the moment she’d met him. If anyone could help sway the old woman’s mind, it’d be Boden.
For negotiations involving any other woman, Reyne would bring Sixx. He had a body built for fantasies, a smile to melt hearts, and renowned sexual prowess to make even the most resilient woman weak in the knees. Women flocked to the thief like mice to philoseed. But not Vym. Most definitely not Vym. He could only hope that seeing Boden would improve her mood tonight.
The stationhouse, which was located within the fringe station’s center, was only a couple hundred meters from the docks. Even then, the winds had doubled in intensity during the minutes Reyne had spent on the Gryphon . The winds would continue to pick up speed throughout the night. Anyone caught outside during the four “dead hours,” as the Playans called them, would be blown into the frozen abyss. Reyne and Boden had nearly three hours before that time.
When the men reached the stationmaster’s office, Reyne chipped ice from the comm on the door and spoke loudly into the panel. “Aramis Reyne here to see Stationmaster Patel.”
They waited outside for several, freezing seconds before the door opened and one of Vym’s overly muscular lackeys motioned them inside. “No weapons,” he mumbled in a baritone voice.
“We’re clean,” Reyne said, though between him and Boden, they had two photon guns and several knives. It was an unspoken rule on any fringe world. A colonist without weapons was either stupid or dead, with one usually following the other. Vym would be disappointed in Reyne if he showed up disarmed. After all, the woman had practically raised him after his mother was caught outside in the dead hours. His father had been killed while in conscripted service two months before that. Reyne had been only eight at the time.
The lackey—one of Vym’s regulars—led them down a stark hallway to Vym’s office and living quarters. Unlike her fellow stationmasters on the other fringe worlds, Vym showed no interest in luxuries or formalities. She looked hard, spoke hard, and was an even harder negotiator.
Reyne and Boden entered to find Vym honing one of her many knives, a sharp contrast to her thin, grandmotherly looks.
“Hello, Vym,” Reyne said.
Her response was the rough sound of her blade against the whetstone.
Reyne glanced over at Boden, who shrugged.
She spoke after a lengthy moment. “Kason said you had a package for me.”
“His statement was a bit premature,” Reyne replied, “as said package is no longer in my possession.”
“And just where might said package be now?”
“On a CUF warship.”
“On exactly which CUF warship?”
Reyne frowned in surprise at why she would care. CUF was CUF in his mind. “On board the Arcadia , the last I knew. It’s captained by Commandant—”
“Gabriela Heid,” she finished. “Yes, I’m aware of the Arcadia and her crew. I keep myself apprised of all the Collective’s senior dromadiers.”
Vym Patel didn’t speak like a Playan. She spoke like a citizen, even though she was born on Playa. She looked like she drank tea in dainty cups, but Reyne knew she could drink any man under the table when it came to whiskey. No one knew her history, but it was obvious she’d served a length of time off world. Reyne had often wondered under which CUF division she’d served and in what capacity. To become a stationmaster took a long reach with the Collective’s powers that be, a reach longer than any fringe money could buy. Vym had clearly made an impression somewhere along the way.
“I find it bothersome,” she continued. “That I have no knowledge of whatever gift someone sent me. Tell me more.”
“I don’t have much to tell. Kason got the contract from Genics Corp. There was a Myrad hauler cat fail in the path of a star swarm, and they needed someone to grab a package and deliver it straight to you.”
“A single package? None of its other cargo?”
He shook his head. “Just
For negotiations involving any other woman, Reyne would bring Sixx. He had a body built for fantasies, a smile to melt hearts, and renowned sexual prowess to make even the most resilient woman weak in the knees. Women flocked to the thief like mice to philoseed. But not Vym. Most definitely not Vym. He could only hope that seeing Boden would improve her mood tonight.
The stationhouse, which was located within the fringe station’s center, was only a couple hundred meters from the docks. Even then, the winds had doubled in intensity during the minutes Reyne had spent on the Gryphon . The winds would continue to pick up speed throughout the night. Anyone caught outside during the four “dead hours,” as the Playans called them, would be blown into the frozen abyss. Reyne and Boden had nearly three hours before that time.
When the men reached the stationmaster’s office, Reyne chipped ice from the comm on the door and spoke loudly into the panel. “Aramis Reyne here to see Stationmaster Patel.”
They waited outside for several, freezing seconds before the door opened and one of Vym’s overly muscular lackeys motioned them inside. “No weapons,” he mumbled in a baritone voice.
“We’re clean,” Reyne said, though between him and Boden, they had two photon guns and several knives. It was an unspoken rule on any fringe world. A colonist without weapons was either stupid or dead, with one usually following the other. Vym would be disappointed in Reyne if he showed up disarmed. After all, the woman had practically raised him after his mother was caught outside in the dead hours. His father had been killed while in conscripted service two months before that. Reyne had been only eight at the time.
The lackey—one of Vym’s regulars—led them down a stark hallway to Vym’s office and living quarters. Unlike her fellow stationmasters on the other fringe worlds, Vym showed no interest in luxuries or formalities. She looked hard, spoke hard, and was an even harder negotiator.
Reyne and Boden entered to find Vym honing one of her many knives, a sharp contrast to her thin, grandmotherly looks.
“Hello, Vym,” Reyne said.
Her response was the rough sound of her blade against the whetstone.
Reyne glanced over at Boden, who shrugged.
She spoke after a lengthy moment. “Kason said you had a package for me.”
“His statement was a bit premature,” Reyne replied, “as said package is no longer in my possession.”
“And just where might said package be now?”
“On a CUF warship.”
“On exactly which CUF warship?”
Reyne frowned in surprise at why she would care. CUF was CUF in his mind. “On board the Arcadia , the last I knew. It’s captained by Commandant—”
“Gabriela Heid,” she finished. “Yes, I’m aware of the Arcadia and her crew. I keep myself apprised of all the Collective’s senior dromadiers.”
Vym Patel didn’t speak like a Playan. She spoke like a citizen, even though she was born on Playa. She looked like she drank tea in dainty cups, but Reyne knew she could drink any man under the table when it came to whiskey. No one knew her history, but it was obvious she’d served a length of time off world. Reyne had often wondered under which CUF division she’d served and in what capacity. To become a stationmaster took a long reach with the Collective’s powers that be, a reach longer than any fringe money could buy. Vym had clearly made an impression somewhere along the way.
“I find it bothersome,” she continued. “That I have no knowledge of whatever gift someone sent me. Tell me more.”
“I don’t have much to tell. Kason got the contract from Genics Corp. There was a Myrad hauler cat fail in the path of a star swarm, and they needed someone to grab a package and deliver it straight to you.”
“A single package? None of its other cargo?”
He shook his head. “Just
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