Song of the Navigator (19 page)

Chapter Eighteen

“Tover. I'd like to think we've become friends over the years.”

Tover stared into the eyes of Peter Owens, his boss, who was clearly drunk as he sat across from Tover at the restaurant.

It had been Peter's pick, a Mexican place with a menu that reminded Tover of Ana's cooking yet shared none of the freshness or flavor. The meal didn't taste like someone cared about it when they made it.

Tover and Peter had made the dinner arrangement days prior, when it was supposed to be a meal to celebrate Tover's end of sick leave and return to work.

But rather than going to work that morning, Tover had instead submitted an electronic letter of resignation.

It hadn't been a hasty decision. He'd debated it endlessly those last forty-eight hours, plagued by indecision and fear. But he wasn't ready to return to work, not yet. Even Delia had known it, though she hadn't expressed her opinion outright.

He submitted the letter that morning. It stated he wouldn't return to the navigator's chair until he was mentally ready.

He had expected a response.

But there had been nothing, other than a confirmation from Peter's secretary that they would be meeting at El Agave. When Tover showed up with his security team, Peter was already there, half in the bag.

“I think of you as a friend,” Peter continued, eyes heavy, swinging his margarita glass a little precariously over the table.

Tover ordered a third pina colada. He felt a definite buzz but wasn't nearly as plastered as his boss, who interspersed his cocktails with shots of tequila.

“I don't know what you think of me,” Peter said. “I thought we got along well, didn't we?”

“Yes, we did,” Tover replied. “Still do. I like you, Peter. My decision to quit has nothing to do with you.”

“But it has everything to do with me, doesn't it?” Peter slurred. He put his glass on the table. “Because now you've put me in this very uncomfortable position.”

“There's nothing uncomfortable about this. I know the terms of my contract. I know I'm losing my suite, and that I have to reimburse Harmony. I'm all right with that.”

Peter swallowed. He looked about to cry. “No. The thing is, Tover, we
can't
let you go. You are too important to us. I've been instructed to offer you a raise.”

“I don't want more money, I—”

“I know. That's why I'm upset.” Peter smiled weakly. “If I knew you wanted more money, this would be easy. But I know you want out, and
out
is the only thing I can't offer you.”

Tover felt a current of anger ignite. “Too bad. It's what I'm doing.”

“This is out of my hands now. I hate it, buddy, I really do. I honestly like you…” Peter closed his eyes. He sighed into his drink and took a sip. “So this is going to suck for all of us.”

“What is?”

“Harmony called in their special negotiations team,” Peter said at last.

Tover almost laughed. “What are they going to do, negotiate me to death?” He shook his head. “They can try whatever they want. I won't be forced back into a job that currently gives me nightmares to even think about. I'm not saying I won't navigate for Harmony ever again. This is merely a leave of absence.”

Peter shook his head. “There are no leaves of absence for navigators. Without you, we're lost.”

“There are others.”

“Not improvisational navigators,” Peter said. “Not enough. They're sending the negotiators, and I'm being forced out.”

Tover's eyebrows came together. “What? I lost you your job?”

Peter smiled then. “No, just got me a transfer. I'm being moved to Markerport.”

Tover grimaced. Markerport was an isolated, cultureless outpost in the middle of nowhere. Without navigational movements, it would take Peter weeks to get anywhere.

“I'm sorry,” Tover said, and he meant it. “I didn't want my actions to hurt anyone else.”

“Don't be sorry for me. Be sorry for yourself. I fucking
hate
the negotiators. That's no way to treat employees, you know what I mean? You did so much for us, and I…” He closed his eyes again.

Tover leaned forward, alarm bells ringing in his head. “What do you mean, no way to treat an employee? Who the fuck are these
negotiators
?”

But Peter had put his head in his hands.

Tover didn't finish his meal. When the bill came, he tried to pay but Peter woke up and swiped his wristpad over the table angrily.

“My treat! I told you. Last favor I can do for you.” He stumbled as he rose from his chair. Tover moved to help him and was surprised when Peter gave him a hug. “Listen. Whatever happens, I want you to know I mean it when I say it was an honor working with you. Don't forget that, Tover. There are good people too.”

“Should I get out of here?” Tover whispered. “Am I in danger?”

Peter's eyes were wet with unshed tears. He glanced over his shoulder, spotted Tover's security team hovering in the restaurant foyer, and swallowed. “No, no. Of course not.” He shook Tover's hand, pulling him close. He whispered in his ear again. “But if you ever did choose to leave, stay away from CTASA ports and outposts.”

And on that ominous note, he left Tover, nothing but a backward wave to say goodbye.

Back in his hotel rooms, alone and slightly drunk, Tover called the Lizard Lounge.

He wasn't looking for a trick, but a specific client, one man in particular. It took numerous transfers through Tover's connections at the discreet club to get the number of Yves Cardin, a technical-systems repairman for Harmony who Tover had once hooked up with a couple years ago. It took even more effort to convince Yves to come over to Tover's suite once he did make contact. Yves was apparently now in a monogamous relationship with another man in the electrical department, and seemed to find it hard to believe that Tover was only interested in a social call.

But after Tover practically begged, Yves gave in, joining Tover at two in the morning, station time.

Yves was a bull of a man, all hair and muscle, and at one point Tover had found his masculine, overbearing presence nearly irresistible.

Tonight, however, his thoughts were exclusively for Cruz.

“I need your help breaking some password codes on my wristpad,” Tover said, lowering his voice to a whisper. He normally wasn't quite so paranoid in his own suites, but Peter's demeanor at dinner had spooked him.

If Yves wondered why they were whispering, he didn't say. “Who's wristpad is it?” he asked.

“Mine,” Tover lied. “But I set the passcodes on one of my mediafiles while high, and now I can't recall it for the life of me.”

“There are protocol backup systems with your server,” Yves stated dully, clearly restraining from rolling his eyes. Anyone with basic technical knowledge should have known that.

But Tover didn't have the authorization to release those passcode overrides.

“I got the wristpad during my incarceration,” Tover explained, trying to keep his fiction as close to truth as possible. “It was a reward from one of the pirates.” He didn't have to fake the bitterness in his tone. “I doubt that the server the files are housed on is anywhere legal.”

Yves reached out his hand for the wristpad, and Tover handed it to him. If Tover could get the file unlocked,
he
could break the news story. It could help Cruz's case when he transferred to the station detention center.

Yves pulled a holoscreen from his bag and swiped through the mist to open it. He rested the wristpad atop the screen and began manipulating files and security regulations on options that appeared on the display. Tover offered Yves a beer, and Yves took it, glancing furtively over at Tover as he took a sip.

“I'm sorry, man.” Yves said. “About what happened to you, I mean. I saw the interview.”

Tover nodded but said nothing. He hadn't watched the final cut of the interview, although from what he'd pieced together from comments around himself, Samantha had edited out his abrupt termination of their interview.

“You going back to work?” Yves asked.

“I don't think so,” Tover said.

Yves looked surprised but didn't stop working on the wristpad. After a few minutes, he handed it back to Tover. “Here you go. Passcodes wiped. Make sure to set new ones you'll remember.”

“Thanks.” Tover smiled brightly, and Yves's expression changed.

“Was that really all you wanted to see me for?”

Tover's eyebrows rose. “I thought you said you were in a monogamous relationship?”

Yves grinned. “I am. Sometimes.” He moved closer and wrapped his arms around Tover's waist. “A little fooling around here and there never ended anything, however.”

The heat of Yves's body sent a surge of desire through Tover, but he gently pushed the other man away.

“Thanks. I
am
flattered. But I'm also in a monogamous relationship.” It wasn't true, of course—he and Cruz hadn't said anything of the sort to each other, ever. But the idea of Cruz incarcerated in peacekeeper captivity at that very moment curbed Tover's libido.

Yves didn't take it personally. He nodded and collected his holoscreen. “Well, I hope it works out for you two.”

“Thanks again.” Tover reached for Yves's hand and swiped his wristpad over Yves's.

Yves glanced down at the amount of shares Tover had transferred and blinked. “Fuck! That's a month's pay, Tover. It's too much.”

“It's not. Especially if you never mention it.”

Yves glanced up sharply at that. “Have I just done something illegal?”

“No. You've done exactly what I asked—broke the code of a wristpad once owned by a terrorist, now owned by me. But the media is hungry for any story about my kidnapping, and I'd prefer it if no one knew how I got this.”

Yves seemed relieved by the answer. “Okay. Between us, then.”

Tover gave Yves a quick kiss. “Good luck to you.”

Yves looked confused by the comment, but nodded as he left.

Tover bolted his suite door behind Yves and checked the time. It was now two thirty in the morning.

But everything on the wristpad that he couldn't access before awaited him. So he ignored the needs of his body and got to work.

The knock on his door was at seven o'clock precisely.

Having stayed up until only an hour prior, Tover decided to ignore whoever so inconsiderately woke him up. But the knocking at the door persisted, then grew in intensity. By the time Tover sleepily stumbled out of bed, it sounded as though someone attacked his suite with a battering ram.

He swung open the door, wearing only pajama pants, and came face to face with three men, identical, expensive business suits and blank expressions. Their clothes reeked of money, their shoes looked high class, but the pistols holstered and visible under their jackets was nothing but pure gangsterism.

They stepped into Tover's apartment without invitation.

“Wait!” he protested. “Who the fuck are you?”

“We're with Harmony. Get dressed, it's time to go to work.”

“Fuck you,” Tover spat.

The man closest to him pulled out his pistol. Tover belatedly recognized the barrel for electric ammo as the bullet slammed into his belly and set his body afire.

He fell back, every muscle in his body going rigid at once. His body convulsed then, shocks repeatedly firing through his nervous system, causing his heart to stutter. He bit his tongue and blood filled his mouth. The pain was excruciating, and endless. Blood seeped from the entry wound. The shocks seemed to go on and on, and by the time his muscles finished convulsing, he was sweaty and exhausted, barely able to crawl to his bed, let alone work.

But his new companions didn't share that opinion.

“Get up, and get dressed,” the tallest one ordered.

“Who the hell are you?” Tover gasped. His entire body ached from the aftereffects of the electrocution.

“We're Harmony's negotiations team,” the tallest one said. He had a tan face and piercing brown eyes. “My name is Wert. This is Wilson”—he gestured to the man pointing the electric pistol at Tover—“and this is McIntire.” He nodded to the one whose slicked-back thinning hair hinted that he was older than he first appeared.

But he was still strong. They all were. And long—unnaturally long—showing modified bodies, clearly ex-military.

“I suggest you follow our suggestions,” Wilson said. “You will be rewarded for your cooperation.”

“I don't want money.” It was clearly futile to argue with these men. They weren't “negotiators”. They were hitmen.

Wilson cocked his head, studying Tover. “What do you want, Navigator?”

“To quit,” Tover said, voice shaking.

“Try again.”

“To see my family.” He hadn't expected the words to come out, but they did, as if summoned by some subconscious need within him. “I want to see my parents.”

Wilson nodded. “That will be your first reward then. Put your clothes on. We're due in the cargo control deck in half an hour.”

Tover silently dressed in front of the men. He glanced over his shoulder as he sprayed nu-skin over his newest wound. The men watched him, silent and wary.

His initial fear slowly shifted into seething anger. After everything he had ever done for Harmony, and this was how they treated him? Forced to work at gunpoint?

If Ana had told him this story a month ago, he would have laughed in her face and called her an idiot.

Who's the idiot now?

Tover changed into his navigator's uniform, muscles still trembling from the electric ammo. Wilson led him out and the other two flanked him. Tover's own security team joined the negotiators at the elevator of the hotel and said nothing as they swarmed around the men. They clearly knew the negotiators would be there, and again Tover's anger overrode his fear—that the nameless, faceless men who guarded him would be informed of these goons in advance of Tover himself?