Hearts Akilter (3 page)

He took a closer look at her loose-fitting coveralls for any enticing feminine attributes, but there didn’t seem to be any of note. What was noteworthy was the number of gold chevrons under her sleeve’s MRMT patch.

Likely not a cyborg, but too dedicated to her job and too brainy by half.

When she leaned forward to give the bartender her order, light flickered off something white holding her hair in an unkempt knot at the back of her head.

A bio-bundle tie.

Leave it to a geeky tech to improvise. He almost chuckled but stopped himself. He had to look like a stoic drunk and keep his wits about him if he hoped to catch the person trying to kill him.

With a flourish, another tune erupted out of the speakers.

As he reached for his whiskey, the tingling spray misted his burns. Only the sensation was cold enough that gooseflesh raced up his spine. To quell the feeling, he swigged down the rest of his whiskey. A flash of warmth filled his veins.

It was time to go. Time to catch the pervert who wanted to kill him.

He stood up, swaying for effect. With senses heightened, he wove slowly around tables and exited by the main door.

No one followed him out.

A momentary flood of disappointment rushed over him, but he kept the guise of walking drunkenly to the lift.

Ahead was a corridor intersection. That junction would be an excellent place for an ambush.

What if the killer had an accomplice in the bar? One now sending a message to alert the hit man?

Senses straining, muscles at the ready, he continued toward the lift.

One more step…

No one sprang out of either side of the crossing corridor.

Disappointment again washed over him.

Arriving at the lift, he triggered the call button. The doors opened, and he took a deliberately slow, giant step into the lift. Sometimes pretending to be drunk was fun. He grinned and did a drunken two-step shuffle toward the back of the lift, reeled about, and made his way to the lift’s control panel. He teetered to a stop and circled his finger in the air twice before striking the door’s close button.

Seconds later, through the ever-narrowing gap of the closing doors, the bedraggled female tech, the one he’d seen enter the bar, rushed in.

Why hadn’t he heard her approach?

As she passed him, he glanced at her feet.

Atarq boots.
Ones with special, foam-like soles that allowed climbing and balancing on the station’s interior bulkhead walls, and which also made it impossible to hear techs walking the decks.

He watched the booted feet until the woman stopped at the back of the lift and faced him. When he shifted his gaze to her face, the optic glass of her irises seemed like jet-black onyx mirrors.

Fascinating eyes. Bewitchingly lovely eyes…

Only those eyes weren’t focusing on him.

Why isn’t she looking at me?

Instinct whispered that she wasn’t a threat, that he ought to get to know her.

Stupid thought. If he weren’t careful, his libido would sidetrack him into a coffin. To find out if she was friend or foe, he should force the issue. Yes. Force the issue. And there was nothing like driving a tech-geek nuts to do that.

He cleared his throat, which had her looking at him. Grinning his best drunken-shit-eating-grin at her, he faced the control panel. As fast as he could, and at random, he punched buttons.

The lift began to drop, bucked to a halt, and dropped again.

“You idiot!” The woman lunged toward him, but without a weapon in hand. She grabbed the sleeve of his injured arm, pulled him back with a strength that belied her size, and released him.

The lift jerked twice in rapid succession.

He lost his balance and slammed sideways against the wall. Grabbing the back railing, he steadied himself. A second later, he felt weightless.

Oh, hell. The lift was in a free fall!

Glancing at the woman, he found her releasing the emergency button, but it wasn’t lit. She thrust her hand into one of her big, coverall thigh pockets.

What was she doing? Was she going for a weapon?

He slipped his hand into his hip pocket, felt the snub-nosed rodgun, clutched it, and rolled the ball trigger to stun. About to pull the gun out and aim, he found her back was to him.

The loud slap of a tech-tool onto the lift control panel’s cover was followed by the pop of the panel coming free. The tech shoved the cover aside, pocketed the tool, reached her left hand into the box, and brought out a wad of bio-lines. She shoved her other hand armpit-deep into the control housing.

He heard the snap of plugs pulled from their sockets, then the whopping thumps of the safety brakes deploying. The force and friction between the brakes and the stop rails set off a cacophony of high-pitched squeals that drowned out all thought.

The lift came to a jarring halt that sent his feet skidding out from under him. He hit the floor butt first.

Damn it, was she intent on killing him or not?

Maybe she’s only saving herself.

All he could do was wait and see. Or, better yet, give her the perfect target.

He slipped his rodgun up his sleeve, feigned a loud groan, rolled to his side, pretended to pass out, and covertly watched her.

Marlee eased her grip on the frame of the lift control panel, which had helped her weather the lift’s sudden stop. That and her Atarq boots.
Blessed be her boots!

She half-turned and studied the man on the floor. The major’s breathing seemed steady and even. The color of his cheeks normal despite the dark stubble of whiskers. His face…so peaceful in repose. With his dark hair and the horizontal slash of his eyebrows above a classic nose, he was good looking, in a boy-next-door sort of way.

Skom, she shouldn’t let her thoughts drift.

What should she do now?

Fix the lift so you can use it.

Right, fix the lift.

She replugged the jacks she’d pulled out of their sockets, let go the bio-lines, which slipped back into the wall, and hit the reset button. A tiny amber light flickered on, indicating the reboot. Once satisfied the system’s green lights were lit as they should be, she put the cover panel back. She faced the major. How was she to deal with him?

Fingers laced, she placed her hands on her head to think. Ambrosia, the code word for Plan A—which was meeting the major, getting him alone to discuss, in private, Henry and the bomb—had failed. She went through the list of the other plans she and Henry had come up with. Dragon, Plan D, seemed the most appropriate. That called for kidnapping the bomb expert, taking him to the incinerator, and talking him into disarming the bomb.

Simple. Straightforward. Nothing to it.

She tapped an autozipper to a pocket, reached in and pulled out a thumb-sized lift override drive. Returning to the lift controls, she plugged in the drive. When the ready light lit, she gave the lift commands. Then she tapped her sleeve band’s comm unit and sent the code word Dragon to Henry.

A moment later, the lift began its descent at a normal rate of speed. Once the lift stopped, the doors opened, and she set them to stay open. As she stepped out of the lift, corridor lighting automatically flickered on. She paused to look around and get her bearings.

The corridor’s sparse lighting cast shadows about a refuse compactor’s giant beater blades and half-story tall pieces of dismantled grinding hammers. The lingering odor of rotting waste assailed her along with the old smells of glazed-hot bearing fluids and burned bio-matter.

Seconds later, she heard rubberized treads moving rapidly across the grate decking toward her and spotted Henry. Behind him, he towed her old maintenance-issue, antigrav skiff, which was loaded with satchels. He squelched to a stop a meter from her.

“He’s drunk!” She whispered more harshly than she had intended.

“Drunk? He should not be drinking alcohol. It will have an adverse reaction with his burn medications.”

“Do men ever listen to doctors?”

“Some do—”

“Never mind. In his drunken state, he fouled up the lift and almost killed me. He passed out. Check him. He might have hit his head. If he’s concussed, we’ll have to haul his ass to sickbay.”

Henry released the skiff, and it hovered in place. Once beside the major, Henry extended his effector, took a sweat sample, and whispered, “Marlee!”

Dread, like a cold snake, slithered down her spine, but she went to Henry’s side.

From Henry’s mouth came a holographic projection, the screen filling with
Vital signs are within normal parameters. His blood alcohol level indicates he is not drunk, not even under a sufficient amount of liquor to be impaired. No head trauma. He is conscious. I do not understand why he is pretending to be unconscious.

She stared at the major. He was pretending? Well, she didn’t have all night to indulge the man in such theatrics. So, what should she do?

Rouse him out of his playacting.

She pivoted about, enhanced her vision, and looked around the bay. Spying welding equipment, she said quietly, “Henry, do not panic. Stay put. I’ll be back in a sec.” She strode away.

Once she picked up the portable, spot-welding wand, one with a long reach, she checked its battery, and returned to the lift. She stopped beside Deacon and pointed the wand’s tip down, at his groin.

“Major Black,” she said with as much courage and command as she could muster, “I am a Master Robotic Maintenance Technician, an MRMT. Behind me is Henry, a RPA-TEMS, who you know. Henry has examined you. He says you’re not drunk or unconscious. I don’t know why you’re pretending to be, but we need to talk. So, listen up.” She took a deep breath for extra courage. “I’m holding a ten-five welding wand.” She turned the unit on. It emitted a barely audible hum. “I’m going to count to three, and if you don’t come to your senses, I’m going to
burn off your balls
.”

He didn’t move.

She glanced at Henry and the flicker of his sensor scan lights aimed at the major.

Quietly Henry said, “His heart rate has doubled.”

She scowled down at the major. “Okay, smart-ass, have it your way. Balls off in one, two—”

The major rolled over and onto his feet with a panther-quick grace. He stood, back to the lift wall, pointing his rodgun at her. “I can kill you before you kill me, so toss that weapon away.”

“No can do. This welder costs too darn much to be tossed. Period.” She turned off the wand and headed out into the bay.

“Not so fast! I’ll shoot.”

She didn’t pause. “Fine. Go ahead. Shoot a woman in the back.”

He had never shot a woman in the back, and he wasn’t about to start now. He watched her put the wand away and stomp silently back toward him.

Maybe he was overreacting. No, he was being cautious. The stakes were too high, and—Why wasn’t she afraid of him or his weapon?

She stopped at the lift’s doorjamb and slightly to the left, behind the little robot.

“Hello, Deacon,” the robot said.

Deacon kept his gaze on the tech. “Hello, Henry.”

“Please put your weapon away, Deacon. Marlee and I need your help.”

“Marlee?”

“Marlene,” the MRMT said with sharpness. “You don’t get to call me Marlee.”

“Why not?” was out of his mouth before he could stop himself.

“Because only family and very close friends have my permission to call me that.”

“Do you have a last name?”

“I was hoping not to have to give a name, either first or last, but Henry here has blown that idea all to smithereens.”

Henry pivoted and faced her, anguish in his voice. “Marlee, please! Your word choice!”

“Sorry, Henry. I’m more rattled by the lift ride than I thought.” She heaved a calming breath. “Forgive me?”

“Affirmative. Yes, I forgive you, Marlee.”

Deacon cleared his throat as loudly as he could. “Now that you two have that settled, what’s going on? Why abduct me and bring me here?”

Henry replied, “We need your help.”

“Help with what?”

“A matter that requires finesse,” Marlee said, “and you giving your word not to blab to the authorities and reveal my name or Henry’s.”

“Please,” Henry said, “we need your help. Desperately.”

There was no missing the plea in the robot’s voice. And obviously, it was evident Marlee—no,
Marlene
—wasn’t an assassin.

So what kind of problem did Henry and Marlene have that they needed him?

Deacon turned off his rodgun and pocketed it. “So, what’s this all about?”

“Ah, ah, ah. Not so fast.” Marlee crossed her arms in front of her chest, feet slightly apart.

She stood like a formidable matron with a stern set to her jaw. Trouble was, she looked too cute to be anywhere close to formidable.

“Will you give your word, Major, that what’s discussed and what happens here stays here?”

Curiosity chewed a king-sized hole in him. “All right, I give my word, but on the condition that whatever you two are up to isn’t illegal.”

In an emphatic tone, Henry said, “It is not.”

Deacon studied Marlene. “So, why am I here?”

“We need you to—” Her stance relaxed, and she let her arms fall to her sides. “Disarm a bomb.”

It took a few seconds to process her words. “A bomb? What bomb?”

“The one I found and which needs a bomb expert to disarm, or whatever it is you do to bombs. And just why are you pretending to be drunk?”

He hedged. “I have my reasons.” The icy tingling of the medication spraying over his burns sent his stomach rumbling, signaling bile on the rise.

Maybe he’d had too much to drink.

He swallowed in the hope his stomach would calm. All the while, he was grateful Marlene didn’t press him for an explanation.

He shifted his gaze to her eyes and his own image being mirrored on the blackness of the lenses. Such lovely eyes…

“Deacon,” Henry said, “Marlee is my friend. I will vouch for her. I assure you she is completely trustworthy, highly intelligent, and most forbearing. Please, will you help us?”