Grayson Sontang in Space - Chapter 2 - Part 2

Chapter 2 - Part 2

Grayson slapped the toggle switch. "Fucking assholes think they're real Feds or something. Hal, power to maneuvering thrusters. I'm going to flip end to end." She took the controls and did a very slow summersault until her hydrogen exhausts were pointed in the direction they were moving at sixteen AU/D. As a measure to waste more time, she overshot and used up substantial time correcting, overcorrecting and recorrecting. When she figured she'd pushed her luck enough with that maneuver, she did a slow hydrogen burn. If she could play them out long enough, she might make it to the next vortex and out of their system before they could get too intrusive. At least she knew she had nothing for them to find, so as long as any nearby pirates didn't take an interest, this whole event could be nothing more than an annoyance. Although that yacht in the distance was worrisome.

Grayson watched the simulation on the main screen. The farther fighter appeared to have sped up even more, closing with its partner to hem her in. She swore under her breath.

"Breathless Dragon, increase your burn," the command came. Grayson edged it up, just enough to be detectable. "Ten gees," the impatient voice ordered.

"Yes, sir," she replied, then edged it up as slowly as she dared. She toggled the comm off again and said "Hal, I'll be right back. I'm going to dress for our company. Pipe any comm down to my bedroom, okay?"

"Understood."

Once in the bedroom, Grayson dug a silk sarong out of the back of her closet. It really wasn't her style, but it went well with her vaguely Asian appearance, and clung tightly in all the right places. Enough to possibly distract a male Confed officer, or even a liberal minded female one. She changed quickly and donned dainty silk slippers in place of her utilitarian space boots. She wasn't above using all the tools at her command when it came to dealing with Feds or Fed wannabes. When she got back to the bridge, the simulation showed the Siriun ships had almost caught up with her, and the gap was closing rapidly as she decelerated. They would soon have to make the same adjustment, or they would overshoot her. She dared hope that they would allow her to stop her engine and proceed at speed, toward the next wormhole, but that seemed unlikely. It probably hadn't escaped their notice that although her maneuvers appeared clumsy, she was still perfectly lined up for the vortex that offered escape from Siriun space.

"What's our speed, Hal?"

"Thirteen AU/D."

She sighed. "How long before we hit the ten that they want?"

"Three point six hours."

She considered. That would give her plenty of time before they boarded, if they waited until then. Or they could launch a shuttle as soon as they reached proximity and let the shuttle deal with the speed matching while the more massive fighters jockeyed into position. She glanced at the screen. If they chose that option, it could be just a matter of minutes. But if they took that option, the risk would be incalculable. If she locked the shuttle out, it was doubtful it could get back to its own ship before its fuel and oxygen ran out. Even as she watched, the fighters flipped and began deceleration at heavy gees. A shuttle emerged from the starboard side fighter, even as her comm unit lit up.

"Breathless Dragon. Open your shuttle bay."

Now Grayson understood. The shuttle was heavily armed. If she tried to lock it out, it would just rip its way in. And shred her beautiful ship. "Open the shuttle bay, Hal," she muttered, watching as the shuttle expertly matched speed, rolled and lined up on her bay all at the same time. She grudgingly admired the pilot. He probably was just as expert with the armaments. Grayson rose wearily and headed for the shuttle bay, repeating a mantra to herself. "Be polite, be polite, be polite." She suspected it wouldn't last five minutes.

Outside the shuttle portal, she watched the meter as the air cycled back into the bay and played with calculations in her head. If they only sent a couple of guys, she might be able to take them out. Then she could flip the ship and race the fighters for the wormhole. Except she couldn't hit it at over fourteen AU/D. And the fighters were already going faster than she was, probably precisely in order to cut her off if she tried something like that. Not to mention their laser weaponry moved at the speed of light, rendering her hot engine useless. When the portal opened and she saw six Confeds, it all became a moot point. She rolled her eyes. "Do I really look that dangerous?"

"Your reputation precedes you, if indeed you are Grayson Sontang," one of them said. Insignia on his uniform singled him out as Customs, which this far out in the sector meant he was a smuggler hunter.

"And if I weren't?"

"Then you would need to explain why you are piloting a ship registered to her," he replied.

She shrugged. "You know Harmony. They screw things up all the time."

"Quite true," he agreed, "Still, Fed FaceRec says you're her." He held up his comm pad as if to verify.

"Really? The Feds still let you play in their database?"

This time he shrugged. "We can look but not touch."

"So, you know who I am. Return the favor?"

"I am Agent Hendon with Customs. This is Pilot Evans," Grayson nodded with respect. She received the slightest of nods in return. "These are Warrant Officers Jones and Redding, and these are Alliance Officers Het and Sip." Grayson nodded at the two native Siriuns, trying not to wrinkle her nose. They were basically bipedal and roughly the same size and shape as humans, though far hairier and smellier. They said humans became used to the smell. She found that hard to believe. But then, the Siriuns probably thought the same thing about humans.

"So what do you want," she demanded.

"You're a trader. You know how this goes. We search your ship trying to find something incriminating. You try to keep us from finding anything incriminating."

Grayson gestured toward the front of the ship. "I'm just passing through. What do you care if I'm carrying or not? I just want to get to the next wormhole."

Hendon smiled. "It's boring this far out in the sector. We have to find some way to keep ourselves busy."

"Then fine. Search away. Just don't make me miss my exit from your precious sector."

"May we?" he asked, gesturing toward the portal that her small frame was blocking. Grayson glowered but backed out of their way, heading for her bridge. The biggest problem with spaceships was that they didn't have doors that you could slam. The pilot followed her to the bridge. Grayson tried to ignore him. Respect for his skills was one thing, but willingly putting up with him going through her logs was something else entirely.

When she reached the bridge, she went straight to the dumbwaiter. "Coffee, Hal, and keep it coming." The computer, bless its soulless AI, had a cup there for her already. Grayson picked it up, then turned and scowled at Evans, who had helped himself to the seat at her command console.

"Logs?" he asked.

"Hal, this is Pilot Evans. Please give him whatever he asks for." She moved to the control console, cradling her coffee cup and putting her feet up on the keyboard, scrambling the display on one of the smaller monitors. She wasn't concerned about the pilot. She'd spent months teaching Hal the difference between giving her what she asked for and giving a stranger - especially one in a uniform - what they asked for. No matter how cleverly he phrased the question, Hal would only give him what he was allowed to see.

Evans began ordering random flight, maintenance and merchandise logs. In between his instructions to the computer, he said, "It's not two thousand and one, you know."

"Not by a long shot," she agreed.

"So why the nostalgia?" he asked.

"You know. Space. It's not like you can step out the door and go for a walk in the woods, or hit the ice rink or the slopes or go for a swim or catch a fish. You watch movies. Eat synthetic popcorn. Tastes the same, by the way. You got the allusion, so don't tell me you don't understand."

He gave the computer a few more requests, then asked, "But why Hal? Doesn't it give you the creeps?"

Her back was to him and she was glad. She waved her coffee cup in the air, sloshing the brown liquid, which would give the bored bots something to do, cleaning it up. "I get Hal. We're tiny. Space is huge. Who wouldn't want to be part of the huge, rather than a tiny mite on the ass of the huge?"

There was silence behind her, and she smiled to herself. She was no philosopher, but she knew how to confound people's thinking. After allowing a while for that to sink in, she said, "You know you're wasted piloting shuttles."

He chuckled softly. "And you're wasted piloting a two-bit trader."

"You don't even know what two-bit means," she challenged.

"Two eights of a dollar," he replied.

She spun around in her chair. "Did you just look that up?"

He raised his hands in the air. "I liked pirate movies, too."

Just then, Hendon walked onto the bridge, staring at the two of them curiously. The pilot schooled his face and turned to his team leader. "I'm not seeing anything out of line here. The dry dock time, the handyman - er, handywoman - repairs. Even planetside time to paint a logo." He rolled his eyes at the waste of time and fuel. "I told you it was paint," he added, as if to settle a bet.

"Keep looking," Hendon ordered. He looked over at Grayson. "I thought you might like to be there when I searched your quarters."

She rolled her eyes. "Oh, yeah. I keep cases of Tantalean Brandy under my bed." But she stood up and fetched the next cup of coffee from the dumbwaiter before following Hendon around the starboard decking to her quarters. "How is it you have time and manpower to harass traders when you have a civil war going on?"

"It's not a civil war."

"What do you call it?"

He glanced at her askance. "I call it a misunderstanding. The government calls it an uprising. The media call it a revolt. Choose your descriptor."

"And are you loyal to the monarchy?" she challenged.

"The monarchy is a figurehead. That is undisputed."

Grayson smirked. "Except by the natives, the democratists, and the anarchists."

He stopped. "For a trader, you sound awfully political. I thought you people took all sides at all times as long as it made you money."

"You people? Really? Have you ever met two traders even remotely alike?"

"Fair enough." He gestured toward the portal of her quarters. "Shall we?"

She slapped the panel that opened the portal and strode into the room. It was, as usual, a mess with clothes thrown about and reading material scattered everywhere. She made no apologies, but went straight to the inner door to her office. When she opened it and turned back to Hendon, he had picked up one of her negligees and was fingering the silk of it. Grayson frowned as he laid it neatly over the back of a chair.

"Gets lonely in space, does it?" she asked crossing her arms.

The officer only smiled. "I was just wondering the same thing about you. Do you wear such beautiful gowns for company?"

"There's no one else on the ship, if that's what you mean. I assume you want to see my registration?"

He picked his way gingerly through the clutter. The office was small, with room for little more than a desk and chair. It was immaculate.

"You must not spend much time in here," he commented.

"Funny man." She pulled the paperwork from a drawer and handed it to him, then leaned against the desk as he scanned it. She studied the man. He was your basic Confed officer. Tall, short-haired, muscular but not flagrantly so. Grayson had a sneaking suspicion that they were turned out in a factory somewhere. They also were underpaid and therefore often bribable. She'd learned to tell who could be bought and who couldn't. This was one of the later.

"This seems to be in order," he said, laying the paperwork aside.

"Don't you want to check under my mattress or something?" she asked.

He gave her that infuriating smile again. "Already did."

"Then what the hell are we doing here?" she exclaimed.

"Talking," he replied, picking a book up from the floor. "Dune? Really?"

"Still trying to figure out why people thought a book about giant worms was so interesting. Look, you've searched my ship, gone through my logs, checked my registration. Are we done?"

"Mass detection," Hal announced.

"Where away?" Hendon demanded.

"Hal, hit the brakes. Twenty-five gees for ten minutes. Throw up a sim."

She hit the wall of her office as the conversion engine kicked up faster than the gravitron field could adjust. Hendon was somewhat more used to rapid changes in speed and managed to cushion his impact better. She slid to the floor, trying to catch the breath that had been knocked from her chest as she studied the sim on the bedroom monitor. "It's got to be a pirate. Hal would have said if it came out of the wormhole," she gasped. When the fields had adjusted so that she could raise her arm, she pointed at the monitor. "Look, your guys hit the brakes too. And they're peeling away. Sweet, leaving us to our fate." But just then, lasers shot out from both ships, meeting at the pirate's exhaust thruster.

"Shit," Grayson swore, struggling to her feet and ignoring the hand that Hendon offered. "Hal, give me thirty gees for thirty seconds and a two minute blow on the front one-eighty anterior thrusters. That debris field is going to kick down and forward. Get above it." She kept her back to the wall this time as the ship braked even harder.

"May I suggest three minutes on one-fifty-five arc for greater angle," the computer suggested.

"Fine. Adjust as necessary. There's going to be some big pieces. Deploy the blaster and vaporize any threats." She glanced at Hendon. "Except the Confeds," she amended reluctantly. When the fields had completely adjusted after the deceleration and for the thrust, she headed for the bridge at a run. Hendon was on her heels.

The pilot had moved to the control console, but was only staring at the simulation on the screen. The computer had deactivated any controls he might have tried, taking orders only from Grayson. Grayson slid into the command console, calling up a damage report on her center screen. Hendon braced himself against the console next to her, knowing more thrust changes were coming.

"Some of that ship is still intact," he commented.

"Yeah," the pilot agreed. "It was an old junkyard freighter. Either it's air locks were sealed or it was running with limited pressurization. No way it vented a ship full of air. We might get lucky and have someone to question for a change."

"Hal, plot a course to swing over that debris field and get back in line with the wormhole," Grayson instructed.

"Don't bother," Hendon told her as he clutched at the console. The maneuvering thrusters had suddenly shut off.

"YOUR pirates are not MY problem," she said with a scowl still checking the monitors in front of her.

"The pirates aren't," he agreed. Grayson felt herself go cold. What the hell did that mean? "Please ask your computer to open a comm link to the captain of the 89564."

"Why don't you hop in your shuttle and open your own comm link," she demanded. "Surely you've searched every inch of my ship by now."

"Because if you are here for the conversation, I won't have to explain it to you all over again."

"I beg your pardon?"

"You're being commissioned," he said, watching her warily.

"I don't take commissions," she snapped.

"I'm not asking. Tell your computer to maintain a twenty gee burn. Since we now know your ship is capable of sustaining twenty gee," he added with a sarcastic sneer. "And open a comm link."

"And if I don't?"

"Then my team will have to take possession. Permanently."

"You can't."

"Yes, actually, we can. War powers were granted six months ago. You're in Siriun space, under our jurisdiction."

"Exactly who are the pirates here?"

He didn't bother to answer. "Want to reconsider taking that commission?"

Grayson moaned. "What's the commission?"

He just gestured toward the comm panel. She ignored it. "Hal, open the comm," she ordered, adding a growl for good measure.

"Breathless Dragon calling 89564. Hendon speaking."

"Captain Harris. Everyone okay over there?"

"Yes, Captain. I believe we've found an excellent transport. The ship is on biosphere systems, so we'll need oxygen, water, food..."

"Wait, what the hell am I transporting?" Grayson demanded. "This ship is self-sustaining."

Hendon actually took a step back from Grayson. "People," he answered. Then took another step back when he saw the look on her face.

"Oh, hell no!" she yelled, jumping up from her chair. "I don't do people."

"It's just to Sirius Prime," he said, trying to placate her.

"Just! That's what, two jumps!"

"Three," Hal supplied. "To avoid disputed, uncontrolled space."

"I'm a cargo ship. I'm not equipped for people. I don't have the recycling systems, the food systems, any of it. And I don't have defenses against pirates."

"We have temp systems for all of that. And your piloting skills are all the defense you need. All you have to do is drive, and Pilot Evans can help you with that part, even."

"I don't carry people and I don't carry Feds," she proclaimed, stalking toward him. This time, he stood his ground.

"Confederated Officers, technically," he said, speaking down to her now, as her head didn't even come to his chin. She glared up at him. "I'm sure you've seen that yacht over there," he said quietly. "It was attacked by pirates. It's been adrift for days. We arrived in time to prevent the people from being taken for ransom, but the ship is a worthless hulk now. They have no way home. Ten of them are just kids."

"Don't try to play on my pity. I have none. Take them yourselves."

"We're needed out here. Obviously," he added with a vague gesture.

"And what if I decide to ransom them?" she threatened, hands on her hips.

"You don't need to. You will be very well paid for your time and effort. Some of the passengers are part of the royal family."

Grayson cocked her eyebrow. She knew damn well that the royal family was huge. They probably wouldn't miss a few members here and there. Still, she doubted Hendon would appreciate her comments as to that fact. "How well?"

Hendon smiled, knowing he'd snared her. "You can haggle with the family's agent shortly. In the meantime, you need to decelerate and rendezvous with the yacht. Or tell your computer to allow Evans to take control."

"Like hell anyone drives this baby but me. Just get your asses off my ship and let those rich-ass suck-ups know they're going to be bedding down in a cargo hold for a few nights."

"The Captain has assigned Evans as back-up pilot. He will undoubtedly assign a couple of other officers, too. I'm sure they will be no more fond of you than you are of them."

"No, see, that's not how it works. I'll take your cargo 'cause you're not giving me any choice. But I run this ship alone."

"Then think of them as part of the 'cargo,'" he replied, obviously growing irritated with the conversation.

Grayson glowered at him for a moment, then spoke, still staring at Hendon, irritated that he didn't show even a slight waver of intimidation. "Hal, set rendezvous with the yacht. Maintain two hundred meter buffer on starboard." With that, she stalked around Hendon, easily maintaining her balance as Hal adjusted thrust and grav fields to compensate. As she stomped through the portal, she caught a glimpse of Hendon shaking his head in disgust and Evans shrugging helplessly.

She hurried to her quarters and closed the portal behind her. "Hal, relay all comm."

Hendon was texting on what he thought was a secure, encrypted line to his ship. He obviously didn't know Hal well enough. "Captain, I'm not the person for the job. We have a mutual antagonism that will blow the op to the next galaxy."

"I've decided. You're the most expendable."

"Thanks," Hendon replied sarcastically. "Look, just contact Customs and talk to my Commander."

"Already have. They're convinced this trader is a key smuggler. They figure we can recoup some favor with the Feds if we can show proof."

"Don't you think I would have used that leverage if I'd been able to prove anything?"

"They say to send Bogart, too," the Captain added.

"Oh, my fucking nebula!" Hendon exclaimed textually. "He takes one look at her, his tongue will be hanging out tracking slime everywhere. She'll have him for lunch. Send Shelly."

"Word is Sontang prefers men."

"What the hell does that have to do with the price of coffee?"

"Word also is that she's a nympho."

"Gimme a break, Captain. She's all about profit. Like any trader. She does whoever can increase her profit, and trust me, that doesn't include any Fed OR Confed officer."

"It does if she wants them to look the other way. But that's neither here nor there. She just needs to get these people to Sirius Prime so we can get the king off our back. You keep her in line, Bogart keeps her distracted. Simple. Over."

Grayson clearly heard Hendon over the ship's comm system. "Fuck!"

"Fuck you too, sweetie," she muttered.

A few minutes later, he was letting himself into her quarters. Grayson glowered at him. "Have you ever heard of privacy?"

"Not where I work. Which is apparently on this ship for the next few days. The shuttle needs to head back. Your computer won't open the bay without your say-so."

"Fine, as long as you're all on it."

"Evans and I are staying. So are Het and Sip."

"The smelly twins?"

"You get used to it. The Alliance members like to keep their input relevant."

"And that's code for?"

"Exactly what it says, at my pay grade. I'm paid to nod and say yessir."

"Shit," Grayson said, but only half-heartedly. She tended to work the fringes of human-occupied space, so zenophobia was not only un-useful, it was self-defeating. Zeno's were just as interested in contraband as humans. "Just so you know, this little jaunt is going to be so fast, you'll be wondering what system you left your teeth in."

"Your computer tells me you haven't slept in two days."

"What? Hal!" The computer was silent. "Turncoat."

"He also told me you have a six hour required rest prior to flight. I would suggest you use the time now, while we are rendezvousing and loading, then you can take the controls to the next jump hole."

"You think I'm going to let you load a bunch of rich fucks into my cargo bay along with oxy and god knows what else without me being there to supervise?"

"Yes. Because I think you want to be rid of us as soon as possible, so I think this is a trade-off you will be willing to make."

"Asshole," she exclaimed, throwing the nearest object at him. Unfortunately, it was another silk negligee. He peeled it slowly off his face, inhaling deeply - and dramatically - as he did so. He tossed it back at her.

"Have a nice rest period," he recommended.

---

Despite herself, Grayson did sleep; and woke to all kinds of clanging and the reverberations of shuttle bay doors opening and closing. She laid on her bed and listened, trying to make out what was going on. She knew if she asked the computer, it would count the time against her sleep period. Why the hell, in a fit of safety-related paroxysms, had she programed those restrictions? Not that it mattered. They were there now, hard-wired, and she had to live with them.

The moment her six hours were up, Grayson walked onto the bridge and scowled at Evans. He had ensconced himself in her command console again. "Out!" she yelled and he hastily moved down to the control console. "Hal, coffee!" The dumbwaiter slid open, revealing a steaming cup. The computer had seen her coming. "If you think that's going to make up for ratting me out, you've got another think coming, you silicon junkie." She took the cup and a big gulp. When she turned around, Evans was looking from the computer banks to her with a puzzled frown. She glared at him and he quickly became fascinated with one of the monitor readouts.

Grayson slid into the command chair and stared at the monitors gloomily. Apparently, Evans had been going through her logs again, even more carefully. Looking for evidence to use against her, no doubt. She looked at the main screen, but it was just showing a star field. Near the center was an extremely bright star, probably Sirius A. Grayson ignored Evans' presence and began rapidly calling up status reports and camera views on the monitors in front of her, while ordering Hal to display a sim of near space on the main screen. She studied the sim, showing her ship and the yacht. One of the Confed fighters was drifting nearby. The yacht was perhaps twice her volume, though it was long and angular. A shuttle - her freight shuttle, she noticed with a scowl - was in the process of returning to her ship. From camera shots, it appeared that the Confed shuttle had just docked. The shuttle bay was still open, waiting for the freight shuttle before cycling air. Grayson switched to cameras in her holds and was blessed with a view of her new cargo. People were milling about, or sitting on the floor or on cots. She had an intense urge to shut off the gravitron field and perform some acrobatic maneuvers. "Shaken, not stirred," she proclaimed, causing Evans to jump at the sudden break in the silence.

"What?" he said, turning in confusion.

"James Bond. Never mind. Just how many people have they drug over here?"

"Um, six crew and thirty-five passengers, I think. They lost some crew members in the attack."

"Gods, they're going to expect to be waited on hand and foot."

"Or," he pointed out, "They may be so grateful for the rescue, they'll wait on you hand and foot."

"You've never met the Siriun Royals, have you?"

"And you have?" he scoffed.

"Actually, yes. Well, one of them. How soon can we get out of here? You know, where there's one pirate, there's always others."

"They're bringing over the last of the temp systems now. I believe Hendon was assuming you'd want to check the installations yourself before leaving the transit jump." Grayson eyed the monitor showing the cargo holds.

"Do they have at least one tech down there?"

"Het and Sip are good at that stuff. And there's a tech from the yacht that's kept things running this long."

"Then I think I'll trust Hal to tell me if something needs my personal attention."

Evans grinned at her over his shoulder. "Not the social type?"

She scowled, but only half-heartedly. "Would I be flying around on a trader if I were?"

"I hear ya. This thing moves like a dream. How'd you get so much push out of that old engine?"

"Some tweaks, some special valves, some duct tape and wire." He laughed. Grayson eyed a readout. "Hal, oxy's too high on level one and too low on level two. We're going to have to lock all the doors open or it will never balance. And lockdown all the other doors. Don't need a bunch of brats pulling wires loose or something."

"Agreed. Initiating."

"If those people would stay put and quit wandering in and out it wouldn't be a problem," she complained.

"They've been confined to a small space on the yacht. They need to stretch their legs. They'll settle in soon," Evans said. "How come you've got meat in a temp-control hold instead of freezer crates?"

Grayson's scowl deepened, though his back was turned again. "I got screwed. Bought a lot of freezer crates - supposed to be freshly charged - and it turned out some of them were half dead. What's it to you?" She could tell he was looking at her logs, still, but his response was off-hand.

"They wanted to use that hold for some perishables but the temperature was too low. With your kitchen designed to favor fresh cut vegies, there wasn't much storage room there either."

"Not my problem if they have to settle for freeze-dried."

"Just don't be surprised if they offer to take some of the meat off your hands. They're bringing some portable units over, too, so it'll get them by until they get home."

"What were they doing running around out here in pirate heaven anyway?"

"Same thing as you, I'd guess. Hoping to take a shortcut and get lucky."

"Ha, ha'" she snarled. "You might take notice of the fact that they got hit and I didn't. I don't trust to luck. I trust my skill."

There was a ding and Hal announced that Hendon was outside the bridge portal. "Can we just leave him locked out there?" Grayson asked.

Evans shook his head and rose to unlock the portal. "For the next few days, he's my boss. You might be able to get away with that, but I have to play nice."

Hendon strode onto the bridge looking very annoyed. "Please tell your computer to grant my men passage throughout the ship."

"Your men, maybe. Not your cargo."

"Fine," he snapped.

"Hal. Can you do FaceRec on the Confeds?"

"Yes."

"And the Siriuns," Hendon added.

"You can't even see their faces. What about SmellRec?"

"What about we all agree to be civil with each other for the duration," he growled.

"I'm not sure I've been civil with anybody that long," she muttered. She could hear Evans trying to stifle a chuckle. "Hal, unlock for the Confeds and Alliance Officers on approach."

"Thank you," Hendon said tersely.

"You're welcome. Can we go now?"

"You don't want to meet your 'cargo?'"

"I make a point of not getting personal with cargo. I just haul it from one point to another."

"Then perhaps you'd like to open a comm line to 89564," he drawled.

"You're awfully testy today. What's your problem?" she asked, giving him a sugary smile.

"You," he replied. "You're going to make this trip hell for me, aren't you?"

"You imposed on me, remember? I was just minding my own business, trying to make a buck."

"Comm line," he prompted.

"Hal, let Hendon talk to his daddy."

"Breathless Dragon calling 89564. Hendon speaking."

"Captain Harris."

"We're loaded and ready to head out," Hendon reported.

"All right. Nav is sending you your route."

"Excuse me?" Grayson spluttered. "I don't take routing from anybody. I'm the goddamn pilot."

"I'm sure they're sending the same route you would have selected," Hendon pointed out, trying not to let his irritation show in his voice while his captain was on the comm. His face was another matter entirely.

Grayson narrowed her eyes and turned back toward the main screen. "Hal, show the route they sent." It popped up on the screen. She studied it for half a minute and exclaimed, "There! See it?"

"See what?" Hendon said with exasperation.

"That second jump. It's next to a red giant."

"So? The wormhole is stable."

"You can't shoot through there at speed with that kind of mass pulling on you. The grav field can't compensate for the star on top of thrust at more than ten gee. It would add a whole day to the trip. Maybe more if you've got a lot of whiners in the holds. They don't exactly have gee-rated seats down there. Hal, show him a real route."

The computer superimposed a different route that appeared to cover much more distance. Hendon shook his head. "Take this wormhole? That would take us out of Siriun Space."

"Yes, where the galaxy is a whole lot safer. Then it's two and a half days to the next jump which puts us just outside your precious sector, three days into a more stable part of the sector for a hole right to Sirius."

"Captain, we're sending a proposed alternate route," Hendon said with a sigh.

Grayson squirmed in her seat in her version of a victory dance. Evans was studiously avoiding looking at either of them. "You'd have to pull, like, thirty gees for eight hours to make that third lap in three days," he said thoughtfully, squinting at the screen.

"Two four hour thrusts with a half hour break in between," Grayson said. "No pirate's going to catch us at that acceleration. Are you worried about the cargo? I've got a few gee chairs we can put the weaker ones in."

"I'm worried about your engine. Especially if they're jury-rigged. You know, the duct tape might give out."

"See, the thing is, it was jury-rigged by me, so I know it can handle it. I have no desire to be vaporized in space."

"Are you catching all this, Captain?" Hendon asked.

"Nav is running the figures now," he replied. "Thing is, it is a safer route. The king has been pretty insistent about that."

"Since when does he make decisions about ship navigation," Grayson demanded, even though the captain was arguing for her route choice.

"Since his son is involved," Hendon replied.

"His what, what?" Grayson demanded.

"His son is down in your hold," Hendon said calmly. He looked over at her. "Are you okay? You look a bit green."

"My fee just tripled," she snapped. "Hal, more coffee!"

She stalked to the dumbwaiter and grabbed the fresh cup even as the captain announced her alternative route was approved. She wanted to smirk at Hendon, but her stomach was tied in a knot and she had some flying to do. There would have to be time later for smirking. Like when they were no longer within Siriun jurisdiction. "Hal, plot for wormhole. Warm up engine." She glanced at Hendon. "You'd better tell the cargo to settle in. I'm taking it back up to fourteen AU/D."

---

Grayson was drowsing in the command chair with her feet up on the console when Hendon came back on the bridge. They had made it through the first wormhole and were safely away from the pirate- and Confed-infested Siriun sector. "Shouldn't you be accelerating?" he asked.

"Not till I hear from the king's agent. And my money is put in a third-party account. And my contract is in Fed hands," she said with her eyes still closed.

"That's rich. A smuggler depending on the Feds for contract enforcement?"

"Alleged smuggler."

"And if your demands aren't met?"

"Then I'm dumping your asses on the nearest planet and getting on with my business."

"A little overconfident, aren't we?"

Grayson opened her eyes and looked over at him. She scanned him up and down, then said, "Nah." In front of her, Evans was making the smothered snicker sound again.

"Supralight message coming in," Hal announced.

Grayson pulled her feet down and tapped a key, reading the offer from the king's agent. Hendon moved behind her chair to read over her shoulder. She was already answering the message with one of her own. It simply said, "Triple it." Less than a minute later, the response came, agreeing to her counter offer and with a contract attached, even specifying one of the typical third party fiduciary agents and agreeing to paying their fee. Grayson stared at the message, realizing she could have demanded even more. This time, it was Hendon snickering, and he wasn't trying to hide it. She swore under her breath as she attached her electronic signature and sent the contract off to the agent and to the Fed's Contract Enforcement Division. By the time she'd done that, and logged into the Fiduciary to check the account, the money had already been transferred.

Grayson sighed and headed for the next wormhole. It was rated for twenty AU/D as neither end was near a star system. She set thrust at a reasonably comfortable gee level that the grav field could easily compensate for, then went to her quarters to eat, hoping to avoid having to spar with Hendon even more. She was beginning to think she might have to deck him just on general principals, but it really seemed like a good idea to put that off for the time being.

An hour later, she was laying on her bed, reading a book, when her portal opened. Grayson scowled. She was going to have to remember to throw the manual locks if she wanted any privacy at all. Hendon rounded the corner with another officer following on his heels. This one was Customs also, slightly shorter and leaner, definitely younger, than Hendon. "Officer Bogart, I would like you to meet our hostess, Grayson Sontang," Hendon said.

"It is indeed a pleasure to meet you, Trader Sontang. I only wish that it was under more pleasant circumstances than our current intrusion into your life."

Grayson sat up. This was the Bogart that was supposed to drool all over her? Even Hendon seemed to be looking at him with a perplexed expression. "Pleased to meet you, Humphrey," she said.

He looked at her with a puzzled frown. "Actually, it's Hank. Hank Bogart."

"You mean you've never... Ah, nothing. I trust the cargo is stowed," she commented, looking at Hendon.

"As comfortably as can be."

"And I don't suppose the government is willing to meet us halfway with more comfortable accommodations?"

"If you were concerned about pirates, would you want to risk the extended period of vulnerability necessary to slow down, match velocities, transfer 'cargo,' then get back up to speed?" Hendon lectured as if she were a school girl.

"You mean like we did at the previous jump?"

"You were being guarded by Confederated Fighters," he reminded her.

Grayson looked at Bogart. "How do you put up with his attitude?"

Bogart shrugged. "He's usually right."

"Usually?" Hendon asked with a wry smile.

Bogart nodded. "I did hear about a bet concerning a certain logo."

Hendon rolled his eyes. "Who takes a ship planetside to paint a picture that can hardly be seen in space?"

"Someone who is also upgrading their gravitron system and hates freefall," Grayson supplied. "Do you jokers mind if I get back to my reading?"

Bogart smiled warmly at her and turned on his heel, his boots clanging on the bridgework as he left. Hendon just put his hands on his hips and looked at her. "What?" she finally exclaimed in exasperation.

"How did you get this ship?"

Her eyes narrowed. "I'm sure you've been through all of my records," she snapped.

"Poker, then?"

"Poker," she stated flatly.

"Good, because we have a game scheduled for tomorrow. Let's see just how good you really are."

She gave him another one of those long, slow, up and down scans. "Strip poker?"

"If you wear that," he said, gesturing toward her one-piece sarong.

She stood up and straightened to her full height. "One piece is all I need. How 'bout you?"

He leered, copying her scan, but then crossed his arms. "This one is for money. Bring your game, there's some wealthy skags sitting in." Grayson frowned, caught totally off-guard by his use of a spacer term for flatlanders. Hendon grinned, pleased with himself for taking her by surprise. "I've spent time undercover on freighters. It looks like you've been there, too. Didn't see that in your records."

"Perhaps it would be useful to look for the gaps in my records, as well as the data," she snapped, recovering from her surprise.

"What name did you use?" he asked.

Grayson imitated his crossed arms and stared back at him. Everyone knew at least half of the spacers out there didn't use their real names. Hendon just grinned again. He was chalking this encounter up as a win, which pissed her off even more. Perhaps wisely, he nodded and left. She slapped the manual lock and stared at her book, having forgotten where she was in it. She turned to take a shower instead, then swore when the water ran out well before it should have. Obviously the Confeds, at least, were using her ship's systems, rather than whatever they had scrapped from the yacht. She stalked into the main room of her quarters and kicked at a pillow laying on the floor.

"Hal, kick those damn bots into high gear. The only thing worse than a cold shower is no shower."

"The bots are fully capable of high gear," Hal explained patiently. "The plants, on the other hand, have an extremely limited speed range. I am anticipating a fresh food shortage, although the yacht has provided sufficient emergency rations."

"Blech. I'm going to do something no good trader ever does. I'm going to raid my meat cargo. I'll stock it in the kitchen. Don't you dare tell the Confeds it's there. And I want a steak for dinner tomorrow. Medium rare."

"Understood."

Grayson found another wrap-around sarong, finger combing her hair as the headed for the first level small cargo hold. She slipped into the hold, rubbing her arms for warmth, only to find that the Confeds had loaded a bunch of frozen foods on top of her meat crates. She was swearing hotly enough to melt the ice on the packages as she tossed them out of her way when Bogart slipped into the hold behind her. "Here, let me help you. You trying to get to these crates?"

Grayson nodded, shivering now between the cold and her wet hair. She stood back as he wiggled a crate free and snapped the lid. She helped herself to several of the individually wrapped steaks and nodded at him to replace the lid. He managed to get it wiggled back far enough to allow the door to close. Grayson nodded gratefully, her teeth chattering. He took the icy steaks from her and said, "Lead the way." She did so, taking him back up to the second level and around to the kitchen, stowing the steaks and wondering if this was a different Bogart than the one Hendon had been texting about not that long ago. Maybe he had just been ordered to be on his best behavior. Either way, things weren't matching up in her mind and that always irritated her. However, she also knew the best way to get at someone's real character.

"So are you going to be playing poker tomorrow night?" She asked him.

"Probably not for long," he replied ruefully. "I'm not that good or that rich."

"What if you had help?"

"I'm sorry. I don't understand."

"If, say, someone were to clue you in as to people's tells, for example. How to read what cards they have. And if someone was to point out what your own tells were, and how to use them to your advantage."

"Tells? You mean like if someone scratches their nose when they have a good hand?"

She laughed. "Nothing so obvious, I'm sure. But I can tell you right now, without a single card being dealt, that your boss never grins except very intentionally. If he's grinning, it's because he wants you to think a certain way."

"What else?"

"Why don't you come back to my quarters. We'll use the shipboard cameras and you can point out who else is going to be in the game. I can probably give you a good idea just by watching them for a bit."

"Uhm, would that be ethical?"

"There are three parts to poker," Grayson lectured, leading him toward her rooms. "The first one is luck. You can't control that. The next one is odds. That's all math. How many people are playing, what cards have been shown, or more to the point, what cards aren't showing and therefore stand a good chance of being in someone's hand. If you didn't learn that in school, you're out of luck, because I'm not going to teach you. It bores me to tears, but it's a must-have skill if you want to be good at poker. The third thing is knowing people." She tapped her nose. "That's what I can teach you. For example, how they feel about risk. Now, you and I, and presumably Hendon, don't have a lot of money in the bank. We are what you might call risk adverse. You gave that away just by saying you don't expect to be in the game long. Anybody that was on that yacht probably has more money than they know what to do with. They'll take way bigger risks, so don't assume that just because they bet big they have a good hand."

Grayson led him into her quarters, then tapped the manual lock as he passed by her. "So do you know who's going to be in the game?"

"Yeah, Evans and Sip..."

"Which one is Sip? The hairy one?"

He looked at her quizzically. "The male," he finally replied.

Grayson scoffed. "That's not real helpful. What about the yachters?"

"There's two men, they should be in the lower hold."

"Okay, Hal show us the camera in the lower hold."

The image flashed on the screen and Bogart studied it. "Him," he said, reaching up to touch the screen. "I don't see the other guy here."

"Well, let's watch this guy for a while. She tossed some items off her bed and sat, leaning back against the headboard. Bogart stood shifting from foot to foot on the far side of the bed until Grayson finally said, "I don't bite, you know."

He reluctantly sat, somewhat nervously. She began to wonder if Hendon had told him something to scare him off from her. She studied him surreptitiously as they watched the man on the screen interacting with others in the hold. "See how he scratches his head a lot. That's undoubtedly a tell."

"Or he has dandruff," Bogart said skeptically.

Grayson shook her head. "It's a habit, whatever the cause. Habits are influenced by nerves, excitement, things like that. If you watch him for a while as he's playing, you'll figure out that he does it more often or harder or faster when he has certain hands. Something else to be aware of is if someone has a so-so hand, they will be concentrating, trying to remember what cards have been played, trying to read the other players. They are actually less likely to engage in tells, real or faked, when they have a so-so hand. That's a good time to bet big and try to scare them out if yours is so-so, too, or raise but not too much if you want to keep them in because you have a good hand. He also rubs his leg, there, see?"

"He hurt his leg when they were attacked."

"Then I would guess he does it less often when he's got a good hand. Nothing like the prospect of a big win to help you forget pain. The secret is to play low key in the beginning and watch what the others do, match it up with what they had in their hands. That will also help you recognize when they are trying to fake a tell. Another thing to watch for are people who try to have no tells. They kind of sit there like a robot, look at their cards once then not again, keep their hands in the same position, etc. If you watch them closely, you can often see them working harder at it when they have a good hand or are bluffing. Watch for tiny indications of tension, especially around the eyes. Another secret is to watch people when it's not their turn to bet. When they are betting is when they are exerting the most control."

"So what do you think is my tell?" he asked.

"Your hands. They're never still. I'm guessing you spend a lot of time rearranging your cards. When you're nervous you probably put a hand in your lap to hide your nerves. And they are stillest when you're thinking hard about something, like maybe one of those so-so hands?"

He sat on his hands. "So I should keep them still?"

"No. Too hard. You're better off keeping them moving. Watch what you do most of the time and do it the rest of the time. Just try not to think too hard about it. It needs to look as natural as when you are doing it without thinking. Same thing with looking at your cards. I'd be willing to bet you look at your cards frequently; except when you have a good hand and you're afraid you're going to give something away. So keep looking at your cards even when they are good, and keep your hands moving. Now, tell me why you're so nervous."

"I haven't played poker with really good players before, just college and training academy, you know."

"I mean why you're so nervous right here, right now." He looked back to the computer monitor, concentrating on the screen. Grayson sighed. "They used to have a saying. 'Never let them see you sweat.' What did Hendon tell you about me?" The young officer turned bright red. "It must have been one hell of a story, given what I'm sure you've been taught about Xenos," she said. "So, spill. If it makes you feel any better, it is probably true, at least for some times and some places." She wouldn't have thought it possible, but he turned even brighter red. "What the hell did he tell you?"

"That you like to... Uhm, that you're into..."

"Would you just spit it out, for crying out loud!"

"He said you like to do CBT. I had to look it up."

"Cock and ball torture? That's what has you so freaked out?" She laughed so hard she rolled off the bed. "Of all the wacko perversions the Xenos have taught us, you are freaking about CBT?"

"I should go," he said, standing shakily.

Grayson gasped for breath, waving at him. "No, no, no. Sit down. Wait! Let me tie you up. Kidding!" she exclaimed when he turned white. "Have I done CBT? Yes. Only when I was asked to. Doesn't do anything for me. Can't figure out for the life of me what it does for a guy, but I'm sure guys say that about me and some of the things that I like." She climbed back up on the bed and patted the mattress beside her. "Humphrey, there is more than enough variety to sexual activity for both - or all - parties to find enjoyment. It's simply a matter of being honest with each other," she cocked her head, "And maybe compromising a bit. I am not going to torture you. Please sit back down."

He sat as if he was undergoing a particularly vicious hemorrhoid attack. Grayson smiled brightly at him. "If you go into that poker game remembering nothing of what I've told you except this, you'll do fine. Your boss, Hendon, is possibly the best bluffer on all the worlds."

He smiled too, albeit nervously. "Why do you call me Humphrey?"

"Old movie actor. I'd be happy to put on one of his movies, if you'd like."

"First, will you let me know what your tells are?"

She smiled at him. "I have sixty-three," then she nodded side to side. "Give or take."

"But how can..." He was obviously answering his own question.

She tapped her nose. "Not only does it drive people crazy trying to figure out what each tell means, it irritates them and makes them careless."

He suddenly gestured at the monitor. "That's the other guy, just walking in now." Grayson looked then frowned. "Any ideas what his tell might be?" Bogart asked.

"Yeah. He stares at his cards too long when they're not good, thinking about whether to bluff or not. The less time he looks at them, the better the hand."

"You can tell that just by watching him walk into the room?"

"Let's put that movie on, shall we? Hal, play Casablanca."

By the time they got to the "Play it, Sam" line, they were undressed and enjoying some relatively sedate sex. Grayson was letting him take the lead. He had finally gotten over his initial intimidation, about the time that Grayson unbelted her sarong and let it slowly unwrap. When she lay back submissively and let him enjoy the view, he turned into the Bogart she had been led to expect from Hendon's text message. Being on top and - at least, apparently - in control gave him all the confidence he needed to forget about abused genitals. It wasn't the hot and heavy fucking that Grayson preferred. He hadn't gained that much confidence, but it was pleasurable, and with the stamina of youth, he was soon ready for a second round.

He was laying on his back, his cock twitching deliciously, when Grayson shyly suggested that she liked it when a guy entered her from behind. His eyes lit up. When she added that she didn't mind if he wanted to pull her hair, just a bit, she thought he was going to hyperventilate. Forget poker tells, she was the consummate expert at sex tells. She ran her fingers up and down his chest as his cock strained for the ceiling. "Have you ever done anal on a woman?" she asked. It was a good thing he was laying down or he might have passed out. "Tell me the truth," Grayson warned. "I don't mind giving a newbie instructions, but I won't tolerate some neophyte pretending to know what he's doing."

"No," he squeaked, his voice cracking.

"Do you want to learn?" she asked seductively. "Because, you follow my lesson plan, women will beg you to fuck their ass."

"Please," he whispered. "Teach me."

"With pleasure," she purred.

She leaned up next to him, tracing slow circles around his nipples. "First rule: Always, always use lubricant. Second rule: Spit is not lubricant. Third rule: Water is not lubricant. Fourth rule: Anal foreplay is essential." She leaned close to his ear. "See, people, well, women, who haven't tried it, think it's icky. The best way to convince a woman that it isn't icky is to show her that you don't think it's icky." He nodded sagely. "That means you use your tongue. Down there."

"Oh. Oh!" He looked at her to make sure she was serious.

She smiled reassuringly. "Not only will it convince her that it's not icky, she'll find out just how incredibly erotic and hot stimulation in that vicinity can be. From there, you go to one finger. Lubricated," she added sternly. "Nothing will shoot you down faster than causing pain. Fifth rule: Patience. If it's her first time, maybe you eat her out with a finger in her ass. She comes, and trust me on this, harder than ever. So then, you finish up with plain vanilla sex, and the whole time, she's wondering just how good it would feel if your cock was in her ass instead. You've planted the seed. Nurture it. Sixth rule: Whatever you do, talk to her. Let her take as long as she needs to get comfortable with it. Suggest next steps before you hop into bed, not after. If she's really uptight, but willing to try, let her pick out some toys to play with. Seventh rule: Faster is not better. Anal sex wants to be savored, felt every step of the way."

"How long did it take you to get used to the idea," he asked in all innocence.

Grayson grimaced and sighed. "Honey, I was a spacer; a small, female spacer in a man's world. I'm telling you what I wished would have happened. Because I am well acquainted with all the wrong things that can happen."

"Oh, I'm so sorry," he said with chagrin, his erection beginning to soften.

She rolled on top of him. "Humphrey, if you believe anything that Hendon tells you about me, believe this. Anyone who crosses me; sexually, business-wise, or even just plain irritates me, ends up paying much more than they cost me. My revenge interest rates are very high." She squirmed invitingly against his erection until it began to stiffen again. "Now how about you practice some of the things I just taught you?"

"Lubricant?" he asked.

Grayson grinned. "Good boy!" She rolled away and pulled a tube out of her bedside table.

He began at her clit and worked his way down, discovering it wasn't nearly as disgusting as he had imagined, and it didn't hurt that Grayson squirmed in delight as he explored this new-found erogenous stimulation. When she turned and gave back the favor, he began to realize she hadn't been exaggerating the incredibly pleasurable sensation. She followed that with digital stimulation and he was writhing in appreciation, until he had to pull away to keep from coming too soon. He tried to imitate what she had done to him with one finger, while assaulting her clit with his tongue. "Put your thumb in my cunt," she instructed, gasping with the effort to savor the willing enthusiasm of the young officer. "Ahhhh!" she cried out, bucking on his fingers as the orgasm rolled through her.

"Was that good?" he asked.

"Oh, Humphrey, you aren't even close to being done. Now you are going to enter me from behind, with a thumb in my ass, lubricated, of course. And you have my permission to pull my hair, dear boy. I expect you to make me come, but save something for my ass, 'cause you are gonna learn what you've been missing!" She climbed onto her hands and knees, pushing back impatiently when he had lined his cock up with her cunt. He squirted some lube on his thumb and slowly pressed into her asshole, then wrapped a fistful of her long black hair in his hand. She arched her back, encouraging him to pull her hair tight as he grasped her shoulder and began thrusting hard into her, wiggling his thumb about in her ass until she was swearing incoherently. He took that as a good sign and leaned over her, plunging even deeper, until she arched even more and beat her fists into the mattress.

"Another thumb in my ass, Humphrey."

"Let me find the lube," he said, pausing in his assault on her cunt.

"There's enough now! Don't stop!" He grinned widely as he released her hair and dug his fingers into her ass cheeks as he slid another thumb in. She was rocking against him now, in time with his thrusts and moaning in the same rhythm. The moment he felt the contractions of her orgasm begin, he pulled thumbs and cock out and lined up his cock head with her ass.

"Okay?" he asked.

"Won't be okay till you're in to the hilt," she snarled. "But slow. I want to feel every inch."

He began to slide in, gritting his teeth to savor every moment and not come too soon. He could feel the aftershocks of her orgasm ripple through her tight entry, trying to coax his own orgasm forth. But he was determined to make her come again, to prove himself worthy. He held his breath as he sunk deeper and deeper. She was still now, letting him set the pace, relishing how carefully he had paid attention to her instruction. He had ample length but medium girth, perfect for anal. The fact that she was having trouble catching her breath attested to that fact. Her idea of perfect anal penetration was when it felt like the cock was bumping up against your lungs. And he was perfect. She began slowly rocking back against him. She didn't want to rush it, but she knew it would be hard for him, his first time in such a tight, forbidden space. She reached up between her legs and teased her clit until she was slamming back against him and tickling his balls as they slapped against her fingers.

"Ahh! Ahhhhh! Ahhhhhhh!" she cried as everything came together to explode inside her belly. That was all he needed to release his own orgasm. He gently, but firmly buried himself as deep as possible in her ass and came like he never had before, despite an earlier orgasm. Like before, he came silently, and she vaguely wondered if that was something else that Feds were taught at the academy, smiling at the thought. Together, they tumbled to their sides on the bed and he reluctantly, slowly pulled out. Part of him wanted to snuggle up against her for the rest of the night, but he knew that probably wasn't what she had in mind, so once he caught his breath, he rolled off the bed and dressed. After just a moment of consideration, he bent and kissed her cheek.

"Thank you for everything," he said softly. Grayson's eyes were closed, but she smiled softly.

"Thank you. Rookies are always the most fun."

He grinned and let himself out of her quarters. Grayson immediately sat up on the bed. "Hal, lower hold camera. Go back to 23:17."

The monitor shifted to show the arrival of the second yachter in the poker game. "What the hell are you doing on my ship?" Grayson demanded to no one in particular.

Continued in Chapter 3 - Part 1...

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