Aurora Rising: The Complete Collection (26 page)

His lips pursed together, his own sandwich poised in midair. Damn she was persistent. “I still can’t tell you, except to say it wasn’t supposed to involve violence.”

“How comforting.”

He shrugged, annoyed she doubted him, then annoyed at himself for being annoyed. He should really be more in control of the situation than this. “What do you want me to say?”

“What you’re doing out here.”

He dropped the remains of his sandwich to the plate in frustration. She raised an eyebrow in response, which only made things considerably worse. He looked around the cabin, eager to change the topic of conversation. “So do I get to sleep in the chair again tonight?”

She shook her head in the negative, then jerked it in the direction of the starboard wall. “There’s a guest cot, pulls out of the wall. There’s even a privacy screen. You’ll be snug as a bug in a rug.”

He chuckled at the odd, quaint-sounding idiom. “A what?”

“It’s just something my—” Her eyes darkened and she practically leapt out of the chair to carry her plate to the sink. “Never mind.”

He frowned, as much at her abrupt change of mood as his unexpected desire to make it better. No, it was the proper reaction; a cheerful mood meant harmonious interaction and the absence of guns and hand-to-hand combat. “Thank you, I’m sure it’ll be fine. Not quite the luxurious nest you have downstairs but—”

The loud
clang
of a plate against the sink’s surface cut him off. His frown deepened; he made sure his voice sounded neutral and nonthreatening. “Is everything okay?”

She spun around to lean on the counter, an indecipherable look on her face. “Look, I’m not used to having someone out here with me, in my space and asking questions and—particularly a suspicious and dangerous spy who tried to kill me.”

“I didn’t try to kill you.” At her dubious glare he grimaced. “Okay, I might have tried to shoot you down. But you
did
shoot me down, and you don’t see me holding a grudge. Second ship blown up in two months, but whatever, it’s fine, they’re only ships.”

“To you, maybe.”

For the briefest moment, her expression became totally unguarded and open. Until this instant, he hadn’t realized the cold, hard demeanor was a mask she had donned for him, or possibly for everyone. This though
…this was beautiful
.

He smiled with what he hoped conveyed sincerity. “Your ship’s important to you, I imagine.”

“You could say that.” The unguarded, beautiful expression lingered for another breath before fading away behind the mask.

He stood, plate in hand, and headed over to the sink as well. “You’ve obviously put a lot of time and money into it.” He leaned in to stow his plate right as she reached across to grab the hand towel.

For a solid two seconds they both froze in place, shoulders touching and faces centimeters apart, too close to even focus on the other. He was suddenly consumed by the thought of how damned
hot
the air felt for a supposedly climate-controlled room.

She snatched the towel off its hook and stepped back, and the spell broke. He busied himself with stowing his plate…and slowing a racing pulse.

As the afternoon faded into evening, she gradually started talking, responding to his casual inquiries in a more conversational tone and even volunteering information from time to time. What she was doing and why, details on the mechanics in the engineering well and other parts of the ship.

He responded by sharing where appropriate. He talked about what his experiences had and hadn’t taught him about ships, some of the more interesting designs he’d seen and so on. Building rapport with his captor.

It was late in the evening ship-time when she sank against an undamaged section of the wall and looked at him. Damp strands of hair had glued themselves to flush cheeks; grease had smudged along her neck.

“Can you cook?”

He shrugged in careful nonchalance. “I’ve been told I’m not half bad at it, yeah. Why?”

She climbed to her feet and wiped her hands on by now filthy pants. “I’m going to take a shower. You can cook dinner.”

“You realize in order to cook I’ll have to touch something.”

“I grant you a specific, limited exception.”

“Fair enough. But how do I know how to work the stove, or where the food is?”

She shot him an odd look as she passed him and climbed up the ladder. “You’re a smart guy, and seeing as you’re apparently already familiar with my kitchen, I assume you’ll figure it out.”

And he did figure it out, because he
was
a smart guy…and was already familiar with her kitchen. By the time she came up the stairwell the aroma of steaming vegetables and roasting potatoes filled the cabin.

He glanced over upon her arrival and nearly dropped the wok mid-toss.

She wore flimsy little gray shorts and a black tank top. The tiny straps exposed a sculpted collarbone and delicate hollow at the base of her throat. She was toweling dry her hair, which turned out to be quite long when it wasn’t tied up in a ponytail or knot or whatever she did to it. Burgundy locks fell in soft waves to frame those remarkable cheekbones, then down along her neck to tease alabaster shoulders before draping midway down her back. Beneath the shorts slender but toned legs seemed to go on
forever
.

He swallowed and promptly gave up on ignoring any and all attractive traits of hers; it was far too much work. It had been some time since a woman had legitimately taken his breath away.

“Um, stir-fry okay? I wasn’t sure….”

She smiled, and for yet another moment her expression was genuine and unguarded and easily as beautiful as before. She appeared completely unaware of the effect she was having on him. “Definitely. It smells delicious.”

He tried to match the tenor of her smile. “Excellent.” The steam started stinging his eyes; he returned his attention to the stove and hurried to make sure the potatoes didn’t burn while mentally berating himself for getting all goo-goo eyed and flustered like he was fourteen.

He sprinkled pepper on his vegetables. Thanks to the flash freezing they had retained much of their flavor, but Senecan dishes tended toward spicy, and he had acquired the taste. “Caleb.”

Her fork paused at her lips. “Hmm?”    

“My name. It’s Caleb.”
Why
was he telling her?

The corners of her mouth rose a fraction. “Better.”

That was why. Shit.

She took a sip of water. “I knew a Samuel in elementary school. He was a bully, tried to beat my friend up.”

“What happened?”

“I beat him up instead.”

“Naturally.”

She shrugged. “It worked. He left us alone from then on. Caleb what?”

“Marano.”

Surprise flashed across her face. “You’re just telling me?”

Apparently.
“I could be lying again.”

“True. But you’re not.”

Was it painted in neon letters on his forehead? “No, I’m not. You fancy yourself good at reading people?”

“Hell, no. I’m terrible at it.” She continued eating, but her motions slowed as her eyes unfocused. “Caleb Marano: Born June 3, 2283, Cavare, Seneca. Father: engineer for the Senecan Civil Development Agency. Mother: freelance industrial architect. Younger sister Isabela, age thirty-two: professor of biochemistry. Parents divorced in 2301. It says you’re an assembly line manager for Terrestrial Avionics—which is a lie, of course.”

Her gaze sharpened back on him. “And that’s it. There’s no public record of what you’ve spent the last twenty years doing. But there wouldn’t be, would there?”

“How did you access the information? I assumed your communications were down as well.”

“They are. There’s an exanet backup in the ship.”

“The
entire
exanet?”           

“No, not the entire exanet, don’t be ridiculous. Merely some repositories I find useful.”

He nodded and speared a potato wedge. “Well, now you know as much about me as I do about you, Alexis Solovy.”

She studied her glass of water with a startling intensity. “It’s Alex.”

His voice softened as hers had. “Better.”

No response followed, and when the silence verged on uncomfortable he ran a hand through his hair. “So, what’s the state of the repairs?”

She grimaced a little, her body language shifting subtly. “Full power’s restored to the impulse engine, and I’ve replaced all but one of the conduits to the plasma shield. Probably another half-day on the smaller problems before I can turn to the hull itself. I’m going to try to weld it back together. Hopefully sufficient material is left, plus whatever I can scrounge up, to close it.”

“I can help with that—I mean I’m not bad with a welding torch and a metamat blade.”

She regarded him with a guarded expression. “We’ll see.” Then she stood, grabbing both their plates and taking them to the sink. “Dinner was very good, thank you.” She glanced over her shoulder. “You can use the shower if you’d like. I’ll clean up.”

“Thank you. I am feeling a bit ripe at this point.”

“Just—”

“I know.” He laughed lightly as he started down the stairs. “Don’t touch anything.”

She was standing at the data center when he returned. A number of screens floated above the table, bright with graphs and visuals. Actually, he realized, there were no screens, only the data. The table itself must be a conductive medium.

Her focus on the information displayed, she didn’t notice him. He took advantage of the opportunity and paused at the top of the stairwell to watch her.

Her right hand reached up and three fingers glided fluidly over one of the graphs. The lines shifted color and position in their wake.

Now he could see. Starting at her fingertips and running along the inside of her arm, across her shoulder blades and up to the nape of her neck where they disappeared into her hairline, wove a pattern of elaborate, intricate glyphs. They pulsed a vibrant white glow when she touched an image or data point and faded after her fingers lost contact.

Most people who had extensive glyphs brandished them like a badge of honor, tattooing them in bright glittering colors to declare the extent of their cyberization for all to see. Hers, however, vanished when not in use; until now he had been unaware they existed, and he was a rather observant guy.

He smiled as he watched her blow up a waveform to dominate the space above the table. The glyphs indicated not only was she absorbing the data into her cybernetics, she was likely manipulating it internally and sending it back to the table. Her movements displayed a seamless connection between her and the information she studied. He suspected he was witnessing her in her natural habitat.

Best for her not to catch him watching though. He cleared his throat and ascended the last stair. She glanced at him but didn’t clear the displays.

He joined her but kept a respectful distance by leaning against the nearby worktable. “Thank you for the shower. To say it was needed would be a colossal understatement. I, uh, couldn’t do anything about the clothes. I don’t suppose you have any…?”

She shook her head, a hint of a twinkle in her eyes. Though in fairness it may have simply been the reflected glow of the graphs. “Sorry, no. Haven’t had any boys sleep over recently.”