Mercenary Courage (Mandrake Company) (3 page)

In the center of the machine shop, men welded the breaches in the hull of one of Mandrake Company’s shuttles. Robots rolled or floated by, carrying materials to and from the repair docks where larger ships were being worked on. Such as his. The
Albatross
was not visible from the shop, and Viktor was thankful for that. It stung to see his ship so damaged, and it reminded him of other duties he had to attend to: the funerals and settling of payments to the families of the two men who had died. Two others had been transferred to the station hospital already, their burn injuries too severe for his own sickbay to handle. Viktor did not know if they would return to the company.

“That was an expensive mess,” Borage said, shaking his head at the charred shuttle. “In more ways than one.”

His chief engineer’s voice did not hold censure, at least not that Viktor could detect, but he grimaced, anyway. They were mercenaries, and dying by the sword was part of the job, but it had been a while since they had been in a conflict that ugly, and he keenly felt the responsibility for the lost and injured men. He usually made better decisions, picking the company’s battles carefully. This had been a choice made too much with the heart. And as was so often the case, his heart liked to side with the underdog. It was even worse this time, because he had been fooled.

“But it could have been worse,” Borage added, glancing warily at Viktor, as if realizing his words might have implied condemnation. “You got most of us out alive. And Azarov here got that fire out in time. Thought we were going to have to vent the entire—”

“Is that Captain Mandrake under all that soot?” a boisterous voice interrupted Borage.

It belonged to Spike Sherkov, a mercenary captain with a scar stretching vertically down the side of his face and disappearing into a beard almost as big as his ego. He strolled into the machine shop with two other men that Viktor did not know striding beside him. One, a Chinese man, wore the tabs and uniform of a Fleet captain. He was young for the position, no more than thirty, and Viktor had not run into him before. Nor did he want to deal with the Fleet now. Fortunately, there had only been one military ship in dock, an Intrepid-class heavy cruiser that had looked so new, it might be on its maiden voyage.

“Sherkov,” Mandrake said and started to turn his back on the group—he didn’t like the other mercenary under any circumstances and was in no mood to socialize now.

“Saw your pink shuttle a couple of weeks ago, Mandrake. It’s a real beaut.”

The men with him chuckled. Viktor clenched his jaw, but did not otherwise let his thoughts show on his face. He got ribbed often enough about that from his own men, the ones who had been with him since the inception of the company and felt confident enough to tease him. Ankari had leased the craft for her business and painted it before it had occurred to him to put a no-pink stipulation in the contract. He loathed having the thing in his shuttle bay, even if he understood her reasoning for the paint choice perfectly well. She wished to ensure that the craft, which was full of her team’s expensive scientific research equipment, would never be borrowed, at least not by a man. The company’s one female pilot, Lieutenant Calendula, had not shown much interest in flying it, either.

“What color are you thinking for the
Albatross
itself, Mandrake?” Sherkov went on. “Maybe baby blue? Or purple with white polka dots? As long as you’re here for repairs, you’ll want to pretty it up, won’t you?”

“Those repair estimates being sent by carrier pigeon?” Viktor asked, keeping his back to the other captain, hoping Sherkov would go away. What a Fleet officer was doing chumming around with him, Viktor could not guess. Fleet usually pretended mercenaries did not exist, or, if they did exist, lumped them in with pirates and smugglers and kidnappers, the dregs of the galaxy and people to be ignored—or shot.

“We’ll have them for you soon, Captain,” one of the mechanics said with a cheerful wave. Of course he was cheerful. He was about to make enough money to retire on.

“What’s the matter, Mandrake?” Sherkov asked. “Don’t want to talk to us?”

Viktor might have punched the annoying twit, but the Fleet officer muddied the waters. Fleet usually left him alone, but Viktor had bounties on his head on a couple of planets and had made a prominent finance lord disappear not that long ago. If the military wanted a reason to make trouble for him, it wouldn’t have to look far. Maybe this was a setup, with Sherkov trying to provoke him into violence in front of witnesses. Who was the third man? Undercover Station Security?

“I won’t bother you anymore then, but we were trying to settle a bet and thought you might help.” Sherkov stopped behind him, apparently unwilling to take silence for an answer.

Viktor adjusted his position so he could watch the men, since having them at his back made his shoulder blades itch.

“Sir,” Azarov said and tilted his chin toward the doorway.

Viktor had already seen her walk in, and he held back another grimace. He wanted nothing more than to see Ankari—especially since she was wearing form-hugging trousers and a wrap tunic that accented her lithe figure wonderfully—but this was not the time. Not while he was dealing with the ship’s business and certainly not while this idiot was mocking him. It was bad enough that Borage and Azarov were here for it. He doubted Borage would start rumors, but a few words from the young sergeant, and the entire ship would know that its captain had done nothing while being harassed.

“Is that her?” Sherkov asked, noticing Ankari—as soon as Viktor had glanced in her direction, she had waved cheerfully. “The reason you lost your balls, Mandrake? I’d heard she was the reason for the pink shuttle, but is she the reason you couldn’t fight worth spit at Nimbus? Too busy thinking about getting your cock sucked to shoot straight?”

Viktor clenched his fist, hot fury burning through his veins, almost blurring his vision with its intensity. He could handle being mocked for a paint job, but this implication that he was inept...

Adrenaline flooded his veins, and his muscles bunched, straining at his shirt, craving action. He envisioned leaping on Sherkov, ripping off his head, and shoving it up his ass.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Ankari’s step falter, concern blossoming on her face. She must have heard Sherkov’s words. The captain had dropped into a fighting stance, clearly anticipating Viktor’s attack, but he took the time to give a slight nod to the Fleet captain.

It was a trap. He didn’t know who had instigated it or what these people ultimately wanted, but he forced himself not to act, no matter how much he wanted to pound on this twit.

“Deck Ten, Sherkov,” Viktor said, his body still hot, still craving a fight.

“What?” The mercenary’s brow furrowed.

“That’s where the gym is on this station. You have a problem with me, you meet me on the mat there at eighteen hundred hours.” The rules on the judo mat were different; if Sherkov accepted his challenge, Viktor could pummel him to within an inch of death, and the law couldn’t touch him. He smiled wolfishly, relishing this thought. Maybe Sherkov would even give him a challenge, let him work out his fury over the entire last month on something more satisfying than the punching bag in his cabin.

Uncertainty flashed across Sherkov’s face, and he glanced at the Fleet captain again.

“Bring your new friend if you want,” Viktor said, his voice soft. “I’ll welcome it.”

The Fleet captain’s lip twitched, but he did not otherwise react. He waved to a mechanic near the shop entrance and headed in that direction, giving Ankari a curious look as he walked past her. Viktor stared at Sherkov, hoping the man saw how much Viktor wanted to see him at eighteen hundred hours. On the off chance he showed up, maybe Viktor would invite Ankari to watch.

“I’m... busy tonight,” Sherkov said. “Busy thinking up ways to keep my crew alive and not sacrifice them in a fool’s war.” He flipped his hand and stalked off.

Viktor ground his teeth, irritated because those jabs about the mission were striking far too close to home and even more irritated that he would not get a chance to take his aggressions out on anyone who deserved it. He eyed Azarov, almost tempted to ask the man if he wanted to go a few rounds later, but the soot-smeared sergeant looked too weary to contemplate anything more than his rack. Maybe Viktor would comm Sergei later. When his duties here were done. He took a deep breath, trying to relax muscles tenser than steel.

Remembering Ankari, he looked to her, though it was a struggle to meet her eyes. He felt unmanned after letting that fool sling insults at him—and her too. Even if Sherkov had backed down, he hadn’t done it without more parting jabs. Viktor hardly felt that he had won a victory. Perhaps later, they would cross paths in an unmonitored alley, and he could give the response he had truly wished to give.

There wasn’t any judgment in Ankari’s eyes; she smiled tentatively at him, approaching as if she was not sure if he wanted to see her. Oh, he wanted nothing more than to see her. He eyed the sway of her hips as she walked, the curve of her breasts, and the way her lush brown hair bounced around her shoulders. The adrenaline that had been flowing through his veins, eager for a battle, grew eager for something else, shifting to sexual desire, and he growled low in his throat, wanting to push her up against the hull of the shuttle, tear off her clothes, and pound into her right there. The hell with everyone else in the shop.

She couldn’t have known his thoughts, because her smile broadened as their eyes held, and she regarded him fearlessly, unaware of the dangerous tension within him and how much he needed a release. A thread of shame wormed into his gut, the realization that he had been thinking nothing of her needs or pleasing her and only of finding an outlet for his frustration, whether through violence or lust.

It was that shame more than the awareness of others around him that let him draw in a deep, almost shuddering breath to gather himself. He unlocked his clenched fists. He would be more than chagrined if she mistook his locked muscles for anger at her.

But it took a lot to daunt Ankari, and she walked up, still smiling, and placed a hand on his arm. “I know you’re busy today, but I had to come make sure you’re all right. You’ve been known to get shot without mentioning it to people.”

Viktor thought he had calmed his libido, but her touch sent an electrifying jolt of desire through his body. He had to take more deep breaths before he could manage a sentient reply rather than the lusty growl that wanted to escape his throat. “I was not badly injured.”

“Just toasted in a campfire?” She dusted soot off his sleeve, then gave Borage a nod—Azarov was talking to one of the mechanics about the fire extinguishing system that now needed to be recharged. “It’s good to see you, Commander.”

“Ms. Markovich,” Borage said, his voice neutral. He had never criticized Viktor about his choice to keep a trio of civilians on board, ostensibly because Mandrake Company was protecting their business, which it received a cut of, but he had never been enthusiastic about their presence.

After this last mission, Viktor wondered if he was, indeed, doing the right thing with them. From the beginning, he had wanted to keep Ankari in his daily life, but was that a good enough reason to haul the women in and out of dangerous situations? Flipkens was almost part of the crew now, working in engineering and training to become a backup pilot, but Dr. Keys was out of place on the ship—she seemed out of place anywhere except a lab—and might be happier on a planet.

This was a problem to consider later. For now, the ship was out of danger, and once repairs were underway, he could allow himself a night of relaxation. Perhaps not tonight, but the next night, definitely. He draped an arm around Ankari’s shoulders and smiled when she leaned into him.

“Have you been staying out of trouble here?” Viktor asked, lowering his head for a surreptitious sniff of her hair. He loved the scent of her shampoo, a mix of lavender and lilac that reminded him of the gardens back home.

“Mostly,” Ankari said.

“Mostly?”

“Up until about two minutes ago.” She grinned up at him as she dug into her pocket. “That Fleet captain dropped this on his way past me.” She held up a green, military-issue folding tablet, the corners padded so it could survive drops from great heights.

“He
dropped
it?” Viktor had been too busy glaring at Sherkov to notice much of an exchange between Ankari and the Fleet captain, but he was well aware of her knack for pick-pocketing, a talent she had learned growing up on the streets of Novus Earth.

“Yup, it fell straight out of his pocket and into my hand. I was so stunned that I forgot to call after him and return it. I’ll have to drop it into the lost-and-found later, perhaps after it’s been searched thoroughly for references to you.”

Viktor arched his eyebrows. “You also thought that was some kind of setup?”

“Obviously.”

Her response pleased him. He might have been slightly concerned that she would see him as less manly for doing nothing in the face of all those insults.

“Viktor,” Ankari said, “you can mangle anyone on your crew in unarmed combat, and I presume that information is widely known among other mercenaries. That man either had a death wish or was up to something.”

“Yes,” Viktor said, even more pleased by her words. He should be long past the age where he worried about impressing women with his virility, but he found he still wanted to look good for Ankari. Perhaps because she had once admitted she found his combat prowess arousing. She had seemed a little ashamed by the admission, though he did not know why. He found her background as a mashatui practitioner appealing and had saved the video of her knocking Sergeant Striker on his ass.

“What will you do when you get too old to beat everyone in a fight?” Borage asked.

“I don’t plan to live that long,” Viktor said.

Ankari frowned at this answer.

“Oh?” Borage asked, before Viktor could decide if he wanted to amend his statement for Ankari’s sake. “Between that deal you made with the treasure hunter and the one with Ms. Markovich’s company, I thought you might have aspirations of retiring as a finance lord.”