ë Archer - Collision Course

“One plasma gun,” said Mara. “And the shields can’t take many hits. I’m a scavenger, not a soldier. The magnetic tow is her best feature.”

That caught Kell’s attention. “Towing capacity?”

Mara seemed to understand immediately. “Definitely something as large as, say, a battlecruiser.”

Over the secured comm, Celene chuckled. “I like the direction this conversation is heading.”

He sniped at the battlecruiser, darting close and then peeling back. As he hoped, the PRAXIS ship kept its attention on the Black Wraith, directing all its firepower at him. He swerved, dodged and shot, with Mara providing backup with her rotating gun. She took out half a dozen drones, their small, metal bodies exploding around the Black Wraith’s hull.

He gritted his teeth as one shot from the battlecruiser nearly clipped his wing. Gunfire streamed around them.

As he hoped, the PRAXIS ship ignored the Arcadia. It was just a scavenger trawler. Nothing to attract their attention. The Black Wraith was the prize.

“Celene, fly to the aft of the cruiser,” Kell directed.

“Copy that.” A moment later, she announced, “In position.”

Mara understood his plan, then got on the comm line and quickly explained to Celene how to deploy the magnetic tow. “Make sense?”

“Absolutely.”

“Do it,” Kell commanded.

“Aye, sir.”

The battlecruiser suddenly listed as Arcadia’s magnetic tow net fastened onto part of its aft fuselage. It tried to fight the net, but Mara’s words proved true. Arcadia had its hooks into the PRAXIS ship, hauling the much larger vessel around like a child pulling a toy.

“That’s it, baby,” Mara whispered, viciously gleeful. “Show those bastards what a scavenger can do.”

The battlecruiser attempted to fire back, but Celene had positioned the Arcadia in the enemy ship’s small area of lowered defense, where fewer guns were located. She towed the battlecruiser up, exposing its vulnerable underside. As drones rushed toward the scavenger ship, Mara unleashed a barrage of gunfire, picking them off like digiskeet.

Kell kept his guns occupied. He raced toward the PRAXIS ship, searching its hull. The battlecruiser tried to shift in space to line its guns up on him, but the Arcadia held it in place. Yes, there. He bared his teeth in a brutal smile. And unleashed the Black Wraith’s plasma guns, hammering into the battlecruiser’s side.

A bulwark collapsed beneath the onslaught. After a moment, the PRAXIS guns stopped. He’d damaged the main power to the weapons systems, and the enemy had no choice but to shut their weapons down.

But he wasn’t finished. He was the sonic hammer. As drones swarmed around the Black Wraith,

he targeted the battlecruiser’s propulsion system. Mara held the drones back long enough for Kell to decimate the engines. The moment he destroyed them, he turned his weapons on the remaining drones, and soon, there was nothing left of the bots but debris.

Celene disengaged the tow net. The battlecruiser now drifted like a blind, declawed macskacat, unable to move. Defenseless.

Part of Kell demanded he blast the battlecruiser into atoms, but a single Black Wraith didn’t have enough firepower to destroy the PRAXIS ship with one hit—only prolonged bombardment would do the job. Much as he wanted to wipe the damn battlecruiser off the star charts, he needed to get Mara, Celene and the Black Wraith to safety. And the fighter in him rebelled at the notion of attacking a powerless opponent. No honor in it.

The Arcadia came alongside the Black Wraith as he forced his blood to cool.

“You’ve earned yourself a few medals today, ladies.”

“Medals for everyone,” agreed Celene.

“And drinks.” Mara had her own strong opinions. “More valuable than medals.”

“Let’s go home,” said Kell.

“Home.” Mara spoke the word as if it was in another language. One she didn’t understand.

He wondered if he could teach her its meaning. Would his home be hers? He could fly and win a hundred combat missions, yet he understood that there were some battles he could never win by force.

An 8th Wing carrier ship met them a few solar hours after they left the Smoke Quadrant and collected them like stray birds. Smiling 8th Wing troops and officers waited for them in the docking bay.

Applause echoed as she, Kell and Lieutenant Jur emerged from their ships—a far different experience from Mara’s last encounter with 8th Wing. She felt uncharacteristically shy at being the object of so much celebratory attention.

As she stood beside the Black Wraith with Kell and Jur, people thronged around them in a sea of gray uniforms. The silence of space made their clapping jarring and loud, their eager faces too bright, too demanding. She felt herself shrink away, seeking peace. Kell’s arm curved around her shoulders.

Immediately, she felt the chaos within her calm, a sense of anchoring when she would have floated away.

He knew this, instinctively, knew what she needed. She looked at him as applause and shouts of congratulations thundered. He did not revel in the attention, but he didn’t shun it, either. He looked like a man who expected to get the job done, and did exactly that. Tough, assured, and, to her eyes, achingly handsome. Familiar, yet wondrous.

How had he become so necessary to her in such a short amount of time? Planets formed over millions of years, yet her own system had changed tremendously within a few days. No wonder her gravity was out of alignment.

Kell saw her looking at him, and bent close. “Welcome home,” he murmured for her ears alone.

A confused flush spread through her. Home. Hers, if she wanted it to be.

Gods, she needed time alone to think.

8th Wing officers came forward, trying to look stern but largely failing.

“You look shocked to see me, sirs.” Kell drew himself up so he seemed, if possible, even taller.

“Only surprised to have you back so quickly, Commander,” a captain answered.

“We placed bets,” said another commander.

Kell raised a brow. “Who won?”

“Ensign Neta.”

A young woman with an ensign’s single stripe hooted. “That’s five hundred creds and Lieutenant Orji has to clean my bunk for a solar month.”

Someone, presumably Lieutenant Orji, groaned. “She’s messier than that sipkaswine Ensign Garek smuggled aboard.”

“Status, Lieutenant Jur,” said a captain.

Jur, looking tired but relieved, answered, “A little weary and bruised, ma’am, but I’m in fighting form.” She eyed the medical personnel working their way toward her. “I don’t think the doctors are necessary.”

“Standard procedure following a rescue mission. Go, Lieutenant.”

Jur saluted and made to follow the medical personnel. Before she departed, she turned to Mara and stuck out her hand.

“They strong-armed me into the mission,” Mara said. “Thanks aren’t necessary.”

But the lieutenant smiled. “What I saw weren’t the actions of someone being coerced. You had your own stake in the mission.” Her gaze slid toward Kell, talking with an officer.

“And you?” Mara struggled to keep the tension from her voice.

Jur’s smile turned melancholy at the edges. “That ship has flown. It flew away years ago.” Then she left with the medical team, with a volley of new applause following her as she departed the docking bay.

The captain noticed Kell’s arm still wrapped around Mara’s shoulders, but said only, “You two must be exhausted and,” she added, eyeing their wounds, “you need treating, as well. Commander Rigg, escort the commander and our honored guest to the medical bay.”

“Honored guest?” Mara repeated.

“That you are.” Kell’s gaze was a warm caress. “The 8th Wing is honored by your presence. As they should be.”

Shouts of agreement rose up from the assembled crowd.

She had no answer to that, to them. She felt herself dropped into someone else’s life—someone who did not run with criminals, who was not an exile. Someone who belonged. A similar feeling to whenever she had set foot in that tawdry bar on Ryge. But here, the currency was honor, not cunning.

That life was lost to her now.

Her chest tightened with panic. She belonged to no one, and no one would have her.

She told herself that again, when Commander Rigg escorted her and Kell from the docking bay and more cheers sounded from the throng. Disturbing, to walk through the 8th Wing ship and see not suspicion or curiosity in the faces that passed her, but welcoming smiles.

It did not take long for her wounds to be cleaned and mended. The medical team worked quickly,

with a minimum of fussing, which she appreciated. She remembered the hovering nurses and nannies from her childhood, the oppressive atmosphere that barred her from playing outside like other children, lest she hurt herself. Of course, that had made her desire to sneak off and roughhouse with the groundskeeper’s children all the stronger.

She sat on an exam table, watched from across the room as medics treated Kell’s leg. His pants had been cut open, exposing the hard muscles of his calf and thigh and the burned flesh surrounding the plasma pistol wound. Even though the treatment required a bit of probing and some heat sutures, he bore it all with stoicism, talking the entire time with Commander Rigg and giving no notice to the painful work being done on his leg. Yet in the middle of all this, he caught her staring at him and sent her a look of searing, carnal intent. It was a wonder the medical team crossing between them didn’t burst into flames.