he asked a young man seated in the second row—the kid couldn't be more than twenty. He'd watched Philip approach, wide-eyed. Philip didn't know whether the kid had never seen an admiral before or an admiral who limped as badly as he did.
“Yes, sir. At least, I believe so, sir.” He started to rise. “Would you like me to find him for you, sir?”
Lots of “sirs.” His subbie should take note.
“Thanks, but I'll go below. The leg feels better when I move.” It did. As long as he had something to hang on to, like the seat backs.
He passed by the rear lavs and a secondary, smaller galley. The lav doors were closed, the galley empty. The stairwell behind that was more of a narrow ladderway. Belatedly, he realized negotiating that with his bad leg was probably not the best idea, but each step was also a handhold. He was halfway down when he realized what was odd. Except for his own grunting, it was silent.
He jerked around, freeing one hand to reach for his Carver, but it was too late. Two laser pistols were aimed at him.
“Don't even think about it, Admiral,” a pale-skinned woman in a bulky brown sweater said, eyes narrowed as she pointed her weapon at him.
Philip froze, his gaze immediately taking in and analyzing everything around him, including Martoni's still form, facedown on his right, and three other crew slumped, unconscious or dead, on his left. Relief momentarily flooded him because none of the three was Rya. But there were three crew down, four counting Martoni. He made a quick assessment of his situation as he prayed they were alive.
He was about four rungs from the decking. The woman in the brown sweater was closest to him. A few feet behind her to Philip's left was her other armed accomplice—a tall, dusky-skinned man, head shaved bald. Martoni's people, or two of the mystery fourteen? Philip didn't know.
But they were Farosians, of that he was sure. Tage's people would have killed him.
“I can either stun you and you can fall and break your other leg, or maybe your neck,” the woman said as the man advanced toward Philip, “or you can come down easily, let my associate take your weapons, and be in far less pain when we put you in the pod.”
Philip eased down the last few rungs. They knew he had the Carvers. They'd probably also find the L7. But he had more than that, and if they thought he was going to willingly be shipped off to Nayla Dalby's Infiltrator, they were wrong.
Not that he'd let them know that just yet.
His good leg hit the decking. He half-turned, leaning against the ladderway's rungs, and slowly raised his hands out to his sides, sizing up the man coming at him. They were about equal height. He could feign weakness, then head-butt the guy in the chest and hope the guy didn't shoot him. That might also give him the guy's body as a shield if the woman took a shot.
But they were going to stun him anyway. He saw that as her grip on the gun shifted, the man holstering his weapon now. Stun him, shove him in the pod, and—
Philip lunged for the guy, low and hard, teeth clenched in pain as he put his full weight on his broken leg. He heard the high whine of the stunner, heard the man groan out something as Philip's head plowed into his gut.
Pain blinded him as he tried to barrel the man to the ground and reach for his Carver at the same time. The guy grabbed him in a headlock. The woman shouted. Philip choked, wrenching, going for the small knife tucked in his belt. His fingers found the hilt, but the guy twisted him sideways. They stumbled, falling, hitting the decking with a bone-grinding crunch.
Philip tasted blood, and his ears rang from pain and the sound of laser fire. He brought his elbow up, smashing it into the guy's nose. His attacker went suddenly— inexplicably—limp, but there was no time to ponder his good fortune. Philip yanked his Carver out, leaned over the guy's body, and took aim at the woman. Before he could push the trigger, she gasped and crumbled to
“Yes, sir. At least, I believe so, sir.” He started to rise. “Would you like me to find him for you, sir?”
Lots of “sirs.” His subbie should take note.
“Thanks, but I'll go below. The leg feels better when I move.” It did. As long as he had something to hang on to, like the seat backs.
He passed by the rear lavs and a secondary, smaller galley. The lav doors were closed, the galley empty. The stairwell behind that was more of a narrow ladderway. Belatedly, he realized negotiating that with his bad leg was probably not the best idea, but each step was also a handhold. He was halfway down when he realized what was odd. Except for his own grunting, it was silent.
He jerked around, freeing one hand to reach for his Carver, but it was too late. Two laser pistols were aimed at him.
“Don't even think about it, Admiral,” a pale-skinned woman in a bulky brown sweater said, eyes narrowed as she pointed her weapon at him.
Philip froze, his gaze immediately taking in and analyzing everything around him, including Martoni's still form, facedown on his right, and three other crew slumped, unconscious or dead, on his left. Relief momentarily flooded him because none of the three was Rya. But there were three crew down, four counting Martoni. He made a quick assessment of his situation as he prayed they were alive.
He was about four rungs from the decking. The woman in the brown sweater was closest to him. A few feet behind her to Philip's left was her other armed accomplice—a tall, dusky-skinned man, head shaved bald. Martoni's people, or two of the mystery fourteen? Philip didn't know.
But they were Farosians, of that he was sure. Tage's people would have killed him.
“I can either stun you and you can fall and break your other leg, or maybe your neck,” the woman said as the man advanced toward Philip, “or you can come down easily, let my associate take your weapons, and be in far less pain when we put you in the pod.”
Philip eased down the last few rungs. They knew he had the Carvers. They'd probably also find the L7. But he had more than that, and if they thought he was going to willingly be shipped off to Nayla Dalby's Infiltrator, they were wrong.
Not that he'd let them know that just yet.
His good leg hit the decking. He half-turned, leaning against the ladderway's rungs, and slowly raised his hands out to his sides, sizing up the man coming at him. They were about equal height. He could feign weakness, then head-butt the guy in the chest and hope the guy didn't shoot him. That might also give him the guy's body as a shield if the woman took a shot.
But they were going to stun him anyway. He saw that as her grip on the gun shifted, the man holstering his weapon now. Stun him, shove him in the pod, and—
Philip lunged for the guy, low and hard, teeth clenched in pain as he put his full weight on his broken leg. He heard the high whine of the stunner, heard the man groan out something as Philip's head plowed into his gut.
Pain blinded him as he tried to barrel the man to the ground and reach for his Carver at the same time. The guy grabbed him in a headlock. The woman shouted. Philip choked, wrenching, going for the small knife tucked in his belt. His fingers found the hilt, but the guy twisted him sideways. They stumbled, falling, hitting the decking with a bone-grinding crunch.
Philip tasted blood, and his ears rang from pain and the sound of laser fire. He brought his elbow up, smashing it into the guy's nose. His attacker went suddenly— inexplicably—limp, but there was no time to ponder his good fortune. Philip yanked his Carver out, leaned over the guy's body, and took aim at the woman. Before he could push the trigger, she gasped and crumbled to
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