Jinx slammed her hotel room's door in Cruse's face, kicked her heels off—sent them flying across the beige-on-beige unit. Her government-funded prison.

Not any longer.

She yanked out her shirt from her skirt's waistband and undid buttons manically. She'd shower off the crap that she'd just had rained down on her then get gone. If she couldn't find work on one of the salvage vessels heading to Tirus 7, she'd head to the outer city, find temp work to get funds for her trip back. The Coalition military and government could take their hotel suite and refugee allowance and shove them up their organic waste pipes. If they thought she owed them anything for their 'consideration', they were the ones who needed medicating.

Her testimony had been written off. She'd been written off. They'd frigging thrown her father in her face.

They'd known exactly what his med records meant.

Legs going rubbery, she collapsed onto the chair by the room's vid-coms table. Putting her head in her hands, she drew in a long breath. What the hell had been the point of making her stay? And what was that garbage about drugs—PDT? A new therapy?

Not likely. Not going by Kaplan's reaction.

Despite being as coolly self-possessed as ever, he'd been seriously pissed.

And possibly about to have his head ripped off.

Jinx straightened and stowed all sympathy. If the arsehole lost body parts, she wouldn't shed tears.

She punched the data net option on the vid-coms table beside her and requested the medical definition of "PDT". Dozens of different terms appeared. Most had nothing to do with mental illness.

She backhanded the results off-screen and narrowed the search down to government-run experiments involving a certain tie-tugging doctor, neuro-agents, and rare mental disorders. An instant before she hit submit, she added "aberrant" to the search terms. Something about the way the doctor had said it bugged the shit out of her.

Surprisingly few hits came up—and every one of them made her lip curl. Conspiracy blogs. Frigging psychic medium forums. "You've got to be kidding me." She hit the first result to expand it.

A rambling blog entry opened before her. Its topic: the clandestine government experiments being conducted on psychiatric patients and drug users. "PDT" was mentioned in a long list of procedures, but not defined. "Aberrant" appeared in relation to a "severely damaged" subject. The piece was high on brainless babble and low on facts. No surprise. Farnquar was only mentioned once, in a list of health professionals with the necessary skills to be involved.

The blog linked to dozens of other reports—all written in emotive, crazy-person speak. There were pages and pages on memory wipes, false recall, and the chemical assassination of an individual's psyche. Mind control and mind reading were discussed in rabidly paranoid tones.

One article—posted anonymously for the "safety" of the writer—claimed drugs were being used to force open rebel minds, that psychic soldiers created during the Formation War were now in control of the government and military. Supposedly, their original purpose had been to gather intel from Xykeree hive minds and disable subhive forces, but now the power-hungry freaks used their telepathy and, yes, their spoon-bending telekinesis to enslave the entire Coalition. There was even a side note to extra-dimensional clairvoyance. Apparently, during the war, some of the freaks had anticipated attacks before the enemy fleet had even exited a hyperspace gate. Theories as to how that might be possible included "faster-than-time" vibrations in the temporal continuum, alien spirit guides, trans-dimensional consciousnesses, and psychic wormholes.

"And I thought I had mental problems." Jinx dragged a hand through her hair—only to have it snag in her braid. She yanked out the tie and scrubbed her hair loose, shaking off a newly collected layer of crazy.

Then she dove back into the loony pool with different search terms.

After an hour of wading through neurological medical babble and outlandish reports of levitation, exploding heads, personality wipes, and psychic cults that enhanced their members with alien DNA, all she'd discovered was a desire to bang her head against the e-table. A multitude of neuro-agents were mentioned in relation to "PDT", but usually in the context of psychic enhancement, thought drains, and mind control.

Jinx slumped in her chair. Maybe she was better off not knowing what her government had wanted to do to her.

No—not the government. Shau.

She sat up and punched the bitch's name into the search field.

An insane list of credentials popped up with the woman's profile. Coalition High Councillor, Prime of Star Sector One, ex-Director of Military Intelligence, ex-fleet admiral. A serious overachiever.

A powerful woman.

Jinx sat back, tapping her fingers next to the results. Why would someone like Shau involve herself in the debriefing of a witness she considered worthless? Had the blood on the Bullhead caused serious diplomatic waves? Kaplan's reaction to it had implied the military already knew the Xykeree still harvested Coalition citizens.

Gnawing her lip, Jinx skimmed the councillor's military career. The woman was a war veteran, had been involved in many major battles against the Xykeree. All as a recon-coms specialist on an assault and infiltration team. Her many, many promotions had only come after the establishment of peace talks. She hadn't ridden out the war on the bridge of a battleship. She'd gone toe to toe with the roaches, and was still licensed to pilot fast attack ships and to use a scary array of weaponry.

Jinx winced. This wasn't the kind of woman you called a sanctimonious hell cow. Not if you wanted to avoid a laser blast to the head. Good thing common pest control was beneath Coalition high councillors.

Cascading bell-like notes. The room's door buzzer.

Jinx glanced to the door—registered faint tinnitus. Her breath jammed, then hissed out through her teeth. She binned her search results and brought up the room's security feed.

Kaplan's image appeared on screen. He was still in his smart, black service uniform. Still looked like a soldier on duty. Cold eyes. Crisp bearing.

She didn't doubt for a second he'd handed over every detail he had on her—including her father's medical records.

Jaw locking, she rapped her nails against the vid-coms table and debated her next move. There was only one. "He'll make a good-looking corpse."

She shoved out of her chair—then remembered her postponed plans to shower. Cursing, she redid her shirt buttons. When enough were in place to approximate her having her shit together, she stalked to the door and flung it wide. "You two-faced, son of a bitch. What the fuck?"

Cool, grey eyes flicked over her; the bastard's standard assessment, except for the two-second pause on her chest. Glancing down, she saw the reason. Misaligned fabric gaped, exposing her bra. Shouting orange lace beneath sedate white.

She looked back up. "What? Am I not dressed 'professionally' enough to kick your backstabbing arse?"

Something dark, something she didn't want to see ever, shifted in his gaze. "Jinx, I'm sor—"

She kicked the door to slam it shut.

Kaplan caught it, one hand planted on its surface. All sympathy vanished. "Jinx—"

"Leave." She gripped the door and put her body in his way. "Better yet, run. I see you again, I push you into traffic."

The arsehole had the nerve to sigh.

Then he hauled her off her damn feet.

"What the—?" Pulse scrambling, she grabbed his shoulders for balance as he lugged her backwards into the room. "Okay, arsehole. You're officially frigging dead." And built with no damn give. Shit.

He dumped her back on her feet and backhanded the door closed.

Ignoring the jump of her gut, she slapped a hand against his chest to stop him moving further into the room—getting closer. "You can piss right the hell off, Kaplan."

He covered her fingers, jolting more nerves, before sliding off her hold. "We're overdue a conversation. Tell me about your fath—"

She drove her fist low—at his groin.

He pivoted, snagged her wrist—jerked her forward. "Nice." With that bite of sarcasm, he hauled them nose to nose. "Short sighted."

She sucked in a breath. Seriously? This was when the man suggested he might be interested in something other than her witness statement? Right after screwing her over? She yanked free, ignoring her moronic pulse. It was a shit judge of character. "Treat me like defective, subhuman garbage, expect to lose pieces of your anatomy."

Kaplan straightened, smoothly reclaiming his composure. "I didn't know about the extra background files, Jinx."

"Yeah, what-the-fuck-ever."

"You didn't warrant that level of scrutiny. Your scanner logs backed your verbal evidence."

"And if I had warranted it?"

"You mean if the peace and billions of lives had hung on your testimony?" Kaplan gave her a pitiless look. "What do you think?"

She barely resisted the impulse to go at him again. "You know, brain damaged or not, I might just have understood the decision in that situation, you sorry son of a bitch. What does that say about my warped rationality?"

"That you haven't been given enough credit." Those low words killed her next retort—made her reassess why he was there and who exactly he was pissed at. "Shau's a law unto herself, Jinx. She has her own agendas."

"Like frigging drugging people?"

"A memory-recovery therapy. Shau suggested it because it's clear your recall of the Bullhead is fragmented." Kaplan expelled a breath, met her stare. "You're experiencing symptoms. How bad?"

"Bouts of extreme rage and homicidal thoughts. And that's just in the last thirty seconds."

"The truth, Jinx."

"Why? So you can report back to the bitch queen?"

"You mean the highly decorated war veteran and Coalition high councillor you dressed down and personally insulted this afternoon?"

"Yes, that hell cow."

Kaplan gave her a warning look. "Count yourself lucky you don't rate a second more of Shau's time, that she has more pressing issues to focus on. We all do." He held her gaze, his lips folding into a taut line. "The Bullhead's just been located. Abandoned. Personal effects found on board indicate over one hundred dead."

Jinx felt her lungs lock. Nightmare images swamped her vision: her friends' dead stares.

"It'll take a couple of weeks for confirmed IDs." Kaplan's voice faded into the distance as the black rolled in. "In the meantime, you can—"

"No." She stepped back, from him, his words, before she fell over some mental cliff. "I'm not staying for goddamn eulogies." She blindly grabbed the duffle bag she bought for her limited belongings. Dumping it on the bed, she focused on packing, not suffocating darkness and the thick recalled scent of death.

Kaplan moved to her side. "Tirus 7's still off limits to inbound civilian vessels."

"And this is me giving a shit." Too aware of him, the bleak knowledge in his stare, she strode for a pile of clothes beside the bed and started snatching up underwear. "I'll hitch a ride with a goddamn scav crew if I have to. With that much debris in the system, plenty of those vultures will be circling."

"You seem determined to work with hardened criminals." Kaplan spoke right behind her, close enough to tense every vertebra in her spine. "First Tras. Now outlaw reclamation gangs. This suicidal streak of yours got anything to do with your father's diagnosis?"

"Don't go there." She hurled clothes toward the bed.

"Jinx—"

She swung to face him. "Seriously. Leave it."

"You think that's possible?" The quiet fury in his stare slapped her back a step—before her anger flared.

She flung the last of her clothes at the bed. "There's no point in having this conversation. You already know what those med files mean, Kaplan."

"Have you been formally diagnosed?" He closed the distance between them. "What symptoms have you had? What treatment have you sought?" Each question drove her back a step. "What's the timeline you're dealing with?"

Grinding teeth, she bumped into the vid-coms table, gripped its edge, and hung onto her temper. "None of that is your damn business. We're done here. I did as ordered—my civic frigging duty. Even wore goddamn heels and this stupid blouse for it." She plucked at it in disgust before glowering up at him. "I could've turned up in fluro body paint and things would have gone the same way. I'm not wasting more time on pointless shit—including this conversation." She moved to push past him, get back to her packing.

Hard hands at her hips. A jolt upward—then her skirt-clad butt landed on the e-table. The air whooshed out of her, leaving her with nothing to work with verbally—mentally.

"We're not done." Kaplan's eyes were suddenly level with hers. Then they dipped. "And the clothes were supposed to be camouflage. Not a distraction." Gaze back on hers, he started undoing buttons.

What the—? Her breath lodged in her throat. Her pulse grew louder with every centimetre of lace and skin he exposed. This had not been in her kick-Kaplan-in-the-balls-and-move-on plan of action.

The last button fell free. She hauled in a quick breath just as—

—the bastard started his way back up, slipping faux pearls back through holes—correctly. By the time he got back to bra level, her heart was back to beating hard for a whole other reason than lust and nerves. She let him fix the last one at the base of her throat, then met his stare. "You are such an ar—"

His mouth took hers, swallowing the insult. The unexpected move blanked her mind, disbelief as much as anything. But as Kaplan slid a hand under her hair and dragged her closer, the buzz he put in her head hit her bloodstream.

Bad habits formed over way too many drunken party nights kicked in.

She curled her fists in his jacket and yanked him between her knees, opened her mouth under his. Lust hit like a shot of chem-spiked vodka: full head spin. Oh, yeah, this was a bad idea—but to hell with it. Life was short, hers more than most. She'd have some damn fun before she threw his arse out.

Or a lot. Pleasure hummed at the back of her throat as the hot, heady contact spun out—as fingers tightened in her hair ... as breaths became snatched gasps. Her stomach clutched then took a long, sweet dive—

The sensation jolted her, reawakening nerves and her awareness of the cool fabric under her hands. A military uniform. Ah, crap—no. She wasn't doing this—couldn't. Not with Kaplan: someone who'd fix her damn buttons, try to straighten her the hell out. Save her.

Shit.

She flattened her hands, preparing to push, get some room to breathe—think.

Kaplan broke the contact, not needing any shove to get the message. The faint twist to his lips as he pulled back, she did not want to interpret, not after she'd practically inhaled him.

Damn it. She needed to find someone less complicated to blow off steam with.

She looked past him to the room, taking a few seconds to grab air. Her blood hummed despite all the reasons she had to reject the feeling. A few paces away, the bed loomed large. Hotel beige. Impersonal. An empty bag on it ready for the pathetic flotsam of her life. That little slice of reality she recognised. Along with a hollow sense of inevitability.

"So..." She flicked up her lashes to eye Kaplan. "You've what? Got a thing for brain-damaged women?"

His respiration, like hers, wasn't strictly steady, but his gaze was. Disconcertingly so. "This where you piss me off so you don't have to answer any difficult questions? Or ask yourself any?"

With a glare, she pushed him back, putting a few more centimetres of cool, air-conditioned air between them. She needed every damn nanometre. "I'm hitting the docks in half an hour to look for a ride off this elitist planet. We're not doing this."

"You'll want to postpone those plans." He blocked her move to jump down.

"Not happening, Kaplan. I've wasted enough time on you and your investigation. Any roll across the hotel sheets would have to be real damn quick." She flicked open a shirt button, smiled in a way that told him she'd more likely do violence. "Five minutes max. You ready and able, soldier?"

He ignored the goad—and her resistance as he took hold of her wrist com. Tapping his unit against hers, he transferred data.

She shot him a questioning look.

He moved back, finally giving her the space she needed. "Updated survivor list, and details on the refugee facilities that have just been set up. One of the gate ships sent to Tirus 7 has returned a week earlier than expected. Shuttles ferrying survivors will start arriving in an hour. Dock 130."

With unsteady hands and legs, she slid off the table and accessed the data. In the first few lines, she saw a couple of new names she recognised—port staff. Her heart raced then lost rhythm as she looked back to Kaplan. "They're in orbit, right now?"

He nodded. "People who fled are starting to turn up, but there won't be another mass transport anytime soon. The other gate ship deployed is acting as a base of operations for salvage and repair teams. If you still need to get back to Tirus 7, give me a couple of days. I'm due leave. I'll be able to get a ship—"

"Don't." Her throat closed. A reaction that unnerved her even more than his offer. Damn it. She was not letting him do this. To either of them. Jump on this train and it'd lead to a wreck. "No deals, Kaplan. No promises. This isn't your problem." She wasn't his problem. And he sure as hell wasn't going to become one of hers.

Kaplan's long look raised the whine in her skull. "It's that bad?"

She looked away, only just resisting the urge to punch a wall. Hardening her heart, shoving back memories of her father, she looked to the information Kaplan had given her then coolly met his stare. "You've done me a favour. I'm doing you one."

"You're basing that on inadequate intel."

"Don't care."

Another long look that screwed up her gut.

Kaplan finally stepped back. "It's your life, Jinx. And I don't have time to argue." With a knowing look that said just enough to make her feel like shit, he strode for the door. He turned as he yanked it open. "Just do me—and all those friends you're trying to find—one favour. Try not to get yourself killed too pointlessly."

"Kaplan—" She flinched as the door clicked closed behind him. "Fuck."