Shades of Dark

by Linnea Sinclair

  Only the Walker Colonies and Port January were playing coy, but then Port January had long been an Imperial base of operations.

  She spied an empty row of bench seats and headed for them, only to realize why they were empty. They were broken, their backs still connected but the seats stripped out. She turned and walked again past humans hunched into coats, children huddled close in a mother’s or father’s lap, and a few Takas lounging casually, not bothered by the cold at all, their furred hands and wrists sticking out of lightweight shirts or thermals, shipyard patches on their chests marking them as returning workers.

  The schedule board flashed, catching her eye. A low groan went around the room even before she finished reading the advisory that all shuttles were delayed for one hour due to heightened security concerns.

  A baby wailed loudly.

  Rya completely concurred with the sentiment.

  Movement near the dirtside shuttle tubeway signaled a family vacating several of the benchlike seats—the delay likely meant time for a lavatory stop, or maybe food. Rya was only a row away. She quickened her steps, then slowed. An elderly man and woman pulled themselves off the cold decking, tugging two toddlers with them as they ambled for the seats. A pair of hardbody guys did as well. Dockworkers, Rya guessed with a fair amount of professional accuracy. She stepped in front of the men, blocking their path, trying to give the people with the small kids a chance to get there first.

  The bearded hardbody stared levelly at her as she shifted her stance until she stood bladed to him, gun-side away. Ingrained habit. The man was about her age, and not much taller than she was, maybe five-ten. But he outweighed her by at least sixty pounds, and Rya was no lightweight. A factor Matt had always found less than appealing.

  “I have breasts, I have hips, I have thighs,” she’d told him more than once when he’d patted her ample rump with some snippy comment. “Get used to it.”

  The bearded man’s gaze dropped to her chest.

  “Kind of you to let them have the seats,” she told him, bringing his gaze back to her face as her right hand found the small laser tucked against her back.

  “Yeah, I’m Mr. Wonderful,” he drawled, with a quick glance to his friend. His hands edged into his pockets.

  She palmed the laser, flicking the setting to stun.

  “So now I gotta go sit on the floor again,” he continued. “It’s real cold on your ass, you know. Think you should come and keep me warm.”

  “I think you’ll do just fine by yourself.” She put her professional tone in her voice. “Have a good one, gentlemen. Now, move on.”

  Maybe it was the tone of her voice, or maybe it was that Mr. Wonderful’s friend’s gaze flicked to her beret and down again, possibly catching the outline of the gun in her shoulder holster that even her womanly charms and leather jacket failed to fully hide. He nudged his friend. “Let’s go, Al.”

  “Hey!”

  Al’s friend grabbed Al by the arm and steered him in the opposite direction.

  Rya tucked away the L7 at the small of her back, and didn’t miss the low comment when they were a few steps away.

  “Striper? Fuck.”

  No, not a striper. ImpSec Special Protection Service. Polite, professional and prepared to kill.

  She sighed, caught the grateful gaze of the elderly woman with the sleeping toddler in her lap, and smiled her acknowledgment.

  The “shuttle delayed” sign still flashed. Rya wandered away from the tubeway hatchlock and finally ended up leaning against the wall—holding up the bulkhead, her father would say—where the corridor dead-ended into the waiting area.

  A few more people stood, filing out, tired of waiting, or hungry, or both. Or just needing to move. Mr. Wonderful and friend claimed two seats quickly, but she didn’t intervene this time because no one smaller, weaker, or older needed them.

  She glanced away from them and watched the corridor instead.

  That’s when she saw him. A solitary figure in a thermal overcoat that her mind automatically tagged as “Fleet-issue,” moving with a determined but limping gait. He leaned on his cane with every other step, the wide strap of a duffel a dark stripe against the gray fabric of his coat.

  He was too far for her to see his face, but as he moved under the dim overheads, his short-cropped silver hair made her immediately tag him as a veteran. Not recent Fleet, then. Probably a casualty from the Border Wars twenty years ago.

  Officer? Yeah, she tagged that, too. It was in the way, in spite of the pain and his limp, that he held himself. The set of his shoulders. The lift of his chin. Retired officer, silver-haired, probably in his seventies. Coming here at Commander Adney’s call?

  God, were they down to that now? Relying on rheumy old men to try to stop Tage’s insanity?

  An end seat on the long bench bordering the bulkhead became available when a fidgety young man in plain coveralls pushed himself out of it and loped for the corridor. She slid quickly into it, next to a dozing Takan shipyard worker on her left. She’d give the space to the old man when he passed by her. Then maybe she’d indulge in another half mug of sweet tea to thaw her insides and her hands. The damned shuttle—

  The old man, about fifteen feet from her now, limped under a dangling spotlight, the harsh glow illuminating his face. And Rya, already rising to offer him her seat, realized two things. He was not an old man. And he had the most incredible blue eyes she’d seen in years.

  “Excuse me, sir,” she said because that’s what she’d planned to say. And old or not, he was still limping.

  He hesitated slightly, those marvelous blue eyes narrowing.

  “You want this seat?” she continued. “I was just leaving. Shuttle’s delayed and seats are hard to come by here.”

  He stopped in front of her and leaned on his cane.

  Rya looked up. Yeah, up. Six-two, three. Stocky, maybe two-forty-five. Fleet thermal coats were a thin fabric. He had wide shoulders, a muscular neck. And a dual shoulder holster. She judged that, too.

  Something flashed over his face—a wariness—then it was gone.

  Her beret. He was Fleet. He knew its significance.

  A baby wailed somewhere behind her, its cry dissolving into a series of hiccups.

  “AWOL,” Rya said quietly in explanation of her head gear, because that wasn’t all that far from the truth. Then she said a name and watched for his reaction. “Adney.”

  Confirmation came in the slight lessening of tension around his mouth.

  “That’s pretty much why a lot of us are here,” she said, her voice still low. She didn’t know why she’d added that information. No, she did. For some reason she couldn’t define, but based on the cop’s sense she’d honed over the past few years, she trusted this silver-haired man. He exuded…something. An aura of command, of respect?

  Yes, command and respect, now that she thought about it.

  But more than that, she sensed that was why he was here. And she wanted him to know he wasn’t alone. Because in addition to that aura of command that ringed him like an impenetrable halo, she also felt a deep loneliness in him. A heavy weight that maybe had something to do with his injury or maybe not.

  But it was there. It was palpable.

  And it wasn’t just her cop’s instincts telling her that, but her years as the daughter of first Lieutenant then Commander then Captain Cory Bennton.

  “Would you like to sit, sir?”

  “How long is the delay?” His voice was deep, resonant.

  “One hour max, due to heightened security concerns.”

  He was shaking his head in dismay.

  The Takan on her left rose to his feet and called out to a group exiting toward the corridor. They waved. He headed for them in a long, striding gait.

  When Rya turned back the silver-haired man had let his duffel drop to the floor next to his boots, its strap still in his fingers. It was heavy, but he wasn’t going to let it go or out of his sight.

  “This is never a pretty maneuver,”
he said and, twisting slightly, angled himself down into the vacant chair.

  She sat in the Taka’s seat, forgetting she’d said she was leaving. She caught the tail end of a half-smile, half-grimace on his face, and realized her error.

  “My leg thanks you,” he said with a hint of wry humor. “My ego is severely deflated.”

  She grinned back, doing a quick mental tally of him as he wedged his cane into a niche on the benchlike seats, and then dragged the duffel between them. Early to midforties. The silver hair was an anomaly. It was thick, and judging from some still dark patches, had once been a rich brown about as dark as her own. His face had nice features. Not pretty-handsome like Matt, but classic with an edge toward rugged.

  “Accident?” She pointed to his right leg, extending stiffly out.

  “Let’s just say negotiations with a possible enemy combatant didn’t go as planned.” He adjusted his coat as he spoke. His hands were square, strong, the backs dotted with scars.

  No pretty boy, this former Fleet officer. Engineer, she thought. Or chief of maintenance. Worked with his hands and cared little about gashes and barked knuckles.

  The schedule board flashed again and this time there was a definite announcement. Two-hour delay for the shuttle to the moon colony, four-hour delay for the shuttle to Seth’s shipyards. The shuttle for Umoran, however, would arrive in fifteen minutes. Boarding would commence ten minutes after that.

  Sighs of relief mixed with groans.

  “Fuck.” This, softly, from the man next to her. And with no apology. Well, he’d tagged her as Fleet as clearly as she had him. What were a few epithets between friends?

  He leaned forward as if to stand, then stopped, slumping back slightly, his gaze pinned on the wide viewport across the waiting area as if he could see all the way to Seth. Or the shipyards.

  His eyes were narrowed, his brows furrowed. She’d seen that look on her father’s face when he was forced to make decisions he didn’t like. Or when decisions he wanted to make weren’t possible. The shuttle delay clearly had this man on edge.

  “The empire’s not going to change all that much in the next four hours,” she commented, her voice low.

  He slanted her a glance. The hard, angry emotions she saw in his eyes startled her and almost had her reaching for her L7. But he looked away, removing the immediacy of the threat. Still, she watched his hands because she knew he was armed. They were in plain sight though now one fist clenched.

  “It already has.” He spoke suddenly, his voice as low as hers but harsh. “Tage hit Corsau an hour ago.”

  She felt her eyes widen. He was looking at her now, studying her, not only anger on his face but grief.

  “No.” She breathed out the denial, her chest tightening. “How bad?”

  “Bad.”

  She motioned to the solitary vidscreen hanging in the far corner, flickering with images of a concert in Port Chalo last year. “There’s been nothing—”

  “I noticed. I’m guessing the dockmaster doesn’t want to deal with a panic situation. Or the news simply hasn’t hit the civilian outlets yet.”

  “Where did you hear about it?” Maybe it was rumor. Maybe it wasn’t true.

  “From an Alliance captain.” Blue eyes studied her again. “I don’t have four hours to waste. How many besides yourself are here to see Commander Adney?”

  “No direct knowledge, sir. But guessing from dockworker uniforms and discounting families, I’d say thirty or forty.” She motioned to a group of men and women about her age seated in the first three rows nearest the shuttle tubeway. “My flight out of Calth Prime got in late. They were already there. I haven’t talked to them, but they haven’t reacted to any shuttle announcements for the moon colony or Umoran.”

  “Well, Subbie, we’re about to make the passengers wanting to go home to Umoran very unhappy,” he said. “Can you handle it?”

  “You intend to commandeer the shuttle?”

  “I do.”

  “I can handle that, sir.”

  “I’d do the honors, but too much walking is a problem at the moment. Find out who’s here for Commander Adney. Discreetly. Put them on alert. While you do that,” and he shoved himself, grimacing, to his feet, “I’m going to enlist the help of the local stripers.”

  “Whoever’s chief probably won’t like that. You may have to get clearance from the dockmaster.”

  “I fully intend to.” He lifted his duffel—clearly heavy—effortlessly. “Ten minutes.”

  “Yes, sir.” She fought the urge to salute and instead watched him head for a striper standing in the corridor, realizing she didn’t even know his name or rank. Not that it mattered. There was something very familiar about him, something that told her she’d follow him into the jaws of hell. And never regret it.

  Technically, he had use of the shuttle. One problem solved, dozens more to go. Philip headed back for the waiting area’s wide threshold. His subbie, as he’d come to think of the young woman wearing the ImpSec blue beret, raised her gaze. He inclined his head toward the tubeway, then nodded. We have permission to take the shuttle, was his unspoken message.

  She pulled away from the group she was talking to and walked down the center aisle toward him. He noted again she was as tall as some of the men, and not a weakling. There was power in her stride, but also a litheness. Her ImpSec beret sat on her hair at a jaunty angle. Her hair itself was amazing, less than curly but far more than wavy. It was just short of shoulder length, as springy and bouncy as she was, and a deep rich brown that these days might be natural or might not.

  The rest of her, also bouncy, was very natural. But he wasn’t supposed to notice that, since he was old enough to be her…uncle. And now, it seemed, her commanding officer as well.

  “Sir,” she said, slowing, then waiting as he fell in step with her. “I have verified fifty-three, including myself, who are here in response to Commander Adney’s request. However, sir, there is an issue of your authority in this matter—though everyone understands the need to get to Seth as soon as possible.”

  Fifty-three. Well, that wasn’t a bad number. But a group of three men and one woman had risen and were moving toward him.

  “Thank you, Lieutenant. The dockmaster and security chief are aware of our situation. We have clearance. As for my authority, that can be resolved quickly.”

  The waiting room population had reorganized, with his fifty-plus possible crew seated in or standing near the first two rows adjacent to the shuttle tubeway on the far right.

  “I don’t know who you are, sir,” his subbie said quickly, a slight hitch of embarrassment in her voice.

  He had wondered if she’d recognized him, though his face wasn’t one of the more familiar ones. He’d not been an admiral for that long—not even a year. Evidently, she hadn’t. And yet she trusted him enough to canvass the room on his orders, without question. Either she was very intuitive or extremely stupid.

  “Don’t worry.” He flashed her a conspiratorial smile. “Because I do know who I am.”

  She looked momentarily startled, then a small grin curved her lips.

  He stopped in front of the group of four, aware the rest of the forty-nine were watching.

  “Sir, we understand we’re to depart for Seth on the next shuttle,” a short, round-faced man clad in plain civilian clothing said. He was the oldest of the group, around Chaz’s age, mid-thirties. His short-cropped black hair and solid bearing were all Fleet. No salute, but his tone was respectful.

  A reasonable move, since no one knew who he was.

  “I’ve cleared it with Chief Carmellis and the dockmaster’s office,” Philip told him, with a slight nod to the others.

  “I’m Commander Martoni, formerly with Baris Division Three, and as best as I’ve been able to ascertain, the highest-ranking officer present. Thirty-seven of the people here are my personal recruits.”

  “Thank you, Commander. Excellent job.”

  “I need to request your authority in this matt
er, sir,” Martoni continued.

  “You should. Admiral Philip Guthrie, Alliance First Fleet.”

  The hush of voices around him quieted. Martoni and his three officers stared at him.

  Philip wondered if he’d arisen from the dead, or perhaps sprouted wings and flown around the room. No, those were Sullivan’s specialties.

  “You should also be asking to see my ID,” he prompted Martoni.

  “I, yes, sir. That is, may I—”

  Philip was already handing it to him when he heard his subbie whisper his name, and not as a question.

  “Guthrie.”

  He glanced over at her, taking in her wide-eyed expression. “Apologies, Lieutenant. I thought you knew who I was.”

  “I did,” she said softly. “I mean, that is…” Her voice trailed off.

  She was flustered. He had a feeling that was unusual for her. Evidently meeting an admiral was something she hadn’t dealt with before. But she was SPS. She must have. He shook off whatever the issue was, because Martoni was handing him back his ID and saluting.

  “Admiral Guthrie, sir, we had no idea you’d be here.”

  “If it makes you feel any better, neither did I.” He pocketed his ID and shifted the weight of the duffel on his shoulder.

  “Can I take that for you, sir?” one of the other men, also in civvies, asked. “We’re loading gear first.”

  “Thank you, but I’ll handle it. They should announce the schedule change shortly. Let’s make sure everyone’s ready to go. I want to keep problems to a minimum.”

  Martoni nodded, then issued quiet but firm orders to the woman and man closest to him. They hurried off, Martoni not far behind, and with a nod or a hand signal from him, groups of young men and women rose from their seats or straightened from their tired slouches.