toward the ship. “Commander Frayne was escorted off the ship as soon as it docked.”
Alarm prickled the back of her neck. “Escorted off? Is he in trouble?” Mara began to stride away—exactly where she was heading, she didn’t know, but if Kell needed help, she would provide it, however she could.
“No trouble at all, ma’am,” the ensign said, trotting quickly after her. “But a mission like this, complicated and important as it was, requires a long debriefing before a panel of admirals. Standard operating procedure.”
Her pace slowed as some of her righteous anger and determination evaporated. “I see. How long do these panels last?”
“Could be hours, or longer. More than enough time to rest and clean up. Ma’am.”
She glanced down at herself, seeing the blood and dirt covering her clothes. She probably did not smell particularly pleasant, either.
A water shower. A bed. Solitude. Time to think. She wanted and needed all of this.
Summoning her years of training, she gave the ensign a regal nod. “Escort me to my quarters, Ensign.” However, she was no longer a princess, so she added, “Please.”
The junior officer led her through the base, and she found herself accepting congratulations and handshakes from many 8th Wing personnel. She felt inundated by faces and voices. Reaching her quarters was a relief.
They were, indeed, much more spacious that her cramped quarters on the Arcadia, and a decided contrast from the seedy lodging room she had shared with Kell. Though, what she and Kell had done in that lodging room hadn’t been seedy at all. It had been…breathtaking.
Needing to be alone with her thoughts and memories, she dismissed the ensign. The grime of Ryge needed to come off. She remembered her purification ritual after her first menses. At dawn, she had been bathed by priestesses, symbolically marking the transformation from childhood to adulthood, one life ended, another begun.
After stripping, she stepped beneath the water. The drain carried away the final relics of her life as a scavenger. Who was she now? There were millions of paths to take—cargo pilot, merchant, or, hell, mercenary. She now possessed what she had been denied on Argenti—choice.
She finished and wrapped a towel around herself, then staggered toward the bed as weariness overwhelmed her. Mara collapsed onto the bed. She would just rest her eyes a moment before getting dressed and going in search of Kell. Against her will, she fell asleep in seconds. And found herself adrift in dreams.
She woke later to a fleeting sensation of panic. An unfamiliar room, unfamiliar bed. Voices outside in the corridor discussed a training session, griping to each other about a tough warrant officer.
I’m at 8th Wing base. Kell’s home.
And hers, if she wanted it. Considering the praise she’d been given from the 8th officers, his offer might very well be genuine. The question was, what did she want?
Him. She wanted him. A palpable ache in the center of her chest. Lying on her back, staring at the ceiling, Mara pressed the heel of her hand against her chest, trying to contain the need that threatened to open her from the inside out. She had to see Kell. Needed to see his face and hear his voice and touch him, everywhere. He alone would understand what it was she felt to be on the 8th Wing base, the strange conflict of emotions to become, suddenly, a hero. He would know the curious emptiness that came with one life ending and another waiting to begin.
Gods, he had become her friend.
She checked the time. Three solar hours had passed since she had fallen into bed. He had to be finished with the debriefing by now. He would come to see her. The idea of waiting for him in nothing but a towel appealed, but just in case someone other than Kell showed up at her door, she ought to get dressed.
Her grimy clothes held little charm after getting herself clean. Rummaging around a storage locker, Mara found a woman’s 8th Wing uniform. No identification, no markers of rank. Unclaimed, clearly. Feeling a little strange, as though putting on someone else’s identity, Mara donned the jumpsuit. Looking into the mirror, her self-mocking smile died before it fully formed. She’d thought she would appear ridiculous, a criminal pretending to be a defender of the law. A fraud.
But no. She had her own dignity, and the uniform only highlighted what was already there. It felt surprisingly good, purposeful. As though she was part of something bigger than herself, yet contributed her own