Incursion Page 4

  Or the combat training. Fighter pilots were drawn from the Commonwealth's very best—usually law-abiding citizens, considering the value of every single ship. Wouldn't do to put a maverick in charge who'd turn tail and sell the ship (and/or his services) to any number of pirates out there. In his case, starting out with Hunter Five had fast-tracked him into the career he'd actually wanted.

  "Let's set this up," Grimm murmured, sliding his hand in between the cushioning and Kyle's shoulder. The chair made a disapproving squeak, begrudgingly adjusting to the intrusion of living tissue between the pilot and itself. Grimm ran his fingers along Kyle's arm, down to his hip, and across the curve of his ass. "Yeah, nicely responsive."

  Kyle glanced at him. "You wish."

  Grimm paused, then grinned. "I meant the chair."

  "Knock it off. I'm really no fun." His standard letdown these days. Not that he had to use it often. With the prostheses, most people treated him like he'd suddenly morphed into a different species—something way too complicated to have sex with. And he'd grown to agree. He was too complicated to attempt a connection with the other species: the abled. Especially when the connection was something as fragile as sex.

  "I'll decide whether you're fun or not." Grimm's hand hovered near his hip rather than making its way down his legs. "Maybe I think you are."

  Kyle swallowed. Now, Grimm was insistent. He was Tamenean, and, fuck, he was also a warrior. Shining knight on a white steed. A born and bred hero, selfless and noble. And even though Grimm had clearly made a mockery of the tattoo on his face, Kyle still felt that old reflex to take his hurt to a warrior.

  Take your darkness to the warrior, for they can slay it.

  "Some kind of warrior you are," Kyle muttered.

  "You're evading the question."

  "What fucking question?"

  "Can I kiss you?"

  "You didn't ask." And it's a no, he was about to add, but Grimm shut him up with a deep, curiously intense kiss. It wasn't even probing so much as familiar, like they'd been lovers before, even for years, and the old spark had never withered. He tasted of electricity and copper wires and all too human. Kyle groaned with pleasure when Grimm ran his fingers through his hair. He felt more alive than he had in weeks—his scalp tingling under a touch too sensual to have come from a stranger.

  "I've wanted to do that for a while," Grimm murmured.

  "I'm sure Jay and Petros wouldn't mind a third guy."

  Grimm smiled. "Not interested."

  Focus on the work. Kyle pushed the thoughts away and then the man. "You got from me what you wanted." Pretend this is still about the stupid codes.

  "Not by a long shot," Grimm said, and it sounded like a promise.

  Kyle shifted his weight as best he could to test the chair himself, but everything was in order. Just needed to do something so he didn't have to look at Grimm or acknowledge the touch. "Give me access to the system."

  Grimm laughed, stood back and adjusted himself in his jumpsuit. "You can have all the access you want."

  Bastard. Kyle's gaze stuck for a second to what Grimm held in his hand, and a hot-cold sensation flashed over him, a memory of arching over the body of another man, sweaty skin sliding together. He ground his teeth in frustration. Ever since the injury, nobody had been so insistent on getting into his pants; he'd overheard a nurse saying he was damn cute and it was a crying shame, but nobody had managed to get him into bed. Early on, he'd resolved that people who wanted him because of the prostheses—and there had been two or three—were fucking freaks and he wanted nothing to do with them. But he hadn't counted on meeting a warrior so far from home.

  "The system," he reminded Grimm.

  "Fine." Grimm threw his hands up and went back to his chair. He tapped buttons and pulled levers, and Kyle's screen came alive like his body couldn't anymore. But he felt the current of excitement all the same. He logged on, shook hands with the system, set up his ID, and the systems recognized the other Kyle, the petty criminal. Connected again.

  For a few hours, they worked in silence, Grimm in control of the ship, cross-checking navigational data with an attention to detail that would have seemed manic even in the Space Navy. Had he messed up once and now took it much more seriously? Getting out of the solar system wasn't that complicated. Any experienced pilot could do that in their sleep. And at the speed they were going, there was simply no way anything but a high-spec hunter-killer commando could catch up with them. But then, an obsessive-compulsive co-pilot was better than a sloppy asshole, so he kept his thoughts to himself.

  Besides, he was busy getting to know the ship. Cargo Hold One had life support and heating, and Cargo Hold Two was set up for it, too, but right now it was sub-zero in there with an oxygen level that would kill everything. And as far as he knew, Glyrinny needed to breathe; their morphing abilities didn't reach that far.

  "What's in Cargo Hold One?"

  Grimm turned his head. "It's a rigged-up operating theater."

  "Any patients in there? Or a frozen passenger or two?"

  Grimm's lips quirked, and there was an odd gleam in his eye. "Want to go explore?"

  No, I'm not going to look too interested. Kyle focused on the screens. "What's the capability?"

  "Enough to keep somebody alive for as long as necessary. You'd imagine that these guys sometimes catch a bullet or some rad and have to make an exit with a few wounded."

  "Yeah, figures." Now, unless Kshar was hiding in the wiring of the ship or in a compartment somewhere in the living area (which was possible, but not likely), that medical facility was his best bet.

  He noticed that the light inside the ship had dimmed in a mocked-up day and night cycle. This counted as dusk. He forced himself to relax. He was here for the long haul, or at least up to Ganesh. No need to rush anything; he was outnumbered and couldn't afford to blow his cover.

  "Who's taking first watch?"

  "I'm fresh," Grimm said. "I'll wake you."

  "All right." Kyle lay back and closed his eyes. He reflexively tightened his hands around the grips of the seat when he heard Grimm move.

  "Relax," Grimm said, too close. "Just getting you a blanket."

  Kyle cracked an eye open. "While you're at it, you could take off my boots."

  Grimm gave him a sarcastic grin and dropped a folded blanket onto his stomach, then crouched down. Kyle couldn't feel his touch, but saw his legs move as Grimm opened his boots and pulled them off, setting them carefully to the side. "What about the prostheses?"

  "I can sleep in them."

  "Doesn't that give you pressure sores?"

  "I need to take them off to clean every now and then, but now I'm feeling all right."

  Grimm unfolded the blanket and spread it across Kyle. "Like that?"

  "That's fine." No use explaining that getting his boots taken off and being covered with a blanket was more care and attention than he wanted from a stranger. But at least now he didn't feel quite so exposed. "You'd make a good nurse."

  "I'm better with ships, but I know my way around some emergency procedures."

  "I bet. Part of the warrior training?"

  Grimm shrugged and sat down in the other pilot seat, his socked feet dangling in the air. "Giving first aid and even last aid to an injured comrade."

  "I never made it through the tests. Too . . . selfish. Weak. Resentful. Entitled." Listing his character flaws to one who had passed the tests seemed like a strange kind of confession, but considering the situation, that was the only common ground they had. That they had none at all. Grimm had passed muster in front of the elders and would be welcomed back, if he chose to return. Whereas Kyle couldn't hope for the same treatment, despite everything he'd learned about himself. He'd been a decent soldier, a very good, maybe even exceptional, pilot. But none of that counted on Tamene.

  Why are you telling him anyway? Pushing him away by his pride and ideals? That he shouldn't pursue the unworthy? Yeah, it was probably self-pity.

  "Compared to whom?"


  "Compared to any fucking warrior out there."

  Grimm frowned thoughtfully. "It's never too late for redemption. How you were does not rule who you've become."

  Too deep. And too true. If only he could honestly believe it. "What do you want from me? And why?"

  Grimm nodded toward the screens. "Having two pilots increases our chances of survival."

  True, again. "And?"

  "And you're more than you're letting on." Grimm's tone was serious, but not suspicious. "Mysterious stranger, yet familiar. No wonder I'm intrigued."

  Fucking cripple who can't run, more like. "Listen, if I were . . . myself, I wouldn't mind blowing off some steam with you. I used to like that. But since . . ." He dropped his hand onto the prosthesis that surrounded his left leg like a cage. "That's over."

  Grimm reached over and brushed Kyle's hand, then covered it with his own. Damn, what was it about the man's touch that keyed him up? "I'd like to try."

  Kyle felt his heart beating faster and couldn't quite grasp why. He was here to hunt a damn morph, not to find out if he could still enjoy himself in bed. He had a fair idea about that, and it wasn't good news. And if it went as the Commissar wanted it, Grimm and Winter and everybody else on this ship would die. "I don't think that's a good idea." He looked down at Grimm's hand, but the man didn't take the message. He didn't break the touch.

  "As I said, I know a good deal about anatomy," Grimm said, and only then took his hand away and settled back on his pilot seat. "You might have to get your head around being on the bottom."

  Yeah, getting fucked up the ass by a roving space mercenary. Exactly why the Commissar had sent him on this mission.

  Kshar didn't reveal himself, and Kyle could only bide his time and keep his eyes open. At least he'd shaken off Grimm's more pushy advances, but he didn't believe the man had given up. Warrior pride.

  He found an opportunity to search Cargo Hold Two when Grimm told him to get a new set of filter cleaners for the secondary life support system. The man just couldn't stop tinkering, even in flight. No Kshar. That left the operation theater in Cargo Hold One. If that was another dead end, he'd have to actually look into the guts of the ship and peel back panels. Of course, the last option was the crew, but that would be dangerous.

  To kill time and make himself useful, Kyle focused on learning the ship. On pilot duty while Grimm slept, he executed a number of maneuvers, trying to learn as much as possible about how she handled.

  The Scorpion was a beauty, if too powerful for her own good. If there had been any atmosphere, he could have turned her into a fireball; she was that fast. But out in space, that speed didn't matter. Simply gliding through the darkness beyond an immediate inner solar system soothed his mind. There was something meditative about watching over the lives of strangers. He'd probably been happiest as one of the "nighttime" pilots of a Comet, or even a frigate. Or anything that made him forget that his legs were useless.

  The deadly emptiness out there was the purest thing he knew. But he wasn't quite lonely. For bad or worse, Grimm was there.

  Kyle had grown close with several of his co-pilots in the Space Navy. Living in special quarters or right in the brain of a ship, pilots were a breed apart, constantly breathing the same air, attached to the same wires, staring at the same screens and, by virtue of drill and training, thinking the same thoughts. It was like having a brother or sister.

  He didn't mind Grimm as much after a day or two. Though it got really strange to be sharing the "living space" here on the bridge—where they stashed their kit, cleaned up and shaved. Grimm must have received some kind of drill himself—most civilian pilots didn't shave or cut their hair while out in deep space, claiming it was bad luck. Only the Space Dogs ignored the superstition and maintained some personal standards of hygiene, despite the scarcity of water.

  A double-edged sword, though. Seeing Grimm with his chest and back stripped, making the most of a few handfuls of water, was a reminder of what he'd pushed away. The man was chiseled and beautiful, and exuded more brazen confidence the longer Kyle spent with him. He smiled easily, touched just as easily, but after a few days, Kyle realized that Grimm had accepted the "no." His touches were those of a comrade or friend. Sure, perhaps too forward for a Tamenean, but the cramped space and the brotherhood of piloting tore down those barriers.

  One morning, he woke to a pressure, and realized he was breathing heavily, chest heaving. Somebody was holding him down by his shoulders. His lower back ached, a demanding pulse all around the implant in his spine.

  "Breathe, Kyle."

  "Shit, what—?"

  "Nightmare." Grimm kept holding his shoulders down. "You jerked around so hard I thought you hurt yourself."

  "I guess I might've." Kyle gritted his teeth and wiped his face. His hand came back wet. What had he dreamt? A lingering sense of dread sat deep in his chest, right beneath his hammering heart. "It's the trauma."

  "What trauma?"

  "I was injured. Wasn't my choice, this."

  "Care to tell me?"

  Take your hurt to a warrior.

  "Why do you care?"

  Grimm groaned and was about to turn away, when Kyle snatched his arm. "Seriously. Why do you?"

  "You're denying yourself a great many things. I don't understand it." Grimm gazed at him, an oddly soft expression on his face. "Are you punishing yourself for something?"

  Kyle dropped his arm. "I don't know." He really didn't. Getting attracted seemed complicated and risky, and he'd definitely not do that on a mission. He'd been trained better than that. But the latter wasn't something he could share.

  "Life's short, Kyle. I'm just asking for a little trust, or a little more than you're giving me right now."

  I'm not giving you anything. "It's okay." He wiped his face again. "I was shot in the back with some new kind of weapon. Something that messed up my nerves, but left everything else pretty much intact."

  "Sounds like a Glyrinny disruptor."

  "That's what the surgeons said. So whoever shot me was either a fucking morph or had morph technology. Ended . . . everything." My career, my sex drive, my self-respect. "I'm hoping somebody knows how to fix it."

  "Hence you're headed toward Glyrinny space."

  "Ganesh is close enough. Maybe . . ." Kyle shrugged, glad that his heart was slowing, and that the words pushed away the last wisps of the faceless nightmare. "I don't know. I even had the crazy idea to go into their space and demand they fix me."

  Grimm gave him a long, thoughtful look. "I doubt they'd appreciate it."

  "Ever fought Glyrinny?"

  "Maybe. It's hard to say with a race that takes whatever shape they damn well please. This disruptor wound—what did they do?"

  "They healed what tissue damage there was, but the nerves are messed up. They don't transmit signals like they used to. The surgeons inserted a bridge module—" Kyle twisted carefully and touched his lower back, indicating the metal piece embedded in his flesh, "that connects to the outer prosthetics."

  "Bridging the gap between the nerves in your spine and the metal," Grimm summed up. "It's cheap and effective."

  "I was considering cyber limbs, but that's a nice chunk of money."

  "Not if you get them secondhand."

  "Eww."

  Grimm laughed. "I'd like to run some diagnostics on the bridge module."

  "Don't mess with it. It's the difference between walking and not walking for me."

  "It's not as complex as this ship." Grimm took a half step back. "Come, get up. I'll have a look. I can do a clean and maintenance."

  "I'd rather you don't touch it."

  "Just a clean. Come. Trust me."

  Kyle stood with a groan. After that nightmare, he didn't want to go back to sleep, and he wasn't up to staring into the void outside. It was too much like contemplating death, and right after the nightmare, he couldn't do it. Besides, the surgeons in the hospital had told him to get the connection checked every few weeks. Fuck, if Grim
m would do it for free, and he seemed to know his stuff, maybe it wasn't a bad idea. "Just a clean."

  "Yes." Grimm helped him put his boots back on (okay, he put them on for him), then walked him down to the operating theater. Not only was the clean a necessity, but he could eliminate this area as a potential hiding place for the Glyrinny shapeshifter. An unexpected boon, though he wasn't sure what to do if he did find Kshar. Here was hoping he'd find a way to incapacitate or kill him, and that Grimm either wouldn't get in the way—or would choose the right side to fight on.

  The lights flickered on when they entered, and the operating cell looked state of the art and pretty damn impressive. The steel surfaces of the central unit gleamed under the blinding lights, and five life-preserving cryo-coffins were lined up against the wall. He made a point of walking past them; four were inactive, and one was on standby for an emergency. All were empty. Damn. There went that theory.

  "Looking for something?"

  "Just making sure there's nobody in there. Like a stowaway or a witness."

  "Witness?" Grimm raised an eyebrow. "My, my, Kyle, what are your plans for me?"

  Kyle chuckled and lay down on the operating table, turned onto his belly, and pulled himself into the middle of the table. He turned his head to look at Grimm. "You wanted to see the module."

  Grimm studied him, then stepped closer and ran his hand down Kyle's back. "Take off the coverall."

  "Why?"

  "I want to see the surrounding tissue."

  "Especially the tissue of my ass?"

  Grimm smirked. "That's a bonus. Should I do it?"

  Why am I doing this? Oh yes, warrior. Nightmares. Alibi for checking if Kshar is on board. "Sure." He tried to sound casual, to hide the panic welling in his throat. He allowed Grimm to open and slide down the coveralls, baring his shoulders, back, and then the module, deep down. "That enough?"

  "Might be more comfortable if you were naked."

  Fuck no. "You don't give up."

  Grimm placed his hands on Kyle's shoulders, then slid them down, like a masseur might to test the lay of the land, as it were. "A clean and a check. Nothing you don't want."