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whether his efforts to escape the hanging locker might have bloodstained his
best battle jacket.
Well after the code check at ~7oo, Ensign Kaplin drifted crosslegged in the
dimly lit corridor by the space lock. Unimpressed by Jensen's bubbling
elation, and unconcerned that her hair needed fixing, she sullenly chipped
enamel off a broken thumbnail. Her thoughts centered darkly around the admiral
whose record was impeccable, but whose past was anything but. Her future in
the Fleet would become deadlocked as a result of the tape she had witnessed.
The lieutenant was a fool if he thought the captive held trussed in the lock
bay was going to sweeten an admiral whose private shame had been leaked to the
crew of a minor class scout. As Kaplin saw things, MacKenzie James might never
see trial; more likely he'd die of an accident, or someone would pull strings
to set him free. He hadn't gotten where he was without connections in high
places. His record of success was too brilliant.
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Kaplin jabbed at her fingernail, plowing up a flake of purple lacquer. Jensen
was an idealistic idiot, and
Admiral Nortin a desperately cornered man; no need to guess who'd survive when
the dirt inevitably hit the fan.
A discreet tap at the lock door disrupted the ensign's brooding. She started
and looked up, saw the haggard face of MacKenzie James drifting by the small
oval window. His hands were bound; he'd managed the knock by catching the pen
from the bulletin alcove between his teeth and rapping the end against the
glass.
'Damn,' Kaplin muttered under her breath as her grip slipped and mangled a
cuticle. She sucked at the scratch, pushed off from the floor grate, and,
still cross-legged, peered through the glass. 'What do you want?'
Other than a leak, she mused inwardly. If the stun drugs had just worn off,
that's what most people wanted.
Mac James ejected the pen from his teeth. 'Talk,' he said, his succinctness
blurred by echoes. He bunched his shoulders against the webbing Jensen had
contrived to confine him. The result would have tethered a bull elephant,
Kaplin felt, but hell, she was only the ensign. She unfolded elegant legs, set
her shoulder against the lock, and lightly braced on the door frame. 'Should I
listen?'
James managed a grin. His forehead had somehow gotten cut during transfer from
the bridge to the lock bay, and a bruise darkened the stubble on his jaw. 'You
might want to.' He tossed back tangled hair and added, 'I'd hate like hell to
be left at the mercy of an admiral whose secrets were compromised.' Kaplin
pursed her lips. 'You're quick.' James's grin vanished. 'Always.'
The ensign considered her torn thumbnail, then elegantly unfolded her body and
tapped the controls to her left. The lock unsealed, and a rush of cold air
from the barren metal bay raised chills under her coverall. She shivered.
'Speak fast. I'm not sure I should be listening.'
'Be sure,' said James. 'I can get you reassigned. To another division, under
another admiral, with a few less demerits on your record.'
Kaplin regarded him carefully. Trussed hand and foot, his massive shoulders
twisted back, James did not seem discomforted. His expression was much too
confident. He watched, his eyes steely and level;
as she noticed the scar over his right carotid artery, and as
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she lingeringly weighed the rusty stains that remained of a Chalice mechanic
that patched his threadbare flightsuit. He was a man who had seen death from
many angles. The possibility the next might be his own failed to move him.
'You'd have to free me, get me back to rendezvous at Kestra,' he finished in a
voice that was dry with disinterest.
A pirate should have owned more passion, Kaplin felt. The list of criminal
charges did not seem to fit with the man. She thought deeper, while those gray
eyes followed; her hand tapped involuntary tattoos on the railing. MacKenzie
James, skip-runner, should have gunned the other crew down with Harris. His
hold over the admiral was all he truly needed to commandeer Sail without
questions.
As her oval chin rose obstinately, Mac James seemed to follow her reasoning.
'I didn't kill Jensen because I need him. His obsession is a tool, invaluable
because it's genuine. A man's hatred is always more reliable than the best of
laid plans.'
Kaplin narrowed her eyes. 'Who are you,' she demanded. 'You'll tell the truth,
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or we don't talk.'
Now Mac James studied her. He no longer seemed boyish, or hardened, but only
unnervingly perceptive. 'I take orders from Special Services,' he said, his
face like weather-stripped granite. 'And my criminal record is genuine. I
could be tried and convicted on all counts, and no pardon would come through
to save me. I am legitimately skip-runner, traitor, and extortionist, and
because of that, I have served as the Alliance's contact to disclose the
motives of the Khalia and, now, the Syndicate behind them.' A strange thread
of weariness crept into the prisoner's voice. He tried, but did not entirely
hide a ghost of underlying emotion. 'Sometimes it takes a bad apple to know
one. And through Sail's surviving officers, the Fleet is free to deal with
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