GAMES OF COMMAND — Feb RITA Award Finalist! PEARL Award Winner! Can she trust a man who is half-machine? The universe isn’t what it used . The universe isn’t what it used to be. With the new Alliance between the Triad and the United Coalition, Captain Tasha “Sass” Sebastian. Games of Command Linnea Sinclair This bit of space opera romance silliness is dedicated, with thanks, to: Janie Blankenship, RN, DON, aka Doc Eden, who.

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Skip to main content. Log In Sign Up. Linnea Sinclair Games Of Command. The Danvari call it Dreehalla, the mother of the universe. And the following Bar regulars for their creative assistance with naming the following: But Sass—Captain Tasha Sebastian—had known the admiral since Ace was a captain with the U-Cee Fleet and Sass was a fast-talking rim runner with questionable associations and excellent reflexes.

With a half shrug, Sass sat behind her desk and played along. Then the admiral clasped a hand over her heart, obscuring the United Coalition insignia on her khaki uniform. Or the new Alliance? Hell, Ace was probably more responsible for the existence of Tasha Sebastian than Sass was.

And that was a secret both would take to their graves. This was something else. What else am I? I gather it was a nonnegotiable issue. What I did negotiate is fifteen of your officers to be transferred within two weeks of your arrival. It was arguably one the best hunterships on either side of the Zone. Her wildest dreams during the war included its capture so she could explore its technical perfection. Now she was actually going to be on board the Vax. But her thrill of anticipation wavered as the impetus for this windfall registered.

Requesting her head on a platter would make more sense. Ace would never take that risk. Why did Kel-Paten want her on board, and ahead of schedule? What game was her former nemesis playing?

He agreed to that? But Tank was her furzel.

Fidget, really, as he was not yet full grown. A ten-pound fluffy bundle of long black and white fur with an unstoppable curiosity, an insatiable appetite, and a heart full of unconditional love. There are things that ship can do that our best intelligence agents could never confirm. Then I get this. Both captain and ship are years past their prime, relegated now to patrolling the Far Reaches and hauling supplies to places no decent U-Cee crew wants to go.

Then the Vaxxar shows up on short-range scan—the long-range gave its last gasp only an hour before—and all hell breaks loose.


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Sleek, fast, and deadly, the Imperial huntership is universally feared. And with both sides battling for possession of the Staceyan asteroid belt, U-Cee supply freighters are a favorite Triadian snack. The Bogue is apparently on the menu, but Captain Rostikov is deep in a bourbon fog and snoring. The two techies are green ensigns fresh out of the academy. Starboard lasers are locked up.

She gives the techie the order to open the comm and—for what will be the first of many times to come—hears the voice of Captain Kel-Paten. But only his voice. In order for short-range scan to function at all, it has to be.

Cut your drives immediately or you will be fired upon. Prepare to be boarded. Fuck you and the equinnard you rode in on.

Locations and entry codes. Scan the data, locate the desired cargo, compute location coordinates, and transbeam the stuff out. So she tweaks everything—the comp codes, the nav codes, the security locks. Hell, most of the stuff malfunctions as a bames of course. All she really does is let the Bogue be herself. She comes back to the bridge just moments before the Bogue is jolted commaand unfriendly laser fire.

Her drives are dead. Transbeams slice through the hull, setting intruder alarms wailing.

She leans back in the sling, crosses her legs, and watches a wide shimmer of light coalesce in front of her. Four Triadian crew —no, three crew and one cybernetically enhanced captain, aloof in demeanor yet oddly handsome, disconcertingly so. She expected someone—something—less human in that black uniform and trademark black gloves.

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And definitely not as male. She stares into a pair of ice-blue eyes, notes his slight frown sinclari confusion. He scans the bridge quickly and she knows what he sees: He steps toward her, his gaze briefly on ssinclair single bar above her name patch.

She acknowledges him without a hint of emotion: As his officers stand rigidly beside him, he wastes an entire minute with his gaze locked on her.

An intense, heavy pause. Oh, bloody damned hell. And in the Zone The last thing she wanted was the pomp and circumstance of an official send-off with herself and her crew in their starched tan U-Cee dress uniforms. Starched uniforms played hell with a hangover.

Yuri— Captain Yuri Ettoran, an old friend from her days working the rafts around Kesh Valirr—answered with the standard verbiage. Red docking lights flashed to life around the black maw of Shuttle Bay All spit and polish—pure function. So she was prepared agmes that. But not for him. But his presence was just another preemptive move in whatever game he was now playing with her and the U-Cees.


She knew what he saw: Footsteps thudded behind her. She glanced over her shoulder as the transport pilot sauntered down the ramp. His only response was one word, a warning tone in his voice: The three diamond-studded stars had recently been topped by two more; five stars in all riding the slash of gold lightning on his impeccable black uniform. She presented him with her cockiest stare, waited the requisite pause, then let her mouth curve into the barest of smiles: No one knows how or why.

And now we have eighty-seven more dead bodies exhibiting abnormally high levels of dopamine and serotonin. Lightridge had promptly alerted Alliance HQ, requesting a forensic medical team. Sass draped the towel around her neck. That only made the incident worse for the CMO. We need to be out gakes stopping the Illithians from breaching our borders, not sitting on station performing autopsies.

There are still emanations. But I need time to work with them. Only now he pulls us off Lightridge. All because some damned pirate-turned-informant decided to go on an unscheduled vacation!

Their mutual animosity went back years. It was years as well since Sass had seen Serafino. He was a charming rogue, always hip-deep in some kind of trouble. According to the staff briefing, he had changed little. It would take me only six hours to get back there by shuttle. A shuttle launch would slow them down twenty, thirty minutes at most. If Kel-Paten agreed to it.

And he might, if Sass couched it in the proper terms. Sass enjoyed testing the depths of his cybernetically perfected mind. Except for his attitude and that damned perpetual scowl It took her a moment to find it under her towel, clipped to the neck of her pink workout shirt. She wondered what crisis he uncovered—again—to occupy what was left of her free time.

She grinned back as she tossed the towel into a nearby hamper, remembering the day her officers on the Regalia gave her the pink T-shirt.