Vick is…. Valeria.
WHILE VICK and I are kissing, Alex chooses that moment to open the hatch and pop his head into the cockpit. I feel his embarrassment before I turn, confirming it with the red flush crawling from the neckline of his black T-shirt to his forehead.
“Um, sorry, I just wanted….” He breaks off, pointing at a thermocan of Amp-Ade in the copilot seat drink holder.
Vick looks from him to the can and back again, her own flush and the faint yellow aura around her revealing her own discomfort with the interruption. She reaches across, takes the can, seals it, and hurls it at the doorway, catching him square in the chest with it.
“Oof! Hey!” His offense is fake, his pained smile apologetic.
“Next time, chime or knock first.” Vick’s annoyance is not fake.
I rest a hand on her shoulder. She calms under my touch. Lyle appears behind Alex. “Final approach, folks. Remove anything out of character for a slave-buying team and let’s do this thing so we can go home.”
Vick stands, leaving VC1 managing the piloting. We give each other the once-over while Alex and Lyle do the same. Her gaze lingers on my left hand. I cover my ring with my right palm. “No.”
She smiles, but there’s only sadness in it. Shaking her head, Vick pries my fingers away, then slips the engagement ring from me. “A slave owner’s assistant engaged to that owner would be too hard a cover to sell, and you know it.” She takes off her own, the pair clinking together in her hand. There’s a lockbox on the flooring beside the pilot’s chair. It takes her a moment to uncode it, place the rings inside with great care, and seal it again. Alex and Lyle slip quietly out the hatch.
“Will that be enough? What if they break into the ship?”
She shakes her head again. “They won’t. It would be an extreme breach of etiquette.”
My brow furrows. “Criminals have etiquette?”
Vick huffs an amused laugh. “The organized ones do. Always wanting people to think better of them while they do the worst. We’re guests here. Overriding our ship security, then the cockpit hatch, and then the lockbox would be unforgiveable and send the wrong message to all the other buyers. No one would do business with him, regardless of what he found. He won’t risk it with us or anyone else.” She pauses, staring at the box. The aura around her shifts from light to dark. “When this is over, I want to finalize things between us. As much as we’re able. A quiet ceremony. Friends. Family. Even if it won’t be—” Her voice catches.
I wrap my arms around her, holding her to me from behind. She’s trembling.
“—real or legal,” Vick finishes.
Every ounce of love I have for her I project through our bond. It returns to me a hundredfold. “It may never be legal,” I tell her, “but it will always be real to us. Always.”
“Incoming transmission,” VC1’s monotone interrupts through the cabin speakers. “A Mr. Jacks requesting our identification packet. Sending now.”
The shuttle’s forward viewscreen shifts to show our vessel approaching a scattering of prefab buildings on the small moon’s surface, enclosed duraglass walkways connecting them to one another, their squared-off edges blurred by a protective shield dome encasing them all. Tractor beams pierce the darkness around the installation, locking on to our vessel and guiding us toward a widening opening in the shield. The largest building, with massive steel doors, gapes open, ready to swallow our entire shuttle whole.
Vick sighs. “Go ahead and cut the engines,” she tells VC1.
The almost subliminal rumble beneath our feet subsides.
“Well, we’re in it now. They’ve got full control,” she says, sinking back into the pilot’s chair.
“Jacks is… requesting… visual communication with ‘Madame’ Court.” No monotone this time. VC1 is amused.
Vick snorts and leans toward the visual pickups and the smaller screen built into the forward console. “Put him through.”
I blink. The warmth has vanished from her voice. It’s all hard edges and complete control. Her expression settles into sharp lines of disinterest and displeasure. I place myself at her right shoulder, deferential and ready to act upon any request she might have of me.
A face resolves itself on the screen, depicting a man who’s seen more than a few hard knocks and survived them with defiance, cruelty, and aggression. Straight, neatly trimmed brown hair, lightly lined features for someone well into the second half of his lifespan, but with a jagged scar running vertically down the right cheek and forcing one of his piercing brown eyes into a perpetual squint. His lips curve into what he probably thinks is a smile, but it comes off more like a sneer that seems to say, “I’ve got you exactly where I want you.”
“Ah, Madame Court. Or is it Mistress Court?” he asks with a wink of his good eye.
“Either suits me, depending on my mood, which, at the moment, is shit. It’s been a long trip, Jacks. My staff and I are eager to settle in. What’s this about?”
Jacks stiffens, pulling back from the screen as if affronted. Or afraid. A smile threatens, and I smooth my features. In or out of character, Vick has that effect on people.
He frowns. “Your reputation precedes you, and you’re living up to it.”
“Then you know I’m here for business, not to play name games. Are you letting us land or not? There are other places where I can shop for what I’m after.” Vick folds her arms across her chest.
“No need for that.” Jacks waves an apologetic hand at the screen. “But hopefully you and your staff—” He nods to me at Vick’s shoulder. I suppress a shudder. “—will have time for both business and pleasure. My auctions are events, not quick displays of flesh on a block. We do things differently on this side of the rim. Consider it more of a festival than a shopping trip. Tonight, after you’re settled, you’ll be my guests at a dinner in the buyers’ honor, something to show how much I value my clientele. And I have some new merchandise that bears testing out on the right audience.”
“I’m not interested in being your lab rat, Jacks,” Vick snaps.
He ignores her. “Land your vessel in the open hangar. When you get the green light, proceed to disembark. An escort will meet you there and show you to your quarters. Jacks out.”
The screen darkens. I let out a long sigh, but Vick remains ramrod straight in the pilot’s chair. Tension radiates off her in waves.
The tractor beams pull us into the hangar and settle our shuttle on a marked-off landing pad not far from several other opulently appointed (and some garishly decorated) craft. The gigantic doors seal shut with a resounding bass clang of thick metal on metal. After a few more moments, indicators on the control console switch from red to green, informing us that the bay is pressurized and contains gravity and breathable atmosphere.
Across the bay, a much smaller hatch opens and a team of eight armed guards in forest green uniforms, our escort I assume, strides toward our ship, outnumbering us two to one. “Not unexpected,” Vick mutters. Her mouth forms a grim line. At least their weapons aren’t drawn, though their hands hover near their holsters.
“There is something wrong here,” comes VC1’s voice from the speakers, her even tone revealing none of the concern her words convey. “Now that we are within their shields, I can take much more accurate readings of this facility. The power consumption, not to mention the number of biological life signs I am detecting, are far insufficient for the population this installation is reported to contain. In fact, the buildings themselves appear to be nothing more than mere facades. Beyond the exterior walls there are no designated rooms, no furnishings. Some appear to be storage facilities manned by a skeleton crew, but most stand empty.”
Vick and I exchange a look. The escort guards have arrived at our boarding ramp, which lowers with a distant rumble of machinery and a hiss of hydraulics.
“What does it mean?” I ask.
“It means our intel is fucked.” She pauses, considering. “Can’t change course now. Can’t call in the reinforcements until we’re certain the slaves aren’t here somewhere and we attempt to set them free or they’ll die in the crossfire. Let’s get out there and figure out just how fubar this is.” The auburn curls and blue eyes do nothing to soften Vick’s growl of frustration as she heaves herself from the chair. Her hands pat down several places on her clothing concealing hidden weaponry. We can only hope the signal scramblers sewn into the lining of her suit will do their job better than U Ops’ intelligence officers.
She slams her palm against the hatch lock and exits the cockpit before it slides fully open. I trail behind her. What have we gotten ourselves into this time?