Skypirate (Coalition Rebellion, #2)

by Justine Davis

The image of her, slumped and beaten where once she had defied them all, came to him with a vividness that startled him. He suppressed the urge to simply take this hellatious device and go hand it back to her. Instead, he sat staring at it, reflecting on who was the more evil, the ones who had created it, or the ones who used it.

He said nothing more, but after a moment she said, staring once more out at the stars, “A quiet place is necessary to sanity.” “Yes,” he said after a moment of surprise at how exactly she had expressed his need for this one place of calm amid the chaos of a skypirate’s vessel.

“Do you know,” she said, her voice barely a whisper, “what the most appalling part of a collared slave’s torture is? It is not knowing that another claims to own you. It is not that they control you with pain. It is not even the knowledge that with the push of a button they can annihilate you at will, and you would never even see their face.” He said nothing, but she knew he was listening. And she guessed he was watching, warily, to see what she would do. “I look at this device now and shudder. Yet I used it, to force a slave’s will to my own. Or gave it to others, whose desires were often more depraved, more evil than anything I could imagine. To know that of myself, that I was capable . . . it makes me wish to use it for my own destruction.” She sensed rather than saw Dax tense, could almost feel his muscles going taut, ready. “But that would be too kind. Too lenient by far.” She looked at him then, not allowing herself to care that he would see the self-loathing in her eyes. “Perhaps I can give you that little piece of justice you wanted. It is not enough to atone, there will never be enough, but it is all I have.” She cradled the controller on her palm. She looked at it for a long, silent moment, then held it out to Dax. He stared at her. “You’re . . . giving it back?” “It is what slaves must do. Hand the instrument of their torture to the one who will administer that torture.” She heard him let out a low, harsh breath. He hesitated, then reached out with one hand, all...

“That run you made was . . .” She hesitated. Crazy, demented, suicidal, all the words she wanted to use were sure to destroy whatever there was of that leniency she had sensed in him, and it was tentative enough as it was. But at the same time, she wanted to shake some caution into him. “A calculated risk,” he said with a shrug, sounding so casual that Califa felt that knot inside her tighten further. “And if you had . . . miscalculated?” “The Evening Star still would have made it.” That knot was becoming unbearable. Did he not care at all for himself? He seemed to get such amusement from life; did he not feel any urge to preserve his own? The words came out incredulously, and almost against her will. “And you would be dead.” He shrugged again. “I thought he might break.” The knot snapped, unraveling with all the ferocity of her tangled emotions. “You thought he might break!” she exclaimed. “And on that piece of absurdity you risked your life?” He blinked, as if startled. He opened his mouth, but Califa wasn’t about to let him spout some other piece of lunacy. As happened far too often with this man, the emotions she usually kept tightly under control broke loose, tumbling out in a spate of words. “Do you think your crew would have welcomed your sacrifice? Do you truly believe they would think it an even trade, their lives for the life of the man they esteem above all others?” Amazingly, Califa saw a tinge of color stain his cheeks. But she didn’t, couldn’t stop.

“I’m willing to take that chance. Are you willing to make me stay here, and take the chance that I might be the one to make the difference?” When he spoke, it was so softly the others couldn’t hear him. “Why?” he asked again. “Does it matter?” “It might. To Dax.” Califa shook her head. “I don’t think anything matters to Dax.” “What matters to Dax is why in Hades there’s no sentry posted.” All the occupants of the room spun around at the sound of the mocking drawl. He stood in the doorway, hair damp and clinging, his cloak soaked at the hem, his boots muddy. And looking completely exhausted.

“Of course I understand,” she said, meeting his gaze levelly. “I’ve learned of the wish for death from an expert.” “I . . .” God, touching her had been a mistake. Her heat was rippling through him, burning him. “That’s different,” he managed. “How, Dax? You feel you betrayed your world. I feel I unforgivably abused its king. I see no difference.” “No,” he said. He couldn’t stand that, too. He couldn’t face the condemnation of his people and her death, too. “I must. Just as you must.” He shook his head mutely, despair welling up inside him. “Dax,” she said gently, “do you think I don’t understand what you’re doing? That facing Dare, and your people, is the only way you can live with yourself any longer? And that even death is preferable to the guilt, if that is what they choose? That this is the only way your soul will find rest?” He stared at her, his breath coming in gulps as she ripped every deeply buried emotion from its hiding place within him and dragged them out into the light. “Will you deny me the same peace, Dax?” He couldn’t speak. He could only pull her into his arms and hold her, tightly, not sure which of them was trembling, then realizing it was both.