Chain Reaction (12 page)

Yet he wasn’t entirely without weapons. His hand might be injured, but he could still form a fist, and his brain worked perfectly.

He edged closer, then launched himself at Marek. They both went rolling across the top of the wall. Using his elbow, Nils rammed into Marek’s wrist, again and again, until the blaster Marek carried fell from his hand.

Fear, anger and pain seemed to turn Marek from a stocky, pallid engineer into a maddened beast. He lashed out at Nils as they grappled, his thickset body filled with unnatural strength. Somehow, Marek dug his fingers into Nils’s shoulder. Nils’s arm suddenly went numb, and he couldn’t move it. Marek seized his advantage, and pined Nils down, pressing his forearm into Nils’s throat. Though Nils struggled, rage energized Marek, making it almost impossible to dislodge him. The world grew gray at the edges.

“Fucking NerdWorks golden boy,” snarled Marek. Spittle gathered in the corners of his mouth, and his eyes bulged. “Kissing the 8
^th
Wing’s ass. Being their little tame
geelcat
. I’m not dancing at their command. Everything is for
me
. Only
me.
”

Nils bucked, throwing his knee into Marek’s back. Momentarily caught off guard, Marek’s hold on Nils’s neck lessened. Regaining the use of his arm, Nils shoved Marek back, then lodged his boot against the traitor’s chest. Taking hold of Marek’s arms, Nils threw him overhead.

Nils rolled to his feet and up in time to see Marek go sprawling on the top of the wall. Momentum carried the heavier man, and he tumbled toward the edge. His fingers scrabbled to hold on, barely managing to catch himself. But he was too heavy, and while his fingers held, his body slid off. Marek dangled above the churning sea, legs flailing, mouth contorted in a scream.

Calmly, he walked over to where Marek hung. He stared down at the traitor, watching as if from a great distance while Marek sweated and yelled, only a slip away from falling to his death.

“Help me!” Marek shouted.

“Why?” Nils asked evenly. He made sure to keep enough distance so that Marek could not grab his legs.

“Because…” Marek struggled to think as his fingers began to slip. He whimpered. “Because you’re 8
^th
Wing!”

“Precisely. And because I
am
8
^th
Wing, I’m going to enjoy watching you fall.”

“No! Help!” Marek’s grip loosened. And the traitor fell.

The fall wasn’t a straight one, and Marek went bouncing against the side of the cliff several times with enough force to knock free debris. They went tumbling down with him, and both the traitor and the rubble smashed onto the sharp rocks at the base of the cliff. What remained of Marek then tumbled into the sea.

Sudden dizziness swirled through Nils’s head. He took a step back from the edge. And then another. Drew air deep into his lungs. He had done it. Watched as Marek fell to his death.

He had done it for the 8
^th
Wing, for himself and for Celene. She’d never find herself helpless again.

He stared down at his hands as if seeing them for the first time, realizing that he had finally become a soldier.

Hoping for a glimpse of her, he turned his gaze toward the sky.

Celene sped after the PRAXIS clipper, holding fast to its tail as they both shot out of the planet’s atmosphere. The clipper’s rear guns went into action, and she wove from side to side, dodging the gunfire. She fired back, but the enemy pilot was skilled and eluded her shots.

She made sure not to get on the enemy’s outside, allowing him to turn. PRAXIS clippers could get a lot of speed, and the faster they went, the sharper their turns could be. She couldn’t allow the clipper to turn and get behind her, making
her
the target rather than the hunter.

Problem was, the Phantom didn’t have the speed and maneuverability of a clipper. She clenched her teeth in frustration, wanting her Wraith but knowing she wasn’t going to get it.

With a sharp turn, the clipper sped around her, until it was on her tail. Exactly where she didn’t want it to be.

“Son of a
vihond
,” she spat.

It didn’t matter how good she was at the controls. She was fettered by the mechanical limitations of her ship. She skittered from side to side, trying to keep the enemy from targeting directly. If the clipper locked onto her, she was finished.

But combat piloting wasn’t always about the capabilities of one’s ship. Half of the battle was fought in the mind. She needed to be smarter, not faster. Once, when she had been bored during a long leave, she had read a text on a digitablet about ancient fighting techniques using long metal weapons called
swords.
Opponents weren’t always evenly matched, so it was up to the weaker opponent to outthink her adversary.

Insight came to her at once, and she smiled grimly as she set her plan into motion. “Let’s see if you’re as stupid as you are ugly,” she muttered.

She feinted to the right, a classic twist and roll straight from any pilot’s basic training. Such a maneuver would leave her completely open, an easy target to be taken down with a single countermaneuver and blast from the clipper’s plasma cannons.

And, like a greedy bastard, the PRAXIS clipper took the bait. It sped after her.

Only she didn’t actually perform the twist and roll. She pulled back on the throttle, going into a lateral hold.

The clipper roared past her. Directly into her targeting system.

She opened fire.

The PRAXIS ship blew apart in a cascade of debris and energy. And with it went the plans for the disruptor. Now reduced to atoms and lost to the infinite reaches of space.

Yet she didn’t allow herself a moment to savor her victory. She brought the Phantom around and sped back toward the planet. Back to Nils.

If he was still alive, she hoped he could forgive her. And if he wasn’t alive, she would never forgive herself.

Celene’s grip tightened on the controls as she neared the planet. She entered the planetary atmosphere and approached the coast where the compound was situated. Details came into focus as she flew lower—the individual treetops, the peaks of waves pounding against the shore. And there, the compound, with its walled perimeter. Her gaze moved quickly along the top of the wall, scanning for signs of Nils. Nothing.

Her heart contracted sharply. She’d suffered losses of comrades in the past, seen some of her squad mates die right off her own wing, and mourned. The memories and absences never truly dissipated, remaining a low, constant ache. Yet it was a tolerable ache, more readily borne by the fact that this was war, and war meant death and loss.

But if Nils had fallen… She knew she would survive. As a husk, empty of everything inside.

She brought the Phantom around and lowered down to the landing pad. As the ship touched the ground, she saw a figure running toward her.

Her throat closed, and her pulse stuttered. The figure wore an 8
^th
Wing uniform, and sped toward her with a long-legged stride. Nils.

Fumbling with the buckle of her safety belt, she struggled to rise. The moment the buckle came undone, she slammed from the cockpit and out of the ship.

Nils collided with her. She barely had time to notice how bruised and dirty he was, the fatigue sharpening his features. All she saw was his face, the long lines of his body, and then they were embracing. Her arms wrapped around him, and he held her just as tightly, cradling her head with one hand, stroking the length of her body with the other as if to confirm that she was real.

One of them shook. Or maybe they both did. She didn’t know. She
did
know that relief poured through her so hot and furious she felt almost ill with it.

Eventually they managed to separate. Only a few inches. Grime streaked Nils’s face and she gently rubbed at it, then decided to leave it be. He looked like a fighter, the furthest thing from a NerdWorks recluse who never left the safety of Engineering, and emotion tore through her.

For a moment, they simply stared at one another, until the savage tenderness in his gaze made her look away. In the heat of battle, she had turned her back on him, and it felt like an open wound.

“Marek?” she asked.

He shook his head. “There isn’t going to be a court-martial.”

“Was it good and painful?”

A dark pleasure lit his eyes. “Extremely.”

8
^th
Wing regulations demanded the lengthy justice process, but for once, she was happy to subvert it. If his disruptor had made it into PRAXIS’s hands, Marek would have wiped out the 8
^th
Wing in a slow, ugly death. She wanted him to suffer. That might go against principles, yet she didn’t care. Let Marek hurt, then rot. He deserved it, and worse.

“PRAXIS?” Nils asked. “The disruptor plans?”

“Cosmic dust.”

A grin spread across his mouth. “Never expected anything less.” His gaze heated, and he lowered his head for a kiss.

Much as she wanted that kiss, she pulled away. He stared at her with a puzzled frown as she paced away to the edge of the landing pad. Strange, she’d once faced seven PRAXIS ships without a molecule of real fear, but what she had to tell Nils made her heart pound and her mouth go dry.

She stared out at the debris-strewn compound, parts from the sentries and bots lying in smoking heaps. Desolation washed over the compound, the sound of the waves a dull roar, and heavy, tropic air listlessly stirring the dust.

She drew a breath. She had to say this now. No turning away.

“I left you,” she said on a rasp. “When PRAXIS was getting away, and I flew after in pursuit. I left you.”

“Of course you left,” he answered, clearly puzzled. “You had to go after them and destroy the plans. The only rational action.”

She spun to face him. “But I saw you, as I was flying away. You and Marek, on the wall, fighting. And I kept going. I left you.” The throb in her injured arm faded beneath the raw ache of her confession. “I’m sorry, Nils.”

He stared at her for too long. Then, “I don’t accept your apology.”

She ought to have suspected this, but it didn’t stop the hurt. “I understand.”

To her surprise, he didn’t back away. Instead, he stepped closer, threading his hands behind her neck. Securing her, giving her support.

“I don’t accept your apology,” he said hotly, “because there’s nothing that requires it.”

“But I abandoned you—”

His fingers tightened, as did the line of his mouth. “Celene, this is
war
. Each of us has a duty to carry out, and if we let personal feelings hinder us from performing that duty, we don’t deserve to wear these uniforms. I’m not angry. Not disappointed. You fulfilled your responsibility, just as I fulfilled mine.” A crease appeared between his brows. “This kind of regret doesn’t seem like you.”

“It’s just that…” She struggled to speak. “This is new for me—caring for someone the way I care about you. Leaving you behind as you fought for your life…it tore me apart.”

His gaze flared, yet he said levelly, “But you did what you had to.”

She nodded, her neck stiff with the effort.

“Then there’s nothing to regret. I’m
proud
of you, Celene.”

The strength of his words felt like the notes of a Ellalian bell, chiming low and melodious, lifting her higher. “And I’m proud of you, Nils.”

“Good,” he rumbled, “because now I’m going to kiss you until we knock this planet out of orbit.”

They came together, mouths hungry, hands gripped tight. The kiss awakened every nerve within her, transforming the fury and terror of the fight into consuming desire, creating a chain reaction of need. Her body tightened, and she soaked in the feel of him against her, hard with muscle, alive, purposeful. He met her with his own strength. It felt as though they could generate enough power to realign whole solar systems.

She reluctantly took her lips from his. “Until we reach home base, the mission remains ongoing.”

“Meaning,” he said with disappointment, “we don’t get to see where this kiss leads.”

“Need to make a sweep of all the buildings.” She glanced around at the wreckage. “Marek might have stashed more copies of the disruptor plans.”

“Or other weapons. But first, let’s tend your wounds.”

After Nils saw to her injuries, she said, “Now let’s clean this place out like we’re defleaing a
vihond
.”

Weariness weighted her body, but she forced herself to go through the entire compound. She and Nils moved from building to building, sifting through debris, piles of equipment and months of accumulated detritus. Nils cursed long and creatively when he uncovered a cache of experimental weaponry—the functionality of which she could only guess at, but, knowing Marek, they would’ve been brutal. Fortunately, they found no more assembled disruptors, nor plans, but everything suspect they gathered into a heap in the central of the compound.

“I would almost suggest taking these weapons back to base for further study,” Nils murmured, staring down at them, “but that means a slim chance that they might be put into use.”

So, he concocted an accelerant from materials found in Marek’s workshop, and the lot of it was turned to smoldering remains.

“The smoke reminds me of the old-fashioned purification ceremonies they still perform on my homeworld every Solstice.” She stared at the column of smoke as it rose into the sky. “Wonder if Marek’s greed and malice are being scattered amongst the clouds, never to be seen or experienced again.”

“I wish that were true.” Nils’s arm came up to wrap around her shoulder, and she knew he felt the same weight she did, the fight with PRAXIS that seemed endless. What would life in peacetime be like? She’d been born into war, and it might continue long after her. But the alternative was worse—a galaxy completely enslaved to a massive corporate monster. The fight had to continue, for as long as it took.

She turned away from the smoking debris. “We ought to raze the compound, as well.”

“Keep PRAXIS from finding anything when they come back.”

“And they will when their emissary fails to return with the disruptor.”

“Let’s leave them nothing but ashes,” Nils said.

Together, she and Nils set up charges all over the compound. The sun began to set by the time they returned to the Phantom, long shadows streaking the dusty ground. They buckled in, and she engaged the thrusters for liftoff. As soon as they were high enough, Nils triggered the charges. Vibrations shook the ascending Phantom as detonations tore through the compound, large fireballs decimating the heavy perimeter walls and leveling the structures.

“It’s kind of pretty.” She watched the riot of color below as the explosion encountered more flammable material.

He chuckled. “Trust you to find an explosion aesthetically pleasing.”

They broke the atmosphere, the planet disappearing behind them. Not an ounce of regret touched her when the planet finally disappeared from their sensors.

“Time to head home,” she said.

But she didn’t know what awaited her at home. Would she be Stainless Jur or Celene? A fling Nils could boast about? Or did he want more?

Could she truly allow herself that kind of vulnerability? She prided herself on her courage, but in so many ways, the heart was more fragile than the body. A body could be destroyed only once, but one’s heart could be torn apart again and again.

It’d be easy to fall back into her old role again. To take up the armor of Stainless Jur, surrounding herself with other Black Wraith pilots who never truly knew her, and be content with the sterile admiration from the rest of the 8
^th
Wing. Nothing touched her. Nothing hurt her.

Or she could take the chance with Nils. And possibly have her heart cut open with all of 8
^th
Wing watching.

Nervousness danced in Nils’s stomach as the 8
^th
Wing home base came into view. For the past solar weeks, he and Celene had been essentially alone. The flight back had been an exercise in delayed gratification—they’d kissed, and touched, but that was all. The stretches of space between Marek’s former hideout and home base were too dangerous to trust to autopilot, so Nils and Celene had stolen moments here and there, yet never made love.

They hadn’t talked about what would happen when they got back to base.

Anxiety and sexual frustration roiled through him. What was she going to do once they returned to their normal lives, their normal roles? She was Stainless Jur, one of the Black Wraith Squad’s best, if not
the
best. He was the pride of NerdWorks. The two didn’t intermingle, let alone become lovers.

During this mission, something had taken shape between them, an intimacy greater than sex. But would she try to deny it once she settled back into her world, and he in his? Would she push him away, or, worse, grow indifferent? He’d seen her eyes burn with passion. He couldn’t stand to have her look at him with cool detachment.

Resolution straightened his shoulders. He wasn’t going to cling to her boots, beg for her affection. If she wanted to move on without a backward glance, he’d let her go. Their time together had been…the best of his life. But he had more life left in him. He could move on, too.

A tense silence filled the Phantom’s cockpit as they approached the dock. The easy conversation and lingering touches fell away, leaving them precisely where they had been at the beginning of the mission.

The ship finally touched down. Outside the window, he saw Admiral Gamlyn, Commander Frayne, Ensign Skiren and a dozen other members of the 8
^th
Wing—Black Wraith pilots, members of Engineering and Major Ishan, the head of Engineering. Though the higher-ranking officers looked serious, as befitting their station, many others smiled. Especially Ensign Skiren, who alternated between clapping and hooting something through her cupped hands.

Celene did not immediately rise from her seat. Instead, she stared out the window. “I thought I’d be glad to get back.”

Before he could ask her to clarify this, the door to the Phantom opened, and Admiral Gamlyn entered the small ship.

He and Celene finally got to their feet and saluted. It felt oddly uncomfortable to have the admiral on board, as if she were trespassing. Ludicrous. She was an admiral of the 8
^th
Wing, and had every right to be on the Phantom. Yet it felt like a violation of privacy, just the same.

“Excellent work, Lieutenants,” said the admiral. “The fleet let out a collective sigh of relief when we learned that the disruptor will no longer be a threat.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” he and Celene said in unison.

Admiral Gamlyn gestured for them to precede her out of the Phantom. With peculiarly heavy feet, he did so. When he stepped out of the ship, he felt a strange tightness over his skin, as if his old self tried to reclaim him. But he refused to sink into that former identity. When Commander Frayne strode forward to shake Nils’s hand, Nils returned the shake firmly and looked the commander right in the eye. The commander’s grip did not seem as crushing as it once did. Or maybe Nils had more strength than before. Frayne’s brow rose, and new respect appeared in his gaze.

“Lieutenant,” Major Ishan stepped forward, “you’ve given Engineering bragging rights for the next twenty solar cycles.”

“Should be thirty,” Celene said before Nils could speak.

Murmurs of agreement rose up from the gathered Engineering crew.

“Looks like the legend of Stainless Jur is only going to grow.” Ensign Skiren knocked a fist into Celene’s shoulder. “They’re using
Jur
as a verb now. You know, ‘If you want something done right, you have to
Jur
it yourself.’”

The Black Wraith pilots chuckled amongst themselves, nudging each other with their elbows.

Admiral Gamlyn cleared her throat. “Pleased as Command is by your results, we will need to conduct a thorough debriefing, as well as an inquiry into why Marek was not brought back for court-martial.”

“Impossible to court-martial a dead man,” Nils answered. Then added, “Ma’am.”