Dusk (Dusk 1) (6 page)

After an interminable time he felt himself grow hard within her tight sheath again, his balls complaining but his shaft determined to plunder her once more. As he thickened and swelled within the soft confines of her body, she sighed into his mouth.

Slowly, as if the movement caused her the same pain as losing a leg, she pulled away from his lips, leaving her hands resting lightly on his shoulders.

“More?”

For answer, he thrust upward again.

Olivia cried out in renewed ecstasy.

* * *

“Here are your orders. You are not to open them until we are out of Sol system.”

Lieutenant (junior grade) Sadaaqi spoke letter-perfect English, spiced with the lilting desert accent of his native land. The man’s swarthy skin flushed slightly above his dark, bushy beard. Pete got the distinct impression the other man would have given up his shot at Paradise to satisfy his curiosity about why this junior Marine officer had been dispatched out to the Rim.

To be honest, he would have liked more information about that himself. Neville had abruptly ended the interview, saying he had other business to attend to. The only thing the tight-lipped bastard would tell him was that he’d get full mission details on shipboard.

He grunted noncommittal thanks at the executive officer of the
Fallujah
and turned away, then turned back. “How long will it be until we hit Dusk?”

“We expect to make planetfall in thirteen days, three hours, twenty-six minutes, forty-one seconds.”

Pete raised an eyebrow. “Think you could be a little more vague?” he joked.

The Iraqi native’s face betrayed no emotion beyond a little more darkening of his complexion. “No, Captain. I do not,” he retorted stiffly.

“Okay. Sorry I asked. Look, which way’s my stateroom?”

Sadaaqi relaxed minutely. Most Naval types wouldn’t even have noticed the difference. “Your stateroom is two decks up, one corridor to the right, at the end of the corridor. We have given you diplomatic quarters, so you will have absolute privacy. Our orders are not to disturb you in any way until Ambassador Al-Aziz joins us on Unicron III. You may take meals in your stateroom or in the crew dining facility, whichever strikes your fancy. We have a senior warrant officer standing by with orders to accommodate you when necessary and leave you alone otherwise. You need only to input this code --” A slip of paper appeared in Sadaaqi’s dark hand with the suddenness of a meteor strike. He shoved it at Pete briskly. Somehow, he managed to cling to the paper without fumbling it. “-- And Warrant Kozlowski will see to your needs.”

Pete nodded approval. “Can you let Kozlowski know I’d like a couple of steaks in my stateroom? I have orders to read.”

The other officer stiffened, his face pinching in on itself as if a particularly severe cramp had just gripped his guts. “I’m afraid that won’t be possible, Captain. You see, I have sealed orders of my own to read. Just input the code and your request will route directly to Kozlowski.”

Pete grunted. “Okay. How long before we clear Sol?”

“We will pass beyond the outer orbit of Pluto in approximately three hours. I would suggest you try to get a nap.” Without another word, the XO turned on his heel in an about-face that would put most Devil Dogs to shame and marched away from the airlock. The double doors leading away from the shuttle bay whooshed closed behind him.

With a grumbled oath, Pete followed.

* * *

“Okay, was it one up and two over, or
two
up and
one
over?”

Forty-five minutes after Pete had left the shuttle bay, he was well and truly lost. The
Fallujah’s
corridor-marking system was laid out solely in Arabic, which Silva had never learned to read, not that it would have done him any good anyway. If the Fallujah was going to be a permanent billet, he’d have loaded the schematics and studied them for a half-hour or so before the shuttle raised, but since it wasn’t, he hadn’t bothered. He’d asked a number of enlisted types in Naval black, but all of them seemed surprised even to see a Marine on board. Not a single one of them had a clue (or so they claimed) as to where his assigned quarters were or how he should get there.

A couple of times, he’d thought he heard the squids break into snickering fits as soon as they were around the corner. The last time, he’d considered chasing them down and chewing wholesale ass, but decided there was no profit in pissing off people he’d have to be locked in this tin can with for the best part of two weeks. Instead he ambled around, looking for a corridor that looked like it might be the right one.

If the
Fallujah
had been a proper frigate or drop ship, Pete would have known more or less exactly where to go. Combat ships were laid out on a common hull design with minor cosmetic differences to allow for their unique battle support roles. The
Fallujah
, being a diplomatic packet ship, was constructed along entirely different lines intended to grant it superior speed and maneuverability at superluminal velocities without compromising the delicate balance of the Alcubierre-Fermi drive fields.

He should have known better, and his frustration only grew with every step he took.

Finally, he found a commpad on a facing wall near one of the lifts. Consulting the paper, he entered the six-digit call code. The pad gave two sharp pings. A broad-faced, good-natured-looking man with thinning brown hair and hound dog eyes peered out of the screen at him. His Naval black uniform was so crisply pressed Pete could imagine cutting himself on one of the seams.

“Senior Warrant Officer Kozlowski, sir. How can I help you?”

“Warrant, this is Captain Silva.”

“Yes, sir. I can see that.” Neither Kozlowski’s voice nor face gave any indication of anything but the most perfect military neutrality.

“Warrant, do you know where I’m at?”

Kozlowski looked down for a second, and then back up. “If I had to guess, Captain, I’d say you’re
lost
. You’re one deck down and to the left from where you should be, if you’re looking for your quarters, sir.”

Pete bit back a surly reply and tried his damnedest to keep the sarcasm out of his tone. “Well, if you’re not too busy, Warrant, would you shoot a line and take me in tow?” He thought briefly about asking Kozlowski for those steaks, but decided against it.

“Yes, sir. Will the captain be wanting food in his quarters, sir?”

Solves that problem
.

“Very much, Warrant.” He detailed what sounded best to him.

“Very good, sir. Stay right where you are and I’ll be up to collect you in a few moments.”

Without another word, the warrant broke the connection.

Just for contrariness’ sake, Pete moved five feet to the left and two feet backward.

“
Collect
me,” he muttered. “Collect
this
, squid.”

Five interminable minutes later, the lift doors whooshed open, revealing Kozlowski in the flesh. He bore a huge plastic tray covered with a clear dome in his Kodiak bear-sized arms. Compared to the hulking warrant officer, the tray looked absolutely tiny.

“Captain Silva, I’m Senior Warrant Kozlowski.” He nodded to the tray. “I’d offer to shake hands, sir, but…”

Pete smiled as graciously as he could manage. “That’s fine, Warrant. If you can just get me where I’m supposed to be, I’d appreciate it.”

The warrant officer grinned. “Glad to, sir. Follow me.”

It turned out that from the lift, Pete had only been about two hundred meters from his assigned quarters the whole time. Kozlowski trotted down the hall, apparently willing to let the senior officer make conversation or not as he saw fit. Given Pete’s level of irritation, he decided not to try. As the warrant turned a sharp corner, Pete heard a cheerful voice.

“Hey, Mr. Kozlowski! Up for a game tonight?”

“No, thanks,” Kozlowski said. “I lost the last fifty credits I had to you cretins last time we played.”

“Well, it would help if you weren’t such a shit poker player, Mr. Kozlowski.”

Pete rounded the corner and found a fresh-faced Navy kid facing Kozlowski down. Kozlowski looked embarrassed. “There’s an officer on deck, Hudson.”

The kid glanced Pete’s way and stiffened to what passed for attention in the Navy. “Good afternoon, sir,” he barked.

“As you were,” Pete said quickly.

The kid slunk away without another word, nodding to Pete as he passed. Pete eyeballed Kozlowski’s back. “Isn’t playing for money against regs?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, sir. I never heard anyone say anything about playing for money. If that happened on
this
ship, I’d have the perpetrators disciplined. Rigidly.” He paused at a blank door and raised an eyebrow at Pete.

Pete smiled. “Uh-huh.”

“Here are your quarters, sir.” Kozlowski waved at the palm scanner by the door. “It’s already keyed to your ’print, sir. Until this ship reaches Dusk, you’re the only one who can enter it.”

His eyebrows shot heavenward. “The only one?”

“As in the only one, Captain. Not even the Skipper can get in here without your say-so.”

The elaborate precautions made Pete a little uneasy. The last time he’d dealt with anything on the order of this cloak-and-dagger affair, a lot of good Marines had died over a few credits’ worth of uranium ore on a backwater planet most of Terra couldn’t locate if they had God Himself pointing the way. His neck prickled at the distinctly uncomfortable memory.

He supposed it always would.

Stepping around Kozlowski, he pressed his palm to the reader. It glowed a cold blue for a moment, then flashed a friendly green. The door slid into the wall, allowing him access to his quarters.

Apparently diplomats live well
, he thought enviously. One whole wall of the suite opened out onto an expansive starscape. As he watched, the lower curve of the immense bulge of Jupiter slid by in the upper half of the wall. Tearing his eyes away from the gas giant, he took stock of his surroundings.

The bed was about the size of a California king, covered with a comforter in a busy silver pattern. Directly across from that, a small alcove contained a desk with a built-in reading light and a holo panel. On the left of the desk were two sliding doors that he guessed led into a closet. On the right was another door. He nodded at it and shot Kozlowski a quizzical look.

“The head, Captain.”

“Got it. Always good to know where you’re going to piss,” he said in a feeble attempt at humor.

“Yes, sir.” Kozlowski’s face might as well have belonged to a sculpture. “Where should I put your food?”

Pete looked around and saw a small table near the bed. “It’ll be fine there, Warrant.”

“Sir.” Without ceremony or wasted motion, the beefy man placed the tray on the table.

“Will the Captain be needing anything else, sir?”

He shook his head, then checked himself. “Actually one thing, and then you’re dismissed, Kozlowski. You can tell me what your function is on this mission. There’s no way you would have been assigned to me just to make sure I get whatever I want to eat.”

Kozlowski’s face went perfectly blank. “They didn’t, sir, but I’m not at liberty to disclose that right now. It should be in your orders. Otherwise, I’ll explain when we arrive at Dusk.”

Pete frowned, but didn’t force the issue. “Okay, Kozlowski. What time’s breakfast?”

“Breakfast is available any time you’d like, Captain. The galley on board sets a pretty good table, if I say so myself.”

“Very well, Kozlowski. Dismissed.”

“Sir.”

For a large man, the warrant officer moved quickly and silently. Pete didn’t even hear the door close as he left.

With a sigh, he moved the small table closer to the desk and commanded it on. Once the display was up and running, he ordered, “Display all known information about planet Dusk.”

He popped the cover off the tray and was rewarded with a faceful of fragrant steam from the two large T-bone steaks, just cooked enough to be able to say they had been, the mashed potatoes covered in Cheddar cheese and sour cream, green beans, and two large dinner rolls. In one corner a thick tube rode, clipped to the tray. He picked it up and twisted the top. It immediately frosted and came away from the body. Tipping the cylinder up produced a stream of reddish-brown liquid that flowed into the chilled tumbler. He took a small sip, then a more robust one.

“Fresh-brewed iced tea. Well, I’ll be damned.” He chuckled.

“Your information is ready,” came a pleasant, soft feminine voice from behind him.

He jerked slightly and turned as fast as he dared without slopping tea all over the floor. The holoscreen bore the same information in a flowing, liquid script.

“Your information is ready,” the holo said again.

“Display,” he commanded, seating himself. As he located knife, fork, and napkin, the screen filled with information on Dusk.

“Readout,” he added, cutting into a tender, juicy piece of prime Terran ribeye, listening intently as the computer read out pertinent information about Dusk’s location, history, and important laws.

When the cool, feminine voice completed the readout, Pete murmured, “Hmm. Display off.”

As the holoscreen’s glow faded from the room, he pushed the demolished tray away and withdrew the small envelope. Breaking the seal with his thumbnail, he peered inside, then turned the envelope upside down so the contents tumbled into his palm.

A small strip of red plas emblazoned with black lettering and two tiny silver eagles glinted up at him.

The eagles, ancient symbols of a colonel’s rank, jarred him, even though he’d been expecting them.

The red plas strip, on the other hand, scared the hell out of him. Only orders that were so confidential the bearer would be required to commit suicide if necessary to keep them secure were marked that way.

What the
fuck
have I gotten myself into now
?

Resignedly, he fed the strip into the holoscreen’s data slot.

Merrick guided the ’car into the docking facility on manual control. Despite the half a bottle of Merlot he’d drunk with Olivia, his hands were sure and steady on the controls as he nosed the ’car toward his slot and brought it down. The landing was so precise and light that Olivia had to do a double-take to verify they had in fact stopped.