The Pilot (An Outer Rim Novel: Book 1)

Dedication

To my family for their continued love and support

Especially to Bob, the love of my life

Dear Reader,

Welcome to the Outer Rim, the frontier of space. As wild and crazy as the American West in the 1800's, the Rim is the home of stout-hearted individuals. Pioneers eager to make their fortunes. Nonconformists who want to be left alone. Escapees from the establishment or from the law. People who reinvent themselves with new names and life histories. From uninhabited planets to primitive settlements to established colonies, the Rim is the place of fantasies and dreams.

I hope you enjoy the adventure.

Diane

Chapter 1

"Cargo transport, this is Coalition Security. Are you in need of assistance?"

Celara d'Enfaden raced up the vertical ladder from the hold. She leapt across a corner of the open hole in the cabin floor. Reaching under the cabinet above the aft bunk, she hit the switches that closed the hatch and started the exhaust fan. Finally, she whipped off her protective mask only to gag at the residual stench from the cargo. She took one look at the perma-film viewscreen across the bow of her starship and her heart stopped.

A Volpian cruiser nearly filled the screen. After the first hail in Universal, the deep male voice repeated the offer in different languages, even Menacan, Celera's first language.

Arjay, she called. We've got company.

Her boots clattered on the floor's metal plating as she raced to the cockpit. She vaulted over the arm of the pilot's chair, narrowly avoiding her copilot as he crawled out from under the instrument panel.

She hit switches to power up the sublights. It would take time to bring all systems back online—time they didn't have. Sure hope you fixed that accelerator.

It is only a temporary measure.

As if they had all the time in the galaxy, Arjay straightened his blond hair back into its normal perfectly-coifed appearance before brushing dust from the viridian-green uniform favored by space crews in the Central District. Ever fastidious, he refused to wear the roomy dun-colored shirt and trousers of a true indie, like she did.

Quit primping and get us out of here.

He settled into the seat next to her. We are leaving? They offered to help us.

Remember what happened last time? Her fingers flew across the instrument panel's touchpads.

Arjay's fingers flew faster. Are they pirates?

Of course. Where in Lexol's Fire did they come from? And why didn't the proximity alarm go off?

Without further investigation, I would not know. He didn't stop his computations. Volpian cruisers do not have shrouding capabilities. However, the ship appears new. It may be an experimental model.

A siren pierced the small cabin. About time, she muttered before switching off the alarm.

Arjay brought the primary energizing coil online. Not for the first time she thanked the Spirits he was her copilot. He didn't need to be told what to do. That made up for his primping.

Cargo transport. I repeat, this is Coalition Security. Identify yourself. The pirate's voice carried the ring of authority.

For a half sec, she had misgivings. What if they were Coalition Security? If she didn't obey, she would be in deep horse pucky. But she'd been tricked before by pirates claiming to be Coalition Security. No way were they getting her cargo. If that happened, she would be in even deeper trouble. She'd gone into serious debt to replace the cargo the first pirates stole. If she lost this load, she would lose more than her investment. Her starship was the collateral securing her loan.

She'd taken a chance shutting down in the middle-of-nowhere space to fix the sluggish sublight accelerator. But there wasn't a convenient planet—let alone a repair station—in this sector of the Rim. Pirates zeroed in on wounded prey faster than Terran jackals.

What if they are not pirates? Arjay said. Their offer could be genuine. The ship might, indeed, be Coalition Security.

She grimaced. Great minds think alike.

That is rather frightening since mine is the superior intellect.

Stick it in your ear, Arjay. Let's get my baby up and running. We need to haul ass.

I am lodging a formal protest. If you must record the entertainment signals emanating from a primitive planet, please refrain from using its disgusting colloquialisms.

Wassamadder, Arjay. You don't like Terran slang?

As usual, she sat with her feet tucked under her in the roomy zircan leather chair built more for burly pilots than small fems. If need be, she could easily rise up on her knees to reach keypads across the instrument panel. Besides she hated dangling her feet.

Arjay, who always sat rigidly upright, continued with start-up procedures.

What is your cargo and destination? the pirate demanded. Respond or prepare to be boarded.

Over my dead body you'll board my ship. With the sublight engines almost back online, in another min or two they could blow this pop stand.

It is not customary for the Coalition to disguise its Security vessels by removing identification markers, Arjay said thoughtfully. Even so, they always use an official communications channel, which this ship is not. Consequently, I am ninety-six point three percent certain that is not Coalition Security. It could be a trap.

Cargo transport, this is your last warning. Respond or be boarded for inspection.

The pirate vessel, which had been stationary, began moving closer.

I lost my last load to you pirates. I am not losing another.

She shoved juice into the primary energizing coils. When her transport, d'Enfaden's Thermopylae, responded with lethargy, she glared at Arjay. I thought you fixed the accelerator.

I beg your pardon. He always got huffy when he perceived insult. Without a fully-equipped facility, complete repair is not possible.

She smacked the control panel. C'mon, c'mon, c'mon.

She responds to a gentle touch, Arjay admonished. Just like the majority of your gender. He touched two pads on the instrument panel. You may try again. Gently.

While the Volpian cruiser steadily advanced, the accelerator hiccupped before engaging.

You have full power, he announced with satisfaction.

The pirate ship moved in closer, aligning its docking port with hers.

Hang onto your hat. She spiraled the agile Thermopylae under the belly of the cruiser. And her stomach took five secs to catch up.

His complexion, a shade darker than her fair one, turned a sickly shade of green. You must give advanced notice before attempting to evade a ship intent on docking.

With a laugh, she goosed the sublight accelerator past standard limit. "Who said anything about attempting to evade?"

You do not seriously think you can outrun a Volpian cruiser? Rega d'Enfaden, that ship can achieve speed three times faster—

Arjay, how long have you known me?

The engine protested the abuse she inflicted but did not falter. The cruiser would certainly win a long-distance race with her small transport, but not a sprint. A little more time and she'd be home free.

According to Universal Time, I have been in your service for two years, thirteen months, sixty-two days, seventy—

She blew out an exasperated breath. "The question was rhetorical. I hate the term Rega. I've told you to call me Celara." They'd had this argument before. She never won.

"I could never do that. Rega is the proper term. You do own me."

Though technically her copilot was correct, she considered him more a companion than her property. Okay, just a few more secs and we'll lose them.

His response came out between a rasp and a groan. Surely, you are not going into that asteroid field.

'Don't call me Shirley', she quoted from a Terran vid. If she didn't need both hands to control the ship, she would've rubbed them in glee. Those pirates won't follow.

"I recall an aphorism popular on Terra. Something about famous last words."

Arjay, you are such a poop.

Fair warning, cargo transport, the pirate said. Attempt to escape and we will fire on you.

"Did he say attempt?" She grinned as she eased up on the throttle and dodged small asteroids at the outer edge of the field.

Come on, Trev. You're not going in there, are you?

Trevarr Jovano leaned forward in the pilot's chair, alert for debris. He and his friend, Laning Servary, had been on a shake-down cruise for Laning's new ship. When Trevarr had offered him the position of Chief Security Officer of Malcon Sector, he'd thrown in a newer, faster ship as incentive. He'd taken the controls a short time before sighting what he thought was a disabled cargo transport. With the way that vessel was fleeing, Trevarr was certain the pilot had something to hide.

He gave his friend a calculated smile. He dares me to follow.

Laning chuckled. You never could resist a challenge.

Trevarr did not ease off the accelerator of the Volpian cruiser. He just grinned.

Glad to see the old you is back.

Laning and his cryptic remarks. What do you mean?

You have been one by-the-book administrator since you got to Mag Prime.

Even though the cruiser was less agile than his personal ship, Trevarr easily dodged flying debris. His new position as Malcon Sector Administrator required him to bring order to this region of the Outer Rim. And, by the Divine One, he would fulfill his responsibility.

Start out the way you mean to go on.

Was that your daddy's motto or the Evil Queen's? Yeow! Laning shrank against the copilot's seat. You'd better not get a scratch on my new ship.

I have asked you not to call her that. Trevarr held no hope that Laning would refrain from disparaging the President of the Coalition. "Furthermore, Chief Rep Jovano thought the term Daddy sickeningly sentimental."

Never knew how lucky I was with the parents I had until I met yours. They—

Fire a shot across the transport's bow, Trevarr cut off the unnecessary reminder about his parents. Show the pilot we mean business.

Why? He's done nothing wrong.

He is running, a sure sign of guilt. He's a smuggler. Why else would he flee?

Gee, I don't know. How about fear?

Fear of discovery of his illegal cargo is more like it. I want that ship stopped.

You might have a point. Laning fired the lazin cannon and splintered a small asteroid in front of the transport.

The little ship easily dodged the fragments. Trevarr's frustration with the pilot's silence and failure to stop warred with admiration for the pilot's flying ability.

Just like old times, hey, Trev? You and me together again. I've missed ya, buddy.

Trevarr would never admit how much he missed his friend. As a child, he had learned that expressing emotions was improper behavior for the heir to a political dynasty.

He dodged a rock the size of the presidential residence on Bricaldia. Your new ship has the maneuverability of a house. I wish we had my Agilean.

If we were in your ship, you would never have entered this asteroid field. Do you want me to fire again on that— Would you watch where you're going?

An asteroid momentarily filled the viewscreen, obscuring the little cargo hauler. Trevarr avoided it. Easy there, son, he mocked. You have been out on the Frontier for eight years. I thought you would have nerves of ferranite by now. Did you get fat and complacent over in Willand Sector?

Hey, I resent that. So do you want me to fire or—

Yes, fire another round. But try not to destroy that ship under a hail of rock.

Laning grinned. That would certainly get his attention.

Holy horse pucky. That pilot has nerve. Celara gave the pirate credit for audacity, if not sense, for following her into the asteroid field. Hauling cargo between Outer Rim colonies across three sectors brought her through this area often. Only the most foolhardy—or desperate—used the field as a shortcut. She'd been desperate before.

She skimmed beneath an asteroid that could have covered the entire metropolis of Eleganza, capital of Bricaldia. Are the pirates still following?

Arjay gave her a haughty look, his attempt along with his speech at imitating Bricaldian aristocracy. You have asked that question every thirty-six secs. The answer has not changed.

Keep your eyes peeled for—

The ship lurched.

Whoa. Rising on her knees, she scanned the sensor array that started on her left and continued beneath the viewscreen. The aft sensor was lit. I could've sworn I had a good twenty-centimeter clearance—

The ship lurched again. Now the aft sensor flashed furiously.

I believe they are firing at us.

Ya think? She wrenched the rudder control, rolling away from another lazin blast and barely missed a little asteroid. The sphere might be puny, but at her speed it could inflict a lot of damage. Celara had worked too hard for too long to lose her ship to a chunk of rock. She zigzagged between the smaller asteroids. The cruiser continued to follow.

I'll say one thing, Arjay. The pirates are persistent. Could they be Hallart's men?

I regularly scan the media as well as the pilots' network for happenings along our trade routes. I have not encountered evidence of Hallart's organization in this sector.

That didn't mean the gangster wasn't sticking his tentacles into Mal Sec. In the aft scanner, Celara saw the cruiser try to avoid a collision with another rock. The Volpian ship spun out of control before she lost sight of it.

Look, a cave, Arjay called out. I am ninety-eight point seven percent certain the cruiser is too big to enter.

I think they're in trouble. Start scanning. She couldn't search the scanners for the missing cruiser and avoid a collision herself.

I do not understand. I thought you wanted to escape, not find, the pirates.

I would never leave a stranded ship.

By the Matriarch's left tit! Are you trying to wreck my new ship?

Trevarr wrestled with the rudder to control the cruiser's pitch and yaw.

You there, claiming to be Coalition Security. The feminine voice was almost as big a surprise as tumbling around an asteroid field. Do you need help?

He struggled to regain control of the ship. Momentarily taking one hand off the controls, he opened the comm channel as Laning announced, Looks like we're okay. A little scraped but—

He shot Laning a warning look. Cargo hauler. We are in need of your assistance.

What's wrong with my ship? Is it in danger?

Trevarr needed both hands to level out the cruiser. No. But that cargo hauler will be when I catch him.

A female laugh came through the comm channel. Nice try, boys. You damn pirates aren't getting my load this time. I'm going with that first report. And a word of advice? Make sure you end communication before arguing between yourselves.

She laughed again before ending communication with a click.

Laning leaned over to look at the comm display. Sherd, Trev. Not only did you leave the channel open, you used the wrong one. It's no wonder that transport fled. You heard her. She thinks we're pirates. Give me back my ship.

After steadying the cruiser, he steered out of the asteroid field then relinquished control. Was Laning right? Did the transport pilot actually believe they were pirates? That would explain why the ship fled. Still, it was suspicious that the pilot had not responded initially, if only to demand proof of authority.

Looks like the damage is superficial, Laning grudgingly admitted after they finished running diagnostics. "No thanks to you. What in Lexol's Fire has gotten into you? This trip was supposed to be a little run around this region to see what my new ship could do. My ship that's so new the paint isn't dry. My new ship that is now dented and scraped. Laning rarely lost his temper. He was in fine form now. You damn-near got us killed. I'm too young to die and so are you."

Technically, he could have Laning disciplined for insubordination. But his anger over losing his quarry paled next to his anger at himself for his recklessness. We could have caught that hauler.

By claiming to be disabled? Have you forgotten distress signals are taken very seriously? Especially out here. Word gets around about sending a false distress signal and you can kiss off ever getting rescued when you need it.

I wanted that ship. The pilot needs to be taught to heed orders.

At what cost? By lying? Or does the end justify the means?

Of course not. However, independent pilots are not above the laws of the Coalition.

Neither are you.

Is that what I'm doing? Subverting the law to make a point? He had seen enough of that on the political scene during his years at Coalition Headquarters.

There's something else you've forgotten, Trev. Indies come out to the Frontier to get away from Coalition laws and regulations. They're so blasted independent, the harder you push, the harder they push back.

You have been out here too long. You are beginning to think like the inhabitants.

Which is why you brought me from Willand Sec where I was perfectly content.

You were getting soft over there. I need a Security Chief I can trust. Trevarr rubbed his eyes, burning from the strain of watching for debris and small asteroids.

To clear his vision, he got up and roamed the confines of the cabin, which was more spacious than a normal cruiser. He'd made sure his friend's ship was equipped with the latest technology as well as comfort. While getting a drink of water from the well-stocked galley, he used the time to think about his actions. Reluctantly, he admitted his determination to catch the transport pilot bordered on obsession—not exactly the sign of a man in control. When he returned to the cockpit, Laning had taken the pilot seat, an obvious indication of Trevarr's demotion to assistant.

Hoping to resume their earlier camaraderie, he said, I am surprised the cargo hauler has a fem on board.

It is rare, but she could be the pilot. Laning paused. She had a sexy voice.

He thought so, too, but didn't respond. His friend's earlier rebuke bothered him. Was he trying to justify his methods to force the pilot to recognize Coalition authority? In an attempt to make restitution for his bad judgment in entering the asteroid field, he said, I will repair your ship when we return to Vesteron.

You're the best mechanic I know, buddy, Laning drawled, his anger gone. But I'd rather get a drink to celebrate our survival.

Trevarr ignored the comment on survival. Though guilty of poor judgment, he would not grovel for forgiveness. You are no better at holding your liquor now than when you were twenty. Remember that night we arrived at Vesteron?

Don't remind me. I had a hangover that wouldn't quit. And it was all your fault.

You blame me because your body still cannot tolerate alcohol as well as mine?

The curse of my ancestors. C'mon, Trev. Let's go to Astron. It's not that far. There's a great tavern there. The food is top-notch and the barkeep is gorgeous. She doesn't water down the liquor, either. I promise, only one drink.

We are returning to Magnos Prime. If that cargo hauler made it through the asteroid field, Vesteron Colony is the closest port. A few of your shots actually hit that ship and it will have to put in for repairs. I will teach that indie to heed orders.

Trevarr. Laning shook his head sadly. You were more fun a few mins ago, even if you almost destroyed my ship.

You may refrain from continual recriminations. I said I will repair the damage.

There you go, again, sounding like a stiff-ass Bric.

It is the nature of Bricaldians to speak precisely.

Ah, Trev, I keep telling you. He set a course for Vesteron. You gotta loosen up or the Rim will kill you.

The Rim. A place of fantasies and dreams. Dreams that never came true. Or when they did, they became nightmares.

Remember how we used to talk about coming out here? Laning broke into his thoughts. We were going to explore the planets and make our fortune.

With a rueful smile, Trevarr recalled their boarding school pact. Eight-year-old Laning's enthusiasm encouraged him to believe a life existed beyond the tradition of Jovano descendants. He had gotten caught up in Laning's dreams and dared to dream himself. For a while.

He was uncertain when he had put aside the fantasies of his youth. Maybe after his single year on the Frontier when his father had him reassigned to a colleague's staff at Coalition Headquarters. No, at the time he still thought he would have another opportunity. Gradually, amid the monotony of political service, his dream disappeared.

I can't believe you finally came back to the Rim, Laning enthused.

As if I had a choice, he muttered, then immediately regretted it. He had not been ready to reveal that. Even to his friend.

Don't sound so excited. I might get the impression you don't want to be out here.

No. I do not.

What do you mean you don't want to be out here? This is great. You and me. Bombing around the Rim. What could be better? Laning didn't wait for an answer. Are you sure you don't want to go to Astron? I can easily set a new course. Wait until you see Fortuna's. Best pleasure house in Mal Sector. Gorgeous fems. He whistled.

Pleasure houses held no appeal. For the past five years, he had only wanted one female. Davinna. His life partner.

Why don't you want to be here? Laning repeated.

After thinking long about answering, he admitted that he owed his friend the courtesy of a reply. I was so close. So close to finding Davinna's killer.

When he said they needed assistance, was he trying to trick us? Despite his superior intellect, sometimes Arjay was quite naïve.

Celara chuckled. Oh, yeah. Not too bright, though. Now I know for sure they aren't Coalition Security. Sheesh. Pirates, too stupid to live.

The cave, Rega?

You are doing that on purpose. Do not call me Rega again.

She examined the entrance to the cave Arjay pointed out. The pirates could still come after her, so she slowed her vessel to squeeze through the opening in an asteroid the size of Terra's moon. The tunnel widened and she prayed to her ancestors that she hadn't flown into a death trap.

After several long, breath-holding mins, they exited the narrow tunnel. She waved at the viewscreen. Look. Clear space. We lost the pirates.

I do not share your optimism.

Arjay, you are a wet blanket. Prepare the hyperdrive and make calculations for Astron.

She carried supplies for her friend's tavern, supplies she would have delivered a tenday ago if not for the pirates stealing her cargo. Even with the loan, she had been lucky to find another load. Now she had to offer her customers a reduced rate for the delay or risk losing their business. Celara always delivered. Her reputation depended on it. In her business, reputation was everything. She'd be damned to Lexol's Fire before she let filthy, thieving pirates win.

With her arms aching from dodging asteroids and holding a steady course through the tunnel, she turned control over to Arjay. She closed her eyes, gritty from concentrating, and stretched out her legs. For the first time in three hours, she relaxed.

Before Arjay engaged the hyper, a warning buzzer sounded. That brought her upright and frantically looking at the instruments for this new problem. What now?

I detect resistance in the thruster gimbal.

Are you sure? Steering felt okay to me through the cave.

After he executed a couple of maneuvers, it was obvious he didn't have control.

Let me try. After taking over, she knew he was right. Seems to be getting worse.

My assessment, also.

Horse pucky! She slapped the padded arms of her chair. What else can go wrong?

I could compute the odds of each of the ship's components ceasing to function. Arjay sounded a little too eager.

She blew out an exasperated breath. No, I want you to find out why the thruster gimbal is stuck.

When he didn't move, she gave him a narrow look. We can't steer the ship. So you'd better get out there, find out what's wrong and fix it.

Reluctantly, he stood. You know how much I detest extra-vehicular activity.

Tough. EVAs are a fact of life on a starship. Go.

Two hours later, after being crammed under the instrument panel repairing fried circuits, she donned a protective mask and descended into the hold. Stars, she had to quit hauling Grungian cabbages. She wiggled through the hatch to the engine room deep within the bowels of the ship. The engines—both sublights and hyper—didn't show any obvious signs of damage from close encounters with asteroids and a lazin cannon. She'd have them thoroughly checked out at the next port.

When she inspected the supply of barzilium she'd gotten with her load, the bulk fuel looked all right, though she couldn't tell through the mask whether it still had its distinctive sweet smell—a sign that the barzilium was active. She wouldn't be able to smell anything anyway, not over the stench of Grungian cabbages.

As she hauled herself up the vertical ladder, she heard the swish of the airlock to the docking port. A second swish and Arjay appeared. Muttering darkly, he straightened his hair and brushed debris from his uniform. He waited for her to close the hatch to the hold, hit the exhaust fan and remove her mask before he started grumbling.

I absolutely refuse to work outside the ship again. That was nothing new. Arjay always proclaimed his refusal every time he came in from the cold darkness of space. I narrowly avoided being hit by a half-full chokiris container.

What a waste of good liquor.

Nothing infuriated Celara more than vessels that dumped their garbage in space instead of running it through a disintegrator. Okay, being boarded by pirates ranked a lot higher than litterbugs.

What did you find out? She wiped grease off her hands.

You have a smudge in the lower left quadrant of your visage. Arjay took the rag from her. When she rolled her eyes, he amended, On your cheek. He made two precise swipes. Satisfied with the results, he returned the rag to her. Always efficient, that was her Arjay.

Debris from exploding asteroids wedged into the gimbal. I removed enough to give us some control. We will need to stop at the nearest port for more extensive repairs. He settled into the copilot's seat. After a few secs, he declared, According to my calculations, at standard speed, we should reach Vesteron Colony on Magnos Prime in six hours and ninety-seven seconds.

You couldn't just say seven hours?

It is my nature to be precise.

And Vesteron is the closest?

Precisely.

She wrinkled her nose. Had she not gone through the asteroid field she would have made Vesteron her last stop. Damn colony was on the verge of becoming a regular town. All because those blasted pioneers wanted schools and houses of worship and even police. If they wanted things to be the same as 'back home', they should have stayed there.

Because of its rapid growth, Vesteron just became the home base of Malcon Sector's Administrator. The reputation of this new bureaucrat had been quickly spread around the Rim by indies who'd already encountered his unrelenting form of justice.

Can't we make it to Astron? Even though she knew the answer, she had to ask. They've been waiting the longest for their supplies.

Your friend will have to wait for her food and liquor. The ship must be repaired.

She heaved an exasperated sigh. All right. Plot a course for Mag Prime.

Exactly six hours and ninety-nine mins later—Arjay was off by two whole mins—they approached Vesteron Colony where it was Mid-Afternoon, though Celara's internal clock made it closer to Mid-Night. At least, they'd missed the Mid-Day downpour. Twin suns shone bright, reflecting off the glistening, lush green foliage of the tropical landscape.

Surrounding Vesteron Spaceport, the town was expanding. Half the rain forest had disappeared since her last visit. In its place stood new structures, evidence of the pioneers. The architecture reflected that of planets in the Central District. Only a few original buildings had escaped demolition. The newcomers would soon discover that native structures were better suited to the environment than their former homes. As she set the ship down at Vesteron spaceport, she decided this was her last run here. Civilization wasn't for her.

The landing platform lowered the ship to a refueling and repair bay while she and Arjay performed system shut-down. Leaving the final checklist as well as security to her copilot, Celara clambered out of her seat. While she waited for him to release the airlock and extend the ramp, she arched her back to remove the kinks.

As she walked out of the ship, the heat and humidity of Vesteron coupled with the heat of the repair bay brought her to a halt. She loosened the top of her shirt and rolled the long sleeves up to her elbows. The environment and gravity of this place always weighed her down. She took several deep breaths to orient her body to the surroundings. The cloying sweet smell of barzilium, the tang of lubricating fluids and the odor of male sweat assaulted her nose.

Hey, guys, she called to a cluster of pilots lounging near a Volpian cruiser similar to the one she'd evaded. Watch out for pirates near the Ytersigon Asteroid Field.

One of the men gave her a mock salute. Thanks for the warning, d'Enfaden. Glad to see they didn't get your cargo this time.

Thanks. She scanned the bay for the Dock Master. Is Vakus around?

She stopped looking for him when she saw a pair of legs topped by the most gorgeous set of male buns she'd seen in at least a year. The owner of the aforementioned body parts, encased in the dark blue uniform of the repair crew, was bent over the open hatch of an Agilean Speeder.

Now there was a ship. The sleek vessel—one of the fastest in the galaxy—almost distracted her from the mechanic. He'd shrugged off the top portion of the jumpsuit so that it pooled around his waist. The environment of the repair shop affected many newcomers, especially those unaccustomed to the heat.

As she stared at his butt, all she could think was oh, mama. She hoped he was human and the the rest of him lived up to the preview. Better yet, she hoped he was in a party mood. After escaping from the pirates, Celara wanted to howl . . . and someone to howl with.

Hey, big boy, she called to the mechanic. Wanna party?

Yo, d'Enfaden, a pilot hollered. How come you never ask me to party?

Yeah, called his buddy. I'll party with ya, girl.

You space jocks will party all right then stick me with the bill, she shot back before approaching the mechanic. You there, working on the Agilean. That is one fine ship.

As the mechanic abruptly straightened, he whacked his head on the raised engine hatch. He muttered a Bricaldian curse about origins. She hoped he meant the ship's, not hers. But then, considering her origins, that curse wasn't out of line. When he turned around, she sucked in a breath. Oh, yeah. A primal part of her sat up and took notice. His backside, gorgeous as it was, didn't compare to the rest of him. He had the broad shoulders and muscles of a laborer plus the black hair, square jaw and blade-straight nose of Bricaldian aristocracy. What a delicious combination.

He tossed aside the