by Smith, Glenn
No wonder she’d always had such a hard time staying out of trouble. He hadn’t spent nearly enough time with her over the years since her mother died. He hadn’t given her the guidance she’d needed growing up until it was too late, and then only in the form of long angry lectures and often harsher than necessary punishments that, admittedly, didn’t always fit the offense. But with so much responsibility resting on his shoulders, what real choice had he had? Tens of thousands of lives had depended on his agency’s operations every day. They still did. If it hadn’t been for... No. No excuses. He was her father. He owed it to her to be her parent as well. That was as much his duty as anything else.
At least school was finally starting up again. That would take some of the pressure off of him.
Yes, school. What had no doubt been a short summer vacation for Heather had been three very long and trying months for him. Shoplifting, stealing from her friends’ parents, using narcotics... A few years ago he never would have believed her capable of doing any of those things. He’d tried to raise her well. He’d tried to teach her right from wrong and instill good moral principles in her. Obviously he’d failed, because she’d done all of those things many times over. And each time had felt like a sledge hammer to his gut.
And then there was yesterday. In some ways that was the worst thing she ever could have done. Not the trespassing. That was no big deal—illegal, yes, but in the grand scheme of things, a slap-on-the-back-of-the-hand kind of offense. Not the wearing of a much more revealing bikini behind his back than the one she’d shown him, either. Deceitful, yes, and therefore irritating, but in the end he understood her need to do that. Peer-pressure could be a powerful force. No. It was the taking her top off in public that distressed him so much. Despite everything she’d done—despite every illegal act she’d ever committed, she was still his daughter. She was still his baby girl. ‘The apple of his eye,’ as Royer had once referred to her. The thought of her lying half naked on a beach full people had torn at his gut like nothing else and had left him so utterly...so utterly what? Shocked? Devastated? Hell, he couldn’t even define what he’d felt. But whatever it had been, it had left his mind and heart spinning in such a whirlwind that he hadn’t even been able to decide how to punish her.
And then, out of the blue, Mirriazu had called just to say ‘hello’ and had asked him how Heather was doing, just as she always did when they talked. Naturally, their conversation had turned to what Heather had done—among other things, the president was the mother of six very successful grown children, so Hansen had taken to asking her advice whenever he found himself at a loss for what to do—and she had been quick to remind him that sexual curiosity and sexual awakening were all a part of growing up. They weren’t something to be punished.
Hansen sighed. His baby girl was indeed growing up.
His alarm seemed suddenly to grow louder. He reached up to his headboard and tapped the chronometer’s faceplate, silencing it, and the lights immediately came up to their full intensity. He shielded his eyes for a few moments until they got used to the brightness, then rolled out of bed, yawned, and went into the bathroom.
The twin pairs of recessed ceiling lights and the strip light above the large rectangular mirror all flared up to maximum as soon as his foot hit the bathroom floor. He paused in front of the mirror and looked closely at his face. Still smooth and clear, and rash-free. Three full days now and the new brand of beard retardant was still doing its job without triggering his normal allergic reaction. It felt so good not to have to shave every morning anymore.
He went to the bathroom and washed his hands, then grabbed his toothbrush out of its charger, inserted a new toothpaste cylinder into its handle, and started brushing his teeth.
So what did it mean? Why was Graves gone from his nightmares? Could it be due to some action the universe itself had taken to undo something Günter might have done? Maybe... He snickered, spitting tiny droplets of watery toothpaste onto the mirror. How the hell was he supposed to figure out why the sergeant had disappeared from his nightmares when he didn’t even know why he’d started appearing in them in the first place? Better to leave it alone and not drive himself crazy. After all, he had enough to worry about in the real world.
He finished brushing, rinsed off his toothbrush and put it back in its charger, then rinsed out his mouth. Then he dampened a length of toilet tissue, cleaned the spattered toothpaste off the mirror, and tossed the tissue into the bowl and flushed it. Finally, he locked the door that led into Heather’s bedroom, then untied his drawstring, stripped off his pajama pants, and stepped into the shower.
Ten minutes later he stepped back out, towel-dried what little moisture the warm air dryer hadn’t already evaporated from his skin, and wrapped the towel around his waist. Then he knocked twice on Heather’s door. “Heather,” he called. “Time to get up.”
Despite the fact that she always looked forward to summer vacation and then moaned and groaned when it came to its inevitable end, Heather had always liked school, or at least the social life that came with it. In all the years he’d been waking her up for it, he’d never had to call her twice. So, without bothering to wait for an answer, he unlocked her door and walked back into his bedroom to get dressed.
He opened his closet and stood staring at his uniforms, hung so perfectly square on their large padded hangers. Another weekly planning meeting with the Joint Chiefs. Yet another opportunity to dress up—one of the fleet’s many unwritten rules stated that a flag-grade officer should always look his or her best for such occasions—and strut around like a peacock in heat in front of his peers. He shook his head. If those deskbound, paper-pushing bureaucrats at Solfleet Headquarters would spend half as much time worrying about how to fight the war as they did about protocol, maybe they’d actually be winning the damn thing by now.
He sighed. At least today’s meeting wasn’t just going to be the same old review and rehashing of the same old strategies. Today, they would turn the tide. Today, they would begin to take the war back to the Veshtonn. Today, deployments for the Rosha’Kana counterattack would finally commence.
Actually, the staff meetings weren’t as bad as all that. Not anymore, anyway. Generals Christian Alexander of the Army and Kristjana Jóhannsdótir of the Aerospace Force were usually pretty laid-back and would most likely show up in their class-B’s for comfort, though with all their accoutrements in place. The always squared-away Marine Corps Lieutenant General Hayes, on the other hand—did that guy even have a first name?—was guaranteed to show up all spit-and-polished in his best class-A’s. Maybe even in his dress grays. At the opposite end of the spectrum though, Command Fleet Admiral Chaffee, one of the most anti-protocol officers Hansen had ever met, was just as likely to show up in his class-C’s, or even his duty fatigues if he felt so inclined. After all, they were a lot more comfortable. And besides, Chaffee was the commanding officer of the entire Solfleet now. It wasn’t like he still needed to impress anyone.
A’s, B’s, and C’s, and maybe fatigues. After a few moments’ thought, Hansen finally decided to go with the happy medium. Class-B’s it was.
He pulled on his trousers, shirt, and shoes and socks, then brushed his hair, but as he grabbed his jacket out of the closet he suddenly realized that he wasn’t hearing any running water. He stepped up to the bathroom door and held his ear close to listen. He was right. No running water. No sound at all in fact. No indication whatsoever that Heather was in there.
He knocked. “Heather?” he called. She didn’t answer. He knocked again, a little harder. “Heather, are you in there?” Still nothing. Had she even gotten out of bed?
He opened the door and leaned in, and found no sign of her. He crossed to her door and knocked. “Heather, are you up?” He knocked again. “Heather?” He waited a few more seconds, then pressed the button to open her door. It failed to open—locked from the other side.
He went back through his bedroom and crossed the living room to her bedroom door, but as h
e reached up to press the ‘open’ button, he heard her come into their quarters through the front door. He turned toward her, his hand still raised as if searching for the button, and she froze wide-eyed in her tracks when she saw him. He immediately took note of the fact that she was dressed in her favorite leatherette mini-skirt and tight knit half-top—the same scant, provocative clothes she’d had on when she went back out last night.
“Where have you been?” he asked as he dropped his hand to his side.
“Relax, Dad,” she answered as she resumed her approach. “I just went out to breakfast with the same friends I was with all day yesterday.”
He stood his ground as she drew closer, blocking her path, knowing that she knew better than to try to go around him. “You mean the same friends who talked you into going over to the adults-only beach?” he asked sharply. And the moment he said it, he wished he hadn’t.
“Yes,” she answered defiantly, looking him right in the eye. “And for your information, they didn’t talk me into it. I decided to go there myself, and I decided to take my top off myself.”
“All right, all right,” he said, raising a hand to stop her oncoming tirade before it started. “So what you’re telling me is that you came home last night, went to sleep, and then got up and went out again early this morning?” he asked skeptically.
“Yes, that’s what I’m telling you,” she answered, still staring him straight in the eye.
Pretty bold of her, he had to admit to himself, staring him right in the eye while she lied to him like that. She was getting braver all the time, which meant the time had come to put her back in her place...again. “Then tell me this. Since when does Heather Hansen wear the same clothes two days in a row?”
She dropped her gaze and exhaled sharply, then rolled her eyes and confessed, “Okay, fine. You got me. I didn’t come home last night. You going to have me arrested now?”
“Where were you all night, Heather?” he asked, ignoring her smart-ass remark, at least for the moment.
She shrugged her shoulders. “Different places,” she answered evasively.
“Such as?”
She huffed and rolled her eyes again. “Such as, we went back to the beach for a while. The public beach,” she added quickly before he could ask. “I wore the suit you approved of. I’m wearing it under my clothes right now, if you want to see it.”
“Not necessary,” he told her, briefly shaking his head. “Where else did you go?”
“Antonio’s Pizza for dinner, then the coffee shop, then bowling, then the youth club. You know, that kind of stuff. Now can I go to my room, please?”
“You do know school starts this morning, right?”
“Yes, I know school starts this morning,” she answered sarcastically. “That’s why I want to go to my room, to get ready.” When her father only stared at her with doubt in his eyes, she added, “Don’t worry, Daddy. I’ll make it.”
“See that you do,” he said. He glared at her for another moment, then sidestepped out of her way.
“I will! God!” She stepped up to her door and practically rammed her finger through the ‘open’ button, then mumbled something unintelligible under her breath as she stepped inside her room. She glared back at him with disgust, then closed and locked the door behind her.
Hansen sighed and shook his head. “I knew her good behavior was too good to last,” he mumbled. Then he pulled on his jacket and headed out to work.
Chapter 33
As usual, Vicky was waiting with the admiral’s first cup of coffee when he arrived. “Good morning, Admiral,” she said, holding it out to him as he absentmindedly passed her by. Then she asked, “No coffee this morning?”
He stopped short and turned back to accept it. “Good morning, Vicky,” he replied. He must really have been preoccupied, he realized, to have forgotten his first cup of coffee. “Thank you.” He took a careful sip, then turned and headed straight to his office.
“Meeting with the Joint Chiefs at zero nine-hundred, sir,” she reminded him, speaking to his quickly retreating back.
“Thank you,” he responded automatically as he punched in his code and pressed his palm to the scanner plate. The door opened, but as he stepped inside it suddenly dawned on him that he hadn’t consciously acknowledged what his subconscious mind had apparently taken full note of, and he turned around again. Vicky had worn her hair loose and flowing down over her shoulders. Her copper satin blouse was only fastened about as high as her sternum and revealed an inappropriate amount of cleavage, and her hip-hugging, charcoal-gray, pinstriped skirt was even shorter—substantially shorter—than the one she’d worn last Saturday.
“Was there something else, Admiral?” she asked, smiling provocatively.
He shook his head and said, “Never mind,” then stepped back to let the door close him in.
He crossed to his desk, set his mug down in front of his chair, and sat down. As usual, his message light was flashing—when was the last time he hadn’t found messages waiting for him first thing in the morning?—but at least it was flashing green this time. Good. No urgent reports. No bad news to ruin his day. Well, no exceptionally bad news anyway. He knew he’d only have been fooling himself if he thought for one second that any of the waiting messages contained any good news of any real consequence.
He called up the message list and was even more pleased to discover that there were only two reports waiting for him. As usual, the twice daily report of overall fleet actions topped the list. The other one was an update on the hunt for the fugitive Stefani O’Donnell. He tapped it, then picked up his coffee and leaned back.
“Admiral Hansen,” the unfamiliar man on the wall screen began, “I’m Special Agent Jankewich, Mandela Station C-I-D. My station chief asked me to provide you with a courtesy update on the O’Donnell case. As you know, it’s been three days now since she escaped from Military Police custody. We’ve spread as many of our agents and informants as we can spare throughout the system, concentrating most of our manpower in the rougher parts of the largest cities where most of the known criminal safe houses are located, but so far we’ve got nothing. No sightings, no communications, no trail of purchases. Nothing at all. Wherever she is, she’s being very careful.
“That’s it, Admiral. I know it isn’t very much, but it’s all we’ve got at this point. I’ll let you know whenever anything changes.”
The message closed. Hansen set his coffee down and tapped the ‘pause’ button before the summary of fleet actions report started to play, then leaned back in his chair again, rested his head on one hand, and sighed.
Stefani O’Donnell. He had a feeling her name was going to be synonymous with trouble quite a bit in the foreseeable future. Still a fugitive, on the run for three days and apparently not leaving a trail of any kind in her wake, she could easily have made it out of the solar system by now, and if he were to guess based on her reputation, he’d guess that she probably had. Hell, if she was lucky enough to find a transport right away she could have made it to any one of the three Centauri star systems already, and it would be a real bitch to find her in one of them.
And then there was Heather. What was he going to do with her? Fifteen years old by only a few weeks, sneaking onto the adults-only beach and taking off her top, then staying out all night with her friends on a school night and trying to lie right to his face about it afterwards. And then getting upset with him...upset with him...for calling her bluff on it! It wasn’t like lying to him was anything new for her, of course. She’d been doing it for years. Lying, cutting classes with her friends, shoplifting, using narcotics—that one still surprised him—dressing like a low-rate escort whenever she thought she could get away with it.
Speaking of which, what in God’s name was going on with Vicky all of the sudden? Sure she had a tendency to wear her skirts a little on the short side—she certainly had the legs for it—but generally speaking, she’d always dressed for work like the consummate professional. So why so short toda
y? And why so much cleavage? Was she trying to seduce him? Was she trying to fan the flames of his unspoken interest in her. The way she’d smiled at him... But how could she know about that? He’d certainly never told her? Hell, he didn’t even think about it himself! That kind of relationship was the last thing he needed at this point in his life.
He chased those thoughts from his mind and sat up. He didn’t have time to ponder such things as romance and child rearing and fugitives from the law. And there, he knew, was the root of all of Heather’s problems right there. He didn’t have time. He had too much work to do. He always had too much work to do. He was going to have to figure something out and soon, before it was too late to make a difference in her life.
He reached out to his comm-panel again, but before he could tap the other message the small text monitor blinked to life and indicated that he had an incoming live transmission. So he tapped the ‘receive’ pad instead and said, “Admiral Hansen here.”
The image of another man he didn’t recognize filled the wall screen, and the first thing he noticed—how could he not?—was how incredibly thick his longer than regulation dark brown hair and his close-cropped yet still very full dark brown beard were. “Good morning, Admiral,” the man began. “Agent Bob Thornton of the Grainger Field Office on Cirra. I just finished reviewing the report on last night’s action.”
That guy was one of his agents? “How’d it go?” Hansen asked.
“Overall, the mission was successful. They got the Crown Prince and his concubine out alive, but they took heavy casualties. Report says there were Veshtonn blood-warriors there.”
Veshtonn warriors on the surface of Cirra? Things were getting worse every day. “Can you send me a casualty list?”
“Yes, sir. I have it right here.” On the wall screen, Agent Thornton leaned forward just long enough to tap the ‘send’ button on his own comm-panel, and barely a second later the words ‘File Received’ appeared on Hansen’s text monitor.
