Fontanas Trouble (12 page)

Which
way? Which way
?
Her gut said left. She turned right. Nothing had gone as planned on this mission.
Sasha slowed to a quick stride as if late for a meeting, but anyone who
recognized the Omegatron strapped to her thigh wouldn’t be fooled. This was
what she got for carrying a weapon that wasn’t standard issue on any planet in
the empire. Omega radiation was the cutting edge of weaponry. She’d won the
oversize pistol with the lucky draw of a straight flush instead of sitting on a
pair of aces. That was the kind of luck someone like her needed. But she
believed in making her own luck.

Sasha
slid the zipper on her bodysuit down and exposed enough cleavage so that a man
would stair at her chest and wouldn’t pay attention to her gun. Upsizing her
breasts to double-Ds might have been the smartest move she’d made on this
mission.

Numerous
footfalls running in double time echoed from around the curve behind her. She
glanced back and startled at sight of a woman dressed much like her, standing
in front of a door and staring in the direction of the commotion. The door in
front of the woman swished open and Sasha quickened her pace around the curve
before the woman could face forward and see her.

A man
waiting for an elevator came into view up ahead. Sasha slowed. A nervous
flutter closed around her heart. If the Pinks got too close, she might be able
to use this man. His golden hair cut precisely at the nape of his neck gave him
a surgical look that didn’t—couldn’t—detract from broad shoulders emphasized by
the fashionable lime green Nauru jacket he wore. He stood a head taller than
her one and three-quarter meters. A triwheeled robot like those ambassadors
used as aides waited two paces behind him.

The man
shifted and Sasha slid the bodysuit zipper down another fraction of an inch as
he turned. The bot followed suit, stupidly mimicking the movement. The man’s
gaze met hers and her breath caught. The ambassador either wore contacts or had
surgically implanted chrome irises, but the polychrome eyes that followed her
approach didn’t disguise the intense stare. Despite the fact her breasts
strained against her suit, his gaze never wavered from her face. Damn her luck.
She’d encountered the only male on Centor who had morals.

The
footfalls of the Pinkertons behind her grew louder and more footfalls sounded
from around the curve ahead. She flicked a glance down the corridor. No doors
or branching hallways were visible, only the elevator that hadn’t yet arrived.
Her pulse spiked.
Trapped.

Sasha
slowed to a stroll, the ambassador’s gaze still fastened on her. She could
almost see herself in his eyes. Centorians were known for being loose. She was
about to test just how loose. Sasha stepped up to him, seized his lapel-less
jacket, and pulled him down so they were face-to-face. If nothing else, she was
an opportunist.

Lips
crashed onto lips. His were firm, hers demanding. She pressed closer, her
pistol nestled out of sight of any passer-bys, and drove him back against the
intersection between the elevator and the wall. His tongue touched the seam of
her lips. She startled. Well, well, her savior was an opportunist too, and not
so moral after all. She thrust her tongue into his mouth. Moist warmth tasted
faintly of anise and green tea. Desire rippled through her.

A low
groan rolled from his chest and straight into her sex. His erection stirred
against her belly.
Oh yes
. She rose on tiptoes, and he bent. Undulating
her hips, she envisioned his solid cock sliding between her legs. Firm hands
cupped her ass, and her breath caught when he lifted her more intimately
against the promised goods. Lust pooled in her belly.

A
formation of ten uniformed Pinkertons rounded the curve as five more came
running around the other side. Watching the reflection in the ambassador’s
chrome irises of the scene behind her, Sasha saw none of them wore battle
armor. They weren’t the ones looking for her, but were probably running to some
other emergency. They rushed past without giving her and the ambassador—
Hey
!
The ambassador was staring back at her.

She
narrowed her eyes, not breaking the kiss. He clenched her ass and pulled her
tighter. The feel of his hard cock sent waves of warmth pooling between her
legs. Gods, he knew how to kiss. She pressed closer. The Pinkertons passed out
of sight an instant before he closed his eyes, and another moan reverberated
through his chest. That was more like it. Now if she could just keep him busy
until—

The
elevator dinged. The ambassador released one hand but kept a tight hold on her
with the other. The elevator doors began their slide open, wedging her body
deeper into the corner between the door and the wall. Sasha ripped away from
his grasp, her breath coming in heavy gasps. He jerked upright, her gun gripped
in his right hand. The elevator doors slid open to reveal an empty interior.
They were alone, and he had her Omegatron leveled on her, his mirror eyes
expressionless.

.Sasha
stared. How had he taken the weapon so smoothly? Panic flushed her body warm.
The recording of the coils was on the gun. Without the data Newton couldn’t—she
shoved aside the fear and reached forward. He remained motionless as a statue
when she pressed a palm against the bulge in his pants. For an instant, she
thought she’d miscalculated, then he pulsed beneath her hand.

Eyes
locked with his, she stroked his rigid tool. A tick jumped in his jaw and she
went in for the kill and traced a steady finger around the mushroom tip. “We
weren’t finished, were we?”

He gave a
tiny shudder. She grabbed the pistol’s barrel, twisted it from his hand, and
sidestepped into the elevator, the weapon now trained on the spot where her
hand had just rested. Gaze glued to those mirrored eyes, she slapped the
top-floor button, then the Door Close button. The man stood frozen as she eased
back until shoulder met wall. Her unwilling knight disappeared behind the
closing doors, and she released a very very slow breath.

Chapter Two

The
elevator accelerated upward, adding a sinking feeling to the quiver in her
belly. Sasha tightened her grip on the Omegatron as the elevator spoke in
Centorian what she assumed were the floor numbers. A ghostly sensation of his
erection still pressed against her hip made her feel woozy. Of all the things
gone wrong on this mission
that
was the thing making her legs wobbly?
Sasha ran the back of her free hand across her forehead. She was flushed. Was
the ambassador wearing some kind of pheromone cologne? His taste, the faint
tang of anise, still lingered on her tongue. She’d never experienced such an
intense reaction. Had to be designer pheromones, which would explain how he’d
gotten his hands on her Omegatron.

She
looked at the weapon. Had she gotten enough of a recording for Newton? She was
a mercenary, fetching information for the highest bidder, and didn’t know a
neutron from a quark, but Newton did. His degree in quantum mechanics would
enable him to translate the recording into something the scientists on Magnus 3
could work with. A warp field like the giants she’d just discovered would
shield the entire planet. The thought almost made her giddy with excitement. No
more hard radiation reaching the surface of Magnus. No more Aurora Borealis
almost as bright as the midday sun in winter. The planet would be saved for at
least a few more generations. The technology would bring the government’s plan
for evacuation to an end.

Panic
rose as it first had upon learning of the purported evacuations. Millions of
women and children would go first,
reassigned
to class-three planets,
where they would remain as refugees until they could find planets willing to
allow immigration. The elderly and infirm were next. Her father would be on one
of those transports, which meant he’d lose his sanity within a year. Until
someone found a cure for the disease that kept the chemical balance of his
brain reliant upon the magnetic environment of Magnus 3, she had to be sure he
stayed there.

But she’d
found the answer. Sasha released another slow breath. Hard to believe, but that
scientist sounding the alarm was the best piece of luck she’d ever had in her
life. Without the Pinks chasing her, she wouldn’t have ducked into that room.
Theories about what protected Centor from its sun ranged from naturally
occurring isotopes in the planet’s core to more exotic dark-energy projectors.

Her hand
fisted before she realized the anger had surfaced. All along, the answer had
been technology that could save at least a dozen planets in this sector alone,
and the Centorians had kept it a secret. Her stomach tensed. The Centorians
wouldn’t be punished for hiding lifesaving technology, while she would be
branded an outlaw for stealing the retrovirus model.

Sasha
slipped a finger inside her cleavage, felt the thumbnail-size memory chip with
the file she’d stolen nestled inside her bra, and zipped her suit back up to
the neck. Lose that, and her ass belonged to Orson. For five years, he’d tried
to get a piece of her ass—literally. The fifty percent advance he’d given her
was gone, spent on the ship, bribes, and her father’s medical bills. Returning
empty-handed would give Orson the chance to fuck her every which way he could.
She’d rather die first. But that option still left her father and her planet
doomed.

The
elevator eased to a stop. The guard on duty at every elevator was real and
armed. As the doors slid open, she held her weapon at ready and flattened
against the narrow section of wall in front of the buttons. Sounds of moving
equipment, the hiss of high-pressure hoses, workmen’s shouts, and tools
clanging indicated she had reached the docks. Two heavy footsteps moved toward
the elevator. She held her breath and sent up a prayer that no one would enter
to investigate and force her to blast them into the next world.

No one
entered and, with her free hand, Sasha reached behind her back and pressed the
Door Open button to keep the door from automatically shutting. She edged
forward until she could peer around the opening edge. Fifteen feet to the
right, a guard stood beside a barrel being wheeled by a three-legged species of
reptile—a Dacktorian, judging from the red crest of skin it wore pulled back
into a ponytail.

The two
were arguing about some object the guard held that looked like a chainsaw on an
articulating arm. Their backs faced her, though that didn’t mean the Dacktorian
couldn’t see her if it tilted its head. The skin-ponytail covered a third eye
set in the back of its head, a style in deference to humans who populated most
of this sector of the galaxy.

She
glanced around the dock, saw no one was paying attention to the open elevator,
then sidled through the door and ducked behind a Poly-tech crate big enough to
hide her and five other people, yet low enough to peer over.

The
loading dock extended several hundred meters in three directions. A destroyer,
two cruisers, a space barge, various tugs, and a dozen pleasure vehicles,
including hers, crowded the spaceport’s massive floor.

Sasha
inched to the far side of the crate. Her deathtrap of a ship sat between two
cruisers fifty meters to the left. The Pinks were sure to have alerted the dock
to her presence and no ships would get off Centor without full clearance—which
meant her ship was useless. However, she would bet the ship sitting nearest her
to the left was another story. The late-model Dasinger-Wong M-type runabout was
a fine looking ship; squat and pointy in the front, rounded in the rear, and
shaped like a giant watermelon seed. She had crewed on a similar model a few
years ago.

Originally
designed to be piloted by three or four people, the M-type had two matrix-drive
pods slung from the underbelly like two pontoons, and the owner had added a
warp coil to the roof that was almost as big as the ship. With pods and coil,
that ship could travel the shipping lanes of the matrix or go deep space like a
Dolphinious Rexon that could fly above the clouds or dive five miles to the
ocean floor. The Dasinger-Wong was a top-of-the-line ship, and the open ramp
meant they were preparing for take off. That was an invitation Sasha couldn’t
refuse.

Recharge
conduits snaked from outlets in an open deck hatch to the ship’s underbelly,
indicating the ship was preparing to get underway, but she couldn’t simply
waltz from behind the crate and onto the ship. Many of the dock workers carried
weapons, so the Omegatron slung low in its hip holster would fit in just
fine—but her formfitting suit would get her unwanted attention.

She
scanned the dock and spotted an alcove in the shadows next to the elevator with
white antistatic coveralls hanging from hooks. The elevator on the opposite
wall opened and the woman Sasha had seen earlier stepped onto the dock. She
turned right and started toward a small cruiser that sat in the far corner.
Sasha’s mind snapped to attention. Earlier, Sasha had glimpsed her for little
more than an instant and hadn’t given her any thought. Now, however, Sasha was
sure the woman wasn’t as relaxed as her leisurely pace indicated.

She
reached the cruiser and sauntered up the gangplank—just as Sasha planned to do
on the Dasinger. Then the woman cast a covert glance cast in the guard’s
direction. What was she hiding from? The voice of the Dacktorian rose to a
screech. Sasha yanked her gaze back to him. He was pointing furiously at a
document he held in front of the guard’s face. The guard shifted, his back to
the Dacktorian as he rifled through the contents of the barrel, and shook his
head.

Now was
the time. Forget the woman, forget everything but getting off Centor. Sasha
whirled toward the alcove and ducked inside, pulling a pair of overalls off
their hook as she went. She quickly unstrapped the Omegatron, then slid her
legs into the overalls and pulled them up and over her body. A second later,
she restrapped the weapon to her hip and stepped from the alcove looking like
any other dock workers about to dig inside a ship’s core computer system or
sensor electronics.

She
strolled toward the runabout. The ramp was ten meters away when Mr. Slick Dick
emerged with another man from an elevator to the right of the ship. Her heart
rate kicked into warp drive. This was it. She was caught. Sasha shifted her
hand onto the Omegatron.

Still in
conversation with his companion, the man shifted slightly as if looking in her
direction. Polychrome eyes seemed to stare through and beyond her. He moved
alongside the other man and didn’t break his stride. Sasha reached the
Dasinger’s ramp and continued up with a promise to give up at least one vice if
fortune would grant the wish that no one be aboard the ship.

She
stepped onto the Dasinger and glanced over her shoulder to see Mr. Slick Dick
had stopped and was in conversation with the other man and a dock worker. His
chrome stare looked through the man he spoke with. Those damned eyes had fooled
her. He hadn’t seen her after all. Maybe one of the gods of fortune had taken
pity on her after all.

Inside,
the entryway split left and right. Both hallways would meet at the ship’s
bridge up front. She headed right. A door came into view ahead on the right.
Coming abreast of the door, she glanced both ways down the hall. Then, right
hand on the holstered Omegatron, she pressed the button on the right side of
the door.

The door
slid open and the light switched on as Sasha stepped inside. Pieces of
equipment including boarding hooks, two spacesuits, a toolbox, magnetic
grapples, compressed-air canisters, and a spark arrester hung on the walls or
sat on a workbench lining the back wall. An equipment locker stood where the
repair shop had been on the M-type she’d been on.

Sasha
peered out the door, glanced left, then right, and headed back down the hallway
to a second door. She stopped in front of what she figured was another storage
room, then grasped the butt of the Omegatron and jabbed the button on the wall.
The doors swooshed open in unison with the light flaring to life. She ducked
inside. Lining the room from floor to ceiling were more cabinets and sealed,
marked containers that held coffee, sugar, spices, dried meat, instant drinks,
napkins, mixes, PFRT—whatever that was—and various other dry goods.

She
hesitated. No one was likely to enter this room until after takeoff. If she hid
here until the ship was underway, she could guarantee getting off Centor. With
any luck, the ship would take off soon. Once out of Centor’s system, she would
find out what she was up against.

*
* *

Twenty
minutes later, Sasha rose from the metal container she’d been sitting on and
headed for the door. Too much time had passed with no sense of movement. If
Centor had stopped all departures, they might start searching ships. Though
more likely, the ship’s owners would enter the storeroom to inventory the
goods.

She
pulled the Omegatron from its holster and pushed the button to open the door.
Silence reigned from the other side. She leaned forward and scanned the
hallway. Empty. She hurried from the room. Another door came into view up ahead
on the left. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. Things were too
quiet. She reached the door and pressed the button.

As
expected, the door opened into a stateroom. Sasha ducked inside. The room
contained a double bed with covers tucked so tight and sharp, the mattress
looked like it had never been slept on. Beside the door sat a built-in dresser
and mirror. She opened the drawers and found them empty.

A small
storage closet sat in the far left corner beside a compact bathroom with a
zero-G shower, sink, and toilet. In one corner of the bathroom was a fold-up
desk and computer terminal, which she manually powered down so it couldn’t be
activated remotely. She found no clothes, toiletry items, hair, scales, or
feathers, and no hidden cameras. By all indications, the room had never been
used.

Distant
mechanical and metal-on-metal sounds jerked her attention toward the door. She
stared for a long moment, the sudden pounding of her heart the only thing she
heard, then blew out a breath. About time. With any luck, the ship would be
leaving soon or was already underway. She glanced around the room. What could
be more perfect than to stowaway in an unused stateroom? This beat sitting on
that hard crate in the storage room.

Sasha
locked the door, then stripped off the coveralls and drew the zipper of her
bodysuit down to her navel. The skintight suit’s millipore fabric made it
breathe like skin, allowed perfect freedom of movement, and made her look damn
good, but it had no pockets and constricted her breasts. She stepped into the
bathroom, stopped in front of the mirror, and ran her fingers through her short
hair, fluffing up what she could, given the weighty coating of dried
perspiration. Maybe she would keep the shade of mahogany once the mission was
over. The highlights went well with the opal, almost colorless sheen of the
suit. The dark red in her hair even complemented the little pink rose that hid
the catch between bra cups.

A low
vibration, like a subsonic hum she didn’t recognize, began. Sasha paused and
concentrated on the sound. Feedback between two different types of engines,
maybe? She left the bathroom, crossed to the door, and checked the lockout code.
Still sealed. A plane of force, like a plate of glass with green swirling
lights, emerged from the wall by the door.