Chase Me (6 page)

He touched a bloody smudge at the top of a page. He leaned down to sniff it, and jerked his head back when he realized what he was doing. Shoving the file back in the cabinet, he bypassed the Budget file and pulled Assays. He paged through the records slowly. Previous years’ crews had performed all the right geological tests, utilizing radar, sonar, and various metal detection techniques. His own department had assisted, and—yes—there was his own signature at the bottom of the most recent report.

The command box Lorin found hadn’t pinged anywhere, and it should have. What properties did the metal have that it had evaded detection despite the technology they’d thrown at it?

The metallurgist in him was definitely intrigued. And damn it, so was the man.

“No running water, wood heat, and cold as the moons of Gennadia Prime,” Beddoe muttered, shivering in his inadequate skinsuit. The gleaming panels resting atop the buildings indicated that they’d started to learn how to harness the power of their nearest star, but
Dia
, Minchin hadn’t mentioned how primitive the conditions were. He blew on his chilled fingers as he assessed the domicile’s stubborn closure. The entrance hadn’t opened at his voice command or touch, and the near-translucent wash of data scrolling along his peripheral vision wasn’t helping.
Door. Tree. Roof. Dirt. Rocks. Lock.

“I know it’s a lock. Directions to open.”

Door. Lock.

The door stayed stubbornly closed. “Dia.”

His uplink to the Core provided him with little more information than he could discern perfectly well for himself: his vitals, the molecular composition of the strange items he encountered in this even stranger place, and the simple names these simple people had given to their simple things. In one of the countless small economies he’d instituted on board the
TonTon
, he’d budgeted and expensed for unlimited access to the Core, but instead of connecting, he’d shuttled the funds to his personal account. If there were massive holes in his knowledge base, he had only himself to blame.

Why in the name of the multiverse would the
Arkapaedis
’s homing beacon have blipped
here
?

He could really use Minchin’s help, but he could hardly trust his first officer with this delicate task. Minchin had his uses, but the man was certainly his uncle Lorcan’s spy, and the last thing Beddoe wanted his boss to know was that the homing beacon for the legendary lost
Arkapaedis
had popped on an inconsequential mudball in a territory so remote that the very assignment was considered a punishment route. But he’d get the last laugh. Yes, he would. Once he found the
Ark
and claimed the astronomical finder’s fee, he’d be able to buy this unknown jewel of a territory outright. Its treasure trove of water and resources would be his to use. His to sell.

If he could find and disable the beacon, he could buy himself some time. If he couldn’t, it wouldn’t be long before the quadrant would be crawling with pirates and salvagers who wouldn’t care what damage they left behind.

Voices approaching. A woman and a man. He chanced taking one last look through the domicile’s small window, seeing a raised sleeping pallet—
bed
—what he thought was a heating device, open shelves laden with supplies. The small fortune in clean water, sitting in clear view of whomever passed by, made his fingers itch.

Beddoe exhaled, surprised he couldn’t see his breath. They relieved their bodily wastes into a hole in the ground but bathed with clean water. To use such a precious resource for mere body hygiene was an act punishable by death on his homeworld.

Luckily for them, he wasn’t a particularly law-abiding man.

He scrambled around the corner of the domicile and out of sight just as the man and woman emerged from the tall stalks of vegetation. As he watched, the woman said something he couldn’t hear. The man didn’t respond, which seemed to annoy the woman even further.

“Damn it, I can’t believe this!” she yelled. “So much for not interfering with day-to-day operations.”

The man looked baffled. “Lorin, I just want to take some soil samples. You can work around me, can’t you?”

Beddoe raised a brow. The Core’s language translation module was doing a better job than he expected it would—and though it was missing a word here and there, the woman’s tone was universally recognizable.

Just as he thought she might actually strike the man, she growled in frustration, about-faced, and strode away. The man stared after her, shook his head, then ducked into the flimsy shelter he’d searched earlier, zipping it closed behind him.

Beddoe felt an odd communion with the man wearing the vision correction appliance. He’d have a hard time looking away from those buttocks too.

Peering from around a tall stalk, he watched her approach the door in her heavy boots, her footfalls loud against the platform. Shooting one final glance back to the man’s shelter, she extracted a ring of jingling metal pieces from her jacket pocket. Selecting one, she inserted it into the tiny jagged slot.

Mechanical lock—a truly ancient technology. It figured.

The man and the woman were both very pleasant to look at. Despite his obvious vision defects, there were always customers for the man’s type of tall, dark, and handsome—but it was the woman who drew his own connoisseur’s eye. Her long hair was not blond or brown, but a streaky combination of both. She had a classic figure, with breasts and hips that would more than fill a man’s hands. Stunning facial structure, with a particularly stubborn jawline. Beautiful, really. She was almost as tall as the man and looked like she could take a lot of physical damage. He could think of several
TonTon
clients with rather… exotic tastes who would empty their personal accounts to spend some time with this one.

He wouldn’t mind breaking her in himself.

A vibration pulsed against his wrist as she slammed the door closed behind her. He sighed. Just as well. He pushed the button acknowledging his readiness to return to the ship. Darkness was falling, and the temperature with it—

Something bumped his foot.

His T-Mach was in his hand before he was aware of having grabbed it. He aimed, hesitated, but slowly lowered his weapon. The animal—small, deep-space dark, with a distinctive white stripe—wasn’t attacking, and firing his weapon so close to the woman’s shelter would draw attention he didn’t want. “Identify.”

After a short pause, the creature’s molecular composition scrolled across his field of vision—and that was all. As he cursed his limited data, a familiar stinging chill washed over his body. Timeless beats later, he shimmered onto the bridge of the pleasure cruiser
TonTon
, locked in orbit a planet and a dimension away.

“Welcome back, Sirrah.” Xantha Ta’al, his second officer, rose from the command chair and stood at attention, acknowledging his return—and his still-drawn weapon—with a careful nod of her head.

He nodded back just as neutrally, hiding the fangs that had just descended into his mouth with a brutal shove. Minchin should be sitting in the command chair, not Ta’al. Minchin was cutting too many corners, powerful uncle be damned. “Where’s Minchin?”

Ta’al pushed keys on the console, her fingers moving with lightning speed. “Entertainer’s residence, Captain.”

Beddoe cursed under his breath. Minchin spent far too much time with the incubus Stephen, who’d recently been reacquired after a lengthy escape to the planet’s surface.

“We appear to have a stowaway, Captain.” Ta’al indicated the black-and-white creature sniffing at his feet.

Was that amusement in Ta’al’s voice? No, it couldn’t possibly be. The woman, a stoic Valkyr, was as emotionless and as reliable as an automaton. “It had contact with me when I transported. Send it back down.”

“Aye, Sirrah.” As she flicked the controls, the animal lifted its tail, spraying something from its back end an instant before it disappeared.

A
thousand
dying
suns, what was…
The noxious odor came straight from the bowels of hell. “Toxin?” he gasped.

He already knew the answer. They were going to die.

The unflappable Ta’al coughed, and though her eyes had to be as blurry as his were, her fingers flew at the con. “Bridge contained,” she choked out. More keystrokes. “Assessing composition.” Time dragged as Ta’al studied the console and finally spoke. “Negative.”

“What?”

“Negative for toxicity,” she repeated, coughing again. “Noxious, certainly. Most disagreeable. A very effective defense mechanism.”

Choking, Beddoe strode blindly to the elevator. “I’ll leave cleanup in your capable hands. Please keep the scent out of the customer areas. I’ll be with Minchin in Stephen’s quarters.”

“Yes, Captain.”

Immediate response, respectful tone, implacable facial expression. How had such an excellent officer fallen into his hands? “Ta’al.” Despite her streaming eyes, she met his gaze squarely. “I am pleased with your performance. Consider your probationary period complete.”

Ah, there it was—a flicker of expression, the slightest lift of an eyebrow. “Thank you, Captain.”

“Carry on.”

With a few flicks of her fingers, Ta’al reversed containment, reactivating the elevator. Stepping inside, Beddoe took deep, grateful breaths of clean air. The doors closed and the elevator descended, each ticking number carrying him further away from that bedeviled scent, and closer to Minchin—and whatever damage he’d already done to Stephen.

His first officer was absolute hell on his profit margin, and that he could not abide.

***

Gabe stood in front of the bank of old TV sets lined up on hand-me-down coffee tables in the living room area of the bunkhouse, a snarl of black wires in his hands. “No wonder your budget is so outrageous,” he called to Lorin, who was in the other room snapping sheets onto beds. Three different video game systems? Things sure had changed since he was a grad student working in the field.

Although it was evening, Lorin emerged from the other room wiping sweat from her hairline, dressed in a pair of those saggy-waisted cargo shorts she seemed to live in, and a tank top that bared her muscular shoulders and arms. Gabe had shed his light coat when they’d entered the bunkhouse, but he was still glad for his long-sleeved sweatshirt. The woman must have a blast furnace for a metabolism.

Walking to the battered refrigerator, she grabbed one of the Diet Cokes they’d loaded earlier, opened it, and drank thirstily. Swiping a wrist over her mouth, she said, “Most of the gaming gear is donated. Some of the students leave supplies here for future groups to use after their own field season is over.” She nudged the refrigerator with her boot. “Donated. The TVs are donated. Almost everything in here except the mattresses has either been donated or left behind by work crews over the years. You might have noticed there’s not a lot of nightlife in the area.” She looked around and shrugged. “It might not have all the comforts of home, but—”

“Pretty damn close.” Gabe appraised the bunkhouse, which over the years had taken on more of the patina of a frat house than an up-north hunting shack. In the living area, a trio of sagging, mismatched couches faced the bank of televisions, surrounding a big wood table scabbed with dings and water rings, perfectly positioned for feet or the next beer. A beautiful shallow pottery bowl—Rafe Sebastiani’s work?—sat on the center of the table, filled with remote controls, pinecones, condom packets, and spare change.

The readers in the group would probably prefer one of the two overstuffed chairs cozied up next to the table and lamp near the window. Bookshelves covered one full wall, loaded with board games, comic books and graphic novels, DVDs, random rocks, video games, photographs, and yes, even some books. The bare-bones kitchen to his left featured a battered sink with cold running water, a microwave, a toaster, a toaster oven, some mismatched dishes, and two full-sized refrigerators.

There was no hot running water and no indoor toilet, but with unlimited free Internet, video games, beer, pizza, and condoms, Gabe could see why the Schlessingers had hundreds of students applying for summer field positions.

Gabe peered into the other room, briefly considered claiming one of the bunks for himself, but just as quickly discarded the idea. He valued silence, and none would be had here.

“Want to take a run before hanging it up for the day?”

Gabe couldn’t help the snap of his head. They’d been working like dogs all damn day, getting the site ready for the crewmembers who’d start straggling in tomorrow, and she still had enough leftover energy to run? All he wanted to do was flop onto one of these hideous couches and not get up for hours. “Sure,” he said instead. If she had the energy to run, so did he, damn it. “Let me change and meet you at your cabin in five.”

She slammed the rest of the can of pop. “On our way back, we can swing by the sauna.” Dropping the empty can in the recycling bin, she sauntered out the door while he stood locked in place.

Sauna? Did she mean… bathe? Together? His face heated, and blood pooled in his groin. He knew that saunas were a historically communal bathing ritual, brought here by the Iron Range’s Scandinavian immigrants, but… just how authentic did she mean this sauna to be?