Rebels and Lovers (2 page)

“Now and Forever”—DJ Lithium

“Titicaca” (Firestorm remix)—Firestorm & Steve Allen

“Angel on My Shoulder”—Kaskade

“Infinity”—Guru Josh Project

“Move for Me”—Kaskade

His family was sending one of their corporate star yachts through two major jumpgates—from Sylvadae to the port city of Tal Verdis on Garno—just for him. And that, Devin Guthrie knew as he sat in his spacious glass-walled office on the fifteenth floor of Guthrie Global Systems’s financial headquarters, portended trouble.

Big trouble.

Devin nodded casually to his eldest brother’s image on the main deskscreen, deliberately keeping his voice noncommittal, as if the disruption didn’t matter at all. “A Trans-Aldan flight would be cheaper,” he suggested to Jonathan. Even if he went first-class. It would also be slower. That was more than reasonable by Devin’s way of thinking. He was in no hurry to have his life turned upside down.

But that only deepened his brother’s frown on the large screen.

“You know better than anyone that the restructuring of the Empire hasn’t hurt our portfolio.” Jonathan was dark-haired and dark-eyed like their father—the indomitable Jonathan Macy “J. M.” Guthrie, who, at almost eighty, was still the undisputed patriarch of Guthrie Global Systems. Jonathan also had J.M.’s intense, narrow-eyed gaze. “Your
time
is valuable. Additionally, using our own transport is safer. Especially with Philip resurfacing last month.”

Devin pulled off his silver-rimmed glasses—another
thing his family found fault with—and rubbed at the spot between his eyebrows.

He couldn’t argue the validity of Jonathan’s statement. Privately, the family rejoiced that the second eldest of the Guthrie brothers was alive. But Philip’s resurrection had repercussions. He was now no longer an Imperial admiral but had allied himself with the newly formed Alliance of Independent Republics—“traitor worlds,” according to Imperial First Barrister-turned-Prime Commander Darius Tage. And, in spite of the fact that the Alliance was in the process of being granted “conditional” legitimacy, sources whispered that there was a price on Philip Guthrie’s head.

Being a Guthrie—one of the oldest, wealthiest, and most established families in the Empire—might no longer be a guarantee of safety from a well-timed accident. And therein rested Devin’s last salvo.

He slipped his glasses back on. “Actually, traveling by commercial transport
would
be safer. Tage isn’t going to kill one hundred fifty passengers to get at one of us. But a Guthrie personal yacht malfunctioning at a jumpgate exit or never coming out of jump—”

“Would be viewed as suspicious
and
a direct threat, not only to us but to the Rossettis, Petroskis, Helfsteins, and Falkners.” Jonathan ticked off the names of some of the Empire’s more prestigious families on his fingers. “Tage is too smart to make a direct move against us.”

No, the emperor’s longtime adviser was crafty enough to cover his tracks first—or get someone else to do the dirty work.

Just as J.M. had Jonathan do his. “Devin …”

Devin held up one hand as a sign of capitulation, because he could hear his brother’s impatience. “Fine. I’ll check my schedule and call you—”

“I’ll wait.” Jonathan leaned back in the padded leather chair. A soft golden light danced in small sparkles through the elegant beveled-glass library window behind him, illuminating the hallmark Guthrie intertwined-Gs visible over his left shoulder. Devin’s brother was at the Guthrie estate outside Port Palmero on Sylvadae—a world halfway across Aldan sector from Devin’s offices on Garno. Most GGS offices had the luxury of a secure, near-instantaneous private comm link, which, at moments like this, Devin hated. The more common two-to-three-day communications delay afforded time to think things over and come up with a stronger argument.

He angled away from the screen where Jonathan’s image waited and tapped up a small hologrid. The data floated in a green-tinged glow. He scrolled through his appointment calendar, noting what projects were of immediate concern and wondering how far he could stretch those that weren’t. He was not looking forward to going to Sylvadae.

It wasn’t because his current residence on Garno held any special appeal. It was a world known for its casinos, theaters, and restaurants circling the Tal Verdis spaceport, but he wasn’t a gambler, he rarely went to the theater, and whatever fell out of his penthouse residence’s chefmaster unit was fine by him.

It was just that crunching numbers, massaging financial data, and coding investment probability programs were what Devin did best. He was far more comfortable with data than with people—especially when those people were his parents, his older brothers, and his brothers’ families.

And especially when those same parents had no qualms about using his eldest brother to force Devin to change his life.

Not that he hadn’t seen it coming …

Well, then, get it over with
. But he would do it on his terms, his timing. “The quarterly summary for Galenth needs revisions. And the stage six contracts from Baris–Agri are due in tomorrow with the Englarian Church amendments. If those unfold as expected”—and as he was senior analyst on both, there was no reason they shouldn’t—“I’ll be able to leave here by noon, Fourthday.” That gave him three days to firm up the Baris–Agri deal—a project that had been his primary focus for more than two months. He had to be here to make sure these final contract negotiations went smoothly.

“Delegate the revisions and the contracts. The star yacht will be there at half-past six
tonight
, your time.”

Half-past six? Devin’s fist clenched out of sight of the deskscreen cam. “But Baris–Agri—”

“Father advises you to be on it.”

It wasn’t just the tone of finality in Jonathan’s words. It was that no one—except Philip Guthrie—ever defied J.M.

“More tea, Mr. Devin? Or perhaps something stronger? Dinner will be ready shortly.”

Nelessa’s voice pulled Devin’s attention from his microcomp, where nice, friendly, nonjudgmental numbers were keeping him company on his flight to Sylvadae and keeping his mind off the reason behind his trip—and the annoying fact that the Baris–Agri deal would conclude without him. His microcomp was a Rada—a top-of-the-line unit that he’d customized to do even more than function as a pocket comm and datapad. It had voice and holosim keyboard capabilities and could integrate seamlessly into any larger
datacomp system. He’d already sent eight pages of notes to his assistants. And gone through three cups of tea since he’d boarded GGS’s corporate yacht, the
Triumph
.

The chief attendant from GGS’s private yacht waited with expert patience by Devin’s seat. The dusky-skinned muscular woman was in her early forties, about six years his senior. Her voice was far softer than her appearance; she sometimes doubled as Jonathan’s wife’s bodyguard when Marguerite traveled outside acknowledged “safe” areas in Aldan. Devin didn’t doubt there was an L7 laser pistol secreted somewhere under Nel’s pale-blue GGS uniform jacket.

Her hands, however, held only a teapot and a linen napkin.

Devin glanced at his empty teacup on the low table on his right, its thin white porcelain edges banded with pale-blue circles meeting at the intertwined double-G emblem. The same emblem was etched into the double doors of his office on Garno. Where he should be now—and wasn’t. “Tea’s fine, Nel. Thanks.”

He’d save the hard liquor for after the meeting with his father and brothers.

Nel refilled his cup, then moved silently back toward the galley just behind the cockpit. The
Triumph
was smaller than the
Prosperity
, GGS’s 220-ton yacht, which held twenty passengers in opulent luxury, with ten large sleeping cabins. But the 130-ton ship could still seat ten on a day trip and sleep six on an overnight, not including the crew of three. And currently, Devin was the only passenger.

Devin thumbed his Rada off and put it down on the table as his mind—tired, frustrated—strayed from the Baris–Agri deal. Was Jonathan’s choice to send the
Triumph
deliberate? It had been
her
ship—or, rather, Makaiden had been the first pilot, though on longer trips she’d share that command with her husband, Kiler. But, to Devin, it was always
her
ship. He couldn’t separate Makaiden from the
Triumph
, and when he’d first seen the ship’s distinctive slant-nosed outline through the spaceport terminal’s windows, all thoughts of Baris–Agri vanished. He couldn’t stop his heart from racing, his breath from catching, and his hopes—illogically, stupidly—from rising.

His hopes where Makaiden Griggs was concerned were not only illogical, they were impossible. And not just because she’d left Guthrie employ almost two years ago, after her husband was fired.

Her husband had been one of the reasons behind the impossibility of Devin’s hopes. Though a little thing like a husband wasn’t known to stop Devin’s brother Ethan from his conquests, adultery wasn’t something Devin would do. Even if Makaiden had been interested.

He told himself that repeatedly.

The larger reason was that Devin was a Guthrie, and Makaiden Griggs was not the kind of woman a Guthrie admitted to having feelings for. She was a working-class woman, a jump-rated pilot whose family was out of the wrong end of Calth sector, whose education wasn’t from a prestigious university like Montgomery or Valhaldan but at the hands of whatever freighter operator would take her on. She drank her ale straight from the bottle and probably couldn’t name one decent vintage wine. Or even a marginal one.

She and her husband, Kiler, flew Guthrie yachts for more than five years. Devin found himself—not in love, he would never admit that—
irrevocably intrigued
by
her within the first three months of meeting her. He was twenty-eight at the time, and she was—according to personnel records he memorized—a year younger. But Makaiden Malloy Griggs had a presence beyond her years—a light that sparkled in her eyes and a brassiness that hinted at an inner strength. A confidence. A dedication. She loved being at a stellar helm and made no apologies for it.

And she wasn’t the least bit impressed by the Guthrie name. Around Makaiden, Devin felt like a real person. Not a Guthrie heir.

In that way, she reminded him of Philip’s ex-wife, Captain Chaz Bergren. But in all other ways, she was different. She was short where Chaz was taller, her hair a pale tousled crop where Chaz’s was a rich auburn that curled past her waist. And she laughed a lot more than he ever remembered Chaz laughing.

Even now, the memory of her infectious laughter made Devin Jonathan Guthrie feel things he didn’t want to—couldn’t
afford
to—feel.

But then, for Makaiden Griggs, life was good. She loved her husband, even leaving her career with GGS for him. And for all that Devin as a Guthrie could offer, he was sure she would have wanted none of it. She didn’t need him.

Not that he ever tried to be anything other than a friend, a colleague—her employer’s youngest son.

It was that friendship that drew his father’s notice. And because J.M. suspected, Jonathan suspected. Which again made Devin wonder—as Aldan’s stars flickered in the blackness outside his viewport—if that’s why the
Triumph
was sent. A final, irrevocable reminder that his life would proceed according to the greater Guthrie plan.

“Dinner, Mr. Devin?”

He pushed himself out of the soft chair by the viewport and followed Nel’s beckoning hand to the small dining table on the opposite side of the salon. He and Makaiden had played cards here many times as he was shuttled between GGS offices in Aldan and Baris sectors. There wasn’t a lot for a pilot to do in jumpspace, and Devin always made sure he had a deck or three tucked into his briefcase. She’d taught him to play Zentauri, and, even though he was a natural card-counter and could memorize five decks, she beat him now and then, her thought processes craftier and more creative than his.

Stop doing the expected. Surprise me!
she’d challenged.

He’d wanted to. God and stars, how he’d wanted to. But—

Don’t think about that now
.

The sliced roast smelled good. The cream linen tablecloth and napkin were smooth to the touch. Nel poured a ruby-red wine into an etched crystal glass, then waited for him to taste the roast, in case adjustments needed to be made. Cooked a little more or some spices added.

He knew the routine. He was a Guthrie. “It’s all lovely, Nel. Thanks.”

“My pleasure, Mr. Devin.”

He cut another piece of the fragrant roast. The last meal of a condemned man. Devin Jonathan Guthrie, thirty-five years old and sentenced to marriage, without parole.

“Seven more days. That’s all I can give you, Captain Griggs.” The thin-faced man in the cheap, shiny brown three-piece suit grabbed the railing of the
Void
Rider’s
rampway and stared up at her with narrowed eyes. “You either pay what you owe or we’ll settle it the hard way.”