Finn confirmed the series of three coordinates for the final jump to reach the Borderlands. Then he crosschecked the associated hazards charts even though the ship, with its sophisticated artificial intelligence, was well ahead of him.

What about the bots swimming inside him? Were they as efficient?

He turned his hand and scrutinized the plump veins in his forearm. Already, a few small scratches had shrunk. More changes were taking place; he could feel them. He’d always lived with a faint humming in his left ear, but it had gone away. As much as his skin crawled at the thought of foreign bodies in his bloodstream, the accelerated healing would be useful in a battle situation.

If not, there would be Doctor Kell to patch him up. The man had poked and prodded, assuming Finn would give him free pass to any orifice he’d chosen. The doc had soon found out otherwise. “Don’t bend over,” Finn had told Bolivarr as they’d traded places. The Wraith had looked uncharacteristically worried at his warning. Finn chuckled at the memory.

“That’s it—you got it. Bring her in now. Yes, like that.” One of the more experienced Coalition pilots was giving Tango and Rakkelle training to fly the Unity. Finn walked over to watch.

“That was cake,” Tango told the instructor, completing a simulation of a manual override docking maneuver—and receiving, from what Finn overheard, perfect scores. “Give me something hard.”

“I know a few men on my crew who wouldn’t mind helping you out,” Rakkelle said saucily.

Tango snorted. “I don’t blow that way, girl.”

“That’s what you say.” Rakkelle took the controls for an identical docking simulation. “I’d have to see for myself before knowing if you were telling the truth.”

“Is that a dare?”

Rakkelle’s eyes had that sassy spark to which Finn was well used. “You have to ask, Terran? In my world, men know the difference between a dare and an invitation.” She turned back to the simulation.

Tango’s smile was self-congratulatory and speculative. Rakkelle was flirting, and the pilot was eating it up. Aye, but the woman flirted with everyone, himself included. Finn decided not to enlighten the Terran. Let him figure it out for himself.

Rakkelle completed the docking maneuver to praise and a few pointers from the instructor.

Tango leaned toward her. “You’ll need to chair-fly the maneuvers in your spare time to polish your skills. You’ve tried chair-flying before, right? It really helps picturing the maneuvers in your head and going through the motions while sitting in a chair. Better get started right away. With a lot of practice and hard work, someday you might be as good as me. Don’t let me down, Rocky.”

Rocky? Finn choked on a laugh. Rakkelle looked shocked and amused—and maybe a touch annoyed. He’d thought Rakkelle cocky, but she hadn’t come close to Tango. The Terran was full of himself, as a soldier and a male.

The pilot swaggered off, no doubt in the direction of the all-ranks club. Zurykk had been keeping an eye as best she could by keeping fights from starting. They expected Drakken-on-Drakken tussling, and Zurykk knew how to shut those down—but if trouble erupted between factions, Finn didn’t want anyone from the Pride listed as instigators.

“There won’t be any problems on my ship, will there, Warleader?”

Across the bridge, Bandar sat at her desk, hands fisted as she glared at her data-vis. Gods knew why. It wasn’t her shift—it was his—yet she was still there. Combing the crew manifest for more civilians or Wraiths? Judging by her expression, she may have found some. Gods, he hoped not.

For once, he was grateful for a death threat. It was likely keeping him and his crew on this luxury vessel of a ship—for a little longer, anyway.

Or would it? He looked at Bandar again and not only because he liked the sight. He worried about her. Anger had definitely replaced the exhaustion he’d spied earlier, but some sleep would fix her right up.

She needed to go on break. He’d told her twice already in as many hours—to her withering looks, naturally. It was clear that Bandar didn’t like anyone looking out for her, especially him.

Too blasted bad.

Finn strode across the bridge and stopped in the doorway to the office they shared with Johnson in the command suite. Arms folded, he leaned a shoulder against its frame. “It’s bed time, Admiral. I’m going to have to insist. You need your rest.” The observation came out gentler and more protective than he’d intended.

She glanced up, her eyes blazing with fury. Her anger then morphed into startled softness before settling into her now-familiar aloof poise, edged with intense dislike. “Worry about your duties, Warleader. Not me.”

Perhaps she considered his protectiveness sexist, but that wasn’t his reasoning at all. He’d grown up with strong women, fighting side by side with them. He knew well their strengths and weaknesses, but this woman—Brit Bandar—did something to him. She brought out a desire to look out for her—and more. That’s your problem, Rorkken, and not hers.

She returned her glare to the report.

Funny girl, to think he’d be so easily dismissed.

“What’s there that’s got you so concerned?” he asked. “Whose record’s in question this time? Bolivarr’s? Ekko’s? Laran’s?”

Or maybe he shouldn’t volunteer information.

“Yours,” she said.

He reared back. “Mine? But you already know what my records contain.”

“Not this.” She shoved the data-vis toward him, and he squinted at the contents: a medical report, filled with readings and results.

Dread whispered through him. “What did the good doctor find? A deadly disease that nano-meds can’t cure?” He tried to joke. “How long do I have, Admiral? Weeks? Days?”

“You’re not dying. The report states that there is evidence of childhood hunger in your bones and teeth.”

The doctor left no stone unturned. Or orifice unchecked. Finn ran his tongue along his teeth. Straight and white, they were, although likely more from good genes than anything else. “I’m sure Doctor Kell can fix me if I go toothless.” He flexed his arms. “And the bones seem to be holding up, when I’m not doing something stupid that breaks them again.”

“Blast it, Rorkken. Broken bones are one thing, but no child should go hungry. Doctor Kell thinks that you went for long periods without adequate nutrition as a baby. Is that true?”

Finn hesitated before shoving aside his personal distaste at revealing his beginnings—lest they generate pity, which he despised. “Likely, aye. I have no one to ask.”

“What’s wrong with the Drakken that they haven’t looked after their own people? They poured money into warships, yet you starved as a baby. That is unconscionable.” Then compassion blunted her harsh tone. “You lost your parents. How?”

“I was orphaned as an infant in a Coalition attack. From what I’ve learned—and it isn’t fact—I was rescued from the attack site and brought off-planet.”

“And what—abandoned?” she demanded.

“Probably offered for adoption, initially, but few can care for their own kids—let alone someone else’s.”

She turned to face the blackness of space that filled the viewport on the wall. “You were left to die.”

“Luckily, I was found and taken in by other children. My earliest memories are of the girls who raised me. We belonged to a pack of orphans and runaways—or throwaways. Home was an abandoned building behind a refinery. Surviving in numbers was easier in some ways and harder in others.” Like when there hadn’t been enough food to go around—or blankets or sweaters. “I grew up, and I survived. And here I am.”

Enough talking of the past. The future was what interested him. He aimed his attention at Brit’s reflection. “And here you are, when you’re supposed to be off duty.”

She turned around. “I have more reports to go over.”

“They can wait. Your shift is long over.”

“I will remain here, Warleader.”

In two strides, he was at the desk. He bent and flattened his hands on its glossy surface. “I pledged to run a safe ship, even if that means not handing over command of the bridge to her admiral if she’s exhausted. That’s right. With all due respect, Admiral, if you come on duty in less-than-optimum condition thinking you’ll be alert for a nine-hour shift, I’ll make sure Johnson sends you back to bed. I’ll carry you there myself if I have to, and we both know how entirely inappropriate that would be.”

The attraction always simmering between them almost boiled over. He pulled back, regretting the comment, but the image of lowering her into his bed was slow to fade.

“Inappropriate indeed, Warleader.” He wasn’t imagining her voice sounding huskier—or her pondering him with the same speculative consideration that Tango had given Rakkelle.

Finn aimed for a neutral, professional tone. “So what will it be?”

Her attention shifted to the bridge behind him. It hummed with efficiency. She wasn’t needed. Her routine reports could wait. Yet she seemed reluctant to leave . . .

Of course. He was Drakken. The Scourge of the Borderlands. How could one of the Coalition’s greatest leaders leave him in charge of her ship, unattended? Oh, she’d vowed as much to her superiors, aye, but putting cooperation into practice was not so easy.

She didn’t trust him.

“Permission to speak freely,” he said.

“Not asking permission hasn’t stopped you so far, Warleader, so why ask now?”

“To be able to speak more freely.”

She huffed. “I would expect any second of mine to speak freely and, more importantly, to think freely.”

“Here it comes then.” He folded his hands to support his weight on his knuckles. “You don’t like the idea of leaving a Drakken in command on the bridge.”

When her lips compressed, just slightly, he knew that he’d guessed right. “I know the same stories you do. I know there are Drakken who often killed civilians on purpose. Blame it on the lack of discipline and guidance from the higher levels and the lack of a good example more than any government orders. I’m no innocent, but I’ve never killed for sport. Nothing about killing has ever appealed to me.”

“But you stole and hijacked ships; you bribed and kidnapped.” She rattled off the charges against him, even where many of the crimes had occurred.

His mouth tipped into a crooked smile. “Is your memory that good, or did I alone of the Borderland pirates remain in your thoughts for all these years?” As the memory of her had remained in his?

“So cocky, aren’t you, Warleader? Well, it’s not about you. I have a memory like a steel trap. I don’t forget.” Her mouth tightened.

She’d lost friends in battle. So had they all. Finn understood the agony of losing comrades. Aye, he’d spent one too many days trying to forget—namely by drinking too much sweef. “In this business,” he said quietly, “a good memory can be a curse.”

“A curse indeed.”

“And a bartender’s blessing.”

She let out a sound that may have been a laugh, had it contained any mirth at all. Then she jerked upright, as if she’d caught herself identifying with him and the idea repulsed her.

She spoke again, cool and composed, but her hands remained twisted together. “Is that all, Warleader?”

He sighed. He hadn’t come any closer to reassuring her over his presence on the bridge, but he owed it to his crew—to the Drakken who weren’t murderers, who hadn’t slaughtered for entertainment—to convince her to have some faith in him. “The war is over, Admiral. I intend to do my part to keep it that way. I want peace to work. You know my story now, and I’m sure that you have your own. This war long ago ceased being good for either side. Drakken and Coalition, we’ve all suffered.”

Her hands clamped together so tightly that her fingers turned red and white. She sat there, perfectly still, as if carved of ice. Finn knew the woman was anything but. Fire, not ice.

“You can sleep easy knowing that this Drakken is on the bridge, Admiral,” he assured her. “You can trust me.”

She studied him for the longest time. He watched her battle with her reservations—comparing what he’d said with what her experience told her. In the end, the officer in Brit Bandar won. He could tell she’d accepted that she couldn’t stay on duty indefinitely. Nor could Johnson maintain double shifts in her absence. At some point, she would have to let Finn take command.

She nodded, rose, and stepped around the desk. Then, with her new Triad colors hugging her curves, she walked out of the office.

No goodnight, no comment. She simply left.

Into that, he’d have to read the best: she would trust him, if for this night only.

Surrounded by holo-cubes from her travels, Brit sipped Kin-Kan wine and stared out the darkened porthole. For so many years, these solitary dinners had been her routine. Her solace. They reminded her of her mission, her pledge from three-standard-weeks-shy of her nineteenth birthday: Hunt the murderers. Hunt Drakken.

Finnar Rorkken, she thought with a scowl. The Scourge of the Borderlands is at the helm of your ship. He wanted her to trust him because he wanted peace to succeed. She, on the other hand, wanted peace to fail so she could finish what she’d started. That put them at permanent cross-purposes, didn’t it?

She sipped more wine, holding it in her mouth, savoring its taste. “You can trust me,” Rorkken had told her. He’d observed her with those eyes—so much like Seff’s—and she’d known that he spoke the truth.

“He’s a good officer,” Zaafran had said, but Brit didn’t want Rorkken to be a good officer. She wanted an excuse to see him and his fellow Drakken off this ship. He’d revealed the hardships of his youth, but she didn’t want to know him—to see him as human. Didn’t he know that doing so would turn her neatly ordered priorities upside-down? She despised upside-down. She wanted life to go on as it always had. Shake her up and the past might come back. Shake her up and she might feel.

Damn you, Finnar Rorkken. Damn you to the Dark Reaches.

That was quickly becoming her mantra. She emptied her glass, grabbed the bottle, and realized it was dry. Blast. She’d finished it already? Where was the needed blur of drunkenness?

She’d take the blur of pleasure instead.

She loosened her hair and shook it out, slipping between the cool sheets. They adjusted instantly to her preferred temperature. She slid her hand over her stomach, then lower, closing her eyes. She tried picturing Seff’s face as she touched herself, as always. But as her body tightened, she saw Rorkken.

Brit cried out softly as she shook her head in denial. No. She rolled onto her stomach, grasping at the pillow as her body throbbed for completion. She was a sexual being, yes, but now those signals were misfiring, pointing her at the wrong target. If not for her interrupted shore leave and lost playtime with the man toy she’d hired, she wouldn’t be wrestling with such pent-up hunger in the first place. The fault was Zaafran’s—yes, his and the entire Reunification Commission’s—for pulling her off the Vengeance and forcing her to command this freak show of a crew.

She clearly couldn’t go on like this. She needed her focus back and her drive.

To get rid of a craving, sometimes one had to give in—take one’s fill—and be done with it. Maybe she should indulge in Finnar Rorkken. He’d fuck her good and hard, like the man toys she bought on shore leave, and then she’d be immune to his charms. Not the most pleasant of prospects—nauseating, she tried arguing—but what choice did she have? She needed the Drakken pirate out of her head. For that, she would need him in her bed.