Cold Victory Page 9

  His father frowned at that.

  “I'll fill you in when I have facts instead of speculations.” He understood what wounds of war could do to someone. He even understood the reasoning to kill a few with the intent to save the race. He simply couldn't understand how somebody could carry out the act, that cool intent to send people to their death, without even telling them what the fuck they would die for.

  Because he couldn't fight himself, he flipped the inputs to see Zoya in the med bay, lying peaceful and silent on the same antigrav pallet the med team had carried her out on from the brig. His wrist unit output her stats: BP, pulse, brain activity. All normal. All resting.

  He switched back to his father.

  “I want those details soon. Pazlov is breathing down my neck, and his breath hasn't gotten better since he was booted out of Tactical.”

  Stark didn't question how the admiral managed to circumvent protocol to contact his father directly. Instead, with a swift nod, he switched to Dex. “Progress?”

  “The same. They aren't harmful to her health, if that's what you are asking.” She carried nanites that could blow up a ship, but they weren't harmful to the carrier. He wasn't sure if he should feel outraged or grateful.

  “I need a confirmation before meeting with Pazlov.”

  He couldn't see Dex's face, but the man's voice sounded on edge. “The nanites in her blood secrete neutrinos upon contact with heat. Hotter the heat, the more neutrinos you get.”

  “So she was going to bleed into the engines?”

  He heard a crashing noise, as if Dex dropped something. “That'd be my guess.”

  Well, shit.

  The med bay was mostly empty, with a few techs rearranging equipment and running data checks on various trauma centers. After tomorrow, this light gray sterile place would reek with death and bodies.

  And she'd been sent to kill them all.

  “Revive her.”

  The head tech leaned over her status output. “She could use more rest.”

  “We rest when we're dead.” Somehow the phrase seemed most appropriate.

  Stark waited till those amber eyes opened, refusing to feel guilty at the frown of confusion on her face when her gaze met his.

  “Admiral Pazlov demands to speak with you.” He hadn't meant to keep his voice low.

  Zoya blinked at him. He watched her gaze go hard, as if she just remembered what had happened. The tentacles of guilt were firmly shoved away.

  She ignored his hand when she got up. “I'm fine.” She might as well have screamed “don't touch me.”

  “We'll use comm three.”

  She spared him a look. “My conversations with the admiral are private.” Hoarse, husky voice that never failed to make his cock harden.

  Pushing arousal away, Stark used his ocular to read her vitals: a slightly elevated heartbeat, but otherwise, all systems go. “Not anymore.”

  The short walk to comm three was filled with tense and empty silence. He wanted to ask why, but had a feeling he already knew the answer. The military had allowed the Murks to destroy her family, her entire culture. This mission was a way for her to strike out at both.

  Except she'd tried her best to get away from him, requesting transfers, prepping a Sabre for a long-term run. A part of him, the part that Stark called foolish, really wanted to believe she'd tried to leave because of him.

  Connection to Tactical took longer than usual, the signal being routed through various secondary arrays. They sat in silence on opposite sides of a comm unit while the display informed them Central Communications was repairing its systems and to expect delays.

  “General.” His father's holo-image finally materialized to his left.

  The general narrowed his eyes. “Commander.”

  “Present is Officer Zoya Scott, a member of Intelligence. Per protocol, you're to be present as my superior in this communication.” Technically, both Tactical and Intelligence chairs were supposed to lead this meeting, but somehow Pazlov had weaseled under the bureaucratic tape.

  His father touched something on his own comm unit. “Pazlov's online.”

  And clearly not thrilled to be there. “I'm glad to see my officer unharmed, but I do need to speak with her in private.”

  Zoya withstood the scathing gaze.

  “My apologies, Admiral.” Stark kept his voice calm. “Protocol dictates a superior officer to be present for all interdepartmental communications”

  Pazlov simply glared at him. “Personal inquires have nothing to do with interdepartmental protocol. I am simply concerned about my friend.”

  A quick look showed him Zoya stiffened at that “friend.” “She was unconscious for five hours upon the recommendation of my head medical technician.”

  A short beat of a pause. “I gave explicit orders to be contacted for any medical decisions regarding Zoya Scott.”

  “You'll have to put me on report for breach of orders.” Stark stared at the man who coolly sent him toward death. “I have reason to believe your friend poses a threat to Victory, which is the reason for this meeting.”

  A true Intelligence officer, Pazlov didn't blink an eye. “I have no knowledge of Victory procedures. Scott's conduct is, of course, under your jurisdiction.”

  Through this exchange, Zoya kept silent.

  Stark slated a glance at his father. “General, were you aware of Intelligence requesting use of our resources?”

  The general gave him a tiny frown. “I haven't seen any requisitions from them.”

  Stark nodded. “Admiral Pazlov knowingly planted an explosive on Tactical property, with the intent to use it in battle.”

  His father's eyes were cold, hard slits. “You have facts backing this?”

  Pazlov sat pale and silent, his face a mask of stubborn lines. Zoya stared ahead at nothing. “Officer Zoya Scott carries explosives on her person. She has confirmed her intent to use it inside Victory upon an order for collision course.”

  “Victory is our newest battle cruiser.” Stark didn't like his father's alarmingly red color. “An order of that magnitude would come either from me or Tactical chair. And I assure you, it would not have been made lightly.”

  “That order would come from the fleet admiral himself.” The holo-output of Pazlov rolled away from the comm station, showing his weakened body trapped in a chair with wheels. A Primus survivor, he refused the nanites to repair his spine, yet he had no scruples infusing them into Zoya. Fucking coward.

  “Intelligence has no business directing our resources.” The general valiantly kept his voice calm. “I want her”—he nodded at Zoya—“escorted off Victory till further notice.”

  “She will remain on Victory by my authority.” Pazlov couldn't get up. Instead he used his voice to command attention. “I won't allow bureaucratic evasion tactics to keep us from the greater goal. We have a chance here to end this war. Tomorrow. At the front lines. And I assure you, the fleet admiral has approved this plan.”

  “He's aware you're killing personnel, which is already thin across all lines? Or that you're destroying one of the few battle cruisers we have left?” The general fisted his hands above the comm unit.

  “The fleet admiral is aware that we can win the war.” Pazlov switched to a clipped, dry tone. “Various sources confirm the three-ship formation at the Omega sector carrying a valuable target. We have identified all baseships communicating with that target. Every single one. While we can't break their encryption, it's logical to assume it is the main point in their command structure. Destroy that, we can end the war.”

  The elder Stark could only shake his head. “You're out of your mind. What makes you think they won't just send another? You'll delay them at best.”

  “Their confusion will become a valuable tool, even if it's short-lived.” That pale blue gaze locked on to Stark. “They're running thin on resources, the same as we are. Wouldn't you agree to this, Commander?”

  Stark simply nodded. Zoya didn't say a word.

  �
��If they had more of the large ships protecting the command hub, they'd have used them to shred the blockade to pieces.” A short pause. “I may not be a hundred percent right. You think I don't understand the consequences?” Pazlov wheeled closer to Zoya. She didn't try to move away.

  “Our people were abandoned. Left to die. A Tactical”—he paused as if to highlight that word—“decision. Abandoning Primus minimized further loss.” His voice went quiet. “This is along the same idea.”

  Stark cleared his throat. “I prefer fate deciding when I die. Admiral.”

  “You joined the war knowing that would happen any moment.” Pazlov sighed, as if tired. “How many people have we lost? How many are we losing as we speak? We have a way of ending that.” His pale eyes flashed. “The fleet admiral agrees that we should take it.”

  “Unfortunately, Admiral, we have encountered a problem.” For the first time, Zoya actually spoke, her hands clasped in front her, her face calm, her voice even. “I have discovered an unanticipated biological connection between Commander Stark and myself. Central Research will demand to be brought in to study this connection. I would prefer not to alert them, as I'm sure they will add more to the bureaucratic evasion tactics.”

  Shocked, Stark forced his gaze to remain on the admiral.

  “As such, I request an immediate transfer. We can complete our mission, as we planned.” Her voice stayed cold and empty. “But not on Victory.”

  “I agree.” The general quickly took the reins. “I'm authorizing the transfer—”

  “No.” The word came out before Stark realized he'd spoken.

  Zoya didn't turn to look at him. His father shot him a look from tired, worried eyes.

  “Your transfer means another ship could be destroyed. I won't have that on my conscience.”

  “Conscience has nothing to do with it,” his father snapped just as Zoya's shoulders slumped.

  “Unfortunately, it does.” Stark knew exactly what he had to do. “A hundred people here, or a hundred people somewhere else. Either way, somebody has to die.”

  That empty, amber gaze finally turned to lock with his. Stark gave her a short nod. “What data do we have on the target?”

  A short pause before Pazlov spoke. “We have no data on the design, no previous encounters. We will have other battle cruisers covering your approach.”

  The cold he felt meant nothing. “And I assume the fleet will know to keep back at a reasonable distance?”

  “You assume right.” Pazlov waited a beat, as if expecting someone in the room to shut him up. “The nanites release neutrino particles upon contact with heat. As the particles compile, they will produce a massive but fairly localized explosion.” Another pause. “Victory has the best chance to get close enough.”

  “And if we succeed, best-case scenario, we end the war.”

  Pazlov nodded. “Worst-case scenario, we deal them a major blow. Imprint that we're not someone to fuck with.”

  Sacrifice few to save many. Millions. Maybe even more.

  “General.” He sent a small smile at his father. “I will need Thug transports for my crew.”

  His father nodded back, his face calm, his eyes mutinous.

  Pazlov lifted his head. “You're letting your men abandon ship?”

  “They deserve a choice in this.” He couldn't help but snort at Pazlov's stunned expression. “Tactical employs soldiers. My men will have a choice in how they die.”

  Chapter Eight

  “You're actually going through with this?” Zoya uttered the words after the holomeeting ended.

  Stark still hadn't moved to get up from his seat. He knew exactly what she was. A cold-blooded, heartless killer. No wonder he had been barely able to touch her in the brig.

  “You should get back to the med bay.” He barely glanced at her.

  “I'm fine.” The rawness in her belly was both nerves and drugs. “Look, I can fly a Sabre into an exhaust vent. Explode one of their engines from the inside. Victory can cover my approach.”

  Stark simply shrugged, still didn't bother looking up at her.

  “You were pretty adamant about the safety of your crew.” She refused to give in to the bitter tears. “Now, suddenly, you are eager to die?”

  Finally that hard blue gaze locked with hers. “You came here with the intent to destroy Victory. Now, suddenly, you're looking for ways out?”

  “You're my bloodmate.” The word explained everything and nothing.

  Those cold eyes narrowed. “I've always held the safety of my crew as the highest priority. You have no problem killing dozens.”

  “Do you know how or why I got convicted?” Suddenly it was vital to have him understand.

  Stark rubbed a hand over his eyes. “Pilfered supplies.”

  “That's right. Under the noses of the military.” She was too tired to inject nonchalance into her voice. “Tactical always hides supply ships in spatial distraction. The one where I was caught was stationed also in a large field of planetoids.”

  “I'll tell General Stark to keep that thought in mind.”

  He clearly wasn't in the mood to listen. Regardless, Zoya kept on, needing to get it out, needing for him to understand why she accepted Pazlov's offer. “When Primus was…attacked”—she choked a bit, remembering—“there were survivors.” She waited for the cold, dark numbness accompanying the memory and was surprised to find that she hadn't felt it for some time.

  “My sister and her child survived. Kegin. He was six years old.” She'd never cried for him. “They died a year after the attack because the medical supplies were earmarked for the military. With all this outcry about humans dying out, children”—she shuddered out a breath—“my nephew was allowed to die. Because meds were sent to the people who didn't protect him.”

  She stood because she couldn't bear sitting down. She swiped her hand over her face and realized it was the first time in years that she'd cried.

  “I died with them. With my sister and Kegin. The only thing that got me through the nights was stealing what I could from your damned people and taking it to the refugees.” She squared her shoulders and wondered if he even heard her. “When I got caught and was sentenced to the labor colony, I didn't fucking care. Then Pazlov”—she let out a small and nasty laugh—“offered me the two things I wanted.”

  “Revenge.” He watched her with hard eyes.

  “No. Well, yes, that was part of it. He offered me a way to damage the two things I hated most.” She tried to find some semblance of empathy in that cool gaze. “You need to understand. I did not care. It was a damned good idea at the time.” She wondered if he understood that this whole bloodmate thing had pierced the numb, cold shield with which she had surrounded herself.

  “You were grieving.” He didn't offer any sympathy. “Pazlov used your emotions for his means.”

  She shrugged. “I didn't care.”

  He nodded once again, his face a mask of calmness. “You should get to the med bay. Dex's checking if my blood is compatible with the nanites.” An empty chuckle. “I'm betting it will be, given the 'unanticipated biological connection,' as you called it. After the transfer, you'll be free to leave.”

  No tension, no anger. At last, Zoya felt the same cold wave of numbness wrap around her, and yet she couldn't find any comfort in it. “I'm staying.”

  He speared her with a cold gaze. “You don't belong on Victory.”

  “Then let me put it this way.” He wasn't taking her choice away. “I won't allow any more probes or scans or any other shit. You want the nanites? You'll fucking have to drink them out of me.”

  No reaction, just a slightly raised eyebrow. Disgusted with herself, with all of this, Zoya headed toward the exit. “You try to force the issue, I'll explode any equipment that comes toward me.” She exhaled when he didn't say a word. “I'll leave this ship the same way you will.”

  * * *

  Less than an hour later, Zoya hid among the Sabres at the launch deck. As she moved through th
e gathered crew, she caught the snags of gossip floating around her.

  “Something about a new technology.”

  “A new weapon that will kick Murk ass.”

  “The military is negotiating surrender.”

  Ahead, Stark, with his somber face and tired, fierce eyes, stood flanked by a huge Thug transporter.

  She wove among the gray-dressed pilots, repair crews in their orange and yellow jumpsuits, various techs, and comm specialists. About a hundred people. She would kill them all.

  The buzz of voices only got louder when Stark lifted up a hand.

  “We'll be at the blockade in a few hours.” He didn't raise his voice.

  Zoya fought to make her way closer without him seeing her.

  “We will take our position across the Omega sector, and we'll fight.” He paused as if to take a breath. “We'll fight until I hear from the field admiral. At that time, I may be ordered to take Victory into a collision course with an enemy target.” The launch deck went dead silent.

  “We've found the hub of their command. Victory's goal is to destroy that ship and fuck their command chain.”

  She heard a low buzz of murmurs.

  “We have a chance to win the war. We won't know if it works, because we will not live to see it. As such, you have to make a choice. Anyone who wants to get off Victory is free to do so.”

  More buzzing of voices.

  “You all knew what the risks were when you signed up to fight this war. I need you all to understand, this isn't a risk. What it is…?” He laughed and shook his head. “It's fucking suicide. You have an hour to decide.”

  The noise level rose again, dread and excitement, fear and remorse. Someone bumped into her, then steadied her when Zoya nearly stumbled.

  “You believe this shit?” Poll nodded toward the Thug.

  “Yeah.” She moved back and waited for a verbal slap. He wore only his undershirt, his arms tattooed with some sort of ancient kanji.

  “You're gonna stick around?”

  She couldn't help but chuckle. “Yeah. You?”

  Poll nodded. “Yeah. We'll kick Murk ass.” And to her shock, he held out his palm, expecting her to shake it.