Free Collision Course by Zoe Archer Page A

his size.
    “No,” said Kell.
    A few people nearby gasped. From behind Scar Face’s massive bulk, Mara shook her head. Clearly, no one contradicted this asshole.
    “What?” Scar Face pushed closer to Kell, and a wave of sweat stench rolled off him. “What did you say?”
    “I said, No. And don’t touch me again.”
    “The fuck I won’t.” He moved to shove his finger into Kell’s arm once more.
    The next moment, Scar Face was sprawled on the floor. Kell had his knee pinned to the man’s neck and his plasma pistol in his face. Scar Face’s tiny eyes widened as he went purple. Though conversation and music did not stop, they did quiet nearby.
    “You want the inside of your head splattered all over this lovely club?” Kell asked conversationally.
    Scar Face tried to shake his head, but Kell’s knee kept him from moving. And breathing.
    “I’d like an answer,” Kell said.
    “N…no.”
    “Then don’t touch me or talk to me again. We clear?”
    Scar Face attempted another nod, then gasped, “Clear.”
    Smoothly, Kell removed his knee and rose to standing. He didn’t look behind him to watch Scar Face stumble away.
    “I thought I said you wouldn’t cause trouble,” Mara said.
    He shrugged. “Trouble finds me.”
    She stepped close. She took his hand—even in the stifling heat of the club, he was scorched by her touch—and led him to a booth that mysteriously emptied as they approached. Once they settled in, she crooked her finger so that he bent his head to her. Lips an inch from his ear, she whispered, “8 th Wing teach you that move?”
    It took him a moment to focus on what she was saying, rather than how close her mouth was, the light feathering of her breath against his cheek. “Learned how to fight on Sayén.”
    She frowned, pulling back. “Where?”
    He gave a low, rueful chuckle. It didn’t surprise him she’d never heard of it. “My homeworld.”
    “A rough place,” she deduced. “Where macskacats feed on street orphans and attack the unwary after dark.” She started. “ You were one of those street orphans.”
    He nodded tightly. “Sayén wasn’t always like that. So I was told. Modestly prosperous. Nothing special. Until PRAXIS heard about the deposits of sherica .”
    She paled as understanding dawned. Sherica was an integral component for interstellar travel, used in countless reactors, and PRAXIS would want it for their own manufacturing.
    “PRAXIS did their usual procedure.” His voice was toneless. “Swoop in, tell everybody their lives were going to get better. For a while, that was true. Lots of development—cities constructed, people buying more. The birth rate skyrocketed. All other industries fell away as everyone focused on harvesting the sherica. People forgot how to do anything but harvest. Then the sherica deposits dried up. PRAXIS left, taking with them the only source of income. And then…” He shrugged, though the movement felt stiff.
    “Chaos,” Mara deduced.
    “The government applied to PRAXIS for aid. Troops, loans, anything. But PRAXIS got what they wanted. The Sayén I was born on had nothing but ravaged cities and broken people.”
    “And you were one of them.” She stared at him now, serious and sorry.
    He didn’t know if he liked seeing that expression on her face, not directed toward him. Pity never helped anyone. It hadn’t helped him. Only determination and resolve had pushed him on, given him a new life away from the gutters of his ruined homeworld.
    “How’d you leave?” she asked.
    “I earned creds doing what I was good at. Street brawling, cage fights, alpha tournaments. Bribed my way onto a passing cargo ship.”
    “And became a flyboy, fighting against PRAXIS.”
    “Something like that.” He scanned the room, making sure that Scar Face wasn’t coming back with reinforcements. When he glanced over at Mara, he found her gaze locked to his face. She looked a little stunned. More incredibly, there was no trace of pity in her