Trouble’s computer projected a second line and ran a compass between the two. “Somewhere between three and four degrees,” Mac said.
“And the bow looks like it’s got a bit of a twist on it,” Trouble noted. “That ship’s not only been bent, it’s been torqued.”
“At least this one is back,” Crossie said. “Where’s the rest of the fleet?”
That brought a round of scowls of biblical proportions.
“Was that Vicky Peterwald?” Ray asked. “What she doing on the Wasp?”
No one had an answer for that question.
“Well, at least she’s back,” Ray muttered, half to himself. “I may be stuck explaining to that new Emperor bastard that my great-granddaughter misplaced one of his battle squadrons, but at least I won’t have to tell him my girl got his girl all dead.”
“He might not be all that bothered if you had,” Crossie said.
“Huh?” came from those who were dads, granddads, and more.
“Harry’s new wife is pregnant with a boy,” Crossie said as if letting them in on a big secret. “There seem to have been several attempts to clear the Grand Duchess Victoria from the line of succession.”
“Attempts?” Ray said slowly, once again needing time to get the drift of one of Crossie’s corkscrew conversations.
“There are reports that assassins have been going after Vicky Peterwald. Likely paid for by her new and loving stepmother.”
“It sounds like something out of an old fairy tale,” Trouble growled.
“Why didn’t you tell me about this?” Ray snapped at his Chief of Intelligence.
“I did, sir. Don’t you remember?”
Ray said he didn’t, and Trouble was willing to bet good Wardhaven dollars that neither the king nor Trouble was being taken in by Crossie’s fib.
The spy was so busy spinning and twisting his tales that Trouble frequently found him coming and going at the same time. Minor things like this were just annoying. But these minor dodges left the question hanging. Was Crossie up to some major shenanigans that he had yet to be caught in?
Once again, Trouble was glad he’d lived the simple life of a fighting man in his day and didn’t have to rely on Crossie for much of anything but entertainment.
“Well, if the Wasp is back, there could be more ships following in her wake,” Mac offered, hopefully. “This whole situation is taking time to get to us. Who knows what they’ve got out there now.”
“Don’t you just hate the speed-of-light limit?” Trouble said, dryly. “Crossie, can’t some of your more slippery types come up with a way to break that law?”
“We’re working on it,” the spy said, darkly.
“We’ve been working on it for four hundred years and, other than the jump points the Three left behind for us, we aren’t any closer,” Mac growled softly.
“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” Ray said, “enough of this philosophizing. I need to know what kind of hot potato Kris is dropping into our laps.”
Trouble frowned at the other guy who shared the honor of having Kris for a great-granddaughter. “Aren’t you being a bit of a pessimist? Can’t we just be happy Kris is back from the other side of the galaxy, that she’s survived whatever battle she fought with those damn neutron torpedoes you gave her? She’s here, and from the looks of that boat, it must have been a hell of a fight. The likes of which I haven’t seen hereabouts since you and I were a lot younger and having fun doing things we could lie and laugh about much later.”
Ray scowled at Trouble. The others kept very quiet.
“Forgive me, Trouble, but from the political side, I find it better to be a pessimist where our young Kris is concerned,” the king said. “Dollars to donut holes, and I mean the empty kind, she’s got a whole lot of problems following her home. Not cute puppies, more like big-teethed monsters with nasty dispositions.”
“Have it your own way,” Trouble said. “I prefer not to go looking for trouble. Enough will come along with my name on it faster than I care for.”
The room fell silent. The fall turned out to be quite a long one.
The commlink finally broke it.
“We have the message from Admiral Santiago, sir.”
“Well, read it,” the king growled.
“‘Attached is the only exchange we had with Kris and the Wasp. As you can see, we’ve ordered them not to talk and to proceed to Chance. I will keep you informed of what transpires. However, if they do as we told them, there will be no more information for the next thirty hours.’ That is all the message said, sir.”
A curt “Thank you” was all the king said before he tapped his commlink off.
“That doesn’t tell us a whole lot,” Crossie said.
“You want to have Sandy request a full report from Kris so she can forward it to us?” Trouble asked, his own answer clearly embedded in the question.
“Not on your life,” Mac said. “If Sandy’s first message got intercepted and spread all over the media, think of what would happen to the whole report.”
“It’s more likely that someone on High Chance spilled the beans to the media,” Crossie said, “than that our ciphers are compromised.”
“And if Kris sends her report to High Chance, and from there to here, what do you think are the odds someone along the way will see a huge paycheck in it?” the king snapped. “No. We wait and try to keep that report off the comm net as much as we can. This is going to be a big enough mess without its getting out before we can manage it.”
“Manipulate it, huh?” Trouble said.
He and Ray had been around this bush before. They’d beaten around it so many times that Trouble was amazed the bush was still standing. Still, it was a nasty bush, rooted in the media’s demand to know too much and political wishes and whims not to let any of their screwups see the light of day.
Trouble shook his head. This was not a political screwup. Kris had found a mess out there and, if Trouble knew the girl, had done her best to handle it. There was nothing here to hide. The people needed to know what the whole human race faced, and this ought to be handled on the straight up-and-up.
But Trouble doubted it would go that way. Not with Crossie in the room.
And not with Ray becoming more and more the politician.
Where are you, my old fighting buddy?
The conversation went on like that for the next hour. All kinds of possible ghosts and hobgoblins were invited out into the parlor and talked about until they were beating a dead horse. Or hobgoblin.
Of course, with hobgoblins, unlike horses, they come back to life the more you beat them.
After an hour, Trouble had had enough.
“I left my wife in a Greek restaurant with several fine-looking young waiters. She promised to take only my dinner home, but even if she did, the chow is getting cold. If you fellows can’t think of anything new to toss around, I think I’ll mosey along home and keep the home fires burning. Ray, you got my number. You know where I live. Anything new comes in, you holler, and I’ll come running.”
“You can bet I’ll holler,” Ray said, looking half-distracted by the last ghost they had put to rest but which was, undoubtedly, troubling him still.
So Trouble made his way back through all the security. The watch had changed while he was in with the king. He got to smile at a lot of new folks who, no doubt, would go home to their wives, sweethearts, and in the case of some of the younger ones, their old man, and tell them they’d seen a legend tonight.
Well, this legend was more than a little bothered by the other legend he’d wasted an evening with.
He’d come in knowing Kris was back. He left four hours later knowing that Kris was back. But her ship was all bent out of shape and looking like little more than a wreck.
Recalling the external picture of the Wasp, Trouble stood stock-still as the elevator dropped thirty floors. The ship had been bent… but not shot up!
No, he hadn’t seen anything that looked like a laser hit!
Of course, they were using the Smart Metal ^ TM to make a kind of shield. He checked with his computer, and it verified his own recollections.
