Stealing Dmitri

By Nicola Cameron

I was the most successful thief in the Known Worlds. And then I stole an archaeologist...

I'm known as the Highlander, the slickest, most uncatchable thief in the galaxy ... until I got caught mid-heist by a gorgeous museum worker. Thanks to a deadly trap I had to take him with me.

Turns out Dr. Dmitri Grigoryev was an exoarchaeologist until a disaster ruined his career. Now he's broke, desperate ... and has the perfect set of skills for my next job. I've talked him into helping me, but instead of focusing on logistics I keep getting distracted by his perfect butt and oh-so-kissable mouth.

Judging by how he keeps checking out my kilt, Dmitri feels the same way. I can't decide if this simmering attraction is a problem, or proof that we're the perfect criminal couple...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nicola M. Cameron
• Release date: Jun 19, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463690031

Nicola Cameron

Nicola Cameron is a married woman of a certain age who really likes writing about science fiction, fantasy, and romance. When not writing about those things, she likes to make Stuff™. And she may be rather fond of absinthe. While possessing a healthy interest in romance (and sex) since puberty, it wasn't until 2012 that she decided to write about it. The skills picked up during her SF writing career transferred quite nicely to speculative romance. Her To Be Written work queue currently stands at around nineteen books, and her mojito-sodden Muse swans in from Bali every so often to add to the list, cackling to herself all the while.

Book preview

1

Rory MacLellan loved this part of a heist.

Grinning, he loped down the access hallway towards his target. The entire building was dark except for emergency lights over the exit doors, lights that currently blinked red instead of their usual steady white. The night vision setting in his helmet’s heads up display, or HUD, turned the warning lights into lovely twinkling stars, filtering out their message of danger.

He checked the HUD’s chrono, noting the time. In less than twenty minutes, airtight bulkhead doors would slam down throughout the Novyy Vladivostok Museum of Art and History. The atmosphere would then be sucked out of the entire building, replaced with a sterilizing gas designed to kill vermin and artifact-destroying bacteria. The fact that the gas also killed humans guaranteed that the museum would be empty, which was just what he needed.

The museum higher-ups couldn’t have picked a better time to do their yearly sterilization sweep. Their newest exhibit, Other Worlds, Other Gods, opened in two days, and its star attraction was a fist-sized chunk of carved opal known as the Eye of the Mother. Venerated by an alien race known as the Xituaens, the gem had supposedly been found in an abandoned temple by an enterprising exoarchaeologist, who then sold it to an antiquities collector over the Xituaens’ protests. The collector also happened to be one of the museum’s most respected patrons, hence its loan for the exhibit.

Rory knew the current owner’s habit of blithely ignoring sticky questions about an item’s provenance, as well as the real story behind the Eye’s disappearance from Xituae. The fact that he was about to steal an already stolen gem made tonight’s heist even more enjoyable. What goes around, comes around.

He’d already done the tricky part; bribing underpaid planetary orbital agents for access, parking his cloaked skimship on the roof of the museum, and using a worm app to open a hole in museum security. The actual break-in activities would be simpler, not to mention much more fun. A mimetic bodysuit and helmet took on the pattern of whatever was behind him and diverted body heat to sinks in the boot soles, rendering him invisible to both standard and infrared cameras. All the items he needed for safecracking and related activities were securely stored in the tops of his boots.

Now he just had to get to the museum’s workroom, pick its electronic lock, break into the safe there, retrieve the Eye of the Mother, and get out before sterilization commenced. No problem.

Still grinning, he reached the workroom door and pulled out a small black cylinder with a rubbery grey end from his right boot. Pushing the rubbery bit against the lock, he waited until the smartgel sussed out the electronic code.

A loud click sounded as the door unlocked. He eased it open, sliding through the gap into the workroom. A sudden flash of light made him wince before his faceplate cut in, compensating for the unexpected glow from a workstation lamp.

Goddamn it, people, turn off your damn lights before you go home. He blinked, trying to clear the white blob in his field of vision. Molly, where’s the safe?

Coming up, sir. The HUD now showed a graphic overlay of the workroom. A glowing red outline in the far left corner indicated the safe. May I remind you that you have eighteen minutes to complete your retrieval before sterilization commences?

Yup, I know. The countdown in the lower left corner of the HUD was impossible to ignore. There was no time to wait for his night vision to return. Still blinking, he went to the safe.

Your bodysuit will protect you from the gas, but all exits will automatically seal and I will not be able to re-open the roof hatch.

I know. He pulled out a small electronic breaker unit from his other boot and attached leads to the safe’s keypad. The breaker unit went to work on the safe’s locking codes.

You’ll be a sitting duck when museum security returns in the morn—

Molly, stop telling me what can go wrong.

A beat of blessed silence. Sorry, sir.

Rory shook his head as the breaker unit flashed green and the safe deadbolts clunked back. His ship AI was the finest in the business and the closest thing he had to a best friend, but sometimes she really chapped his nads. Opening the safe now.

Dr. Dmitri Grigoryev sat at his workstation, ignoring his headache and the painful growl in his midsection. He’d hoped that some of his coworkers had left some food in the employee lounge. Even a packet of chips or a stale sandwich would have been nice. But they’d cleared everything out in advance of the sterilization.

So he would die hungry. At least it’ll only be for a little while longer. After that, it’s up to God. Assuming that whatever deity there was, if there was one, took pity on someone like him.

He checked his workstation again, but there was nothing left to tidy. Every tool was in place, ready for the next drone who would sit here while doing the painstaking work of cleaning and restoring alien antiquities for the museum’s exhibits. He’d already emptied his locker and his suicide note was logged in the system, to be delivered to the museum director at six AM, long after the sterilizing gas had done its job.

There would be an investigation into how he’d gotten into the building, of course. He knew museum security had done a search of the entire structure to prevent any stragglers from getting trapped. Fortunately for him, a lazy security guard had once showed him how to get into the building without setting off the alarms. I’m tired of having to rescue you folks every time you lock yourselves out, the guard had said with a smirk. Just let yourself back in next time, okay?

Of course, he’d had wanted a little something in return for the code. Ignoring the roiling self-disgust in his belly, Dmitri had gone along with it. Compared to three years ago, he told himself, a quick fuck in the loading dock was nothing. And the guard had even shared a sandwich with him, afterwards. He sometimes thought it was a shame the man had gotten married soon after that and left the museum. God knew he could have used the free food.

Absently, he wondered if he should notify anyone else about his pending death. His family … no. He was dead to them already. And he had no real friends. He toyed with the idea of sending a copy of his note to Joss and Helene, but decided against it. They’d just feel relieved that he was dead. And the last thing he wanted them to feel was relief.

Something wet trickled down his face. He was crying. It didn’t make sense. He felt numb inside, so why would he be crying?

He swiped a sleeve across his eyes, the cheap fabric of his coveralls smearing the water rather than absorbing it. His stomach chose that moment to rumble again painfully, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten since the day before.

It didn’t matter. A few more minutes, and he wouldn’t have to worry about anything anymore. He took a deep breath, trying to imagine what it would feel like when the searing gas entered his lungs. Would it feel like drowning, or breathing fire? And how long would it take for him to die?

He was so wrapped up in his oncoming death, he didn’t notice the soft noise behind him. Then he heard a second sound, a metallic ka-clunk. Turning in his chair, he stared at the cheap room dividers that separated the workstations from the cleaning zones and the workroom vault, a sizable walk-in safe located in the far corner. The vault was used to store rare items that were undergoing restoration, or pieces that were being prepared for exhibition.

Wasn’t something going on display soon? The Eye of something? He’d caught a glimpse of it over the shoulder of the exhibits manager that very morning, a huge chunk of carved opal that flashed back rainbows from the industrial lights overhead. He’d even had a quick daydream of stealing it, finding a fence who would exchange it for enough credits to get off planet, and fleeing for the Outer Rim. With my luck, the cops would catch up with me before I even set foot on a ship. But at least Papa would be proud of me for once.

Another soft clunking sound. Frowning, he stood and went over to the room dividers, peering around the edge. The cleaning zones were fairly dim, and his night vision was nonexistent thanks to the lamp on his workstation.

But he could still see the vault door clearly enough. It was closed.

Idiot. He’d been imagining things, illusions most likely brought on by hunger and lightheadedness. He started to turn back to his workstation.

There, against the far wall, something moved. A vague outline, almost like a heat haze on a hot day.

A man-shaped outline.

He remembered the security lectures from his first days at the museum, how art thieves used mimetic technology to break into buildings and remove artifacts. Of course a thief would pick the time right before sterilization to steal something.

A burst of adrenaline-fueled outrage surged through him. You greedy bastard. You couldn’t just let me die in peace, could you?

Fine. If it was his fate to die in that miserable place, he would take a thieving honor guard with him.

Rory hefted the large chunk of opal appreciatively before slipping it into the mimetic bag at his hip. I truly hope that skanky sonofabitch paid through the nose for it. Judging from the rare collectables market, the Eye of the Mother would certainly fetch a pretty price from the right parties.

Closing the safe door, he started towards the exit when something roared, startling him. He spun towards the noise, faceplate taking precious milliseconds to readjust to that damned light.

A man rushed towards him, yelling something. What the hell?

He stepped to the side, hooking the man’s legs and tripping him. The man went down in a windmilling tangle, still shouting something guttural.

I don’t have time for this. Yanking a canister of stun mist from his boot, he sprayed it into his assailant’s face. The man’s eyes fluttered shut before his head thumped to the floor.

Rory cursed under his breath, recognizing the ugly green coveralls of the museum’s work staff. The building’s supposed to be clear, dammit. Does this idiot want to die? He grabbed the back of the man’s head and tilted it up into the dim light from the workstation. Well, shit. The idiot’s gorgeous. Why did he have to be gorgeous?

Even unconscious and drooling slightly, his attacker was unarguably attractive, with high cheekbones and a sharp jawline leading to a sinfully full, kissable mouth. A heavy five o’clock shadow showed through the pale skin, and the mop of dark hair in his fist felt soft. Rory carefully thumbed open an eyelid and checked the man’s pupils. He couldn’t tell with night vision, but he thought the iris around them would be blue, judging by the tone. Dark hair, blue eyes. I love that combo, too. Shit, shit, shit.

Seven minutes, sir.

Goddamn it. It would take him at least five minutes to retrace his route back up to the roof, and Mr. Hot Stuff wasn’t going anywhere under his own steam for a good half hour. I may be a thief, but I’ll be damned if I’m a murderer.

With a grunt, he hunched down and pulled the man over his shoulders in a fireman’s carry. Path, Molly.

Yes, sir. The HUD lit up with a line of animated arrows. Lurching under the weight on his shoulder, he followed them.

Sir, your burden is slowing you down. Might I suggest—

No, you may not, he grunted.

Sweat started trickling underneath the bodysuit, and his muscles were already promising retribution for the unaccustomed exercise. He gritted his teeth and climbed two flights of stairs, thigh muscles screaming at him as he burst into the maintenance closet leading to the roof.

If you’re going to make a habit of absconding with people during a retrieval, the AI said, might I suggest that you step up your physical workout sessions? Your heart rate is unacceptably high.

Not…absconding with, Rory gasped, forcing himself up the slanted ladder until he stood in the camouflaged tube linked to his skimship. Kicking the roof hatch closed, he staggered into the ship’s rear airlock. Rescuing. Prep for takeoff.

Still trying to think of where he could safely leave Mr. Hot Stuff, Rory jerked when the tube retracted with a burping rumble and the ship’s airlock closed and cycled. Dammit, Mol, I said prep, not actually take off. I still have to dump this guy.

Not an option, sir, the AI said. I’m afraid those orbital agents you bribed didn’t stay bribed. I’m reading three local constabulary shuttles inbound to our position.

Oh, fuck me with a mass driver. Awkwardly, Rory staggered forward and dumped the man into the passenger seat, then fell into the pilot chair, letting the safety belts slither around him. Not a murderer, just a kidnapper. Yeah, this is gonna be fun.

But it was still an improvement on letting the idiot choke to death in the museum. Keep him restrained, Mol, he ordered. And get us in the air.

Yes, sir.

2

The first thing Dmitri noticed when he drifted back to consciousness was the foul taste in his mouth. He smacked his lips experimentally, grimacing at the coat of tacky gunk covering his teeth and tongue.

Dry mouth from the mist, a tenor voice said. This’ll help.

Something cool and curved touched his lips, and he tasted water. He drank greedily, letting the extra splash over the edges of his mouth, trickling down his chin.

The tenor chuckled. Easy there, doc. Plenty more where that came from.

He opened his eyes and saw a bright smear with a dark shape in the center. Can’t see, he croaked.

Try blinking a couple of times.

He did. The smear slowly resolved into what looked like a small medbay. The shape turned out to be a person standing next to his bed.

Dmitri blinked again, this time in disbelief. Smiling down at him was the most gorgeous man he’d seen in a long time. Twinkling grey eyes, a ridiculously sensual mouth, and a cleft chin were capped by perfectly tousled dark brown hair. Bozhe moi. If he’s a clinic doctor, I need to get sick more often.

Except that the doctor wasn’t dressed like a doctor. Instead, he wore a fitted dark blue t-shirt over an upper torso that could have been featured in the museum’s sculpture section. 

Dmitri glanced lower. And … a kilt?

The not-doctor’s smile widened as he glanced down at himself. I know it’s not usual ship wear, but it’s comfortable and it’s in my clan tartan, he said in a drawled Standard. So, how are you feeling?

Like shit. Dmitri looked down at the—yes, it was a medbed, with the head part inclined up. Clear tubing at the side ran into his arm, pushing something into his veins. What’s this?

The not-doctor glanced at the lines. Glucose drip. I got worried when you didn’t come out of the stun mist after thirty minutes. Turned out your blood sugar had bottomed out. When was the last time you ate?

More memories surfaced, shouldering aside the question. The shape he’d seen in the workroom, and a sudden blast of something sharp and medicinal. Wait. You broke into the museum.

Yeah. Sorry about misting you, but I didn’t have time to fight, seeing as the whole place was about to be sterilized. What the hell were you doing there, anyway?

He tried to dredge up some saliva. "None of your business. What were you doing there?"

The not-doctor just grinned at him, holding up the glass again so that he could sip from it. Stealing something. And saving your life, incidentally. Don’t thank me or anything.

Dmitri almost choked on the mouthful of water. A thief. I’ve been rescued by a thief. Oh, that’s just wonderful. Fine. I won’t, he said after he finally swallowed.

Huh. The not-doctor’s—no, the thief’s—eyes narrowed. The countdown was at the seven minute mark when I ran into you. No way you could have gotten down to the ground floor in that amount of time. But I’m guessing that wasn’t your plan, was it?

He felt heat flood his face. You don’t know anything about it, he muttered, trying to cross his arms across his chest and wincing when he snagged the IV line.

The thief raised one shoulder. Maybe. But I do know a fair bit about you, Dr. Dmitri Grigoryev. I had Molly scan your chip before we went into warp. You’re 35, single, have three degrees from Ganymede Universitat, and up until three years ago you were an associate professor in history with a subspecialty in exoarchaeology.

Three years ago. Dmitri forced himself to breathe, pushing away the gut-punch of guilt and anger. Memories roiled through his mind; the glittering cloud of steam, the screams of the wounded and dying through their comm units. And then the horrible, horrible silence. I assume you know why I’m no longer there, yes? he muttered.

Yeah, the thief said, oddly sympathetic. The van der Waals’ dig on P. Centauri III. Look, I know your former bosses, at least by reputation. If it’s of any consolation, you aren’t the first person they’ve thrown under the transport for their screw-ups.

Dmitri stared down at the foam cell blanket spread over him. It would have been nice to know that three years ago. Too late now, of course.

All right, the thief said, as if he’d responded. But that was three years ago. What I don’t understand is why you decided to commit suicide tonight.

Why not answer? It wasn’t as if he had any pride left. The museum was going to lay me off—budget cuts. I couldn’t get another job anywhere else, and my money was gone. Killing myself in the museum seemed … appropriate, I suppose. At least the bastards would remember me that way.

The thief pursed his lips. It certainly would have made a statement. Of course, you wouldn’t have been there to see it, which is kinda the problem with suicide. He folded his arms across a broad chest, frowning now. Anyway, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t try and kill yourself while you’re on board. We’ll be in warp for another four days, and I don’t really want to stuff you in the fridge if I don’t have to.

We’re—wait, what? The last of the stun fog disappeared, and Dmitri felt a soft vibration coming through the bed. The air had that canned taste that came from being filtered and refiltered again. "Warp? I’m on a ship? Why?"

Because I didn’t have time to dump you safely, thanks to some crooked border guards that wouldn’t stay bought. So I had to take off with you.

He tried to swallow, but his throat felt swollen and sore from the stun mist. "You’re kidnapping me?"

The thief made a see-saw gesture. "Mm, kidnapping, rescuing, either or. Consider yourself a guest.