Escape Velocity (Off-World Series, Book 7): Sexy Science-Fiction Romance Novel Page 2
He felt his throat constrict as he tried to imagine how her life had suddenly morphed from luxury to misery. “Were you abused?”
Her head jerked toward him. “I was beaten if I did not do my work.”
“What was your work?”
“Cleaning stables. And worse. You’re lucky they gave me a bath before they took me to the meeting place.”
He winced. “I meant, were you abused sexually?”
“No. What man would want me? It would be like bedding a field beast.” She dragged in a breath and let it out. “And slaves are given drugs to deaden their . . .” She waggled one hand. “Their appetites.”
“Oh.” The implications of that slammed him in the gut, but he tried to keep his face impassive.
“When did you have your last dose?”
“The others got it five or six suns ago. I did not.”
Oh yeah? And why was that? He held onto that question, even as he cursed Rafe. Did the bastard understand the consequences of withholding the drug? Or was that the payoff for this whole exercise?
“What is going to happen to me now?” she asked.
“I don’t know. I said I’d deliver you to the friend who paid for you.”
“And you do not know what he wants with me?”
“He didn’t tell me,” he hedged. Did Rafe want her for himself? Probably he had another transaction in mind. And what was Max going to do about it? Not turn her over to someone who was planning to take advantage of her. But that left him up slat creek.
“Am I illegal cargo?”
He hated the directness of the question, but he wasn’t going to lie to her. “Yes.”
“Maybe I am no better off than I was on Naxion.”
He tried to put himself in her position. She must feel like she’d leaped from a nest of snakes—perhaps into a cave of spiders.
###
Somehow, she maintained her composure as she waited for his response.
“We’ll figure that out when we get back to Danalon.”
“Danalon is your planet?”
“My home planet, yes. I travel through the seven worlds—hauling cargo.”
“Cargo. Like when men on my planet take goats to market?”
He winced. “Not usually anything alive.”
She watched his reactions carefully. It appeared he did not like the assignment of transporting a slave from Naxion. Because he thought it was immoral? Or because it was too much trouble, now that he realized what he’d stepped into.
Whichever it was, she was stuck with him for now. Stuck with him while she was on this ship because she had no idea how to fly it. She was totally dependent on him. But perhaps that situation would change.
What would he want her to do? Just be herself? She didn’t even know what that was anymore because she was playing a part—based on her experiences, her expectations and her fears. She had been helpless for so long. In the clank of a cone bug’s jaws, everything had changed. But how—exactly?
###
Max wanted to tell his passenger to trust him, but he couldn’t get the words out because Rafe had put him in an impossible situation.
She sat with her hands clasped in her lap. “I see I am a problem for you.”
“Let’s not make any judgments until we find out the situation,” he said, silently cursing Rafe Cortez.
Trying to change the subject, he said, “I’m Maxwell—Max Cassidy. Your name is Kawanda.”
She gave a mirthless laugh. “No. That is the word for worthless slave.”
He suppressed a curse. “What is your name?”
“I lost my name when I was forced into slavery.”
“What was your name?”
Her voice turned hard. “I will not take it back. That girl is dead.”
“I have to call you something.”
Did he sense defiance in her voice when she said, “You can choose.”
He thought about alternatives. Once he had had a sister. She had died long ago, and he wasn’t going to borrow her name. But she had loved tending her flower garden. Her favorite blossom had been the delicate Amber Lily. And the flower had another meaning, too.
“Amber,” he finally said.
“Was she someone you loved?” she asked in a soft voice.
“No.”
“Why did you choose it?”
He didn’t mention his sister but instead chose the other meaning. “She’s a singer who was popular on the vids when I was growing up. You look a little like her.”
“What is a vid?”
“A moving picture.”
“A what?”
He reached toward the console, flicked a switch and turned on a zero-gravity wrestling match he’d been watching.
Her eyes bugged out as she took it in. “How do you do that?”
“It’s recorded.”
“What does that mean?
“I can explain later,” he answered, realizing there were going to be a lot of things a Naxion slave didn’t know about.
“Okay,” She cleared her throat. “The singer, she is not popular now?”
“There was a ton of pressure on her to stay at the top,” he answered, wishing she hadn’t asked. “She took a lot of drugs and died of an overdose.”
He wasn’t sure if she really understood, but she looked sad as though contemplating the fate of a woman she had never known. Then she brightened and said, “I can sing. I haven’t been allowed to sing in years.”
“Not allowed?”
“I told you, slaves are deprived of pleasure.”
“Sagan’s balls. Why?”
“To punish us, I think.”
“For what?”
“For failing to develop in the proper way.”
“For failing to grow ugly,” he growled. “I think your people know they are deformed. They punish you for not catching the disease.”
“I don’t know.”
“It makes a weird kind of sense. If you want to sing, go ahead.”
He could see from her face that the idea of trying it again excited her. Yet she also looked nervous.
“What if I cannot?”
“Try it.”
“I am embarrassed.”
“It’s only me.”
“That’s the embarrassing part.”
He spread his hands. “I don’t even know what Naxion music is supposed to sound like.”
She lifted her head and trilled out a series of notes that could have come from someone trained for the vids. Then she sang the words of a song with a heartfelt mixture of joy and sadness.
The flame bird flies from its nest in the taradon tree.
And the sky receives the glory of its plumage.
All the world is hushed as it wings across the sky.
She poured herself into the song, then stopped abruptly and flushed. “I am sorry. I do not know what came over me.”
“It’s fine. I liked it. Maybe you were thinking about your own escape”
“Yes.”
Each thing she revealed cut into him. This magnificent creature had been punished, repressed, made to feel like she was no better than a worm.
She tipped her head to the side, staring at him. “What are you thinking?”
A lot of things, but he settled on, “That I want to make your first meal—good.”
“Why?”
“Because eating should be a pleasure, and I know you haven’t had much of that”
He stood, and she stayed where she was, hesitating. Seeing the uncertainty on her face, he asked, “What?”
She shuffled one sandal against the deck. “Can I take off my slave clothes?”
“Yes.”
She stood, dragged off the cloak, and tossed it away. Beneath it she was wearing mud-colored pants and a ragged top that barely contained her breasts.
As she reached for the hem of the shirt, he caught her intention and shouted, “Wait.”
But it was already too late. Unconcerned that he was standing a few feet aw
ay, she pulled the top over her head and tossed it to the deck, revealing a pair of magnificent breasts. They were large and rounded, crowned by rose-colored nipples, breasts from a vid-inspired wet dream.
He should stop looking at her, but he couldn’t make himself drag his gaze away.
“Kahlad,” he muttered when a jolt of arousal shot through him.
As he watched, her hands went to the waistband of her calf-length pants. The action snapped him out of his trance.
“Don’t.”
She tipped her head to the side, looking at him inquisitively. “Why not?”
“You can’t just take your clothes off in front of me.”
“Why not?” she pressed.
He clenched his fists in frustration. “It’s not . . . proper. And, I can’t help reacting to you.”
“But I am . . .” She stopped and started again. “I am . . . less than an orex who pulls a cart of vegetables bound for market.”
“Not in the real world.”
“Naxion is the real world.”
“Not anymore. Whatever you used to be, you’re going to have to start thinking about yourself differently.”
“Okay,” she said in a low voice, sounding unsure.
“Keep your pants on until I get you something to wear. Pick up your cloak and shirt and come on.” He turned and headed for his cabin, glancing briefly over his shoulder to make sure she was following.
From behind him, she asked, “I think from the way you sounded that I made you curse— “Kahlad” is a curse?”
“It is.”
“What does it mean? Is it another word for slat or fek?”
He made a rough sound. “No. Kahlad was an evil ruler from a . . .” He stopped and thought for a moment. “A twenty-second century kingdom on old Earth.”
“And I make you think of this evil ruler?”
“No. It’s a common expletive. Like saying Christ!”
“Another evil ruler?”
He made a rough sound. “No, he was revered religious figure.”
“I don’t understand. One is good and the other bad?”
“Yeah. Not everything is going to make sense.”
They had reached his cabin, and he pressed the door lock. Stepping inside, he said, “You need to get dressed.”
She had folded her arms across her breasts. “Yes. I was not considering what I could put on when I discarded the slave shirt. I just wanted to get it off me.”
He was thinking she would look gorgeous in a sexy gown, but he didn’t have any of those on board. Plus, he didn’t want to keep getting charged up.
She was glancing around the small space with its bunk built into the wall and storage compartments above and below.
“It smells good,” she murmured.
“Does it?”
“My bed stank.”
He repressed another curse as he took one of his own work shirts from an upper cabinet.
You can roll up the sleeves, he said as he handed it over without looking directly at her.
“This is yours?”
“Who else’s would it be?”
“And you do not think I will contaminate it.”
This time the curse spilled out. “Sagan’s balls. Of course not.”
“Was Sagan a good man or a bad?”
“He was a scientist interested in space travel and alien civilizations before most humans thought about leaving Earth or what it might mean for humanity.”
“And why are his balls a curse?”
“I don’t know.”
He breathed out a sigh of relief as she slipped on the shirt and slid the buttons closed. The garment hung almost to her knees. It would give her the appearance of modesty, but he thought she should have something covering her butt. From a bottom cabinet, he extracted a pair of boxers. She pushed her fingers through the slit in the front before quickly shucking her torn slacks and pulling on his shorts.
He gave her a long look. “That will do for now. Let’s eat.”
After stuffing her old clothes into the refuse chute, he led the way to the galley where he watched her take in the metal table bolted to the wall, the narrow counter, and the synthesizer.
She gave him a skeptical look. “This is where you prepare food? I see no chopping block or cooking fire. Cooking is different on a spaceship?”
“Yes. I can syntho what I need.”
“How?”
“I’ll show you. What do you want?”
Her eyes took on a faraway look. “My mother used to make a kind of cake, with honey, spices, and jobo nuts.”
“I can manage honey. I don’t know jobo nuts.”
She lifted one shoulder. “Of course not. It is okay.”
“Let me see what I can do.”
He was thinking about a confection that was sometimes served on Danalon—one of the heirloom dishes from old Earth. It was made of ground nuts and cinnamon bound together with honey, then layered between thin leaves of dough. It was called . . . He struggled for a moment to recall it, then asked for “baklava.”
The syntho unit did its thing. Thirty seconds later, a plate with a triangular serving of the confection appeared behind a glass door. He opened it and held out the plate.
“That is how you make food?”
“On the ship. And in my unit in the city.”
“They do that all over Danalon?”
“Some people in the city would call this slop. They only eat what they call ‘real food.’ High-class restaurants would never syntho anything. And there are people living out in the swamps who don’t have those choices.”
“You mean they cook with fire?”
“And get their food by hunting and fishing. They live in houses on stilts, so they won’t get flooded out.”
She switched back to the rectangle of layered dough and filling on her plate. “Perhaps I should not have asked for dessert first.”
“How long has it been since you’ve had dessert?”
“A long time.”
“Then I hope you like this.”
He set the plate and a fork on the table, then turned back to the synthesizer. When he joined her with his portion, she was staring at the baklava.
“You don’t want to try it?”
“Is it okay to start?”
“Of course.”
“You go first.”
She watched him cut into the confection with the side of his fork, then lift a portion to his mouth.
She did the same thing. As she caught the flavor, her eyes widened. “This is so good.”
“Like what your mother used to make?”
“Similar. It did not have the thin parts or quite the same taste.”
She kept eating, and each bite she took looked like she was experiencing a small miracle. When she was finished, she scraped the side of the fork against the plate, then licked the edge. As soon as she’d done it, she flushed and lifted her gaze to his face.
“That was rude, I think.”
“Not under the circumstances. Do you want another?”
“Yes, but I have had nothing this rich in . . . years. It might make me sick.”
“You should have something more substantial. Do you eat meat?”
“I used to. I have not had it in . . . a long time.”
Sagan’s balls. Every time he asked her a question, he got the worst possible answer.
“But you like meat?” he pressed.
“Yes.”
She was right. It was probably best to go easy on rich food. Standing again, he asked for a beef and vegetable stew, seasoned with wine and herbs and served over whole grain.
When the food arrived, he put a steaming bowl in front of her. She forked up a bit and blew on it. Then, as she tasted the dish, she raised her gaze to his.
“This is better than anything we serve on Naxion.”
“You don’t have anything similar?”
“Similar, but not like this.”
She ate several forks full, and he sensed
she was struggling not to gulp down the food.
To give her a reason not to bolt the meal, he said. “I have some questions—about your civilization.”
She put down the fork. “Yes?”
“When you and the men met me, you arrived in a wooden cart, pulled by a big animal.”
“An orex.”
“But when we fled, they fired at us with an energy bolt. From the cart I’d say your civilization is primitive. But the blaster is much more advanced.”
“They can buy . . . advanced goods from off planet.”
“Contact is forbidden.”
“Well, you came to get me.”
He nodded.
“Does anyone from your planet travel off world?”
Her gaze narrowed. “I do not think so. But I do not know for sure.”
He cleared his throat. “Are all of the slaves women?”
“Where I lived, they were. I suppose there are male slaves in other places.”
When she picked up her fork again, he said, “I can understand better than you might think about everything suddenly changing.”
“How?”
“I do jobs that skirt the edges of legality—and sometimes cross the line. That wasn’t the life I had planned. Once I was going to be a pilot in the federation fleet. I was in training when a bunch of guys in my squad got caught in a smuggling scheme. I wasn’t in on it, but because they were in my group, the authorities lumped me in with them. We were all kicked out of the service together.”
“You had no way to make a good living.”
He dragged in a breath and released it with a hiss. “Luckily, I had already learned to pilot a ship, and a group of investors saw me as an opportunity. They staked me to a junker craft and hired me to haul freight. I didn’t see a bright future in working for them, and as I got to understand the business better, I started having side deals going. I made enough to buy them out and then enough to buy this ship at an auction.”
“Okay. I guess I understand that you had a better life planned.”