Grimspace

No wonder most of them hated me when I first came on board. In retrospect, I don’t see much I like, either. And it finally occurs to me…maybe they didn’t disembark so much as were taken, in which case, they may be relying on me for help.

Shit. Subtlety is not my strength, and I can almost hear March chuckling over the understatement. So what am I supposed to do?

Thinking about it yields no ready solution, but I’d rather die than sit another minute on this ship. So that decides it. I press the panel, and the boarding ramp lowers with a whir that sounds louder in the empty bay. As I step off, I realize I don’t have a remote keyed to the ship, so I’m stuck here until I find the others.

It’s cold, as docks tend to be, just a few meters of metal separating space and me. Definitely not a high-tech place. I see no bots performing maintenance, though there are a couple other ships nearby, and all of them look worse than the Folly. There’s only one door, so I head toward it. Perhaps I should be nervous; the place seems to be deserted—

An antiquated speaker crackles, and a deep male voice asks, “Who’re you then, pretty?”

It’s been a long damn time since I heard anything like that. Even before Matins IV, I was never apt to win any beauty pageants. And I guess my unseen interrogator’s waiting for a response, but I don’t see how I’m supposed to reply.

Then I hear March in the background, muffled but distinct: “She’s with us.”

The leprous metal door clangs open, and I’m permitted to enter Hon-Durren’s Kingdom. The view is decidedly industrial, derelict mining trolls and scavenged parts spread like mechanical intestines along the walls. I proceed with caution and come down a long, dim corridor into a larger space.

Wish I’d seen the place before we docked; now I’m wondering about the design of the station itself. Three more corridors adjoin from here, north, east, and west. I think this must’ve been the docking authority, where spacers paid for their bay and use of other facilities. Now it’s just empty but for a couple of closed-up windows that seem to bear out my theory.

“Come west, Jax.” That’s Doc, being helpful.

If it were anyone else, I’d probably turn east, but I trust Saul as much as I trust anyone. And then I start to hear voices, so I follow the hallway until I emerge in what has to be Hon’s “throne room,” hung with war trophies and contraband weapons. My shipmates stand in a semicircle, as if awaiting judgment. In the far corner, there are tables and benches occupied by a scruffy lot of the usual suspects, but the larger space remains devoted to an elevated pilot’s chair, festooned with coiled wire and chains.

Mother Mary of Anabolic Grace, is that him?

If people are talking to me, I don’t hear it, just gazing at the man sprawled on the makeshift dais. Damn, he’s…delicious: at least two meters tall, muscular, skin so dark it almost gleams blue, and long, wild braids trinketed with platinum and diamond glints. Just looking at him, I want to say he deserves every bit of his roguish reputation.

And please, can I be plunder?

Probably accustomed to this reaction, Hon gives me a slow grin, revealing white teeth, except for the front two, which appear to be solid gold. His voice is low and rich, lightly accented with a Darengo drawl unless I miss my guess. “Seem you keepin’ better company, March. Maybe I don’t kill you after all.”

At this point I notice the tension in this tableau. “Was that an option? If I get a vote, I’m going to say you don’t.”

“Jax…” March casts me a dark look. Maybe he thinks I’m going to frag things up, but it doesn’t look like I can make it worse. He cups a hand protectively over baby-Z, and I wonder if that topic’s been bridged yet.

“You got some stones, bwoy, askin’ me for a favor.”

Oh, that’s interesting. March never did tell me what history he had with Hon. Looks like I’m about to find out, and as I’m waiting, it occurs to me that the other three are pretty quiet. Especially Dina—if she’s locked down her mouth, then we’re in serious shit, aren’t we?

Beside me, March nods almost imperceptibly. “I know we didn’t part on the best terms after the Nicuan conflict,” he says, “but this is actually a humanitarian mission.”

What a great laugh, deep, ringing, and infectious. I fight an answering chuckle even though I don’t know what’s going on. “Not on the best terms—you funny, March. First you stole my woman, then my ship, left me to die on that Mary-forsaken rock. But you make me curious, so I’ll give you a minute before I kill you. Tell me your story.”

March seems stuck, though. His body language tells me he’s at a loss, so I step into the breach. If there’s one thing I know how to do, it’s run my mouth.

“I’m sorry I missed the introductions.” I step forward and offer my best smile. “But I’m Sirantha Jax. And we’ve come looking for Canton Farr. Do you know him?”

He’s already nodding. “My library man, yah. What you want him for?”

“During our travels, we found this little guy.”

Against March’s muted protest, I give Hon a glimpse of the docile amphibian curled against his chest. Z raises his head and peers around with protuberant eyes. Yeah, he’s definitely grown a bit, and he’s taking an interest in his environment.

“Grrrr-upp,” Z says, from deep in his throat.

We’ve managed to surprise the big man. “What the hell is that?”

“He’s a hatchling,” Doc volunteers. “And Canton Farr is an expert on the Mareq. So if we have any hope of raising this fellow, it’s imperative we confer with him.”

Folding his arms, Hon studies the lot of us, as if wondering whether this is the whole story. Of course it isn’t, but I know they don’t want me blabbing anything else. “Well, I make no cred killin’ babies,” he says finally. “But I give you access to Farr, you gift me someting back, yah?”

“What do you have in mind?” March asks, closing his shirt over baby-Z, who doesn’t go quietly, and his burgeoning paternal instinct strikes me as pretty damn funny.

Hon glances between Dina and me. I suppose we do make a nice visual contrast—I’m dark where she’s fair, and she’s thick where I’m thin. “Oh…I think we can work something out.”

I’m afraid to look at Dina.

CHAPTER 28

Instead of executing the lot of us, Hon throws a party.

I think it’s a display of power more than true hospitality. Everything in his demeanor says—You are subject to my will, and I choose to be merciful, remember this. Or maybe he’ll just seize any excuse to celebrate. He really is a throwback, albeit an utterly delicious one.

No chance to talk to anyone else, as the throne room comes alive with lights and music, a thrumming bass-heavy beat that sounds tribal, and as the rovers get to their feet to form a stomping, spinning circle of dancers, I notice almost no women, and his interest in Dina and me becomes less flattering and more alarming.

But I can’t worry about that right now. They’re laying the tables with fresh food, and it smells fantastic. My mouth waters at the prospect of eating something that doesn’t need to be sucked out of a packet. They offer fresh fruit and vegetables, so there must be a hydroponics garden somewhere on station. Next they serve meat in sauce, which means it’s likely synth-protein in disguise. For the perfect finish, add steaming baskets of bread with peppered oil for dipping. And let’s not forget the sweet, cold Parnassian red.

Yeah, I’m going to be here awhile.

I lose sight of how many times my cup’s refilled, but it doesn’t seem to matter. Everything loses its immediacy, gaining a pleasant veil, where the most important thing I need to do is shrug out of my jacket and join the dancers. Someone takes me by the waist, and I stomp along with him, trying to mimic the side-winding circle we seem to be making. I should really be wearing a big bell skirt for this, more dramatic in the spins.

After a while, I lose track of how many men catch me and spin me toward them. But I definitely notice when Hon steps in. Not seeing him would be like missing a solar eclipse. For a few moments, we simply dance, and I hear Dina saying, from somewhere, “If she wants to shag him, let her. I don’t want to die for saying no, although if I was going to try a man, it’d be him.”

Then he leads me from the revelry, past the pilot’s chair toward a sunken area filled with padded couches. He indicates I should sit, and I do, feeling the music pulsing through the soles of my boots. As he drops down beside me, the lights flicker over his skin, painting him in silver streaks and giving his strong features an almost demonic cast. But there’s fascination in his darkly glittering eyes; he’s everything a civilized woman isn’t supposed to want. He might treat her like an empress or a whore as the mood strikes him, but she’d never possess the faintest doubt that he owned her, body and soul.

“Where you get such fine scars, lovely?” His voice rumbles like a purr near my ear, and I glance down in confusion, before realizing the diaphanous fabric of my blouse reveals the old burns along my arms and shoulders.

“Crash landing.” That seems like an oversimplification, but I retain just enough presence of mind to be wary.

“Musta been a bad one,” he comments, touching my shoulder lightly. It takes a moment, but I realize he’s tracing the pattern through my shirt with a fingertip.

I nod. “They don’t come any worse.”

He regards me a moment, seeming thoughtful. “I think I know who you are now.”

Shit. Be cool, Jax.

“Oh?”

“Your bad crash was the Sargasso, yah?” Hon doesn’t wait for an answer. “So you must be March’s jumper.”

There’s no point in lying; that will just piss him off because he’s already sure. “I’m not on good terms with the Corp anymore, though.” Like that needs to be said.

He laughs. “We’re both kill on sight, I think.”

I think I just increased my value to him, although I’m not sure if it’s because I have a Corp bounty on my head or because I can jump. Maybe it’s a combination of the two. So what now? I can’t afford to make him mad, and the wine’s starting to wear off.

“Yeah, although I’m sure they’ve listed me as officially flatline. The bounty hunters they’re sending after me are strictly on the slide.”

“So tell me, Sirantha Jax, are bad things chasin’ you here?”

I jerk my eyes back to his face, but he doesn’t seem angry. In fact, if anything, he looks amused. “I don’t know. Think we lost them in grimspace, but—”

“Don’t worry, pretty. I’ll fix it.”

Well, I don’t have the slightest doubt of that, but I’m not sure his solution will benefit us. I’m frankly astonished that we didn’t get blasted before docking, and I have to wonder what March said that garnered safe temporary passage. Knowing March, it may have been something like: Don’t you want to see my face when you kill me?