TIMESLIDE

By

Stephanie Bedwell-Grime

© copyright by Stephanie Bedwell-Grime

Cover Art by Alex DeShanks (c) 2008

ISBN 973-1-60394-167-9

New Concepts Publishing

Lake Park, GA 31636

www.newconceptspublishing.com

This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, and places are of the author’s imagination and not to be confused with fact. Any resemblance to living persons or events is merely coincidence.

CHAPTER ONE: FROM WARRIOR TO PIRATE

We were losing the war.

That much was obvious. We could see our fate in the battered equipment that fell apart beneath our fingertips. We were so desperate for parts, we'd taken to scavenging our own craft just to keep a few ships in the air. The army could barely feed us. We were down to one lukewarm, watery meal a day and our uniforms were ripped and worn beyond recognition. We stole the boots off our fallen comrades rather than freeze to death in what had to be the most desolate hell hole in the galaxy.

Gamma 6 was cold, so cold it defied definition. Even the air you thought was safe to breathe froze in your throat before the heating systems in the ships kicked in. The most sophisticated equipment was rendered useless by the penetrating ice. We were so thoroughly chilled I swore I would never be warm again. The only thing that helped us forget the demoralizing frost was alcohol. We drank with hopeless abandon, booze being the only supply we had an abundance of.

So there we were, the most bedraggled, filthy lot to ever call themselves an army, drinking with determined grimness, the night before the battle that would decide our fate.

I was drunk, and I didn't care if the troops saw it. Salvation was impossible at this point, fighting a mere formality.

In a prophetic drunken haze, I wondered what the Malvarians would do

with us: line us up and shoot us, or simply raze the planet and forget about us until the radiation died down enough to re-colonize.

I was sure they would want me, however. For, if not virtuous, I was very good at my job. As Captain of the Strike Force, I had caused the Malvarians a lot of grief.

It was our task to locate strategic Malvarian bases, sneak up on them, and create a diversion while the Tallusian air force attacked. Our function wasn't to win a battle, or even to fight fair. It was to cause as much pain as possible. We pillaged. We plundered. We did as we were told. Most of us were too young to have ever known peace. War was our life.

And now we were about to pay dearly for Tallus' commitment to that war. I had visions of my head impaled on a stake outside the Malvarian capital. Actually, I'd be lucky if they finished me off that quickly.

I was long past the point of being able to walk without assistance, so I stayed, drinking out of reflex. The world was sliding this way and that and everything was blurry.

I watched a big, black smudge move towards me, lowering itself to the seat in front of me, and finally taking the shape of a man.

He was young, handsome, with very dark hair and piercing green, almond-shaped eyes. A long scar ran down his right cheek. It crinkled when he smiled. He was dressed in black civvies. He wasn't a warrior then. At another time I would have been interested, but on that night, he was just a barrier between me and the demise I'd already reconciled myself to.

“Hi soldier,” he said as I lifted my head from the table to size him up. He looked at the faded insignia on my flight suit. “I should say Captain. Captain …?”

“Keller,” I said. “Moraina Keller.” I let my head sink back down onto the table. “Leave me alone.”

“Actually, Captain Moraina Keller,” he said. “I have an offer to make you.”

“I'm not interested,” I said. “And it doesn't matter anyway. In a few short hours I'm going to be dead. That is, if I can sober up long enough to assemble my troops.”

He laid his head on the table beside mine, looking me in my bloodshot eyes.

“Now Captain Keller that would be a great waste. As it happens, I have a use for a trained killer, and I'm willing to pay very well.”

The world was swaying again. He had two noses. I propped my aching head up on my hands and blinked, bringing him back into focus.

“Who in all the hells are you, anyway?”

“Harrison Kong, The Third,” he answered smiling, offering his hand.

I left his hand hanging there in mid air. “Don't you have anything better to do, Mr. Kong?”

“No,” he answered, losing the self assured grin for just a second. “I need a trained killer. For my own protection.”

“You want me to desert the army to be your bodyguard?” I asked incredulously.

“It's hardly a promotion,” he said. “But it's better than being dead. And there's money in it. Lots and lots of money.”

“Money?” I mused, realizing I had no idea what to do with money anymore. “Go away,” I said, and passed out.

* * * *

I expected my loyal troops to haul me back to base in time for the battle, but it seems they were too drunk or too involved in their own pain to notice Harry as he tossed me over his shoulder and carted me out the door.

I awoke with a blinding headache. My first thought was that I was dead, and it was all over. But, I wasn't dead. I was in the cabin of a very sleek, expensive little ship, sleeping on the finest Valderaan silk sheets.

Vague memories drifted through my consciousness, sweaty bodies entwined on those pricey sheets, my own raw shouts of pleasure echoing through the cabin. Oh no, I thought with a pang of keen embarrassment, I hadn’t done those things, had I? Were those acrobatics even possible? I stretched experimentally and realized I ached in unusual places.

It was all coming back to me now ....

The movement had roused me and I came to in the cabin of Harry's ship. If he'd been a gentleman he would have offered me some stim, gotten me sober enough to walk and shipped me back to the barracks. But Harry was no gentleman. And the truth is I'm no lady, either.

Bleary-eyed as I was, Harry was beginning to look good. And another few glasses of Malvarian whiskey made him look even better. Like all Tallusians, I hated the Malvarians. We’d been at war for generations, but I had to admit, they sure could make whiskey. I shouldn't have been able to pour any more of it into my liquor-saturated body, but it went down like smooth fire. Surprisingly it perked me up a little. Maybe Harry had mixed some stim in with it after all. I was too drunk to care. It had been a long time since I'd been with a man, a long time since I'd thought of love or romance or anything beyond the next battle and whether I'd live to see another day.

What the heck, I thought. The night was young. I was good and drunk and not likely to live to see the next sunset. Why not?

Honestly, I should have lingered on that why not a little longer.

Still, I was sick to death of being strong and in charge, sick of trying to do the right thing. I wanted to live. I wanted to feel anything other than terror and dogged determination for a change. So I allowed Harry to pour me yet another whiskey. I allowed him to kiss me. I allowed him to lead me toward the spacious bunk in his well-appointed cabin. I allowed him to peel my flight suit from my shoulders and reveled in the feel of those hot, hungry lips as they dipped lower.

His tight jacket was difficult to undo. Or maybe it was just the extent of my drunkenness, because he covered my hands with his and helped me undo the metal clasps and toss his jacket aside. His loose shirt tumbled to the deck after it.

I hadn't dressed for this, came the muddy thought. Not that I owned any nice under things anymore. Best to get the clothes off quickly. Strange how drunken logic works. He didn't seem to notice or care.

As we tumbled to the bunk together, I stopped worrying and stopped caring, as well.

Skin to skin, I reveled in the feel of his taut warm body against mine. Yes, I thought. Tomorrow I might be dead. Would probably be dead, I corrected. Tonight I would claim as my own.

I angled my hips, taking him deep inside, marveling at how this stranger felt so right. I clung to him as we moved together and ignored the creaking of the bunk beneath us. Desire gathered and built, demanding release. As if from far away, I heard my cries of pleasure, followed swiftly by Harry’s.

We collapsed together, spent and sweaty. Exhaustion caught up with me finally, and I remembered nothing more.

Until now….

Warrior instincts kicked in. Memory flooded back into my consciousness. I sat up, banging my head on the unexpectedly low ceiling. I felt for my gun. It was missing. Sure enough, so were all my clothes.

“Morning,” Harry said, poking his smiling face into the cabin. He tossed me my flight suit. It was clean.

“Where am I?” I demanded, though I already knew the answer.

“On my ship, of course,” Harry answered cheerfully. “Do you like it?”

“Look,” I said. “I don't know what happened between us, but I've got a battle to fight.” Truth was I remembered exactly what had happened between us and so did he. He ignored my lie.

“Forget it. You lost. Tallus is on its way to oblivion, and we’re very far away from the battle. So you might as well take it easy.”

I suddenly realized what that rumbling under my feet was. We were moving at light speed, had been since last night.

“You kidnapped me?” I asked incredulously. “I ought to kill you.”

Harry held up my missing gun.

“Oh,” I said sweetly. “I don't need the gun. The first thing they teach you in the military is one hundred ways to kill a man with your bare hands. And I've had lots of practice.”

“You could be a little more grateful.” Harry pouted.

“Grateful? For what?”

“For saving your life.”

“I didn't want you to save my life,” I said. “I'm supposed to be dead. Everyone else I know is. It was only a matter of time, anyway.”

“And you never thought of using your talents for anything but fighting a war your ancestors got you into?” Harry asked.

“Talents?” I scoffed. “My talent is killing. It's the only one I have.”

“Fine,” he said. “I'm hiring you for your talent at killing.”

“You're a fool.” I told him. “This is a very small ship to be confined in the company of a trained assassin.”

“I'm not afraid of you.”

“You ought to be,” I warned him.

“Perhaps,” he said. “But I have one thing you need very badly right now.”

“Really,” I said. “And what might that be?”

He held up a tiny vacuum package. “Pain killers.”

I rubbed my pounding temples, a sly smile creeping across my face. I held out my hand.

“Not so fast,” Harry warned. “First I want your word I won't feel your knife in my back the minute it’s turned.”

“You have my knife.” I pointed to the blade lodged in his belt.

“Nevertheless, this is a small ship, and I have no doubt about your abilities.”

I looked again at the painkillers in his hand. “You drive a hard bargain, Mr. Kong.”

He took this as a compliment. “Call me Harry,” he said, smiling. “Well, what do you say?”

“All right, I assured him. “I promise I won't kill you, today,” I really wasn’t in any condition to do more than hold my aching head and moan, but I neglected to mention that.

He tossed me the package. “Fine,” he said. “We'll have to talk about tomorrow.”

“We'll have to talk,” I said, “about a lot of things.”

* * * *

Harry both intrigued and infuriated me. He was rich, heir to the wealthy Kong Dynasty, born into the good life, every privilege his for the asking, and the maddening conviction that things would always be that way. And yet he squandered his inheritance, choosing to make his money from ill-gotten means that amounted mostly to piracy. He was wasteful, disrespectful, rude, generous, handsome, and charming. He drove me crazy. Most of the time I fluctuated between wanting to strangle him and wanting to kiss him. I should have left him, but I had no where to go. The life Harry offered me was better than the alternatives.

So, I stayed. I found I was not badly suited to piracy after all.

* * * *

“How about that guy over there?” Harry asked months later, staring across the crowded bar in search of an easy victim.

I shook my head. “No money.”

“How do you know?”

“I’ve already tried to pick his pocket.”

“How disappointing for you,” Harry said, then, “So is that what you see in me? My money?”

What could I say? I’d gone from expecting to be dead to living in relative luxury. To say the money didn’t matter would be lying. “In the beginning,” I admitted. My smile widened, if Harry wanted honestly, I’d give it to him. “But then I realized I was going to have to hang around if I wanted a share of your galactic credit allowance. You see, I really didn’t believe you were a rich man, just a lucky pirate.”

“A pleasant surprise for you.”

“A surprise yes, I can't remember the last time you were pleasant.”

Harry grinned, a disconcerting gesture. “No money in being pleasant,” he said.

I drained my drink. “Well, seeing as we're about to do something miserable, it's a choice between my friend with the light wallet, or that guy right there.” I pointed to a large, mean looking hairy member of the Gemman race.

The Gemman in question had the barmaid up against the bar, quite obviously against her will. She loudly objected to the Gemman’s manhandling, but he overpowered her easily. No one seemed inclined to come to her rescue. Hot and prickly anger rose inside me. No woman should be treated that way.

“Come on,” Harry said. “I thought we were on holiday. I don't want to work too hard.”

I sized up the murderous looking creature. “I could take him out,” I said without bragging. “But it wouldn't be easy.”

Harry eyed him critically. I could tell the scene at the bar angered him, as well. “What's he carrying?”

“Gemman rubies.”

“What about the other guy?”

“Zubian laser guns and blasters.”

Harry thought it over. “Gemman rubies would be a lot easier to unload. They'd bring a good price almost anywhere.”

“True,” I agreed. “And they don't have serial numbers.”

“He's awfully big.”

“Don't worry about it,” I said. “Just be there to back me up.”

You see, I'm a bit of an imposing creature myself, standing over six feet tall with short, jet-black hair, cold icy blue eyes—a warrior and a trained killer to boot. Really, the only difference between a warrior and a pirate is which side of the law you're on. There isn't much glory in being a pirate, but the pay is better. If you're any good that is.”

“Well?” Harry said.

“Let's do it,” I said.

The Gemman abandoned the barmaid in search of more willing fare, and we followed him from the cantina to the spaceport, where he disappeared into an equally miserable-looking ship.

“Rumor has it he's on his way to Dammos 4,” I whispered to Harry. “No way am I going there!”

“It’s a short run, a rather small investment of fuel on our part,” he reasoned. “A large profit margin. All in all a cost-effective venture.”

All of which was true. Still, I really didn’t want to go to Dammos 4. Long story, that. “Okay, but we’ll have to head him off before we get that close. I’m not straying anywhere near Dammian space. I’m sure they still have a price on my head.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed. Did he know about Dammos and all that had happened there? He said nothing, leaving me to wonder. We circled back to our own craft.

Harry's ship was a mean, sleek little thing. A joy cruiser, enhanced way past what the regulations allowed and specially modified for smuggling and villainy. It looked like a rich man's craft. And hardly anyone would suspect that a man as wealthy as Harry, especially one who had actually inherited his fortune, would have such a nasty hobby.

Over the cockpit radio I could hear our Gemman friend readying himself

for takeoff.

Like two cats playing with a mouse, we allowed our victim a generous lead, then followed suit. It didn't take us long to find him. He was chugging quietly along, as if he had all the time in the universe, probably quite unaware that in a few short moments his cargo bays were going to be substantially lighter.

With a glance from Harry I threw the ship into overdrive and we matched our companion's velocity. For a few moments our hapless victim tried to evade us, but we were much faster than we looked and we pursued him effortlessly.

Predictably, his efforts failed, our meal ticket finally decided to hail us on the usual subspace frequency. Harry smiled as is his voice echoed through our cockpit.

“Cruiser to port side, state your intentions!” He demanded in heavily accented Galactic Standard. Poor fool.

I answered with a blast of laser fire, which sent the craft spinning off course. The sound of Gemman cursing filled the cockpit. Then silence.

Harry grinned.

“Too easy,” I warned him. “We've only made him mad now.”

We relocated our victim and closed in, guns ready. He waited quietly, trying to anticipate our next move.

Harry didn't keep him waiting. He fired a merciless bolt of lighting into Gemman’s light drives.

“There,” Harry said. “That ought to keep him quiet for a while. Satisfied?”

“Just be careful,” I said.

We crept up beside him, surveying the damage Harry had done. Indeed, the cargo ship hung dead in space, most of its propulsion circuits destroyed.

“Okay, let's go,” Harry said.

We released the docking tube, and with a few complimentary laser bolts, we managed to liberate the hatch. We waited a second, then burst inside.

A bolt of lightning and a Gemman curse exploded over Harry's head, narrowly missing him. I stepped in and disarmed the Gemman with a neatly aimed blaster round that knocked the weapon from his hand. I moved in and retrieved the gun.

“You take care of the rubies, Harry,” I said. “I'll watch this one.”

“Who are you?” the Gemman demanded in his own tongue.

“Your guardian angel,” I replied sweetly. I stepped up to him, both blasters armed. I was big, but he towered over me and out muscled me by about 300 percent. I was beginning to regret this little escapade, but there was nothing to do but bluff my way through it. The alternatives weren't terribly appealing. “Now we can do this politely,” I suggested, “and you get to keep your life. Or if you prefer, we can be nasty. In which case the deal is off. “

The Gemman snarled and twitched almost imperceptibly. I reacted out of instinct before I saw the knife that was headed for my gut. With assassin's reflexes, I discharged my blaster, burning through his neck, through tendons and veins alike, in one stroke.

“The deal,” I said, “is off.”

The Gemman bubbled and oozed for a long time before he was quiet. I watched him intently, half expecting him to rise from the dead and try to stab me with another of his nasty little knives. But he remained quiet. Harry was busy emptying the Gemman’s holds into our own. Still, something about this rather routine operation had me completely unnerved.

“Gods!” Harry hissed, coming up behind me unexpectedly and sending me automatically spinning into attack stance, blaster ready. “Did you have to make such a mess?”

“He was unreasonable,” I said glumly, holstering my blaster.

“What's with you?” Harry asked, obviously pleased with the way things had gone.

“I don't know,” I said. “Something's wrong. This should have been much more difficult.”

Harry looked at the body on the deck. “That was easy?” he asked.

“Easier than it should have been,” I said wiping the blood from my hands.

“Not everything in life has to be difficult, Moraina,” Harry lectured. “You were in the military too long. You've forgotten about pleasure, gluttony, and greed.”

“Well,” I said, relaxing a little. “I have a good teacher...”

“Come on,” Harry said, nodding towards the hatch. “Let's high tail it out of here and go count our loot.”

“Sounds good,” I said. I took one more backward look at the oozing lump on the floor and followed Harry home.

I poured myself a victory brandy, letting the comforts of home settle my nerves a bit. We were on autopilot cruising at a leisurely speed toward an out of the way port where we could refuel and find a place to dispose of a large haul of Gemman rubies. Harry had already consumed most of a bottle of brandy and seemed content to make drinking his evening's entertainment. I eyed him glumly, unable to shake the feeling that something, somehow, was wrong. It was hours later and still every hair on the back of my neck was standing on end. We were in danger. I knew it, even if Harry wouldn't believe me.

There he was, sprawled on the deck in the narrow cabin that served as our quarters, Harrison Kong III, heir to the mighty Kong dynasty, a man who had everything, except a purpose. It was a bizarre image, His Majesty, sitting on the floor, playing a drunken game of cards with himself and using piles of rubies to bet with. Shaking my head, I turned toward the galley.

Perhaps it was fitting after all.