Finders Keepers Read Online Free

arm.
    “She is common.” Her voice hissed cruelly. “Low-born. Do not soil yourself with her contact.”
    “She can help,” he said to Malika, and looked at Rafi for assistance. But Rafi only shrugged and looked away.
    Suddenly, the Ycsko were there—seven of them, almost skeletal in appearance in spite of their billowing red robes. The air sprite spoke quickly to him. Her words sounded like a warning.
    Next to him, Malika laughed again, higher now, almost hysterically. She handed something to the red-robed Ycsko. A cylinder. A hypospray.
    He watched it come closer, knowing once it touched his neck the pain would start, flooding his body, burning his mind. He tried to will it away by sheer force of thought . . .
    His eyes shot open. The stark whiteness of the walls rushed in, almost blinding him. He flinched in pain, but silently. Always silently.
    Then the darkness engulfed him, and he slept.
    After a while his eyelids fluttered again, more slowly this time, letting his pupils adjust to the light. It didn’t seem quite as bright as before but still stung his brain like a thousand needles.
    He forced himself not to hurry his surreptitious scrutiny, yet his body was on alert. The memory of his short-lived captivity by the ’Sko came back, with the pain of their drugs and interrogation attempts. His ears took in the low whoosh-and-hum of something around him. It didn’t sound or feel like the high-ceilinged, brightly lit interrogation room he remembered.
    Through slitted eyes he glanced around, aware of the diagnostic cylinder fitted over his body.
    He was in a medical unit, a small one. Ill-equipped too: his regen bed was the only one.
    He longed to move his head, flex the aching muscles in his arms and—damn!—scratch that insistent itching over his wounds. But his senses had alerted him to another presence. He wasn’t yet ready to make an official appearance. Not until he knew exactly where he was, and why.
    Years of intense training allowed him to feign sleep. Not even the regen bed registered any change in his heart rate or respiration. Yet he was completely aware of all his surroundings. By habit he began calculating the distance between his left side and the wall. Three feet six inches, roughly. The wall to his right was five feet from him, perhaps two inches more. It contained a small ship’s diagram, illuminated icons showing emergency stations and fire equipment locations.
    He memorized the diagram.
    There was a doorway, a hatchway about seven feet from the line of his right shoulder.
    A metallic-skinned ’droid, an old DZ-9, he noted with mild surprise, stood by the hatchway, laser rifle in hand. Its joints squeaked every so often as it changed position to glance down the corridor or at the panel on the wall.
    Since when, he wondered, had envoy ’droids been used in security? And by whom?
    If that were the only impediment . . . but then there was a sound. Quick footsteps approaching on a metal floor. The steps echoed, solitary, telling him the walker was alone in the corridor. He heard no other noises, no other people but the walker and the ’droid.
    He listened to the cadence of the steps, mentally timing their separation. Whoever was coming toward him was light in weight and short in stature. Probably female.
    She was. As the woman entered the room, the dim overhead lighting caught the glisten of gold in her short cap of pale hair. Rafi would have described her face as winsome, sweet, with large, long-lashed eyes. And a mouth with just the right touch of poutiness. But Senior Captain Rafiello Vanushavor was an inveterate lady’s man, well versed in cataloging a female’s charms.
    Unlike Rafi, his own expertise lay more with weapons and strategies. A woman’s allurements were inconsequential. His exposure to Malika had taught him just how shallow those outward observations could be. And how painfully wrong.
    “How’s he doing this morning?” The woman’s question drew his attention. She spoke