seen any heroes at work, only the greed that keeps the filters pure.”
His expression changes, not offended—as maybe he has the right to be—but focused solely on what bits are of interest to him, for reasons tactical or otherwise. “You want to tell me more about that trouble?”
“No.”
He nods, like he expected as much, and takes another sip of vodka, settling his gaze on the stars. “Okay, so you want to tell me how a woman from the protected environs of Red Filter becomes a smuggler in the first place? Unless, of course, that’s a secret too… ”
Petra frowns. It’s a question that deserves a good comeback, and no real consideration, though for some reason, the truth slips out first. “She might have made some mistakes.”
He smiles.
And she keeps talking. Like an idiot. “Might have gotten too close to what was criminal because all other doors were closed… might have gotten too close to the one smuggler what beat all smugglers, and picked up where he left off once he was killed, and no one else to argue. Original crew all dead.”
“The crew of this ship?”
“More to a crew than one ship.”
“So we’re talking about an organization?”
“Handful of talented individuals, more like, that work the buyers and sellers, a ship like this, plus a few transport tracks what run across red plain, between stations and grand capitals.”
“That’s… more extensive than I thought.”
“That’s vice in Red Filter.”
He looks at her, taking the statement more seriously than she thought he would, an Assaulter’s gaze seeing more than what she set out to show. Then, just as unexpectedly, he looks away, letting it go, or seeming to.
“Think I’m starting to feel that kick,” he says.
“From my girl vodka, you mean.”
“Yes, from that.”
She laughs, and so does he, like it’s some other universe, and they’re not assaulter and smuggler, opposite worlds closed together in the same tiny space.
He floats the vodka bottle between his hands and taps it lightly to send it her way. It rotates top over bottom, so slow it makes a short distance seem vast.
She meets his gaze. “If you’re feeling it, you’re already gone.”
“I’m feeling it.”
“Grapefruit.”
“Grapefruit.” He grins, crossing his big arms over his chest, hard muscle painted with tattoos, ornate armbands, and nightmarish bones, talons and curving ornamentation that have no description, the stars and stripes of the old republic… all scrolling together in a vision of ink, skin and imagination.
“Girl vodka and girl smugglers,” he says, slanting her a look, like she’s full trouble, and he knows it, which is the most honest thing he’s shown so far.
“You’re safe from me,” she quips back, taking pleasure in stealing the exact words he told to her, not but a few moments ago. “No profit riding on disturbing you, Colonel, only on getting you and your team to Red Filter on the low.”
“Jared.”
“What?”
“My first name is Jared.”
“Oh,” she says, softer than she intends.
“And your first name is…?”
“Captain.”
He smiles again, patient. “C’mon. What are you afraid of?”
Maybe it’s that last bit of provocation, or maybe it’s because she’s drunk. Or maybe it’s because she’s just plain stupid, but surrender comes easier than it should. “Petra.”
“Petra.”
And, just like that, it’s personal, her name spoken in his way, a direct line from him to her, with no comforting walls of ranks between them… which is—she realizes too damn late—exactly what she was afraid of.
SHADOW ROAD
TRANSPORT VESSEL WC2077 SPARROW
FLIGHT DAY 10/27
MARS DATE: DAY 8, MONTH 9/24, YEAR 2,225.
The girl’s in and out, awake but murmuring nonsense, her small body trembling, hair and skin damp, trying to sweat the narcotics out of her system. One prick of the needle and she goes quiet, instantly more comfortable, those harsh accusations of grief dulling in her dark
His expression changes, not offended—as maybe he has the right to be—but focused solely on what bits are of interest to him, for reasons tactical or otherwise. “You want to tell me more about that trouble?”
“No.”
He nods, like he expected as much, and takes another sip of vodka, settling his gaze on the stars. “Okay, so you want to tell me how a woman from the protected environs of Red Filter becomes a smuggler in the first place? Unless, of course, that’s a secret too… ”
Petra frowns. It’s a question that deserves a good comeback, and no real consideration, though for some reason, the truth slips out first. “She might have made some mistakes.”
He smiles.
And she keeps talking. Like an idiot. “Might have gotten too close to what was criminal because all other doors were closed… might have gotten too close to the one smuggler what beat all smugglers, and picked up where he left off once he was killed, and no one else to argue. Original crew all dead.”
“The crew of this ship?”
“More to a crew than one ship.”
“So we’re talking about an organization?”
“Handful of talented individuals, more like, that work the buyers and sellers, a ship like this, plus a few transport tracks what run across red plain, between stations and grand capitals.”
“That’s… more extensive than I thought.”
“That’s vice in Red Filter.”
He looks at her, taking the statement more seriously than she thought he would, an Assaulter’s gaze seeing more than what she set out to show. Then, just as unexpectedly, he looks away, letting it go, or seeming to.
“Think I’m starting to feel that kick,” he says.
“From my girl vodka, you mean.”
“Yes, from that.”
She laughs, and so does he, like it’s some other universe, and they’re not assaulter and smuggler, opposite worlds closed together in the same tiny space.
He floats the vodka bottle between his hands and taps it lightly to send it her way. It rotates top over bottom, so slow it makes a short distance seem vast.
She meets his gaze. “If you’re feeling it, you’re already gone.”
“I’m feeling it.”
“Grapefruit.”
“Grapefruit.” He grins, crossing his big arms over his chest, hard muscle painted with tattoos, ornate armbands, and nightmarish bones, talons and curving ornamentation that have no description, the stars and stripes of the old republic… all scrolling together in a vision of ink, skin and imagination.
“Girl vodka and girl smugglers,” he says, slanting her a look, like she’s full trouble, and he knows it, which is the most honest thing he’s shown so far.
“You’re safe from me,” she quips back, taking pleasure in stealing the exact words he told to her, not but a few moments ago. “No profit riding on disturbing you, Colonel, only on getting you and your team to Red Filter on the low.”
“Jared.”
“What?”
“My first name is Jared.”
“Oh,” she says, softer than she intends.
“And your first name is…?”
“Captain.”
He smiles again, patient. “C’mon. What are you afraid of?”
Maybe it’s that last bit of provocation, or maybe it’s because she’s drunk. Or maybe it’s because she’s just plain stupid, but surrender comes easier than it should. “Petra.”
“Petra.”
And, just like that, it’s personal, her name spoken in his way, a direct line from him to her, with no comforting walls of ranks between them… which is—she realizes too damn late—exactly what she was afraid of.
SHADOW ROAD
TRANSPORT VESSEL WC2077 SPARROW
FLIGHT DAY 10/27
MARS DATE: DAY 8, MONTH 9/24, YEAR 2,225.
The girl’s in and out, awake but murmuring nonsense, her small body trembling, hair and skin damp, trying to sweat the narcotics out of her system. One prick of the needle and she goes quiet, instantly more comfortable, those harsh accusations of grief dulling in her dark
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