CHAPTER NINE

Whoever had designed the tech system for the space station was good, but not as good as her. It took Ilya a galactic common hour to break into the system, but only a few more minutes to bring up the main bank of holovid screens with audio.

She pumped her fist into the air, grinning ear to ear. “Yeah. Nobody beats Ilya Mondas at this game. So take that, you secretive bitches.”

Grabbing one of the chocolate crispies—which she'd been saving as a reward—from the tray, she flung herself into the exquisitely comfortable leather throne behind the huge desk, and enjoyed her treat as she viewed her new queendom on the holovids.

It was big, gaudy as hells and teeming with activity. She winced at the noise and reached up with her free hand, fiddling with her com to bring down the volume to a bearable level.

The holovid cams showed the main galley, which produced elegant, mouth-watering fare and some strange shit that must be for guests from some of the outlying planets, all at speeds that had to be witnessed to be believed. Black-garbed employees scurried about, directing machinery and bots to cut, chop, slice, stir, simmer, sauté and roast, then to assemble the foods into a fantastical array of culinary offerings fit for royalty. The sounds were clanking, crashing, voices barking orders.

Ilya watched with her mouth watering, even though she was stuffed full as her duffel, having eaten five yamas, a plate of fruit and veg, and now a crispie. A being could wind up plump as a Bartian if she didn't watch herself—and probably farting like one from the richness of the food here.

The central galley serviced several dining rooms and smaller cafes and bars, all of which appeared to serve food along with fancy drinks of all colors that fizzed, shimmered, and even tried to slither out of the tall glasses in which they were served. Ilya winced as a short, stout Egglantian with a foaming lavender drink that matched his skin, nipped something that wriggled between his sharp teeth and chewed it with relish. Gah, she didn't want to know what that was.

Music played, overlaid by the babel of intergalactic voices

While the galleys were stark white and black, the rooms frequented by Palace guests were opulent on a scale that had to be seen to be believed. Vadyal had clearly found decorators who loved scarlet, metals and gems as much as he did, and given them a free hand. Any surface that didn't gleam or glitter, was covered in velvet or some other plush fabric.

The casino was mind-boggling, big as a Quasiball stadium. Ilya hadn't found the Palace schematics yet, but she reckoned the main casino must take up a good bit of the center of the station. Lights, lasers, holovids and faux fireworks filled the air above the pit where customers roamed.

The games were arranged inside big intersecting loops, so that customers were led along paths of temptation no matter which way they turned.

She squinted, not sure what some of the games even were. Holodice she recognized, and tiles. The one with holocards floating before each player was poker, and the big spinning wheel flashing sparks and numbers looked familiar—roulette, maybe?

Music played with a steady, rollicking beat, games tooted, whirred, chimed and cascaded. Voices shrieked, called, exclaimed, mourned and begged.

She'd learn them all. The games, the dealers, attendants and waitstaff garbed in white and gold were hers now ... until she squeezed what she wanted from them.

There were smaller, quieter game rooms, with groups of expensively attired guests around a single game, usually poker or holodice. The luxe cruisers, people with lots of credit who expected to be treated like royalty in exchange for gambling large amounts. Here the voices were quiet murmurs, the music a subtle undercurrent. Ilya shook her head—those folks might be wealthy, but they were just as willing to lose credit as anyone else.

Three auditoriums featured singers with backup dancers, one a raunchy musical comedy involving Serpentians and a faux catamount, and two sex shows that made Ilya's lip curl. But the performers were all consenting, so she passed on.

Her brows flew up when she realized she could spy on any and all of the guest rooms as well. These ranged from tiny cubicles to suites as big as hers. And she did not need to see some of the shit that was going on in the rooms. It all looked consensual as well, so she grimaced and moved on.

She made a note to check in with her guard captain about the sex workers operating on the station. Make sure they were all here of their free will, and then wash her hands of them—because contrary to her friends' teasing, she wanted nothing to do with running that shit.

She found Bek himself featured in another holovid. He sat at a desk in a small office with windows that looked out into a larger area with other uniformed beings.

Smaller holovids on the edge of this screen showed ranks of small grid enclosures with beds and lavs. Some had beings, guests from their lavish attire, sleeping. A slim Serpentian was hunched dejectedly on the bed in another of the enclosures, head in his hands.

Ah, the guard station, complete with grid cubbies for guests who didn't play nicely. Looked like they were all treated decently, so for now, she wasn't interested.

She could revolve through a myriad of other passageways and offices. She saw Playa in her hoverchair in a big office that looked like maybe the management and accounting center of the casino. That would become a daily stop, Ilya decided. Just to let those folks know she noticed what they did.

She wandered virtually through other areas such as loading docks, garbage collection and the huge storage bay for customers' cruisers. A tour ship was docking on one side of the station, with a weary, hungover group of humans traipsing on board. Gullible fools. How much credit had they left behind?

At least they were getting off the station with their lives. Ilya glowered at them, resenting each and every one of them, bumbling back to their lives on a planet somewhere, not even knowing the best man to ever live had died here—for nothing.

And as for those who lived and worked here—she swept the other holovids with renewed vengeance in her gaze—she'd deal with them all, one by one if that's what it took. Until she knew who was responsible for Var's death here in this gaudy racket bucket.

And then, that being would wish he or she had never been conceived, much less born.

Unbidden, Var's broad, tanned face filled her memory, his lazy eyes grave as he tipped his head to look over at her while they waited to head out on her first raid with Il Zhazid's band.

'You ever killed anyone, baby?'

'No,' she'd admitted. 'Have you?'

He'd jerked his chin in the affirmative.

'Was it ... hard?' she'd asked, her stomach tight.

'No,' he'd replied instantly. 'Not hard to do. But then you gotta live with it. That's the hard part.'

A chill of understanding had swept over her despite the heat of the Frontieran afternoon. Easy to press a button and fire a laser. But then hard to look at the bloody, charred remains of a living being and accept responsibility.

He'd been right, too. She knew that now. She'd taken her place as one of the band's warriors, and she'd used her tech and their ships' lasers to take out a few pirates, even helped take down a slaver ship. At the time, she'd celebrated with the band, but later ... she'd awakened from nightmares afterward, sweating and shaking. Burrowing into Var's strong arms for reassurance.

But she'd made those righteous kills, and she'd do it again, when she found whoever was responsible for taking Var from her. Because only that would slake her burning thirst for vengeance.

And, in case any of Vadyal's cronies were still skulking on this station, no time like the present to let them all know she was here. Let them start shaking in their boots, like deerbitts being stalked by a gyrehawk. She was the hawk, gliding silently along up here in this aerie of an office, while they scurried around below.

Except, she realized with a familiar chill, she wasn't the only predator hunting these corridors and bays. Because in all her surveilling of this huge place, not even once had she glimpsed VX-900 or any others like him.

Where were 'the quarters' of which he'd spoken? And who controlled him? Who'd sent him to her?

She might be reckless, but she wasn't stupid. It seemed that perhaps another predator stalked the bowels of this place—or used the 'borg to do so. And while she had brains and tech savvy on her side, the other had at least one huge, dangerous cyborg at his command. Here was a horrible thought—had VX been used to kill, here? Would he be sent to get rid of her? He knew how to get into her bedroom. Shit, he probably had more hidey-holes and entrances, too.

Hells, she wasn't sure she even wanted to sleep here, now.

She snorted at herself. Not like she had a choice. A bit too far to commute to Frontiera and back every day, and anyway, what was to stop another craft from following her out of here if someone wanted to get rid of her?

Also, the camp wouldn't be where she'd left it. Joran Stark was moving on to his new job as Sheriff, and Ryder wouldn't stay there by the river, he'd move the camp on to some other remote, beautiful spot where the band could pitch their tonts, circle the cruisers and settle in to hunt, party and do whatever the hells they liked.

A wave of homesickness swamped her, not only for the camp, it's fresh air and freedom, but for the man who'd made it a paradise on planet. Var.

The exhaustion of her long, tension-filled day finally overcame her. She fell asleep there in the chair, her flashbomb in one hand, her little laser in the other.

 

She dreamed of Var's funeral. They’d lit a big campfire as funeral pyre, even though his body was gone, somewhere in space trash of the place where he'd died.

The band circled around the fire in the middle of camp, their faces grave, some tear-stained, gazes on her as she walked to toss his helmet with its silly crest onto the flames. The light and heat roared up into the night, a pyre for all her happiness.

But in her dream, a bellow of pain broke the fire lit darkness, and a huge man struggled up out of the flames. Only it wasn't Var, it was VX-900's eyes that glared accusingly down at her from the pyre, as if demanding to know why she'd destroyed the last remnants of him.

And his cerametal mask had become Var's crested helmet, fashioned after an ancient Roman warrior's helmet he'd seen in a museum and loved so much she'd had his aircycle helmet decorated as a facsimile.

'You've killed me,” he intoned, his deep husk just audible through the crackle of the fire. 'Now, you’ll live with it.'

Ilya woke with a start.

She sat up, rubbing her eyes. “No,” she mumbled. “No, I didn't do it. I didn't kill you.”

Wait, killed who? Quark, that had been VX in her dream, not Var. What was that about? She shuddered with reaction. The holovids played on, the empty room and the full casino mocking her with their indifference.

She hadn't killed anyone ... yet. Ilya took a deep breath and swallowed the guilt that swamped her, as if she'd already taken her vengeance. She let the sick feeling morph into the rage that lately she'd donned like a suit of custom armor.

Sliding from the chair, which had begun to feel like a cloying embrace, she stared at the beings in the myriad of screens. Her hands clenched at her sides.

She'd show them. She'd show them all the consequences of taking everything away from her. Before she was done, they'd beg to reveal Var's murderer to her and help her find justice.

She'd killed before, she would do it again if she had to. And she refused to feel guilty about any of it.