Loralynn Kennakris 1: The Alecto Initiative Read Free Page A

think Trench knew that though. She’d messed with
the ventilators, trying to give him mild hypoxia, but that was just cover. If
he’d found out she was trying to tweak the jump convolvers, he’d have thought
of something worse than this. Her hand paused in scrubbing. Maybe he was thinking of something worse than this. Maybe this was just the softening-up
routine . . .
    Strich moved into her peripheral vision, slapping the spiker
against his leg. She scrubbed harder. Strich wasn’t bad with the spiker, but he
wasn’t reticent either. Nor was he stupid. He’d been watching her. If he
thought she was acting weird, if he told Trench, if Trench had asked him to
watch her . . . Sweat began to form on her sides, clammy and itching.
    Think of something else . . .
    She returned her attention to the recyclers. The stench was
almost a welcome distraction now. Maybe they were mistuned, or just not very
efficient. They were old. Everything on slaver ships was old: the comms, the
hydroponics, the synthesizers, the assault birds, the planetary tilt-rotors—all
old. Some of the designs—like the tilt-rotors—she knew went back hundreds and
hundreds of years. Stuff out of her school’s history texts.
    But slavers didn’t use the new tech; they couldn’t afford
to. The new tech was great: efficient, low-maintenance, compact. She heard the
crew bitching about it—about the lack of it—all the time. But when it broke—and
everything broke when you got shot at a lot or had to do things like run the
Devil’s Cat’s Cradle—you couldn’t fix it. Molecular reorganizers, atomic
reflux welders, dionized expert systems—all the stuff that made it work—wasn’t
easy to come by and it broke too. Sure, if you had a secure, full-up, automated
airdock, the latest stuff was wonderful. But slavers had to be able to fix
things in space, on moons, in animal pastures. If hammer and tape could fix it,
good. If you could junk it and steal a replacement, better. If you could do
without, better yet. Slavers put their money where it counted: the engines, the
guns. The things that kept you alive. Kept you running.
    Slavers were real good at staying alive and running. Sure
they liked to raise hell, get drunk and stoned and puke on each other. They
used fuck’n between every other word and pissed in the beer. They were
raunchy and brutal and stank. But they were some of the best fighters in
Charted Space, drunk or sober. Some found that admirable. Kris just hated them
for it.
    Strich loomed on her left side, just behind.
    Shit! She’d been drifting again. She watched the blue
tip of the spiker out of the corner of her eye, waiting for the nerve-jangling
prod. It didn’t come. Then she noticed the look on Strich’s face. Was it
possible to be relieved and anxious all at once? Strich’s look made it clear
that he hadn’t been watching her because he was suspicious or because Trench
had told him to. She turned her back on him, scrubbing furiously.
    Would he dare? Trench didn’t like to share his recreation.
Strich knew that. Maybe he figured if Trench sent her down with the animals, he
wanted her reminded of the value of his good graces. Maybe Trench was so pissed
off he’d posted her open-season.
    Kris looked left and right. Nobody seemed to be paying the
slightest attention. Of course not. This was expected. She thought the guy two
stations down was smiling a little under his grime. She bit her lip. Good show,
huh? Why was he waiting then? Shit, he was standing right behind her—she could
feel him. On your knees, bitch was the traditional salutation. Or maybe
he wasn’t going to bother with the small talk.
    She looked down at herself. Gawd , she was a mess. She
stank. How could he possibly want to . . .
    Of course , he wanted to. She was the captain’s bitch
and he might not get another chance. Slavers weren’t fastidious, Strich least
of all. What did he have in mind? She’d always managed to fend off Trench’s
more unpleasant