“Phoenix,” he said.
“Phoenix?” she raised her eyebrows.
“Yes, like the bird that rose out—”
“I’m familiar with the tale, Commander. You’re in command.”
United Fleet Ship Phoenix.
“Good then, our window grants us fifteen minutes to dock before the destroyer intercepts. I’m going to study up on these ship specs further. Call me if anything changes.”
“Might I suggest you change, Commander. Your tunic is bloodied.”
He hadn’t realized. He unclasped the front and while pulling it off, his back protested the movement. He tried to stifle the gasp, but it escaped his lips. He needed stronger painkillers. The neglected injury from the projectile strike made itself known in full fury.
Delaine looked over at him from her console, she looked almost concerned.
“Commander, what happened? Did you get hit down there?” she asked.
“It’s nothing. I took a projectile in the armor when I—”
She moved toward him. “Arms up, slowly, let me see.”
When he protested, she held up a single finger. “Arms—now.”
He raised his hands slowly, biting down the urge to grimace against the pain. She pulled the tunic over his head, unclasped the body armor and raised his undershirt.
“There’s severe bruising back here.” She reached underneath the control station and pulled out an emergency aid kit. She touched a spot near his ribs on his back. He flinched—whether from pain or her touch he wasn’t sure. “Shallow breathing, pain in your ribs, they’re badly bruised. I’m going to rub this cold fused gel into the affected area. It will react and release a cold treatment to the area every twenty minutes.”
He started to squirm when she touched him.
“Hold still, Commander,” her voice had a light tone, was she holding in laughter? She must enjoy making him squirm.
She rubbed in the gel and placed a reaction bandage over it. “There, all done. That wasn’t so bad was it?”
He kept his head straight. “Ah, no. Thank you. I’m already feeling relief. You have soft hands.”
She rounded in front of him, her face twisted into a mix of confusion and amusement. “Well I hope so . . . I’m not a construction engineer!”
“I mean . . . forget it. Thanks—Lieutenant.”
“You’re welcome, Commander.”
He nodded to her. “We’ll meet back on the flight deck to discuss the events planet side. Fifteen minutes.”
As he made his way down the ladder to the crew deck, he was sure she was holding back a giggle. He’d really made a fool of himself. An attractive woman rubbing his back turned him to putty. Maybe she’d just caught him off guard by suddenly turning into a sensitive and caring person. Without all the spy-front in the way.
That was definitely it.
Chapter 12 – Spy Games
Star Runner
Nearing Outer System—Rigel
Aaron shuffled through the storage compartment rummaging for his mission gear.
He slipped on a simple pair of slacks, a close fitting shirt—which didn’t restrict circulation—and a simple smooth leather jacket. Each color matching the void outside the ship.
He rummaged some more and finally laid hands on what he was looking for. After glancing at it briefly, he slipped the paper photo into his breast pocket.
He never liked the gym or any form of heavy lifting. A medium frame was easy to maintain and provided less mass for an enemy to hit. Every time he saw huge starship marines, he shook his head. Marines loved to lift heavy and get big and it made them slow and easy targets. In a firefight, speed was life—shoot and move.
Raw strength and large muscles gave untrained people confidence when fists started flying. Lee did him a big favor during the past two years on deep space patrol—the expert fighter trained him in mixed martial art techniques. Everything from Judo to Jujitsu and Boxing to Taekwondo. The kid was a champion martial artist across the core worlds.
The USSF granted the “Rigellian Stallion”—as he’d come to be known—special leave for one month each year to compete in the United Star Systems Interstellar Championship. He missed his tactical officer’s deadpan humor when he was gone. A high-speed courier collected Lee from the frontier and returned him. He represented the Fleet and the Fleet was proud of him. They felt it bolstered Fleet recruitment and image. Which admittedly it did, Lee created a stir wherever he went.
The Rigellian Stallion. Lee would get the best damn arm the Fleet could build.
His personnel device beeped. It was time to head back up to the flight deck. He shut the storage compartment, slipped a pulse pistol behind his back inside his waist and exited the crew deck. The ladder to the flight deck was just outside. He climbed each rung slowly, hoping Vee had calmed enough to be himself again.
Lieutenant Delaine sat to the left side of the flight deck and the XO sat all the way to the right. Aaron took the only seat left—the middle. The other seats were positioned slightly behind as the control station swept in a curve in front of each of them, a good place to watch them both.
“Vee, how’s that leg feeling now?”
Alvarez shrugged, just a blank stare. “It’s fine.”
“Right . . . tell us what happened on the surface.”
Alvarez took in a deep breath. “We arrived on Rigel a day ahead of schedule. Lee felt claustrophobic in our safe room. I managed to keep him inside for the entire day by agreeing to get a drink in the early morning hours. We walked for a while, found a few bars and had a few drinks. We played some old silly game with circular objects on a table which, by the way, Lee is extremely proficient at. Then we left.”
He then related Lee’s suspicion while returning to the safe room, and the sudden ambush. That’s likely when the projectiles struck Lee in his back. He practically carried the XO despite his own severe injuries. Unimaginable willpower and grit.
Aaron suddenly understood the reaction from Vee earlier. If not for Lee’s dogged determination, he might not have made it off Rigel. Lee not only shielded Vee with his body but despite the serious injury, carried him and eluded their pursuers just long enough.
“I think our attackers were Imperial operatives,” Alvarez said, taking out his personnel device and handed it over.
Aaron looked at the images and passed it to Delaine. “What do you think?”
She stared for a long moment at the screen and raised it closer. “I concur with the Lieutenant’s opinion. However, I cannot conclusively say whether they are in fact Imperials.”
“Let’s look at it from all angles,” Aaron said.
She nodded. She was the experienced Intelligence officer so she must have understood his implication.
“First, let’s assume they are in fact Imperial agents. Our mission involves infiltrating the Border Worlds Separatist movement. Why make a direct and hasty attack against us?”
No one answered immediately. Nor did it appear anyone was about to.
“I’m not looking for facts people,” he said. “Let’s speculate. We’re not taking a specific action based on our speculation, but it helps to thrash this out among the three of us. Three unique perspectives, of which I am sure Lieutenant Delaine—yours is the most critical.”
She licked her lips before speaking. “Very well, Commander—”
Aaron waved his hands cutting her off. “Stop. You know what, enough with these formalities. Next thing we’ll refer to each other by rank over open comms or in public space or some other silly thing. From now on, I’m Aaron, your outlaw boss. He’s Vee, your brother-in-law or something—no more Lieutenants and Commanders.”