Local Star, Aimee Ogden [ebook reader that looks like a book txt] 📗

“Okay.” Her voice rasped when she set her glass down. Like her, it was more than half drained. “You know so much more than the stupid little wrench. Not the Ceebees. Then who?”

“Gods . . .” Both of his hands dug through his hair. “I don’t know. A subordinate officer with a grudge. Or a senior officer. Someone living on that Arcology who would rather blow it up than let the Fleet take it back.”

Skepticism knit Triz’s forehead. “A planetsider who just happened to be stockpiling, uh . . . Starblaster missiles?”

“A few arcologies and Habs out there are built from the wreckage of Fleet vessels!” Kalo argued, but he wilted under the heat of Triz’s disdain. “But, no. Not Golros. I’m just saying, the Fleet’s whole Fourth Wing defected three years back, and no one knows where they all settled. It’s not outside the realm of possibility.”

“Sure. But my Ceebee thing is completely wild.” Triz poured again but missed her glass. Clear liquid spread across the table and turned it bluish-black. “You don’t—you don’t have any more idea than me. But you have to act like you do. Don’t you?” She shot to her feet, black holes sucking at the edges of her vision.

“Triz, sit down.” Kalo pulled at her hand, but she snatched her fingers away. “Shitting stars. I asked if you were okay, I didn’t want an object lesson in just how not-okay you are.”

The neck of the pitcher offered a reassuring weight to her hand. It would probably make a good weapon, too, if he kept trying to get her to sit back down. “Suck methane, Kalo. I’ll handle this on my own.”

The noise of the birdflute swallowed Kalo’s objections, and the lift doors accepted her without accusation. She lifted the pitcher to her mouth as they started to whisper shut. A hand between the lift doors had triggered the safety stop. When they opened again, Kalo leaned inside. “Hey,” he said. “Just let me see you safely home. For old times’ sake?”

I don’t need any help. I don’t want any help. Especially not from you. The words had been in her mouth a moment ago, but it seemed the last of the ‘shine had washed them away. “Kalo,” she said, and lurched forward. She caught the front of Kalo’s uniform before darkness caught her.

Chapter Six

Triz was—

Awake. Unfortunately.

The bed was cold. Triz groped in the tangled covers for a smooth back, the familiar curve of a shoulder, until the last warm wisps of dream evaporated and she found herself alone. Casne was in Justice, alone, and Triz was—here.

She pushed off her cot with a sticky groan; her tongue clung aggressively to the roof of her mouth while her head pounded an arrhythmic staccato. When she swung her leg out of bed, her bare foot found a puddle. She bent and fumbled around, and came up with an empty pitcher reeking of ‘shine. Oh . . . oh.

Further examination informed her she was still fully dressed except for her boots and socks. Those waited for her at the end of her bed, just out of reach of the spilled ‘shine, fortunately. Triz left them in their place for the time being and emerged from her sleeping chamber for a dearly needed visit to the toilet.

She stopped and her stomach turned.

Kalo was folded up on the tiny sofa in her living area.

He hadn’t undressed either, except to take off his uniform jacket and roll it up under his head. In fact, his boots were still on and left dirty marks on the cushion where they rested. Triz put one hand on her clanging head, turned her back on him, and went to pay her dues.

When Triz left the bathroom, Kalo sat up. He spread his jacket out over his lap, trying to knead out some of the deep wrinkles in the fabric. He smiled ruefully at her. “I’d ask if you slept well, but . . .” He shrugged. “Sorry about last night—”

“Shut up.” Her lips tightened. “Did we . . . ?”

“Did we? Did we wha—oh.” He gave his jacket one last shake-out, but his expression had closed off from whatever openness had tried to put itself on offer a moment before.

Seven gods, had she hurt his feelings?

“No, I did not take advantage of you in your less-than-optimal state. And good morning to you, too.” He turned the inside of his wrist to check his fob. “Good almost-morning. Good I-survived-flight-academy-and-I-still-don’t-think-people-should-be-up-this-early-o’clock.”

Bile crawled up the back of her throat. She swallowed it but didn’t manage to swallow the words that went along with it. She was supposed to be thinking about Casne, Casne who needed her, Casne who was depending on her to put all this right. Casne was who she cared about. But the uncanny familiarity of having Kalo here, in her quarters, had thrown her off-kilter. When she opened her mouth to tell him to go, the wrong words spilled out instead. “What happened at Hedgehome?”

One of his shoulders came up slightly like she’d hit him. Maybe she had finally ended up hitting him with the pitcher last night. “What do you mean, what happened at Hedgehome? I’ve already told you I don’t know how that Arcology got destroyed.” He knotted his jacket up in his hands again, undoing any progress he’d made in smoothing it out. “I wish I knew, and if I did, I’d blast it from the nearest wallport to every interhab band I could get access to.”

“Not Casne. I mean . . .” She leaned back against the bathroom door for support, but it wasn’t enough. Her legs bent and she slid to the floor opposite him. “What happened to you at Hedgehome?”

He sucked on his front teeth and looked down at his fob. “I can read you the commendation if you want. Let’s see: For meritorious service against overwhelming odds, Kalo Ro-1 Ingte is awarded Allibek’s Wings. I took out nine of theirs, if you were