Heads turned as he walked, limping, toward the tubeway, his blue-bereted subbie on his right. Whispers followed him.
Well, if they hadn’t known who he was before, they sure as hell did now.
The shuttle schedule board flashed, declaring the Umoran shuttle’s delay and a “Special Shuttle” to Seth departing in half an hour. Groans and cries of dismay echoed around him. Tired faces watched his people queue at the tubeway. A few angry faces stared boldly at him.
I’m trying to keep you all alive was on the tip of his tongue, but he couldn’t—wouldn’t—say it. An admiral doesn’t make excuses. An admiral doesn’t explain. An admiral acts.
He went in search of Martoni, found him about the middle of the queue, half-hidden by a wide pylon.
“We have everyone’s baggage almost loaded,” Martoni said, motioning to Philip’s duffel. “Sir, I can take that.”
“I’ll keep it,” he told Martoni, then turned and almost mowed down his subbie. Whose name he’d yet to learn.
“Lieutenant,” he said, but loud shouts halted his intended question.
Two men advancing on the tubeway, and the shuttle crew standing at the checkin counter.
“Oh, God.” His subbie sounded exasperated. “Mr. Wonderful and his best friend.”
He glanced quickly at her.
“I had to ream them a new one earlier when they tried to take seats away from an elderly couple,” she explained hurriedly. “I probably should have shot them then.” Her hand snaked inside her jacket.
Philip touched her arm. “Leave that pleasure to the locals.”
Her answering sigh was filled with regret, but she didn’t refasten her jacket.
“But I paid my money!” the bearded man bellowed. “I have my goddamned rights.”
“Yeah!” His friend pounded the counter.
The two stripers broke into a trot.
Philip looked over his shoulder at Martoni. “Get your people loaded. Now.” Once the shuttle was away, the problem would solve itself.
Then a third person rose from one of the back rows of seats. A woman, waving her ticket in the air. “I paid my money, too!”
Some people looked away, but a lot watched her, watched the bearded man and his now red-faced friend.
A voice came over the speakers. “Ladies and gentlemen, this shuttle is a priority military requisition. You will take your seats or you will be removed from the waiting area by our security.”
“Military?” the woman with the tickets called out. “This ain’t no military. It’s a lie. Somebody got paid off.”
More angry voices rose around her. One of the stripers pulled away from the ticket counter and headed for the woman, his Blue Surger now in his hands.
Damn it, this is wrong. It makes no sense.
Philip checked the queue. About half were on board. Martoni was still by the hatchlock, next to a decidedly nervous, short, slender woman in the shuttle company’s light green uniform, holding a databoard.
He nudged his subbie without taking his gaze off the commotion. “Go on.”
“With all due respect, Admiral…Hell, no.”
That warranted a narrow-eyed glance. She didn’t budge. And she had a Stinger in her hand, partly shielded from view by the pylon in front of her.
Another loud shout brought his gaze up.
“You wanna arrest me? Go right ahead!” The bearded man backed away from the counter, hands held high, but his tone and manner were clearly taunting the striper.
Philip saw security moving in from the right, then something else caught his eye. Movement almost behind him, near the tubeway at the far end of the waiting area.
He dropped his cane, drawing his Carver smoothly as five dark figures burst through the service doors next to the far hatchlock, and the high-pitched whine of lasers filled the air.
“Down! Get down!” Philip shouted, returning fire, very aware he was an open target in those few seconds, but he had no choice. There were women, children in the rows to his left.
Ignoring his leg, he dropped to his knees behind the pylon and fired again as people fled, screaming.
Something crashed in front of him. A long bench, upended, then another, forming a low barricade. His subbie scrambled toward him. “Guthrie!”
He launched himself sideways, well aware he might not be able to walk after this, then ducked behind the metal barrier she’d created. His subbie had her Stinger out, and was laying down a pattern of fire, keeping their attackers momentarily pinned behind the tubeway checkin counter.
He holstered his Carver with one hand, dragging his duffel closer with the other. He unlocked it in two quick moves, then yanked out the Norlack, took aim, and fired.
The counter exploded.
He fired again, dropping one of the black-clad figures, and swung to his right for another, but that one was already falling from the stream of fire from the Stinger next to him.
“Admiral Guthrie!”
He recognized Martoni’s voice. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a line of stripers surging down the corridor.
“I’ll cover you. Now!”
He looped the duffel’s strap over his shoulder. No way he was leaving his arsenal behind. “Subbie. On three. Ready?”
She was grinning, her eyes bright. She shoved her beret down the front of her shirt. “Ready.”
“One…two…three!” He lurched to his feet, fired once more at his attackers, then took off for the hatchway in his best painful-beyond-belief loping, limping run, laser fire whining around him….
ALSO BY LINNEA SINCLAIR
Finders Keepers
Gabriel’s Ghost
An Accidental Goddess
Games of Command
The Down Home Zombie Blues
SHADES OF DARK
A Bantam Book / August 2008
Published by Bantam Dell
A Division of Random House, Inc.
New York, New York
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved
Copyright © 2008 by Linnea Sinclair Bernadino
*
Bantam Books and the rooster colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
*
www.bantamdell.com
eISBN: 978-0-553-90533-5
v3.0
Shades of Dark Page 37