The smuggler dropped back into his seat with a gasp.

Nils gazed at the ship’s control panel. The alarm continued to blare, and on the viewscreen, the PRAXIS ships drew closer. “Even if this ship wasn’t operating at lower efficiency, it has rudimentary shields and weapons.”

“Get to the Phantom.” She turned and sped from the cockpit.

Nils followed as she ran down to the loading dock where their ship was docked. Relief poured through her to be back inside an 8th Wing ship, knowing that all their vessels were kept in top condition. If she had to, she’d have found a way to fight using the smuggler’s rickety, damaged ship, but she’d much rather have the superior firepower of a Phantom. She took her seat at the controls and Nils sat beside her, his hands already flying over the weapons systems panel.

“PRAXIS will be within engagement distance in one solar minute,” he said, his voice clipped. “It’s a cutter and two fighters.”

The smuggler’s ship was dead weight that would only slow them down. Celene uncoupled the Phantom and punched the throttle.

“Don’t leave me,” Gabela’s voice pled over the com.

“We’ll draw them away from you.” She entered a combat sequence into the control panel. There would be no possibility of escape, only a fight. The enemy drew closer.

“Thirty seconds to engagement,” said Nils.

“Ever been in actual combat?”

“This is my first.”

At least he sounded calm. Tense, but composed. She had to trust his skill and training.

“Twenty seconds,” he said.

The twin sensations of excitement and utter serenity filled her, the same feelings she always had in the moments before combat. She needed to welcome the fight, to be ready for it, and she needed complete calm. Usually when she went up against the enemy, she had her fellow Black Wraith squad members as backup, and the sleek, deadly machine of a Black Wraith ship—not an untested NerdWorks engineer in a Phantom. Some pilots might worry about liabilities, but she’d earned the name Stainless Jur for a reason.

Where other pilots saw problems, she saw possibilities. A greater challenge that she had to meet.

The other option was death.

“Ten seconds,” Nils said.

Celene pushed the Phantom away from the smuggler’s ship, heading toward the freedom of deeper space. She gave Nils a tight smile as he continued his countdown. “Strap yourself down and let ’em come.”

All three PRAXIS ships opened fire.

She immediately took the Phantom into evasive maneuvers, canting the ship back and forth and side to side in order to dodge the blasts. The Phantom shuddered from the concussion, but took no hits. She banked hard and returned fire, clipping the wing of the cutter. It shook but held tight in its pursuit.

“If this was my Wraith,” she said, “that lunc would be molecules.” But she didn’t believe in excuses, only trying harder, so she brought her ship around again for another strafing run.

She hit the fighters and saw the satisfying blue glow that indicated their shields were weakening.

Suddenly the Phantom unleashed an additional round of plasma fire on the PRAXIS ships. She frowned down at the controls. She hadn’t taken those shots. But how…?

She glanced over at Nils. He looked a little smug as his hands hovered over the control panel.

“Before we left base, I made a few additional modifications. Including a secondary weapons system.”

She shook her head, smiling. “Always thinking ahead, NerdWorks.”

“There’s virtue in being prepared,” he answered, but he didn’t return the smile. Instead, his gaze remained tight on the viewscreen, tracking the movements of the PRAXIS ships.

It was easy to forget that he wasn’t a combat veteran. Whenever Celene and her squad members were in a fight, they often cracked jokes in the heat of battle as a way to deal with the tension. None of them ever forgot the stakes, but flying countless engagements with the enemy tended to take the cutting edge off of fear. It was either that, or crack up from the stress. Which had happened to more than a few combat pilots.

She couldn’t think about her fallen or washed-out comrades. There were three blood-hungry PRAXIS ships to deal with.

“I’m going to take us past them again,” she said. “Concentrate your fire on the panels just behind the fighters’ weapons.”

“Take out the power.”

“Exactly.” She swung the Phantom around and headed straight toward the oncoming ships. Evading their shots, she flew in the narrow space between the fighters. As she did, Nils unleashed a barrage from the secondary guns.

He let out a shout when he hit one of the enemy’s weapons power source.

“Better than Nifalian chess,” she said, enjoying his exuberance.

He did smile then, a rakish grin that did interesting things to her heart rate and body temperature. “Can see why you Black Wraith hotshots like this. It’s stimulating as hells.”

Yet both he and Celene lost their smiles when the two other PRAXIS ships fired back. She pushed the throttle hard, but not quite fast enough to avoid taking a hit to the Phantom’s tertiary thruster. Shudders racked the small ship.

Nils muttered a curse, and she realized that the experience of being on a ship taking fire was new to him. But aside from his brief foray into foul language, he kept a level head, firing back steadily.

She kept the Phantom in constant motion, darting and weaving around the PRAXIS ships.

“Feels strange to pilot something other than my Wraith in combat.” It didn’t have the streamlined elegance she loved so much, the smooth integration of pilot and ship that made flying as seamless as thought. She threaded between the two enemy ships as they tried to flank her.

“You’re handling the transition well,” he answered.

“I’ve earned every one of my commendations. I can fly damn near everything.”

“Including a modified Phantom. With NerdWorks manning the guns.”

She grinned, then swore when the larger PRAXIS ship unleashed a torrent of plasma fire and she took quick, evasive maneuvers to avoid the hits. The dirtroach clung to her tail in pursuit.

“Screw this game of plasma tag. We’ve got traitors to find.” She banked the Phantom, and guided it toward the smaller PRAXIS fighter. She pushed closer and closer, heading toward it dead on.

“Maybe not be the wisest strategy,” Nils murmured.

“Trust me.”

He didn’t really have a choice, since she was the one with her hands on the controls, but he nodded, his shoulders losing some of their tension. She appreciated his confidence. Her squad mates understood they could rely on her, just as she had faith in them, but aside from her reputation in the 8th Wing, Nils really didn’t know her—not in a combat situation, where the stakes couldn’t be higher. His trust in her gave her an added shot of adrenaline.

“Give me a countdown. Time until impact with the fighter.”

“Ten thousand meters,” he answered. “Nine thousand.”

The cutter in pursuit continued to shoot. Between that and the plasma barrage from the fighter ahead of them, Celene kept the Phantom continually shifting to avoid being hit. It was a tight, tough course, dodging fire from the aft and stern, minutely adjusting her ship, all the while maintaining a path that couldn’t allow for the smallest miscalculation.

“Eight thousand. Seven.”

A single bead of sweat crept down the back of her neck.

“Six. Five. Four thousand.”

Another hit shook the Phantom. The small ship wanted to buck from her control, but she wrestled it into compliance, feeling a burn in her muscles.

“Three thousand. Two.”

Celene kept her gaze focused on the PRAXIS ship throttling toward her. She felt energized, calm. Especially knowing that Nils had her back, keeping the cutter at a distance with his secondary weapons. His steadiness served as an anchor, giving her the room she needed.

“One.”

She could just make out the smaller details of the fighter rocketing toward her: the ship’s registration number emblazoned on its side, the metal casings of the guns along its wings. In a moment, she would know the inner workings of the fighter, if the Phantom collided with the enemy ship.

Milliseconds before impact, she pulled up hard on the controls. The Phantom flew straight up, narrowly avoiding the collision.

The cutter and fighter, however, weren’t as lucky. Waves of concussion rocked the Phantom as the two PRAXIS ships rammed into each other. They exploded in a huge ball of energy, and the force of their crash sent surges of energy outward, shaking the Phantom.

She wrestled the ship under control, then brought it back around to face the remaining disabled PRAXIS fighter. It immediately turned and sped away. She started to give chase.

“Our engines took some bad hits,” Nils said. “If we pursue at top speed, we’ll blow ’em out too badly for me to repair them.”

With a frustrated oath, she broke off the pursuit, bringing the Phantom back around toward Gabela’s ship. Her heart still pounded from the rush of combat, and when she glanced over at Nils, he gave her his raffish grin, transforming the serious engineer into a scoundrel.

“I believe the proper word to describe your strategy is ballsy. The better designation might be fucking crazy.”

Celene laughed. “Going to report me? I could be eligible for Sigma Seven status.”

He shook his head. “I suspect every combat pilot is eligible for Sig-Seven. We’d have no one to fly Wraiths. They’d all be undergoing psych protocols.”

“At least I’d have company,” she answered. “You’d be right there with me.”

His smile felt like a sun rising inside her chest, made even better by the genuine pleasure gleaming in his eyes.

“I would, wouldn’t I?” He sounded surprised and gratified.

His gaze suddenly sharpened, becoming focused and determined. He turned toward her and unfastened the buckle of his seat restraint.

“What is it?” She frowned, wondering if something was wrong.

Suddenly, he knelt beside her seat. Then cupped her head with his broad hands—and kissed her.

Celene’s hands never left the controls, but she doubted she could move even if she wanted to. Warmth pulsed through her body as his mouth found hers. His lips were warm, firm, surprisingly confident. He took small sips of her, then lightly ran his tongue along the seam of her lips. She found herself opening to him without thought, as if it was the most natural thing in the universe to have Lieutenant Nils Calder kiss her.

When she parted her lips to let him in, a dark, primitive sound rumbled up from within him, and the kiss deepened. His fingers tightened in her hair as his tongue delved into her, stroking her, learning her feel and taste. And she learned his. He had a rich, spiced flavor, more potent than Girlal brandy. The more she tasted him, the more she craved.

His kiss was made of promises. Promises of pleasure, of unrestrained passion. What his mouth would feel like not just on her lips, but on her body, exploring her, savoring her. His engineer’s focus and thoroughness directed solely toward her.

This was a kiss a man gave a woman, not a legend.

And it shook her. It left her nowhere to hide, nothing with which to protect herself.

She pulled back, breaking the kiss. His eyes opened, and his breathing came in rough swells as he gazed at her.

There was something startlingly familiar about his kiss.

A memory sparked through her. Quick and sharp.

“The Night of Masks,” she said, her voice breathless.

He said nothing, only continued to stare at her, his eyes hot and his cheeks dark and flushed.

Finally liberated, the memory came back to her in a rush. It had been five solar months ago. Celebrating holidays was always important at the 8th Wing home base, even holidays that had no true spiritual foundation, like the Night of Masks. That holiday was, in truth, more an excuse to be wild and uninhibited, identities protected by the traditional masks worn by celebrants. Fighting between PRAXIS and the 8th Wing had been particularly bad in the past year, so Command had gone all out and had real naamari cakes baked for the troops. And offered a plentiful supply of Lulani rum. Alcohol and masks made for a potent combination.

Celene loved the Night of Masks. It was one of the few times she could shed her Stainless Jur identity and simply enjoy herself like any person. Like any woman.