful to find a stash of cargo, starfire gemstones from Kenderon IV or ice crystals from Ellas Prime or even a case of Zenonite brandy. But the bay had either been picked clean a long time ago, or the Vogan ship had flown empty.

Angel kept her blaster handy and popped her hatch. “I’m going for a look,” she said. “Engaging vidcamera.”

Now Petroy could see what she saw, which wasn’t much. Lots of twisted gray
bendar,
a metal manufactured to protect starships against hyperdrive forces. She placed a portable light on her head, another on her wrist.

As well as clothing her, her suit allowed her to breathe in space, kept her boots on the deck with artificial gravity, and encased her body in normal pressure. She didn’t have to worry about solar radiation, but the possibility of her competitors returning was always a concern. While Petroy would notify her if they reappeared and she should have plenty of time to fly back to the
Raven,
she sensed the danger was coming from within, not outside.

Straining to listen for any strange noises, she forced air into her lungs. Absolute silence closed around her like a tomb. She couldn’t open her suit to sniff the air, but from the charred hull, she imagined the odor of old dust and the lingering scent of burnt metal.

Reaching an interior hatch, she popped the handle. The massive door creaked open. She shined her light into a corridor, expecting more wreckage. But it was empty, the only sign of problems a buckled floor.

Advancing with care, she passed by the empty galley and crew quarters and, in search of electronics, turned toward where she estimated the bridge to be. Along the way she admired the heavy metal plating of the interior walls, which would bring a tidy profit on Dakmar. The cargo ship had been built like a fortress, and she suspected only a total systems failure could have left her so vulnerable to disaster.

A flicker of movement in the corner of her eye, a shade or shape that didn’t belong, caught her attention. Instantly, she shined her light, raised her blaster, and peered into the gloom but saw nothing, not even a shadow.

Her mouth went dry as moon dust. “Who’s there?”

Petroy’s tone lowered in concern. “No one’s on the vidscreen. Sensors aren’t picking up any sign of life, but be careful.”

She appreciated that he didn’t think she’d lost her mind and that he’d fed her data that should be useful. Although Angel had boarded dozens of ships, never before had she felt as though she was being watched and judged.

Angel squinted past the reach of her lights and saw a dark gray shadow move in the blackness beyond. A very large, very humanoid shadow.

“Come out. Now. Or I’ll shoot.” She assumed the intruder’s suit would translate her words.

The shadow moved and advanced into her light.

“Keep your hands where I can see them.”

He was tall, very tall, broad-shouldered and bronze-skinned with bright blue eyes and dark hair. But it was his carved cheekbones and full lips that curved into a confident and easy smile that made her think of a Viking warrior, one of Earth’s ancient races. No, not Viking—a Rystani. She hadn’t ever met any Rystani, the infamous battle-driven warriors from the planet Rystan, but she’d seen holopics. However, the holopics couldn’t convey this man’s massive size or his casual, self-assured attitude that would have been sexy under different circumstances.

“How did you know I was here?” he asked, ignoring the blaster that she aimed at his chest.

“Captain,” Petroy spoke over the com, “a Rystani just showed up on our sensors.”

“No kidding.” She scowled at the man standing before her. “Since this is my ship, I’ll be the one asking the questions. Why didn’t our sensors pick you up?”

He shrugged his broad shoulders. “Perhaps your systems are faulty.”

The stranger’s deep voice matched his powerful chest, and the sound lapped against her like waves on a white sand beach—solid, gentle, all encompassing. He wore his masculinity with the same ease as he wore his smile, as if it were so much a part of him that he had nothing to prove.

He intrigued her, but she wasn’t taking his word, especially when their sensors had been working perfectly when she’d left the
Raven.
She invoked privacy mode in the com so the stranger couldn’t hear her or Petroy’s replies. “Petroy, have the computer run a self-diagnostic.”

“Already did, Captain. We have one hundred percent efficiency.”

She kept the Rystani in her blaster sights. “There are no computer malfunctions. So, what’s your story? Why are you here?”

Just because he didn’t appear to have a weapon didn’t mean he wasn’t dangerous. On muscle size alone, he could overpower her. Since one generally had to work out regularly to sport such a toned physique, she assumed he could also best her in a hand-to-hand fight. Her advantage was her drawn weapon, and she kept it front and centered.

“I’m Kirek of Rystan. Take me to your captain,” he demanded.

Kirek hadn’t tried to lie about his planet and every word sounded sincere, though aristocratically arrogant, but he also evaded her questions about how he’d avoided their sensors and why he was here. Instead, he was acting as if he hadn’t expected her to find him. Interesting.

“I’m Angel Taylor,
captain
of the
Raven.
From Earth. Now, what are you doing here?”

At her announcement of her rank, Kirek’s facial muscles didn’t move, but flickers of purple darkened his eyes. “I’m looking for transport to Dakmar.”

She arched a brow and kept her trigger finger poised to shoot. Obviously, he didn’t think the derelict ship would take him to Dakmar, so he knew her plans. “Who said I was going to Dakmar?”

“Any salvager worth their oxygen would sell this wreck on Dakmar.” His tone remained confident and easy, just short of charming. But she noted he kept his hands away from his body and didn’t make any sudden moves that would risk drawing her blaster fire.

“The
Raven
is not a civilian transport ship.”

“I will stay right here.” Kirek’s tone remained patient, confident, as if he were very accustomed to giving orders. “You should pretend you do not know of my existence—”

“—Like you planned?” she guessed. If she’d depended only on her sensors, she wouldn’t have found him stowing away on the derelict. But no way in hell was she sneaking Kirek onto Dakmar. Those folks were quite particular about who boarded their moon. She did too much business there to risk bringing in a stranger and being banned because he wanted a free ride.

“I do not wish to cause trouble.” Kirek’s casual tone implied truth. Yet, his bold stance suggested that he was a man accustomed to handling whatever came his way.

“You’ve already caused trouble. And I want answers. Who dropped you off? How did you know—”