Vendetta (Project Vetus Book 2) Read online

  Fascinated, I can’t stops staring at her hands. Dreyer can fight. She was a soldier, just like the men on the crew. “What did they look like? The aliens.”

  “We have no idea. If UA found any intact remains, they never told us.” Coleman shrugs. “They told us very little, actually. But we assume that they had ‘integrated weapons systems’ similar to what’s developed in us, as a result of the splicing.”

  “Our direct knowledge of the aliens is more…instinct,” Dreyer adds, with an oddly tentative look at Coleman. “Sometimes we feel impulses and urges that don’t make sense, from a human perspective. Biological imperatives that were evidently normal for that other species. And they can be very difficult to resist.”

  “That’s what happened earlier,” Coleman says. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I just got caught up in the grip of one of those impulses. Sotelo calls the collective of instincts ‘the beast.’ And I’m starting to understand why.”

  “Me too.” With his built-in weapons deployed, Coleman had looked a bit like a beast. “What was the impulse?” What could make him threaten his fellow crew members?

  Dreyer turns to Coleman, evidently as interested in his answer as I am.

  “That’s difficult to explain.”

  “Try,” she insists. “Grace deserves that much.”

  Coleman exhales slowly. “It was a protective impulse. My beast didn’t want Sotelo to touch you. But my reaction was inappropriate, and I am sorry.” He shrugs. “The human half of me is, anyway. The beast is entirely unrepentant.”

  I blink at him, trying to wrap my mind around what he’s saying. And what he isn’t saying, which feels just as important.

  Why didn’t his beast want Sotelo to touch me, if touching unrelated women isn’t a taboo in his society?

  “If I may ask, Grace…” Dreyer says, and I realize that she’s changing the subject, much to Coleman’s relief. “What is your plan?”

  “My plan?”

  “Now that you’ve escaped Gebose.”

  “Well, I’d intended to try to find my way back to Theron, but that isn’t looking very likely.” I suck in a deep breath and admit to my second-deepest fear. “I have no idea where that leaves me.” I have no idea where to go, how to get there, or what to do once I’m there. My future feels like the vacuum of space.

  Empty. Unknown. Terrifying.

  “You’re welcome here for as long as you’d like to stay,” Coleman assures me.

  “Though with any luck, ‘here’ will soon refer to our new ship. New-to-us, anyway,” Dreyer adds.

  “That’s very kind of you.” But I already feel guilty about the danger I’ve put them in, and I don’t want to prolong that. “So, what is your plan, if I may ask? After you get your ship? You’re all just going to roam the galaxy under fake names, taking jobs for credit vouchers or trade?”

  Dreyer snorts. “Hardly.” Then she shrugs. “Well, maybe eventually. But first, we’re going to make sure UA gets its comeuppance. And not just for what they’ve done to us, but for what they did to all the soldiers who came before us. The ones who didn’t survive.”

  “Or who didn’t survive in any condition worth living in,” Coleman adds, and this time the look he gives Dreyer is almost cryptically sympathetic.

  “For the prisoners, too,” she adds.

  “The prisoners?”

  Coleman nods. “On Rhodon. The prison planet where UA operated its lab,” he elaborates, when I can only blink at him in confusion. “Lilli was one of them, and she’s told us horror stories about what life’s like on the planet, even for the regular prisoners.”

  “So you’re on a revenge mission?”

  “Justice.” Coleman’s golden eyes are practically glowing again. “We’re on a mission of justice. Which we can’t carry out without Meshach’s ship.”

  “But first…fuel and supplies,” Sotelo says on his way down the stairs. “We dock in five minutes. Everyone ready?”

  Dreyer nods.

  “What’s the plan?” Coleman asks.

  “I’m sending Zamora and Dreyer for food. Lawrence and Jamison for weapons and ammo. You will stay here on the Dinghy with Lilli and Grace, to oversee the refueling.”

  “The Dinghy?” I stifle a laugh.

  “That’s what this tiny little boat feels like, so that’s what we named it,” Coleman explains.

  “And you?” Dreyer asks Sotelo. “What will you be doing while we’re acquiring supplies?”

  “I will make my way around Miscellany with my ear to the proverbial ground. If UA is searching this sector, people will have noticed armed men asking questions.” But when Sotelo looks at me, I understand that Universal Authority’s presence is not the only one he’ll be keeping an eye out for.

  Meshach will almost certainly have sent men here to look for me.

  “Don’t worry. No one will board the Dinghy,” Coleman assures me.

  “There’s no mandatory inspection?” I thought those were standard for refueling ports.

  “There is no one in charge on Miscellany, which means there’s no one to require or enforce inspections,” Coleman explains. “That’s one of the advantages to being out here on the edge of the galaxy.”

  “There’s no one in charge? How does that work?”

  “Proprietors own their own businesses, but the station itself—the physical space—is what’s left of an old refueling port owned by one of UA’s competitors. After UA put it out of business, people just sort of started gathering there in the abandoned infrastructure, claiming any space they could hold onto, to sell whatever they have. Fuel. Weapons. Food. A bed for the night. Sex.” He shrugs. “That’s why they call it Miscellany. Because it’s grab bag of black market commerce.”

  “And that grab bag never looks the same from one visit to the next,” Dreyer says. “At least, that used to be the case. None of us have been here in years, obviously.”

  “No one will come aboard,” Sotelo reiterates. “But just in case, you should probably stay down here in the cargo hold.”

  “Of course. And again, thank you all so much.”

  “Our pleasure,” Coleman says, and the look he gives me seems blisteringly sincere.

  “Heads up,” Jamison announces from the panel on the wall. “I’m docking as we speak. Lower level fuel bay.”

  Sotelo herds Coleman and Dreyer up the stairs, and I listen through the open hatch in the cargo bay ceiling as he gives the others their assignments. A motor hums as the ramp is lowered, then I hear the more distant buzz of…commerce and conversation. A crowd.

  For the first time since I snuck on board, the ship itself is quiet, so I venture silently up the stairs and stick my head through the hatch.

  One of the bunks is closed, where I assume Lilli is still resting. According to Damaris, pregnancy can be exhausting, even in the early stages, and there’s no telling how much of a burden a part-alien fetus puts an expectant mother through.

  Coleman is in the pilot’s chair with his back to me, and as I watch, he taps an icon on the panel in front of him. “This is Captain Pryor in bay twelve. Fill ‘er up.”

  “We take payment up front. Credit vouchers only,” a voice replies.

  “Roger. I’m on my way out with it.” Coleman taps that icon again to cut the connection, then he kneels to open a safe beneath the flight instruments. When he stands, he’s holding a stack of credit vouchers. On his way to the lowered boarding ramp, he looks up and his gaze catches mine. “Grace? You should stay below deck. I’ll be right back.”

  “I just… I need the restroom.”

  He cocks his head to the side and his focus narrows on my face, as if he’s hearing something I can’t. Then he nods at the closed lavatory door, though he doesn’t look entirely convinced by my excuse. “Through there. Stay on the ship, please. It isn’t safe for you to go out there alone.”

  I nod, and he doesn’t leave until I’ve closed myself into the small bathroom.

  I really do have to pee, so I use the facil
ities and sanitize my hands, but instead of heading straight back down to the cargo hold, I linger on the main deck, staring out the neat rectangular door created by the lowered boarding ramp.

  Very little of Miscellany is visible, but I can tell that it’s bustling. Conversations swell and ebb as people walk by the Dinghy, their steps clanging on the metal walkway, and the scents carried on the air change just as frequently. Grease. Fuel. Some deliciously spicy aroma, accompanied by the equally tantalizing scent of sizzling meat. Though I can’t even begin to guess at the kind of flesh being grilled.

  The style of clothing varies from person to person, but the colors are all in the dark, neutral end of the spectrum. Leathers and dusty, sturdy canvas pants. Dark boots. Jackets with plenty of pockets. I see far more men than women, but none of the women have covered their heads. Which is no real surprise for a place that evidently sells sex alongside skewers of meat and freshly grilled rounds of flat bread.

  At the end of the ramp, Coleman is haggling over the price of fuel with someone I can’t see. He steps out of sight, and—

  I gasp as a familiar face passes the open ramp, then I skitter to my right and duck behind one of the crew chairs. Amos. His white-blond hair and loose, sandy-colored robes stand out among all the darkly-dressed patrons of Miscellany. Amos is one of Meshach’s men. He’s armed, and he’s probably not alone.

  My hands tremble as I pull the modesty sheath over my head and back away from the chair on my knees, so I don’t accidentally spin it. I start to stand, to climb into one of the bunks and watch through the transparent privacy panel, but then Amos turns and looks straight into the Dinghy.

  I hold my breath, waiting for his focus to settle on me, and suddenly I realize that he’d be less likely to recognize my face—he’s never seen it—than the familiar, subtle shimmer of my sheath. Maybe if I’d just played it cool, as if I belong on board the Dinghy, he’d think I was one of the female crew members.

  But it’s too late for that.

  Before Amos can get a good look, Coleman steps onto the ramp again, blocking his view, and I don’t know whether to be relieved or worried by his reappearance. Yes, he’s a super-soldier with hidden built-in weapons and an unpredictable, beastly temper, but Amos has a gun. And a mission to carry out.

  “May I help you?” Coleman’s polite words are undercut by his abrasive tone.

  “I’m looking for a woman—a thief—who may be on board your ship. Without your knowledge, of course,” Amos adds.

  “Meshach told us about your missing woman,” Coleman growls. “But there is nothing on our ship that we don’t know about. It’s too small to hide any secrets.”

  “Well then, I’m sure you won’t mind if I take a quick look.”

  “So long as you don’t mind me rearranging your internal organs, to indulge my interest in anatomical feng shui.”

  Amos frowns. “There’s no reason to be hostile.”

  Coleman’s fists clench, and his massive arms bulge with tension. “There will be if you set one foot on board this ship.”

  Amos’s scowl deepens. He turns and walks away without another word, his footsteps echoing in his absence.

  Coleman steps onto the ship and walks right by me on the way to the panel of flight instruments, but he doesn’t notice me. Probably because when I’m not moving, the shimmer of the modesty sheath is difficult to see. He taps another icon on the panel. “Sotelo? I just turned one of Meshach’s men away at the boarding ramp.”

  “I’ve seen several of them too,” the captain replies, and my heart drops into my stomach. “Fuckers stand out like hookers at a church cook-out. Let’s wrap this up as quickly as possible. How’s the refuel coming?”

  “Just started. It’s going to take an hour or so.”

  “I’m sure everyone else will be back by then. Just close the ramp and sit tight.”

  “On it.” Coleman taps the icon to disconnect, then he kneels to store what’s left of the crew’s meager credit vouchers in the safe. I take one more glance at Miscellany through the open ramp, on my way to the hatch in the floor, and—

  I freeze as fear crawls over me, leaving goose bumps on my arms.

  Amos is headed right for the Dinghy again, from across an open space crowded with vendor stalls, and this time he has two more men with him. All three are visibly armed. And as I watch, my heart racing, Amos points right at Coleman through the open boarding ramp.

  He’s come back with reinforcements, determined to search the ship.

  If they find me here, Coleman will get hurt defending me. Even with his alien…augmentations, surely he can’t take on three armed men at once. And even if he can, fighting them will mean losing the contract with Meshach.

  I have to get off this ship, at least until they’ve searched it. So while they huddle together, probably discussing their plan to deal with Coleman, who hasn’t noticed them yet, I slip unseen down the ramp and into a whole new world.

  Miscellany is hexagonal in shape, its six sides encompassing a large, open central space occupied by a bustling bazar similar to the outdoor marketplace near Meshach’s home. Only this bazar isn’t outdoor, obviously. Because it’s a fueling station floating space. And these stalls and booths aren’t selling fresh produce and handmade crafts. The vendors are hocking weapons and ammo. Clothing, including helmets and some kind of lightweight armor. Surplus military rations. Canned oxygen. And all manner of spare parts, for any kind of ship, vehicle, or tech one could imagine.

  And that’s just the beginning.

  Businesses four stories high line the structure’s six-sided exterior, ringing the bazar, accessible by walkways made of metal grating that echoes the hexagonal shape of the port itself.

  As I sneak down the lowest level of hexagonal walkway, careful to keep my steps soft so I won’t be heard, I realize that Miscellany is constructed of materials similar to those of the ship I just snuck off of. Though the refueling port is obviously much older. The frame defining and containing this little celestial watering hole is a lightweight alloy of some kind. The path I’m walking is made of it, and through the slats beneath my feet, I can see a dimly lit, cavernous space full of generators and other machinery, their clanks and hums echoing up at me.

  And overhead…

  Wow. Miscellany’s ceiling is a grid of transparent panels, yellowing and a little foggy with age, through which I have a breathtaking view of a dark sea full of stars. For several seconds, I lose myself in the view, staring overhead with my jaw hanging open. But then a large man smelling of grease bumps into me.

  He can’t see me, of course, and he hasn’t noticed the shimmer of my modesty sheath, so he blames a man passing on my other side. And as I silently back away from the confrontation, the two men descend upon each other in a storm of flying fists and profanity. A crowd gathers, and I slip through it into the bazar, then back onto another leg of the hexagonal walkway.

  To my right is the open market, to my left a series of storefronts. Though calling them that is really putting on airs. The shops have no doors, or even front walls. They’re large, open rooms built into the exterior of the refueling port, separated from one another and defined by thin, dingy alloy walls.

  There’s a tattoo parlor. Several pubs. Brothels offering more carnal delights than I even knew existed. And those are just the businesses I can identify. Several seem to be simple, semi-private meeting places, where people gathered around wobbly tables are negotiating…things.

  In awe of my new surroundings, I’m a third of the way around the lower floor of the hexagon before I think to turn and look back at where I’ve been. Which is when I discover that one entire side of the hexagonal structure is made up of refueling bays. There’s the Dinghy, near the middle of the lowest level. Its ramp is closed, and I see no sign of either Coleman or Meshach’s men.

  I’ll stay close, so I can slip back onboard when the ramp opens. But there’s no reason I shouldn’t see as much of Miscellany as I can, on my way back. So instead of turning
to retrace my steps, I head off into the bazar at the center of the port, careful not to bump into anything or anyone again and give myself away.

  On my left, I pass a woman in a patchwork cloak of rags, selling thick strips of juicy meat impaled on thin wooden sticks. I have no idea what kind of meat it is, but it smells amazing, sizzling on the small grill at the back of her stall.

  To my right, people try on helmets and goggles. As I pass them, I see the bluish glow of some kind of tech from inside the lens of one of the devices, and I wish I could try it on. I hope it isn’t infrared, which might show body heat emanating from beneath the hem of my sheath.

  Back on the walkway, on the other side of Miscellany’s open central space, I head toward the fueling docks, approaching the Dinghy from a new angle. Peering into every business I pass on the way. Halfway there, I hear a familiar voice cheering in triumph, and when I turn to my left, I see Burke Jamison and his familiar head of brown hair. He’s seated at a table, playing a game I don’t recognize with oddly shaped dice and some pointy little pieces that move around a small playing surface. In front of him stands a stack of credit vouchers. Between his feet on the floor, his pack is swollen with whatever supplies he’s already bought, on Sotelo’s orders.

  I move on quickly, because unlike the rest of the crowd, he won’t mistake the shimmer of my modesty sheath for the ripple of heat from a vent in the floor.

  As I dodge patrons, passing through unpleasant pockets of body odor, I hear another unmistakable voice.

  “Bullshit!” Tirzah Dreyer shouts. “There’s a spot worn thin on the elbow and a rip in the seam. You’ll take twenty percent off the price, or I’ll take my twenty percent out of your leathery old hide!”

  The man she’s haggling with can’t be more than a few years older than Dreyer herself, despite her insult, and he looks entirely capable of defending himself. So when their argument comes to blows, I’m surprised that her first punch knocks him back several steps, until he crashes into his own display table. When he stands, there are four distinct puncture marks on his chin, where her knuckle spikes have broken the skin. Based on the rapid swelling, I think she’s also fractured his jaw.