Chapter 4
"On my way!" Mack slapped off his bedside intercom with one hand, groped in the darkness for his uniform pants with the other. "Lights!" he ordered. Cabin illumination responded slowly as he yanked on his pants, tripped over his boots in the shadows, swore. He pulled a shirt out of his closet, barked his knuckles on the door when the floor beneath him jolted.
He swore again but the bleating of alarm sirens swallowed his words.
The lifts were on automatic lockdown. He keyed in his override code, prayed the lifts would stay functional long enough to get him up two decks to U7. As the doors closed in front of him, he tapped his badge. "Makarian to Ops. Status."
"Lieutenant Pryor. Shields at max. Cannons powering up, sir."
"ID on the bogies?"
"Not yet."
"Get Tobias on it."
"He's already checked in, sir. On his way."
Mack collided with Johnna Hebbs at the doorway to Ops Main. Her long unbraided hair hung past her waist. Her orange uniform shirt was on inside out. He grabbed her arm, steadying her. She reeked of liquor.
He should order her off duty. Even though Cirrus One was a joint venture, he had that authority in an emergency. But he didn't know what he had out there. Only that it had gotten past Cirrus's defenses and fired on the station. He needed every live body he could get, especially one who knew Cirrus as well as she did.
"You're drunk. Get some coffee." His voice was an angry growl. He released her arm. "Then get to your post."
"Go to hell," she said. She staggered away.
Voices in Ops Main were hushed, tense. Pryor was at Con-One, his white mustache seeming to bristle as he worked his screens with diligent concentration.
"What've we got?" Mack asked, reading the data over Pryor's shoulders.
Pryor's thick brows knotted. "Nothing confirmed yet, sir."
He didn't have to tell Pryor to stay on it. He knew he would.
Several stations around him were vacant. Crew slid back and forth on their unlocked chairs. A console section, unattended, lights flashing, caught his attention. Mack took the station, coordinated data with a tense-faced, overworked lieutenant. Many systems were on a temporary link, would be for another three weeks. This couldn't have come at a worse time.
He pulled his gaze from the pinched frowning faces around him and stared at the large main screen. It showed him nothing but the black starfield. One of the secondary smaller screens displayed a squadron of Cirrus's fighters veering away from the station in a defensive formation. Other screens showed the starfield, then the squadron from a different angle.
Sensors told him nothing.
Not one damn thing.
He waited until two more techs hurried in to assist before he thundered down the steps to Ops 2.
Tobias was at the secondary sensor console.
"What's out there?" Mack knew if anyone could answer that question, it was Tobias.
"All I can tell you right now is what it isn't. The parrots." Tobias grabbed two sensor feeds, amended their codes. "But I may be able to get something on their weapons' energy signatures."
That's exactly what he would have done. When you can't find the enemy, look for what they've left behind.
He couldn't remember the name of the woman at communications. But she wore an orange jumpsuit. Not one of his people. "Can you raise the Vedritor?"
"Lieutenant Tobias requested that a few minutes ago, sir. Waiting on a response to our hail."
He'd buy Tobias a beer later for that one.
"Contact the Gallant and the Worthy. Alert them to our situation, but don't bring them in, yet." He needed those cruisers, and their patrol ships, out there. In case whoever had paid Cirrus a visit had more friends on the way.
"Alerting them now, sir," the woman replied.
He looked back toward the scanners. "Tobias?"
"Still working on it."
He took the stairs up to Ops Main two at a time.
Hebbs was at her post, her hair tied back, her shirt still inside out. A cup of coffee sat in the holder on her desk. She didn't look up as he strode past but kept her gaze locked on her deskscreen.
Sensors showed nothing. Two squadrons circled the station now. Saw nothing. The Vedri, on her way in, saw nothing. The Gallant and the Worthy reported all was quiet. An hour later he downgraded to yellow alert, pulled in one squadron.
He wished like hell he had an office on Ops level where he could monitor everything and yet have a place to think. Dissect the data. Unravel the reports, even if they told him nothing.
He slid a chair over to the empty station next to Tobias's on Ops 2. Ops Main buzzed above him, but the tension had dissipated. The red glow of the large clock on the wall snagged his attention. It was damn near three in the morning.
"I don't like this, sir."
Mack arched an eyebrow, peered at Tobias's screen. His back hurt, his neck hurt and if he really wanted to be honest about it, he had a throbbing headache. Bad news at this point would fit right in. "Tell me."
"The only energy signatures I was able to capture don't match anything in our recent files."
He added a sickening chill to his growing list of ailments. Someone or something unknown? It was a damn big galaxy. Fleet's official policy was that all neighboring quadrants had been scouted and confirmed harmless. But Mack didn't discount that anything could be out there. People had believed for centuries that mogras and varls were mythical monsters, from the old tales of wizards and sorcerers. Then five years ago some scientist had discovered the petrified remains of one, not far from the spaceport on Traakhalus.
He wasn't given to imagining. But he didn't rule out the impossible.
"What does it match, Lieutenant?"
"Something from our archives."
Not an unknown, then. Perhaps someone resurrecting fifty-, seventy-year-old technology. Like Cirrus One, itself.
"How far back?"
Tobias sucked in a breath. "Almost three hundred and fifty years. Based on galephtrine emission patterns."
"We didn't use galeph-trine technology three hundred years ago."
"No, sir, we didn't. But the Fav'lhir did. It matches an energy signature from our files on the Fav'lhir."
* * *
It was almost four in the morning. The lines in the conference room adjacent to Ops Main had already been drawn.
Cirrus's staff stood firmly behind Stationmaster Hebbs. "Impossible," she said, when Mack informed them of Tobias's findings. Six faces topping orange jumpsuits nodded. "You Fleeters keep trying to relive those thousand-year-old legends, when the Khalar were the personal bodyguards of the Sorcerer. Battling the Fav'lhir on horseback with swords."
"They had some pretty good size starfighters more recently," Mack intoned tiredly.
"That was three centuries ago." Hebbs pointed one finger at Mack. "The Fav haven't bothered us since then. All we had out there tonight was a couple of rim-traders settling a grudge a bit too close to station." She shot to her feet, steadier and far more sober than she'd been an hour before. Mack wondered if it had been the coffee, or the fear, that had cleared the alcohol out of her system.
Though it was a fear she was denying, belittling almost. He understood that. Civilians had a difficult time believing that the Fav'lhir Empire would ever take an interest in the Khalar again. Lady Kiasidira had destroyed not only their ships, but their mageline.
Mack knew better. Even before he'd made the rank of admiral, he was aware that Fav agents had visited the Confederation for years. In the same way that Fleet had their resources in the Empire. But both conducted their business quietly, never doing more than that. Because while the Fav had quickly rebuilt their ships, they'd never been able to resurrect their powerful mageline.
At least, not as far as Confed agents could determine. So a peace, albeit an uneasy one, had existed.
"I consider the matter settled," Hebbs said.
Six orange jumpsuited forms stood and filed out after her.
Mack looked at the five who remained with him. Tobias, Pryor, Brogan, Rand and Janek. If the unthinkable were about to happen, he had the best by his side with his team.
"Keep all patrols on a Level One Yellow Alert," he told Tobias. He glanced at his watch. "It's late." Or early, depending on how he looked at it. "The rest of you, get some sleep. We're not going to solve anything right now."
Janek lagged behind, his thin face creased with worry. "Really think it's possible, Mack?"
That the Fav'lhir would openly attack, after almost three hundred fifty years? Or that Fleet was simply in need of a good fight, a cause. Like an old rivalry resurrected.
Mack knew the rivalry, the legend well. The Khalar and the Fav had been kinsmen, thousands of years ago. The Khalar had allied behind the Sorcerer, the powerful Rothal-kiarr of Traakhal-armin. The Fav had followed the Wizard, Lucial, and his sister, Melande the Witch. And been defeated when the original Lady Kiasidira, herself a powerful Sorceress, had sided with the Rothal-kiarr.
Then three hundred forty years ago, they'd sought out the Khalar again, not on horseback, but in starships. And another Lady Kiasidira handed them defeat. Again.
Would they try a third time? It'd seemed unlikely. Or maybe not. Halting the Rim Gate Project, or stealing its technology, could be a powerful incentive.
"I'm going to look over Tobias's analysis again."
"Then you think it might be a mistake?"
"I'm not thinking anything right now, Doc." Other than he'd like to close his eyes and sink into something warm and soft. With pale hair, and the most intriguing green and lavender eyes. She probably had a marvelous laugh that-
He gave himself a harsh, mental shake.
"Mack?"
He waved away Janek's concerns. "I'll have more answers in a few hours."
"Get some sleep. Doctor's orders. You've been pushing yourself much too hard. And you know it."
He did. But he had no time for sleep. He had a derelict station to renovate and a reputation to uphold. And now a nightmare from the past to deal with.
He sat in the conference room after Janek left and distractedly turned his empty coffee cup in his hands. Tobias was rarely wrong. But this one time, Mack desperately hoped the lieutenant was in error. The Rim Gate Project was on the verge of becoming a reality. Plus, he had over five hundred civilians on this station. Five hundred civilians who were, in his estimation, barely civilized and more prone to week-long parties than working for a living. Rumors of the return of the Fav'lhir could cause a panic. Chaos. A mass exodus-though as he dwelled on that particular thought he had to admit it held a kind of appeal. Especially if they took their damned parrots with them.
The rumors could also spark riots. That definitely wasn't appealing.
But the Fav'lhir...After centuries of silence. He wondered if Fleet HQ on Traakhalus would believe that they were under attack from wizards and sorcerers. In starships.
More likely, they'd see it as proof that their youngest admiral was cracking under the strain of his new command. He knew of a few who'd welcome that as an excuse to take the Fifth, and the Project, away from him. Diplomacy had never been his strong point. He'd left his bootprints on more than a few backs on his way to the top.
Not that Cirrus One was the top. But it would be, when the Rim Gate opened. And Fifth Fleet along with it.
And that's all he'd ever wanted. Wasn't it?
* * *
"You're sure it's not too much of a strain on you?"
I've handled more than this many times, my Lady.
Gillie sipped her coffee and glanced again at the data scrolling across one of her ship's real screens. Half the bridge still emulated the freighter, Serendipity. The other half had reverted to the Raheiran Raptor-class starcruiser. It was an odd mixture of metals and crystals, but Gillie barely noticed its disharmony. She was more concerned with what Simon was doing with, and to, Cirrus One.
Last night proved to them both that the station didn't have the means to detect the Fav'lhir, should they return.
But with Simon's help, they might.
It was taking away from his own repair time, however, which meant another delay in their departure. That worried her. And not only that.
You have your meeting with the admiral in half an hour.
"Yes, I know, but-"
It's not your fault. We've been over and over this, Gillaine Kiasidira Ciran Rothalla Davré.
Gillie winced. Simon only used her title and mage name when he was losing patience with her. He'd used it twice last night.
Shall I repeat what I told you?
No. She knew it by heart, though much of her heart had trouble accepting it. The Fav'lhir ship did not follow her three hundred and forty-two years into the future. She did not draw them to Cirrus One, nor did the Fav have any means to know she was here. Her presence here was not endangering the Khalar. The Khalar didn't even know a Fav'lhir ship had attacked them. The official report Simon read had labeled it "friendly fire from a private dispute."
Go meet with the admiral. He needs something pleasant to think about.
She almost choked on her coffee. "Then I'm probably the last person he wants to see."
False modesty is not a worthy attribute of a goddess such as yourself.
"Stuff a sock in it, Simon."
* * *
Mack did look like he needed something pleasant to think about. There were shadows under his eyes and a grimness in the tight line of his mouth. Gillie accepted his offer of a shabby-looking chair across from his desk. He sat in one in not much better condition.
The office, and the desk, certainly didn't match the man. Either the office was too small or the man was too large or both.
The desk looked as if it'd kicked around the station for seventy years. Literally.
Then she remembered what Petrina had told her last night. Stationers didn't want him here. His current office-with its plain, bulkhead-gray walls, dark deckmatting, and not even a small viewport-seemed to reflect those sentiments. Though Gillie had a feeling it was the office's lack of utility, and not beauty, that annoyed the admiral.
She'd agreed with Petrina's comment that he had a definite attitude. But pretentiousness wasn't part of it.
He apparently caught her appraisal. "Temporary quarters."
"You've got a lot of other things to keep you busy on station." Busy enough, she hoped, that he'd leave her alone to make her repairs. But first she and Simon had to satisfy his requirements of ID and clearances. That was another thing Simon's interfacing with Cirrus had delayed. Tomorrow, he'd promised her. By tomorrow.
"Tomorrow," she told Mack, when he asked that very question. He seemed to echo her thoughts. Latent telepath? She considered a light probe, decided against it. "I didn't get much done last night."
"Nor much sleep." His mouth quirked in a self-deprecating smile.
A wave of his tiredness washed over her. The man was exhausted.
"I guess things got rather hectic in Ops."
"As to be expected. Probably only a false alarm. But you may hear rumors. It would be best to ignore them."
Something that felt like a warning prickled the back of her neck. "Rumors?"
He shook his head, his eyes closing briefly. "Just ignore them."
"And my ID?"
It took him several long moments before he answered her question. Several long moments where he simply stared at her. No, studied her, as if he needed to memorize something about her. Or as if he needed...just needed. The sensation pulled at her, made her want to touch her fingertips to his face, smooth away the worry lines around his eyes.
He looked away suddenly, jabbed his fingers at his screen. "Your ID. Restricted. I mentioned that, didn't I?"
"You did."
"The security office on Upper 3 south will have it waiting for you. You can pick it up on your way back to your ship."
"And my reports?"
"Reports?"
"Yesterday you said you wanted daily reports on my repairs."
Dark brows slanted slightly. "It's standard regs. Until I can verify your transit docs."
She'd figured as much. Yet it sounded almost as if he were trying to convince himself more than her. "And my repair list?"
He started to speak, then closed his mouth. Stared at her again.
"You said you'd give me a list of permissible repairs," she said softly.
Tiredness. Exasperation. Frustration. And now, a twinge of embarrassment. It came at her like rapid ripples on a pond.
"I really think you ought to get some sleep, Admiral. You won't do anyone any good if you collapse from exhaustion."
"Fleet pays my CMO a good salary," he snapped, his voice harsh. "I don't need some rim-trader to tell me that."
"Then I suggest you listen to your CMO." Gillie rose. "I'll pick up my ID at security on my way back down."
She took the first set of stairs she saw, went quickly down two levels before he could come out of his office and catch her to apologize. Which he would no doubt try to do if she'd waited. She'd felt his mortification the minute he lost his temper and control. He was tired and angry, but not at her.
He was angry at himself.
She caught a glimpse of him leaning on the railing at U5, his dark hair and black uniform shirt a sharp contrast to Cirrus's gray metal backdrop. Fleet officers and orange-suited techs hurried this way and that behind him, but his gaze was focused two levels below. She ducked further back, slowed her steps. Security's office was opposite his, two levels down. With Cirrus's center atrium layout, her entering the office would be clearly visible to someone at his location.
She didn't want him waiting for her when she came out of the security office, didn't want to face a tired and apologetic Admiral Rynan Makarian. She was much more comfortable with the confident, brash, almost arrogant man she'd met yesterday.
This one caused unsettling feelings in her. Feelings that made her want to take him in her arms, caress the aches out of his shoulders and back. Aches that as a Raheiran and a healer, she clearly felt.
And made her want to allay his fears about those rumors that so distinctly troubled him. She was the Kiasidira, advisor and benefactress to the Khalar. Whatever it was, she could help him handle it.
But she couldn't risk telling him that, couldn't risk anyone finding that out. And she had to get the hell away from Cirrus before anyone, especially Rynan Makarian, did.