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EPUB 978-0-2286-0826-4
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LSI/Ingram Print 978-0-2286-0830-1
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Copyright 2019 by Vijaya Schartz
Cover art by Michelle Lee
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book
To those of you who like strong heroines, brave heroes, and cats, this book is for you.
Czerno Drake contemplated the Byzantium space station, hovering at the edge of conquered space, in orbit around a dying star. Yet, this time, Czerno had not come to trade illegal weapons… and he never enjoyed the cheap thrill of illicit pleasures. The maximum-security penitentiary at Byzantium’s core, the Fortress, held the most dangerous felons in the quadrant… as well as his venerable uncle Jeremy, an innocent monk accused of helping the Resistance.
Czerno hoped he wasn’t too late to save the old man from that pit of despair.
As he guided his yacht closer, he pondered the neglected look of the structure, with its old collapsed spires, added domes and rectangular hangars, sticking to the spherical shell, like odd pieces of a puzzle missing its connective parts. A wide ring surrounded the entire moon-like station. Branching, wide hollow tubes connected the ring to the central sphere, like the spokes of a wheel.
Once a thriving commercial hub, Byzantium had turned into a gaudy tourist attraction and a den of crime, drugs, gambling, and debauchery. Its underbelly slums harbored the most bloodthirsty gangs in the galaxy. There, honor, life, or freedom had no meaning.
A call buzzed on his console.
Czerno straightened the collar of his soft yellow silk shirt and tied his dark wavy mane at the nape with a matching yellow scarf. He needed to look the part and match the classy décor of his ship. Then he retrieved a tiny box from his pocket and opened it on his console. He bent over to extract the brown contact lenses and apply them to his eyes.
He righted himself, cleared his throat, slipped the container back in his pocket, and switched open the buzzing call.
A stern man with a bulldog face and furry eyebrows, wearing a black uniform, filled the clear 3D display. “Port Security. Identify yourself.”
“Czerno Drake, Captain of the luxury yacht Providence, requesting permission to dock.” He faced the cameras, managing a mildly bored expression.
“Where do you come from? Any passengers? Any cargo?” The officer’s curt tone indicated stress. The man stared at him through the screen, as if to commit his face to memory. He seemed tired and overworked.
“I come from Corabora Prime, my home planet.” Czerno smiled. “No human or alien passengers, and no cargo.”
“Nice yacht.” The officer’s compliment reeked of envy.
Czerno probed his mind briefly. The man couldn’t stand rich, stylish dandies.
“Thank you, officer.”
The man’s loathing didn't matter to Czerno. If he only knew… Czerno’s well-to-do family on Corabora Prime hated him. They’d disowned him on account of his flamboyant lifestyle. They didn't suspect the lavish playboy facade concealed more dangerous and illegal activities. No one knew the genuine Czerno Drake, and no one ever should.
“If it’s not cargo or passengers, what is your business on Byzantium?” the officer grumbled as he searched for ID confirmation on his mainframe.
“Why does anyone come to this decrepit space station?” Czerno made his voice suave and decadent. “Pleasure, of course. I had time to spare and decided to visit your gambling establishments between jumps. I hear you have high stakes games.”
“Yes, sir, we do.” The security man studied Czerno further, as if comparing him to the ID portrait in his files, then he shook his head. “You do not look like a criminal… at least, not the one we are looking for.”
“Glad to hear it.” Czerno hid his relief behind a grin. He didn’t need to ask who they were searching for. Not only would it arouse suspicion, but he’d already guessed. Tightened security on the station, however, would complicate his mission.
“You may dock in Berth-125, Alpha quadrant, on the outer ring.” The officer gave him a disapproving look, as if he didn’t belong here. “Once you disembark, please remain in the tourist areas, on the brightly lit thoroughfares. And stay away from the slums, they are not safe… especially for your kind.”
Czerno nodded, ignoring the insulting comment. “Thank you, officer. I shall mind your advice.”
He severed the connection.
“My kind?” Czerno turned to the fluffy Angora cat lounging on the co-pilot chair. “Do you hear that, Marshmallow? I have a kind.” Czerno chuckled. “Looks are everything, I guess. They didn’t even scan the ship… although my tech would easily fool their antiquated scanners.”
The cat stretched and yawned, obviously bored.
Czerno guided his space yacht around the giant ring circling the structure, like the ring of a planet. Large numbers above wide bay doors indicated private docking berths, some open, others closed.
Watching his clear display viewers, Czerno floated the Providence to face Berth-125 in the Alpha quadrant. The wide bay door opened. He guided the ship inside the relatively small landing bay, and hovered. Bright lights flooded the bay. Under artificial gravity, the ship alighted softly for its size and weight. Clamps banged as they gripped the landing gear of the Providence.
Czerno rose, checked the small phase dagger in his boot, and the miniature proton blaster nestled under the shirt at his waist. Satisfied, he grabbed the elegant camel overcoat from the back of his captain chair and made a show of shaking it, and whirling it over his shoulders, as he would in a public place, to get into character. Then he threaded his arms into the sleeves.
“Come on, Marshmallow. It’s show time.”
The cat jumped down from the co-pilot seat and followed him, tail up, trotting along the blue and silver Damas corridors, then down the lift to Deck One, and toward the yacht’s underbelly exit hatch.
While the airlock cycled out, Czerno crouched and swooped up the white fluffy cat, who draped himself comfortably upon the left velvet sleeve of his coat.
Head high, composing himself to befit his character of wealthy, decadent popinjay, Czerno waited for the iris hatch to open.
“Marrrshmallow want tuna,” the feline expressed in his mind.
Czerno patted the soft, furry head. “I promise you the best synthetic tuna I can find on this sorry excuse for a space station.”
The white furball purred with satisfaction. “Marrrsmallow looove tuna.”
The light above the hatch turned green, indicating the bay was pressurized. The iris opened with a whoosh of compressed air.
“Here, we go.” Czerno carried the feline out of the Providence.
The heels of his fine brown leather boots rang on the metallic ramp leading down to the decking of the private berth.
A casual glance told him the Byzantium space station was quickly losing its former luster. Brown grease around the giant bolts barely hid the rusty trusses, and his musky cologne did not blot out the smell, a mix of decaying steel with traces of sulfur, ion fuel, and core coolant.
So much for quality air filters. But he had no doubt the GTA high-ranking officers and government officials residing on station enjoyed perfectly fresh-smelling air in their offices and personal quarters.
“Providence secure the ship,” he said, out of habit, although he carried no compromising cargo this time. In his usual activities, he couldn’t run the risk of a surprise inspection.
“Yes, Captain Drake,” the female voice of the ship's computer sounded in his head, low and sultry. He'd set the voice on sexy, to reinforce his painstakingly earned reputation as a decadent lady's man to the minutest of details.
“Open the hatches upon my personal mind command only.” That ensured no one could break into his ship, even if they stole his ID chip, however unlikely that was.
“Be extremely careful, Captain Drake,” The sexy voice said in his head.
The door slid open onto the wide circular Concourse circling the entire station.
“Welcome to Byzantium, Captain Czerno Drake,” a metallic voice announced overhead, scanning the ID chip in his pocket as he crossed the threshold.
The inside of the giant ring corridor looked white and sterile, with docking bays and private berths all around. Through the clear titanium bay windows, between docking berths, one could see many civilian ships, large and small, clamped to the outer ring.
Floating, driverless cabs with no roofs, zipped between hurried passengers. Many pedestrians led or followed antigravity pallets hovering two feet above the decking, heavy with luggage. Tourists in transit gazed up at the designations above the bay doors, searching for a specific docking berth.
Judging from the amount of activity, it must be day-shift, station time. Workers in freighter gray overalls drove forklifts and directed more antigravity pallets carrying small cargo. Watchful, black uniformed GTA enforcers, stood in pairs at strategic checkpoints, while others patrolled the wide concourse in antigravity vehicles.
Czerno inwardly shuddered at the sight of GTA security forces. The black leather cuffs, high collar, epaulets and heavy military boots cinching the pants at mid-calf evoked the nightmare of his recent incarceration. He'd narrowly escaped from that hell, but the stiff scars of a laser flog on the skin of his chest and back still itched.
Marshmallow, draped on his left arm, spat and hissed as they neared a couple of burly officers.
“Behave, Marshmallow,” Czerno whispered, then he forced a wide apologetic grin and nodded to the uniforms.
“Marrrshmallow hssst uniforrrm.” The cat turned his head disdainfully away from the officers.
The GTA men offered a polite bow. Obviously, they weren't looking for the extravagant and very wealthy Captain Czerno Drake. Of course, the small phase dagger concealed in Czerno's left boot did not register on regular GTA scanners, thanks to the state-of-the-art camouflage coating that made it invisible to electronics. Nor did they register the miniature and very illegal proton blaster nestled at his waist, under the yellow shirt and camel overcoat.
Czerno merged with the pedestrian traffic onto the main circular Concourse, abuzz with brisk day-shift business. The souvenir shops, clothing boutiques and antique stores beckoned to the wealthy. At least those bold enough to get off their luxury cruisers to visit this den of depravity. The aroma from the food vendor stalls almost concealed the stink of cold metal and moral decay.
He hailed a floating open cab and boarded it. “To the Forum.”
“To the Forum.” The automatic, driverless contraption zipped through the crowd and turned into one of the long, straight avenues, converging from the outer ring to the center of the station.
For this particular mission, Czerno had docked under his semi-respectable identity, and used his ship’s official name. Captain Czerno Drake, owner of the luxury passenger yacht, Providence... Lucky Drake to the ladies and gambling den dealers.
But Czerno’s business on Byzantium was not of a recreational nature. He had to rescue his uncle from the clutches of the GTA. On this corrupted station, the old Friar's glaring innocence would in no way ensure his safety.
The GTA had dragged his uncle, Friar Jeremy Marcel, from his monastery to the infamous penitentiary called the Fortress… a place where they kept hard-core criminals. This augured the worst fate of all. Death through hard labor, exposure to radioactivity, and life-threatening addiction to the insidious Falla drug the enforcers used to keep the prisoners docile. On this isolated space station, faraway from any planet, civilization wasn't what it used to be.
At the end of the broad corridor, the floating vehicle emerged on a busy mall and stopped. The dashboard buzzed. “Here you are, at the Forum. Have a nice visit.”
Czerno disembarked, still carrying Marshmallow. He needed information and a decent meal, especially after a week of ship rations and replicator food. He walked past the Astro-Dog stand, under the seductive glances of a few lovely courtesans calling from a balcony.
As he crossed the wide, rectangular Forum, Czerno noticed a glowing blue dome at the far end. He’d heard rumors about these mysterious temples. They worshipped the Formless One. He also sensed the pull of an invisible force… and a strong telepathic presence.
Even Marshmallow noticed and stared with rounded eyes. “Marshmallow want to go.”
“Me, too… but we’ll visit later. Let’s go eat. We have work to do first.” Czerno directed his steps toward the Bonaventure, the finest eatery on Byzantium.
Unlike his alter ego, who hid in the shadows of gang dens and sordid taverns, Lucky Drake only dined in very fine and very public establishments. Besides, Marshmallow had requested tuna.
The cat on his left arm purred and licked its lips. “Marrrshmallow looove tuna.”
Czerno entered the restaurant, dimly lit in a soft yellow, orange and red glow. The place swarmed with GTA officers, just as Czerno hoped, some in full uniform, others in relaxed black tees exposing bulging muscles. A soft, syncopated rhythmic music played in the background.
He picked a central and very visible table, then called the attention of the woman behind the bar, a slender brunette, with lively hazel eyes.
As she made her way to his table, he hoped she'd take a shine to Marshmallow. Women usually did. Pets were a rarity on a space station, especially a priceless purebred Terran Angora. Marshmallow was the perfect accessory to his popinjay disguise
Eyes on the feline, the woman smiled. “Hi, welcome to Bonaventure. What will it be for you and your adorable furry friend?”
Marshmallow purred and rolled over on the table, to offer his belly, rounding his deep blue eyes into pools of cuteness. “Marrrshmallow looove ladies.”
Czerno flashed his most endearing smile. “Marshmallow wants your best tuna, and I'll have the special of the day, whatever that is. I trust your impeccable reputation. Chef Bonaventure never disappointed me in the past.”
“Excellent choice, sir. Our Pithian Prime beef stew is the best in this star system.” She tabbed his order into a small tablet. “Anything to drink?”
“Milk for Marshmallow, and your finest scotch for me.” Lucky Drake always drank lavishly in public, or at least made a show of it.
After the server left, Czerno turned to Marshmallow and chuckled. “I believe the prime beef is grown in a lab and never grazed on Pith, but it’s still the best in the quadrant.”
Truth be told, he’d never tasted beef on Pith… especially not in the penitentiary.
When the server returned with food and drinks, Czerno hand fed tuna to Marshmallow. Soon, the cat had become the attraction of the hour.
Byzantium used standard hours to keep track of time… twenty in a day. He looked up through the window at the fake, inside sun that provided light and warmth, and traveled in a wide arc to mark the day-time hours and mimic the rising and waning light on a planet.
Soon, other female employees flocked to the table, and Czerno let them handle Marshmallow under the stoic stare of the bouncers flanking the exits.
Czerno made a show of enjoying his meal… and the company of the ladies.
Meanwhile, his acute psychic mind scanned the thoughts of the GTA security officers distracted by the spectacle. He couldn't scan too deeply without physical contact, but he only needed a few security codes. Then his ship's AI could hack into the classified files to download the information pertaining to Uncle Jeremy's incarceration.
“Providence? Are you paying attention?” he mentally broadcast to his ship, making sure the AI wasn't busy with routine maintenance checks.
“I'm always listening, Captain Drake,” the AI answered suggestively in his head.
“Marrrshmallow looove tuna,” the cat purred between bites, intruding upon his thoughts.
Czerno scratched the feline behind the ears and smiled some more for his audience. Then he caught a flash of numbers and letters in his mind, a sequence. Definitely a code. He focused on the string of numerals. “Got that, Providence?”
“Got it, Captain Drake.”
“Here comes another one.” Czerno focused on the other sequence from the relaxed GTA men, then another. Of course, without digging deeper into someone's mind, he couldn't tell whether the codes referred to file access, door locks, or overrides used on a regular basis. Providence would have to sort them out for him. As more strands surfaced, Czerno transmitted them to the AI.
He also looked the officers straight in the eyes, one at a time, smiling benignly, long enough for his contact lenses to take an imprint of their retinal scans. He hoped the male enforcers didn't think he was coming on to them. Although he played the dandy, Czerno was fiercely partial to women. “Are you getting all this, Providence?”
“Yes, Captain Drake.”
The server waltzed to his table. “Everything to your liking, sir?”
Czerno grinned. “Quite. Send my compliments to Chef Bonaventure.”
“Will do.” The girl went to help other customers.
“Providence, are you still with me?”
“Aye, Captain.”
“I will need the prisoner's exact location, possible extraction routes, and guard shift schedules.” He hoped the blast doors weren't DNA encoded. But with so many guards coming and going, it didn't seem practical.
* * *
Lieutenant Zara Frankel surveyed the Forum from the tall, upper-story windows of the main security office. Down below, tourists, courtesans, and shoppers milled around the boutiques and restaurants. At the end of the rectangular Forum, the glow of a blue dome marked the temple of the Formless One. Newcomers on the station.
No one knew where they came from, or what they preached, but there was something strange and beckoning about the glow. The light didn’t seem to come from any known artificial illumination. Zara would have to check it out sometime, soon.
The com console in the main security office chimed, calling her attention to the corresponding display up on the transparent wall. Stepping toward the clear wall, Zara straightened the blaster strapped to her thigh and stared at the mugshot of a rough and tumble man, with a black bushy beard, matching hirsute hair, and a piercing green stare. Data scrolled below it.
A fellow officer came behind her and read. “Wanted dead or alive, escapee from Pith planetary prison, convicted arms dealer and Resistance terrorist, considered extremely dangerous. Only known as Black Dragon.”
“Wasn’t there a gang called the Dragon Squad in the slums?” Zara remembered reviewing old files. “Is there a connection?”
“Nope. No connection.” The officer chuckled. “Besides, these louts never fought for a cause, even less a lost one.”
Zara checked her tablet for information on the gang. “Looks like their boss is rotting in some faraway prison, and the gang disappeared in mysterious circumstances three cycles ago, never to be seen again.”
“Good riddance.” The officer chuckled then resumed reading the wall. “The escaped convict was last seen on Pith, boarding a five-hundred-ton Raptor identified as the Kismet, destination suspected to be the Antares star system. Substantial rewards... etc. etc.”
“By the frozen hells of Laxxar!” Zara raked slender fingers through her dark crop of short, curly hair. “If this escaped criminal is heading here, a wave of bounty hunters is about to unfurl upon the Antares star system and upon Byzantium.”
“Keeps the job from getting boring.” The officer guffawed.
Zara still stared at the mugshot. Despite the bland quality of the image, she could detect resolve in the striking peridot-green eyes accentuated by tan skin and long, dark eyelashes. The terrorist's gaze sparkled with intelligence and a trace of dark humor. Even after his capture, this Black Dragon never considered himself defeated. A wild man for sure.
Zara shrugged away the delicious sensations assailing her. She'd been attracted to wild men before. It never worked out. Charismatic bad boys didn't like GTA enforcers, especially female officers with a conscience. Besides, such male specimens usually trod on the wrong side of the law and took too many risks with their lives and the lives of others. Still, they exuded wild alpha male pheromones that drove her to do stupid things.
“I’ll handle the call.” Zara returned to her station. Fingers flying over the console, she acknowledged reception of the message and forwarded the mug shot and information to all station officers' tablets, including hers.
The officer checked his tablet. “Got the message.”
“Me, too.” Checking to ensure the mug shot had been received by all, she stared at it some more, wondering what the man had really done. To be sure, the fringe of conquered space teemed with terrorists of all kinds, but Zara didn't believe every GTA broadcast. Not anymore. In these troubled days, it didn't take much to label anyone a terrorist, or a menace to civilized society.
Zara knew that only too well. A few months ago, on Beta-Minor, her conscience had clashed with the racial cleansing methods of the GTA. The academy on Omega Prime hadn't prepared her for what happened there. When she'd faced a group of innocent civilians marked for extermination, she'd ignored orders and provided them with free transport off the planet... on a stolen GTA ship, no less.
Had the Court Martial been able to prove her involvement in the theft of the ship or the escape, she would have faced the execution squad. Since Zara had skillfully covered her tracks, however, the GTA investigators never found concrete evidence.
Still, the fact that the incident happened on her watch had shanghaied her to this forsaken space station for the reminder of her contract. A definite dead end to her promising military career. She was at an impasse and would have to contend with the day-to-day humdrum of station security, and the simple insignia of a lieutenant for the rest of her career.
Not that Zara cared anymore. But she was stuck here by an unbreakable contract… and going AWOL qualified as treason… punishable by death.
The GTA she had once dreamed of serving had finally shown its true face. A few magnates dictated the law, control and greed now trumped humane concerns, and there was no justice for the oppressed.
Things needed to change, but she didn't see how they could. The elusive Resistance was only a small thorn in the GTA’s side and stood no chance against the military might of the Galactic Trade Alliance.
Still, looking for a first-class Resistance terrorist like Black Dragon would bring a little spice to her dull life.
Czerno strolled inside the main casino, parading Marshmallow on his arm, like a prized Courtesan. Familiar sounds of slot machines, happy little winning tunes, and the smell of sweat and anticipation assailed his senses. He crossed the main floor with a slight swagger, and headed toward the back of the establishment, where the high stakes card games usually hid.
Sprawled on his forearm, the Angora could barely keep his eyes open and yawned, content after a fat tuna meal. “Marrrshmallow sleeepy.”
While Providence hacked into the station's security network, Czerno needed to gamble in order to win enough credits to cover the expenses of his uncle's rescue. His last stint in a GTA penitentiary on Pith had negatively affected his finances, and playing the wealthy rogue actually cost a bunch. So did the equipment, batteries, ship maintenance and docking fees this mission required. Such an operation cost more than what the average space-jockey made in one cycle.
Despite a lucrative arms-dealing business, the fabulous wealth Czerno flaunted was a façade. The majority of his funds funneled out through untraceable transactions to various branches of the Resistance against the GTA. He could ill afford a personal rescue mission and needed the gambling gods to smile upon him… as they always did.
Czerno made his way to the high-stakes card tables, concealed behind a row of live potted plants. Somewhat of a green miracle, given the dim lighting and the smoke in the air. He recognized the familiar stink of expensive cigars, illegal on most civilized planets, and the clink of gold chips, used by some instead of credit sticks, to hide their winnings from tax collectors or greedy consorts.
Scanning the room with his mind, Czerno detected no professional gamblers, and no electronic cheating device at any of the tables. The tense faces, under the glowing globes illuminating the kidney-shaped tables, looked eager. He used a light mind touch to figure out which gamblers could afford to lose great sums without dire consequences.
Carefully, avoiding the noisy table of a sore loser, he opted for a table of quaint nobility out on a jaunty adventure. They didn't expect to win anyway. He knew their kind. He came from such a family. More credits than brains, motivated by instant gratification, with no empathy for the lower class. They would rather throw away credits than give them to someone in need, or support a worthy cause. Selfish, decadent bastards.
Czerno pulled out a chair and smiled at the players. “May I join your game?”
The noble tourists, trusting his wealthy appearance, welcomed him to the table with affable remarks, and showed some interest in Marshmallow.
“Do you mind very much if my cat lies on the table?” It was against the rules, but Lucky Drake had no problems with breaking rules. Besides, the table was plenty large enough.
When the gamblers nodded agreement, Czerno made a fuss of setting the sleeping Marshmallow on the pink synthetic felt of the gambling table.
He would have the good grace of losing a hand here and there to avoid suspicion. Of course, in Czerno's case, it wasn't gambling as much as stealing.
No one knew of his unreported psychic abilities, not even his family. He suspected his promiscuous mother had secretly succumbed to the charms of a Zephyrian mind-reader. Czerno could enjoy his illicit natural talents unchallenged. As far as anyone knew, he was just lucky. Never mind that he could read his opponents' cards through their eyes during the game. To him, winning was child-play.
Not that telepathic abilities were such a rarity. On some planets, they constituted the norm. Even on Byzantium, more mind readers joined the resident population. Under GTA rule, however, all telepaths must be registered, and such people were tagged, and banned from casinos and gambling dens.
Which reminded Czerno he must visit the Temple of the Formless One, the glowing blue dome at the end of the Forum. His gut, or rather the energy the dome emitted, told him he would find support and information for his mission there.
The casino dealer dealt the octagonal cards, and the cred sticks and gold chips piled up on the pink synthetic felt of the gambling table.
Winning came so easily to Czerno that, lulled by the game, he forgot to lose for too many turns. The opulent player across the table eyed him with suspicion in his narrowed gaze, but Czerno smiled, playing the perfectly mannered, sophisticated, polished, charming Lucky Drake, screaming nobility.
Still, he purposely lost a small amount, then he resumed his winning streak.
* * *
In the security office, Zara stood by the floor-to-ceiling window panes, studying the Forum crowd through the one-way flexglaz. To think that the famous Resistance terrorist Black Dragon might be among the tourists browsing the shops and restaurants. The very thought gave her a shiver of excitement.
She used to love her work, and think she performed a service for society. Now, she felt stifled by a job she no longer enjoyed, because she served a corrupt master she could not trust. Yet, she had no choice in the matter. Until the end of her contract, five cycles down the road, she must endure, or be court-Martialed as a deserter.
“Lieutenant Frankel?”
“Yes, sir.” Zara turned away from the flexglaz and straightened her back to face the security chief, Dax Rocco.
“A gambler is winning too much in the main casino’s gambling den,” The man mumbled between puffy red cheeks. “Could be a cheater. That’s your department.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” Because of a prolonged sojourn on Toulouse, the notorious pleasure planet where she'd policed the gambling dens, Zara was always the first security officer called when a casino owner suspected a gambler of cheating.
“He was identified by the security cameras as Captain Czerno Drake, also dubbed Lucky Drake, freshly arrived on the yacht Providence for a recreational stop between jumps.” Dax Rocco shook his big head in obvious disapproval.
“I’m on it, Chief.” Zara went to her desk and swiped the glass surface to pull the file on the suspected cheater. The picture of a very handsome and very sharply dressed nobleman, with long black hair gathered in a ponytail, filled the transparent wall. “Here he is.”
Dax Rocco snorted his disdain. “Hate those rich, lazy bastards. Especially when they make their fortune cheating.”
She searched the station databanks for pertinent information about her handsome assignment. Data scrolled on the clear wall, but nothing fishy surfaced. “The man comes from a good family and has a spotless record.”
Dax Rocco grunted his disapproval.
“Still. Who chooses Byzantium for a vacation?” Although, there was no accounting for taste, and for a gambler, the station casinos might seem attractive enough.
“Well, if he’s a cheater, it makes sense.” Rocco puffed.
Zara, however, trusted her instincts, and her first impression upon research told her that Captain Czerno Drake was hiding something. “His record looks too pristine to be real.” She rose from her chair. “This calls for a special investigation.”
“Where are you going?” Chief Rocco raised his brow.
“Home.” Zara smiled at the security chief. “I can’t barge into a casino in uniform. That would alert the cheater and scare the customers.”
Rocco narrowed his eyes at her. “Then what’s your plan?”
“I shall go undercover, of course, as a wealthy gambler.”
“As long as you catch him, I don’t care how you do it.” Chief Rocco pivoted on his heel and walked out of the glass office.
Zara welcomed the challenge. It would break the boredom. She would find out what lay beneath the smooth façade of the handsome Captain Drake, and if he cheated, she would get her man.
She always did.
* * *
Half a standard hour later, Zara left her small dwelling pod and walked in high heel shoes along the main thoroughfare, among tourists and business people. The fake sun shone high above, and the delicious aroma from the posh eateries made her mouth water.
She adopted a sinuous walk that gathered a few looks from men and women alike. Her long, silky champagne dress whispered and shimmered with each step. The low neckline drew the attention to her firm, perky breasts for distraction purposes. Good. She’d chosen the right outfit.
She carried her security ID chip in her matching clutch, as well as a small blaster stuck to the inside of her right thigh. The long dress covered it, while the high slit on the side made it accessible in case of emergency. On such missions, she also carried an array of small recording devices and a miniature super-scanner to detect the latest cheating gadgets sold on the black market.