He pushed the data to her, and she flicked it up over her lens as Raaze haggled for their dinner. Her frown deepened as she read. This was weird. There were delivery windows that didn’t match standard scheduling and missed runs that nobody had followed up on. She dug deeper and found supply manifests with gaps that suggested either incompetence or deliberate interference.
Someone was making it harder for supplies to reach Parac’Norr. Not impossible, just harder and slower. Which made it more expensive.
She filed it without mentioning it to Raaze.
Are you not going to tell him?
Not yet. I don’t know what it means.
It means someone with resources is deliberately constraining supply lines to a prison planet full of exiled Izaean. The implications are?—
I said, not yet.
She folded her arms and thought over what she’d read as Raaze handed her a packet. It turned out to be some sort of bread wrap filled with grilled meat and, thank heavens, actual fried onions.
She was still thinking when they headed back to the ship.
If the plan worked… if Raaze won the Summer League wildcard match … if she successfully leveraged the R'Tev in their private box… if the evidence held and the dead man’s switch kept them both breathing.
And… that was a lot of ifs. But if they did all that, then his name got cleared. He got his life back. His career, fame, money… everything.
And she got… what?
A cleared registration and a ship that wasn’t flagged for harboring a fugitive. She’d go home, where Kian would be waiting with that smug expression he wore whenever she failed, and her father would shake his head with disappointment. Again.
Nothing would have changed.
Your silence has a specific quality, Fred said as they reached the ship. Would you like to discuss it?
No.
Would you like me to pretend I haven’t noticed it?
Yes.
14
Chapter 13
Cait leaned back in the pilot’s chair, the worn plasti-leather creaking. The H4-RPY hummed along its course toward Nethlaar, the planet hosting this year’s Summer League, stars streaking past the viewport in lazy ribbons. Fred kept the ship steady, so there had been no need for her to touch the controls for hours.
The gentle hum of the engines was a counterpoint to the methodical tapping of her fingers on the edge of the display. She’d been staring at the same logistics form for twenty minutes, but the information stubbornly refused to stick in her brain.
Your attention span is diminished by approximately seventy-eight percent, Fred noted. Would you like me to take over the manifest preparations?
“I’m fine.”
The evidence suggests otherwise.
She sighed and pushed away from the console. “Fine. Put the cargo bay feed on the main screen.”
As you wish. Fred’s tone was smug. Though I would like to note that this is the third time you’ve made this request in the past hour. You were never so interested in our cargo before.
She sighed. “Just do it.”
The screen flickered to life, and there he was. Raaze moved through the cargo bay with the controlled power of a predator, all coiled strength and precise movements. He’d stripped down to loose pants, his bare chest gleaming with sweat as he worked through his drills.
He’d adapted the cargo bay into a training room, piling up crates to create what looked like an assault course. She recognized items from the ship’s long-term storage, like spare bunk mattress pads now being used as strike zones and attached to various points around the room. Frowning, she tapped the screen to alter the camera angle.
