He let out a short breath.
“Fine,” he said. “Do your pickup.”
He turned and slogged back to the bench, dropping onto the metal and stretching his legs out as far as the cramped space allowed with his arms folded tight across his chest.
Vess'tra was three days out. The pickup was what, a few hours? If it was really an orbital mag-drop, then the scan would be cursory. But if the garrison had thrown out a sector-wide alert with his bio-signature attached, cursory wouldn’t matter worth shit. They’d be scanning for a Latharian male, and “unruly cargo transport” wasn’t going to save this rust bucket when the net lit up, and somebody noticed exactly who was aboard.
He needed another angle.
His gaze tracked her as she moved through the corridor.
She just ignored him. Not the performative type of ignoring, either, where she looked out of the corner of her eye at him. She just straight-up ignored that he was there.
That really didn’t sit right.
He’d known females who couldn’t look at him without their pulse giving them away. Sponsors who practiced their smiles in reflective surfaces before coming near him. Every room he’d ever entered had shifted around him. People noticed. People adjusted.
This little human female didn’t. Instead, she moved from panel to panel as though he wasn’t even there.
“Fred, give me the pressure variance on the port thruster,” she muttered.
Silence stretched out before she nodded. “Okay. Compensate with the secondary intake. Keep it below the red line. Yeah, yeah, I know it’s inefficient. Just do it.”
Pulling a panel off the wall, she reached within, fingers twisting at something buried in hydraulic tubing. Effort tightened her mouth. When she wiped sweat away with the back of her hand, she only succeeded in smearing grease higher up her cheek.
“You’re running rich on the fuel mix,” he said.
She didn’t even look up. “I know.”
“It’ll foul the injectors.”
“It keeps the core temp down. Unless you want to pay for a new cooling unit, we run rich.”
“I can fix the cooling unit.”
She paused and turned her head slowly to look at him, her look measuring. “You’re a mechanic now?”
He inclined his head. “I know engines.” It had been a special interest when he couldn’t train and had nothing better to do.
“Good for you.” She looked back into the panel, dismissing him. “Touch my engine, and Fred removes your hand.”
“Just trying to help.”
“Help by staying on the bench.”
He drummed his fingers against his bicep. “What’s the cargo?”
“None of your business.”
“If I’m ‘unruly transport,’ I should know what I’m bunking with.”
“Machine parts. Inert and boring.” She slapped the panel back into place with the heel of her hand. “Nothing you can eat, steal, or use as a weapon.”
“And the route?” He aimed for casual. “Any flexibility on the approach vector? Maybe swing wide around the patrol lanes?”
She looked at him, wiping her hands down her thighs. “No.”
“You’re stubborn,” he said. “Dangerous trait in a pilot.”
