“Where?” Hel was curious now and not just because he was hearing about the outpost. At last. The General was not usually so hesitant in what he said.
“We aren’t sure.”
That wasn’t the whole truth. Hel felt this in his core.
“At the time, it seemed a better option for our civilians. If the Dusan had won…”
He didn’t need to finish. They both knew that mercy wasn’t a Dusan trait.
“Our people, our scientists, think they were originally set for two-way transport, but were reset to one-way when the Garradians abandoned the outpost. We haven’t figured out how to reset them.”
So this wasn’t about where, this was about getting the technology to work, which meant they hadn’t figured it out yet, just as he’d suspected.
“I see.” Hel did see. Many things were clear, such as the reason for the General’s unwillingness to abandon the outpost. He’d assumed it was the weapons they were after—and Hel was sure they still were after weapons. How could they not want the weapons? But he also knew their attachment to their people. His thoughts spun with possibilities and questions.
“Do you think your scientists could help?”
The General didn’t choke on the words. It was something of a surprise.
“I will direct them to try.” If bringing the General’s people home would speed their departure, he would order his people to try.
“Good.” He still hesitated.
This was not a General Halliwell he was familiar with. Hel resisted the urge to shift in unease.
“We’ve made some progress on your people’s request for a political mating. Finding someone willing to make the sacrifice slowed the process down.” If anything the General’s face got stonier.
“Sacrifice?” Perhaps the General should have left this discussion for the actual diplomats.
“Don’t you think it’s a sacrifice to leave your own galaxy and adopt a whole new life and culture?”
Hel hadn’t thought about it quite that way.
“My people tell me you’ve met Gretchen Bilstead?”
Met her and remembered her. Her name was as unattractive as her person. He tugged at his shirt collar.
“I have met her. She is,” he swallowed, “willing to make this sacrifice?” He tugged at his shirt collar again. It still didn’t help. Perhaps they shouldn’t have pressed so hard for the alliance. It had been amusing until now.
The silence seemed long and then the General did something Hel had never seen him do. He smiled. Hel hoped he never did it again.
“I thought you liked teasing, Leader.”
“You were,” Hel swallowed to ease his dry throat, “teasing?” He gave a weak smile. “Point taken. I will only make serious requests.”
“And I’ll try not to get beautifully angry.”
Hel tensed. There was only one person who could have told the general that comment.
“Then we are in agreement.”
It was a rare moment. It wouldn’t last, but Hel felt he should enjoy the moment.
“I’ll say good-bye. I need to ready the ship for departure.”
“Of course. I must go as well.”
The general looked like he wanted to add something, but in the end he just nodded and left.
Hel’s brain sifted through the scene as he waited for the summons to leave the ship. He’d learned much from the brief encounter, perhaps more than he’d learned since their arrival in the galaxy, some of it information he was sure the General hadn’t meant him to learn. It was a short, though interesting list.
The General did not trust his diplomatic channels, didn’t trust what they were telling him about the Gadi or that accurate information was being passed on to the Gadi. Did he believe the security breach was related to this problem? Probably, Hel concluded. It was possible he had the same information blockage with his people. For a conspiracy of this magnitude, complicity would have to be on both sides. Unlike the General, he wasn’t surprised. The Gadi liked plotting even more than they needed beauty in their surroundings.
The General hadn’t mentioned anything about the outpost except these things they called the portals. There was a reason for this brevity, Hel was certain. Did he seek to distract attention from their progress related to other technology there? Or was his purpose to avoid admitting they could do nothing with any of the technology? He rather thought it was both, and not just because he wanted both those things to be true. The General wasn’t that devious, though he seemed to believe he was.
He’d been frank and open in the information exchange. The General must hope Hel would accept the information as it had been delivered, and he might have, if the General had ever been frank and open in their past dealings. And if he’d stopped before resorting to clumsy teasing to make a point. He’d made his point—this was a serious situation and it needed Hel’s serious attention—but in the process he’d also revealed his source of information.
It wasn’t just that Delilah had told the General about Hel’s teasing, but that she had access that allowed her to pass it on. The Doolittle wasn’t a small ship. If he were to make an access comparison with his people, it would be as if he’d sat down with the helper of Council member Carig’s personal aide’s assistant. The Earth hierarchy was more relaxed than theirs in some ways, but it did have strict military protocols. She appeared to be non-military and was working in the infirmary. She could have been assigned as the General’s healer, but in what context would such a revelation occur between Delilah and the General?
The General must have noticed Hel’s interest in Delilah and had warned her about Hel, though when he could have noticed was a puzzle. The only place they’d been together publically was at the reception, and that was a brief meeting interrupted by a bomb. Why would the General bother with such a warning anyway? He and Delilah were going their separate ways. There was little chance they’d see each other again, particularly if war broke out.
This thought hollowed out his chest in an unsettling way and he felt regret at what might come. He didn’t let his focus be split with attachments. It had served him well during his years leading the Ojemba, though not as well in the matter of Fyn and Sara. Thinking of Sara was a good reminder of what happened when he let himself get distracted by a woman.
At least, he thought with a wry grin, the women who distracted him were extraordinary. The long war with the Dusan had taught him what he could change and what he couldn’t. As for the rest, his enemies better hope they killed him sooner rather than later.
He needed to think on it some more, but first he needed to get off this ship.
The ever efficient Simmons tapped on his door before poking her head in. “Are you ready to transport, sir?”
He gave Simmons a cool smile. “I am ready.”
Chapter Six
Briggs was ready for Doc when she arrived in the repair bay. As usual, it was in pristine condition, despite the dirty work done there.
“You’re late.”
“I had to pack.” She’d also decided to get a haircut. She needed one and she hoped it would change her appearance enough to confuse things if someone noticed her in the shuttle bay. Her hair was terminally straight and, if she believed the stylist, the chin length cut suited hair and face. Perhaps the shorter length would also minimize the Morticia comparisons, though she wouldn’t count on it until it happened. She lifted her chin when Briggs gaze lingered on the new do for what seemed like a long time.
She’d also taken time to pack an overnight bag—and had something to put it in thanks to the efficient Simmons arranging for her laundry to get done. She didn’t need much. The Doolittle should be right on her heels. As much as the General had wanted to keep the Gadi off the outpost—he now wanted them on it. It was no surprise when Briggs refrained from comment and led her to a storage bay. He had three Garradian ships for her to consider.
“They have missing systems,” Briggs explained, “but they’ll fly. This one still has some wea
pons, but none of them have a cloak.” He cocked a brow in an unspoken question.
“Shouldn’t need a cloak,” Doc murmured, looking at the craft. Two were sleek and deadly looking, though in a different way from the expedition’s fighter craft. One looked like some kind of shuttle craft, clunky compared to the fighters. The fighters would be more fun. “I suppose I should take that one.”
She pointed without enthusiasm at the shuttle.
Briggs gave her a look. It was the same one he gave her when she missed a dance step.
“That’s no fun.”
Her lips twitched. “Am I allowed to have fun?”
“I could make it an order.”
Doc grinned. “One I’m happy to obey, sir. I’d like to leave sooner, rather than later.”
“You could already be gone,” he pointed out, then added, “You shouldn’t be out there alone.”
Her brows shot up. She’d never have pegged him as protective. “I always am.”
Now she’d surprised herself. Had she ever said anything quite so revealing? Or so true?
He scowled. “You’re not as tough as you think you are.”
She considered this. How tough did she think she was? “True.” She smiled. “Thank you.”
His scowl deepened. “For what?”
“For worrying.” Something in his face prompted her to add, “About your ship, I mean. You wouldn’t worry about a girl. I know that.” Sara had warned her about Briggs so-called prejudices. He was cute in a tough, scary way.
He grunted. “I’ll prep the one with weapons.”
His tone told her not to argue it. She could have told him she didn’t plan to. She liked traveling with weapons, the bigger the better.
“Colonel Carey is waiting to issue your gear.”
As she walked away from him, she shrugged on fighter pilot, her smooth stride turning into a military swagger. It felt good, felt comfortable and she liked that, even if it wasn’t real. There wasn’t much about her that was real. It was an uncomfortable thought, so she pushed it away, turning her attention to the Colonel.
Doc hadn’t been around Colonel Carey that much, but she knew of him, knew Sara’s Fyn liked him more than anyone but Sara. They both trusted him. Obvious that Briggs did, too. He couldn’t get better recommendations in her view. Maybe someday Fyn would trust her, too. She wasn’t holding her breath while she waited. He’d made it very clear what he’d do to her if she betrayed Sara’s trust. It was cute that he thought he could take her.
She didn’t expect Carey to recognize her, so she wasn’t surprised when he looked at her like he felt he should, but didn’t. She could’ve told him he did, but what was the point? Anything she told him now would be a version of not-her-real-name.
“Ma’am?”
“Colonel.” She waited while his gaze did a thorough, very guy-like once over. Maybe she looked a little while he looked. He wasn’t hard on the eyes.
The Colonel had a deceptively boyish look that hid an inner toughness. Dark hair tumbled onto a strong forehead. He had a mild blue gaze and nice mouth. His hotness factor was high—something she hadn’t considered in her assessments of men until she started working around the military. There was just something about tough men in uniform that required the use of the word “hotness,” even if getting heated had eluded her until recently.
Why didn’t she want to kiss him? It would be less complicated. And he was probably as good as Hel. He looked like someone who got lots of practice kissing. He probably didn’t even have to work at it. Ship life was like a never-ending reality show. All of them. Except maybe Top Chef, not with MREs a constant on the menu. Normally male/female interaction would be officially forbidden, but with civilians on board, and everybody single because of the long-term nature of the expedition, nature could take its course without fear of charges being filed as long as it didn’t interfere with good order and discipline.
She pulled on her flight suit, running preflight procedures in her head, and trying not to think about kissing Hel. Not a good plan to get hot and bothered while pulling on speed jeans.
* * * * *
Hel was the leader of half the galaxy, technically in control of most of it. He was feared by his enemies and revered by his people. High born women on every inhabited planet in the galaxy sought to become his mate and his staff lived to serve him. He was a highly trained, skilled warrior, and able to navigate the shifting loyalties of Gadi politics. He’d fooled the Earth expedition and the Ojemba organization about who and what he was. With a single word, even a lift of his brow, he could start a war with the expedition and send them packing to their own galaxy.
So why, he wondered with an inward sigh, did one look from his mother leave him feeling like a child again? She was ageless in that she looked the same now as she had when he was young. She’d never been young and would never be old. Hel suspected his father had died to annoy her. Hel annoyed her by surviving. It was a double benefit that it also irritated his enemies.
Her cool, level gaze stripped away all the trappings of a leader, inducing in him a need to tug at the collar of his shirt. He resisted this urge. He couldn’t escape how she made him feel, but he could refuse to let her see it. The sooner he moved her and his sons to a safe location, the better, though it was tempting to consider just moving his sons. Anyone who knew her would know she was not a leverage factor in Hel’s life. Still, his sons were fond of her and she appeared to be fond of them.
“You look well, Helfron.” The censure in her tone was not a surprise. Her swift scrutiny was most likely to ensure the transport had not left him missing key body parts. Her faint air of disappointment came from being proved wrong about the safety of the method.
“I am well, Mother.” He bent and kissed the cheek presented with a haughty tilt of her head, catching a fleeting look of sympathy on Naman’s face. His personal aide knew his mother better than most. He was the first assistant to last more than a few seasons as his primary gatekeeper. He did enigmatic almost as well as Hel.
His mother didn’t gush and his near death experience was no exception. Having asserted her rights as mother of the Leader, she made her exit, the soft swish of her mourning clothes the only sound until she’d passed from sight. The mourning wasn’t for his father. She’d worn it prior to his death. Audible sighs of relief were almost unanimously released upon her departure. She did have a rare gift for temporarily emasculating any males within sight or sound. Prolonged exposure was not advised.
Carig, leader of the opposition party, waited to greet Hel. Carig produced a welcome that almost sounded sincere—if one had an over developed imagination. He was eldest son of family Osteone. Until Carig’s rise to power, this ruling class family had not managed to seat a member on the Council for many seasons. Gadi society placed great value on both brains and visual appeal. Carig had no visual appeal. It wasn’t his height or his dark skin. There’d been short, dark Leaders in their past. He was ugly, both inside and out. And he was stupid, the worse crime in Hel’s opinion. An ugly man might be able to convince people he was handsome, but a stupid man could only persuade himself he was smart. It bothered Carig to be short, and he believed Hel looked down on him because he could.
There were people both in and out of government who were taller than Hel. His ego did not require height, though he wasn’t above letting people think it did. Hel always preferred to let others think they knew what he thought. It kept them from knowing what he actually thought.
Carig was cunning, but not teachable. Hel had provided much evidence that Carig lacked insight into his Leader’s thoughts and still Carig thought he understood Hel.
After the required exchange of civilities, Carig said, “Leader, we need to speak privately.”
Hel made an assenting gesture, allowing the man to fall into step beside him. Their route through the building had been cleared, an unprecedented event in Gadi history. Hel didn’t trust anyone in the ruling class, since they were always after his job, but there�
��d never been trouble from the serving classes until the bombing. Hel had reviewed reports on new security measures implemented while he was still on the Doolittle. How wrong it felt to create security measures at the end of a successful war, measures not needed during that long war.
The combination of soothing and pleasing vistas and accoutrements was a relief after the stark functionality of the Doolittle. To his entourage Hel indicated a need for distance, giving Carig his opportunity to speak.
Carig looked around, before lowering his voice to say, “I have information about the Kikk outpost, Leader.”
Despite the heavy use of lotions, Carig had a faint, but distasteful base body odor. Someone, somewhere in his family’s past had cross-pollinated, Hel thought cynically, and not in a good direction. He arched a brow in inquiry. One needed to be careful with words in this man’s presence.
“The Doolittle carries a scientist who they believe will be able to unlock the technology. We must act now, before this person succeeds.” He paused, perhaps hoping for Hel to comment. “I haven’t told the Council…yet.”
Hel expected the threat. Carig could be counted on to not disappoint. Predictability was his only good quality.
“Does this scientist have a name?” Hel kept his tone indifferent.
“Only a code name, Leader. Chameleon.” He stopped, as if only now noticing his Leader’s lack of surprise. “You knew. And still you choose not to act. One wonders whose side you are on.”
Carig didn’t wonder. He thought he knew. Hel stopped, turning to look down at Carig with a hauteur learned from his mother.
“I am, as always, on the side of my people.” Hel paused, holding Carig’s gaze until he shifted uneasily. Finally he sighed. “Oh, Carig, Carig. You are too easy to play.”
Carig, as expected, puffed up like an angry panthric.
“My contact—”
“It is not enough to receive information. One must also understand the subtext behind the information.” Hel waited, watching Carig try—and fail—to understand Hel’s meaning. “If this Chameleon were the key to unlocking the outpost, do you not think he would have been brought to the galaxy sooner, rather than later?”
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