Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
Doren’s claws dug into the edge of the navigation console as the Ithyian ship lurched into hyperspace.
The controls were sluggish, the calibration off by at least three degrees, and if he had to smell the unwashed bodies of these bottom-feeding slavers for one more rotation, he was going to start gutting people for sport.
Patience, he reminded himself. You’re here for a reason.
Three days since they’d left the blue-green planet behind—a primitive world, its inhabitants blissfully unaware that the universe was full of creatures who viewed them as merchandise.
Pre-spaceflight civilizations were supposed to be protected and left alone to develop at their own pace.
The Imperial Accords were very clear on that point.
The Ithyians didn’t give a damn about the Imperial Accords, although they had a healthy fear of the Royal Fleet. But space was vast and the Kaisarian Empire, mighty as it was, couldn’t control every centimeter of it.
“Coordinates locked for the rendezvous point,” he said, keeping his voice flat and professional. “We’ll reach the trade station in two standard days.”
Captain Morven grunted from his command chair, scratching at the thick body hair covering his forearm. “Good. The sooner we offload the cargo, the better.”
Cargo. Doren’s jaw tightened. He’d heard the guards talking in the corridor earlier, laughing about the human female they’d snatched. Talking about her like she was livestock and making crude jokes about what the buyers might do with her.
It had taken every ounce of his considerable self-control not to kill them both on the spot.
“Problem, navigator?” Morven’s beady eyes had fixed on him with sudden suspicion.
He forced his expression into something resembling bored indifference. “Just thinking about how much I hate this console. Whoever calibrated it should be spaced.”
“That would be Hetch.”
“Then Hetch was an incompetent fool.” He made a show of adjusting several settings, his movements deliberately casual. “No wonder you needed a replacement.”
Morven’s heavy brow furrowed. The previous navigator’s disappearance was still a sore subject.
Doren had arranged that disappearance himself—a quiet word in the right ears, a debt called in, and suddenly Hetch had vanished into the seedy depths of the previous space station.
It had cost Doren three favors and a not-insignificant pile of credits to insert himself onto this crew, and so far he had precious little to show for it.
He knew the Grorn were interested in this ship.
His contacts had intercepted fragments of encrypted transmissions that mentioned the Profit Margin by name.
The Grorn didn’t waste their attention on petty slavers unless they had something worth taking—and anything that caught the attention of those scale-faced fanatics was worth investigating.
Unfortunately, he didn’t know why they were interested.
The Vault. It always came back to the Vault.
“Navigation is set,” he said, pushing back from the console. “Unless you need me to hold your hand through empty space, I’m going to get some rest.”
“Stay available.” Morven’s tone carried a clear warning. “I don’t trust you, half-breed.”
“You shouldn’t.” He flashed a smile that showed too many teeth. “I don’t trust anyone either. It’s what keeps us both alive.”
He left the bridge before Morven could respond, his boots silent on the metal deck plates.
The Ithyian ship was a piece of garbage—outdated systems, poor maintenance, and a smell that permeated every corridor like something had died in the ventilation system.
Which, knowing the Ithyians, was entirely possible.
His quarters were barely larger than a closet, but at least they had a door that locked. He palmed it open and slipped inside, immediately activating the portable scanner he’d hidden behind a wall panel. The device hummed softly as it swept for surveillance equipment.
Clear. For now.
He allowed himself a moment to drop the mask, his shoulders sagging as the tension he’d been carrying released.
Two weeks on this ship. Two weeks of pretending to be just another mercenary navigator with flexible morals and no questions.
Two weeks of watching these creatures profit from suffering and doing nothing about it.
The human female complicated things.
He pulled up the ship’s manifest on his personal datapad, scrolling through the encrypted files he’d managed to access.
The Profit Margin had made six runs to pre-spaceflight planets over the past year, all in violation of the Accords.
The Grorn interest seemed focused on something the captain had acquired recently—a small artifact that didn’t appear in any official inventory.
That was what he was here for. That was what mattered. Not the female in the holding cells.
Liar, a voice whispered in the back of his mind.
He’d caught a glimpse of her when he’d hacked into the security feed yesterday, doing his standard reconnaissance.
Small and curvy, with dark hair and frightened eyes, wearing the slave gown they put on all female captives.
She’d been sitting on the metal bench in her cell, arms wrapped around her knees, looking utterly lost.
Something had twisted in his chest at the sight. Something he’d spent years trying to bury.
Not my problem. I can’t save everyone.
His father’s voice, cold and dismissive, echoed in his ears. Sentiment is weakness. Attachment is liability. You want to be something more than a bastard mistake? Then learn to take what you need and leave the rest behind.
He had spent most of his life trying to prove his father wrong. He’d spent even longer trying to prove he didn’t need his approval. Some days he wasn’t sure which battle he was actually fighting.
He paced the narrow confines of his quarters, tail twitching with agitation. The smart play was to stay focused on his mission. Find the artifact. Determine if it was connected to the Vault. Get off this ship before the Grorn arrived to claim whatever they were after.
The female was a distraction he couldn’t afford.
But he also couldn’t stop thinking about those guards, laughing as they discussed her sale price. He couldn’t stop imagining what would happen to her at the trade station, passed from buyer to buyer until she ended up gods knew where, doing gods knew what.
She’s not my responsibility.
He pulled up the security feed on his datapad anyway, telling himself he was just checking the patrol rotations. The image flickered, then resolved into the holding cell corridor. She was on her feet now, running her hands along the walls of her cell looking for weaknesses, looking for a way out.
Brave, he thought despite himself. Stupid, but brave.
Most captives spent the first few days curled up in shock, unable to process what had happened to them.
This one was already planning an escape.
He watched as she tested the bars, examined the grate in the floor, and studied the ceiling.
Her movements were careful and deliberate, the kind of systematic approach that spoke of intelligence rather than panic.
She wouldn’t find anything. The cells were designed to hold beings far stronger than humans. But she was trying, and that was more than most would do.
He switched off the feed and tossed the datapad onto his bunk. He needed to search the captain’s quarters, not obsess over a doomed captive. Morven kept odd hours, but there would be a window eventually. A chance to slip in, find the artifact, and determine its significance.
That was the mission. That was all that mattered.
He lay back on the thin mattress, staring at the ceiling and listening to the hum of the ship’s engines. Two days until they reached the trade station. Two days to find what he was looking for and get out before everything went sideways.
And somewhere in the back of his mind, a small voice kept asking: What happens to her when you’re gone?