Cold Victory Page 5

  He eased out a single shot and cursed as the exploding rock particles revealed another squad of fighter ships now bleeding onto the grid amidst the floating dust.

  “Sabres, you're outgunned.” He flagged the comm chief and refused to let his pulse effect his voice. “We need more birds out there.”

  “Commander.” Zoya's voice came through fuzzy with interferences. Stark pushed away the need to see if the rapidly moving green dot displayed on the hologrid was her Sabre. “We should split up, single units of weapon and wing.”

  “For playing hide-and-seek?” Poll's voice. “We're stronger in formation.”

  “And present larger targets.” Stark almost heard Zoya roll her eyes.

  Still no weapons. He leaned onto the comm and studied the approaching enemy targets. “Keep fours for now, split up on my mark.”

  “Baseship is somewhere near here.” Dex plugged in frequency combinations to try to get a bead on a common destination of enemy ship comms. “With this many fighters out, it can't be far behind.”

  Tactical data did support that theory. He'd just wasted a shot thinking along those same erroneous lines. And yet, the thought that raced through him was bold and huge and had nothing to do with tactics. “Sabres, do not engage until my mark. No weapons.”

  “Sir?” Poll didn't sound thrilled.

  Dex spared him a glance. “What are you planning?”

  “You have their frequency?”

  A swift, negative shrug. “I narrowed them to a few thousand.”

  “Hahn, how fast can you cycle through them?”

  She did not appear shocked. “Thirty per second. Maybe more.”

  “Do it.” Stark switched to audio input, ignoring Dex's “What the fuck?” look. “This is the human battle cruiser Victory. Acknowledge this communication.”

  “You're engaging them in talks?” Even as he spoke, Dex moved Communications' monitoring controls onto his hologrid so Hahn could cycle through frequencies.

  “This is Commander Stark of battle cruiser Victory. Respond to this communication.”

  A section of a comm grid went from gray to dark. “Power overload on deck four B.” Dex cursed. “Remember not to ask me how I got that sixth single shot.”

  Hahn sent him a quick look. “Call beta crew.” Her fingers flew over the input paths, randomizing frequency settings to ensure the widest distribution. On the main hologrid, a burst of red indicated a large energy mass rounding on the small dots of the Sabres.

  “They're on top of us!” Poll's voice, dread and excitement. “Let's kick ass, motherfuckers!”

  “No weapons! Not till I give the go.” Stark switched back to the comm input. “This is the battle cruiser Victory.” He heard the desperation in his voice, ignored it, and clenched his teeth. He willed the enemy to respond. “We have not engaged weapons. I urge you to respond to this communication.”

  “Say 'pretty fucking please,'” he heard Dex mutter just as the enemy fighters broke apart into small groups and the energy output flashed to orange. “Sabres, split up. Snuffers!”

  The engines acknowledged the command to move. Dex engaged antifire just as enemy shots slammed hard into Victory's hull. Flashes of light, a smell of smoke. At least Victory's outer shell wasn't infused with plaster.

  She could withstand a hit, but it didn't stop the stations from smoking up a shitstink. On the now fuzzy hologrid, the Sabres split into teams of two, exchanging single shots with Murks.

  “Use outside grav if you can.” Zoya's voice remained calm, but he heard the small telltale tremble. “Conserve your fuel.”

  The grid fizzed out. Stark slammed a fist into the central comm, which somehow brought the image output back, showing enemy fire as red lines and the Sabres fighting back as rapidly moving green dots.

  “Clear the cannon. Two bursts, short and sweet.” He compensated for the gravity correction, hearing a whine of fuel as the engines followed a sharp turn command. “Sabres, return fire. Watch for friendly at twelve B.” He couldn't wait to check if they moved out of the way before he plugged in double bursts of cannon fire. He almost heard them whistle as they locked on the target.

  “Direct hit.” Dex had to shout over the whine of the engines. “No return fire yet. They're conserving ammo.”

  The hologrid redrew itself again, as if it couldn't follow an overload of input. Red and green dots mixed together; red and green lines extended into space.

  “We're wasting shots!” Poll's voice exploded through the comm.

  “Then lay off the damned trigger!” Techeon, who rarely said a word, came through with a surprising clarity of sound through the buzz of noise. “Fresh, watch the curve. Fresh. Fresh!” The grid flashed an explosion as one of the green dots collided with a red.

  Silence, despite the roar of engines. Then Zoya's voice came in over the shock. “Nouvelle, you're with Techeon.”

  Tech's heavy voice came through the comm, as if he struggled with composure. “I'm good.”

  “Trust me, it's better. Victory, I'm cutting off the comm.”

  “What the hell are you doing?” Stark watched a green dot disappear from the grid. “Scott!” A planetoid lit up with enemy antifire just as another burst of orange lit up the hologrid. His pulse beat wildly in his throat. “Damnit, Scott!”

  He saw her dot again, blinking before disappearing once more behind another rock.

  “She's fucking playing hide-and-seek.” Poll's voice, irritated and tired. Another line of green lit up the grid. Another flash of red. A blink of orange indicating an energy sig heightening.

  “Watch for incoming.” Beside a smoking station, a uniform was wheeled away, replaced immediately by another. “Prepare to snuff.” Stark gripped the comm unit.

  “They're on to you, Scott. Scott!” A flash of orange scattered the floating rocks. “Zoya!”

  No answer.

  His heart froze for a paralyzing second. He fought for breath, fought for control while picturing her face, wondering if she was terrified.

  “I'm hit.” A forced calm voice that had him breathing once again. “Grazed the starboard engine.”

  “Return to base.” He couldn't hear over the thunder in his ears. She was a pilot; she knew and accepted the risks of that rank. He wouldn't breach protocol because of his damned hormones or the heavy relief inside his chest.

  “I'm good, Commander.”

  “I can't afford to lose a bird. Return to base.”

  He heard a muttered curse, then watched the red dots of Murks move in on the lone green one. “Tech, she needs cover.”

  “On it.” Two green dots closing in on her location.

  “Baseship powering up again.” Dex slapped the holo-unit when the image fizzed again. “Snuffers online…now.” The imaging coords managed to locate both incoming targets. Another flash of white covered the grid.

  “Power up all we got.” They had to end this, now. “Randomize targets.”

  Victory shuddered a release of fire. Stark watched thick white lines pierce the grid just before Zoya's Sabre rapidly moved behind a planetoid.

  “Scott, you're to return to base. Tech, spread them out!”

  Another flash, another green dot went white and then blinked out.

  “Shit! Navarette!” Tech's voice was nearly drowned out by the noise.

  A shuffle of static on the comm. “Caught my fucking engines.” A muffled cheer.

  “I'll escort you to base.” The raw voice was Zoya.

  Hahn lifted up a finger. “We got movement!”

  The orange mass rapidly moved away, the red dots quickly following. Watching the grid clear of red, Stark unclenched his sweaty fists and breathed out for the first time in what felt like hours. He took a few short seconds to calm the heart permanently lodged inside his throat.

  “Birds, return to base.” He couldn't afford to take the extra second to ensure she got safely back into the launch deck. “Report to Sub-Commander Dex for debrief. Hahn, we'll need cleanup crews.” Various station
s pooled plasma under his feet, with burned wirings clattering somewhere against a smoking bulkhead. “Pull us back as soon as the Sabres get in.”

  Dex nodded in acknowledgment, calling up damage reports before Stark asked for them. He needed somewhere to breathe, to put his fist into a wall. To absorb what the hell had happened. To start the grueling task of separating the dead from the injured, and after cleanup, fill out the death certificates.

  “I got teams to inspect the hull as soon as we're in position.”

  “Good.”

  The hologrid was now a serene map of floating dust and rocks and metal particles. The supply ship was somewhere under them, safe for the moment.

  “You've got a diplomatic streak?”

  Stark didn't need to look up to know Dex originated the incoming. “Was worth a shot.” He didn't have the patience to key the words into a comm input. Sometimes he wondered if Dex figured out how to think into his.

  “Central Diplomacy will have a shit fit.”

  Stark figured as much. “They'll have to get in line.”

  * * *

  She should've taken the pills prior to takeoff. Now, Zoya couldn't get to them until the launch crew got her out of the pressure suit. The rawness on her upper arm was an illusion; the suit protected her from the flashes of heat. Nevertheless, she had a strong urge to rub her biceps as soon as the damned pressure suit was lifted off her body and she could finally take an actual breath that didn't involve recycled oxygen.

  She didn't have much time.

  With small trembles already slithering through her bones, Zoya forced herself down the ramp as the technicians swarmed her Sabre to assess damage and initiate repairs. With fumbling hands, she reached for the side pocket of her uniform and groped for the syringes. Last time she'd used them, they gave her a good dose of nausea, but at this point, they were her best bet. Biting her lip, hoping that no one noticed her unsteady gait, she turned to find the nearest head.

  “You gone deaf?” She blinked, and Poll was in her face, his face covered with his sweat, his eyebrows heavy. “We're debriefing.”

  She would be seizing on the floor in any moment. “I need a minute.”

  His fingers closed over her arm. “Now you're feeling guilt? Remorse? Shocked that your stupid stunt didn't kill more people?”

  Her teeth started to chatter. “Let go. Now.”

  “Or what? You'll knock me out? Try it. Try it now.” His eyes grew dark with grief mixed with exhaustion. “You're fucking the commander now? That why he let you get away with it?” Both his hands were on her, gripping on her shoulders. The first tremor speared through her bones, her knees barely holding her.

  “We fly formation. That means no fucking tricks, no hiding in the fucking craters. You could've been killed just like that fucking kid. Your tricks didn't help him, did they?”

  “Back off,” she managed through numb lips. “Right now. Back off.” Her vision went gray at the edges.

  “Go ahead, punch me again. The commander will let it go if you blow him.”

  “Enough.”

  Cold sweat poured down her back. She was already shaking. It took tremendous effort to lift up her head and see Sub-Commander Dex striding toward both of them.

  “I need—” She desperately tried to focus. “A minute. Sir.”

  He frowned at her for a long moment. “You got one. Rest of you, with me.”

  She barely had the strength to remain upright. If she could have been certain no one was watching, she would have crawled. Luckily, the head was a short walk from the launch deck, a walk that seemed to take a painful hour. Zoya used her whole weight to pop the hatch so she could fall inside, then feebly pushed the door closed.

  Her hands shook hard enough for her to drop a syringe, and she didn't have the strength to look for it. Instead she leaned against the wall and fought the oncoming convulsions while fumbling for another stabilizer in her pocket.

  No pain, at least not yet. Her world became a dark, cold tremor, rattling her teeth and bones.

  “Looking for this?”

  She shook too hard to be jarred by the words. Her trembling fingers couldn't seem to grip the slim, smooth syringe packet.

  Dex crouched down in front of her, holding the silver-wrapped stabilizer she'd dropped moments ago.

  “Where?” His voice stayed calm, matter-of-fact.

  “Vein. Neck.” She wanted him to go away but was pathetically grateful for the sting of the syringe when he pushed the chemicals into her blood, then simply studied her with thoughtful and dark eyes.

  “You're seizing.”

  She didn't bother answering as cold sweat dripped into her eyes.

  “How long before the meds kick in?”

  If asshole Poll hadn't gotten in her face, she'd have been fine already. “Minute. Or so. I'll be fine.”

  “I'll wait.” He frowned at her, his gaze somber and tired. “I know I didn't see this on your medical.”

  She couldn't even shake her head.

  “Pazlov cleared it for you?”

  Zoya clutched her knees and simply nodded.

  Dex moved out of her line of sight just as the shakes started to ease. She forced herself to lift a heavy hand to swipe at the hot moisture on her forehead. Nausea slowly took possession of her insides, a welcome rolling in her gut indicating relief. Embarrassment followed. She never allowed anyone to see her in this state. The fact that he had, the fact that he'd been helpful, was nearly as unsettling as the idea of him finding a weakness he could use against her.

  “Here.” Something miraculously cool was pushed into her hand. Grateful, she wiped her face, then closed her eyes for a short second.

  “Adrenaline or blood sugar?” He probably engaged ocular sensors and scanned her stats for blood pressure and temp.

  “Adrenaline.” At least that was the truth.

  “You realize I'll have to report this to Stark.”

  Of course. There it was, the not-too-subtle turn of weakness into a weapon. Except the seizures could be just the excuse she'd need. Stark couldn't afford a pilot losing control of a bird. “I understand.”

  She willed herself to stand and was surprised when he grasped her arm to help her. Things didn't seem so bad now that she was unsteadily on her feet.

  She needed water and a dark, cool place to rest.

  “You've had three calls for incoming. Your Admiral Pazlov doesn't like to wait.” A slight hint of sarcasm or maybe distaste in his calm voice.

  She rubbed a slightly trembling hand over her clammy forehead. “I left the ear comm inside the pressure suit.” The roaring in her head was backing off now, the black edges of her vision lightening to a dull gray.

  Dex nodded. “Report to the commander when you're able. I'll hold off my report if you'd prefer to talk to him yourself.”

  She exhaled when the realization hit. “He'd spoken with you. About…” She couldn't say the word, as if keeping it silent made things easier. “About the thing with us.”

  “He has.” A shrug, as if to say it wasn't a big deal. “I'm not sure which one of you I should feel worse for.”

  Since he'd already registered for a ration of water, Zoya scooped some up into her hand to take a small gulp and splash some on her face. She nearly felt human. “You sound like you have some experience in the matter.”

  She nearly missed the dark, hard look that came and went from his face. “I've seen a bloodmate link go bad.”

  Chapter Five

  “I've waited nearly three hours.”

  She felt dead calm, her blood running cold and clear. “My apologies, Admiral. I had to rest after our engagement.”

  “I've read the reports.” He snapped the words at her. “Your Sabre was damaged.”

  “Small dogfight.”

  Now he smiled, a cold, warrior-hard glint in his eyes. “I'm told you kicked Murk ass.”

  She didn't smile back. “Yes, sir.” He had been Tactical before the run-in with the Murks left him dependent on a seat with
wheels. From what Zoya had understood, Tactical took that as an opportunity to get him off their hands.

  Inside the cramped, dark space of the Secondary Comm Backup, she barely had room to keep Pazlov's holo-output from standing on top of her.

  “I won't risk all our efforts. Victory will be relieved in the next twenty-four hours. Sooner, if I get the reports I need.”

  “Admiral.” She paused for a short second. “I should tell you, Sub-Commander Dex is aware of the symptoms.”

  “You told him?”

  “I didn't have a choice. He'd scanned my stats.” She forced her face to stay impassive. “He is notorious for employing implants. If he is able to comprehend the nanite signature…” She let the sentence hang.

  “He will report it to Commander Stark, and we will find ourselves in a drawn-out evaluation of our strategy. Tactical personnel adore evaluations.” Pazlov pinched the bridge of his nose while Zoya waited for him to reach the desired conclusion.

  She was a cold-skinned coward. She admitted it. She had no heart, and that she could accept. She'd rather kill a hundred faceless people than betray the man for whom she had “no positive regard.” She wouldn't have to think about it once Pazlov transferred her.

  “I had a damned good reason for putting you on Victory.”

  With that, her heartbeat slowed.

  “It's the newest ship in the fleet. We need something that'll hold together during the final onslaught.”

  Furiously, Zoya tried to think of something else yet couldn't up with anything that didn't require telling him of the bloodmatch. And even that, Zoya already knew he'd simply bury under interdepartmental bull.

  “You'll stay on Victory. As far as Sub-Commander Dex, even if he sees an abnormality, you're officially attached to the Department of Intelligence. As such, before submitting to any scans, you will—per protocol—inform me. I will take care of the rest.”

  There was no time to panic under that shrewd gaze.

  “You'll be at the blockade in three days' time.”

  She didn't remember when she ended the comm or sneaked out of the wire-laced Backup closet.