But what he wanted would have to wait. There was an Imperial destroyer loaded with weapons an hour behind them.
Still, there was no way he was going to be the one to break that kiss.
She pulled back with a reluctance that matched his own.
He cleared his throat and ignored how his body wanted her straddling him in that pilot’s chair. Another fantasy for another time. “I’m going to check on Barty and Trip, make sure Trip gets something to eat. We’ve missed a few meals. Then I’ll bring back some soup or casserole for us, and we’ll take our problems, and our options, one by one.” He tapped her chin lightly with his index finger. “Don’t mistake this for our promised meal. I intend to have that romantic dinner with you, Makaiden. And I want to dance with you again.”
Kaidee waited until she heard Devin’s boot steps fade and the lift doors close before slumping in her chair, her head thumping against the seat back. GGS was known for its single-minded persistence in pursuit of success. Now she knew where that came from.
Her defenses were down, her concentration fractured because of the seriousness of their situation. And here he was, closing in. Literally. It was a brilliant strategy. With all that had happened—their mad escape from Dock Five, Barty’s illness, her ship’s malfunctions, their damned dancing lessons—she barely had time to catch her breath.
Then Devin would kiss her, leaving her even more breathless.
Damn him.
She straightened, shoving all that away, and pulled up her data on the spaceport at Port Chalo. It looked like she was going back to the one place she never wanted to see again.
The place where Kiler died.
The aroma of melted cheese wafting in from the corridor—and the sound of familiar boot steps—made her pull her concentration from the data on her screens and turn. No surprise: Devin with a tray.
“Barty’s infection is receding, but the med-unit’s unhappy with his continued collapses.” He put the tray on an empty chair at navigation, then handed her a mug of soup. “Trip negotiated with it”—Devin’s mouth twisted in a wry smile—“and it will begin bringing Barty back to full consciousness once we hook up with Talgarrath’s controllers. He should be mobile by the time we reach the spaceport.”
She swallowed her mouthful of soup, suddenly aware of how hungry she was. She’d missed lunch, and the apple slices she had for breakfast were a faint memory. “I’m fairly sure we’ll be directed to the general aviation terminal there, but, other than that, I have no idea where they’ll hangar us. Probably not with the luxury yachts. It could be quite a hike for us to find the Prosperity. Will Barty be up to that?”
“Couldn’t you send a message to their comm? Find out where they are?”
“This isn’t a GGS ship. The Prosperity won’t automatically recognize our signal. We’d have to go through the general port comm links, which leaves a record, and I don’t want to risk someone tracing our message. It would be easier and safer, once we get dirtside, if you use your Rada or Trip’s pocket comm to reach Ethan on board.”
“He won’t be on board.”
“Ethan’s not meeting you?” This surprised her.
Devin was shaking his head. “He gave no indication he would be, no. And with all that’s going on at home, I doubt he’d leave. You read his last message. He has his hands full.”
She had and remembered that the estate’s security was compromised. That, coupled with the bombing of Devin’s office, would require Ethan’s presence at GGS—not chasing through Baris after his nineteen-year-old nephew, who already had one uncle and one longtime family employee as escorts.
Ethan didn’t know about Fuzz-face. Or Orvis. But she did, and until she got Trip, Barty, and Devin to the Prosperity and under the care of GGS staff, she wasn’t sure she could guarantee their safety. “We can’t discount that someone might be watching the ship. We’re going to have to literally cruise the hangars to find her.”
“She might be locked. Whoever’s been sent with the Prosperity will probably be waiting at the passenger terminal. You know I was never able to update Ethan that we were coming in on the Rider.”
“They’ll have to come back to the Prosperity eventually. Once we know where the ship is, we gain access, then use ship’s comm to reach the pilot. Unless your father gave orders to lock you out and changed all GGS ship codes, the security program will recognize you. Which is why you should be going back on the Prosperity,” she added softly. “You’re needed at home, Devin.”
Another firm shake of his head. “If I’m needed anywhere, it’s on Garno—a good reason you should take me there. As far as my family and the estate, Jonathan and Ethan are on site. So’s Marguerite.” He cocked his head slightly, as if some thought amused him. “Sometimes I think she’s smarter than Jonathan. And they have Petra Frederick and her people. They can do without me for a few weeks. And,” he said, as she started to launch her counterargument, “the Prosperity’s security program will definitely recognize Trip.”
“What if Frederick is part of the problem?” It was a stretch for Kaidee to believe Petra Frederick would turn against the Guthries, but the possibility had been raised before, and she had to make Devin see why he had to leave.
“Then my returning to Sylvadae would leave no one outside their trap. If Frederick is working with Tage in trying to flush Philip out, or if my father has truly gone over the edge, the one place I don’t need to be is in their grasp.”
He was right, damn his logic. But his logic and the whole discussion about the Prosperity might be useless. “We have to get out of Anibal’s grasp first. We’re assuming he is who he says he is and that his sole purpose in escorting us is that he’s looking to find religion again. None of that may be true. We need to work out options if there’s an unwelcome welcoming committee waiting for us ahead.”
He turned his soup mug in his hands. “Tell me what this ship can and cannot do if there is an ambush.”
“We can’t make a run for it and we can’t shoot back. Especially against an Imperial welcoming committee. Our best bet would be negotiations once they take us into custody. The biggest thing against us will be the ship’s altered ID. I’ve been giving that some thought. I think—and hear me out—that laying the blame for that on me is our best option.”
“I’m not going to let—”
“You are, and here’s why. I can prove that Orvis has been after me. From what Barty says, Fleet has no more love for Orvis than I do. That gives us a common enemy. We go with the story—which isn’t that far from the truth—that I ran into you on Dock Five, convinced you to buy my ship to help me get away from Orvis. In exchange, I got you to your meet point with the Prosperity. But because of the way the sales transaction was handled, I got paranoid that Orvis would find us. So I changed ship’s ID. This leaves you, Trip, and Barty out of that whole mess.”
“Other than impersonating an Englarian cleric?”
“I forced you to do that. I didn’t believe the ship tailing us was Fleet. I convinced you we had to play this game or we’d all die.”
“How about you bribed me with sexual favors?” His mouth was twitching.
She knew he was using humor to undermine her argument. “If that’s what it takes to keep you, Barty, and Trip safe, fine. Tell them whatever you want.”
The hint of a smile faded. “I’m not letting you take the blame.”
“Yes, you are, and for the same reason you told me it’s unwise for you to go back to Port Palmero: that leaves no one on the outside to go for help.” She straightened, the look of surprise on his face supremely satisfying. She’d used his own argument against him.
“They could still decide to lock up the whole lot of us.”
“But you can always roll over and offer evidence against me. Cut a deal. Use those negotiation skills you brag about.”
He slid his soup mug onto the console’s ledge, then folded his arms across his chest. It was a casual movement, but she remembered how to read Devin Guthrie. When
he was calm, that was when there was the most danger.
“Our primary objective,” she continued, “is to get Trip to safety. That’s what spurred you to leave Port Palmero. That’s what prompted me to chase after him on Dock Five. Almost everything that’s happened somehow relates to him: from Halsey’s death to Fuzz-face Munton. Orvis even picked up the scent and tried to get in the game.
“If we have some Fleet ships waiting out there, I’m going to guess they’ve been told to stop us but not why. We’re going to have to employ diversionary tactics. Make them think this whole thing is over ident tampering. Get them to let you, Trip, and Barty go. Then, when you get home, if you want to throw a couple of high-priced barristers over to Starport Six or wherever they’re holding me to defend me, I won’t complain.” She gave him the same quirked smile he’d offered her earlier. Then she leaned back in her chair, reached for her casserole, and ignored him while she stirred the cheese and chunks of vegetables. It smelled delightfully spicy. Trip had evidently been playing chef again.
She took a bite, savoring it. It could well be her last meal in freedom.
By the time the soup and casserole were gone, she and Devin had debated the pros and cons of a few other scenarios. Trip showed up, took the seat at nav with one leg flung over the armrest, and added a few ideas. Finally all three of them agreed that no one scenario held all the answers. There was too much they didn’t know—mainly, were more Imperial ships waiting for them at the Talgarrath beacon?
They were getting close to finding out. Trip went back down to Deck 2 to finish reading another of Kaidee’s flight instruction manuals while he waited for Barty to regain consciousness.
“He’s growing up,” Devin commented after Trip left, a mixture of pride and wistfulness in his voice.
“The past week may subdue his adventurous streak for a while, but it’s also shown him what he’s capable of. Jonathan’s not getting back the same son.”
“That’s not a totally bad thing.”
A series of tones had Kaidee turning. “Traffic’s picking up.” She tapped long-range scan to see what data she could get on the newest blip on her screen. Five minutes ago there were three ships on a similar vector for Talgarrath. Now there were four. Normally that wouldn’t concern her. But things weren’t normal, so everything concerned her.
Devin left his chair to lean on the back of her seat. “Another freighter?”
“Don’t know yet.” The fact that the other three were freighters didn’t stop her from keeping tabs on them. They could still be trouble.
Some workable data came a few minutes later. “Commercial spaceliner,” she told him, pointing to the other ship’s ident. “Compass.”
“Could be the flight we were supposed to be on.”
“Having Ethan’s people waiting at the Compass terminal might even work in our favor. Especially if they’re in GGS uniform. Anyone watching for you or Trip would follow them.” Chimes sounded behind her. The readout on her armrest screen upped her pulse rate a notch. “Speaking of uniforms, grab your robe, Brother. Captain Anibal is requesting an audience.”
“Shit.” Devin’s comment was low, but she heard it. The rustle of fabric behind her and another low but muffled epithet told her he was pulling the heavy blanket over his head. She angled the pilot’s chair so her comm screen wouldn’t show Devin’s image, then she opened the link.
“Makerra, captain of the Veil of Relief.”
Anibal’s image smiled at her. From the lack of movement behind him, she guessed he was in his office. She offered him a bland smile in return, very aware that bared teeth could also bite.
“Blessings of the hour,” he said. “Is Brother Balatharis available?”
“I’ll be glad to check for you, Captain. A moment, please.” She froze the vid screen and muted the audio functions, then turned. “Ready?” she asked Devin, who was looking rumpled and grumpy at the comm console.
“What do you think he wants?”
“If we’re lucky, a personal blessing from the divinely inspired Brother Balatharis before he hands us off to Talgarrath.”
“I’m not going to let you take the blame for this, Makaiden.”
“I have faith that your devious mind and incomparable eloquence will have my ass out of the brig in no time.”
His lips thinned. She knew he wanted to argue. She also knew he knew this wasn’t the time to do so.
He closed his eyes and, even over the low thrumming of the sublights and the constant hum of the bridge consoles, she heard him draw in a long breath. His shoulders relaxed and, when he looked up at her again, the tension and grumpiness were absent from his face. He’d put on more than the robe. He’d put on Brother Balatharis.
“Good job,” she said softly.
“Don’t distract me, love.” He swiveled the chair toward the comm console and tapped the screen. “Praise the abbot’s holy name this fine hour, Captain Anibal. How may I be of assistance?”
Kaidee kept half her attention on Devin’s conversation with Thurman Anibal and half on her short-range-scanner screens. This close to Talgarrath, long range was of little use. Plus it was Anibal she was concerned about, not something five hours away. If he was going to make a move—if he knew the Veil was really the Rider—then it was going to come very soon and, she knew, happen very quickly. It could be anything from the Nola Tran lobbing some torpedoes her way to a phalanx of Imperial patrol cruisers suddenly on the Rider’s vector, with weapons ports hot.
It could also come with threats and ultimatums. That was the only thing they could, honestly, handle. And it would be up to Devin to do so.
At the moment, the conversation was about Guardian Whitte, head of the temple at Port Chalo. Kaidee couldn’t tell if Anibal was sincerely concerned with the temple or if this was a test, a trap to make Devin reveal his ignorance—and his true identity.
“The Port Chalo temple is one of many blessed locations in Baris that we have slated for improvements,” Devin said, his voice mild, betraying none of the nervousness Kaidee felt and was guessing he did also. “Without my notes in front of me—and unfortunately I have just stowed them away—I’m unable to go into specifics discussed and prayed over with Guardian Whitte. But I assure you, every issue is taken into prayer for guidance for the continued good of all.”
“So are you saying, Brother, you’re not aware there was no Peyhar’s celebration this year due to an air-filtration breakdown?”
“Now that you mention it, the problem does sound familiar. But …” Devin reached up to rub the bridge of his nose under his glasses and, for a moment, Kaidee thought he was signaling for a comm cutoff. Her fingers hovered over her screen, but his glasses stayed on. He cleared his throat. “My apologies, Captain. I’m coming off a somewhat debilitating illness, and even with my healing time in meditation during this journey, my memory is not what it should be.”
“I see. Well, that would explain why you wouldn’t be that familiar with Guardian Whitte’s problems.”
Kaidee didn’t like the sound of that. But if Anibal knew who they were, or even suspected they weren’t an Englarian mission ship, why was he toying with them?
Short range flashed. Two more ships. She quickly tagged them, running their data through the Rider’s system, looking for idents. A friendly freighter out of Dock Five would be nice—except, no, it wouldn’t be. She wasn’t the Rider right now. They wouldn’t know her. They wouldn’t come to her aid.
Devin was still calmly and politely dancing around Anibal’s questions about Whitte and the temple, praising stars and noting blessings left and right.
This was going on far too long for her liking. She checked short range again. Null idents, both. Shit. That could mean Fleet. It could also mean pirate, but what kind of slag-headed pirate would approach knowing a Fleet ship was in short range?
Unless the Fleet ship wasn’t a Fleet ship. Or unless the pirates weren’t pirates but Fleet. Or unless—
“Brother Balatharis, please excuse me
.” Anibal’s voice suddenly took on a hard tone. “I have a pressing matter I must attend to.”
The comm link chimed again. Link broken, transmit ended.
Kaidee spun her chair around. “We got two good-size bogeys coming in short range on our starboard axis.”
Devin straightened. “Fleet?”
“Unknown.”
“What else could they be?”
“Pirates, mercenaries. Farosians. Hell, Stol could be invading Baris.”
“Is that Anibal’s ‘pressing matter’?”
“I’d say that’s a strong possibility. But I don’t know if it’s because they’re friends or enemies.”
Devin raised his chin, peering toward the screens on the pilot’s console. “How far are they from us?”
“Forty-three minutes, and, yes, if that’s Fleet, they can close that gap fast.” She swung back to her console. “I don’t want it to look like we’re trying to escape,” she said over her shoulder. “But I’m pushing the sublights to max. We can’t outrun them. But maybe, somehow, we can outthink them.”
She opened intraship. “Trip, we may have company coming. I’m going to take ship nonessential functions down to half power to give the sublights and shields more boost, but I won’t pull from sick bay. Make sure Barty’s secure. If he wakes, fill him in.”
“Yes, ma’am, Captain,” came the reply. “If you need me—”
“I’ll holler. Right now I want you with Barty in case he wakes. Captain out.” The sublights’ thrumming increased through the decking. Overheads dimmed.
“Can we make it to Lufty’s?” Devin asked.
She glanced at him. He had one arm pulled out of the robe and was about to yank it over his head. “Keep that on. Anibal may contact us again, especially if those are mutual unfriendlies.”
He lowered his arm, tugging the robe back on.
“As for Lufty’s,” she continued after a quick check—so far so good—on ship’s status and location, “wish we could. We can’t. We’re closer to Port Chalo. Like it or not”—and she didn’t—“that’s where we’re going.”
Rebels and Lovers Page 33
