The others start, conversations falling still. I push past Jory and Dobson toward him, intending to grab him in a tight, relieved hug—and then I realize he may not be happy to see us. After all, we left him to die. I draw up short.
Uncertain, I offer him my hand. I can’t believe he’s here.
Loras regards me for a moment. I can’t read his expression. A glance at March tells me he’s equally in the dark. Hit never even knew him, so she looks puzzled, while Dina doesn’t seem sure what to say, either. He shakes my hand briefly, as if we’re strangers, as if we never huddled in a corrugated metal shed together, afraid for our lives.
“I’m so glad to see you. We thought—” Well, I’m sure he knows. “Why didn’t you get in touch with us? We’d have come for you, no matter where you were.”
“Because he’s mine now,” Hon tells me. “I saved him, first from the beating he took from the raiders, then when Farwan attacked.”
There’s a sinking in my stomach because that’s true. Because of physiological adaptation to a drug humans introduced on his homeworld, Loras belongs to whoever protects him best. So he won’t be rejoining us; I failed him. But it’s not about me. I’d rather see him safe with Hon than dead like a sacrificial goat.
“It’s true,” he says then. “Hon is my shinai now. It never occurred to me that any of you would want to hear from me.”
As if he were a burden we couldn’t wait to shift. Mary, we were such sorry bastards. We never made him feel welcome among us, never gave him the sense of belonging the rest of us enjoy. Beside me, March flinches. He used to joke about getting rid of him, and I can feel the guilt flowing off him in waves.
“I’m sorry,” March mutters. “I didn’t realize how you felt. I should have. Loras—”
“Forget it.” Loras shrugs like it doesn’t matter, but I can see it does.
I have to figure out some way to make this up to him. Hon and March get busy explaining to the others how we know each other. That story carries us from the corridor outside the docking bay back to the lounge. We lose a few along the way, as our crew decides to give Hon’s a tour of the station.
Eventually, it’s just me, March, Hon, and Loras. We settle in with drinks to talk terms. While I listen, March outlines the deal he’s put together with Tarn’s sanction.
“I can offer you full amnesty for all your past crimes, right now, on the condition you sign an agreement to act as a subcommander in the Conglomerate Armada.”
Hon raises a brow. “The what?”
“We’re building an army,” I say. “And we need ships . . . but not just ships. If we have any hope against the pirates and smugglers—”
“You need them manned with clever crew,” Hon finishes. “What’s in this for us?”
March asks, “Besides a full pardon?” But even I know that’s not enough. He grins and continues. “You’d be out there raiding anyway . . . without backup. You lost most of your ships running from Farwan at DuPont Station, so it’s harder than it used to be. Plus, now you have Syndicate ships to contend with, along with other pirates.”
“Tell me something I don’t know.” Hon takes a slug of his drink, eyes narrowed.
“We hire you to patrol,” March says. “You answer distress calls, bounce messages to a closer ship if necessary, and act as the Conglomerate’s eyes. You’ll have the authority to treat your sector as a killbox, eliminate threats by any means you deem necessary. In addition, you can claim any hostile ship, including cargo and contraband, as hazard pay. In exchange, you leave the merchantmen and cargo vessels alone. You’re already at war with other raiders, so you might as well do some good out there.”
“You putting together an army full of mercs and smugglers.” The pirate grins. “Only you would think of deputizing outlaws to uphold the law.”
March shrugs, but by his expression he’s thought of the irony himself. “We were never fighting the Conglomerate. It was always Farwan. If we don’t step up, if we don’t try to shape the authority that governs us, then we have no right to complain about it later.”
“True,” Hon says thoughtfully. “But I was never one to complain . . . or follow the rules. What makes you think I won’t take your credits and do what I want out there?”
A tight smile curves March’s mouth, but it doesn’t quite hit his eyes. “There’s a limit to my trust. We’ll equip your ship with technology that logs your encounters with other vessels. As long as you act as we’ve agreed, we won’t have a problem.”
“Technology isn’t infallible,” Hon points out. “And what if there’s a dispute regarding the way I handle a situation?”
It’s sad he has to wonder about that, but it’s a valid question. He could very well save some merchantman from imminent doom and have the a**hole owner complain that he took too long about it.
“If any other ship lodges a complaint against an Armada vessel, we will send the matter before a review board comprised of randomly selected officers,” March answers.
The pirate considers that, then inclines his head. “Well thought. It eliminates bribery, and it should be an impartial hearing. All right, I’ve heard enough.”
“And?” I ask.
“I’m in. Draw up the contracts.”
March nods, tapping his comm. “Constance, I need that agreement you worked up earlier. Forward it to me?”
“With pleasure,” she replies.
“Who was that?” Hon perks up at the feminine voice I gave my PA back when she was just a little silver sphere.
I stifle a grin. Not this again.
Should we tell him? March asks me silently.
Maybe not just yet. I owe Hon for plying me with pheromones that made me think I wanted to sleep with him.
The lightning exchange takes only seconds, so I answer aloud, “Her name is Constance. Maybe you’ll meet her later.”
“Oh, I’ll find her. Count on it, pretty.” The pirate does everything but rub his hands together at the prospect of meeting the female that owns such a great voice.
Loras has been listening silently, as he used to, but he interrupts now. “Have you considered a uniform? Historical precedent suggests that any police force is taken more seriously by the populace if they offer conformity in their dress.”
“I’m not covering myself in bars and symbols,” Hon mutters. “This isn’t worth going around dressed like a fascist ass.”
“Something simple should work,” I say. “Plain, but vaguely military. The important thing is that everyone wears it.”
Nodding, Loras says diffidently, “I have some ideas.”
March is busy beaming the contract to Hon’s handheld, but he spares me a nod. “Do you mind working with him on this?”
Mind? I was hoping for a chance to talk to Loras alone. I smile.
“I think that’s our cue. Shall we hole up somewhere and compare notes?”
CHAPTER 13
Wordless, Loras follows me to a small conference room, which has escaped Kora’s touch, so it’s as gray and soulless as Farwan left it. There aren’t many such rooms on station, which means we’re going to be hard up for space once the Armada starts growing, but for security, we couldn’t do better. And ideally, we’ll start rotating ships out, so we won’t have the whole fleet docked here at the same time.
That would sort of defeat the purpose.
“Here,” he says, getting right to business. He shows me a few images on his handheld. “Something like this could be adapted with a new logo designed to integrate the Conglomerate’s symbol and something new for the Armada.”
With an inner sigh, I realize he doesn’t want to get personal. Fine, I can be patient if I must. Resigned, I examine some of the designs before tapping a forefinger lightly on the screen. “This is good, don’t you think?”
It’s a sleek uniform in midnight blue with fitted trousers, shiny black boots, and a plain shirt, covered with a matching jacket cut in relaxed but tailored lines. I’d wear it—and look good in it, too.
“That’s the one I would pick,” he admits. “Shall we work on a logo?”
“The Conglomerate symbol is a stylized sun crowned with a laurel leaf. Rather than change that, I’m thinking we should just add something to it.”
We toss ideas back and forth for several hours, each subsequently worse than the other. I eventually patch Constance into the meeting via my handheld and she projects atop the table in a tiny version of the body that went defunct back on Ithiss-Tor. She listens to all of our terrible ideas, including flora and fauna, then offers a verdict:
“You are not thinking in terms of symbolism,” she chides us. Or maybe I’m the only one who feels chided. Loras seems to be entranced. “Solar representations offer varied meaning in semiotics, heraldry, astrology, and many religions. In ages past, the Conglomerate chose it because it represents life, promise, and strength.”
“What about the other part of the design?” Loras asks.
Well, I would have, too, given the chance.
“The laurel wreath represents victory or conquest,” Constance tells us. “And the Conglomerate selected it for that association, though their conquests have long since been relegated to history.”
“It’s time to change that,” I say with determination. “So looking at symbolism that fits, what can you offer?”
“Searching,” she says.
“What’s that?” Loras whispers, as if he’s afraid of offending her.
“My PA,” I say, sheepish.
“From Lachion?” His azure eyes widen. “Mair’s old unit?”
How to explain? Well, it’s better to just tell it all. So I do, summarizing our adventures since we parted ways, and that includes Constance’s evolution.
“Is that legal?” he asks, when I’m done.
I shake my head ruefully. “Probably not. You gonna report me?”
He looks away. “You’re Hon’s allies. It would gain me nothing and incur his displeasure were I to do so.”
Okay, that’s it.
“You ass,” I growl at him. “What does it take to get through to you, man? I thought you were dead. And don’t give me any shit about shinai this, or in-your-debt that. You were my friend. I hope to Mary you still are.”
If he says it is impossible for friendship to thrive when one person is wholly subservient to another, I don’t know how I’ll keep from smacking him. I never treated him like a slave. But then, I don’t know how Hon’s treated him.
Loras hesitates, staring at his hands, then finally: “I don’t know what I am. It was different on Hon’s ship.”
I tense. “Different, how?”
Please don’t let anyone have hurt him. Though I might’ve had an angry thought out of exasperation, I’d never harm him. If you have any decency, you can’t lift a hand to the utterly defenseless.