by Cara Bristol
“Oh. That makes sense,” she said then shot him a look. “You were that sure how I’d respond?”
“Right now, I’m not sure of anything,” he replied. “Wine?” He held up the bottle of white wine the robo had uncorked.
“Is it as potent as the brandy?”
He chuckled. “Not by a long shot.”
“Oh. All right, thank you,” she said, but sounded a little disappointed.
“I could order you another Cerinian brandy.” And this time use the control screen.
“Wine will be fine. I need to keep my wits about me.”
You and me both. He’d let his guard down, and he’d slipped. That had never happened before.
Chapter Fourteen
Beth pored over a list of equipment and supplies she’d ordered for the Summit. The tour of Luna Center had been very helpful. Marrying her visual image of the facility with the virtual layout provided a much clearer idea of the requirements. After her unfortunate encounter with the wrong end of a photon blaster, she didn’t need to be reminded of the importance of details when it came to security. An assassin had been sneaked on site when it had been almost vacant. How easy would it be to disappear amongst a packed crowd?
Serving as support staff to the men and women who put themselves in harm’s way to protect others, she was just a key-puncher inputting orders electronically, but she drew purpose and pride from the job. I’m doing my part to keep the galaxy safe.
Her small role opened her eyes to bigger possibilities. Being shot hadn’t scared her away from security work. The opposite. A desire for a more active, involved role had germinated. She aspired to do more than sit behind a desk and order equipment.
She’d love to read the results of Cornelius’s autopsy, but she didn’t know who to ask and suspected no one would tell her anything without Carter or Brock’s say-so anyway.
And Carter wasn’t here. Neither was Brock.
After whisking her away to his private penthouse, kissing her until her toes curled, wining and dining her, Carter had vanished. Not like abracadabra disappeared, but he’d poked his head into her work station the next morning and informed her an assignment would take him away for several days.
“Anything I can help with?” she’d asked. Knowing the attraction was mutual had changed everything. At the mere thought of his absence, she’d begun to miss him already.
“Not this time,” he said.
“It’s nothing dangerous, I hope,” she’d joked.
“No more than usual.” His grin fell short of his eyes. “We’ll get together when I return.” After checking they were alone, he pressed a quick, hard kiss to her mouth and left.
In four days, she’d had no contact and had begun to become concerned. She’d pulled up the employee incident reports and tried to find reassurance in the data proving that few Aym-Sec employees had ever been shot while on duty. She held the honor of being one of the notable few. What happened to me was a freak occurrence. Still, she couldn’t help but worry. Was Carter okay? Why hadn’t he tried to contact her?
“Beth?” An administrative assistant peered at her from around the wall. “Are you okay?”
“Fine. Lost in thought.” She smiled. “What’s up?”
“A delivery came for you.”
“Oh no. Not here!” Equipment was supposed to go to Luna Center. The first snafu! Well, she’d expected to have some.
“Yes, here.” The assistant stepped out from behind the wall and produced a huge bouquet of flowers. He grinned. “Somebody has a secret admirer. And big credits to send real ones instead of a florogram.” He placed the bouquet on her desk.
A pleasurable, guilty heat flooded her face, and she realized she must be blushing like crazy. After agreeing to keep their professional and private lives separate, Carter had sent her flowers. What would everyone think? But pleasure suffused her. He was thinking of her!
After the assistant left, she shut the door for privacy. Nobody had sent her flowers before. Of course, she’d never had a beau, and real flowers, especially alien varieties like these, were so expensive, even the O’Sheas had supplemented their floral décor with the hologram variety. A holo lasted as long as you kept the program running, and you couldn’t tell the difference until you leaned in for a sniff.
She bent to inhale the fragrance of the stunning blooms and spotted a holostick tucked inside the bouquet. Carter had sent her a message, too! She flicked on the switch and smiled as she waited for the program to load. Particles swirled like dust motes in a twister then darkened and materialized into…Benson? Disappointment knocked the grin from her face.
“Hello, Beth,” the recorded hologram spoke. “If you’re watching this, I trust you received the flowers. I hope you’re feeling well and have recovered from the…incident. I feel responsible for having hired Cornelius, and I won’t rest until I know everything is well.
“I’d intended to send flowers earlier, but you’re a difficult lady to reach! It was quite challenging to get the coordinates for Aym-Sec HQ and then convince the florist to deliver to an address that didn’t officially exist…but I prevailed.” Benson winked.
“Anyway, I wanted to tell you I regret”—a glitch in the program caused the sound and image to skip—“happened. I can’t undo what occurred, but be assured, I will follow through with my promise to implement the highest level of security available. It’s the least I can do after what happened. Again, it was a pleasure meeting you, and I look forward to seeing you again under better circumstances.”
The holo sizzled and evaporated.
She sighed. It was considerate of the secretary general to inquire of her welfare and send flowers. On the other hand, it made her a little uncomfortable. What if there was more to it? What if Benson had taken an interest in her?
She leaned against her desk and gnawed on a fingernail, glad Carter wasn’t here to see the gift. She’d sensed a competition between the two men. The secretary general’s message had sounded innocent. There’d been no suggestive tone, no insinuation. His words had been innocuous. Legit. However, the flowers were so extravagant.
She clicked the start button on the holostick to replay the message so she could better analyze it, but nothing happened. She clicked again. Nothing. Darn it. Some holograms were recorded as single play.
I’m reading too much into the flowers. I should accept them at face value, a thoughtful gesture, and let it go.
Not for the first time, she wished she had more life experience.
* * * *
Beth grabbed her lunch from the replicator and marched to an empty table rather than join anyone. She wasn’t fit for company, didn’t feel like engaging in small talk when she missed Carter so much. Besides which, she feared she might start pumping employees for information about him. It would blow the cover of discretion if she appeared personally interested in the big boss. And if those two reasons weren’t enough to warrant sitting alone, she couldn’t forget the “visual enhancements” some of the employees had. Some of these people had seen her naked. Her face heated in remembrance. Thankfully, Carter had intervened. Her hero.
Whom she missed. If she’d had an idea when he would return or had contact from him in the interim, his absence might have been easier to bear.
She slid into a chair and eyed the unappetizing meal: reconstituted gluey chicken salad on brown paper-like bread. What did they used to call that stuff? Cardboard? She picked up the apple. Organic, but bruised and mushy. She thunked it on the table.
“You’re going to hurt the apple’s feelings if you keep scowling.”
Beth looked up to see Dr. Swain smiling at her.
“It doesn’t deserve to be called an apple,” she said.
“May I join you?”
“Have a seat.” She gestured to an empty chair.
“Feeling better?” he asked. “Effects of the photon blast all gone?”
“Back to my normal self,” she replied.
She bit into her sandwich. It tasted as unappetizing as it appeared. The doctor had a couple of bars that looked like a compacted mix of pea-sized black rocks and sand. “What are those?” she asked.
“NutriSup. A nutritionally balanced blend of protein, fiber, and calories, laboratory developed and tested for maximum health benefits—and minimum enjoyment.” He gestured at her sandwich. “Still better than that.”
“I don’t understand it. The food prepared by the replicator at the penthouse was delicious. Top-notch.” Since Swain had made a house call to examine her, she wasn’t revealing any big secret to admit she and Carter had had dinner together. The toe-curling kisses she would keep to herself, however.
“Cheap replicators produce cheap food. When it comes to security, no cost is spared, but the replicators were ordered by supply department bean counters.” He bit off a piece of his NutriSup and made a face. “You could change it.”
“Me? How?”
“Order a new one! As logistics coordinator, don’t you oversee the supply department?”
She blinked. “I guess I do.” Someone else ordered those kinds of things, but that person reported to her.
Swain leaned in. “You get the employees better chow, and you’ll have every one of them eating of your hand—so to speak.” He chuckled.
“I’ll do it!” She eyed the NutriSup. “Are those really better than this sandwich?”
“Marginally, but yeah.”
“I’ll get one of those instead. Excuse me for a moment?”
“Sure.”
She pushed away from the table and grabbed her tray. She’d dump the mess and get a NutriSup. By close of business, a new replicator would be on its way. She’d taken six steps when a blinding, white-hot pain shot through her skull. The tray clattered to the floor. Lunch room conversation faded away. Her field of vision narrowed to a pinpoint. She tumbled toward the floor as everything went black.
Chapter Fifteen
Carter gripped the edge of the copilot’s seat and held to a stoic expression to avoid revealing how much each jolt of the small craft hurt. He’d expected his wound to have stopped bleeding by now, but it continued to seep.
“We’re approaching the Sibulan Refuse Field,” said Brock, who was piloting the pod.
“I can see it.” A garbage dump of obsolete rockets, rusted out PeeVees, space station debris, toxic waste, and spent fuel cells sprawled out over a fifty-million-mile-wide area. The Sibulans bought castoffs on the cheap, skimmed off anything usable and/or resalable, and dumped the rest. Passing the buck to the Sibulans wasn’t the eco-friendly way to rid one’s home world of garbage, but as the least expensive option, less affluent worlds took advantage of it.
“We have two choices. Go around, adding another 22.45 hours travel time—or we navigate through all the junk.”
“No brainer. Go through.”
“Are you up to it?” Brock eyed him. “All the twisting and turning?”
“Hell, yeah.” Carter scowled. “It’s just a scratch.” He downplayed the deep gash and puncture wound he’d sustained while rescuing hostages captured by Quasar. One of the pirates had managed to get a jab in with his bayo-blaster. The blade had slid between his ribs, and then the fucker had twisted it. Nanocytes would repair the wound, but it had bled a lot, and it hurt like a mother. Still, nothing to be concerned about.
Beth was another matter.
Four days had passed since he’d left her at Aym-Sec. The nature of his mission hadn’t allowed contact. This morning he’d finally been able to shoot a message to her PerComm, but she hadn’t answered, and he was getting worried. The rest of the Cy-Ops team aboard Cyber-1 was returning the hostages to their respective home worlds. He and Brock had taken the smaller vessel to return to headquarters.
“I’m sure Beth is fine,” Brock said.
Even when they weren’t communicating via wireless, Brock could just about read his mind. “What if she had a delayed reaction to the photon blast?” Carter said.
“That almost never happens, and if it did—she’s in the right place to get help,” he replied.
“What if she’s pissed I left with little explanation and didn’t contact her?”
“Then you’re screwed.” He laughed. “Seriously, you worry too much.”
Guilty. He did worry too much. So she hadn’t responded to his message. Any number of reasons could account for that. There was no logic for this sudden discomfort, other than a gut-churning hunch.
“Warning! Warning! Debris field ahead! Perform evasive maneuvers.” Brock had switched to manual piloting, but the computer sounded the alarm as they entered the refuse field. He silenced the AI. Had they put the tiny ship on autopilot, the computer would have avoided the sector altogether.
Brock banked left to avoid a Malodonian fighter craft hull then swerved right to miss the remnants of a biodome. Carter sucked in a breath and pressed his hand to his ribs. Something sizable thumped against the side of the craft.
“That wasn’t good,” he said.
“No.” Brock peered at a screen on the console. “No damage, though.”
The pod wended among some unusual conical and cylindrical structures. The insignia, still visible, revealed the objects originated from defunct political divisions from Terra: North Korea, China, Russia, India, the United Kingdom, Pakistan, France, Israel, and the United States of America. “Any idea what those are?” Carter asked.
“No clue.” Brock reactivated voice command with their ship. “Computer—analysis required. What are the objects nearest to the craft port and starboard?”
“Objects are nuclear warheads. Originated on Terra, produced in the twentieth and twenty-first centuries.”
“Well, now we know what happened to all the weapons after the worldwide disarmament in the twenty-second century,” Carter said. He peered out the view window, his cybervision and microprocessor counting to four hundred sixty-seven just on the starboard side. That was what he could get a visual on.
A bomb marked North Korea flew at the craft’s nose. Brock banked hard to avoid it. Carter winced as pain stabbed between his ribs. Getting through the Sibulan Refuse Field was dicey at the best of times. Due to his injury, he wasn’t in shape to command the vessel, and he couldn’t fault Brock’s piloting skills, but he still wished he controlled the craft. “Good flying,” he said instead.
“I don’t want to hit any of those. Some of them could be active still.”
“Eighty-five point six percent of the three thousand six hundred and forty-two nuclear warheads are active,” the computer said.
They were navigating through a minefield.
“Sixty-two percent of the 3,117 active warheads are earth-penetrating weapons, designed to detonate underground.”
Carter twisted his mouth. “I feel better now. That only leaves 38 percent or 1,184 that can hurt us if we run into them.”
“Affirmative,” the computer replied.
Brock steered clear of a weapon from Pakistan. “If the AOP isn’t going to get serious about finding and stopping Lamani, maybe they could do something about the refuse field,” he said. “Clean this mess up.” He paused. “I’ll talk to Pia. She might be able to form a committee and get something started.”
“Form a committee and get something started? Aren’t those two things mutually exclusive?” he joked then sobered when the craft adjusted course to avoid another bomb. “Perhaps some of these weapons should be moved to the Galactic Museum of Antiquities.”
“An exhibit to show how close Earth came to annihilating itself over political, cultural, and religious differences?” Brock asked.
“Exactly.” He peeked at his wound. Rather than slowing, the bleeding appeared to be flowing more freely. Nanos should have stopped it and begun to repair the gash. He ordered more microbots to the injury site.
“Will people recognize the parallels between what occurred hundreds of years ago and what Lamis-Odg is doing today?” Brock asked.
“Most, no. But a few? Yes. Those are the ones we need to reach.”
Keeping his hands steady on the control stick, Brock glanced at him. A grin tugged at his mouth. “Mr. Aymes, I do believe you’re an idealist. You and Vincere have something in common after all.”
“Now, you’re being insulting.”
Brock laughed.
As a younger man, Carter had set out in pursuit of the impossible dream that one man could change the galaxy for the positive. Since then, hundreds of operatives and support personnel had joined him. They hadn’t been able to achieve the ultimate aim yet—capturing or terminating Lamani—but they’d saved the lives of thousands and sustained the hope that the impossible might be achievable. He wasn’t so idealistic he assumed removing the terrorist mastermind would end the galaxy’s troubles. New villains would emerge. Maybe they already had. The pirate syndicate Quasar had allied with the predatory Ka-Tȇ and was gaining power.
He’d be lying to himself if he pretended he didn’t want to chuck it all some days. Be selfish. Find an uncharted planet or moon in a habitable zone and live out the remainder of his life growing hydroponic tomatoes or raising wooly monicats. Lamis-Odg probably wouldn’t be able to conquer the entire galaxy in his lifetime.
But, what would that leave for future generations? For his children, if he ever had any?
Giving up wasn’t an option. It would be nice if, in between battles, he had someone to come home to. Someone soft. Concerned. Caring. Someone like Beth.
Not someone like her. Her.
He activated his wireless and checked his communication feed again. Still no reply to his message. Why hadn’t she responded?
It took about two and a half hours, moving at a suboptimal speed, to get free of the warhead field. Flying through the graveyard of old ship hulls, spent energy cores, smashed space station panels, and miscellaneous trash went easier. In another hour, they cleared the Sibulan Refuse Field completely.