She extended the packet straw toward his mouth. The motion was less rude than earlier; he rewarded the good behavior by giving her a quick smile as he accepted the drink. After a moment he nodded, and she stepped back.
Her expression was flat with weariness. “I’m going to get some sleep.”
He gazed earnestly at her, looking as hopeful as he could manage. “No food?”
“You won’t starve before the morning.”
True enough. “What if I have to, um, use the facilities?”
“Pozhaluysta, ya zhe ne tupïtsa. Your suit has provisions for that.”
His eVi identified the unfamiliar words as an Earth-based Russian dialect. He priority-cached Russian into the translator then shrugged within the confines of the restraints, a dry chuckle on his lips. “No, of course you aren’t a moron, but I had to try.”
She managed to look highly unimpressed as she turned away. “If you say so. Sleep well.”
“What are the odds?”
Halfway down the stairs she paused and gestured toward a screen embedded in the wall. The lights dimmed to a faint glow.
He called out after her. “Thank you….” But she was already gone.
He waited another ten seconds, his posture relaxed and nonchalant in the uncomfortable jump seat. Slowly his eyes drifted downward.
Even in the low light he recognized the strand of her hair which had fallen to rest on his thigh. He took a deep breath and cracked his neck.
It was going to be a long night.
20 Seneca
Cavare, Intelligence Division Headquarters
“I don’t suppose you can tell me what the hell is going on here?”
Michael Volosk nodded with proffered conviction, though his inner thoughts were decidedly less confident.
This was his worst nightmare, if not only his. A prominent Alliance diplomat was dead, and all signs pointed to an official member of the Senecan delegation being responsible. He didn’t need to be a politician to recognize the clusterfain of trouble it meant.
Intelligence Director Graham Delavasi dropped his elbows on the desk and waited expectantly for answers he didn’t have.
The man’s bushy salt-and-pepper hair had strayed onto the wild side, an indication he too had been awoken in the middle of the night. He wore faded denim and a wrinkled polo and kept a giant thermos of coffee in easy reach. There were no aurals around him and no screens active on the desk, which was his way. When he met with someone he gave them his full and undivided attention, for good or ill.
Delavasi had always been a bit of a renegade, wielding a blunt demeanor unusual in the intelligence trade and even more unusual among the political ranks he now technically belonged to. He had risen to a position of power due in large part to a keen intellect, a sharp eye for bullshit and unassailable integrity. Michael admired the man; didn’t always like him, but admired him.
He met the Director’s gaze. “The Alliance Trade Minister was the target of what looks to be an assassination hit during the Summit’s closing dinner. The scene remains in a state of flux, but the evidence indicates the hit was in all probability conducted by a member of our Trade staff.”
“Have we executed the son of a bitch yet? Because that may be the only thing standing between us and the full might of the Alliance military showing up at our doorstep.”
The data stream from his agents on Atlantis continued to scroll on his whisper; he checked it a last time to make certain it held no better answer. “No, sir. Neither my agents, the Senecan security detail, Atlantis police, nor Alliance security have as yet been able to locate Mr. Candela.”
He cringed at Delavasi’s disbelieving glare and rushed to reassure the man. “It’s simply a matter of time. Atlantis is locked down hard. He won’t escape.” His hand came to rest at his chin; it was a tic and usually meant he was bothered by something…which he was. “I recognize the undeniable seriousness of the situation, but sending in the military would be a rather disproportionate response, wouldn’t it?”
“Assassination of a government official is an explicit violation of the armistice. Now that may not matter to everyone, but I guarantee it will matter to someone with more authority than good sense.” Delavasi took a long swig from the thermos. “Who is this guy anyway?”
“He’s nobody. A low-level staffer in Director Kouris’ office. He’s worked in the Trade Division for three years, prior to which he served as an intern for the Parliament’s Commerce Committee. Graduated 3rd honors from Tellica with a degree in economics. Has a wife and a new baby. His record is spotless, and he has a reputation as a competent if unexceptional employee. There’s no history of political activism or fringe activities. He didn’t even vote in the last election.”
“Enemies? What about his family, his wife’s family? Any potential for blackmail or coercion there?”
“We’re looking into it.” ‘We’ had started looking into it three hours earlier at one in the morning when he had been awoken by a flurry of alerts and left Shera sleeping in their bed, and it likely would be days before ‘we’ knew anything for certain. The Director no doubt recognized this.
Delavasi sighed and sank into the high-backed leather chair. “Bloody hell, Michael, this is a disaster. Nobody wants open conflict with the Alliance. Well, maybe a few fire-breathing Parliament back-benchers and some wackos on Caelum who want an excuse to shoot over the border. But nobody who matters wants another war—and the Chairman definitely doesn’t want one. He put a lot of political goodwill on the line in pushing for this Summit.”
Michael frowned. “Could that be what this is about? Perhaps it’s not actually about the Alliance at all, and instead an attempt to discredit the current administration and destabilize the government.”
“Damned if I know. Which is a problem, seeing as I’m the Intelligence Director and thus expected to know the justifications of lunatics and devils. But I do know something isn’t right here. This smells from top to bottom and I need answers. You’ll have all the men you need. Find out what’s going on.”
“Absolutely, sir. The official delegation should be cleared to leave Atlantis in the next few hours. My men on the ground have already begun private interrogations and will continue them during the flight home. Agents are at Mr. Candela’s home now and en route to extended family locations. My best analysts are scouring every aspect of his past for clues as to what might have led to this action.”
He paused to take a sip of his own coffee. “As soon as the delegation arrives we’ll begin whatever extended interrogations are required at HQ. I intend to personally interview the Assistant Trade Director first thing, as he was in charge of planning and staffing.”
Delavasi’s eyes creased, drawn inward by the furrow in his brow. “That still Jaron Nythal?”
“I believe so.”
“Be careful with him. He’s a slippery bastard.”
“…care to elaborate?”
Delavasi kicked his chair away from the desk and slowly spun it around. “A couple of years ago—back when I had your job—we took down a spy network operating in several of the high-profile corporations. They were selling secrets acquired via their ‘special’ access to certain government agencies to the Zelones cartel. Nythal was Corporate Liaison in Trade at the time, and was on the periphery of the scandal. I couldn’t make any allegations stick to him, but he was entirely too smooth for my taste.”
Michael chose his words carefully. “He would need to be fairly smooth to parlay with the corporate bigwigs, wouldn’t he?”
“Without a doubt. Nevertheless, the man was…wrong. I’m just saying be on your toes when you talk to him, and don’t assume you’re getting the whole story merely because he’s on our side.”
“Understood.”
Delavasi stood and grabbed a gray trench coat lying rumpled on the window sill. “Now, lucky me, I get to go tell the Chairman that yes, it appears one of our people did assassinate the bloody Alliance Trade Minister, and no, I don’t have any
evidence he can present to the Alliance government to show it was an isolated act by a lone crazy.”
He gave Michael a slightly worn smile as he pulled the coat over his shoulders. “Don’t worry, I’m not throwing you to the wolves. I know you’re all over it, and it will take a little time to get answers—a sentiment which I will also convey to the Chairman.”
“I appreciate the support, sir.”
The first steel-hued rays of sunlight broke across the horizon beyond the office window as he stood and shook the Director’s hand. It was going to be a long day, and probably not the last.
21 Siyane
Metis Nebula, Uncharted Planet
Freshly showered. Hair pulled back in a ponytail and twisted up out of the way. Clean workpants, pockets empty and ready for use. A fitted shirt that wouldn’t catch on any jagged edges. Grip-soled slip shoes for ease of movement in the narrow spaces of the engineering well.
Her battle armor. For repairing her ship below—and facing the unknown above.
Alex blew out a long breath and scrunched her face up at the mirror. She only hoped her mental preparation equaled the physical prep. She gave a sharp nod to her reflection and headed up the stairs to the main deck.
Her prisoner resembled…well, someone who had crash-landed on a barren planet then spent the night tied up in a utility jump seat. The hint of stubble had graduated to full shadow, tousled locks to a wild shock of curls. But his eyes were unsettlingly bright and alert as he watched her cross the cabin.
She flopped into the cockpit chair, Daemon back in her hand, and regarded him with a critical eye. “So. What am I going to do with you?”
He was ready for her, too. “I’ve been thinking about that. Let me assure you I’m not a threat to you. It’s clear you’re my only ticket off this rather inhospitable world, and as such it is against my interests to harm you. So you can remove the restraints, for one.”
An eyebrow arched. “So you can kill me, dump my body and steal my ship?”
One corner of his mouth curled up; damn that was going to get annoying. “I’m quite certain your ship won’t leave the ground unless you’re piloting it. Every control in here is locked and keyed to you. Further, I imagine the navigation system requires regular interaction with your eVi to function.”
“True enough. But you could hold me hostage and force me to fly you wherever you wanted to go.”
He shrugged within the restraints. “At least you wouldn’t be dead.”
“Very funny. Until we got where we were going.”
His jaw tightened into a rigid line. Before, it hadn’t appeared ‘square’ as such. Now though, she thought she could probably cut a steak with the edges.
The flicker in his eyes hinted he hadn’t meant to display frustration so visibly. She watched as he willed his jaw relaxed. “Why would I want to kill you?”
“Because I know Senecan Intelligence is after something in the Metis Nebula. Because I know what you look like and what you do, and that is a threat to you. Because then you’d have a shiny new ship as bounty.”
His mouth opened, presumably carrying a snap response. Instead of delivering the response though, it closed in silence, then after a pause opened again. “Okay, those are…fairly decent reasons.” He looked at her with what might be mistaken in civilized company for honesty. “But I’m not going to hurt you, especially not when you’re the daughter of an Alliance Admiral. I have no desire to start another war.”
What? He couldn’t possibly….
Of course. He’d have access to the extensive files the Senecan government doubtless maintained on their adversary. Hell, he likely kept the files in his internal data cache and had the tech in his ocular implant to do a retinal scan from at least a meter away. She must have merited a footnote:
Alexis Mallory Solovy: Born October 17, 2286, San Francisco, Earth. Father: Dead Martyr. Mother: Cast-Iron Bitch.
She snorted in mock appreciation. “Neat trick you got there. Still not good enough.”
He exhaled softly. Something akin to disappointment flitted across his face.
“Okay.”
With a flick of his wrist the restraints vanished. He had unlatched the safety harness and stood before she had blinked.
She and the gun were both up in the next blink, her hands clenched tight on the grip. “How did you?”
His hands were in the air, palms open, and he made no move to approach her. The tone of his voice remained scrupulously even. “The web field was DNA-coded to you, obviously. You left behind a strand of hair last night. I used it to create a hack and unlock the web.” His shoulders raised in an exaggerated shrug; freed from the restraints it became a far more expressive motion. “Intelligence? It’s what I do. If it helps, I didn’t get much sleep.”
Her response consisted of an icy glare.
He sighed. “Look, the point is, I could have killed you in your sleep, but I didn’t.”
Her finger only tightened on the gun’s trigger. Her thumb hovered over the stun toggle. “Because you need me to do the repairs and, as you noted, fly the ship.”
“True. But you are not getting me back in those restraints.”
“Oh really? I might just shoot you again.”
He glanced around the cabin. “In here? I don’t think so. You’d overload half your systems.”
“You have no idea the kind of—”
In the space of a breath he had crossed the distance separating them and spun her around into a vise grip from behind. Somehow, the gun was out of her hand and in his. He locked her arms between them and raised the gun to her temple.
She was thoroughly disgusted with herself. One, because she had been standing too close to be able to react, even if he had moved ridiculously fast. Two, because she was having to work unexpectedly hard to focus on the gun pressed against her temple rather than the body pressed against her back. Get your head on straight, life-threatening situation here!
His voice resonated low and dangerous at her ear. “Just so we’re very clear. If I want to kill you, I can kill you.”
She growled through gritted teeth in response; she would not show weakness. “Motherfucking Senecan scumbag.”
“I’m flattered. Now, I’m going to—” His grip loosened as he began to move away.
She wrenched an elbow up and slammed it against his forearm. His arm jolted back, and her elbow continued upward to catch his eye socket. Her left leg swept around to knock his feet out—
—he dodged the sweep by a centimeter and rolled out of reach, coming to his feet three meters away with the gun raised.
He smiled at her, and seemed almost amused. “I’m impressed. That was close.”
Her expression was a black hole from which no amusement dared escape. “So what now? You tie me up?”
He bit his lower lip, and a dark flare glimmered in his eyes. “Don’t tempt me.”
Her face screwed up in disbelief. He was making a sexual innuendo while holding her at gunpoint? What did he think this was?
As he stood there though—pointing a gun at her—his expression turned serious. If asked, she’d say it was earnest, even…well, it didn’t matter how it looked.
His voice returned to an even and controlled tenor. “I need you to listen to me very carefully. I need you to hear what I am saying. If you try to hurt me, I will respond in kind. Otherwise, I. am. not. going. to. hurt. you. Not now, not later, not when we get to wherever we go. You have my word.”
He paused for effect then slowly crouched down, his gaze never leaving hers, and set the gun on the floor. He stood up, palms open in submission, and kicked the gun over to her.
Her gaze also did not stray from his while she retrieved the gun and holstered it to her belt. Then she simply stared at him. She didn’t know exactly what she hoped to find. Some sign, any sign, of deceit or artifice maybe, or….
He waited patiently.
It would be counterproductive to spend all morning standing on the deck staring at one another wh
en there was a gaping fissure in the hull in need of repair. She made a snap decision.
For the moment, she would take him for what he appeared to be: a smart man demonstrating a realistic perspective on matters and a healthy self-preservation instinct. For the moment, it reduced the threat he represented to a manageable level.
“If you touch anything, I will kill you.”
He nodded in ready acceptance of the edict.
She exhaled an exaggerated breath, rolled her eyes and strolled past him. “Want some breakfast?”
She contemplated him over a buttered croissant. Having shed the environment suit, he wore a faded slate-hued Henley, soft black utility pants and an air of calm self-assurance. He casually nibbled on a slice of grapefruit, having taken only a single bite of his own croissant.
Puzzled—by more than one thing concerning him, but currently his lack of an appetite—she frowned at him. “I expected you to be hungrier, seeing as you didn’t eat anything last night.”
His lips tweaked up. “I, uh, sort of did eat last night.”
Her eyes widened in indignation as realization dawned. “You didn’t.”
“Forgive me, I really was hungry. After I finally broke the encryption on the restraints, I might have opened a few of the kitchen cabinets until I found the energy bars. And helped myself to a few.”
The idea of him wandering around her ship in the middle of the night, getting into whatever he cared to and probably brandishing his damnable smirk while he did…. Ugh, she wanted to strangle him, and only the likelihood of him killing her for the effort stopped her. It’s only the kitchen, Alex. But it didn’t have to be only the kitchen. And that wasn’t the point.
His expression and demeanor projected an affable, nonthreatening persona. His actions a mere few minutes ago told another story. Her brain struggled to process the discordant information, to reconcile what she knew to be true with the man sitting across the table from her.
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