by Susan Grant
But Kào doubted that Moray would have any greater chance to expunge his war record than to find and punish those who’d imprisoned him: enemy soldiers who had long since scurried into the cracks and crevices of the galaxy, or had vanished forever, several of millions of casualties in a war everyone would rather forget.
“And we mustn’t delay any longer on the subject of your marriage,” his father went on. “I’ve already begun work on the matter.”
“You’re arranging a marriage?” At Kào’s blurted response, several crew members glanced up from their duties, but swiftly averted their eyes when they met his cold glare.
“We may call ourselves modern men, you and I, but”—Moray winked—“there’s nothing like the right mate to advance a man’s career.”
“I have no career, Father,” Kào retorted dryly.
“Bah! You were robbed of it. We will put you back in play by returning you to society’s eye. And we’ll do that by finding you a well-placed life-partner.”
Moray had attempted to steer Kào’s life in subtle and not so subtle ways all his life. Manipulation-with-a-heart, Kào had dubbed it, for clearly the man acted out of love. He wanted the best for him. As for marriage? Kào hadn’t given any thought to securing a mate and sharing a future with her. He had little enough to give to anyone at this point.
“The upcoming elections on Sofu will put friends of ours in influential positions, giving us the choice of several very eligible daughters,” Moray went on. “Marry one, and your future is assured.”
“Father—”
“Ah, but you’re right, Kào. This is not the time to discuss it. Other issues demand our attention. A rogue Talagar ship. Unexpected refugees to relocate. We’ll talk more of the future—your future—soon.” Moray’s narrowed gray eyes glowed with purpose, a reminder that once he set his sights on a goal, he usually achieved it, one way or another.
And if such were a devoted father’s dreams for his only son, did Kào have the right to take them from him? The man had lost enough.
“If you no longer require my presence, sir, I will go.” Kào’s head ached and his patience waned. All he wanted to do was retreat to his empty quarters and the blessed solitude he’d find there. His father, though, had other ideas.
“Wait, Kào.” Moray’s thoughtful gaze shifted to the row of mission techs monitoring their stations for insidious signals that might indicate illegal Talagar activity. “I’m going to have my hands full, tracking that rogue ship. I’ll have to put you in charge of the refugees, Kào. You’ll be their primary intercessor, tasked with removing them from their craft, transitioning them to their new quarters, seeing to their needs. And keeping them out of trouble.”
The liquid nearly sloshed out of Kào’s glass. He’d do anything Moray asked of him. Proudly. But baby-sitting refugees? “Surely there are others on the crew better suited than—”
“An unemployed weapons officer?” Moray finished for him. “Perhaps. But if I cannot give my son preferential treatment, then what is the point of commanding this ship?”
His father’s smiling words might mock the system, but Kào knew that principle infused every action he took.
Moray’s gray eyes bored into his. “I need you on this task. I need someone I can trust.”
Kào brought his glass to his mouth to hide the grimace he suspected tugged at his lips. Rolling some sweet zabeesh over his tongue, he swallowed. “I’ll get started right away, sir.”
“Ah, I knew you’d want to! Security will assist you. Request as many guards as you think you’ll need. I’ve assigned Ensign Trist Pren to the task, as well. She’ll develop an instructional language program.”
Kào’s fingers tightened around the flute. Trist was a junior officer on the science staff. A skilled linguist and code breaker, he’d heard his father mention. But she was also one of the half dozen or so crew members of Talagar ancestry. Bearing the obvious hereditary traits of no pigmentation, white hair, pink skin, and red eyes, it would have been tough for her or the other Talagars to secure a position on a choice ship such as the Savior had it not been for Moray. The man had a habit of collecting outcasts and cast-offs like lost puppies.
But they were an odd lot, the Talagar expatriates, and Kào found it difficult to interact with them—exacerbating his sense of isolation onboard the Savior. Moray didn’t seem to have a problem relating to any of them, nor did any of the rest of the crew, so the difficulty must be Kào’s alone. Social skills were not his forte. He was a military man, not a diplomat.
He had been a military man, he reminded himself.
A muscle in his jaw jumped. “Ensign Pren,” he echoed as benignly as he could.
“Yes.” Moray’s eyes glinted. “She’s a promising young officer, that one.”
Kào hoped so. It would be distasteful, dealing with the woman. “Once the refugees are escorted off their craft, where would you like them put, sir?”
“Sublevel three. Empty quarters there are being converted into bunkrooms. It will be your job to communicate their situation to them without bringing on panic. We can’t afford unrest. We must keep them safe. Unharmed.” Moray regarded his son with knowing, sympathetic eyes. “They will have questions, these refugees. Answer them using your discretion. If any of their concerns involve proof of Earth’s demise, the buoys we left behind sent back crisp images. The holo-recording is available for their viewing—and yours, if you so desire.”
Kào kept his aversion to that particular activity from reaching his face. He’d seen too many worlds destroyed—his own, and those targeted during the war. “I think I’ll pass, sir.”
“Then the refugees will have to trust you on this point—they cannot go home.”
“It’s a fact they will soon learn.” Kào finished his drink and handed the flute to a waiting aide. Then, bidding his father farewell, he strode from the bridge, his mind on his assigned duty.
If he worked it right, he could use the opportunity to repair some of the damage he’d done to his father’s reputation. In fact, he’d contact the Science Academy on Sofu straight away and ensure that Moray received full credit for the discovery of the uncharted world and the rescue of the last of its people. Had it not been for his father’s intervention, no one from the doomed planet would have lived. The military might already know of Moray’s deed, but Kào would make certain that the civilians in the government, the true sources of power, were told. His father’s name would again be mentioned with respect and admiration in the highest circles of the government.
As long as the refugees cooperated. But he saw no reason why they would not.
Immediately, Kào’s mood brightened. Perhaps that had been Moray’s intent in appointing him as primary intercessor, to distract him from dwelling on his time in prison and the incident that had led him there. Such a scheme would not be out of character. Moreover, although it pained him to admit it, he knew Moray was right. Jobless on an unfamiliar ship, he’d had little reason to wake each morning. Now, it seemed, he would.
Kào increased his pace. He kept his eyes straight ahead and acknowledged no one. He was focused on his plans for the day ahead: transitioning the survivors of a lost civilization to their new home . . . in the least troublesome way possible.
Barb Jensen wrapped a peanut butter and jelly sandwich in a plastic bag and tucked it next to a frozen juice box in her granddaughter Roberta’s lunch sack, zipping everything in a Black Beauty backpack. “Honey, shut off the TV,” she called from the kitchen to the family room, where Roberta had eaten her breakfast picnic-style. “We have to go or we’re going to be late.”
Barb poured a mug of coffee for the road, snatched her purse, car keys, and the backpack before it occurred to her that there hadn’t been a response from the family room. “Roberta! Up and at ’em. We’ll watch Sponge Bob later.”
She walked into the family room, expecting to find the child transfixed by a cartoon episode. Instead, Roberta stared pensively at a toy horse in her lap, turning
the toy over and over with her little hands. Without looking up, she asked, “Are they talking about Mommy’s plane, Grandma?”
Barb’s eyes swerved to the television. What she’d thought was a commercial was in fact a news broadcast, a special report. The reporter was standing in an airport terminal building, a chaotic scene behind him. “Again,” he said grimly, “reports are unconfirmed—a Boeing 747 bound for San Francisco has disappeared from radar. United Flight 58 departed Honolulu International Airport at twelve-thirty-eight a.m. Two hundred and seventy-one passengers and twenty crew members are onboard. . . .”
Barb’s hand went to her throat. Suddenly there wasn’t enough air in the room to breathe. Tightly, she said, “Honey, shut it off.”
The phone rang. Barb grabbed the remote, hit the off button, and ran into the kitchen. The caller ID read: Illinois call. Chicago was where United Airlines headquarters was located. The vise around her chest clamped down further. No, please, not Jordan. Not my baby.
She took a couple of deep breaths and shakily lifted the receiver. “Hello.”
“Mrs. Jensen?” a woman’s too-careful voice queried.
Barb wanted to say, No, this isn’t her, and this hasn’t happened. It’s a normal day, and my daughter will be home soon. Goodbye. But of course she didn’t. She’d been a military wife for most of her life. Just because Robert had retired didn’t mean she couldn’t still draw on that reserve of strength. “Yes,” she replied, “this is she.”
“Hi, Mrs. Jensen. This is Joanne Tierney from United Airlines. I’m sorry, but I’m afraid there’s a problem with your daughter’s flight.”
Barb listened numbly as the woman repeated what the newscaster had said, adding little. The flight had disappeared from radar without any prior indication of trouble; search-and-rescue was scouring the ocean, searching for survivors; no, they had no evidence that a bomb or any act of terrorism had brought down the plane; United would call as soon as they knew more. “We’re hoping for the best,” Ms. Tierney finished.
“Yes,” Barb whispered. “So are we.” Eyes squeezed shut, she hung up. Then she wiped her damp, shaking palms on her pants and returned to the family room.
Roberta glanced up, and her brows drew together. “Are you crying, Grandma?” she asked in a serious little voice.
Barb flopped onto the couch and hugged the child close. “Mommy’s airplane got a little lost. There are brave rescuers looking for her right now. Try not to be scared.”
“She’s not in the ocean.”
Barb moved the child back and searched her face. “What do you mean?”
“She’s in the sky.” Roberta moved her hand in a sweeping motion over her head. “High up.”
“In heaven? Oh, honey. No. They’re looking for her. We have to pray that they find her. We have to, Roberta. We have to be strong.”
Roberta shook her head. “She’s in the sky.” Her gaze turned inward, blue eyes focused somewhere that Barb couldn’t reach. “I know, Grandma. I know she is.”
Barb pulled the girl to her chest. She wept softly as she stroked Roberta’s hair. Often, children could sense things adults couldn’t. But if Roberta thought Jordan was dead, then Barb hoped with all her heart that she was wrong.
A vibration rumbled through the jumbo jet. Jordan caught the railing by the staircase and held on. Then the airplane jolted from side to side, almost throwing her off balance. There was a grating noise, and then it stopped.
The singing ended abruptly. People screamed. The baby’s wailing went off the charts. And Jordan’s heart thumped in her chest as she swung herself the rest of the way up the stairs from the main cabin. If this thing was going to start flying again, she’d damned well better be at the controls.
Upstairs it was dark. Eerie and silent. A blanket covered the captain’s inert form, a shadowy bump in the middle of the aisle. Jordan stumbled over it, leaping into the empty cockpit. She sat in the captain’s abandoned seat and waited, her legs rigid with pent-up adrenaline, her hands guarding the control yoke.
Come on—show yourselves. Bravado might not quell her apprehension, but it couldn’t hurt. I’m ready for anything you want to throw at me. Let this machine loose and I’ll prove it!
The ribbed wall in front of her cracked open like a giant clamshell. Blinding light streamed through the slit. Jordan’s hand closed convulsively around the control yoke. She was too scared to scream, too fascinated to run. No longer was the airplane drowned in total blackness; no longer was there a question as to whether it was flying or not. The 747 was quite clearly locked in place on a giant platform in a featureless chamber of a size that defied comprehension.
Ben rushed into the cockpit. He stopped dead when he saw that the wall had split open, flooding the cockpit and the upper deck with a light so bright that he and Jordan had to squint. “What is that?”
Jordan’s voice was still hoarse from shouting above the noise downstairs. “Whoever captured us has decided to say hi.”
“We can’t let them onboard,” he said.
“You got that right.” She jumped out of her seat. “Batten down the hatches!”
They bolted downstairs to the main cabin. Their urgency caught everyone’s attention. “Phase two, people!” Jordan shouted. “They’re coming, and we’re going to keep them out!”
Ben and the other flight attendants spread the call to action through the plane. Passengers scrambled like ants as the flight attendants barked orders: “Pull the carts in front of the doors! Lower the shades so they can’t see inside!”
There were enough military personnel to station one individual at each door. They were unarmed, yes, but three were young Marines—admin types, not combat soldiers, unfortunately. The others were reservists of various shapes, sizes, and ages. Jordan hoped that zeal would make up for any lack of experience and proficiency.
Natalie brought Jordan a straw breadbasket filled with an assortment of objects including several scissors, a pocketknife, two oversized nail files, and a set of brass knuckles. “Our arsenal,” she said sarcastically.
The bounty of an eternally faulty security system, Jordan thought with equal cynicism.
“And of course there’s me,” Natalie said.
“You?”
“I’m a cardio-kickbox instructor. I guarantee I can kick some butt if you need me to.”
Now Natalie’s sleekly muscular body made sense. Jordan smiled for the first time in hours. “I have no doubt you can.”
She grinned back. “Should we let the military folks have first pick?” she asked, lifting the basket of weapons.
“And give the civilian volunteers what’s left over.” Jordan peered into the darkness. “You never found any law-enforcement types onboard?”
“Not a one. Aside from that mall security guard.”
“Well, I still say that the hijackers are going to have their work cut out for them if they think they can get inside this airplane.” Jordan pondered something she hadn’t considered. “Of course, they could use explosives. . . .”
Natalie pursed her glossed lips. “Why go through all the trouble to capture the plane whole only to blow it to bits?”
“It doesn’t make sense, I know. I’m going to assume the hijackers wanted to keep us in one piece, and that’s how I’m going to play my hand.” She might not be a GI Joe, but she was a pretty mean poker player. Play her cards right and she’d see Boo again. Fold and—she winced. She didn’t want to go there.
Jordan made her way back to the cockpit, supervising the well-orchestrated progress of readying the airplane for assault as she went. Ben, the purser and chief flight attendant, walked with her. Though he wore a brave face, his expressive dark brown eyes reflected the worry eating at him. She avoided meeting those eyes, or she might remember her own fear. His fingernails were freshly gnawed, and she saw him biting them whenever he thought no one was looking. And his once stylishly gelled black hair was a mess. Jordan realized then that her own hair had spilled out of her French braid. Cork
screw tendrils sprouted everywhere. Where the curls touched her skin, they were stuck to her damp cheeks and neck. She pulled off the blue scrunchie and started over, scraping the entire thick mess into a hasty ponytail.
“Oh, captain . . . my captain.”
The slightly flirting, melodic voice caught Jordan’s attention. It was the red-haired Irishman who’d insisted that they fight back. He walked to her, flanked by several other disheveled men she recognized from business class. “What are you going to do when they come aboard?” he asked in his brogue. “They will, you know. We won’t be able to keep them out for long.”
“You don’t know that.”
He shrugged. “Pragmatism is my middle name. If they worked this hard to net the oyster, they’ll work just as hard to pry open the shell. You need someone like me to stop them.” He winked and gave her a killer smile.
She hardened herself to his European charm. “Who are you, anyway?”
“Ian Dillon—but I go by Dillon.” His hand was warm as he shook hers. “Senior Vice President of Network Global Technologies. Based in Dublin. Million-miler, many times over.”
Jordan was so rattled, it took her a second to realize that he’d given her his frequent-flyer credentials. “And your area of expertise is?”
“For one, I can take normal electronic gadgets and transform them into what might be useful to us.”
“Like weapons?”
“Like weapons,” he confirmed.
She and Ben exchanged glances. Was Dillon’s plan rash? Maybe. Would it save them? It could. Or it might cause a lot more of them to wind up dead than if they simply cooperated. But maybe there wasn’t a right answer. Maybe she was going to have to rely on gut instinct and lots of prayers.
“Okay. We don’t have a lot in reserve for defense. Anything extra will help. Go ahead and gather what information and helpers you think you need for manufacturing the weapons. Just don’t take any chances with my crew or the other passengers.” She held up one finger. “Any and all plans of action go through me. I make the final decision. The only decision, Mr. Dillon. This is not a democracy. Understood?”
