4. Abigail

4

ABIGAIL

T he ship Gragash arrived on wasn't hard to locate. Darha's Blessing was an old Akedian light hauler, a run-down ship that wouldn't look out of place at one of Earth's spaceports. Bulky and squat, it was mostly cargo space—one central hold running the length of the ship, surrounded by smaller spaces with independent environments for specialist cargo.

Perched on top, the crew quarters were relatively small. Space for a half-dozen cabins at most, with the rest of the space devoted to a pair of blaster cannon crudely welded on. It was too much firepower for any legitimate trader, making the Blessing an obvious pirate ship.

What made it obviously the right ship was the mural painted on the hull, an Orc warrior holding a thunderbolt in his raised fist. The likeness of Gragash wasn't perfect, but it was close enough to recognize him.

Whoever had painted it hadn't taken the chance to repaint the second engine, which was a bright yellow where the rest was a dull gray. That wasn't the only sign of poor maintenance choices, either. The edges of its vents were crusted with rust, the hull had dents the size of cars, and someone had haphazardly welded metal plates over the holes where something punched all the way through.

I lowered my gaze to the market that had sprung up on the cracked concrete surface of the spaceport. Like most ships, the Blessing's loading ramp was down, and the crew were hawking their ill-gotten wares at its foot. They were busier than most, surrounded by a chaotic mix of aliens all shouting over each other. Fans of Gragash, slavers, traders, all wanted something from the ship's crew, who only seemed interested in talking to the slavers—they had a few aliens in chains to sell, and I winced at the sight. Awful as slavery was, from the run-down look of the Blessing, these poor folks were likely to be safer here.

I eased my way through the crowd, careful not to attract attention. Growing up in the remnants of London had trained me well for that, and with the guards distracted, I had no trouble making it to the base of the ramp. That was the point of no return, and I paused to think my plan over one last time.

I'd rather have talked it over with someone, but Tony was the closest thing I had to a friend on the planet, and he hadn't picked up when I called him. If he wondered where I'd gotten to, he'd shown no sign of concern. I wasn't sure why that annoyed me. Did I want his support for my stupid idea, or for him to tell me not to go through with it?

Because the plan was stupid. I knew it, but I didn't care. Doing what guys like Tony told me to wouldn't get my career anywhere, and nor would playing it safe. If I think too long, I'll talk myself out of this, I told myself. With one last glance to make sure the crew was busy, I ducked under the guardrail and scrambled up the ramp into the Darha's Blessing's hold.

I'd half expected to find that the dilapidated outer hull was a cunning ruse, that inside I'd find a well-oiled piracy machine. It was both a relief and a disappointment to find the cargo decks were in even worse condition than I'd suspected. The few working lights flickered as though on the verge of failing, casting eerie shadows in the gloom. In the dim, inconstant light, I saw the sad remains of loot from pirate raids. Mostly luggage, and not high-end stuff. That was easy to sell, unlike this pile of bags stolen from ordinary folks. Rummaged through for anything worth selling, whatever remained they left here.

Somewhere, in amongst the heaps of stolen lives, I heard voices haggling over the cost per pound of the bags. How fucking desperate are these people? It seemed such a petty evil, but the Blessing's crew seemed determined to wring every cent from their crimes.

I snapped some pictures as I snuck past, on the principle that you never knew what might be important. Maybe, if I got caught, I could pretend to be an interested customer, though how I'd fake enthusiasm for suitcases full of worthless junk was beyond me.

Gragash wasn't in the main hold, I knew that instantly. There would be fans shouting his name if he was that accessible. So either he had one of the crew cabins, or he was in one of the other cargo sections. On the basis that the latter were easier to search without attracting suspicion, I wound my way through the heaps of discarded belongings to the nearest hatch.

A viewer mounted beside it showed a collection of empty slave cages inside. I shuddered at the sight, snapped a few pics for context, and pressed on. All I needed was to find Gragash, grab some pictures, and get a quote out of him. An interview would be better, but I'd had second thoughts about pushing my luck by hanging around and chatting.

I found the next hatch, stopping to stare at the monitor. Where the last slave-hold had been empty, this one was full to bursting. Crowded with Orcs.

They looked like teenagers, though I wouldn't have bet on my ability to tell an Orc's age. Three adults led them in some kind of chanting ritual—a prayer, maybe?—but none of them were Gragash. One too old, one too skinny, and one too female.

The only furnishings I could see were heaps of ragged blankets, none of which could have hidden the champion. I cursed under my breath.

"Okay, so they aren't keeping him with the other Orcs," I muttered to myself. "And they're not trying to sell them. What the fuck is this?"

"I've got a better question," a rough voice said behind me, and a heavy hand fell on my shoulder. "Who the fuck are you?"

Instincts born in London alleys had me moving as soon as I knew he was there, but he'd had more experience than any of the lads I'd dodged back on Earth. Too quick for me to escape, his thick fingers clamped onto my shoulder with bruising strength. The elegant dodge-roll I had planned came to an abrupt, painful stop.

Okay, not ideal, but I can salvage this. Deliberately optimistic, I did my best to look professional, sincere, and non-threatening.

"Hey, let go of me." I tried to make that a calm command, but it came out closer to a desperate plea. "Look, I'm press. I'm with Alien Arenas, just trying to make a living. You can look through my pics, delete anything you don't want published."

Which is the only reason I carried a camera. My cybernetic eyes took all the photos I wanted, and I could give up the camera without worrying about what I'd lose. Unfortunately, the alien didn't play along with my clever ruse. He ignored everything I said and pulled me back into the center of the hold.

I stumbled along behind him along a narrow path between two walls of stolen cargo. Underfoot, the metal decking creaked as I struggled to pull away. Stains and rust marked the deck as well as the walls, and the cargo was no better. These thugs were making insane amounts of money while spending nothing on maintaining their ship.

A glance at my captor showed where his share of the money went—his clothes dripped with ill-considered finery. Gold chains jangled at his neck, platinum piping down the sleeves of his stained velvet coat, gem-studded piercings on his face. He looked like a man who'd heard of taste, and murdered the person who mentioned it.

"Captain," he called out as we emerged from the cramped cargo hold and into a room set up for the crew's recreation. Three people looked up from a table set with a complicated game featuring holograms, cards, and knives.

The three couldn't have been more different. A portly Akedian who looked like a waxwork left in the summer sun looked around at me, scratching under his silver-gray hair. Across from him lounged two I recognized from the arena. The first was a Prytheen warrior, her blue skin covered in tattoos. And I mean covered: she proved that by wearing gun belts and little else. She curled up against an Arisran male, tall and red-skinned, winding white horns framing a cold, hard face. A demon in the flesh, he peered at me over the papers he'd been reading while the others played.

Those two I recognized from the arena. At least it confirmed I was in the right place.

"What is it, Fenx?" he asked, voice a harsh rasp. Cold eyes flicked across me, assessing and judging. I shivered, my blood suddenly running ice cold. "Where'd you find that?"

"In the cargo hold," my captor said, shoving me forward. "Taking pictures of the Orc, uh, colony. Figured I should ask you before I slit her throat."

The captain's laugh was anything but comforting. "Seems like you've made a mistake, girl. Air costs money, so does food. Got a reason I shouldn't put you out the airlock and save some credits?"

"You've not even taken off yet," I protested. "Just put me ashore now, and I'll give you a glowing review, okay?"

"Ah, so you're press." The Arisran shook his head. "Not a great start, I'll be honest—I value my privacy. What else do you have?"

The Prytheen's narrowed eyes warned me away from a path I had no intention of trying. Back off, her look said. He's my meal ticket.

I wanted to laugh. Like throwing myself at a smuggler, slaver, and crime boss was in any way a good idea, even without a jealous girlfriend in the mix. Laughing at her seemed like an even worse idea, though, so I kept my calm and tried to think.

"If you don't want me to write about you, no problem. I'll write what you want about someone else, keep your name out of it." That had to be worth something, I thought, and the captain's eyes lit up.

"That has potential," he said, stroking his chin. "But how can I be sure you'll go through with it?"

"You can't, boss," the Prytheen interjected. "She'd say anything to keep herself alive."

What the fuck's your problem, lady? It didn't help that she was right. I'd make the deal happily, but only to get out alive. Once I was away from the pirates? Fuck these guys.

Before I could figure out a way to convince him, an unpleasant, predatory grin spread across her features. "But you know what? You promised Gragash a treat, and you know how much he hates journos. I think he'll enjoy tearing her limb from limb, and it'll save a day or two of food rations for him. Keeping him fed is expensive."

The captain's smile was ice cold as he nodded once, quick and decisive. "Fenx, Brish, take her upstairs and throw her to the Orc."

He wasn't in the cargo holds at all. Fenx, the asshole wearing all the gold, dragged me up into the crew levels of the ship, now accompanied by the Akedian, who had to be Brish. Neither answered my questions, and when I tried to pull away, Brish pulled a shock-prod from his belt. The crackle of energy when he activated it put a stop to my thoughts of escape.

Perhaps it's all an act? If they're keeping him up here, in an officer's cabin, maybe the brutal barbarian is a stage persona? I almost laughed at the idea, and at the image it conjured. Gragash, mighty Orc warrior, lounging around a luxurious room wearing a smoking jacket and puffing on a pipe. Not speaking to anyone in public because he wasn't able to hide his posh accent.

I wished I could believe it, but no. Even before we reached the hatch, I knew fate wouldn't be so kind.

Battered out of shape, fist-sized dents marked the metal, making the hatch squeal as Fenx slid it open. The dents came from inside , and looking at the inch-thick steel of the hatch, I shivered at the strength that must have taken. What lay beyond just added to the icy fear running through my veins.

The stateroom was, for a spaceship, huge. Big enough that shadows hid most of it, the light spilling past us the only source of illumination other than the distant stars beyond a viewport. This had to be the owner's cabin, or perhaps the Blessing once carried wealthy passengers from star to star. The walls were a sumptuous shade of purple, though often discolored by fire or blood. Luxurious furnishings made from genuine wood—I could tell from the broken remnants of what remained of a bed—lay in pieces, piled up against the wall. My feet sank into a soft carpet, thicker than some mattresses I'd slept on.

A few steps into the room, heavy metal bars blocked our way. Crudely welded, thick as my wrist, they stretched floor-to-ceiling and wall-to-wall, turning most of the stateroom into a cell capable of holding a monster. The only break in the cage was a barred door set into them.

My captors both hesitated before approaching the bars, though there was no sign of life in the gloom beyond. Heart racing, I held back too, only for Fenx to shove me roughly against the cold iron of the bars.

"Wake up, Gragash. The captain has a treat for you." Brish ran his shock-prod back and forth along the bars, clattering loud enough to wake the dead. Inside the cell, something moved.

I heard it more than saw it, the clink of chains shifting, a creak as the Orc's weight shifted. My captors stepped back from the cage at once. A shadow moved in the gloom, barely visible but huge . In the arena, Gragash looked big. Now I realized I'd underestimated his size.

"Stop fucking around," the Fenx hissed at his companion, and I had to agree. Why rile up the monster? "Let's get her in there and us out of here."

Okay, that I didn't agree with so much, but they wouldn't listen to my comments. Brish waved his hand over the cage's lock and the barred door swung open. Quick as a flash, Fenx shoved me inside and slammed the door behind me. The lock engaged with a forbidding clunk , and there I was, trapped in a cage with the monster I'd been stupid enough to want to interview.

Well, fuck it. Nothing to lose trying to get it now. "Mr. Gragash?"

The answering growl sent a shiver through me, and I stepped back. Or tried to—the bars stopped me going even a step, the steel ice-cold through my clothes. Gragash shifted his weight again, looming in the darkness, and I tried to pull myself back into the light.

My captors laughed behind me, but I heard the edge of fear in their voices. Swallowing, I wondered what they expected to happen, what made those hardened criminals afraid.

"Get. Out." Gragash's voice was deep, impossibly deep, and laced with deep-set rage. Nothing human could make that sound. It vibrated through me, hitting me hard and taking my breath away.

Scary? Yes, absolutely, of course. Also hot enough to melt through steel. I bit my lip, squirming back against the bars. Beyond them, the gangsters fled the room. I barely noticed them go, but I did notice the hatch grinding shut again, leaving me in a stateroom-cage lit only by starlight.

Without the outside lighting, my cybernetic eyes adjusted faster than normal human eyes do. The shadowy figure lurking in the dark took on depth and form, and I swallowed nervously as Gragash took a step forward. He loomed over me like a mountain of green muscle, burning eyes glaring deep into my soul. I'd seen him fight from a distance, but nothing had prepared me for just how big he was up close. Tall, and broad-shouldered even for his height, with muscles that would have been grotesque on anyone smaller. On his frame, though, they looked perfect.

Tusks protruded from his strong-jawed face, his lips curling into a hungry smile as he looked at me. Eyes raked up and down me, pausing at my breasts, my hips. My skin warmed wherever he looked, and I felt a flush creep across my cheeks.

Unbidden, my gaze wandered down his body. His bare chest, rising and falling as he breathed deep. The perfect six-pack of his abs. Thank god, he wore a kilt of dark leather, but the size of the bulge under it me shudder. If that muscle was as big as the rest of them…

"I…" Swallowing, I tried again. "I'm Abigail Harkness, and I'm here to?—"

He cut me off, voice hard and harsh. "Here to play games. I am Gragash, and I do not play ."