Cluros loomed ahead of them, another icy cratered ball, unused by Slavers, since it was small, and slow, and far from the surface. With fewer places to hide.
“HELLHOUND IMPACT ONE HUNDRED SECONDS.”
SinBad saw a large blip, the size of a Navy corvette, separate from Cluros, firing anti-missiles.
“ANTI-MISSLES CLOSING AHEAD. HELLHOUND IMPACT FIFTY SECONDS.”
“What’s that?”
“Tarzana,” Tiffany explained, “the suburb-class corvette that brought me insystem. She has been hiding on Cluros ever since.”
Waiting for the Slavers to make a mistake. Like this one. Tarzana was more than a match for any two Slavers, carrying an arsenal full of missiles, and a reinforced company of marines. Hiryu and Salamander peeled off in opposite orbits, knowing that even a Navy corvette could not go two ways at once.
“HELLHOUND IMPACT TWENTY SECONDS.”
SinBad did the math in his head. Twenty-something tals. Hearing it in seconds made the missile sound even closer.
“Nineteen, eighteen, seventeen, sixteen...”
He gripped Tiffany’s free hand as she swung the helm to port.
“Fifteen, fourteen, thirteen...”
“ANTI-MISSILES PASSING TO STARBOARD.” Good news. Tiffany gave him a squeeze.
“Twelve, eleven...”
SinBad held his breath.
“HELLHOUNDS DESTROYED.” Impact alarms ceased. Tarzana’s anti-missiles had taken out the Hellhounds. With tals to spare. He exhaled, “We did it.”
“You did it.” Tiffany smiled up at him. “You got me and my witness off Barsoom. Without you, I would be lying dead on a sand dune.”
How true. Without thinking, they kissed.
He awoke flat on his back, staring up at a bulkhead, with Tiffany bending over him, no longer at the controls. “The ship? Don’t you have to...”
Tiffany shook her blonde head. “It’s over.”
“Over?” That seemed awfully quick.
“Salamander’s been disabled by a missile burst, and boarded by marines.”
“Hiryu?”
“Got away,” she was sorry to say. “If anything else happens, the ship will tell me.” He had been out for awhile. Just as well. Win or lose, battles were best slept through—making for less stress, and a lower profile. Tiffany ran her hand over his cheek, saying, “Sorry I kissed you.”
“I am not.” He would have felt like a bigger fool if they’d never kissed. And that was all he would get. Peace Corps whores only put out in the line of duty. Tiffany would bring perfect strangers to the heights of ecstasy, repeatedly, because it was part of her cover. All he got was a drugged kiss. Not that he was complaining. One heartfelt kiss from Tiffany, was better than a free pass to a pleasure palace.
By now he knew women thought this was just fine, pleasing men “on the job” because that was business, while drawing a strict circle around “personal” relationships. SinBad much preferred crime. He and Jem split the Navy reward for returning the Draco and capturing its crew. More offworld credit than the whole Huron nation had ever seen. Issus knew what he would do with it. And he got a free ride back to his sand sail, still sitting on the sward south of Hastor. Tiffany produced a box of meds, matching the one the Massingales got, paid for by the Peace Corps. She tucked it into the cargo bay of his sand sail, then gave him a long, drug free, kiss. When they were done tongue wrestling, Tiffany told him, “Take care.”
“If you insist,” SinBad replied. He popped his sail and set out again, with the wind on his port beam, rolling over red-orange sward bordered by sand, headed north for Hastor.