“One friendly to corporate and mafia interests, no doubt,” Leonidas grumbled.
“Even less appealing than having the Alliance in charge, eh?”
His grunt wasn’t exactly one of agreement. “I’m surprised you didn’t tell the Alliance about this party. I’d think your government would relish the opportunity to take out a bunch of rebels at once.”
“It crossed my mind, but every time I’ve called the Alliance in to deal with our mutual enemies, it hasn’t gone well for us. Besides, I don’t see Tymoteusz’s ship here. Unless he’s arriving fashionably late, we need to hope that Henneberry will lead us to his location. If the Alliance were to come in with cannons blasting, that wouldn’t likely happen.” And they wouldn’t find Thorian. She had promised her daughter that they’d get him back, so she had to put that above all other concerns. Besides, stopping revolutionaries wasn’t her job.
“True.”
Alisa flew the shuttle around an oval-shaped merchant vessel attached to the yacht, and the port bay entrance came into view. There weren’t doors, but a forcefield, and she watched the sensors as she put them into a good position to fly inside. The energy field disappeared.
Feeling a twinge of nervousness, she sailed into a cavernous bay, one where a dozen other shuttles were parked, magnetically sealed to the deck. Most were clearly civilian models, a couple with paint jobs that made them stick out—Beck cleared his throat uneasily when they flew over a green shuttle with white dragons cavorting on the hull. Two, however, were imperial military shuttles, or had been once. One had been painted a garish gold and silver. The other was black, with nothing changed except for the name. Instead of the usual numerals and letters nomenclature the military had used, the white letters now read: The King’s Darter.
“Which one of these arrogant blowhards thinks of himself as a king?” Alisa asked, choosing a landing spot well away from the imperial shuttles. She didn’t need anyone noticing that their catering craft was of a similar make.
“Which one doesn’t?” Beck asked.
“Well, presumably not Solstice,” Yumi said. “Were you able to tell which ship was hers?”
“No, she never offered me a tour of her flagship when we were there,” Alisa said, glancing at Leonidas. “How about you?”
“She offered. I did not accept.”
“She probably only wanted you to tour her bedroom.”
Jealousy, Alisa? Abelardus asked silently. So unseemly.
I’m not jealous. I’m petty. There’s a difference.
Is the latter less unseemly?
Probably not.
“Do I get to make snide comments someday when a pretty man wants you to tour his bedroom?” Leonidas asked.
“I don’t think you’re capable of snide comments, you being rather noble and honorable and such, but that would absolutely be within your right.”
“Excellent. I shall prepare them.”
“Now we just need to find a pretty man to incense you into using them.”
Leonidas looked over his shoulder to where Abelardus was sneaking samples out of one of Beck’s covered trays. “Hm.”
Alisa might have pointed out that Abelardus never would have lured her to his bedroom, but she was too busy setting the shuttle down in an empty spot hemmed in by two other craft.
“Better put your new face on, Leonidas,” Beck said. “It won’t take them long to pressurize the hangar bay and come looking for their victuals.”
Leonidas rose to his feet and touched Alisa’s shoulder. “You, I hope, have a face kit too. You’re just as notorious as I am, these days.”
“Flattering.”
“Did you just say victuals?” Abelardus asked Beck. “Are we back in the Old West on Old Earth?”
“Well, I wouldn’t be surprised if we ended up in a shootout in the shuttle bay corral.”
“There will be no shootouts,” Alisa said, turning off the engines. A soft kerthunk came from underneath the shuttle, as the magnetized docking station came on. “This will go smoothly with no trouble.” Perhaps if she told herself that, it would be more likely to happen.
“No need for the cyborg to show anyone his bulge?” Abelardus asked.
“No need whatsoever.”
“That’s a relief.”
Alisa unfastened her harness and trotted into the small lav where she had stashed her costume. The imperial shuttle had once been used for combat missions and was full of seats for burly infantry soldiers—perhaps even burly cyborg soldiers. There weren’t a lot of amenities, such as mirrors in the lav. She had to wave Yumi in to help with her prosthetics, since one-handedly using the reverse camera image on her netdisc proved difficult.
“How do I look?” she asked when Yumi backed away.
“Pretty.”
“Pretty? That’s not important. Do I look innocent and wholesome? Not like someone scheming up trouble?”
“I don’t think any amount of makeup could create that look for you,” Abelardus said, stepping out of another lav. With his long braids of hair, there wasn’t much to be done to disguise them—he hadn’t been willing to entertain the notion of a head shaving—but he had pulled them back in a bun, and he had traded his black robe for blue snagor-hide trousers and a similar top and jacket to the one Leonidas wore.
Alisa waved at the trousers. “The waiter’s bottoms didn’t fit?”
“They were too tight in pivotal areas. Your cyborg isn’t the only one with magnitude, you know.”
“Ew,” Beck said. “Don’t let him talk during the mission, Captain. He’ll only get us in trouble.”
“I don’t know. He’s handsome. I thought he could flirt with Ms. Henneberry and keep her and her bodyguards distracted while Leonidas and I snoop and find a place to stick the tracker.”
“Henneberry?” Abelardus asked. “Is she young and nubile?”
“Nubile?” Beck asked. “Now who’s using words that went out of style before the colony ships left Old Earth?”
“She invented CargoExpress,” Alisa said, “and I’m fairly certain they delivered my diapers when I was a baby, so I’ll let you guess as to her age and nubileness.”
Abelardus curled a lip.
Young-hee, who was already in her outfit—cook’s whites, the same as Beck—slapped him in the chest. “Don’t dismiss a woman just because she’s older than you.”
“What if she’s a lot older than me?”
“She’ll probably be honored by your attention. Unless handsome young men often flirt with her, in the hopes of getting some of her money out of her. You don’t want her money, do you?”
“If I wanted money, I could go to a casino and get it, the same as you. Why are you interrogating me, Young-hee?”
“Because you deserve it,” Alisa said.
“Is that true?” Abelardus looked around the gathering.
Young-hee, Yumi, Beck, and Alisa nodded at him.
Leonidas also nodded as he stepped out of one of the lavs, his gray-blond wig and prosthetics in place. The pale hair made him look older, as had been her intent when choosing it. She figured an older cyborg wouldn’t be so intimidating and might even make people less likely to realize what he was. The prosthetics made his face softer too. Less lean and fierce. Alisa would have known him anywhere by his blue eyes, but she didn’t think someone who knew him less well—or spent less time gazing into his eyes—would recognize him. Good.
“I believe we’re ready,” she said, looking around at her people.
Beck had a full prosthetic mask on, changing his every feature—he must not have wanted to take chances with the White Dragon people. Abelardus and Young-hee hadn’t donned prosthetics, since Solstice had never seen them, and Alisa doubted the other mafia people had any familiarity with the Starseers either. Yumi wore a black uniform identical to the one Alisa had, and she had face alterations of her own accord, rounding her chin and changing her snub nose into a more prominent straight one.
A knock sounded at the rear hatch.
Alisa
took a breath. “Time to find out how tough their security is.”
And whether her team was walking into a trap.
Chapter 12
Leonidas walked at Alisa’s side as she pushed a wheeled serving cart down the ramp and onto the shuttle bay deck. He carried a stack of covered trays that rose to his chin. Hopefully, security would be too interested in his load to give him a good look and notice that those arms and shoulders were a touch big and meaty for a normal human being. People might believe that a cyborg had retired from the imperial army and become a bounty hunter, pirate, or security professional, but a caterer? That might be hard to buy.
Yumi, Young-hee, and Abelardus came behind them, Abelardus also with an armload of trays, while the women carried hand tractors, hovering the rest of the serving dishes along after the group. Mica had complained vociferously about having her precious tools taken, and she’d made Alisa promise to return them. Or buy fancy new ones if they were lost.
Beck led the way, his hands empty, a chef’s hat on his head, the logo for their fake company on his chest, and an arrogant tilt to his chin. Naturally, the chef and owner of the business wouldn’t carry his own food. He would greet and hobnob with the important people. And security.
A couple of those people—armed men in blue uniforms—waited at the bottom of the ramp. Alisa reminded herself to keep her mouth shut, that Beck was in charge here. She was a simple waitress who would serve drinks and food. And sneak away from her employer at the first opportunity.
“You’re wearing your scheming expression,” Leonidas murmured.
“Not my you’re-sexy-when-you’re-scheming expression?” Alisa smoothed her face. So much for the prosthetics making her look innocent.
“My awareness of sexiness is somewhat blunted by Yumi’s drug.”
“I suppose that’s for the best,” she said, though she still felt guilty that he was taking a drug because of her—and her daughter. Jelena wasn’t along on this mission. He wouldn’t have needed to do it here.
“This way, sir,” one of the security guards said after conferring with Beck for a moment.
Alisa exhaled a long, relieved breath. Neither of the men had asked for identification.
Whistling cheerfully, Beck followed them. Alisa pushed her cart along the flight deck, wincing at a wheel that rattled. They were supposed to be a high-end catering company, not one that had rescued rusty equipment from a junkyard.
“Trouble,” Leonidas murmured before Beck and the guards reached the door.
It was made from clear Glastica, and Alisa could make out a couple more people in uniforms waiting on the other side, but she wasn’t sure yet what Leonidas meant, other than that the two men were large, their heads nearly brushing the ceiling. A much smaller, dark-skinned woman in white waited behind them, dwarfed by their size.
As the group drew closer, Alisa started to get an inkling of what Leonidas meant. Those guards weren’t just tall. They were huge. Broad-shouldered with tree-trunk arms and legs. Their uniforms must have been custom tailored.
“Cyborgs?” Alisa whispered.
“I recognize them,” Leonidas murmured back so quietly she barely heard him. There was a hardness in his voice, not the warmth of someone spotting old comrades.
Reminded that other cyborgs would share his enhanced hearing, all she did was give him a quick, bleak look and touch her nose, hoping to imply that his costume should save him from being recognized. Assuming he didn’t talk. If they had been in his unit, wouldn’t they recognize their commander’s voice? They probably hadn’t spent as much time as Alisa gazing into Leonidas’s blue eyes, but between his size and his voice, anyone familiar with him would be sure to recognize him.
“You better play the role of a mute cyborg caterer,” Alisa breathed.
The door opened, and Leonidas did not respond.
Alisa should have found the cyborgs intimidating, especially since one had a scar from eye to lip that made him look like a villain out of a horror vid, but after squinting suspiciously at Beck, both men waved their noses toward the trays floating or being carried into the wide, marble-tiled corridor outside of the bay. Now familiar with cyborg nasal enhancements and cyborg appetites, she could easily picture them scheming ways to get samples for themselves. Neither man was very old, mid-twenties perhaps, so they couldn’t have been more than corporals or maybe young sergeants when the war had ended. She hoped that would make them polite to Leonidas if they did figure out who he was, but the hardness that had been in his voice when he pointed them out made her uneasy.
“Chef Brier?” the woman said to Beck.
“Yes, ma’am. Chef Lunquist, right?” Beck lifted his hand in a salute that looked comical in conjunction with the white cap on his head. “We’ve been conversing about the menu via texts.”
“Yes, we have. I haven’t heard of you before, Chef.” Lunquist was a diminutive woman, even without the seven-foot-tall bookends, but she launched a formidable glare.
“Oh? I grew up around here. Are you from the Aldrin Moons?”
“No, but I’ve heard of most of the important chefs from around the empire and beyond.”
“The empire isn’t beyond much of anything anymore,” Beck said, and shrugged. “If it helps, I haven’t heard of you either.”
Judging by the cool squint Lunquist gave him, that didn’t help.
Alisa noticed the cyborgs had stopped looking at—and sniffing—the food trays. Now, they were eyeing Leonidas.
Alisa shifted uneasily. Already, this wasn’t going as smoothly as she had hoped.
“I’ll let my food put me in your memory, Chef,” Beck said, waving over his shoulder at Alisa and the others. “If you’ll show me where I can set up?”
Lunquist looked at the cyborgs. “You going to search them?”
Search? Shit. Alisa pointedly did not look at Leonidas—or his bulge.
“Maybe this one,” Scar said, walking forward to take a closer look at Leonidas, or maybe so he could frown down at him from an intimidating height.
Since Leonidas was six and a half feet tall, Alisa never thought of him as small, and the mutant extra six inches these two carried still didn’t make him look tiny, but for once, he wasn’t the biggest man in the room.
“Who are you?” Scar poked Leonidas in the shoulder.
“That’s Clive,” Alisa said. So much for hoping nobody would notice Leonidas was a cyborg… So far, he hadn’t reacted. He was staring straight ahead, as if he were an android. “He’s not a big talker,” she added.
She wouldn’t go so far as to claim he was mute, but maybe she could imply it and they wouldn’t demand answers.
“Words are hard, huh?” Scar’s buddy said, a brown-skinned man who apparently subscribed to the same fashion magazine as Beck, because he, too, had his hair dyed, though his was white instead of blond. Alisa dubbed him Whitey because it did not sound intimidating.
“Nice suit,” Scar told Leonidas, poking him in the shoulder again. “You a waiter?” He sniggered, as if a cyborg waiter was the most hilarious thing.
“Jobs were hard to come by after the war,” Alisa said. “I used to be a pilot. Now I carry trays. So, what?”
“Nobody’s talking to you, Lips,” Scar said.
Alisa glared at him, wishing Leonidas could reveal his identity. She wagered these asteroid kissers would wet themselves if they found out he had been their C.O.
She looked over her shoulder at Abelardus. You listening to my mind, by chance?
I’m always attentive to your needs.
Can you convince these brutes to leave Leonidas alone?
Absolutely not. This is lovely.
Abelardus. If they search him, they’ll find his destroyer. And they’ll want to see all of our idents.
“Can’t you talk, mech?” Scar prodded Leonidas again. Those were not gentle nudges. Leonidas visibly braced himself to keep from being shoved backward.
“What’s the problem here?” Beck asked, puffing out his chest, t
hough at six feet, he was dwarfed by the towering cyborgs. “Ms. Henneberry won’t be happy if you buffoons spill her guests’ food.”
“Buffoons?” Scar’s arm whipped out too fast to follow.
Alisa was aware of Leonidas stepping forward, but he could not do anything with his arms full of food, and there was nowhere to set it down. Beck tried to dodge the cyborg, but he was too slow. Scar grabbed him by his jacket, hoisted him into the air, and jammed him against the bulkhead.
“Jason,” Chef Lunquist hissed.
Jason. What an inappropriate name for such a thug. Alisa was on the verge of rolling her cart over his foot and spilling soup on his trousers when he dropped Beck.
“You’re not anyone fancy,” Scar said. “Don’t think you can order me around or insult us.”
Beck sniffed and smoothed his white coat.
“Either search them or don’t,” Lunquist said. “We don’t have a lot of time to set up, and I want to get them started.”
“Just a minute,” Scar said. “I’m suspicious about this one. He’s a cyborg, and he doesn’t talk.”
“Better than a cyborg that talks too much,” Alisa said.
You’re about to get yourself jammed up against the bulkhead too, Abelardus informed her as Scar pinned her with a glare.
Alisa decided to keep her mouth shut, mostly because she had a feeling Leonidas would drop those trays and react—ferociously—if Scar did that to her. Instead, she smiled at Lunquist, assuming she was nominally in charge here.
“We’re eager to get set up too. Can you show us to the banquet hall, or whatever the equivalent is on this ship?”
“Yes, this way.” Lunquist waved for them to follow and turned down the corridor.
Alisa started to feel relieved, but the cyborgs only let Beck pass before positioning themselves to block Leonidas’s way. What was wrong with these idiots? Did nobody on the fancy yacht bake them cookies?
“We want to know who your porter is before you go in,” Scar said, glancing at Alisa instead of Beck, who had paused a few steps beyond them.
Had he picked up that she was in charge? And if so, would that mean trouble?
End Game Page 16