The Guardian Angel of Farflung Station

By Edward Hoornaert

When a small army of space pirates conquer Farflung Space Station, security chief 'Duke' Dukelsky fights back with only two allies. One is a a kick-ass princess who lusts for his body. The other is Sandrina, a mysterious and alluring waif with more secrets -- and secret powers -- than the rest of Farflung Station put together. But can they stop fighting each other long enough to tackle the enemy?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Edward Hoornaert
• Release date: Oct 4, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463579848

Edward Hoornaert

Edward Hoornaert is not only a science fiction and romance writer, he's also a certifiable Harlequin Hero, having inspired NYT best-selling author Vicki Lewis Thompson to write Mr. Valentine, which was dedicated to him. From this comes his online alter ego, "Mr. Valentine."These days, Hoornaert mostly writes science fiction—either sf romances, or sf with elements of romance. After living at 26 different addresses in his first 27 years, the rolling stone slowed in the Canadian Rockies and finally came to rest in Tucson, Arizona. Amongst other things, he has been a teacher, technical writer, and symphonic oboist. He married his high school sweetheart a week after graduation and is still in love ... which is probably why he can write romance.

Book preview

Chapter One

DESPITE THE SOUR ECONOMY, Farflung Space Station's corridors filled up during the evening shift-change. Fleet-footed workers going off-shift jostled slower workers going on-shift.

But folks edged warily around Duke Dukelsky. Not a single person dared bump him.

He almost wished they would. He hated being treated like a wobble-gobble programmed to explode if touched. Problem was, the station’s last head of security had been a bully who used his power to control and intimidate, and Duke hadn’t yet convinced everyone he wasn’t like that. He wanted station folk to treat him like a regular guy, but instead they considered him…different.

And in some unexpected ways, maybe they were right. Without warning, his police instincts flared to red alert. That girl dodging through the crowd, the scrawny young one, was up to something. No one but him seemed to notice her, though, so yeah, he was different. Just not in the way they thought.

Every second lamp in the Magenta 7 corridor was out—Quartermaster MacDougall's dismal idea of belt-tightening—and the girl slowed a tiny bit in the dark stretches and sped through the light. A ghost couldn't have moved with more silent grace, or a greater air of innocent unconcern. She spoke to no one. Farflung had fewer than seven thousand permanent residents, so only visiting spacers were friendless, but she wasn't a spacer. She wore a grey, station-issued smock so baggy it slipped off one smooth, bare shoulder. The smock spoke of volunteer work, poverty—or an attempt at anonymity.

The clincher: When she turned sideways to avoid a collision with a gaggle of spacers in vermilion ship's uniforms, he saw dirt streaking the front of the smock, as though she'd crawled through…

Through what? None of the sanctioned parts of the station were that dirty.

It was no longer a matter of instinct, but of observation: she'd done or was about to do something. But was it a criminal matter, like an underage hooker offering forbidden fruit, or merely youthful mischief?

Duke considered calling one of his patrollers, but rejected the thought. He wanted his staff focused on preparations for the upcoming VIP visit—and anyway, the best part of his job was unraveling mysteries. Instead of heading home, he matched his pace to hers.

It wasn't that he didn't trust his staff. In four months, he'd raised Security's professionalism from pathetic to mediocre. Give him another four months and they'd match any station in Civ Space—or at least any antiquated station with an under-funded, undermanned detachment.

Strangely, his people didn't hate him, despite how hard he rode them. They even respected him. Maybe he shouldn't have deliberately flunked Officer Potential Training.

Sure, the purple-faced apoplexy of General Father Sir and Lieutenant General Mother Sir seemed worth it at the time, but it turned out Duke had a knack for leadership. Ironic. When he discovered his niche in life, it was pretty much what his family wanted him to do.

Though never on a run-down backwater like this. He imagined his mother's voice: The horror of such a posting. The degradation.

Duke chuckled. He liked Farflung Station just fine, thank you. Unlike a new station, it exuded a friendly, lived-in aura. Of course, a large station at Civ Space's core would give him more chances to prove to his parents and his twin brother, Hector, that he'd reformed.

With an impatient tug, the waif pulled the shoulder of her smock back in place. She turned off Magenta 7 into Magenta 8. Fifty feet ahead, she paused in a shadow and looked back. She saw him—this corridor was less busy, and there was no place to hide—but she didn't realize he was following her. His gauzer made sure of that. It blurred his features and altered them from time to time. Without one of Security's com analyzers, she couldn't identify him from one change to another.

As unobtrusively as possible, he pulled an analyzer from his leather belt and pointed it at his quarry. He waited until she vanished around the corner into Magenta 9, near the station's outer rim, before he read the analyzer.

No Data.

Odd. Duke tapped the analyzer and repeated the query. Again, nothing.

Because of her dirty, station-issued clothing, he'd assumed she was from one of Farflung's poor families, but she maybe she was off a ship. At any given time, the station housed a couple thousand transient spacers, shipping goods to or from the planet the station orbited—but the analyzer should've found her regardless, so Duke widened the search parameters and tried again.

Still nothing.

That was impossible, or should have been. Spacers registered dockside and were given a temporary ID tattoo. It must be a slip up, but Security needed to fix these kinds of things before that blasted VIP arrived.

The suspect cast a furtive glance backward when she reached the next intersection. Her eyes shifted, looking around without moving her head. Her frown, just before she turned into a deserted cul-de-sac off Magenta 12, made her look older, more dangerous.

She was about to strike. Abandoning subterfuge, Duke ran around the corner.

And stopped dead in his tracks. She was gone. Vanished like a ghost.

But she couldn't be gone. All four doors on the cul-de-sac were closed, with red stripes glowing down the middle of the handles to indicate privacy locks. She couldn't live here, because this pod housed single male crew only. She might be someone's dolly, but if she were, he'd lock that someone up for underage sexual congress.

Switching modes on his com analyzer, he scanned each door. The only one not vacant was M128, assigned to P.R. Bahadur, a Life Support Technician new to Farflung. The analyzer screen drew a green stick person, bending at the waist in the middle of the room to stare at the room's comp outlet, and underneath the outline, in flashing chartreuse, Unauthorized Entry Key Detected—worse crimes than he’d anticipated.

Got you, you little troublemaker, Duke muttered as he tapped in authorization and crime codes. The pocket door slid into the wall with a whoosh.

The girl breaking into Bahadur's computer jerked upright with a classic caught-in-the-act expression: wide eyes, wrinkled forehead, parted lips. When Duke strode into the room, she darted past. He caught her waist in the crook of his elbow. With his other elbow, he tapped the jamb, closing the door.

Principal Officer Dukelsky, he began, Station—

Flailing her arms, she slapped him in the mouth.

—Security, he finished.

She raised her hand again, but he caught her wrist. She hadn't clawed his face when she had the chance, so he was gentle but firm. With one arm, he lifted her and deposited her on the unmade bed across from the comp outlet.

But she bounced back up as though the mattress were a trampoline. Grabbing her again, Duke's legs got caught in hers and they both tripped. He landed on top of her on the bed, breaking the fall with his arms.

As she squirmed under him, Duke realized he'd been wrong. She wasn't a girl and wasn't scrawny. Her body was mature enough to remind him he hadn't bedded a female in far too long. Ignoring the growing awareness, he circled her wrists with one hand and held them over her head.

Stop fighting, he ordered.

Though her lips clenched and her jaw jutted forward, she stopped struggling.

That's better, ma'am. If I let you up, do you promise no more fighting?

Her jaw remained set. She said nothing.

Duke gave an exasperated sigh. You're making it harder on yourself. By the book, then. State your name, occupation, tattoo ID, and residence pod.

She said nothing. The only sound she made was a tiny shlup, as though sucking down saliva.

What were you doing at the comp outlet?

Nothing but silence.

Were you transferring Technician Bahadur's credits to your own account?

She pursed her lips in outrage and gave a passionate headshake.

What's your name?

Without answering, she stared up at him. Her fierce expression softened. Her eyes went wide and dreamy. Her hips twitched against his, reminding Duke he was lying on top of—and reacting to—a woman who didn't mind this intimate, full-body contact.

His animal self didn't mind, either. Silent Sally felt wonderful. Which was terrible.

She stared up with a tiny smile. From up close, he estimated her age at mid-twenties. Her small size, baggy smock, and large eyes had fooled him. Her tousled hair was black except where a shaft of light revealed brown and red undertones. Though no beauty, underneath the smudges and dust she was an appealing little elf, soft in all the right places, warm, sexy, and—

Time to get off her, man. Now.

Rolling to one side, Duke reached for the wrist ribbons tucked into the back of his belt. When he started to string them around her hands, she shook her head with the same exaggerated vehemence as when she'd denied transferring credits.

If I don't cuff you, will you cooperate?

She nodded.

When he stood, her gaze zeroed in on his crotch. She smirked.

No, she didn't. He expected a smirk because his unprofessional reaction deserved one, yet her face broadcast only self-satisfied surprise. He sat on the edge of the bed and laid his com analyzer across his lap. Hey, that was the only place to put it.

While he recited Farflung's statement of prisoner rights—they'd had none before he arrived—she listened silently.

State your name, ma'am, how you came to use an unauthorized override to gain access, and why you were fiddling with Technician Bahadur's comp outlet.

She gave a quick shake of the head. Her eyes glazed and a line of saliva appeared at the corner of her mouth, but the fake, don't-blame-me-I'm-a-mental-defective routine came too late.

By all the Draynian gods, you said you'd cooperate, he reminded.

With a sigh and a shrug, Silent Sally studied him. Duke studied her, as well. Flawless toffee-colored skin enveloped a heart-shaped face. Her eyes were smoky gray, a concealing sort of color, as though she hid her soul behind a smokescreen, yet there was none of the guilty evasiveness of your average petty thief. Her eyes proclaimed a shy yet knowing innocence—and an unabashed interest in him.

This woman was a baffling parcel of contradictions and paradoxes hiding unselfconscious sex appeal. And in response, nerve signals shot up and down his spine in an unprecedented display of synaptic fireworks.

Like most security professionals, he believed in hunches. Translated into expert-speak, hunches were subconscious personality assessments based on years of study and professional experience. Hunches elevated human cops over robots. A hunch told him Silent Sally wasn't dangerous…to anyone but him, that is.

Duke paused to analyze his motivation, as training dictated. Was he thinking with his groin?

Well, yes and no. Being as honest as possible, no, she probably wasn't a serious case for Security. But yes, his groin was part of the inner dialogue.

With a growl, Duke tore his gaze from her mesmerizing eyes. He was getting carried away by the first delicious body he'd held since he took command of this station's detachment. Hormones and frustration, that's all he was feeling. Not premonitions. Not desire.

Talk, he barked in his best cop voice.

After another quick shlup, she opened her mouth wide.

She had no tongue.

* * * *

SANDRINA PAUSED IN THE CORRIDOR and gazed back into Bahadur's open room. After Principal Officer Dukelsky had wiped her master key's access codes, he checked the comp outlet. When he discovered that only a repair manual was open, he apologized and let her go.

Why? He hadn't said, but undoubtedly, it was because she was disfigured. Crippled.

Pitiable.

At one level, his sympathy delighted her. The piercing intelligence of his eyes had enthralled her during the very first news feed announcing his hiring. Her crush intensified after listening—from the back of the room—whenever he gave a witty yet earnest speech about improvements to security. And his voice! His smooth, confident baritone soothed her ears as though she was the most precious woman he'd ever met. She was three-quarters in love even before he climbed on top of her.

But deep down, his sympathy infuriated her. He should've chucked her in a chicken coop for breaking and entering, with added time for having an illegal lock override. At a