eye. Holographic monitors denoted ship's status, and repair work where Myklenian hits had been scored. Across from Skyla, the face of Imperial Admiral Iban Jakre filled the main bridge monitor.
Pompous ass!
"We are very pleased," Jakre's oily voice droned on. "I understand the Lord Commander's regrets at the unfortunate demise of the Praetor. The financial remuneration satisfies His Holiness completely. We do not consider it a breach of contract. In fact, we are more than pleased with the services rendered."
And well you ought to be! Staffa sent your God-Emperor a planet's ransom for breaking contract and killing that vile invalid. She ran slim fingers lightly over the stassa cup in her right hand. Idly she wondered if anyone anywhere had ever paid so much for a man's death.
"We're pleased with His Holiness' understanding, Admiral."
Iban studied her with the all too familiar look she'd come to expect from men. The change of voice from official to intimate hardly surprised her.
"If you could find the time Wing Commander, I would be more than honored to enjoy your presence. Perhaps you would allow me to extend His Holiness' hospitality for dinner aboard my flagship?" He inclined his head, eyes glittering. "We could make it a personal affair, perhaps dispense with the ritual of office for once. Relax."
You're almost drooling, Sassan pig. She kept her face neutral. "Thank you for your kind offer Admiral. Unfortunately, I am in charge of fleet supervision while the Lord Commander is off-duty. I'm sure you understand. We have some battle damage to repair — wounded to attend to — and our schedule is tight. We have another offer of employment which the Lord Commander is presently negotiating." Just to remind you we're free mercenaries Admiral faggot! "I echo the Lord Commander's appreciation for your kind offer." As if you'd invited him!
Iban nodded, a perfect example of a pained administrator. "I do understand. I look forward to your company, Wing Commander, when your duties are, shall we say, less demanding." He pressed palms together sensually, the fivejeweled rings sparkling on his fat fingers. His belly had
begun to expand and sag where his tired muscles were failing to hold it in. "I'm sure that a woman of your skill and a man of my position must have many things in common. I'd not want the Lord Commander to misperceive my intentions, but you are a free agent, are you not Wing Commander? Perhaps Sassa could make you a very attractive offer?"
Not for that! She smiled graciously, fingers tightening on her cup, and added, "Of course. Do understand, however, that my first obligation is to the Lord Commander. I doubt Sassa could afford my salary."
Jakre giggled. "I would love the opportunity to discuss that with you."
She forced her smile. "One of the first rules of the Companions is that we never close the door to options. For the moment, however, I must decline."
"But if—"
"Admiral, please forgive me, I have duties to attend to. I'll be in touch."
He made a deprecatory gesture with his hand and ducked his head in a semblance of a bow. "I hope to hear from you soon, Wing Commander. Sassa offers many opportunities for a woman of your talent."
"Until then Admiral." She killed the connection, casting a deadly glance at the monitor. Nerveless, pus-gutted sycophant! He and his kind were the Sassan Empire. How long could they hold it without the military might of the Lord Commander? How long would it last past the raping of the treasuries of their conquered words? They fawned over their God-Emperor — and worse, they had sold it to the people with such zeal they'd come to believe in Sassa's divinity themselves. In an Ashtan pig's eye!
She turned her attention to the stat board and noted the progress made by the repair crews workig on Jinx Mistress. The vessel would be space-worthy in another day — testament to the Companions' technical abilities. She okayed the progress report, realizing that Staffa usually got to such matters before she did.
Her attention shifted to the far monitor where Myklene turned, a lime crescent on the screen. Little patches of black — smoke from burning cities — mixed with the cloud
cover. Beyond the terminator, red eyes of fire-lit smoke could be made out. The legacy of war.
Damn it, Staffa, what happened in that hospital room down there? For almost half of her forty years Skyla had followed the Lord Commander, studying him
like she'd studied no other human being. And in all those years, I've never seen you go berserk like that.
Since his return to the ship, he'd locked himself away in his quarters and she'd attended to the administration of the fleet, receiving orders from him via comm — and only one at that: the order to reimburse the Sassans for the death of the Praetor.
She tapped long callused fingers on the command console, thoughts twisting around the scene in the Myklenian hospital. At Staffa's scream they'd burst through the door, expecting to see him dying, expecting Myklenian or Sassan treachery.
And there he'd stood like some avenging angel, literally twisting the Praetors head off his body. Staffa had shrieked ike a man being crushed alive.
From the moment he'd returned to the ship, Staffa had disappeared into the depths of his private rooms. His comm had remained ominously silent. Skyla tilted her head, eyes narrowed. That wasn't like him. Her nerves prickled with that old familiar premonition of trouble. What had that dying old man done? What power had he used to goad Staffa into killing him? The Praetor? Who had he been, and more important, what had he been to Staffa?
"It's none of your business, Skyla," she growled under her breath.
Or was it? She reached into her equipment belt, tracing absent fingers along the tape she'd extracted from the hospital unit. She'd kept her wits and thought to check. Hospital units always had recorders built into the machines to enable physicians to review treatment, visitors, or any events which might help or harm the patient.
Do I play it? Skyla pursed her lips and frowned at the image of Myklene where it filled the monitor. Betray Staffa's privacy? No, leave it be for now.
She frowned up at the overhead plates and twisted the end of her long white-blonde braid where it curled over her shoulder. The murmur of voices around the bridge sounded
normal. They'd all dropped into routine again. One eye on the Sassans and the deep-space sentry buoys — just in case— the other on the repairs.
So, what do I do now? Wander down and make a fool out of myself trying to check on him? How in Rotted Hell do you deal with a man like the Lord Commander when you're prying into his personal life? She slipped the stolen tape from her pouch and inspected it. Nothing more than a plastic cube with bits of binary data embedded — and a potential snake's nest of trouble for her if Staffa ever found out she had it.
Her professional self urged her to leave him alone and let him work out whatever bothered him. That didn't dim her desire to go to him, to see if she could help in any way as a… a friend would do.
And who would I call friend? Careful, Sy la. You have only yourself — no one else. Staffa's capable of fighting his own demons. You've come too far to compromise yourself for trie emotion.
She leaned on her elbow, chewed her callused finger, and ran her thumb lightly along the rough scar tissue on her cheek. He'd saved her life that time. A shot had cracked her helmet and she'd been face-to-face with death from decompression as her nose bled and her lungs expanded fit to burst her ribs no matter how fast she exhaled. Even the eyes in her head had started from' their orbits. He'd risked himself to get her under pressure. His face had been the first thing she'd seen when she'd come to on hospital deck. She'd always wondered at the gentle worry that had softened his expression. He'd held her hand in a most paternal manner. Then, as soon as the report came that she'd live, he'd hardened, grinned at her, and left to finish smashing the Maikan defenses into charred rubble.