if Rhis seemed to have his fair share. It was probably more accurate to lump Rhis’s struggles with her ship’s components as something more generic. Something Shadow had taught her long ago, in Port Rumor.
Incompetence bred by authority.
Jagan had it, enough to fill a black hole. She’d just lost sight of that under his pretty words, fancy presents.
And the Conclave had it. Hell, that’s what the Conclave was. Authority, governmental authority. Incompetence by committee.
As for Rhis Vanur, he couldn’t help that he worked for a government. He understood
need to know
because he’d probably been told more than once that he didn’t qualify for that need.
Fighter pilots rarely did. Go there, shoot that, try to bring the hardware back in one piece.
With a soft sigh she realized Rhis was probably more interested in getting back to the Empire than the Empire was in getting him back. Her scanners, myopic as they were, showed that no one had come looking for the Tark. If they were concerned about the fate of their pilot, they would have looked.
But Trilby knew from firsthand experience that people were expendable to governments and corporations. Hardware could be recovered at any time.
She had to remember that, had to stop lumping him in the same category with people like Jagan, or the trip back to Rumor would be hell for them both. He was only a lieutenant. He took orders; he didn’t give them. His arrogance was cultural; Jagan’s was cultivated.
Twenty minutes later, she stepped into the corridor and saw him swaying in his seat. He clearly belonged back in sick bay, not in the small, stuffy maintenance room.
At the sound of her footsteps he turned. The shadows under his eyes had darkened. She put out one hand, tentatively. He glanced at her offered hand with disdain, his spine straightening at the last moment.
“Why don’t you go lie down? A few hours’ delay won’t—”
“I am fine.” His right hand lay flat against the console, his arm braced. His body language spoke out loud and clear:
I am Zafharin. I can deal with pain.
“You’re a liar,” she replied easily as he glared at her. “If you collapse here you’ll block the doorway. So get your ass down to your cabin. I’ll wake you in four hours or so.”
“No, I—”
“The cabin has a comp.” She stepped over the raised door tread, leaned her arms against the high console. “Read in bed if you like. But right now I don’t think you should be sitting up. Or standing.”
He pushed himself to his feet. “There is nothing wrong with—”
She caught him as he staggered against her, her arms encircling his waist as he pinned her against the bulkhead. “Whoa, flyboy, whoa!”
She felt his weight sag, his face hot against her hair. She reached out blindly for the intercom panel by the door. “Dezi! Get down to maintenance, now!”
He struggled slightly. “
Nav, vad yasch
—I’m okay. I’m okay.” His voice was strained, soft. But he didn’t pull away from her.
When Dezi grasped him under the armpits, Trilby had the fleeting impression he was reluctant to let her go.
He woke, climbing out of a very soft, Trilby Elliot-scented dream to find himself in a small darkened cabin. Alone.
“
Lutsa.
Lights.” His voice cracked, dry. He stumbled into the adjoining sani-fac and gulped down a glass of cold water, then splashed some on his face. His Trilby-dream had faded, though he could still remember the pale silk of her hair against his face. Her arms around him—
—had not been a dream. The close confines of the sani-fac brought back the shape of the maintenance cubicle. And his less-than-impressive collapse against her.
So much for his infamous Zafharin discipline. So much for his infamous control. Both faded like a vapor trail whenever he was near her.
He was probably just overtired. He’d strained his physical limits with this last mission. Even
he
needed time to heal. But his current situation hampered
Incompetence bred by authority.
Jagan had it, enough to fill a black hole. She’d just lost sight of that under his pretty words, fancy presents.
And the Conclave had it. Hell, that’s what the Conclave was. Authority, governmental authority. Incompetence by committee.
As for Rhis Vanur, he couldn’t help that he worked for a government. He understood
need to know
because he’d probably been told more than once that he didn’t qualify for that need.
Fighter pilots rarely did. Go there, shoot that, try to bring the hardware back in one piece.
With a soft sigh she realized Rhis was probably more interested in getting back to the Empire than the Empire was in getting him back. Her scanners, myopic as they were, showed that no one had come looking for the Tark. If they were concerned about the fate of their pilot, they would have looked.
But Trilby knew from firsthand experience that people were expendable to governments and corporations. Hardware could be recovered at any time.
She had to remember that, had to stop lumping him in the same category with people like Jagan, or the trip back to Rumor would be hell for them both. He was only a lieutenant. He took orders; he didn’t give them. His arrogance was cultural; Jagan’s was cultivated.
Twenty minutes later, she stepped into the corridor and saw him swaying in his seat. He clearly belonged back in sick bay, not in the small, stuffy maintenance room.
At the sound of her footsteps he turned. The shadows under his eyes had darkened. She put out one hand, tentatively. He glanced at her offered hand with disdain, his spine straightening at the last moment.
“Why don’t you go lie down? A few hours’ delay won’t—”
“I am fine.” His right hand lay flat against the console, his arm braced. His body language spoke out loud and clear:
I am Zafharin. I can deal with pain.
“You’re a liar,” she replied easily as he glared at her. “If you collapse here you’ll block the doorway. So get your ass down to your cabin. I’ll wake you in four hours or so.”
“No, I—”
“The cabin has a comp.” She stepped over the raised door tread, leaned her arms against the high console. “Read in bed if you like. But right now I don’t think you should be sitting up. Or standing.”
He pushed himself to his feet. “There is nothing wrong with—”
She caught him as he staggered against her, her arms encircling his waist as he pinned her against the bulkhead. “Whoa, flyboy, whoa!”
She felt his weight sag, his face hot against her hair. She reached out blindly for the intercom panel by the door. “Dezi! Get down to maintenance, now!”
He struggled slightly. “
Nav, vad yasch
—I’m okay. I’m okay.” His voice was strained, soft. But he didn’t pull away from her.
When Dezi grasped him under the armpits, Trilby had the fleeting impression he was reluctant to let her go.
He woke, climbing out of a very soft, Trilby Elliot-scented dream to find himself in a small darkened cabin. Alone.
“
Lutsa.
Lights.” His voice cracked, dry. He stumbled into the adjoining sani-fac and gulped down a glass of cold water, then splashed some on his face. His Trilby-dream had faded, though he could still remember the pale silk of her hair against his face. Her arms around him—
—had not been a dream. The close confines of the sani-fac brought back the shape of the maintenance cubicle. And his less-than-impressive collapse against her.
So much for his infamous Zafharin discipline. So much for his infamous control. Both faded like a vapor trail whenever he was near her.
He was probably just overtired. He’d strained his physical limits with this last mission. Even
he
needed time to heal. But his current situation hampered
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