Thatcher’s brows rose.
“You have that bright but expendable look about you.”
“I… see.” He looked like he wasn’t sure if it was a joke or not.
Maybe she shouldn’t be teasing him, especially if he didn’t recognize it as such. She felt more kindly disposed toward him since he had told her he left the fleet over Grenavine. A lot of people had objected to that atrocity, but not many had walked away from their safe, secure government jobs over it.
“I’m rarely sent out on independent missions, so my visage isn’t usually an issue,” Thatcher added.
Val wanted to explain that it was more the way he carried himself than his “visage,” but he finished programming the security system and stood up. He stuffed a laser knife and a couple of small devices into his jacket pockets. She didn’t get a good look, but thought one might be an electronic lock picker. Maybe he wouldn’t be as useless at snooping around a base as she would have guessed.
“Ready to depart?” he asked.
“After you, sir.”
Before either of them could head out, a bleep came from the console, demanding attention. Thatcher walked back and read a message that scrolled past.
“A golden alert has been placed on the base,” he announced. “All laser and projectile weapons must be left on board a person’s ship or checked into a locker in the console until departure.”
Val touched her purse. She hadn’t been that enthused about wandering around on the smarmy base before, and the idea of doing so without weapons enthused her even less. “Should we disobey?”
“The announcement promises there are scanners at the airlocks to ensure compliance. One might assume it’s a safety precaution since the planet below is engaged in war, but this alert was recently issued. Less than twelve hours ago.”
“Maybe our missing admiral has been taken by the station authorities, such as they are, and those authorities don’t want anyone trying to break him out.”
“Perhaps.” Thatcher removed his pistol and laser knife and tucked them in a storage compartment. “Or perhaps someone paid the station authorities to issue this alert.”
Val stuck her firearms back into her duffel and headed for the airlock with only her knife on her belt. Maybe Thatcher would consider hiring some brawny bodyguards to trail them around. A real mercenary might be too embarrassed to go for something like that, but
she
wouldn’t be.
An unmanned scanner at the end of the tube flashed red, then green as they walked out, their weapons check, presumably. They must have passed, because no squad of security guards or robots descended upon them.
Despite this being the hind teat of the system, there were over a dozen other ships docked, and numerous people walked through the concourse inside or slumped in the rows of rickety chairs. The scent of cinnamon pastries being baked wafted through the area, improving the usual smell of recycled air mixed with the scents of bodies of varying degrees of cleanliness. Thatcher stopped at an auto-pay station near the airlock tube entrance, held up his palm so the scanner could read the tiny chip inserted beneath the skin, then nodded that they could continue. Not the kind of station where parking was complimentary, it appeared.
“Any idea where to start looking?” Val started walking toward the main aisle, though she already had her eye on a bar on the other side of the concourse. That seemed as likely a place to get the station gossip as any.
“I have memorized a map of the facility and compiled a list of probable places where one might hide a hostage without drawing attention.” Thatcher unfolded his tablet, and his map and a list appeared in the air above it.
“That sounds like a no.”
He gave her a curious look. “I’ve narrowed countless options down to a mere thirty-two likely prospects.”
“How about we hold that for Plan B?” Val pointed at the bar. “Those who have been here a while may have heard something about someone important being held somewhere.”
“I hardly think we should be questioning strangers. Not only is it unlikely that they would share valuable information with us, but it may attract attention we would be wise to avoid.”
“I’ve done this sort of thing before.” She had been questioning random people on a station not two months earlier, trying to figure out why and how her brother had disappeared down a black hole. “Trust me. I won’t be obvious about it. And I think you’ll find that I can use my charms to get men to divulge information without feeling as if they’re being interrogated.”
“Your charms?”
He couldn’t truly be so dense—or so naive—to not understand what she meant, could he? Or did he simply not believe she had such talents?
“Yes, my charms. My left and right charms.” Val pointed at the individual breasts for emphasis before deciding that wasn’t an appropriate thing to emphasize with a commanding officer. Had she been out of the military for too long to go back to being the obedient—and respectful—cadet?
Thatcher looked at her chest, then back up to her eyes. “Very well, Calendula. We will attempt to narrow down the list by employing… your charms.”
He started toward the bar entrance with her, but she stopped him with a hand. “I’ll have better luck talking to people alone. Perhaps you can wait by the door. Or get a drink.” She almost choked, imagining what he might be like as a drunk. Instead of drooling and pawing over the nearest woman, he’d probably talk about his model spaceship collection. “Just pretend you don’t know me.”
“Very well.”
Val hustled to walk in several paces ahead of him, then removed her jacket, folded it over her arm, and slowed to a sultry sashay once she was inside. Well, it was a sashay, anyway. Sultry was in the eye of the beholder. There were other women in the bar wearing far less than she, including one dancing in a zero-gravity field above the bartender, so she couldn’t say that all eyes swung toward her. Still, there were five men for every woman in here, so she figured she could find someone to chat up.
She walked past three burly, scarred fellows in their early twenties, gauging them as trouble right off—the lewd perusal one gave her made Striker’s advances seem chaste. She slid into an empty seat next to a couple of grizzled men with potbellies and beards in need of trims. They had the pale complexions of long-time spacers and the physiques of freighter haulers. In short, they were both the kind of people she was comfortable talking with and the kind of people whom women usually ignored. The hopeless longing with which they watched the dancer gyrate verified that.
Feeling certain they would address her, Val ordered a steaming volcano and waited to see if her guess would prove right. She imagined she could feel Thatcher’s disapproving stare targeting her shoulder blades. Alcohol during duty hours? Inappropriate.
She glanced back to see if he had actually entered the bar. Ah, yes, he was standing by the door. And she didn’t need to imagine his eyes pointed in her direction; they were. Waiting to see if she messed up and found trouble? It probably irked him that she, the lowly cadet, had presumed to suggest an alternative, or a refinement, as she considered it, to his plan.
“How you doing, girlie?” the man on her right asked.
“Been better. Always get nervous doing jobs out here.”
“You run freight?”
“For Blazon, yes,” Val said, naming her last employer. It was a big corporation, and if these men were freighter pilots themselves, they would have heard of it.
“They don’t usually deal in the outer planets.”
She’d expected that statement and had an answer planned. “They ordered some parts from the shipyard.”
The man grunted—it didn’t sound skeptical. “Unless you’ve got some real hot cargo, you shouldn’t get anyone bothering your ship. You watch out for yourself, though. Not a real good place for a woman to wander alone.”
“I’ve heard that.” Val smiled and patted her knife. It wasn’t quite as intimidating as patting a laser pistol would have been, but he shrugged without questioning it. Good. Now that they had established a rapport of sorts, she searched for a way to subtly ask a few questions.
“Some men might take that as a challenge,” the fellow on her left said. He had been watching them talk out of the corner of his eye. “You’d best stay with someone if you’re going to visit any of the lower levels. Security isn’t too bad up here, though there are some elements preying on the weak.” He scowled over his shoulder at the three thugs she had dismissed earlier. They were playing pool at an old-fashioned wooden table with real ivory balls, each man swaggering around and swilling from a bottle between turns.
“Those elements are in every bar, aren’t they?” Val asked.
Both men chuckled.
“That they are,” the first speaker said. “I think she can take care of herself, Duffs.”
“Don’t ruin my moves, Zephyr. I was about to offer to be her native guide.”
“You’re not a native.”
“So? Don’t tell her that.”
Val snorted and waved toward a news feed playing in a corner of the room. The words weren’t being displayed and the sound was drowned out, so she had no idea what the anchor was talking about but said, “So long as I don’t end up kidnapped and stuffed in the bowels of the base, like that army officer.”
“Who’s that?” Zephyr asked.
But the other man, Duffs, lowered his voice and whispered, “You heard about that? I figured you just got here.”
“I came from the station.” Val waved upward to indicate the orbiting facility, the spot where she’d originally plotted her course. “Heard the lawmen talking about it just a couple of hours ago. Someone was going to be interviewed for the news.” She sipped from her drink to keep herself from rambling further. She didn’t want to get caught in a lie; she only wanted to explain how she might have stumbled across some secret.
“Huh, well, guess if I’d heard about it, it was bound to get out sooner or later.”
“What are we talking about?” Zephyr asked.
“Some high and fancy admiral got kidnapped. Yesterday, I think it was. Something to do with the fighting going on down on the planet.”
“Oh, that doesn’t matter to me. So long as they keep their fighting down there.”
Val had hoped for more curiosity from the man—better him asking his friend nosey questions than her—but his tone was one of dismissal. She tapped her fingers on the faux wood bar, searching for a way to dig more information out of Duffs.
“You say he’s in the basement?” Zephyr asked after a moment.
She had said bowels, randomly pulling the word out of the ether, but she shrugged and said, “I think so,” because he was frowning, cogitating hard on something. Maybe some remembered tidbit that would be useful to her?
“That might explain why Sub Six was closed off this morning,” he mused.
“Enh?” Duffs asked.
What was Sub Six? A basement level? Val didn’t ask but gave the man an inquisitive look.
“It’s mostly storage down in the sub-basements, spaces you can rent for the week or month, and some of the environmental stuff is down there too. Air and power, I think. I was supposed to pick up some cargo from the freezers down there, but Six was closed for maintenance this morning. That’s what a sign said. I didn’t think much of it, except to be irked, because it’s going to delay me. Can’t get back in the lanes and deliver cargo I haven’t got in my hold.”
Val filed the information away even if it didn’t sound that promising. It seemed more likely that the floor might have been closed for maintenance for legitimate reasons, especially if the environmental systems were down there. Doubting she would get more from the old spacers, she took another sip of her drink and twisted in her seat, about to explain that her date had arrived. But Thatcher was busy entertaining someone else: the three pool thugs.
“Pardon me, boys,” she said, laying her palm on the bar reader to pay for her drink. “I need to help the fellow who’s supposed to buy me dinner tonight.”
Duffs grunted. “He doesn’t look like he’ll survive to buy you anything. Better stick with us.”
Despite their words, the men didn’t try to stop her when she slid off her seat. She kept herself from sprinting toward the door—barely. One of the big men had just jabbed a finger into Thatcher’s shoulder. Running would draw attention, and besides, she had to figure out how she was going to stop them from pummeling her commander before flinging herself into the imminent fray.
“Maybe he wants us to call him
sir
.” One man snickered.
“I’m going to call him a pancake if he doesn’t apologize.”
Damn, had Thatcher spoken to the brutes? Thrown insults?
Why?
He was supposed to be a genius, not an idiot.
“For what would I apologize?” Thatcher asked. “I merely suggested you might aspire to a higher-paying job by increasing your education and spending less time gaming in bars. Then you wouldn’t need me to pay for your drinks.”
Ah, they’d tried to bully money out of him. Still, he could have handled them better, instead of using that patronizing tone of his. The thought made her pause. This wasn’t the place for revelations, but for the first time, it occurred to her that Thatcher’s patronization wasn’t simply of her and of junior officers but of everyone. Maybe he didn’t even know he was doing it. Was it possible what she had always considered arrogance was… obliviousness?