CHAPTER NINETEEN

Ilya enjoyed the hells out of her showerdry with VX, which resulted in the two of them smelling very good, although flushed and still perspiring, but the sec she relaxed from her second amazing orgasm, VX stepped out of the showerdry, his posture stiff, hands flexing into fists and then relaxing.

“What's the matter?” she asked. Her glow dissipated as she remembered their last parting. “Don't worry, I'll ... pay you.” No matter how much it choked her with disgust to have to say the words. How quarked was she to be so ... so fulfilled by sex with a whore?

He gave her an unfathomable look. “No. I must go—now.”

With that, he turned his back and stalked away. Through the open door of the lav, Ilya watched him disappear into the passageway to her office, where their clothing was strewn.

She clenched her own fists. Okay, so she'd enjoyed the sex. Nothing wrong with that. And she could keep herself from getting all emo with the big guy. As soon as she was finished on this station, she'd go looking for a man, a real one. Even if trying to picture herself with some other male left a black, hissing blank in her mind's eye.

Fortunately, that was the nebulous future. Now, she was here. She'd do what she'd come here to do, and then maybe she could get on with grieving—not that she wanted to, but all the psychs said there was no way around it. And she was not a coward. She'd deal.

But first, she was going to find whoever was running the 'borgs. If anyone—man, woman or whatever alien version, wanted to work in the sex trade, that was fine with her. But no one, from the females in the horrid holovids Vadyal had in this lav, to VX and his fellows, was going to be coerced into it. The very thought of VX thinking he had to do whatever faceless beings said burned in the pit of her stomach like hot peppers.

The sex workers here would work for themselves, not some shadow master who kept them in 'quarters', fed them such substandard foodstuffs they couldn't even recognize fresh foods when they saw it, and made all their decisions for them.

And no time like the present to begin her search, right? She was the boss—and if she wanted to sideline her get-acquainted tour of the station, she could do so.

But first, fresh clothing.

There were all sorts of nighties and what looked like lounge-wear hanging in her dressing room. Ilya fingered a pair of slippery-soft satin pants the pale hue of a Frontieran sky, but those were for bed, the nighties for never.

When she was out of bed, she needed the armor of her new business wear. Who knew what commotion might ensue on this station, and she couldn't be the big boss garbed like a high-class courtesan, now could she? Hells no.

She pulled on a soft plum top with long sleeves and a sort of drapey neckline, fresh undies, and a pair of beige fitted pants. She discarded the matching flats with a moue of distaste, and chose another pair of boots, these nearly blonde as her hair. She added the bangle because she liked it, and tucked a stray wisp of hair back into her braided updo. Okay, back to business, or her version of it.

She guided the empty lunch tray back out into the passageway and linked for someone to pick it up and bring her some more cold tea.

Tea in hand, she got busy on her com. “Playa? Time to get back to work.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

An hour later, Ilya struck irridium.

“Can't believe the IGSF didn't find this.” She stared at the readouts on the holovid screens glowing over her desk. One showed the regular deposits into the Casino's coffers for the last lunar month, another the daily stream from a particular account. “Thousands of credits a day from a mystery account, and they didn't ask who or why?”

Her assistant shrugged. “They had no reason to be suspicious. Credit flows into the casino from thousands of accounts every day. Some guests use their personal credits, but some are on business junkets, using corporate accounts.”

“Yeah, but this one originates here in the station, so someone should've caught it. Which brings me to my next question—why didn't you or one of your financial techs notice this?”

The woman fiddled with one of the controls on her hoverchair, looking down. She bit her lip. “We ... ah, had been instructed not to notice it.”

“Right, I get that. But after Vadyal was dead, what stopped you?”

Playa opened her mouth, closed it and shifted in her chair. “That is ... difficult to answer.”

“Difficult,” Ilya repeated skeptically. “Look, if you were skimming profits after Vadyal disappeared, like rockrats chewing into the supplies while the boss was away, it's not my problem. Long as it's stopped now.”

The woman glared at her, bright spots of color on her pale cheeks. “I am not a thief.”

“Then explain,” Ilya demanded instantly, leaning in.

“We were trying to keep the cyborgs safe,” Playa nearly shouted. “Bek and I were afraid that if the IGSF learned about them, they'd—they'd cage them all. Take them somewhere far away from other beings, perhaps even use them as weapons. Every military in the galaxy has experimented with weaponizing enhanced beings.”

Okay, this wasn’t what Ilya had expected to hear. “You were protecting the 'borgs?”

“Yes,” said Bek from behind her. She whirled, to find him standing just inside the room. She’d been so shocked she hadn’t heard him enter.

He regarded her grimly. “And we weren't just protecting them from outside threats, but from their creator.”

A chill raced over her skin. “Explain. Who the hells is she?”

“Not she. The woman who … schedules them is Horna. She works for Dr. Annar Blu,” Bek spat the name as if ridding his mouth of something nasty. “Vadyal's personal physician, also a research scientist.”

Ilya put a hand to her forehead, struggling to take this in. She'd assumed VX was ex-military, that he’d been amplified there, because Playa was right—on the side of the free Federation or not, military complexes were opportunistic.

“Vadyal had a pet scientist creating cyborgs here. On this station.” She pointed at the floor, as if it held the answers she was looking for.

Bek and Playa both nodded. “And he is still here.”

A stronger chill of horror ran down her spine. “And he's the one who installed their cybernetics. So he has what—a secret lab of some kind? Where the hells is it?”

“I'll show you the schematics,” Bek said. “But not until you understand this—it's crucial that we move with extreme caution. Blu is ... he has ...”

“He has power over the cyborgs,” Playa finished for him, her eyes wide and haunted.

“You mean they have to obey him?” She remembered VX cocking his head, as if listening to a voice only he could hear. “So, he listens in on their coms, and talks to them—gives them orders whenever he wants?” Gah, that meant the bastard really had been listening in when she and VX had sex—okay, now she was beyond pissed off, she felt sick to her stomach.

“Yes,” Playa said.

“So he, what, shocks them when they disobey?”

Bek shook his head in disgust. “Oh, he does a little more than that. He's Indigon.” He nearly spat the word. Playa flinched, and looked away.

“Whoa,” Ilya breathed. Everyone knew about Indigons. The pale, austere beings had mental powers they could wield over others. Some were strong enough to manipulate even their fellow Indigons. Most of them were of high moral caliber, considering themselves better, more noble than other beings, especially humans.

Playa looked like she might be Indigon herself, with her pale coloring, blue eyes and dark hair, but she was too kind, too warm-hearted.

“Quark,” Ilya muttered. “And you believe this Dr. Blu uses his mind mojo to direct the 'borgs?”

“We know he does.”

“Well, hells.” How were they going to neutralize him? Not like she had another Indigon on call. Unless ... “You have anyone you trust in the kitchens?” she asked. “We could try and get something in his food—tranq him.”

Bek shrugged. “Perhaps. No idea what or where he eats. But I'll look into it.”

“Maybe he likes muffins,” she added.

This earned her a half smile from him, but Playa was still staring at the floor. Okay, maybe she was part-Indigon, and ashamed of it.

With a mental shrug, Ilya moved on. “If that doesn't work, I'll have to see if we can borrow another Indigon ... maybe from LodeStar Corp.” Which sounded better than it felt, because it meant asking for help from Joran Stark—she'd rather give up tech for a week.

“Commander Navos,” Playa breathed, her head snapping up. “He's on the mega-cruise ship Orion—second in command, I believe. Although I'd heard that he is on leave for family matters. His wife will be giving birth soon.”

Whoa, stop the galaxy, another squalling baby. Ilya had never understood the whole fascination for producing offspring. They were dependent for too many years to count, and sucked up all of their parents' waking hours like little vacuum units. \

But it seemed even a man famed for his icy detachment could be seduced by the prospect of replicating himself and his wife.

She scowled. “There are other Indigons on Frontiera, surely. Bek, can you put some of your people on that?”

He looked dubious. “Sheriff Stark is light years better equipped to do a search like that.”

True, damn it to all seven hells. She did not want to have to ask Stark for help, although for VX, she'd do it. But not until they'd exhausted all other avenues. “We'll try drugging Blu's food first,” she said stubbornly. “Find out his favorites.”

“Yes ma'am.”

She nodded, then heaved a sigh. “No, okay. Bek, you go ahead and reach out to Sheriff Stark. I'm not ... his favorite being right now, so he'll listen to you before me.”

Bek didn't even question her, just nodded. He could've at least looked surprised that Stark didn't like her.

“All right, enough of that. Let's get back to the financials. I need to understand the income and expenses on the legal side of this place too.”

Playa gave her a look of consternation and Ilya laughed. “Don't worry, I'm not gonna try and understand your job and all the accountants too. I just want an overview, so I understand the big vid.”

A few hours later, Ilya's mind was crammed with facts and figures, profits and expenses, income and outlay. She rose from her chair and stretched mightily. “Okay, that's enough for now. And, uh, nice job of breaking it out for me.”

Playa smiled, but it was a weary attempt. “Yes, ma'am. Link if you require my assistance.”

“Ohhh, no. I'm done for the evening.” Ilya waved an arm toward the office doors. “Go on, git. See you tomorrow.”

“Thank you.” The woman whisked silently from the room, the doors closing behind her.

Ilya looked around the big, quiet room. It was luxe, but it was also plenty big enough for some movement, and if she didn't do something physical, she was going to explode.

She kicked off her shoes and socks, and paced restlessly across the soft, thick carpet. Then she sank into a fighting stance, and whirled, kicking out and throwing two sharp punches. Ah, that felt good. Better warm up before she hit it too hard, though.

She was well into her routine, half-Serpentian fighting moves and half-street moves that Var had taught her. It would work lots better with a padded sparring bot. Hey, come to think of that, she could afford one now.

Grinning to herself and panting, she bounced on her toes a few times, before crossing the room to the secret door, and traversing the passageway to her bedroom.

Once there, she stripped off her clothing, and then sank into a low, bending stretch with her palms pressed to the carpet.

A rush of air told her someone had entered her room. That sudden, electric awareness let her know it was VX.

Ilya held the stretch, knowing he was getting a stellar view of her upthrust ass and her pussy, and not caring a bit. Then, smiling to herself, she straightened with a flourish, and turned to smile at him over her shoulder, hands on her hips, the tail of her braided updo brushing her bare shoulder.

“See anything you'd like to touch?” she asked.

Then she froze, her blood turning to ice. It was VX, but this was not her gentle, biddable giant. He wore a black tee and loincloth, his hands and feet bare. But his face was terrible, pale and drawn, his mouth a tight grimace, white-lipped. His gaze burned into her, dark and terrible, the whites of his eyes shot with blood.

His wrists and ankles were bruised, horribly, as if he'd fought against unbearable restraints.

And blood dripped to the carpet around him in slow precision, staining his bare legs and the pale carpet with red.

“VX,” she cried, already moving to him, hands outstretched, heart crushing under the weight of horror she felt for him. “My God, what happened to you? Oh, honey, let me see to you. I'll call the—”

He let out a deep, ferocious roar of pure rage, and grabbed her. He lifted her off of her feet and dangled her high in the air, her only support his bruising grasp on her upper arms. He shook her, so hard her head snapped back and forth. Fear replaced her concern for him. He was out of control.

“You,” he snarled. “You did this. This is your fault.”

“What?” she gasped, fear overcoming all other emotion. “No, no, honey. I didn't, I swear. Let me help you.”

He let out another roar, and the wall slammed into Ilya's back with a painful thump on her head, shoulders and spine. He held her above him, and his wide mouth opened in a grimace of primal ferocity. “You help no one,” he rumbled. “You ... hurt.”

And she knew that in his eyes, there was no trace of the VX she'd come to know. And there was no escape ... except for one tiny chance.

Get help.