Thatcher hadn’t been looking at her—he was fishing in one of his pockets—but his surprised gaze lurched to her face now. “What?”
“A, ah, quick round of sex. It was a joke. Because, uhm, that’s what people, couples, do in closets. Sometimes.” And so she uttered more lines that were totally inappropriate in a commander-cadet military situation. Val shook her head at herself; she was going to have to do some fancy flying later to impress him.
Despite her explanation—and attempt to dismiss the joke—he was looking around, his brow still faintly crinkled. “It appears uncomfortable. I’ve… always preferred beds.”
Well, at least he wasn’t a virgin. At this point, that wouldn’t have shocked her. But no, he probably had women fling themselves at him every time he beat up thugs in bars.
Thatcher pulled out a small black sphere with a couple of sensors in its side. “I intend to launch a spy camera.”
At his touch, an interface appeared in the air above the contraption. He adjusted the settings, and it floated out of his hand, leaving a small remote on his palm. He opened the door, letting the camera flow into the tunnel. It drifted up to the ceiling, hugging the shadows farthest from the light fixtures. It floated deeper into the complex, and he closed the door. He thumbed the remote, and an image of the tunnel came to life in front of him.
The spy camera had already reached an intersection. Val shifted closer to Thatcher so she could see the display better.
He looked down at her, his face inscrutable. Irritated by her closeness? She was on the verge of stepping back when he said, “I do not like quickies.”
It was her turn to blurt, “What?”
“Sexual encounters should be of sufficient length to ensure both parties are satisfied.”
“I… have always thought so too.”
Thatcher returned his attention to the camera, nudging controls to send it to the left at the intersection and down another passage. A pair of men in coveralls was walking up that tunnel, and Val jumped, thinking they would spot the camera. But the sphere must have glided over their heads without attracting notice, because they never looked up.
“The camera was a good idea,” Val whispered. Those two workers might be nothing more than they appeared, but if they had seen Val and Thatcher sneaking down the hall, they might have reported them.
“Yes.”
Val was about to snort—remembering why she’d always had an impression of him being arrogant—but he spoke again after a pause.
“Thank you.”
It sounded like he knew it was the expected response rather than what he sincerely thought, but she found herself smiling, anyway. He was trying. She wasn’t sure why—he certainly never had when she’d been a cadet—but it warmed her heart.
The spy camera stopped in front of green metal double doors. A plaque read, “Backup Generator Room.”
“I don’t suppose your camera knows how to open doors?” Val asked.
“It can open some less sophisticated ones, but people tend to notice when doors appear to open and close of their own accord. The sphere is designed to blend into shadows, but it’s not invisible.” Thatcher nudged something on the remote, and their view of the door grew closer until the textured pits and pimples in the metal were visible.
Val was about to question the point of this new view, but Thatcher held a finger to his lips and touched a volume control.
“…keep him drugged,” a muffled voice said.
“…don’t need him giving us trouble.”
“He’s an old man.”
“…master strategist and veteran soldier, you…”
Val sucked in a breath, surprised they had found their kidnapped man on the first try. She was on the verge of congratulating her charms, but remembered that her idea had been to head off into the cryo storage area. Thatcher’s list deserved at least half of the credit.
She was about to compliment him again when a thunk sounded. Their visual spun in dizzying circles, then blacked out for a moment. Val opened her mouth to ask what had happened when the feed blinked back on. A scowling man leaning out the door came into focus. He was staring straight at the camera.
“Uh oh,” she murmured.
Thatcher paused, then set his jaw and manipulated the camera. He steered it straight toward the man, who was pulling a laser pistol from his belt, then zipped it past him and into the room. The display blurred as it whipped around, taking in everything: big cylindrical generators with ducts and pipes coming out of them—they took up much of the room—and several armed men playing holo dice around a table up front. She had time to glimpse a figure curled on its side on the floor in the back—their missing admiral?—before the camera blinked out again, this time permanently.
“The unit has been destroyed,” Thatcher reported. He pulled up his map again, zoomed in to their level, and stared at it, as if he were trying to memorize something.
“Are we going to charge in and try to take those men on?” Considering that every single one of those men had been wearing at least one pistol on his belt, Val didn’t care for that option. “Or run?”
Thatcher snapped his tablet shut, and the map disappeared. “Leave for now. They’ll search the area.”
He peered into the tunnel, then jogged out, heading back toward the lifts.
“What if they move him, because they know they’ve been discovered?” Val asked.
“A valid possibility. We’ll only go up one floor and—”
One of the lift doors opened as they approached. Val’s first thought was to run right inside and go wherever the occupants were going, but four men carrying laser rifles burst out. They spun toward Thatcher and Val right away.
Thatcher crouched, as if he intended to spring, to try and surprise them and take them down, but he glanced at Val and paused. After a short moment, he straightened and lifted his hands in the air.
Val slumped and did the same, realizing he had chosen not to fight because of her. Because he had worried she would be hurt? Or he believed she would hinder him or otherwise prove a burden? It didn’t matter. The rifles were trained on them now, and it was too late to do anything about it.
“What now?” Val muttered to Thatcher, then heard footsteps approaching from behind. She raised her voice. “If you four are base security, there are some thugs who kidnapped someone important back there.” She jerked her thumb in the direction of the intersection. Clad in a mishmash of civilian clothing, these men didn’t look much like station security. Even if they had been, she wouldn’t have been certain station security would help them, given that suspicious golden alert. Still, one could always hope.
“Imagine that,” one of the men said.
“I don’t suppose your charms would work on these individuals?” Thatcher murmured.
In other circumstances, Val might have laughed. She could only shake her head now. Two men were walking up on them from behind, and she recognized one from the camera.
“What do we have here?” he asked. “Spies? Rescuers?” After a pause, he added, “
Victims
?”
“Do we get to vote on which we’d prefer to be?” Val asked.
The man snorted. “Freeze them.”
Chapter 5
The guards were thorough in searching Gregor’s pockets and, while wearing cheerful leers, frisked Cadet Calendula even more thoroughly. Gregor was tempted to attack them, if only to halt their invasive probe, but the two men standing in the doorway and pointing weapons at their prisoners appeared proficient. In addition to removing all of their gear, the guards smirked and took Gregor and Calendula’s jackets before walking out of the freezer. The frigid air that wrapped around them wasn’t cold enough to sear his nostrils or freeze spit before it hit the floor—he had fought on a planet that could claim such temperatures once—but it would kill them in time, regardless. Although, if the compact unit was as airtight as it appeared, they would likely poison themselves with their carbon dioxide emissions long before hypothermia set in.
As soon as the door shut, which was accompanied by the resounding clank of an old-fashioned lock being thrown, Gregor surveyed the crates on the shelves, looking for something that might prove useful for escaping. Calendula stuck her hands under her armpits, walked to the door, and kicked it a few times with the toe of her boot.
“What are the chances that someone will wander by and let us out?” she asked.
“I would need to know how many freezer units are on this level and how many of the owners or representatives for the owners are on the base currently to begin to make an estimate.” Gregor turned a big box to read the contents:
Bill’s Ice Cream Parlor, chocolate, 50 gallons
. Well, that wasn’t going to help much with an escape. “It would also be useful to know the duration of their stay, so as to estimate when they might need to come down and pick up their cargo.”
“It was a rhetorical question,” Calendula said.
“Oh.”
Gregor checked a few more shelves, but most of the boxes held ingredients for making ice cream or ice cream itself. Perhaps a melted form of the dessert could be used as a mild lubricant—he imagined guards running down a hall and slipping on liquid chocolate-and-peanut-butter—but that was far-fetched. A couple of the larger boxes had straps around them, likely from where lifting equipment had been used to move them. But unless Gregor wanted to hang himself, he couldn’t see how those could be useful. He spotted a couple of metal cylinders in a back corner and knelt for a closer look at them. Liquid nitrogen. For fast-freezing ice cream?
“Bill’s Ice Cream Parlor?” Calendula asked, now examining the boxes herself. “Maybe a server will be sent down for supplies at some point today.”
“Maybe.” Gregor left the shelves and examined the door. Made from metal, it lacked a window or handle on this side. He touched a plate fastened to the door at waist level. Might it provide access to the lock hardware? That clank had suggested a physical mechanism rather than an electronic system. Too bad the guards had removed his lock-picking kit. He picked at one corner of the plate, the icy surface numbing his bare fingers.
“How long do you think we have before we… freeze?” Calendula asked.
“Is that a rhetorical question?” It would take more than his fingernail to remove the plate, so Gregor patted his pockets, hoping the guards had left him something that might be useful.
“No…”
Her voice lacked its usual irreverence. Gregor paused to look at her. Was that concern on her face? Given their circumstances, it seemed likely.
“I don’t know the exact temperature—” the gauges were on the outside of the units, and the guard had shoved him in too quickly for him to read theirs, “—but numerous hours or even days could pass before we would be in danger of freezing, especially if we keep active.” He was debating whether to mention the carbon dioxide issue, which would become a problem much sooner, when she grimaced and spoke again.
“And how long before we run out of air?”
“It’s the exhalation of carbon dioxide rather than the consumption of oxygen that’s the problem. Given the size of this freezer and the fact that there are two of us in here breathing, I estimate that will only take a couple of hours.”
Her grimace deepened. “Maybe we should have brought one of your mango trees along.”
“A mango forest would be required, and it wouldn’t fit in here.”
“Yeah. That was a joke, Commander.” She gave him a wan smile. The expression, the concern in her eyes… it tugged at his soul. The emotions of other people rarely affected him, indeed their intensity usually made him uncomfortable, but it was different with her. Or maybe it was the situation. He wanted to hug her, to comfort her. Something.
“You can call me Gregor,” he blurted, then immediately second-guessed himself. He was supposed to be her commanding officer, not her friend, not someone who invited first-name familiarity. How would that comfort her, anyway?
“Assuming that’s your first name—I never knew it—you must be
really
sure we’re going to die if you’re willing to break military protocol.”
“Not at all. I simply… felt that you might wish to use it, now that we’re…” He scowled, flustered. He wanted her to use it. That was all. But he couldn’t say that. Cadets didn’t use their commanders’ first names. They just didn’t. Unless she was given a permanent position in the company and an officer’s ranking, it wouldn’t be appropriate.
“Stuck in a little room and about to die together?” Calendula suggested.
“No.” Yes, why didn’t he say yes? That made more sense than him simply wanting to hear his first name on her lips. “Yes.”
She snorted softly, but some of the grimness had faded from her face. Maybe he had succeeded in comforting her. Or distracting her, at least.
“Then you should call me Val,” she said.
Yes, he had
always
wanted that…
“That’s acceptable,” Gregor said, hoping he sounded as nonchalant as he meant to, rather than like a little boy who had been offered his favorite kind of pie. Given that they were alone together, and nobody was here to observe whether they were following military protocol or not, maybe this lapse wouldn’t matter in the end.
“Glad to hear it.” She gazed into his eyes, and warmth that the frigid air couldn’t squelch sparked in his chest.
He grabbed his belt buckle and started unfastening it. Despite her words about dying together, Gregor had no intention of letting them die from asphyxiation in this freezer.
“Uh.” Her gaze lowered to his trousers. “I know you said staying physically active would help with the hypothermia aspect, but wouldn’t it also use up our air more quickly?”