Chapter 4

 

Luc jumped toward her, yanking his race-approved blaster from the satchel. He’d only had a few days to practice—having not much reason to blast things as an accountant—but if his first shot in earnest was in defense of his innocent Earther, so be it.

“Warning alarm detected,” the Blissed’s data-core informed him unnecessarily. “Please identify the nature of the emergency.”

When he loomed over Amy protectively, searching the horizon for the threat, her frantic whispers finally sank into his soul.

“It’s real.” She stood with one hand clamped over her eyes, her head bowed. “It’s real.”

He’d been hoping she would remain blissfully, willfully ignorant, pretending it was all an illusion, all a game. But now he realized how ignorant he was. Even an oblivious closed-worlder couldn’t mistake this for what it was: another planet, other lifeforms. It was too late for her to go back, even if she went home.

As if she’d heard his thoughts, she dropped her hand from her eyes, staring at him.

“It’s real,” he admitted, slipping the blaster back into his satchel. “Yes. All of it.”

She drew a shaky breath, her gaze never leaving his. Slowly, she reached up toward his face. He knew what she was going to do, and still he stiffened in shock when her fingertips grazed his jaw. The touch was light as the first breath of a storm wind off the deep desert, warming him and sending a thread of restlessness through him more potent than the illicit Earther coffee that was so beloved among some beings.

“And you,” she murmured, her voice raw from the scream. “You’re real.”

When he tilted his head in assent, her fingers slid upward to brush the corner of his mouth. He shuddered at the spike of sensation that ripped through him. Unexpected. Unwanted. Irresistible.

It had been too long since he’d indulged in the caress of any hand but his own. The pressure of her touch increased and she swiped her finger over his lip. His nerves blazed in the wake, as if she’d struck a spark. It reminded him that under his civilized exterior, he was still drakling. “Careful.”

She looked at her fingertip then back at him. “You’re really purple,” she said accusingly. “Really scaled. Really…an alien.”

“A drakling,” he corrected. “Alien to you only because you didn’t know. But now you know.”

“I thought…” She gazed at the city. “I’ve never…”

“Just because the universe is bigger than you thought doesn’t mean everything else is wrong.”

Her lower lip trembled. “When I left my home last time, I thought someday I would go back. Somehow. But now…” As she tilted her head back to gaze up at the sky, her black hair whispered around her shoulders. “Luc, the universe isn’t big. It’s infinite.”

He tugged her around with a hand on her elbow. “I told you, we’ll find a way to get you home after the race.”

Her dark eyes were a night sky wide enough to swallow him whole. “This was a mistake.”

“I’m an accountant,” he said. “I find mistakes. And I fix them, to zero degrees of error.”

“I flunked calculus,” she shot back, half defiant, half confession. “In a bad way.”

“I’m sure you have other pleasant qualities.”

She let out a choked sound that he feared would become another scream, but it was a laugh. “Maybe I’ll find those on this quest.”

He knew at least one. That wry little laugh shimmered through him like the glint of an imaginary jewel. He glanced back at the ship. “You can stay if you’d rather.”

She shook her head hard enough to make the long, inky strands of her hair fly. “I never could. But…” She reached out again, this time threading her fingers through his. “I just need some courage since you don’t have coffee.”

The almost strangling grip of her hand told him she was taking that courage from him. He’d never been someone’s courage before. Draklings were born bold and brash. Except him. Unlucky her that she was teamed with the one drakling in the universe that couldn’t give her what she needed.

But he could at least hold her hand.

Gently, he drew her out of the ship onto the landing pad. “Welcome to adventure, Great Space Racer,” he intoned. “Or Primaera, anyway, which is the first step.”

She looked down at her boots and stepped forward. Only to stumble a bit in the oversized soles, or maybe it was the change in gravity. He steadied her.

Her hand was smaller than his, but somehow that made it perfectly right. Her palm nestled inside his, as if he was the thick shell that protected an unborn drakling.

“How could we not know that there is a whole sentient universe?” She glanced up at him. “Why aren’t we a part of all this? And why do you speak Sichuanese sometimes and English sometimes?”

“I’m speaking my language,” he said. “You’re just hearing yours because of the universal translator implanted for the race. And some of your people do know. But the galactic council has decreed your Earth a closed world until it’s believed you can handle the knowledge.”

She ducked her chin. “I’m probably not setting a very good example, am I?”

“Maybe if we win the race.” He squeezed her hand encouragingly. “Then the universe will see what you’re capable of.”

Her fingers went slack in his, and she disentangled them. “Oh, I don’t think I want to be responsible for representing everyone from Earth.” She nibbled her lower lip. “I guess that’s why they picked the lady who was supposed to come here.”

The waver of uncertainty in her voice struck him harder than he wanted, and he swiped his palm on his thigh to erase the lingering feel of her hand in his. He wasn’t the shining example of drakling boldness either, but he didn’t need the reminder. “It’s a race with a riddle, not a battle or popularity contest. We just have to be quick and clever.”

After a moment, she nodded. “So… Quick and clever is why you have that ray gun?”

He put his hand over the satchel. “It’s not a ray gun. It’s a blaster.”

She nodded sagely. “A highly advanced technical term. How did I not guess I’ve been launched into a futuristic universe?”

“Probably because you were cowering in the corner with your hands over your eyes.” He gave her a solemn one-eyed blink.

She snorted. “Okay, okay. You win. I’m a closed-worlder who doesn’t know anything.”

“You know draklings now,” he pointed out. “And I haven’t won yet, but with your help, we will.”

At his side, she stood a little straighter. Which still only brought the top of her head up to his shoulder. As small as she was compared to him, he sensed the new flow of determination through her, the same way changing one number in a spreadsheet caused everything else to change. She might not have been Great Space Racer material, but then neither was he, really. Weren’t hard-luck cases always the most popular in shows like this? Maybe they were fated to win.

As they left the port, he checked his dat-pad one more time. “We’re meeting my contact at the Degenerate Smugglers’ Lounge and Day Spa.”

She blinked. “A degenerate day spa. That sounds…promising.”

He grimaced at the pad before sliding it back into his pocket. “I assume they’re joking.” He glanced at her. “Although if you can stop swiveling your head like a gyroscope, it’d go better for our disguise.”

“One famous interstellar explorer, coming up.” She tugged the midline hem of her jacket down snugly and strode ahead of him with stompy steps.

Reaching out one long arm, he clamped his hand on her shoulder and hauled her back even with him. “Together,” he reminded her. “We’re together.”

In her oversized boots, she stalked determinedly by his side. If her head jerked a little from one side to the other at the more fantastical sights, anyone watching would only think that she was a wary, watchful huntress, just like her ships fatigues implied. If maybe a little on the small side. He found himself standing a little straighter too, forcing himself out of his usual desk-bound slump to look the part of her companion. As they hit the streets of the city, the pedestrians—complacent desk workers like he himself was on any day but this—moved out of their way.

It felt odd, to have a glimpse of what his swaggering brothers must feel.

From the spaceport boulevard with its respectable working class, the district split into two. Following the walkways up would take them to the realm of dignitaries and interplanetary financiers. But instead, they stepped toward the darker ramps angling downward to where the ships’ crews and assorted other rabble gathered.

As they descended several ramps into the underbelly of the city, the lighting grew more uncertain. The brightness of the double suns shifted on the spectrum to the garish artificial lights of Lower Town.

Amy’s elbow bumped his, she was walking so close. “Are we…safe here?”

“This is Primaera. The central planet of the system. It’s very civilized.” He realized that wasn’t quite an answer. Because of course civilization meant credits, which he well knew as an accountant, and credits meant thieves, some of them passive embezzlers, but some of the more violent sort. He cleared his throat. “If civilization fails us, I have the blaster.”

She sidelonged a glance up at him. “And you know how to use it?”

“I’ve had sufficient training to qualify for a galaxy-wide usage permit,” he said stiffly.

“Oh. A permit,” she drawled. “I’m sure that will impress those guys over there.” She jerked her chin at a trio of hunched-shouldered Ryliin, lurking under one of the burnt-out ramp lights.

“Don’t look at them,” he hissed. “To their species, direct eye contact is an invitation.”

She dropped her chin. “An invitation to what?”

“Nothing of interest to a closed-worlder.”

She sniffed. “You don’t know me that well.”

“Says the Earther who covered herself the moment she realized she was naked.”

“Reminding me of that is impolite.”

“So are the Ryliin.” Despite her bravado, he took a long step ahead of her, which put his bulk between her and the Ryliin. Even without a universal translator, the body language would be clear to them: mine.

Amy wasn’t his, of course. As she’d pointed out, he didn’t know her that well. At all, really. Nor would they come to know each other in any way that necessitated the use of the word mine. They would be too busy pursing their prize.

And yet…

The fixed yellow stares of the Ryliin made his hackles prickle in an unfamiliar way. He never prickled. He wasn’t the sort, unlike his brothers. He let out a slow breath at the hot flush through his scales.

It was just the looming proximity of his brothers’ mating ceremonies making him edgy. The confluence of moons on his homeworld was a popular season for matings since drakling blood ran hot in the multi-reflected light of their sun. No matter how far he removed himself from that scorching sphere of influence, still he was subject to that kindling in his bones.

They passed the trio without incident—other than a discomfiting stiffness in his lower body, his knees almost locking so that he nearly strutted past the Ryliin, his animalistic senses reveling in his possession of a desirable mate. What would Amy think of that part of him?

Not to mention that other part of him getting stiff around her…

He seethed out another harsh breath. Our Shining Lady of Perpetual Fire curse the claiming season.

One more ramp down took them to the heart of the crew quadrant where the light of the suns was completely eclipsed by artificial glows. Even the shadows were filled with neon, xenon, laser light, and plasma. Which didn’t actually make the place look any more welcoming. Following instincts he hadn’t known he possessed, Luc transferred the blaster from the satchel to the hip holster on his ships fatigues.

Amy stepped to his other side, clearing the way. “I thought we were just here for information.”

“Sometimes information is more valuable than credits.” He averted his gaze from a holo-vid Tygean dancing lasciviously in one doorway, the luxurious pelt along her scalp, shoulders and spine rippling with a sensual grace that seemed more menacing that the Ryliin trio. “I admit I had not anticipated how hazardous the collection of the information would be.”

She nodded thoughtfully. “Can I have a blaster?”

“No.”

“But—”

“Closed-worlders are not to have technology advanced beyond their own capacity. I’m not going to compound my crime of keeping you here by giving you a blaster too.”

She huffed out a breath and crinkled the short bridge of her pert nose in a way he found inexplicably fascinating. “Oh sure, now you follow the rules.”

“I always follow the rules,” he corrected. “I’m an accountant.” The steady, reliable progression of his life had always seemed quite sensible, much more practical than his brothers’ rampaging around the galaxies. But now, in his ships fatigues with the blaster at one side and an illicit off-worlder on the other, he could appreciate the chaotic allure of the Great Space Race show.

The Degenerate Smugglers’ Lounge and Day Spa was a strange oasis in the depths of Lower Town. The front display glowed a soothing aquatic blue-green overlaid with the gold silhouette of a velocious-class scouter—a ship popular with smugglers for its speed and low sensor footprint, and its flair. A galaxy away from a repurposed honeymoon cruiser with its awkward one-berth sleeping arrangements.

The feral spirit within him that had bristled at the Ryliiin trio swelled at the thought of the single berth…

“This looks less degenerate and more exfoliated,” Amy said under her breath, distracting him. “Are we sure we’re going to find a cheat code here?”

“It’s not cheating,” Luc reminded her. “It’s a clue.”

After a moment, she nodded. “If calling it that helps us sleep at night.”

He wouldn’t have any trouble sleeping in that single bed if— As the lounge hostess approached, he cut off that thought with a quickness.

“Welcome,” the hostess chimed. “Are you here for smuggling or spa-ing? Thieving or aero-therapy? Degenerating or restorating?”

“If you could direct us to the lounge,” Luc said politely.

“Ah. So you are degenerates.” The hostess smiled.

“No,” Luc started to correct her.

“Very,” Amy said over him. She sauntered in the direction the hostess pointed. “C’mon, Cool Hand Luc.”

His universal translator offered no context for the extra words she added to his name, so he knew it must be some Earther reference.

If there were Octiron cameras watching, it sounded good, so he followed her with a bit of sauntering of his own.

Inside the lounge was darker than the ramps outside. Luc scanned the shadows, feeling his pupils widen into hunting mode. The response was as primitive—and seductive—as the possessiveness of Amy as his unwitting mate.

His glance skimmed past a large figure tucked into a back corner then returned. The being lifted his eyes from his beverage, and they locked gazes. The other male—Luc’s primitive spirit sensed the gender competition—gave a faint nod.

Luc took Amy’s elbow and swung her toward the occupied alcove. He let her slide across the seating, keeping the blaster clear.

The male was a Nivinian, his skin and eyes not just white but totally devoid of any color. The paleness should have made him seem slight; instead, his presence felt menacing, like the snowy cornice perched on the edge of a mountain, waiting to crash down. He studied them as they settled, and Luc did the same in return. He’d had little experience with smugglers—not surprisingly—but this one seemed like a typical case: hard and cold as an asteroid tumbling through deep space, and probably equally dead inside. But the smuggler didn’t have to be cheery or chatty; he just needed to have the token that would grant them passage through the Paradox Galaxy.

The smuggler said nothing and Luc followed his lead, until finally the other male gave a curt nod. “Rickster sent you.”

Since it was more a statement than a question, Luc gave an equally curt nod in return. “You have the token.” Also not a question.

The Nivinian put his hand on the table, palm slightly cupped. “If you want it.” He lifted his hand to reveal the disk.

Luc sidelonged a glance at Amy along with a tiny jerk of his chin toward the token, but when she reached to retrieve it, the smuggler clamped his hand over hers. She eeped in alarm and tried to pull back.

Luc pulled the blaster. His pulse slammed with fury when the other male didn’t release her.

“You sure you want it?” The smuggler’s colorless eyes narrowed. “You two seem like a nice couple. A token of passage will take you places, but sometimes those places are…not what you think. Or want.”

“I think I will burn a hole through your heart if you don’t let her go,” Luc growled.

“Burn a hole with that mini-blaster or your breath, unlucky drakling?” The Nivinian smirked. “Either way, you don’t know where my heart is.”

“I plan to make it a very large, very colorful hole,” Luc assured him.

Amy fisted her small hand and yanked back. “We’re a team.”

The smuggler looked down at her, as if surprised she’d escaped his grasp. “What?”

“Not a couple,” she said. “A team. The Great Space Race has teams. And we’re a legit team: a galaxy-class numbers cruncher and an infamous, intrepid interstellar explorer.” She nodded, much less curtly than they had, her black hair flipping around her face. “That’s us.”

The two males stared at her curiously, and Luc wondered when she had upgraded herself from famous to infamous.

“Intrepid?” the smuggler drawled. He glanced at Lux. “And you crunch as well as burn? I guess me questioning your use of the token is unnecessary.”

“That’s right,” Amy said stoutly. She rolled her hand and unfurled her fingers to reveal the small, flat disk. She squinched her nose. “Doesn’t look like much.”

“Neither do you two.” The smuggler smirked again. But Luc noticed how the other male’s white gaze lingered on Amy. “It’ll get you where you want to go.”

“Back home,” she murmured.

Luc’s chest tightened. They were both uncertain participants in this race with their need to get home, she to her closed world, he to his overpowering brothers. He could use more of her determination.

He lifted his chin. “Once we win.”

She glanced at him, her brow furrowed. When their gazes met, she swallowed hard then clamped her fingers around the token. “Exactly.”

The Nivinian sat back with a chuckle. “I’ll be watching Team Prism with great interest. Might even bet a few credits on you.”

“Betting is a game of chance and should be played for entertainment purposes only, not investment,” Luc said with a smirk of his own.

“I’ll keep that in mind, cruncher.” The smuggler stood. “Good luck. Although I suppose for you, that’s an insult.”

The other male strode away with only a nod for the hostess who lingered nearby. The hostess trotted toward their alcove and stopped in front of them as two drink ampules emerged from within the table.

“From Idrin,” she gushed. “The very best moon-brandy, he said.”

Luc grunted in annoyance at the other male’s presumption. But Amy reached for one of the ampules as the hostess flitted away.

“I’ve heard about moon-brandy,” she said. “I think we deserve a toast.”

He couldn’t toast any more than he could burn… But he took the second ampule. “Where did you hear about moon-brandy? Your closed world shouldn’t have any.”

“My boss.” Amy frowned. “He must be an alien too, or at least know about you, since he had the brandy. He was sharing it with the woman who was supposed to be your partner.” She twisted the translucent tube between her fingers before sneaking a glance at him. “Sorry.”

Probably he should be more angry that she’d interfered with his plans. But since he’d never met the other woman, he’d never know what he was missing. “Seems you’re doing well enough so far.”

She twisted her lips to one side, her nose wrinkling too. “Except for covering my eyes and screaming?”

The mix of humor and despair almost made him chuckle. She might not be a famous or infamous interstellar explorer, but something about her intrigued him. Maybe it was precisely that she was not that—and yet here she was anyway. “Look at you now, with moon-brandy and a galactic token.”

She stared uncertainly at the tube in one hand and the flat disk in the other. “I just wanted plain old Earth coffee,” she murmured. “But I guess it’s happy hour somewhere in the universe, right?”

When he lifted his ampule, she clinked her drink against his. The gesture startled him—an Earther ritual, apparently—and he was a moment behind her taking a sip. Which let him appreciate her gasp at the cold burn of the moon-brandy.

“It’s like being spaced but you won’t actually die,” he remarked as she sputtered.

“Isn’t good brandy supposed to be smooth?”

“Have you ever seen a moon? They’re usually wrecked by space debris.”

“Earth’s moon is pretty messed up. Too bad we don’t have time to get wrecked, but…this’ll have to do.” She tilted the ampule straight up over her lips, her throat working.

Luc traced the graceful lines with his eyes then took a hasty drink of his own brandy to drown the surge of primal temptation.

It was those larfing mating moons, burning over the wild deserts on a planet far away. His lust had no place on civilized Primaera, with this innocent closed-worlder.

Larf it. He drank the rest of the brandy and smacked the drained ampule on the table.

Amy placed hers down more deliberately. “What did Idrin, or whatever his name was, mean about you being unlucky?”

She’d caught that snide comment. Lip lifting in a soundless snarl, Luc rose from the table. “Nothing that matters.”

Nothing that mattered anymore, anyway.

Which of course contradicted his decision to humiliate himself in this ridiculous race…

Amy hopped up to follow him. “For something that doesn’t matter, it sure seemed to bother you.”

He didn’t bother shortening his stride for her as he headed for the exit. “You’ve never met a drakling, didn’t even know that aliens existed before, but now you can tell what I’m feeling?”

“You might be an alien to me, a drakling, but I recognized that look.”

“Oh really?” He stiff-armed out the door.

She trotted along beside him. “Yeah, I know all about not living up to expectations.”

“I wasn’t supposed to live at all,” he snapped. And immediately regretted it when she let out a stifled gasp. He grimaced. “Never mind. This has nothing to do with the race.”

She was silent long enough that he almost started to relax, thinking she’d let it go. But then she said softly, “Sure. It’s only the reason we’re doing this at all.”

True enough. Maybe explaining to her would make her understand why he was dragging her along where she wasn’t supposed to be. “I was the thirteenth egg of my clutch, the last left unhatched when my brothers were already flying free.”

In the Lower Town darkness, she blinked several times. “Thirteenth…egg. Did I hear that right or did the moon-brandy burn a hole in my brain?”

“Draklings are born from eggs,” he said impatiently. “And large clutches are our way. But thirteen…” His jaw clenched, as if he could bite back the memories. The sting of the drink was like mockery. “So many is considered unlucky, and the last is always a runt.”

“You? A runt?” She snorted. “Because a dozen boys are so much easier to handle than that extra one.”

After a moment, his tension eased. “I confess, I stayed as far away from them as I could.”

Her snort this time was more of a laugh, tinted with the scent of the brandy. “I don’t blame you. I bet twelve older brothers would be too much for anyone, even someone who wanted siblings.” A touch of wistfulness turned her mouth downward.

Why was he so keyed to the dance of her lips? He focused on the words instead. “You didn’t have siblings?”

She shook her head. “Only child. My parents would’ve preferred a boy, but…” The shrug of her one shoulder told him more than words would have. “They put all their eggs in one basket: me.”

He considered. “Having all that attention must’ve been as hard as having none of it.”

When she glanced up at him sidelong, the garish artificial lights glinted in the black strands of her hair. “Maybe we were fated to be teammates.”

Fated…mates…

Larfing mating moons and larfing moon-brandy.

Reaching the surface levels above Lower Town did nothing to bring back the light since both suns had set while they were below ground. The elegant, exotic elite of Primaera were taking advantage of the evening to stroll about with a casualness entirely at odds with the urgency thrumming in Luc. He tucked the blaster and the token into his satchel, not wanting to attract the wrong sort of attention.

Amy, however, observed the nightlife with wide, dark eyes. “I should’ve gotten some hair gel from the spa side of the lounge,” she muttered.

Compared to the cosmically cosmopolitan citizens of the city, even he with his purple scales felt drab, and his little closed-worlder in her oversized ships fatigues was definitely at a disadvantage, impressions-wise. He frowned. Some of the prizes of the race were awarded—unfairly, he’d always thought—based on the entertainment value of the team in question, rewarding their antics rather than their results. Amy was already going to have to work hard to hold her own against the flashier teams, considering she was a backward Earther. The least he could do was try to give her a boost from behind.

He realized his gaze had settled unconsciously on her backside when she’d walked a few steps ahead, peering into the display of one of the Upper Town shops. Cursing again at those faraway hot homeworld moons, he snapped his eyes back into socially acceptable positions. But larf it, he felt as if he had one of Rickster’s wayward googley eyes—a part of him still locked like a retractor beam on Amy’s curves, wanting to pull her closer…

“We should get you some better clothes,” he said. “Something that fits.” Maybe covering her curves properly would ease his distraction. Maybe a full custom suit of mechanized combat armor—

She glanced over her shoulder at him, her eyes widening. “I’ve always wanted a gay friend to take me shopping.”

He frowned as his translator offered its interpretation of her comment. “I’m not—”

She blushed. “I mean, I know we’re not really friends, just teammates.” She pressed one knuckle over her lower lip. “Or… Oh geez, that was rude of me, wasn’t it? I shouldn’t’ve drunk that brandy on an empty stomach. Just because you’re gay and hot and sexy yourself doesn’t mean you want to mentor a hopeless case like me.”

“I’m not…hot.” He wasn’t sure how to answer the rest. “You’re not hopeless.”

She glanced down at herself. “Earlier today—was it just today?—I was wearing an apron and covered in popcorn oil.”

He wasn’t sure how to answer that either. “Now you’re on another planet wearing another woman’s clothes. Let’s see who you really are.”

She tilted her head to meet his gaze, nibbling her lip. “What if…I’m not anyone? Or not anyone special?”

“I’m one of thirteen,” he reminded her. “Not just not special, they would’ve crushed me in the shell but no one bothered with me even that much. And now I’m the most in-demand accountant in my division.” He trailed off. An infamous interstellar explorer probably wasn’t going to be impressed by his credentials…

She hunched her shoulders around her ears. “I told you I failed advanced math and I was even worse at violin. But I would love to be the cool alien for once, like you.”

He quirked his lips. “I thought I was hot.” He pitched his voice carefully so she’d know he was just teasing.

She reached out to take his hand as she had when she’d asked for courage. “I’m not aiming that high. I’ve accepted my limits. Still, not stumbling over my own boots would be a good first step.”

The wild spirit within him coiled restlessly. It didn’t like the idea of aiming low—real draklings had wings, after all—but he’d accepted his limits a long time ago.

Amy, though, hadn’t reached hers, not when her small world had held her back. She still had a whole galaxy ahead of her. Suddenly, the idea of the Great Space Race didn’t seem so absurd.

Everyone was searching for some treasure, somewhere, and the universe was a very large place. Maybe she’d find hers.

Maybe he would too.

How the show viewers must be laughing at anyone—even a closed-worlder—thinking he was sexy, but he found his spirits, including the wild one inside him, rising.

“Let’s get you that gel,” he said. “And anything else you need. Then we’re off to the race.”