Chapter 20
“You blew up my Banshee and didn’t even switch on the shields?”
Patch’s voice had risen to an earsplitting pitch, causing Wraith to step back, wincing.
“Technically, the Major blew it up.”
“And he didn’t bring back the black box? It’s protocol. It’s the size of a data pad!That thing was priceless after a Fold collapse and you vaporized it!”
She was yelling now.
The deck crews had backed up out of the blast zone, but she could see them grinning. Enjoying the show.
And fucking Golden Boy wasn’t even here to share the fallout.
“Do you know how many people have survived Void collapses?”
She did, actually. Wasn’t stupid enough to speak up.
“Four! Five if we include the Major!”
It was more. But not by many.
“And speaking of which…” Patch’s voice dropped into a quiet, reasonable tone—far scarier than her yelling. “How is the Major not in a straitjacket right now?”
She stepped up to Wraith, looked up at her and kept her voice low enough not to carry, “Every single entry into the Fold has negatively affected him. Every single one. And now he not only spends the longest time he’s ever been in, but the entire place collapses around him, without shields, and he’s fine?”
Patch started stalking back and forth. Stopped in front of her again.
“Better than fine. In fact, his neural scans have improved since before you went in. Yours remain the same, by the way.”
Good to know.
So, what I want to know, Captain, is how the hell that happens?”
She jabbed a finger in the air, missing Wraith’s nostril by millimeters. It didn’t feel accidental.
“And don’t tell me you don’t know. Because I know damn well that you have at least some Void-damned clue or you’d have never left those shields off.”
Wraith glanced around the flight deck. Sighed. Met Patch’s gaze.
“Is there somewhere we can get a drink on this rig?”
“Where’s the War Criminal?”
It was the only greeting Hound gave as he stepped into the briefing room.
Kael didn’t usually require much in terms of protocol, but Hound’s continued insolence was scraping at his nerves. He was a breath away from ripping a page from Shade’s book and cold clocking the man.
“I believe that security is your domain, Lieutenant Vorsk.”
Vorsk blinked.
“And from now on, while you are in my presence, and hers, you will refer to her as Captain Raine. Do I make myself clear?”
The big man’s reply was a growl, “Yes, Sir.”
Kael considered him coldly. That the man was good at his job was not a question. That he was the worst kind of officer—the kind that believed that force was always the first option—was becoming a problem.
The only way to deal with bullies was to beat them on their level.
Using his rank was triage at best.
“You don’t like me, do you Vorsk?”
The man stood at attention, his gaze boring into the wall. He didn’t answer.
“And you sure as hell don’t respect me.”
A slight tightening of the man’s fists.
Kael leaned against the table, deliberately casual. Knowing it would infuriate Hound.
He’d have to thank Shade if he ever saw him again.
“Now, I don’t care whether you like me, and I don’t give a damn what you feel about Captain Raine.”
Not entirely true on the last part, but that was irrelevant at the moment.
His smile was humorless, “And that remains true as long as your emotions don’t interfere with your fucking job. But right now, your disrespect of me and your hatred of her is causing problems.”
He stood and leaned in close—too close—to the other man and looked him in the eye. “So, we need to deal with that.”
He watched the man’s pupils dilate.
Anger? Or fear?
Kael stepped back, turned his back on Hound and picked up his data pad.
“Captain Raine is on the Flight Deck with Patch. And I will see you in the Arena in one hour. Open Gauntlet.”
There was a sharp intake of breath behind him.
“Dismissed, Hound.”
Patch was a cheap drunk, and Wraith couldn’t help, but be amused by her. And it was only a small step further to liking her.
They were sitting at one of the bars down at the hand-to-hand arena. Alcohol wasn’t exactly prohibited on ships like the Eventide, but it was very tightly regulated.
The fact that Patch was drunk despite that: Gold.
Wraith had barely touched her own drink; she couldn’t call it whiskey despite the bartender’s assurances. Maybe the deck crew could use it as engine fuel later.
“So, you’re telling me,” Patch had leaned in and was gesturing way too close to Wraith’s face, “that the shields make absolutely no difference?”
“Honestly? Sometimes they make things worse.”
“How? Why? The science doesn’t make sense.”
“That’s because you’re using the wrong science.”
“There’s science. And there’s fantasy.”
“No, there’s real space. And there’s Inbetween. And the rules are different.”
Patch sat back, brows scrunched, chewing on the problem like it had insulted her engineering degree.
More and more people seemed to be entering the arena.
Was there a match scheduled?
“I need to go to the Fold.”
Wraith turned back to Patch, “Why haven’t you?”
“Wrong profile. They say my brain will melt. ‘Snot fair.”
Tell you what. Get the Major’s sign-off, a ship that can take at least three, and sign whatever the fuck waivers they’re using these days? I’ll take you.”
The tiny woman’s eyes filled with tears. She rose and wrapped her arms around Wraith. “You’re the best. It’ll never happen, but you’re the best anyway.”
Wraith patted her shoulder gently as a horrible thought hit her.
If Patch and Shade ever met, then Void help the universe.
Kael walked into the Arena in loose sweatpants and a tight shirt. There were still ten minutes to go, but the room was already almost full.
News travels fast.
Good.
Instead of heading straight to the mats—a luxury after the bare concrete floors on Perdition—he wandered around the edges of the large room.
There were several refreshment stations that were doing brisk business, but his jaw nearly dropped when he spotted Wraith sitting at a table with Patch at one of the few places on the ship that allotted alcohol.
He stalked over, Wraith noticing him almost before he’d taken his first step.
Patch was talking animatedly when he reached them, both hands gesticulating. He looked down at her, taking in the slightly unfocused eyes and the rapid, irregular speech patterns.
“Is she—?”
“Drunk? Yes.”
“How? They won’t serve you more than one drink.”
Wraith spread her hands, “She’s tiny. And she practically downed it.”
“Major!” Patch looked up at him, “You blew up my Banshee. And you didn’t get the black box! I’m mad at you. Remind me to yell at you later.”
She put her head down on the table, closed her eyes. Wraith shocked him by reaching out and patting her head gently.
“I’ve made her drink half a liter of water,” she told him. “Fifteen minutes and she’ll either be fine, or she’ll vomit and then be fine.”
She turned her attention to him and looked him up and down.
“Why do I get the feeling that you in that outfit and the large crowd down here are related?”
“I got tired of Hound’s attitude. We’re having an Open Gauntlet match in about five minutes.”
Wraith’s lips expanded into a genuine and slightly feral smile. “Who holds the better pool around here?”
“It’s a Fleet ship, Wraith. No betting allowed.”
A slow, dangerous smile spread across her lips. “That’s not what I asked.”
He frowned at her. A bell chimed.
“Off you go then, your dance partner awaits.”