It seemed civilian life hadn’t diminished her strength. She was wearing the hell out of combat boots, fatigue cargo pants, leather forearm bracers, and a sleeveless black shirt that displayed her muscles—and the tattoos that covered every inch of her bulging arms—prominently.
“Damn.” Nolan finally found his voice. “Life’s been good to you, Tanis.” He gave her a wry grimace. “You look even better than the last time our paths crossed.”
Tanis chuckled and gave another grand dismissive wave. “And your charm is just as wasted on me now as it was back then. Unless you’ve forgotten that you’re not really my type.”
“Right.” With a grunt of pain, Nolan shifted in his seat. “You like those pencil-necked, smart guys and women all bones and no muscle.”
“Hey, I don’t judge your tastes.” Tanis shrugged her massive shoulders. “Like I told Darron when he tried to make a move on me, when I know I can break them, makes me want to protect them all the more. That protective streak’s what made me a combat medic in the first place.”
“Oh, I remember.” Nolan grimaced. “Nearly got yourself kicked off Terra Omega and shipped back home. Only Master Sergeant Kane kept that from happening. Said we couldn’t do the mission without a combat medic, even if she was, and I quote, ‘ornery as a boar choking on boot leather’.”
Tanis gave a half-laugh, half-grumble. “Serves those Ironhands right for picking on the wrong cadets.” She strode around behind his wheelchair and grabbed the handles. “I’m willing to bet that when they woke up in med bay with their heads ringing and their eyes crossed, they quickly learned what happens to bullies.”
Nolan nodded. “Yeah.” He was about to continue, but at that moment Tanis started pushing his chair—away from Glitter Trail, the street that ran through Shimmertown. “Hey, where are you taking me?” She had them headed toward the back door of the peeler bar—a glitzy, bedazzled establishment called the Spacer’s Paradise—a few dozen yards farther down the alley. “Not that I’m complaining about being invited inside, but I’m not exactly dressed for lap dances.” And, if he was lucky, the peeler bar might be a place to score his next hit.
Tanis slapped the back of his head—a blow both good-natured and chiding, that vibrated through his upper body. “Good, because you’re not getting one. You’re coming upstairs with me and getting cleaned up.”
“Wait, what?” Nolan craned his neck to look back and up at the woman pushing his chair. “Kidnapping’s a felony, you know.”
“So’s smelling as shitty as you do, but you don’t hear me bitching about it, do you?” Tanis wrinkled up her nose in disgust, but never slowed her pace, propelling Nolan along in front of her. “I got a place on the third floor where you can shower and have a decent meal.”
Nolan opened his mouth to argue, but was forestalled when the back door swung open. The driving, thumping beat of the music within the peeler bar rose to an ear-splitting volume as a tall, heavily-muscled man in an outfit similar to Tanis’ stepped out into the back alley. He looked around for a moment, then caught sight of Tanis. “Oh, there you are!” The man’s gaze dropped from Tanis to Nolan, then back up again to Tanis’ face with a questioning look in his eyes. “I thought you were taking out the trash.”
“Picking some up, too.” Tanis chuckled and prodded Nolan’s shoulder. “See what I did there?”
“Funny,” Nolan growled, wincing at the pain. He studied the big man, keenly aware how pitifully bedraggled he looked—and how terrible he must smell, covered in alley muck—slumped in his mud-covered wheelchair.
Tanis only laughed louder, a hearty guffaw that rang off the alley walls. “Clive, meet Nolan, an old friend of mine.”
At the word “friend”, Clive’s posture and attitude changed. He went from suspicious to grinning and affable in the two seconds it took him to step forward and thrust out his hand. “Nolan, good to meet you.”
As Nolan shook the man’s hand—a movement that sent pain through his bruised arms—he caught sight of the tattoo inked on Clive’s bicep. “Ironhand, eh?”
Clive glanced down at the tattoo—an Old Terran-style wooden shield decorated with the Imperial symbol, a twisting serpentine creature wrapped around a vertical stripe. “Oh, yeah. Good eye.” He glanced at Nolan. “You?”
Nolan inclined his head. “I served, but never got the ink.”
That wasn’t quite true. He had joined the Imperial Assault Forces—the Ironhands, as they were known, a name given for the metal gloves of their heavy combat suits—but had gone in for Silverguard special training just six months out of boot camp. And, unlike the tattoos worn by Ironhands, a Silverguard’s ink was something far more personal, a mark something that few outside the elite corps ever saw. Even Tanis wore leather bracers to cover her huge forearms—a fashion statement to the uninitiated, but her way of covering up the silver dagger inked there—and Nolan’s long sleeves and ratty coat hid his brand.
“Right.” Clive nodded to him, then glanced at Tanis. “You taking your break, then?”
“Yeah,” Tanis replied. “Just give me a few minutes to get him situated, then I’ll be back down to finish my shift covering the front door.”
“No sweat.” Clive’s jaw muscles twitched, and his gaze darted to Nolan for a heartbeat. “I’ll run interference with Gallia for you.”
“Thanks, man.” Tanis gave the big guy a broad grin. “But first, give me a hand with him, yeah? Nolan and stairs aren’t exactly on the best of terms.”
From anyone else, that would have been insult enough to make Nolan bristle, perhaps even snap and get violent. But Tanis didn’t mean it as a dig at him. It was just her way; blunt, direct, and fuck delicate sensibilities. She’d never been the darling of IAF officers, but every Silverguard on Terra Omega had liked the outspoken combat medic.
Nolan’s muscles tensed as Clive and Tanis hauled his chair up the five stairs into the peeler bar’s back entrance. It felt so strange, floating in the air like that. For the first time in more than a year, he wasn’t bound to the floor by gravity and his useless legs. He almost felt weightless…like he was flying.
Then the two set him down on solid ground, and the weight once more settled over him. That brief moment only served to remind him what he’d lost. What he’d never have again. Even the latest advances in nanosurgery couldn’t give that back to him—couldn’t give him his legs. He’d tried everything, and nothing had worked.
“Get the elevator for me, Clive?” Tanis had to shout over the driving beat echoing from down a long hallway. Shouts and cheers from an enthusiastic audience joined the music. Nolan caught sight of flashing pink, red, and white strobe lights, along with soft golden mood lighting. A thick miasma of flowery perfumes hung over the interior of the peeler bar, and it seemed bits of glitter covered every inch of the carpeted walls, tiled floors, and cloth-covered ceilings.
Clive hurried down the hall, but stopped halfway to the main room and pressed a button set into the wall. A steel door slid open, revealing an old service elevator, complete with faded stainless steel walls, dim neon lights in the ceiling, and tinny music that grated on Nolan’s nerves.