Sparks in Cosmic Dust (4 page)

She glimpsed her three new cards and immediately sank them into the discard hole. One was the king of diamonds, another the ace of hearts. To hell with that. She wanted to
lose.
But could she get away with nobbling her game like this without anyone seeing? Two cameras watched the game from behind each player, so as long as she kept her cards hidden, it should be okay.

“You show me yours…” she teased, and grinned at the weak but still winning hand he fanned face-up, “and I’ll show you mine.” After overturning her cards, she stepped back off her stool, struck a shy, virginal pose, arms shielding her chest, then slunk out of her green waistcoat to reveal pale white skin and her impressive cleavage in a lace corset.

The stranger mouthed the word
wow
, drank her inch-by-inch with his lovely eyes, then almost licked his lips.

Her plans outrunning her brain, she shivered, composed herself.

It was time to give up her winning streak. If not now, the odds of finding a man this attractive, given the dwindling clientele, were not good at all. And she was not afraid. Excitement, rather than nerves, measured him for the role of sexual partner.

Imagining what he’d look like naked—from the breadth of his shoulders and the cut of his jaw, probably ripped, mouth-watering—Varinia took her seat and couldn’t take her eyes off him. Would he be strong, generous in bed? She hoped so. It had been a long time since she’d made love.

After discarding a red jack and a red lady in the next hand, losing her high heels, she decided it was imperative to behave exactly as she would if he were any other sap drooling over her. Flirty but cool. No more doe eyes, and no more avoiding eye contact either. A performance within a performance. After all, Archie would probably scrutinize the camera footage later, try his best to somehow prove she’d breached her contract.

She gasped at the stranger’s side profile as he turned to survey the empty purple cell. When he spun back, his face and body language betrayed no affectation whatsoever. Either he was just supremely confident in his sexuality or he had no idea how gorgeous he was.

Varinia summoned a deep breath and her next hand.

Mmm. Losing was going to be easier said than done.

Jesus.
How many was that? He’d played…one, two…
ten
rounds and lost only two. How? Either he was better at Cydonia Face than he realized or else luck was being a mercurial bitch today. This whole depraved excursion had been borne on a reckless impulse, an overreaction to the worst piece of luck he’d ever had. Was this fate’s bizarre contrition? Varinia Wilcox for Maggie?

Solomon would give anything for a swig of Neo Spitz tonic on the rocks. Despite the air-conditioning, his clothes were heavy with sweat. Hand after mediocre hand had sprung his way, and each time he’d wound up victorious. It didn’t make sense and he questioned it—dumb, very dumb. He ought to be hard as a girder right now, hornier than Bacchus in a harem. But fists of doubt wrung his insides out of shape.

This was all a ruse to relieve him of his credits. She’d tempted him this far and from now on she’d win every hand. He’d forgotten to read the small print on the quickie disclaimer he’d signed at the front desk. If he did win, two gigantic bouncers would burst in and beat ten bells out of him.

But
wow.
She was down to her underwear.

Varinia’s fame was in her unattainability. He’d heard space haulers and nuns and A.I. companion bots alike say her name with envy. Yet apart from her beauty, they’d known nothing about her.

“Whenever you’re ready.” She chewed her lip, stopped, then resumed her seductive game face. Was she
genuinely
worried about losing?

Five-five, pale as Antarctica, she had a slim, athletic figure with no hint of rejuvenation or surgical tampering whatsoever. Her high Slavic cheekbones and big blue eyes made her gaspingly beautiful, but she also had a sweet, girl-next-door way about her, as though she was in on the joke and would be self-deprecating in the real world. The gossip about her breasts being fake and too big for her figure was nonsense. She was well-endowed, pure and simple. Without her corset, Varinia Wilcox would not have looked out of place on the brass bridge of Pont de Rêves, alongside the Selene finalists in the famous lunar pageant.

But she was here. Alone. Practically naked. Two rounds away from being
his
—Solomon Bodine, miner, lifelong loser.

He puffed, then pressed the deal button. Two red ladies and a jack of hearts kicked his breathing into high gear, smashed open the eleventh door of this bizarre purple rollercoaster. A solid hand like that gave him every chance. He dropped his other two nothing cards into the discard slot and cleared his throat. “Twist.”

“Me, too,” came the serious reply.

He longed to see another red gent but all he got was a three and a seven. Forget them. Still a good hand. Seeing as he’d won the previous round, he had the option of raising the bet—two discs for two items of clothing, an outright win—but that would mean gambling his last disc. Hmm. So what? What did he have to lose? His last hand might be garbage and he’d kick himself for not playing up these red faces.
Play what you’ve got, not what you might get.

“Raise.” His hand trembled as he fed his last disc into the credit slot. Varinia shot him a bewildering look—no performance, no experience—before touching a blond curl behind her ear and nervously twining it around her forefinger.

After his raise, she had the unique privilege of being able to fold. If one’s opponent was confident enough to up the bet, odds suggested he had a killer hand, and Varinia could choose not to match the bet. If she did fold, he would win the round by default, but he would only win the initial fifty-credit bet. If she matched his bet, odds suggested she also had a strong hand. Card sharps called this dilemma “the frown” of Cydonia Face. A player could scowl and puzzle all he wanted, but ultimately the only thing that mattered was what he
knew for certain.
The strength of his own hand.

“Call.” She looked right through him and Solomon knew he’d blown it.

He whispered, “Shit.”

“You go first,” she said.

Solomon flipped his cards, wiped his moist hand prints from the smooth console with the sleeve of his jacket, and readied himself to leave. What now? He still had enough left from his wages to seek out a high-priced hooker. Nah. Maybe tomorrow, when his nerves had untangled.

She got up and flicked him a smile.

“Thanks for the game,” he managed. “You were great.” Turning to leave, he heard a quiet
click
followed by an even quieter metallic tinkling sound behind. He glanced over his shoulder.

His mouth dropped when he saw the glass window was open, the key swinging, chiming on its metal holder at the end of the ribbon—reachable, on
her
side of the glass.

“Leaving so soon?” She beckoned him toward her with a crooked finger, back-stepping across the purple sand in her white bra and panties, her corset in a heap at her ankles.

Jesus, I won?

“I won?” He raked his hair with rigid fingers and then locked his hands together on top of his head.

Varinia nodded. She clasped her lower lip in a nervous bite. Her chest heaved. “You’re the first.” She beckoned him again.

Solomon didn’t bother to check her cards. He raced to the glass, reached through the window and tore the key from its ribbon. It was heavy, cumbersome. He bolted for the glass door to the far right of the partition, a fever coursing through him, making him weigh nothing and perceive everything. The enormity of the moment, this memory he’d always look back on, the wry humor, the sheer dumb, ridiculous luck of being the first to beat Varinia Wilcox, darling of every space hauler and sleaze-heaver farther than 100z—it was all his at the turn of a fucking key.

He eased the door open, strode through. Trespassing allowed? Nothing existed between them except purple and air. She stood still in the sand, swan-necked and vulnerable and breathing heavily, begging to be deflowered.

Solomon’s broad shoulders tightened. He removed his jacket, flung it away, his eyes not leaving hers for an instant. She responded by wrenching her blond wig off and, after tossing her natural brunette curls over her shoulder, dropped Rapunzel at her feet. The transformation awoke a hint of wickedness, the shadow behind the performance. Close up, her lips curled cruelly and she raised both hands to his face, pulling him toward her. Her lips parted, lingered tantalizingly over his. The tip of her tongue quivered through perfect teeth. She ran her hands through his hair, couched his head back a little, teasing him further, closer, close enough for him to taste the onyx lining her lips.

Solomon broke through her tempting spell and kissed her, held
her
arms and parted
her
teeth with his insistent tongue. A flash of dominance and she was his. Insatiable desire followed in every give-and-take, every tidal tilt, addicting Solomon beyond all control. He helped her rip off his shoulder belt and shirt, unbuckle his trouser belt. Varinia explored his pectorals and his nipples with ravenous warm lips, then ran her palms over every inch of his upper body. By the time she delved inside his trousers—he never wore underwear—his cock was bursting through the top of his fly, straining to get inside her. Instead she sank to her knees, peeled his trousers down and, after lapping at the moist head of his cock with her tongue, carefully felt for and unfastened the magno-laces on his boots. She sat back, mouth open, as he stepped out of his boots and pants to stand completely naked before her.

“Allow me.” He took her by the arms and pulled her upright. She gasped as he inched behind her, his cock pressing into the small of her back. “Don’t hold back, Varinia,” he whispered in her ear. “This will be amazing.”

He roved his hands down her sides to her hips. Varinia arched her back, draped an arm over him, then reached up sideways with parched lips until he slaked her desire with a firm, full kiss. Before he knew it she’d unclipped her skimpy strapless bra, her last line of defense. A bit of a cheat under a corset.

A daunting surge of self-awareness loomed for a moment at the thought of him doing something forbidden. It quickly broke on irrepressible cravings, feeding the urge, sharpening the hunger. He slid his hands up inside her bra to her large and magnificent breasts. Shapely, gelatinous. A heightening of his pleasure through the gentle purr of hers.

She let her arm fall loose, and they peeled her bra off together.

When it hit the sand, Solomon twitched a smirk. Not that it mattered one jot, as she seemed to be loving this as much as him, but it was reassuring to know…

She owed him
yet another
item of clothing.

“Come with me.” She led him by the hand toward her hidden boudoir at the far end of the cube. A place no man had ever visited.

“What’s your name, doll?” Perched on the foot of the bed, Varinia wrapped herself in the satin bedsheet while admiring her lover’s naked form as he lay face-down, exhausted on the mattress.

“Mmm?”

“Your name. What do they call you?”

He groaned and, with a blissful chuckle, rolled onto his side. “Solomon.”

“Solomon, I have a proposition for you.” She waited until he sat up and gave her his undivided attention. “It’s important, and if we do it right it could make us both rich.” After peering round the metal bedroom partition and assuring herself they were alone, she added, “We don’t have much time. This place is run like clockwork, and we may have enjoyed ourselves a bit too much.”

“Speak for yourself. I only stopped because I had nothing left. It was fucking phenomenal.”

Yes, while it lasted.
She’d have liked a little less buildup, a lot more pelvis action. The guy was big and powerful, and sensational when he got going, but not much in the way of stamina. Not yet anyway.

“
Sshh.
” She checked again—still no one there. “Stay right where you are. I’m going to fetch our clothes. We’ll have to talk while we’re getting dressed, okay? That way no one will be suspicious if they find us.”

Solomon shifted to the edge of the bed, his eyes darting between her and the way out. She marched out over the soft purple sand, careful not to look anywhere except at the garments strewn about. The staff access door could fling open at any moment and she’d lose her chance. Arch
had
to be watching the cameras by now, if remotely from his penthouse. Her window of opportunity to recruit Solomon was shrinking. She hurried, snatched up his clothes and boots and, realizing she couldn’t carry it all in one trip, wrapped everything in the bedsheet instead. If only she’d been smart and taken him into the bedroom first, but the moment had overwhelmed them both.

“Okay, here it is.” She flung their garbs onto the bed. “I need to get off this asteroid but quick. My contract expires after either twenty losses or, if I don’t reach that figure in a year, five losses after the year elapses. My year is up, and this is my first…loss.” She stepped into her panties. “So, doll, I need you to beat me four more times.”

A puzzled frown robbed Solomon of his cocky post-sex high. “How’s that? You say you’re gonna
let
me beat you?”

Varinia reaffixed her bra and her golden Rapunzel wig, all the while crystallizing the ruse in her mind. If they were smart about this, it
had
to work. “I won’t lie to you, sugar. You’re a piss-poor card player, and if I were thinking professionally, I’d wait for some rejuved tin man with lifetimes of talent up his sleeve. But the truth is I’m particular about whom I shag, and you’re by far the hottest trick I’ve come across on this rock. No question.” She knew stroking a man’s ego made him susceptible to most things. “And we have the luxury of our plays being invisible. The cameras watch our backs, for security. No one can know how much we suck at cards. If we keep our heads about us we can blaze off Kappa in four days’ time, richer than Croesus. We can split my earnings fifty-fifty, everything I’ve made this year. How about it, sugar?”

Crap.
Had she come on too strong? The poor guy looked shell-shocked, his mouth contorting for speech with nothing coming out. He bent to fasten his fly, magno-lace his boots, all the while his bare shoulders and biceps rippled, making her mouth water. Four sessions with him would be more than worth a cut of her fortune. With a little discipline, he could be dynamite in bed. He’d been a little rough but not too much, and in terms of foreplay, he knew exactly how to pleasure her. She’d chosen well—very well. Strong, proud, considerate, Solomon would make an excellent travel partner. At the very least, no one would want to get on the wrong side of him. His huge shoulders would knock down a hurricane derrick.

“Why do I get the feeling I’m being set up?” He spied her from the corner of his eye while he fastened his shirt.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean no one is that lucky. First I get to screw the one woman every sleaze-heaver in the galaxy would give every body part except one to screw. Then she invites me back, free as you like, and
pays
me for the privilege? Lady, what do I look like? This bullshit has ‘entrapment’ stamped all over it.”

Okay, so he was dumber than she’d reckoned. Obtuse. A little more persuasion was required. “Think about that, Solomon. What have I got to gain by letting you win like this?” She thanked God her tight corset was a bitch to fit into—it bought her precious time. “Sure, technically I get a portion of your clips added to my account, but that’s hardly worth kissing goodbye to my reputation, is it? I’m no longer that unattainable goddess you’re harping on about. I’ve just been ravaged. Savvy? Once word gets out, I’ll be just another shack-sheik’s moll stripping in the premium cube. Overpriced. Yesterday’s news.”

“I guess.” He cleared his throat. “I mean nah, you’re still—”

“And I’m saying I
want
you to come back tomorrow and screw my brains out, or not, whatever you like so long as you beat me at Cydonia Face four more times.” She couldn’t believe how smoothly it all flowed out. Inklings of a ruse like this had never congealed before today. Celibacy had made her rich, and the only players she’d ever considered losing to in the past were toffs, easy on the eye at the buy-in, easy to hate once their arrogance kicked in.

The closest she’d come to ending her unbeaten run was with a moneyed teenage girl, whose porcelain skin and demure personality had seemed so harmless, so irresistible, there was no downside. Not until the brat had emerged after round eleven, the girl’s second defeat in a row—she’d screamed enough obscenities to clear a barracks bar on Selene finals day. But with Solomon, it had all come together.

Almost.

“What about the capital?” He untangled his inside-out jacket. “I don’t think I could manage more than two of these matches. This was only on impulse after…never mind. You got enough to stake me?”

Varinia strained to dampen her grin.

He was onboard.

“Yes. Drop by El Oso Negro tomorrow morning. I’ll leave something for you at the front desk. Flash your ID and use…let me see…‘blackjack’ as your password. But please, wear something different, and don’t call any attention to yourself. Archie Delaney owns that place as well.”

“Wouldn’t it be better leaving it someplace else then?”

“It would, but you can imagine what a tight leash he keeps me on. Any time I leave El Oso Negro I have to take an armed chaperone. At least this way I can draw out some spending money without having to watch over my shoulder. It will be enough to tide you over.”

“Okay.”

“And by the way, I should tell you I’m worth somewhere in the region of half a million clips.”

He nodded blankly, then rose and roughed his jacket on, preoccupied.

“You okay, doll?” she asked.

“Fine.”

“I didn’t mean to put the fright on you like that. We’re pressed for time is all.” No response. “So we’re on for tomorrow?”

In one purposeful motion he rubbed his face and parted his disheveled hair, his stare resting on the far wall, away from her. Then he turned and, as if snapping out of a daydream, leaned in and treated her to a short but dizzying kiss, its depth unquantifiable. Was it a farewell gesture? The sealing of their pact? A promise of things to come?

He left without saying a word. Instead he threw her a wink before strolling out under the cameras’ scrutiny, away to his side of the glass, back to wherever he’d come from.

A man she hardly knew.

Her partner in this all-in gamble she couldn’t afford to lose.

Steam vents hissed, last-minute roly-poly couriers sped by as Clay supported Lyssa’s limp on their way to the launch hangar. It was going to be a close call. She’d twisted her ankle during their escape from the bookie’s office, amid a blaze of bullets, and though they’d snatched three thousand credits from his safe, Lyssa had hugely underestimated the man’s entourage. Damn near a dozen gun-toting goons had opened up, honeycombing the corridors behind them as they’d fled.

“You’ll have to carry me…” She clutched the suede bag containing their swag and shuttle tickets tightly against her chest. “Or we’ll never make it.”

Clay didn’t reply, nor did he have any intention of lifting her onto his shoulder. This heist had been Lyssa’s baby—the latest in a series of slapdash double-crosses against her various low-life contacts on Kappa Max. He’d watched her back all right, just like he’d promised. The minx had enough moxie for the both of them, no question, but her trigger finger had flipped half a dozen sneak thefts into outright carnage over the past week. Not that any of the corpses weren’t better off cold, but enough was enough. Soon as they made it to Magadan Three,
if
they made it, he’d have no choice but to dump her flat, leave her to her own skullduggery. She was simply too unpredictable.

“Did you hear me, Clay? I said carry me. They don’t wait around out here.” She winced, collapsed in the gutter, her gray leggings now soaked through. The grit in her grimace disappeared, and she began to sob. “Some fucking partner you turned out to be. After all I’ve been through for you…” She slapped the oily water, then raised her face pleadingly.

Crocodile tears. Pathetic. But also kind of lovable. Ever since she’d spared his life in the alley, Lyssa had kept to her word and then some—more than just a partner in crime, she’d cooked for him, bought him new clothes, intervened whenever anyone else had approached him and, perhaps most admirable of all, she’d never once asked about his past or the contents of the brown plastic bag he carried everywhere.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake.” He bent to his knees and with a livid effort scooped her up onto his shoulder, fireman style. She was no dainty lass, but he was no weakling either.

“Come on, come on.” She tried to wriggle him into action. “We’ve got like five minutes before they—”

“Shut it and keep still,
right now.
”

He felt a pat on his backside. After a few lumbering steps he had his rhythm and, without roly-polys zooming by to make his progress seem glacial, Clay reckoned he could make good time.

The shuttle
Ionian,
an ex-military vessel now relegated to ferrying economy passengers between deep-space colonies, resembled a colossal dirty-white penguin as its nose section bowed for the upper gangway to retract. The first consignment of passengers had to already be aboard.

Clay lowered Lyssa from his shoulder but couldn’t catch her stumble and she fell flat on her ass. “Jesus Christ, lady…” he gasped for breath, “…is there anything you
can
do right?”

She scoffed and climbed up his khakis. “Not before bedtime.”

“Wait!” he yelled at the uniformed men feeding the last few cargo tags through their portable scanners a hundred yards away across the asphalt. “Hold that hatch, damn you.”

Lyssa screamed. One of the men glanced up before finishing his checks, but he didn’t respond and there were no passengers left in the waiting area. None on the transparent tower gangway either.

“Bug shit. We missed it.” Lyssa’s resignation dragged his hopes down to the gutter water spilling through a pothole outside the hangar’s derelict cafe to their left. Game, set and…

“No, wait—they’re waving us in.” He forced her to over-stride as he dragged her toward the boarding hatch.

“Thank God.”

Clay waved his plastic bag at the flight crew, and now at the silver-suited tool-pushers racking their space helmets on a rickety trolley behind the cafe. He felt like leaping for joy. Procuring the funds for these tickets had been murder—all week, every day, crime after vicious crime. And now it was over. In a few weeks he’d be back behind 100z with over fifteen hundred clips to his name, enough to last him while he figured out his next move.

“There’s always one,” joked an orc—oft-rejuvenated citizen—flight attendant. His too-tight facial skin, the result of multiple surgical operations to keep him looking youthful, revealed bloody mush around his eyes. “You all right, honey?” he asked Lyssa while scanning her ticket and fake ID.

“Sprained ankle. That’s why we’re late.”

“See the doc after liftoff. He’ll sort you out.” The man scratched his bill-like neck. “Okay, you’re in cabin one-five-five. That’s in the tail section, starboard side. Just take the right-hand lift then follow the blue albatross sign. Enjoy your flight.”

“Thanks. And thank you for waiting.” Clayton shook the man’s hand, and Lyssa gave him a peck on the cheek.

“You’re welcome, folks. There but for the grace of God go I.”

“Amen to—”

A blinding red flash lit up the entirety of space, forcing Clay to shield his eyes. A moment later a hurtful blast full of stinging pellets threw him backward off his feet. The deafening roar arrived before he landed. A cloud of red-brown dust enveloped the hangar. After a split-second of violent suction came silence, then the clangs and thuds of collapsing metalwork and the fizz of rock dust settling all about.

Lyssa crawled over and threw her arms around him, shivering. He made sure the contents of his package were undamaged, then he comforted her with reassuring words he didn’t believe.

Despite the disaster, they’d been insanely lucky. The massive explosion outside could have depressurized the entire hangar. Instead, it must have merely ripped the outer shell off the building and triggered the automatic inner shutters.

He struggled to his knees, scanning the debris for signs of the helpful orc. Nothing. Bits and pieces of the tool-pushers were festooned on a mangled steel lattice at the side of the old cafe. All along the white emergency shutters, amber lights danced from side to side and back again at a height of around thirty feet—no sound, just dancing lights—endless, aimless dancing. What the hell kind of warning alarm was that?

“Clay, up there.” Lyssa coughed and pointed at the dome roof, to a jagged finger of warped metal that bounced, swayed on the hyper streams of emergency oxygen circulating above. Impaled on the end was the flight attendant’s dead body—the blast must have torn a strip from the hatch wall and hurled it through the poor man, whipping him aloft.