Jas lurched to a sitting position in bed. Her silk robe fell open in a sensual glide to her elbows, exposing her breasts and thighs to the cool, air-conditioned breeze. Still dazed from her dream, she reached for the bedside lamp and fumbled for the switch. Hugging a pillow to her chest, she stared unseeing at the TV she’d forgotten to shut off after watching Lahdo’s address. She’d dreamed of the desert again. Only it hadn’t been this intense, this real, since the days immediately after the crash. As always, she found herself wandering through the twilight in a barren but lavishly hued landscape. But this time the charismatic Vash rebel was waiting where only the blurred image of a man had been before. When she knelt at his side, he’d splayed one hand on the back of her head and pulled her down to his warm mouth. Every nerve ending in her body throbbed with the echo of their passion-filled embrace. If she hadn’t woken, she might have made love with him. A joining that would have meshed our hearts and souls forever.
Jas flung one arm over her eyes as if she stood a chance of smothering the almost poignant yearning that flared inside her. In the weeks following the crash, these dreams had visited her nightly, leaving her with the same futile longing. Little wonder she had been overcome by a sense of destiny, of magic, falling in love at first sight when Capt. Jock Hamilton, armed with roses, wine, and apologetic eyes, came to visit on her first day home from the hospital. Convinced that their meeting was meant to be, certain that Jock must be the man from her dream, she’d thrown aside the reason that had guided her all her life and went to bed with him. Without protection. And after learning she was pregnant, a consequence of that one night, they’d done the right thing. Only it had turned out so wrong. Never in a million years would she regret having Ian and Ilana, but the marriage? She winced. What did she expect, playing dream interpreter, believing a man she’d never met was her one and only, her true love, who had transcended the dreamworld to be with her?
She’d learned her lesson. Never again would she mistake fantasy for reality. The Vash man was real, but the man from her dream wasn’t. Any similarity between the two was coincidence and nothing more.
Jas extricated herself from her tangled sheets. It was nearly six-thirty A.M., later than she’d thought. As she finger-combed her hair into a ponytail, she stared blearyeyed at a basket of clean laundry sitting by the bed. Her socks were wrapped one inside the other in matched pairs; her panties were tidily folded; her running shorts were stacked one atop the other. So neat and ordered.
So unlike her immediate future if she went ahead with her plan to hitchhike into space.
She dressed in a pair of jeans, an apricot silk blouse, and a pair of socks decorated with little Halloween pumpkins. Then she picked up the telephone and called Dan Brady. Of all the people close to her, no one was better equipped to help.
By nine A.M., the coffee shop near the Arizona State University campus was crowded. She told Dan about the tall, rebel Vash, the argument she’d overheard in Congress, and what she wanted to do. As she’d hoped, he listened with interest and respect. “In other words,” she concluded, “I’ve found the vehicle and the driver. Now I need the incentive.”
Dan cradled a cooling latte in his hands and regarded her soberly. “I’d be lying if I said I wouldn’t rather keep you here.”
You’re indispensable; everyone needs you. Jas let out a breath. She was leaving her children behind; she was disappointing Betty, her family, and now Dan. Steeling herself against a resurgence of doubt, she replied more harshly than she intended. “The plan is only for six months, Dan. Six months. For God’s sake, people take cruises for longer than that.”
“Hey.” His expression gentled. “That wasn’t said to make you feel guilty. I’ll miss you, that’s all.”
Her fists clenched convulsively. “Sorry,” she whispered.
He relaxed in his seat and stretched out his legs. “Now explain how it is you think I can help.”
“It sounds like he expected to make money while he was here, but the others won’t let him. That’s where we come in. You’ve served on or headed up every major business association in town. You have plenty of contacts.”
“I know the governor,” Dan conceded. “So do you.”
“I know his wife. We need more than that. And we don’t have much time. Lahdo gave him a week to pack his bags and get out. And we’ve already lost a day. That leaves us six more. And there’s the weekend to consider.”
“No problem. I do quick work. Everyone seems to have their eye on space these days. If it’s resources our Vash friend wants, he won’t be lacking in Arizona economic and leadership support by the time we’re through.” He picked up the pad and pencil she’d laid on the table and began writing out a list. Flooded with gratitude, Jas stilled his busy hand. Dan must have seen the question in her eyes. “Yes, I’m doing this for you,” he replied frankly. “But naturally I’m very, very interested in the outcome.”
She shared his slow grin. “I can tell. Your capitalist heart is beating hard.”
“Oh, yes,” he said. “No doubt about that.”
Jas wrapped her son in a fierce hug. Ian’s Harley-Davidson T-shirt blotted the tears she tried to hold back. “Call Ilana,” she said huskily. “Once a week. Make sure she’s not burning the candle at both ends.”
“I won’t forget to call her.”
“Remember, the house payment and the other bills will be paid automatically—”
“I know, Mom.”
“Betty will make sure there’s always money in your account. Your father manages Ilana’s finances, so there’s no problem there. And of course Dan will be here to look in on you every once in a while—”
Ian grasped her shoulders and moved her back. “Mom, I’m going to be fine. You can’t worry. Just go on your trip. Paint lots of pictures. And tell me all about it when you get back.”
She smoothed her hand over his cheek. “I love you.”
His lips compressed as his eyes reddened. “Love you, too.”
“We have to leave in ten minutes,” she said softly. There was no room for error. If she missed this flight to Washington, D.C., she’d miss her chance to leave earth. The reporter who’d won the flight into space had departed days ago. According to CNN, two more ships were lifting off at midnight. She was betting one of those was the Quillie, the rebel’s ship. “Help me check my gear one more time.”
Ian read from the checklist she handed him, and she inventoried the contents of her waterproof cylindrical travel bag. In addition to the floral skirt and lavender twinset she was wearing on the plane, she’d packed three black microfiber jumpsuits and a jacket that a seamstress had created from her sketches—clothing suitable for both a spaceship journey and sightseeing. Next to the jumpsuits was her old air force flight suit that she’d use as a disguise at Andrews Air Force Base. There were the barest of toiletries, her watercolors, a pouch containing every piece of real jewelry she owned, and all the boxes of Morton’s table salt she’d been able to cram into the remaining space. If the rebel captain required a down payment for her trip, she was prepared. On top of it all she laid the slim leather folder that Dan had given her. Inside were promises and statements from a dozen of the most powerful CEOs in Arizona, from aerospace firms to mining operations to banks, and, of course, beer, where Dan had typed the name of his microbrewery at the bottom of the list. “It’s all here,” she said, opening her wallet to check her cash and credit cards.
Her cell phone rang, and her heart sank. She’d already endured all the bittersweet farewells her emotions could handle. Everyone but Betty, her children, and Dan was under the impression that she was taking a long vacation, but if she successfully boarded the spaceship, Betty would call the rest of her family and pass on the news.
Ian hoisted her travel bag onto his shoulder. “I’ll put it in the trunk,” he said and disappeared into the garage.
She snatched the telephone off the foyer table and sailed through the town house, checking one last time for any items left behind. “Hello?” she said breathlessly.
“You’re acting like a dammed teenager, Jasmine—taking off on a joyride and leaving our kid alone in the middle of the school year. What the fuck’s gotten into you?”
She squeezed her eyes shut. Not Jock, not now. “It’s no longer your business where I go or what I do.”
“Oh, yes, it is if it concerns my son.”
“Who’s grown, in case you hadn’t noticed.” Her stomach roiled. “Listen, I’m on my way to the airport. If you feel like fighting, go find your wife.”
“Oh, I’ll find her in a minute, Jasmine,” he shot back, “but I guarantee it won’t be to fight.”
Inhale…exhale…inhale.
“Self-absorbed as always, Jas,” he went on. “Vain and irresponsible. When we had infants at home all you wanted to do was hop back into the cockpit. Fortunate for all of us the docs said no. But you won in the end, didn’t you? Made those kids go through a divorce because you were too self-centered to put out any effort in bed.”
An invisible fist squeezed her, and shame heated her cheeks. The man had the knack of knowing where she was most vulnerable. And somehow he’d figured out a way to make her feel responsible for his failures, using her built-in sense of obligation to justify his behavior.
But if you leave, he won’t be able to punish you for his sins, and that scares him.
The realization slammed into her with the force of an explosion, and she grabbed the edge of the nearest table to steady herself. So much was becoming clear about her life. “This isn’t about Ian at all, is it?” she said. “You’re desperate. You can’t let me go. If you do, you’ll have no one to blame for your mistakes.” Why hadn’t she seen it before? Why had it taken so long? “You shot me down, Jock, and that got you booted out of the air force. Remember? But you hated the fact that I was still in, so you told me I’d do a lousy job of raising our kids if I returned to flying. I stood by you through everything—the Saudi incident, the court-martial. Even when Glen accused you of sleeping with his wife.” Her voice shook. “I must have been blind! Every time you failed—as a soldier, as a husband—I paid the price.” There was silence on the other end. Her voice gained strength and purpose. “Guilt was your weapon of choice. Used quite effectively, I might add, when I found out you’d been fooling around on me for years. That’s my fault, too? Go to hell, Jock. The reason I was lousy in bed was because you never could find the target.”
Jas jammed the off button with her finger as Ian popped his head through the garage door. “Ready, Mom?”
Her heart thundered and her hands shook. “Yeah, sweetie.”
She climbed into the Range Rover’s passenger seat. Clutching her hands, she stared straight ahead as he backed out of the driveway. “I don’t care how you do it. Just get me there in time for the eight-ten flight to D.C.”
“You got it.” Tires squealing, they were off.
Ian gave her a sidelong glance. As if sensing her disquiet, he joked. “So, madame. Is this trip for business or pleasure?”
With that, a surge of pure excitement swept through her, along with the calming sense that what she was about to do was right. With a sigh, she relaxed against the leather seat. “Well, now. I suppose I’d call it a little bit of both.”
Andrews Air Force Base Flight Operations sat next to the flight line—an asphalt field of taxiways, hangars, and runways. Jas ignored the FLIGHT CREW ONLY signs on the building’s automatic doors and found the women’s rest room. Hurriedly, she changed into her flight suit, combat boots, and standard air force–issue brown leather jacket. Facing the mirror, she donned a flight cap; it was a dark blue hat worn many times, with her former officer’s rank pinned to the right side. After positioning the cap two fingers’ width above her eyebrows, she headed out into the cold, damp night, hoping no one noticed that she was a bit mature-looking to be wearing the silver bar of a first lieutenant. But everything else so far had gone smoothly—including the lift she’d gotten from a former colleague of Dan’s, a Pentagon employee happy to do a favor for his friend. Their admission onto the base proceeded with little more than a cursory wave, and the man was unaware of the crucial role he’d played in dropping her off. Without the coveted sticker he had on his windshield, she would have needed a visitor’s pass, which meant forms to fill out, delays, questions—attention she did not want.
Jas strode along a well-lit road paralleling the flight line. To her left was a barbed wire–topped chain-link fence separating her from the runways. Jet engines thundered in the distance. Her muscles tensed as she watched green and red winking lights soar skyward. It was a cargo plane, not a spaceship. So far, so good—all air traffic would be stopped long before a spaceship was allowed to depart. Yet she couldn’t keep from checking her watch.
Ninety minutes until launch.
Quickening her pace, she ignored the pounding of her travel bag against her thigh, and the way her lungs tightened in the jet fuel–scented autumn air. The moon floated behind a tattered curtain of clouds, painting the shadows of two hulking vessels ahead in a hazy, fog-touched glow. They loomed, foreboding and ominous, and she wondered fleetingly whether she was out of her mind.
One block to go.
From behind, Jas heard a car approach. Then came the unmistakable sound of a police radio. Gravel popped and headlights hit her in the back. She fought an irrational urge to run toward the ships, to freedom. You have no ID, her conscience screamed. You’re impersonating an officer. But fleeing would be an admission of guilt, so she lowered her bag. Perspiration prickled her forehead despite the chilly air. Then slowly, reluctantly, she turned around.
Rom’s boot heels clicked over the Quillie’s alloy flooring. “Begin the prelaunch sequence,” he ordered his bridge crew. But he did not settle into his command chair to watch the proceedings, as was his habit. Instead he paced, as if the mindless exercise would burn off his anger, his frustration—and the deeply personal sense of shame. He’d been forced to leave Earth without completing a single act of commerce. It was his own fault, too, for thinking he could best the Vash Nadah. And now the men who trusted him would suffer for it.
At the far end of the bridge, Rom turned on his heel and tramped back. Months! He’d wasted months on this jaunt to Earth, only to be sent away with no more regard than was used to flick away a Centaurian morning-fly. The barest of supplies graced the larders; a pitifully small cargo of salt lay in the hold—and that was booty left over from the system visited before this one. Hell and back! Shoving the fingers of both hands through his hair, Rom sat heavily in his command chair, his forearms balanced on his knees. From his position behind the six men preparing the ship for launch, he observed the proceedings in sullen silence. Nothing less than a million standard miles between the Quillie and this miserable backwater planet would improve his mood.
Zarra called to him from his station in front of the sweeping navigation console. “Sir. The prelaunch checklist is complete.”
“Call the tower,” Rom said wearily. “Tell them we want an early launch approved. I see no reason to prolong our stay, do you?”
“No, sir!” cried Zarra. The bridge crew chorused in hearty agreement.
A young security police officer rolled down his window. “Evening, Lieutenant,” he said to Jas.
She forced her mouth into a casual grin. “How’s your night going so far?”
“Quiet. Just how I like ’em. Where you headed?”
She gestured with her chin. “The Vash ships.”
He chuckled and lowered the volume on his radio. “You and every other pilot on the base. Can’t get enough of them babies, huh?”
“What I wouldn’t give to fly one.”
“I’ll bet.” He propped his arm on the door.
Jas relaxed a fraction. He sounded like a bored cop looking to chat. But that could change in a heartbeat if he asked her for ID. She’d better take control if she wanted to win him over. She took a breath. “You know, you’re my one lucky break all night.”
He grinned. “How’s that?”
“I’m beat. Have time for a lift?” Criminals didn’t ask policemen for rides.
He unlocked the back door. “Hop in. I can drop you off in front of the checkpoint.”
“Perfect.” She hopped into the backseat, clutching her bag with shaking hands. “I need to run some paperwork out there. Then I’m headed back to the VOQ,” she explained, using the lingo for the building that housed visiting officers.
He stopped in full view of the checkpoint, establishing her much-needed credibility with the two MPs sitting inside. Weak-kneed with relief, she thanked the young cop profusely.
Inside the cramped trailer the odor of cigarettes and coffee hovered in an interior illuminated by overly bright fluorescent lights. Jas slipped the leather portfolio from her bag and set it on a dented metal desk next to the radio. “This is for the Quillie.”
The stockier MP reached for it. She blocked his hand. “Actually, I’m supposed to deliver it in person. Governor’s orders. The Arizona state governor,” she emphasized. She opened the portfolio and smoothed her palm over the creamy white cover letter. “He promised the captain of the Quillie he’d have these here yesterday, but”—her voice hushed—“all I can say is that it’s embarrassing that these are so late.”
“I don’t know, ma’am…”
A sharp hiss echoed from the vicinity of the two Vash ships. Then a rumbling began, increasing in volume until the linoleum floor vibrated beneath her boots. Jas’s heart slammed urgently in her chest. She jabbed her finger in the direction of the ships. “We’re running out of time. Radio the Quillie. Tell them their papers are here.”
But the MP picked up the telephone instead. “I’ve got to check with the duty officer first.”
“No time for that!” Jas flipped over the cover letter, revealing the first page. “Look, it’s a trade agreement. A legal contract. A lot of work went into this.” She watched him read the governor’s message and then scan the signatures and statements from the CEOs. “Can you imagine the repercussions if this doesn’t get on board? Civilians get nasty, especially when the military screws up. My butt’s already on the line. I’m sure Governor Goldsmith would love to roast yours, too.”
The thinner MP piped in. “Jesus, Russ. Don’t get anal on me. We’re running stuff like this out there all the time.” Grabbing the radio transmitter, he lifted the mouthpiece to his lips. “Quillie, this is Alpha Five,” he said in painfully mangled Basic. “Alpha Five to Quillie. Please respond.”
There was static, then a curt, unintelligible reply.
The MP raised his brows. “Ma’am, what do I tell them?”
Jas grinned. “Special delivery.”
Rom spread his hands in disbelief. “They want to what?”
“Trade,”Gann replied, equally puzzled. “He—or she—claims to represent a consortium of powerful merchants. With supposed signed proof of their eagerness to trade.”
Rom choked out a laugh. It was no doubt a bureaucratic blunder, a contract destined for one of the other ships. He raised his headrest and buckled his safety harness. “Send the Earth-dweller away. He can sort out the mess with Lahdo.”
Gann returned to the bank of communications equipment that had received the Earth guard’s call.
“Zarra,” Rom demanded. “Where is my clearance?”
“Working on it, sir. The tower says the delay is with a higher aviation authority of some kind—Washington Center, I believe they called it. And they can’t give me an estimated time of departure.”
“Why doesn’t that surprise me?” Rom frowned. More blasted minutes wasted sitting on this rock. In the lull that followed, he pondered the Earth-dweller’s offer. Lahdo would be mortified when he found out that the Quillie had been contacted in error.
A grin slowly lifted one corner of Rom’s mouth. The launch was delayed, was it not? He might as well solicit a little entertainment to make the time pass faster.
He unfastened his harness. “Gann, disregard that order. What do you say we have ourselves a little sport?”
Gann laughed. “At Lahdo’s expense?”
“Naturally. Summon the Earth-dweller. I ache to see his face when you tell him he’s aboard the wrong ship.” Rom walked to the railing that overlooked the cavernous bulkhead below. “I’ll view the fun from here. Naturally I’ll join you should the encounter prove amusing.”
Jas’s body hummed with awe and fear as she followed the MP to the rebel ship. The dark, smooth metal hull gleamed dully, punctuated by winking multicolored lights. Steam hissed from the craft’s belly, adding to the chorus of whirring motors and intermittent mechanical clicking. Distinctly alien, it was at least as long as a Boeing 747, but much fatter, with stubby triangular wings close to the fuselage. A row of odd symbols decorated one side, resembling hieroglyphics—not the Basic she’d learned—likely the ship’s name in an exotic, unknown language. A film of some kind coated the forward windows, preventing her from seeing inside. The hair prickled on the back of her neck. She had the feeling that she was being studied by those she could not see. Her suspicion was confirmed when a portal below the nose opened slowly, spilling warm, golden light onto the tarmac. Then the heavy ramp hit the pavement with a gravelly thud and there was silence, broken only by the sizzle of escaping steam.
“Go on in.” The MP’s throat bobbed, and he stepped backward. “I’ll wait here.”
Unable to see what lay beyond the steep ramp, Jas inhaled and exhaled slowly, steadying herself mentally. Everything she’d accomplished in her life so far—the choices she’d made, the mistakes and the triumphs—were so that she could experience this one glorious moment. No matter what the outcome, tonight her life had reached a turning point. “Here goes,” she said, and began the long climb.
Recessed green lights in the floor led her inside. Laden with the mysterious humidity of a cave, the air gradually warmed, and the lights began to alternate between gold and green. The tunnel was featureless. No graffiti, no trash cans, she thought in a frantic attempt at humor. No cigarette butts or Coke cans lay wedged, trampled and forgotten, in the space between the floor and the walls. There were no signs of life, though she could hear distant voices. And laughter. That unnervingly familiar sound coaxed her forward.
The ramp ended in a cavernous chamber, ringing with a metallic emptiness, reminding her of the interior of an aircraft hangar. A vibration rumbled beneath the floor, and she had to clench her teeth so they wouldn’t chatter. The rattling ceased. She heard the muffled voices again, emanating from a room above, beyond a balcony with a double railing. She could see shadows moving, and lights of instruments and computers reflected in an enormous curving window at the front of the ship. Most likely the flight deck, or the bridge. Still, no one had shown up to escort her. Did they know she’d come aboard?
She was weighing the consequences of shouting “Anybody home?” when she spotted a Vash man waiting behind a low table that extended at a right angle from the wall. Good-looking and ruggedly built, the man was easily six-foot-three. Dim, bluish light illuminated the room, bleaching his tawny skin. If not for his startling golden eyes, he would have looked entirely human.
“You not the captain,” she said in choppy Basic. Nerves were making it tough to speak the language she’d so recently learned.
He spread his hands, palms down on the table. “I’m Gann, the second-in-command. Show me the agreement.”
She dropped her gear onto the table. Several lights blinked in protest. Quickly Gann flicked off a switch. His expression was downright forbidding, but his eyes glinted with laughter, pricking Jas’s pride.
“My name is Jasmine Hamilton,” she announced with cool professionalism, using words she had rehearsed a thousand times in the past few days. “I represent business leaders who want to trade with your ship.” Opening the finely bound folder, she turned it so he could see. “This is everything the captain wants. Commander Lahdo said no to trade. But the state of Arizona says yes.”
Gann examined the documents. “English,” he said, pronouncing it “On-gleesh.” With obvious dismay, he admitted, “I cannot read it.”
Of course! Why hadn’t she thought to make a copy in Basic? Sheepishly, resorting to unrehearsed Basic, she summarized what was on the papers, and who had signed them.
“This is the Quillie,” he said. “No one is permitted to trade with us. Weren’t you told this? Your agreement is meant for another ship.”
“No. Yours.”
He peered over her head and lifted his palms. She glanced over her shoulder, following his gaze to the balcony, to where the shadowy form of a man stood. His face was hidden, but he was the rebel captain; she was sure of it.
She returned her attention to Gann. “I know he wants to see this. Exclusive deal. For very small price.”
He appeared incredulous. “You want us to pay you?”
“Well, yes.” She thought hard, struggling to remember the words she needed. “Small price, big reward. I give you this agreement. And you give me passage into space. That is all.”
His nostrils flared. “We don’t take passengers.”
She rooted through her bag until she found her pouch of jewelry. She tugged open the silken cord and upended the bag, spilling out her beloved silver bangles and assorted gemstones. Her old wedding ring wandered in a wobbly circle before taking a suicide plunge off the edge.
The Vash caught it neatly in one big palm. Unimpressed, he smiled, as if charmed, which irked her some more. She’d bet that the South Pacific islanders of centuries ago felt the same when they climbed aboard Captain Cook’s superior ship only to find that that their most valued offerings were considered trinkets. Again he glanced over her head. Her stomach squeezed tight. Any minute her apparent novelty would wear thin and they’d boot her off the ship. It was time to roll out the heavy ammunition. “Have salt,” she said. “Many, many salts.” She began plunking box after box of Morton table salt onto the gleaming table, making sure she left her personal supply hidden, what she’d estimated she’d need to purchase supplies and lodging.
This time when Gann turned his attention to his captain, his eyes widened slightly. Then his incredulous gaze lowered. “My captain says you may come.”
Overcome by a torrent of conflicting emotions, Jas fought to keep them from appearing on her face.
“Quickly,” he said. “We’re ready to depart.” He locked the salt and jewelry in a recessed cabinet. Then he lifted her bag onto one broad shoulder and gestured to a ladder that led up to a cutout in the ceiling. She was halfway up when more rumbling began, forcing her to tighten her sweaty grip on the ladder. On the bridge the crew stopped midtask to stare at her. Blond and healthy, they wore sensible, rugged work clothes. If not for their bronzed skin and odd-colored eyes, they could have passed for a group of Swedish sailors. “Greetings,” she said, offering a half-smile.
“You. Earth-dweller.”
Her insides quivered at the very timbre of that too-familiar voice. The rebel captain was glowering at her from the bridge. For countless heartbeats, they regarded each other in mute astonishment.
He spoke first. “It is you.”
She braced herself. Now was the ideal time to kick her habit of transferring the expectancy of her dreams onto flesh-and-blood men. “I do not know you.”
“I believe you do.” His voice was low and deceptively calm, but his eyes were as hot as glowing embers. “I see it in your face.”
The first tendrils of panic squeezed her chest. She wondered irrationally if she’d appeared in his dreams, too. “You are mistaken.”
“Am I?” Clearly he was a strapping male in the prime of life, but in that moment, his eyes were those of an old man—a man who had lived long and lost much. Inexplicably, her heart went out to him. He must have seen it in her expression, because his features hardened, and he strode past his crew and took her by the upper arm, steering her to a darkened corner. Her vivid physical awareness of every square inch of him rendered her speechless, while his gaze, reminiscent of a jungle cat’s, meandered over her, from her boots to her face, pointedly lingering on her mouth. Her cheeks heated, and self-preservation kicked in. The Vash religion is based on a feminine entity, she desperately reminded herself. In his culture, women are respected, motherhood is revered, fidelity and marriage are held in high regard. He wouldn’t hurt her—she gulped—unless, of course, he didn’t care for those dictates any more than he had Lahdo’s.
She inched backward, but the computer consoles behind her allowed no retreat.
“How did you find me?” he demanded under his breath.
“I watched Commander Lahdo’s address. I heard name of your ship, so I know where to look.”
“I see. Was that the technique you employed the first time?”
“The first time?”
“On Balkanor! Sharron’s headquarters.”
“Bal-kan-or. Sorry. New at Basic. Please repeat.”
“Cease your games, woman! Why are you here? Is it because of my provocation of the Vash Nadah? Pointless it is, but satisfying as hell. Am I to retreat to the farthest reaches of the galaxy? Is that it? Is that what you want? So no one need be reminded of my existence?”
Rom gripped the comm console behind him with unsteady hands. The old fury boiled inside him, and he heard it in his voice. Little wonder she looked as if she wanted to bolt from the ship—or knee him in the groin. In either case, his prospects of learning anything from her were disappearing faster than salt in a sieve. “Well? What have you to say?”
She lifted her chin another defiant notch. “I have no idea what you talk about.”
Rom scrutinized her. He considered himself a good judge of character; usually he could tell if a trader was lying to him, or holding something back. That was one reason he’d done so well on so little all these years. But he sensed absolutely no guile on her part. Either she was a master of deception, or she was ignorant of her fateful role in his life. But with the launch sequence well under way, there wasn’t time to ascertain which one it was.
With an effort that cost him, he encased his turbulent response to her within an iron will. “So be it. We have many days of travel ahead—more than enough time to finish this conversation.”
“Sir,” Zarra called out before she could reply. “We have received the launch clearance.”
“You may use my chair.” Rom urged her across the bridge to his contoured command chair, from where he normally oversaw planetary departures. He drew two straps over her head and buckled them at her hips, then pulled two more belts from the sides of the chair and clicked the ends into the alloy receptacle between her knees.
“I have dreamed of this all my life,” she whispered.
Startled by her candor, he met her gemlike gaze.
She spoke haltingly, as if searching for each word. “For you it is routine. But for me it is wonderful.” Her eyes shimmered.
He clenched his jaw. He must not allow her suspiciously genuine emotion to touch him. He must not let his guard down. The last time he did, it had cost him everything. “When you see me get up that means it’s safe to move around,” he said briskly. She gripped the armrests and nodded. He strode to a seat close to Gann’s and fastened his safety harnesses as the powerful plasma thrusters rumbled to life. But he could not pull his gaze from the expression of awe on her face, and tried to imagine what the launch must feel like to her. Wondrous, of course. One never forgot his first trip into space. He’d been little more than a toddler when he’d accompanied his parents on his first flight. It remained his earliest memory.
The vibration increased as the Quillie lifted off. He watched the woman clutch the armrests, the invisible force of gravity pressing her into the seat as the ship accelerated. Then the nose rose to a steeper angle. Her bright, keenly intelligent eyes sought the forward view window. The turbulence increased. Outside, clouds slapped wet fingers across the glass in a futile attempt to keep the great craft atmosphere-bound. Then the ship tore free and there were only stars, bright pinpricks against the vast backdrop of deep space. The exact color of her hair…
Rom swore under his breath.
“I see the woman has already captured your thoughts,” Gann said in Siennan. “I envy you. Other men must hunt for their treasure, but not the B’kah.” He chuckled. “To you the treasure comes willingly, a lovely, pale-skinned, black-haired Earth woman, who not only pleads to be taken as cargo—she pays you for the honor.”
Rom scowled. “She paid for passage to the Depot.”
“Ah, yes, jewels and salt. A simple act of trade.”
“Jewels? Bah! Only a petty smuggler would take such cherished personal possessions. It’s the salt I want.”
“It does seem to be of excellent quality,” Gann conceded.
“I’ll allocate a quarter of it to the galley to pacify the crew. The rest we’ll sell at the Depot, along with the documents—if they prove genuine, and if Zarra can translate them.”
“And meanwhile, you’ll enjoy her charms.”
The ship continued to accelerate, pressing him into his seat. Rom raised his face toward the air rushing down from the ceiling vents, wishing he could cool his dangerous and foolhardy attraction to the woman as easily as he did the perspiration on his brow. “Our culture places much import on dreams, so perhaps I am predisposed in this regard, but I believe she is the incarnation of the Balkanor angel.”
Gann gave a bark of laughter. “Ah, yes. Back for a visit after all these years, eager to toy with your destiny a second time? Armed with orders from the Great Mother to divert you from your chosen path?”
“I did not choose this path! She did!”
“By all the heavens, Rom, enchanting as she is, she is not your angel. You’ve stared at every black-haired woman we’ve met since coming to this system. And there are billions more you haven’t seen. How can you say she’s the one?”
“I swear to you, before the voyage is out, I will have my answer.” Rom’s attention shifted from Gann to the Earth woman. All at once he recalled his first years in exile, the loneliness, the guilt, how thoughts of the Balkanor angel had kept him from giving up entirely. “By the heavens!” he muttered, and averted his eyes. The woman whipped up painful memories like a sudden sandstorm dredged up grit. Their encounter on Balkanor had preceded the worst period of his life—and yet he was drawn to her. He had yet to understand why. If she had answers locked inside her, he wanted them. Only then might he resolve the loss of his family and his birthright.