Moonstruck by Susan Grant Page B

Coalition, health care and education were universal rights throughout the queendom. Not so in the Drakken Empire, apparently, where technology was hoarded by the rich and powerful. High-ranking Drakken she’d taken as prisoners over the years had shown high levels of nanomeds of various types in their bodies. Yet, this warleader had little or no protection from disease or injury. “You have full access to Coalition med-tech now. You and your crew will receive physicals and the proper maintenance nanomeds. You first. The rest as their work schedules allow.”
    “I am—we are—deeply grateful.”
    “Gratitude is irrelevant. I must have my crew in top form for our mission. We can’t afford downtime due to sickness. A physical body healing on its own is inefficient.” And downright primitive. To deny citizens basic care was unimaginable. A crime.
    Many Drakken carried some sort of stiff fabric draped over their arms. A whiff as they went by told her the fabric was the source of the terrible smell. “What are those?” she asked Rorkken.
    “Their sleeping skins. Rakkelle!” He pulled a “skin” from the hands of a thin young woman with dark hair and a pretty face and unfolded it for Brit to view. It was the texture of sausage casing, transparent, but thick and lined with grommets.
    It stank. She wrinkled her nose, found Rorkken watching her with that strange look again, his boyish eyes gone soft. “We hang them from the ceilings for sleeping,” he explained. “They’re then filled with blankets and pillows.”
    “On a modern warship there is no need for hammocks. There are bunks.”
    “The skins are more comfortable than bunks, ma’am,” the girl broke in.
    “Rakkelle,” Rorkken growled under his breath with a shake of his head before Brit had time to reprimand her for speaking out of turn. “Ask permission to speak.”
    Good that the warleader didn’t hesitate to discipline his crew. Your crew. Brit sighed quietly through her nose. Yes, they were hers, too, since she couldn’t very well shove them through the airlock, as much as she would like to.
    “Request permission to say something, Admiral Stone—” The girl reddened at her near error. “Admiral Bandar.”
    “Speak.”
    “Skins move with a ship. Bunks, they be land-folk beds, ma’am, rooted to the ground. A true spacer sleeps in a skin.”
    “Young lady, in my military, when you speak to a commanding officer, you do so giving your name and rank.”
    “My error, Admiral,” Rorkken interjected. “This is Rakkelle of Pehzwan.”
    “Yes, ma’am. That’s me.”
    “Doesn’t she have a rank?”
    “I’m the pilot.”
    “Your military rank…”
    “I don’t have one.”
    “She’s civilian? ” Brit thought of all the excuses she had to walk away from this mission now. Only, stubbornness and honor wouldn’t let her use any of them. Instead, she assumed her trademark glare and focused it on her second-in-command. “Explanation, please, Warleader.”

CHAPTER FIVE
    F INN SWALLOWED A GROAN at the way Bandar’s elegant brow lifted as she turned her appalled gaze to him. His plan had been to launch first, explain later about the patchwork nature of his crew. It was this gig or taking their chances in the Borderlands, hungry and on the run. Sure, the Triad seemed open to giving assistance to Drakken, but Finn didn’t care to risk testing that generosity so soon after the war’s end. Better to work with what he had: a miraculous invitation to serve on this ship. That meant talking fast and honest or risk having Rakkelle and the others blow his good intentions.
    “I lost my pilot in a dockside skirmish just before the end of the war. I needed a pilot. Rakkelle was available. She’s flown cargo freighters most of her life.” And four different pirate ships. Best he leave out that part.
    “I’m good, too!”
    “Say, ‘I’m good, too, Admiral,’ ” he instructed through clenched teeth.
    “Admiral, ma’am.” Rakkelle nervously