Fractured Stars Page 2

  Axton backhanded his fist into the wall, breaking the entire control panel. A few pieces tinkled to the floor, and the voice ceased speaking.

  Perhaps staying on Axton’s “good side” was too lofty a goal to aspire to. He was understandably irate, given that their ship was too damaged to fly and the three Alliance vessels that had been responsible had all escaped nearly unscathed. They had been attempting to rescue two of the six prisoners Axton was taking to Frost Moon 3. Dash had done his best to aid the Alliance vessels without making it obvious, but he’d dared not be too inept at piloting, not under Axton’s scowling eyes. Dash’s cover was only useful as long as nobody in imperial law enforcement figured out where his true loyalties lay. If the thick-skulled Axton found out, the cyborg would likely break his neck on the spot.

  “Yes, sir,” Dash said again and turned his back to his boss so he could concentrate on the task. And also so Axton wouldn’t see the distaste in his eyes.

  “You said you know the captain?” Axton strode up behind him and put on his helmet.

  “I’ve never met her in person or spoken to her, but I know her reputation.” Dash gritted his teeth, his mind shifting from his present predicament to his old job and old grievances.

  McCall Richter—he had no idea if that was her real name—had cost him money and wasted time, not just once but on three separate occasions. She probably didn’t know it and wouldn’t care if she did, but she’d beaten him to locating criminals, delinquents, and debt evaders that could have made him a lot of money if he’d brought them in first. She didn’t even bring people in. She just found them and told the law enforcers or debt collection agencies where the miscreants were so their officers could apprehend them themselves. When that happened, the offer of a bounty was rescinded—and bounty hunters who’d been on the job weren’t paid.

  Dash caught a growl rumbling deep in his throat. Axton must have heard it with his augmented ears because he looked over, his eyebrows rising behind his clear faceplate.

  Dash cleared his throat. “She’s reputed to be smart, aloof, and eccentric. She won’t take vid calls and only accepts assignments sent via text messages. She claims she can find anyone and commands a high premium. From what I’ve heard, she can find anyone, so I guess people pay her asking price.”

  “She likely to make trouble for us? Have a team of men working for her, ready to jump us when we step into her airlock?” Axton pulled his rifle from his shoulder and cradled it in his arms. He looked like he wanted that trouble.

  “My scans only showed one human and one canine life sign on the ship.”

  “She could still try something,” Axton mused. “Not everybody likes cooperating with the empire. Especially out here.” He waved vaguely to indicate the border planets and moons in the trinary star system, places where law-enforcement officers and ships were sparser than in the more populated and civilized core worlds.

  “Her record says she pays her taxes and often works for the empire,” Dash said, even though he wouldn’t mind seeing Richter hoisted off her feet by a cyborg after his frustrations with her. But no honest imperial subject deserved that fate, especially if Sheriff Axton was doing the hoisting.

  “So she should cooperate? Enh, I guess that’s good. We can get the prisoners transferred to her ship, drop them off, get some techs and parts, and come back out to fix the Truncheon before any scavengers try to salvage it. By all three suns, my life is a blessing, isn’t it?”

  “Is that cyborg sarcasm, sir?”

  Axton looked like he wanted to spit. Generally not a good idea while wearing a helmet with a faceplate. All he did was snarl.

  If Axton thought his life was rough, he ought to try being the person working for him.

  The indicator on the display flashed green. The tube was affixed to the airlock hatch on the other ship.

  Connection secure, the display read.

  The hatch on the Star Surfer opened, welcoming them in, or at least promising cooperation. Richter, it seemed, wasn’t going to make them cut their way in with a plastorch.

  She probably didn’t want her fancy purple ship to be damaged. Dash wondered if she owned it outright. If she did, she made a lot more money than he ever had as a bounty hunter.

  Let it go, Dash, he told himself.

  That was his past career, one he’d abandoned years ago. He wasn’t some scruffy bounty hunter working for money now. He was helping the Alliance fight the tyranny of the empire, and they needed him. He had to focus on freeing those prisoners—at least one of them—without compromising his cover.

  “I’ll go first,” Axton said when the computer deemed the tube pressurized and oxygenated.

  With his fully self-sufficient combat armor, that wouldn’t matter to Axton, but Dash wore only his gray uniform trousers, shirt, and jacket, with a blazer pistol and a stun gun holstered at his belt. As he’d learned when he’d been transferred to Axton’s command, only sheriffs were deemed worthy enough to be provided a suit of combat armor.

  “Don’t try anything shifty,” Axton growled over his shoulder before stalking into the tube.

  An icy tendril of fear ran down Dash’s spine. Why would Axton say such a thing? Had Dash’s subtle sabotage during the battle not been as subtle as he thought?

  As Axton strode through the umbilical cord to the other ship, Dash risked using one of the few talents he’d inherited via his mother’s mutated Starseer genes, mind reading. He’d been hesitant to poke into Axton’s thoughts since cyborgs in the imperial space fleet, as Axton had once been, received training to detect and fight off Starseer mental abilities, but he had to know. Did Axton suspect him?

  Using an extremely light probe, Dash didn’t sense any specific thoughts, but he did sense suspicion marinating in the man’s mind. Great. Dash would have to be doubly careful for the rest of the mission. Arranging for the prisoners to escape might not be something he could risk.

  Or would it be worth blowing his cover and risking his life to keep Rose Akerele from being interred in the prison mines? The Alliance needed her.

  Axton looked back, and Dash hurried to catch up. They walked into the Star Surfer’s airlock one after the other and closed the outer hatch. A few clunks and beeps sounded, and Dash kept his back to the wall, uncomfortable with how close he had to stand to Axton in the confined space, both because he was an unpleasant man and because he might step on Dash’s foot in that armor and crush a few bones.

  At six-foot-one, with a lean, muscular build, Dash wasn’t a small man, but it was hard not to feel diminutive next to a cyborg in combat armor. The nearly seven-foot-tall Axton was even more hulking than most cyborgs, men who’d once been chosen from regular fleet soldiers because of their intimidating builds. If one was going to spend thousands of tindarks on surgical implants and biomechatronic alterations to make super soldiers, one couldn’t start with a runt.

  The hatch opened, and Axton ducked his helmet to stride into a small cargo hold that seemed more spacious than it was due to a lack of cargo. Not surprising since this wasn’t a freighter. This ship was sleek and fast and probably only carried supplies and equipment for the crew. The woman and her dog, if the sensor scans had been correct.

  A low growl came from the hold, and Axton shifted a rifle toward the noise.

  “Shit,” a woman said, her voice tense and alarmed. “Are you a cyborg?”

  “What of it?” Axton demanded, his voice hard.

  “Junkyard doesn’t like cyborgs.”

  Another growl sounded. Dash stepped around Axton so he could see what was going on.

  A woman stood in the middle of the hold, gripping the collar of the largest dog Dash had ever seen. The scruffy black, white, brown, and gray mongrel hadn’t lowered into an attack crouch, but it was baring its pointed teeth as its brown eyes bored into Axton’s chest. How could a dog tell a cyborg from a regular human being through an encasement of combat armor?

  “You taught your dog to hate cyborgs?” Axton’s voice was low, dangerous.


  Dash shifted his attention to the woman—McCall Richter, presumably.

  She was about five and a half feet tall with brown hair pulled back in a ponytail and a round face devoid of makeup, not even a smear of lipstick. She looked to be about thirty, but Dash knew from the reputation she’d established and how long she’d been in the business that she had to be closer to forty. She wore baggy many-pocketed trousers, hiking shoes, a loose white shirt, and a jacket a size too large for her. She didn’t appear to be overweight, but it was hard to tell what she looked like under that clothing. He thought she might have a cute smile, if she ever smiled, but she wore a consternated expression now, and even without his Starseer abilities, he sensed she was worried the dog would get loose, attack, and be shot.

  “No,” McCall said. “He came that way. I found him in a junkyard on Demeter, so I don’t know his past. He’s got a lot of scars under his fur though. Someone beat him up at some point in his life.”

  “If a cyborg beat him up, he wouldn’t be alive,” Axton said.

  “Yes, charming of you to point that out. Let me put him in my cabin.”

  McCall tugged on the dog’s collar, but it—he, she’d called him—sank lower and growled again, eyes still locked on Axton.

  Dash was inclined to like a dog that hated Axton, but he did not say so. He drew his stun gun so he could shoot the dog if he escaped from McCall. Stunning him ought to keep Axton from drilling the dog between the eyes with his blazer rifle, which he seemed to be contemplating doing.

  “Come on, Junkyard,” McCall urged. “Bacon treats in the cabin.”

  The dog didn’t look pleased about leaving, but this last entreaty worked. He allowed her to pull him to the corridor leading out of the cargo hold.

  “We’ll show ourselves around the ship,” Axton said. “Find a place to put the prisoners.”

  McCall frowned back at him, and Dash sensed alarm from her. Alarm and fear.

  Huh, what was this? Did she have something to hide?

  “The cell I mentioned is back there by engineering.” McCall jerked her head toward the large cargo hatch in the back and a smaller hatchway near it. “If you need more space, the back four cabins up this corridor are free. The four closest to NavCom are mine for work or, uhm, storage.”

  Dash arched his eyebrows. He hadn’t needed any otherworldly senses to hear the lie in that hesitation. What was she hiding? Was it possible the premier skip tracer of the Tri-Sun System wasn’t quite the darling of the empire he had assumed?

  “Fine,” Axton said, heading toward the cell. “I’ll check it out and bring the prisoners over as soon as I can secure them. There’s not any time to waste.”

  He hadn’t reacted to her fumble. Had he not noticed it? Or did he just have other matters on his mind?

  Dash had only been the sheriff’s pilot for two months, so he couldn’t claim to be an expert on the man, but after witnessing his actions in battle, he didn’t think Axton was as dumb as he acted.

  As Dash watched McCall tug her dog out of the cargo hold, he decided to do a little snooping around during the voyage to Frost Moon 3. If she was hiding something or was guilty of a crime the empire didn’t know about, Dash could offer up that information to Axton and maybe distract the sheriff from his suspicion of him.

  If he had the bird dog pointed somewhere else, he would have an easier time figuring out a way to free the Alliance prisoners without ruining his cover. Besides—he smiled slightly to himself—he wouldn’t mind paying McCall back for all the times she had beaten him to the punch.

  That wasn’t petty, he told himself. If she was indeed committing a crime or had in the past, she deserved to be brought to justice.

  2

  NavCom felt empty without Scipio in there. Her android partner did not require sleep, so McCall usually found him up there whenever she visited to check on the ship’s status and position en route.

  She didn’t even have Junkyard for company since she’d locked him in her cabin. Usually, he had the freedom to roam the ship, but she dared not allow him out with that cyborg sheriff on board.

  What was a cyborg doing in law enforcement anyway? The military was the organization that ran a cyborg program, altering young men in exchange for long enlistment commitments. They even had their own Cyborg Corps division. The sight of their red combat armor was enough to make enemies flee in the other direction, usually after leaving puddles behind. Whenever McCall had run across civilian cyborgs, they had always been retired—or AWOL—from the fleet.

  She was on the verge of seeing what she could find in the sys-net on Axton when the hatch behind her opened with a soft hiss.

  She tensed and turned in her seat, expecting the dyspeptic sheriff. But it was the man who’d come on board with him. He hadn’t been introduced or spoken a word during their meeting. Admittedly, she’d cut that meeting short because of the need to stow away Junkyard.

  McCall eyed the man warily, wanting nothing more than to tell him NavCom was off limits, but he wore a law-enforcement uniform, the rank sewn around the cuffs proclaiming him a deputy. He had brown skin, dark eyes, and short black hair that was within regulation, though it was tousled instead of tidily combed. His nose had lost a few fist fights, and an old burn mark at his temple suggested his head had gotten in the way of a blazer bolt. He had a strong jaw with a couple of days’ worth of beard growth. No doubt, he wore it that way in some attempt to be sexy. Whether he was or not, she had no idea. She was a horrible judge of such things. It wasn’t until she got to know someone that she started to consider a person attractive or not, and then proceeded to ignore them regardless. She had proven herself inept at relationships in her youth and didn’t seek them out anymore.

  The deputy glanced around NavCom, his gaze lingering on the piloting station, then looked at her.

  McCall forced herself to hold his gaze for three seconds, though her natural inclination was to avoid eye contact. She always found it uncomfortably personal and hated when people looked at her.

  He glanced at her wrist, and she realized she was twisting her bracelet. She forced her hands down, spreading them on her thighs. Damn it, her palms were breaking out in a sweat. How was she going to manage five days without blabbing everything about Scipio?

  “I’m Deputy Dash,” he said and extended his hand.

  “Dash?” she asked.

  It didn’t sound like a name, and she wondered if she’d misunderstood. She always had a hard time understanding people with accents, though his was slight. She couldn’t guess what planet he hailed from.

  “Dash. I only tell my real name to friends, lovers, and criminal overlords with dungeons and torture devices housed in their secret lairs.”

  She stared at him.

  “That was a joke,” he added.

  “Oh. Was it funny?” She didn’t think so, but she wasn’t the best judge of such things.

  “Other people have laughed.”

  “They may have felt obligated since you’re in law enforcement and hold people’s fates in your hands.”

  This time, he stared at her, his brow furrowing slightly.

  She sighed. In addition to not always getting humor, she had a hard time remembering which things were appropriate to say to strangers and which things ought to remain solidly in the back of one’s mind. She hadn’t had to be socially adept, or even make the attempt, in some time, thanks to being independently employed and having established a reputation that made people want her whether she spoke smoothly at parties or not.

  “Like I said, the name is Dash.” He shook his hand slightly for emphasis. “You’re McCall Richter, right?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  McCall made herself clasp his hand, though she didn’t like touching people, especially strangers. He would find it odd if she stuck her hands in her pockets, and she didn’t need either of the law enforcers thinking her odd.

  Fortunately, his palm was dry, and he didn’t hold the grip overly long.

  “A
nd you’re a skip tracer, right?”

  “Yes.” She assumed he or his sheriff had looked up her and her ship before deciding to seize it. They probably knew plenty about her. So why was he questioning her about things he already knew?

  “I’d heard of you before this,” he said. “I used to be a bounty hunter.”

  “Ah.”

  She didn’t care about his former career and groped for an acceptable way to shoo him out of NavCom. Why hadn’t she thought to lock the hatch? That would have obviated the need for this awkward conversation. And hand touching.

  “Have you heard of me?” He was back to looking at her eyes.

  “No, sorry.” She couldn’t help it. She looked away. What was his problem with the staring?

  “I used to do a lot of work around Aldrin’s moons and sometimes headed out to the Dark Reaches. Found tons of people skulking around in the Trajean Asteroid Belt.”

  “Ah.” She almost said more, offering up some of the data she’d put together on the statistics of people likely to flee to the asteroid belt and join the pirate gangs out there for protection, but she didn’t want to encourage more conversation. Especially when he had such a probing gaze. Did he find her suspicious? She always had a hard time reading people, but something about him seemed odd.

  As did the way he was still looking at her. Scrutinizing her.

  “Do you need something?” McCall asked. “Did you get your prisoners stashed away?”

  “Sheriff Axton handled that, and yes, they’re in your refrigerated cell. I’m a pilot. Axton asked me to familiarize myself with your ship’s controls. In case you’re trouble and we need to lock you in that lettuce bin you mentioned.” He smiled.

  “Is that another joke?” She hoped so. She wouldn’t fit in the lettuce bin. Technically, she could fit in the walk-in refrigerator, but maybe she shouldn’t point that out.

  Dash scratched his jaw. “Are you truly a skip tracer? Someone who’s an expert at human motivations and finding people who skip bail or flee debt collectors?”

  Her cheeks heated. She might not be great at reading people, but she sensed the insult—the disbelief—in his tone.