“The terms were made under duress while Fred had a targeting lock on me. Situations change.” He followed her. “I checked the charts. Vess'tra is the wrong way. I need to go toward the center of the Empire. We can adjust the trajectory at the gravity well?—”
“No.”
She reached a console near the engine housing and started punching in a diagnostic. Grease smudged one side of her jaw, and a rigid line of tension sat across her shoulders that hadn’t been there in the airlock.
“It’s a small adjustment,” he said. “Adds six hours to your trip. I’ll pay for the fuel.”
“I don’t want your money.”
“Everyone wants money. Or are you running a charity for wayward fugitives?”
“I’m running a business.” She hit a key hard enough to make the panel clack. “And right now, that business is already operating at a loss because I had to burn emergency fuel to get your ass off the ground. I have a schedule. I have a contract.”
“Screw the contract.”
She spun fast enough that a loose strand of red hair whipped across her face. She swiped it away with an irritated movement.
“I missed my window because of you,” she said. “I missed the primary slot at Vess'tra, which means I lost the bonus. I am not losing the secondary pickup.”
“Secondary pickup?” He went still. “You’re stopping before Vess'tra?”
“Yeah, freight pickup. Standard run.”
“I can’t do a pickup.”
“You aren’t doing anything. You’re sitting on a bench.”
“Rhenn, listen to me.” He took another step toward her. The wall near his ear gave a high, needy whine. “I am a fugitive. If you dock with a commercial freighter?—”
“We aren’t docking. It’s a mag-pickup. Automated.” She shrugged, then stopped mid-stride. “Why did you call me Rhenn?”
He blinked, his brow furrowing. “I thought that was your name.”
“It is,” she said, sounding like he’d just asked why the sky was black. “It’s my surname.”
He stared at her, the word sliding around his head without catching. Surname. Then it clicked… it wasn’t a personal name, but a clan marker.
“Right,” he muttered, feeling a flicker of annoyance at the confusion. “Whatever. The mag-pickup’ll still ping the local net and register the ship’s ID. If they scan the life signs?—”
“Then they’ll see a registered pilot and a passenger. I logged you as transport.”
He just stared at her.
“You what?”
“I logged you. ‘Unruly cargo transport.’ It’s a sub-clause for bounty transfers. Keeps the inspectors from asking why the passenger is locked in the corridor.” She turned back to the screen. “You took my ship. You kidnapped me. You don’t get to pick the itinerary. I’m stopping at the pickup, I’m loading the crates, and then I’m dumping you at Vess'tra. “
“The terms,” Raaze said, his voice dropping into a growl, “are going to get us both arrested.”
“The terms,” she said as she kept typing, fingers flying over the keys. “were clear.”
He stood there a moment, breathing in recycled air, warm metal, ozone, and the copper tang of his own blood. The back of her neck showed where her hair had been dragged into a messy knot.
Vulnerable.
One move, a quick snap to close the distance and grab her, and he could force the authorization.
Click.
