PRIME SENSATIONS
Inkprint Press | Amazon | Barnes and Noble | Kobo | iBooks | GoodReads
“[E]xcellent world building, a deeply faceted love story of past regrets colliding with an uncertain future and great characters that make me wish it was … part of a series.” Corinne, GoodReads
“Great descriptions, great world and very appealing characters and plot. Five stars.” Celestine, GoodReads
CHAPTER ONE
“Unidentified vessel, we are Waste Hauler 133 out of Darrian 6. We carry no trade or crew,” the ship’s AI droned in a bored monotone.
Lana dropped into the waste hauler’s modified control booth and took over. “Uniden-tified vessel, be advised. I steer like a drunken moose, alter your course.” The reverb over the frequently patched comm lines made her sound like an old man with a lifelong bitter-root habit.
Sweat dripped down her nose. The waste hauler had a hull thirty years older than she was, and an environmental system older than that. It had survived two major system wars by being too worthless to target. And Lana was well aware that, as a debtor working off her ransom to the Iloni nation, she was slightly less valuable than the ship.
The comm crackled and she thought she heard the word “boarding.”
“Unidentified vessel, I am deaf and blind. I give you no authorization to come near this vessel. If you keep to your projected course I will have no choice but to heartlessly smash your hull because of physics.”
The other ship tried to respond.
Lana grimaced and tried to compensate for the ancient communications array. “Mass times acceleration, unidentified vessel. I can’t slow down in time.”
“Waste Hauler 133, this is the Marsail out of Port Tael, flying the flag of the Exaner Confederation. Prepare to be boarded.”
Black holes and dark nights! Port Tael was a pirate station, taken by the outer rim unification during the Apex War, and currently under stars only knew which warlord.
She leaned against the rough metal of the control booth. They probably wanted to pick over the hauler for parts. Stars knew there was enough wreckage welded in to rebuild a fleet. She should probably get dressed.
Lana sniffed her armpit. Maybe a shower was in order. And clothes. And snacks. The Marsail wouldn’t cross paths with her hauler for a few more hours, and it was the most exciting thing to happen since she’d been taken as a prisoner of war three years ago.
The Marsail managed to land on the bulky waste hauler with a finesse Lana would have envied a few years ago, back when she’d thought her rift rat piloting skills would be enough to win the attention she craved.
It never had.
She tossed a boiled nut into her mouth and watched the pirate crew’s slow progress through the hull. If there’d been someone to bet against, she would have wagered they’d go for the hard metals compartment, maybe grab some radiated shielding or a new engine converter.
Her second bet was the food waste depart-ment, where they might try panning for seeds. Not that it would do them any good—the Iloni poisoned the food waste to ensure the vegetation of Darrian 6 wasn’t sold on the black market—but they were welcome to try.
The enemy ship latched on like a leech and sliced through her hull. The crew moved methodically toward the control deck.
If she’d had a weapon, she would have gone out to meet them. The only gear worth having was the bits she’d salvaged. Not enough to build a shuttle, not yet, but in another year or three she’d have a means of escape. If they took that…
Lana eyed the console and considered the maneuvers she’d need to shake the smaller ship off. Scrapping them against the mine corridor that kept her from diverting off course sounded promising. She was running over the possible course corrections needed when someone banged on the door of the control booth.
“Pilot?” The person hammered on the door again. “Waste Hauler Pilot, open this door.”
She raised an eyebrow and grabbed another boiled nut. Telling the intruder she’d survived far worse than they could dish out was a waste of oxygen. Right now, she was breathing. If that changed in the next few minutes, no one was going to care, least of all her.
“Open this door or we will open it for you.”
“Be my guest.”
“Stand back.”
She looked around at the cramped booth, a cylinder of buttons, viewing screens, and control panels. Given enough time and the right tools, she could rip out the main radar and stuff herself into the box, but that would take at least an hour. The door in front of her radiated heat.
Lana lifted the chair that had long ago rusted loose just in time to prevent hot metal shrapnel from hitting her face. “Hi.” She set the chair down so she could look into the black faceplate of her attacker. With a smile, she slapped the panic button that sent the waste hauler into a death spiral, alarm beacons screaming. “Iloni forces will be here within the hour. Do you want to shoot me now, or later?” The increased gravity of the spiral pulled at her. For a moment it looked like her attacker planned on retreating. She winked at the black face mask. “Pretty girl got your tongue?”
The invader pushed past her, boots scrapping along the floor, and fumbled to hit the bypass code with large hands. “You think I don’t know that trick?”
“Do you think I care what you know?”
The faceplate cleared as he turned to her. And Lana found herself staring into the shocked eyes of Kaleb Hath—the man who’d left her for dead.
Lana’s nails bit into her palms as her fists clenched. “Commander Hath, if I’d known it was you, I would have vented my oxygen an hour ago.”