ManOnFire by Frances Pauli

Chapter One
    The first time they met, she threw up on his boots. Coming out of stasis usually made her nauseated, but the new star drive had even more quirks than the 200 series. Her legs buckled two steps from the pod. Amanda found herself kissing the silvery floor grate and praying for a firm planet—any firm planet—to stand on. Her stomach rolled with the engines at the same instant the shiny, black boots stopped marching directly in her path.
    She wiped the spew from her lips and sat back on her heels. A deep voice, gruff and with a faint trace of humor, boomed at least six feet over her head.
    “Dr. Gerafit, I believe we have a puker.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    Amanda took a chance and leaned her head back.
    “Pod two, six, five, seven,” a new voice chimed in. “Reinsertion code. Acknowledge.”
    She stared at the man she’d yacked on and nodded in answer to the doctor’s question. Pod 2657. That was she. She was supposed to respond, but the dark eyes regarding her from a broad, unsmiling face stole her words away.
    “Is she clear?”
    “Not yet. Pod two, six, five, seven, code?”
    Amanda’s brain focused. Her code phrase—she had it. She shook off the last dregs of hyper-sleep and answered. “Sorry. Man on fire .”
    “She’s clear.” The doctor spoke from somewhere to her left, out of sight.
    The man she faced, most likely command staff if the uniform and evil grin could be trusted, offered her a hand up, however. She felt just wobbly enough to need it.
    “Thanks.”
    His gaze scanned her, dropped to his tainted boots and then flashed with amusement at last.
    “Sorry about that.” Her cheeks heated. “I’m usually a lot less volatile coming out.”
    “It’s the new drive.” He shrugged and his hand shifted against hers. He hadn’t released the grip, even though her legs had steadied. “I hurled, myself, when they brought me round.” He smiled, gave her hand a little squeeze and then dropped it.
    Amanda looked down, around, anywhere but directly at the mysterious, well-ranked stranger. Hardly a dignified introduction, Pod 2657. The vomit combined with a drab gray, overly inflated pod suit would hardly go down as having made a good impression.
    “Very well. Dr. Gerafit, I trust you can oversee the rest of the reinsertion.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    She stared at the grate and listened to his steps ring out of the pod bay. The doctor stepped behind her and tugged at the suit’s controls until she deflated with a whoosh. Her suit sagged and hung heavily for a second. He released the catch and it fell in a frothy puddle to the floor. She stood in the tailored second skin and wished that sir had been five minutes later with his inspection. She could pull off sexy in poly-skin, but then, who couldn’t?
    “What’s the stardate?” The doc continued to work at her vital scan. The readout on her collar would feed him the entire history of her body’s processes during her slumber. She balked at the answer he tossed off. Her unit had traveled to the brand new MDC base at the edge of the company’s territory, but they couldn’t possibly have arrived so soon. “Wait. Really? That’s two weeks early.”
    “We’ve been called out for a private job. Abduction on Verilan Beta involving a Thurian courtesan.”
    “They woke us early for a courtesan?”
    “The woman in question is the prime minister’s mistress.”
    “Aha. Sure.” Amanda scanned the med bay. Three pods had been emptied before hers, leaving twenty-two of her unit still snoozing. “And the suit I yacked on was?”
    “Commander Wells.”
    “Of course.” She’d tossed her cookies on the new boss. Great. If she could manage to slaughter the ship’s mascot on the way to her bunk, she’d be a shoe-in for a promotion. “Right.” She groaned. No help for it now. “Hand over my assignment and I’ll let you get on with it.”
    Gerafit stepped around to face her. Pescine . Amanda smiled and stared into his huge, watery eyes. His rubber lips