Chapter 8

Odds (n): A probability that never sides with the heroine.

As sewer pipes went, the Compass’ guns sure spewed a satisfying amount of solid, fiery hell. “Good girl, Compass.” Unfortunately, firing gave away her position, so Juliet made quick work of avoiding the return blasts and zoomed about, coming underneath the New Los Angeles ship. They turned their attention to Erit, who quickly engaged his own cloaking device. Those things sapped the ship’s juice like whoa—one couldn’t use them indefinitely without charging batteries.

The bad guys stopped firing. Their ship spewed smoke from several spots on its port side. Juliet gave herself virtual back pats.

She waited. Erit waited. “Shall we simply slink away?” he asked, the comm crackling.

“These idiots will report our last known position.”

“They probably already have.”

True that. Before she could decide what to do, the New Los Angelinos began to turn in a barrel roll. “What are they doing?”

They fired—in every direction at once, spraying like a spherical sprinkler of death. Within seconds, both Erit and Juliet took damage.

The Compass gave another whoop!, adding a beleaguered-sounding, “Ouch.”

Juliet hollered, “Titknockers!” and navigated away from the enemy ship. Damn, she would have to remember those bastards’ nifty move for future battles. If she survived this one.

Figuring there was nothing to lose, as the NLAs were already hammering her, Juliet fired back. The NLA ship stopped its gymnastics and flew hot on her tail. At least they weren’t pursuing Erit anymore. He didn’t have nearly the experience she did fighting assholes in space.

She really needed to stop making enemies.

Firing her stern guns for all they were worth, Juliet sweated at the controls. She switched off her cloak, trying to eke out every ounce of speed. But the Compass was a transport ship and no match for the wily little jerk vessel. Boom. A hit square to her backside. Juliet flew forward and sprawled across her nav com, totally crushing her boobs in the process. “Ow!” Perhaps wearing corsets with boning in the heat of battle was a bad idea. Boom! Another hit.

“Taking damage to navigation and shields,” the Compass chastised.

“Not cool,” she added.

Dammit, dammit, dammit!

Boom! A panel to Juliet’s right flashed red at her: Shields: 20%. “Shields failing.” The ship’s voice had taken on a terse, metallic ring.

“Maybe you could fly faster,” Juliet hissed.

“Shields failed,” the Compass replied darkly. She knew she was about to be blasted to parts. Rented toilits ain’t what they used to be.

Juliet abandoned the bridge and sprinted to her quarters. “Sorry about the ‘fly faster’ thing, old girl,” she huffed.

“Old! No more happy chair for you.”

Great. Heels skidding on the metal deck, Juliet whipped into her room and threw on her gun belt. She grabbed her emergency satchel from the corner—already packed with ammunition, food, money, and a vibrator. “I don’t need you, bitchy ship,” she muttered.

“What was that?”

“Nothing, wonderful Compass. You’re the best! Etcetera, etcetera.”

Juliet threw her hair into a ponytail and checked her weapons. Ready to go. She punched the comm panel on the in-room recessed control station. “Erit?” No response but the empty static of space. “Damn.”

“Intruders aboard.”

“Yup. How many?”

“Ten transported together, followed by one additional.”

“Disable the lifts and lock out the master computer to my code only, please.”

As a last minute thought, Juliet changed into more sensible shoes—fur-trimmed flat boots in a leopard print. What? They were sensible, not sleep-inducing. She also threw on a black leather jacket. “Where’s your escape pod?”

“What escape pod?”

Damn, damn, damn, damn, damn, damn, damn, damn, damn, damn, damn, double extra damn. Stupid Juliet had forgotten to ask for a ship with an escape hatch. But there was no good way to parlay that request into bathroom talk. Besides, what the ^&%$# kind of ship didn’t have an escape pod?

“Where did it go?”

“It was used by my last renter and not replaced.”

Oh, well. She couldn’t really abandon ship anyhow—not when she needed it for concubine-rescuing. Juliet took her fear out on the comm panel. “Erit?”

“Careful with those nails!” Compass sent sparks flying at her hands.

“Ugh!” She rummaged in her bag for her IPaidALotForThisGadget (or IPALFTG for sort-of short) and called for Erit again. No dice.

Taking a deep breath, she counted to three. One: [expletive] [expletive] [expletive]. Two: You can do this; you simply have to outrun the New Los Angelinos until you can navigate the ship to a planet. Three: I should have just kept lying to Ragnar and faked a pregnancy. It worked on her soap opera Bored Old-Timey Rich People Who Are Insanely Hot.

Squaring her shoulders, Juliet whispered, “Compass, can you communicate with me through my portable here instead of using the room’s speaker?”

The IPALFTG buzzed.

“You’re the best ship ever. The nearest body is a mining comet, correct?”

The IPALFTG buzzed again.

“Please steer thatta way. How long will it take to get there at your best speed?”

One and one quarter hours, the screen read.

Gulp. “Okay. Now, can you tell me where the bad guys are?”

Her screen flashed with a map of the ship. Ten of them were on the level below her current one—the galley and engines. One crept on her floor, just down the hall.

Bag slung across her body and gun drawn, she ran silently in the other direction toward the bridge. She ducked into a supply closet and locked it. The single dickwad moved at a snail’s pace to her cabin, hovered there for a minute, and then continued to her hidey-hole. The dot representing him floated to her door. Juliet held her breath. A computery kind of whonk startled her. He’d tried to open it. She slipped her IPALFTG into the pocket of her coat, and put both trembling hands on her weapon.

The minutes ticked by, irritatingly unhurried. They didn’t seem to know she was in deep doo-doo. Sweat trickled between her breasts. She ventured a glance at the map. He’d gone to the bridge. Her brain spun from the whoosh of air returning to it.

The other ten had split into teams of three, three, and four. One group had ventured to the bottom level, the cargo hold; the other team of three had risen to the bridge. Four of them lingered in the engine room, no doubt disabling everything therein. She set her forehead against the cold metal of a storage locker. She’d have to eliminate all eleven herself.

And hope no reinforcements were on the way.

Despair was not her style. She wiped one sweaty hand and then the other on her miniskirt.

The bridge group had mingled amongst their eleventh colleague. He’d probably tell them about the locked closet.

She needed to move.

With a prayer, she opened the door, cursing the deafening-seeming metal crink! it screeched. She secured it behind her with her captain’s master code. Hopefully, it would take them a while to get it open.

On cat’s feet, she trotted away from the bridge, down the stairs to the galley level, and then descended one more floor using the circular smuggler stairs to the cargo hold. The three intruders in the hold would be the first to face the wrath of Juliet Lawrence. Her mental big-talk helped bolster her confidence. She’d never just plain killed people. But it was her or them—and she thought way too much of herself to let it be herself. Besides, it would be a crime to mankind (and perhaps lesbian-kind) to shoot holes in her fabulous body.

She glanced at her map again. Only one guy on the bridge now. Where had the others gone? They were nowhere on her Gadget. Did they beam off the Compass? If so, that was polite of them. Three down, eight to go. The remaining bridge sleaze appeared to be on the way downstairs. She’d best remove the rest before he arrived.

The cargo bad guys were making their way from one end to the other, away from her. The deck comprised a long series of holds, five in total, able to be closed off at will. Currently, they all stood open.

The last jerk lingered behind his buddies, covering the rear. Good. She typed a command into her IPALFTG and hovered above “send.” Juliet crept into the same room as the straggler, crouching low out of his flashlight arc. The first two stepped from hold four into three. She punched the button. In a deafening rattle of steel, the huge, metal doors fell between the compartments, trapping the others by themselves and this guy with her.

Silently, Juliet rose, aimed her plasma pistol, exhaled a breath, and fired.

The bad guy in her section dropped, a clean hole smoldering in his otherwise pristine helmet. His white body armor clattered to silence against the floor. His uniform was not much in the way of camouflage.

Juliet kneeled, head between her knees, and fought to consume air. The faint noise of shouting echoed from the other side of the metal wall. She heard weapon blasts. They must be trying to destroy the barrier. Didn’t matter—they were trapped now. Shaking off her emotions, she ran the opposite way, back up the circular staircase to the galley level.

Four down, seven to go.

At the top of the stairs she paused and consulted the map. Two guys in the engine room, two now on the bridge. To make her way back down to the opposite side of the cargo hold, she’d have to pass by the engines. Might as well get rid of the men there sooner rather than later.

Her head still swirled from the vision of the dead man’s smoking facemask reflecting in his fallen flashlight. Her eyes stung. She wiped her nose and proceeded through the galley.

Everything lurched. She tripped and fell hard onto her hands. The engine must have stopped. Not good. Struggling to her feet, she rubbed her wrists and hurried on her way.

Juliet hid to one side of the open corridor leading to the engine room. Plasma blasts rang out: one, two. She jumped—but they’d come nowhere near her. Her heart threatened to beat her ribs to a pulp. Minutes ticked by: one, two. No one came.

What the hell was going on?

“Juliet?”

It had finally happened. She’d descended into madness.

For a moment, she’d actually thought that she had heard Ragnar.

“Damn it, Juliet, I know you’re there. I can hear your leather corset when you breathe.”

That man could hear sleazy clothing at three clicks.