Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Ill Luck

Sevenday 31, Day 5

F ingers racing over the pilot’s console, Bran willed the yellow warning lights to disappear. In the viewer, fluffy, blue-tinged clouds whirled around the falling DOP-C. “Come one sweet one. Pull out. You can do it.”

The whirling slowed. The yellow lights shifted to blue. Still too fast. Adjusting the trajectory, he managed to get the small transport to level out. “Well done, bella .”

The choking sound from his passenger sounded suspiciously like laughter. Keeping his eyes split between the console and the viewer, he said, “There is nothing amusing about a propulsion malfunction.”

Adriana’s dry tones answered, “You named the cargo vessel?”

He glanced over his shoulder. “What say you?”

The slashes of her eyebrows rose over dark, liquid eyes. “Bella?”

Did I say that? Probably . “It is not a name. Means beauty.”

Her lips twitched. “So, you do not name your transports but simply attempt to seduce them?”

A small chuckle escaped him. For a scientist, Adriana Pepys had a decent sense of humor. It was one of her many attractive attributes. “Chatting with the transport is a freighter pilot’s habit. Comes from sevendays alone in the beaconed expanse.”

“Well, it seemed to respond.” She fingered the chair restraints. “I rescind my protest against the harness.”

“It is not only your safety. The weight of your body flying around in the cargo area could hinder my ability to level out. As it is, we are going to land. I need to check the systems and it cannot wait until we reach our destination.”

Adriana peered across the empty cargo area to the far window, where the clouds were parting to reveal purple plains edged with a dark green-and-red forest. “I thought these DOP-Cs were reliable.”

“They are reliable.” The Damaris Orbit to Planet Carrier, known as a DOP-C, was designed to enter and exit a planet without a launch platform. Lightweight, it could ascend, breach the atmosphere, and reach a low-orbit rendezvous point. It was perfect for shuttling passengers and cargo from the Nightingale to the planet’s surface and back again. “I cannot remember a propulsion module ever malfunctioning outside of a test environment.”

She huffed a small sigh. “The same is true of my instruments. And yet, the samples from last sevenday are so much goop.”

Accidents and systems failures had beset the Nightingale and her crew since its return to the Thirteenth System after completing post-battle repairs in the Fourth System. The pilot scheduled to take Adriana to the surface had slipped on a wet spot in the mess hall and sprained her wrist. Otherwise, he would not be piloting the small cargo vehicle.

As first officer, he managed the logistics for all the exploration teams. But they needed the results of zoological studies, and he could justify the excursion. That he was eager for some time alone with the lovely but distant scientist was a bonus. “Unfortunately, your collection expedition may be delayed. If I cannot correct the problem, Captain Raleigh will need to send a flyer with repair equipment.”

She frowned. “How far off are we?”

“At least a hundred miles west.”

“That area has not been surveyed.”

On this section of plains, only the high-altitude topographical mapping was complete. During the second stage, the low-altitude surveys included geological scans identifying minerals, precious metals, and subterranean water sources. Only after an area had completed the second stage were the scientists allowed to descend to sample water sources and geological deposits, and catalog flora and fauna. Landing in unknown terrain risked hidden hazards, but with over half the plains grid-mapped and sampled, they had found minimal variation. It was not ideal, but Bran had no other option. “It is still part of the plains. Landing will be safe enough.”

From her expression, Adriana was far more concerned about her samples than her safety. “I have every confidence in you, Commander.”

Her compliment fed his belief that she shared his attraction. At first, he had been wary of the Matahorn zoologist. Not from her actions but, because like all the inhabitants of the Eleventh and Twelfth Systems, he loathed her cartel for its callous and exploitive commerce tactics. Over the months, he had come to admire her, and the attraction intensified. Having passed his fiftieth year, he was no callow youth, and no one had stirred him so in over a decade. He was determined to attract her interest or confirm it was impossible.

He forced his attention back to the console, and away from the lovely fortysomething scientist. And she was lovely. Adriana’s heavy-lidded eyes seemed huge in her triangular face. The contrast between her narrow chin and wide, sharp cheekbones was softened by a lush, full-lipped mouth. But it was the intelligence in her intense expression that elevated her features from pretty to compelling. Days of fieldwork had added bronze highlights to her tawny complexion and worn away some flesh, leaving the slate-gray uniform looser than at the voyage’s start. He found her no less appealing for the loss of some voluptuousness.

The console lights shifted into pink and green, the landscape below taking on definition. Stroking the controls, he positioned the DOP-C for landing. Forty feet. Twenty. The console flared red. A sharp sound from the propulsion module was followed by a violent shudder. The purple ground roared up, the shock of impact slamming him back and then forward into the console and blackness.

***

Adriana’s head throbbed. She wondered if she had overindulged at the Five Warriors’ Festival. But no, that was not possible. The festival was months away. And she was on the Nightingale . In the Thirteenth System. Memory flooded past the pain, fear snapping open her eyes.

She was half hanging in her flight harness, the DOP-C on its side. Her hands reached for the harness fasteners and stopped. She was a scientist: observe and gather facts, analyze, hypothesize, and conclude.

The air in the vessel was clear. No smoke or chemical smells. Through the windows that were now the floor, she could see the springy purple vegetation that covered the plains in this section of the continent. Commonly known as Bright Star Deuce heather, the stuff was fibrous and dense enough to have cushioned their abrupt drop. The DOP-C’s shell appeared to be intact. Nothing intruded from the planet.

She flexed her arms and legs, setting off a series of aches, but everything worked. Raising her hands to her head, she found no blood or lumps. The throbbing was probably due to the percussion of landing. Bracing against the arm of her chair, she released the harness and dropped free. The cabin was narrow enough that she had to duck to clear the seat. Somewhere, there was a mechanism to retract it against the wall in the same way as the other three seats. She would worry about that later.

Bran was unconscious, lolling on the downside of his fixed chair, one hand scraping wall, now floor. Only the harness kept him in place. Blood trickled from his forehead and along the side of his face. Med kit. Somewhere there was a med kit. Her aching head refused to give up the information. Gripping the chair, she forced herself to focus.

Her medic mother had taught Adriana first aid almost as soon as she learned to read. Working her way to the cargo section, she blessed the designer who built storage into the walls and thanked the Five Warriors that the DOP-C had rolled onto the side containing the med kit. She could reach the storage compartments above her head, but it would be difficult to release the contents without something to stand on.

Pulling the med kit free, she found the injector, and managed to jab herself. In moments the fuzziness cleared, and she could think. She could also move without her muscles protesting.

Stroking the side of Bran’s face, she tried to rouse him. “Commander . . . Bran . . .”

When he did not respond, she activated the medic’s scanner. Pushing aside his shaggy, silver-streaked sandy hair, she examined the cut on his forehead. Beneath it, a knot had formed, but the bone scan showed no fractures. Gently lifted eyelids revealed irises reacting to light. Cleansed of blood, the shallow cut was already closing. Rifling the med kit, she located bone sealant and the injector. The slick green paste could be applied over superficial wounds and would not exacerbate any brain swelling. An injection of pain inhibitors, healing stimulants, and nutrients took no more than a moment.

The scanner showed no hidden wounds or bone fractures, but enough subdural hemorrhaging to promise a wealth of bruises. His neck and spine were intact. She needed to get him down. It was not more than a three-foot drop, but Bran was almost six feet, giving him four inches and at least a stone on her. She might slow his drop, but she could not lift him. Piling the two sets of camp bedding beneath his chair, she created six inches of cushion.

With cautious fingers she released his harness, bracing for his weight. His shoulders went first, over the edge of the chair. Grabbing his belt, she pulled against his momentum. It was graceless and would probably hurt her drug-numbed muscles, but she got him down with something approaching gentleness.

Crouched next to him, she scanned the tight buttocks and parts of his thighs the chair had blocked. More bruising but no other injuries. She slid a pillow under his head and turned it knot-side up. He had landed in the center of the bedding, his legs sprawled in a pattern that looked uncomfortable. After straightening them, she turned to examine the control console. Half the lights were out, including communications. There should be an emergency beacon in the compartment that held the med kit. She did not recall seeing it, but she had not been thinking about it.

Ten minutes of fruitless searching left her frustrated and battling fear. She needed to think for a moment. Opening a water vial, she settled on the area of bedding not holding Bran. Giving him the pain inhibitor may have been an error. It was probably keeping him unconscious.

There was no question, the Nightingale ’s first officer was far too attractive for her peace of mind. Under his wide brow, angular masculine features included a strong jaw and deep-set amber eyes. Coupled with a lean, fit body, and sharp intellect, his presence generated a visceral reaction of appreciation and desire.

Rolling the cool water vial between her palms, she attempted to erase the silky feel of his hair, the warm satin of his back. Moisture beaded on the small dark contraception mark at the base of her thumb. With Bran the only member of the crew who piqued her interest, it had been foolish to bother with the injection. But some part of her insisted the two of them might find their way to intimacy.

When she joined the Nightingale a year ago, she was eager to flee the humiliation of her failed consort alliance. For the warrior elite, wedlock alliances were commerce treaties blending wealth and genetics. A consort alliance was a common alternative to wedlock that allowed for a partner of lower rank and without warrior genetics. Offspring of consort alliances were ranked among the warrior elite and included in the warrior family. Unlike wedlock alliances, consort alliances could be dissolved.

Everyone at Matahorn Headquarters knew Evander had set aside his commoner consort to take a warrior spouse. Joining the Nightingale to explore the first new system in over two centuries was an ideal means to escape gossip without the appearance of fleeing.

She knew to be wary of rival Serengeti’s crew members, especially the free-trader Captain Raleigh. He was a last-minute replacement when brave Captain Jarrod was killed defending Bright Star. Distant kin to the Mercio family that governed Serengeti, Raleigh’s exemplary record in the pirate actions made him acceptable to Adriana’s cartel, the Matahorn Alliance.

She had been astounded to discover the Serengeti first officer was also a free-trader from the Eleventh System. She had been shocked by the way her senses reacted to his presence. Bran had served under Raleigh’s command, and according to the Matahorn dossier, lost his wife in one of the first pirate raids. She pitied his loss, and under horrific circumstances. But that did not change that he was pilot and navigator on free-trader freighters. A smuggler. By the standards of the First System, not more than a step removed from a pirate. She assumed some Serengeti intrigue placed him in the command crew.

An assumption that was eroded by experience. Bran proved to be far different from the nefarious free-traders depicted in entertainments, with their constant use of contractions and other vulgar behavior. During the months of training and the voyage to the Thirteenth System, she came to admire his competence and fairness. She even discovered a dry sense of humor beneath his reticence.

The Nightingale had barely begun exploration of the two planets when the despoiler fleet attacked. During the harrowing day and a half of cat-and-mouse before the armada arrived, Bran had demonstrated a warrior’s courage and fortitude. Of course, emotion could be swaying her. In the two years since the termination of her consort alliance, he was the only man to appeal to her.

She had been having variations of the same mental conversation for months without resolution. Before the crash, she had hoped a day with the man would resolve her conflicting emotions. Now, she was far more concerned about their survival.

***

Bran woke to a pounding head, and a mouth that tasted like mulch. He had experienced enough injuries to recognize the aftermath, but he had no recall of the event. Dragging open gummy eyes, he blinked against the light streaming from the DOP-C window above him.

Cyclops turds. The crash . “Adriana?”

His voice was a hoarse croak. The woman’s silence was disquieting. Turning his head toward her seat, he found it empty, the harness dangling. His hand hit an object, rattling it against the floor. A water vial. Lurching to a sitting position, he ripped off the seal and downed half of it in three swallows. Whatever else, the zoologist was uninjured. There was no other explanation for his position on the floor or the conveniently placed water.

There was also his relative lack of pain. He remembered hitting the console. Brushing hair back from his forehead, his fingers skimmed against bone sealant. It was dry and smooth. Judging from that, and the position of the sun, it neared midday. He had been out for at least half a period.

Long enough for Adriana to act as medic. It was obvious that she had some training, although clearly, she did not have enough training in exploration protocols. She should not have left the DOP-C. He would deal with her foolishness as soon as he alerted the Nightingale to their situation.

The communications section of the pilot’s console was dark. The emergency beacon would have to suffice. Finding his feet, he made his way to the storage compartments.

He expected a scientist to be neater. The food and water were in the area used by the bedding that was now in the cabin. The medic’s kit was in the water section. The weapons locker was open and a fireburst pistol was missing. Not so foolish, then. But what had she done with the emergency beacon?

Adriana’s voice came from above. “It is not there.”

Turning, he saw her face peering through the open door. “What say you?”

“You seek the emergency beacon. It is not there. I searched all the compartments I could reach.”

That explained the mess. “What are you doing out there?”

Her nose wrinkled and her lips curved in wry smile. “Biological imperative.”

She motioned to an area over his head. “Even if I could get the freshener open, and pull myself into it, there is gravity to consider.”

He snorted a laugh, somewhat amazed at her humor in the dire circumstances. Following her gesture, he noticed the other storage compartments. “You did not search these?”

“I am tall enough to open them, but not release the contents. And there was the risk the contents broke loose during the crash. I wished no damage to myself or our supplies.”

He reached up. “It would take more than a twenty-foot fall and a roll to break the clamps.”

Her face disappeared, and her feet appeared, dangling in the opening. She wriggled and her toes found the pilot’s chair. Using her improvised step, she dropped into the cabin. Her movements drew his attention to a cargo restraint that was tied to her former seat and ran up through the opening.

“What is the purpose of the line?”

“Climbing rope. To scale the outside. I might manage the drop without injury, but getting back up is another matter.”

The woman was resourceful. Far more than he would have expected of a pampered First System dweller.

Her dark eyes filled with concern. “I checked you for injuries. Nothing was broken. No internal injuries. Sprains or other ills?”

Bran slid the compartment door open. “I ache all over and my head hurts. You?”

“Aches are the worst of it.” When nothing fell out of the exposed compartment, she joined him. Looking up, she shook her head. “Nothing but my equipment and sample kits.”

He reached for the door of the other compartment but was not optimistic. “This section holds a repair kit and tools. I doubt the beacon could fit.”

Adriana stepped behind him, clearly unconvinced nothing would tumble out.

“Five Warriors’ Grace.”

Adriana rose on her toes to peer into the compartment. “The beacon?”

“No, but the repair kit and tools are secure.” He reached up to release the kit. “It will take a while, but I should be able to get communications functioning.”

“How long a while?”

“A few bells.” He lowered the kit. “I will not know for certain until I get the console open.”

“Can you grab my instruments and sample case?”

“For what purpose?” He turned to look at her. “You cannot go out there alone.”

“Of course I can.” She cocked her head. “We landed in the plains. This section may not have been mapped, but I doubt it contains anything more hazardous than what we have already discovered. None of the local predators are dangerous until sunset. That is several bells away.”

He shook his head. “We cannot know that.”

She patted the holstered pistol. “I can disintegrate the head of a plains’ rodent at ten paces. I will be fine.”

“Do I need to remind you that I outrank you?”

“Need I remind you that we are three months behind on our mission? We are here and not leaving soon. I have a duty to fulfill.”

Stubborn woman. As much as he disliked it, Adriana had a point. The Nightingale had barely begun exploration of the Thirteenth System’s two planets when the despoiler fleet attacked. The armada of Serengeti’s preeminence, Lucius Merico, arrived and defeated the despoilers, but it was a vicious battle. The Nightingale , along with the half of the armada that survived, limped back to the Fourth System and Fortuna for repairs. Repairs that should have been completed in two sevendays but had dragged on for six. Another two sevendays returning, and now the endless accidents and delays.

They were more than three months behind schedule. A schedule that promised investors the opportunity to bid on land tracts and mining licenses in the new year that was only four months away. Even more essential was the unspoken imperative to determine if Deuce held vistrite deposits.

The most precious substance in the Thirteen Systems, vistrite crystals were essential to all advanced technology. Only two of the Thirteen Systems held vistrite, the last deposit found more than eight hundred years ago. While the six separate vistrite crevasses ran for hundreds of miles and fell to depths of up to thirty miles, everyone knew the supply was not infinite. If society was to avoid another Anarchy, they needed to discover new sources. The entire crew was devastated when none was found on Bright Star Prime. With Deuce not yet half mapped, there was still hope. The faster they moved through the grids, the faster they would locate the substance if it was anywhere on the planet.

Hefting the repair kit, he set it by the console. “Let me inspect the terrain.”