Cally had always been a natural. He remembered the first time he’d put a pistol in that kid’s hand. She couldn’t hit the side of a barn, of course, but after she’d fired her first magazine downrange and the slide locked back, she’d turned and looked at him. She’d been a skinny kid, the blond hair tangled and stringy practically every time she shook her head. And there had been a smudge of soot on the side of her nose where she’d scratched. The earmuffs had been big and bright green on the sides of her head, and the safety glasses tended to slip down the bridge of her nose, but the grin she’d given him had lit up her whole face. And as time went on it became clear that besides enthusiasm she had two other crucial traits. Her eyesight was unusually sharp, and her hands exceptionally steady. He’d taken care to protect both — the first from eye strain in bad light, and the second from vices like caffeine. There were vices more workable in budding warriors.
And, of course, she’d been stubborn. Couldn’t imagine where she’d gotten that from. He chuckled, spitting again into the spare cup. And the way she’d taken out the kneecap of that rotten punk who’d tried—
The door slid open and there, finally, was his baby granddaughter — but what in the hell was she wearing? The one-piece black leather-looking jumpsuit would have suited her cover tonight as a good-time girl just fine — if she had had her own measurements. As it was, the zipper of the black tank-style top half could barely be tugged halfway up without her busting out of it. And in his opinion, that was still an imminent danger. It made him want to get up and throw a blanket around her.
“Hey, sweet thing, what can I order for you to drink?” He spat again as she sauntered in, straddling a chair and leaning her arms across its back as the door slid closed behind her. There was a noticeable bounce in her step that he didn’t think was the role. Whores weren’t bouncy. At best they were blasé.
“Black Bush, water back. Life’s too short to drink cheap booze,” she said. The toe of one foot tapped rapidly at the floor, as if she couldn’t quite sit still, even though it was late and she must have been tired.
“You’re chipper,” he said. Life’s too short? Cally hadn’t thought life was too short for anything in a very long time. Something’s up.
“Progress report?” He took a sound damper out and set it on the table, turning it on. “I’ve already swept.”
“I haven’t found jack. I did confirm that a clandestine operation is being run out of the office. Probably the clandestine operation, but that’s all I’ve got. Getting the general into bed wasn’t a problem. Probably would have been a problem if I hadn’t, in fact. He’s that type. I’ve searched everything I’ve got access to and I’m working on the aide de camp, who has access to the places I don’t,” she said.
Was it just his imagination that her voice had gotten a bit husky there at the end? Oh, crap, what now?
“So, tell me more about this aide.” He spat, considering. “You’re planning to get access to the rest of the brigade headquarters space how?”
“Oh, that’s easy.” She bounced, blue eyes twinkling mischievously at him. “When those are the only places left in the office that we haven’t done it, somehow I think he’ll be… receptive to suggestion.” The way she licked her lips reminded him of the cat that ate the canary.
“You’re not supposed to mix business with pleasure.” Oh shit.
“You’re the one who wanted me to get a boyfriend.” She shrugged, examining the nails of one hand minutely.
“I hesitate to say this, Granddaughter, but don’t get in too deep.” Fuck. She’s not going to listen. Too late.
“Oh, I won’t. I’ll let Pryce do that. Really, Granpa, I’m not twelve. Could you order that drink? I wasn’t kidding about enjoying something good. Might as well, I’m already here.” She changed the subject, turning the chair and settling back into it so she could lean back and relax for a few minutes.
He grunted noncommittally, turning off the damper and stepping over to the console by the door to punch the drinks in. When he sat back down and she pulled her chair over and snuggled up against him, draping his arm around her shoulder for the benefit of whoever delivered their drinks, he had a few tough moments as he reminded his body that while this very well-built and nubile young woman did not look like his granddaughter, she in fact was his granddaughter. Now, if only this Pryce young man had not been met on a mission, he’d be welcoming the guy with open arms. Well, okay, if he measured up. Still, they were trained for extractions, and it wasn’t as if Fleet Strike actually needed all those lieutenants. On second thought, strike that. Any man worth his salt could be counted on to react poorly to being kidnapped. Well, maybe. The bait was considerable.
Chapter Fourteen
Fleet Strike was different from the old United States armed services in many respects. The fondness of the organization’s senior officers for the game of golf was not one of those differences. During the design phase of Titan Base, a bright and ambitious young life support engineer had noticed a way to fulfill a design requirement for hardy, nonfood perennials while simultaneously scoring a vast number of brownie points with senior staff. Hence, the entire lowermost deck of the Fleet Strike and Spares and Fabrications quadrants was very high-ceilinged and devoted to a lush lawn of specially bred grasses and turf. Getting the Indowy to sign off on the absolute necessity of the ceiling configuration had required the importation of a small herd of miniature horses from Kentucky. For some reason, getting all the signatures for the transport of the livestock had gone amazingly easily. The fans for computer randomized wind patterns had been more difficult, but still possible. After all, what was the use of generating so much oxygen if you didn’t have the ability to mix it with the rest of the station air?
Cally watched with carefully disguised amusement this morning as Beed cursed the headwind as he approached the tee for the third hole. Golf was a challenging game for her, especially in this environment. Upgraded muscle density, still there under the surface mods for Sinda, and her own inherent spatial awareness and finely honed martial training combined to make her easily one of the top three golfers on Titan Base.
Sinda Makepeace had nothing in her record to indicate that she’d ever even visited a golf course, much less played the game.
Beed needed flattering, convincing him that he was teaching her to golf.
The upshot was that on the golf course her acting challenge was more exacting than usual as she had to constantly evaluate precisely how lousy she needed to be.
The odd part was that a couple of times this morning she’d gotten the bizarre impression that Pryce was also holding back to avoid beating the general. She smiled fondly. Get a really great lay or two from the guy and all of a sudden I’m imagining all sorts of new virtues for him.
Out of the corner of her eye she saw him trip over the strap of the golf bag and barely catch himself by the edge of the cart. Next she’d be envisioning him as the world’s next great orator. Geez.
“All right, Sinda, dear, your turn.” Beed leered at her as she smiled back brightly, wondering how even a cover role had allowed her to see him even temporarily as less than the worm he obviously was. “Did you notice how I was still for a moment after making my swing? That’s called ‘follow through,’ and it’s important in this game.”