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 bum 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
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 bum 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
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