Redemption Protocol (Contact) (8 page)

Havoc gave Kemensky an understanding smile, as in, ‘
I’m
sorry, I didn’t mean to imply I was about to kill you, I was just a little surprised by what you said
'.

Kemensky relaxed. Fournier stood shaking his head, possibly thinking about coffee, walnuts or their pointless mission. From Havoc’s perspective, a mission to understand energy didn't sound at all violent, which suited him perfectly.

Touvenay nodded at a suited man and woman drifting along the wall toward them, examining the art. Lawyers, Havoc speculated. Her, definitely. Him, not so sure. He looked more commercial.

“Lucius Darkwood,” Touvenay said, “if he doesn't own it, he doesn't want it. This is his ship.”

Havoc couldn’t help but overhear Darkwood as he gestured across the room at the engraving of the rearing horse.

“And this is what the picture shows, Miss Bergeron. Alexander, thirteen years old, turning Bucephalus into the sun.”

Miss Bergeron was, Havoc noticed, looking rather more at the explainer than the subject of explanation. She brushed her hand through her hair.

“Magnificent, Mr Darkwood.”

Havoc frowned and looked back toward Weaver. She had turned from the fish tank and was, he saw, appraising him in return. Their eyes met and held each other’s. Her gaze was cool and confident; not aggressive but not weak or shy either. She was just looking at him and no apologies for that.

Kemensky glanced between them.

“Stone played her at tennis before. He said, 'shame about those baggy shorts'.”

“Hmm.”

Kemensky's tone dropped conspiratorially.

“Here perhaps more for her name than her scientific reputation?”

Fournier snorted.

“Bullshit.”

Kemensky stammered.

“Yes, well it's not as if... I mean, a lot of first class research, but...”

Fournier looked distinctly unimpressed.

“People in glass houses?”

Kemensky apparently couldn't handle such a direct assault and stalked toward the counter area. Havoc was looking down and sideways, absentmindedly watching Kemensky leave, when a pair of heels came into view, followed by shapely calves, thighs, skirt, hips, breasts, neck, mouth, eyes. Beautiful green eyes. Looking straight at him. Shit. He'd just unintentionally done a full one eighty on Weaver, his scientific crewmate, panning up in ultra slow motion. Even a complete moron, such as himself, would have been able to tell. Her emerald eyes twinkled, her head angled back a touch, her eyebrows slightly raised.
Well?

“Do you have girl scientists where you come from?” she inquired.

He smiled, his face acknowledging his blatant guilt.

“You had me at hello.”

Her face was a mixture of a confusion and amusement.

“I haven't said hello.”

“Well you've got me. What do you want to do with me?”

She frowned a little as she smiled.

“Do you play tennis?”

“Sure.”

He remembered that he didn't play tennis.

She stuck her hand out.

“I'm Weaver.”

She spoke the word with a kind of delicious and unplaceable continental twist.

“Havoc.”

She looked him up and down a little.

“You just up, Havoc?”

“I am.”

She smiled and raised an eyebrow.

Did I get you up, Havoc?

Goddamn, she was killing him.

Lucius Darkwood leaned over and shook Havoc’s hand.

“I'm sorry to interrupt. Pleased to meet you, John. Can I call you John?”

Rescue me through the wonders of informality, he thought.

“Sure.”

“I arranged for you to be here, John. Could we talk briefly before your match?”

Havoc noticed the question was addressed more to Weaver than himself.

Weaver nodded as she looked steadily at him.

“No problem. I have to get changed.” She turned and walked away. “See you over there in half an hour.”

He enjoyed watching her walk away. He enjoyed knowing she enjoyed him enjoying her walking away.

“Could you give me ten minutes, John? I have a meeting with Jack Tyburn, our security lead, first.”

“Of course, Mr Darkwood.”

Darkwood escorted the glowing Miss Bergeron away.

Havoc turned back to Fournier.

“You don't really think Kemensky is unqualified?”

Fournier chuckled.

“No, just a gossip. He's an excellent physicist. But so is Weaver. Her father's idiosyncrasies shouldn't color her.”

“And you do more than farm walnuts?”

“Oh yes. Sire children. Raise cattle. Grow coffee.”

Havoc looked at Fournier expectantly.

Fournier shrugged.

“Some physics.”

“And you're here to...?”

“Apparently the target system has generated interesting readings. Our Alliance leaders believe that it may unlock the secrets of ‘Weavrian energy’.”

Fournier said the last part as if ‘our Alliance leaders’ also believed in the tooth fairy. Fournier watched Havoc for a reaction and got one, just not the one he was expecting. Havoc was momentarily stunned. A short, tubby man joined them before Havoc responded, flabbergasted.

“This is an
Alliance
mission?”

Fournier’s giant intellect struggled to deal with such an easy question. He got there in the end.

“Yes.”

Havoc was still reeling.

“This is an
Alliance
ship?”

“Yes, technically I suppose it is. It’s Darkwood’s ship, but Horizon falls under the auspices and governance of the Alliance. So, yes.”

Havoc could feel the air whistling out of his tires. He'd awoken on a ship belonging to the Alliance, the civilization that had convicted him and sentenced him to death.

The tubby man stuck his hand out with an enthusiastic smile.

“Bob Stone, energy systems. You look like you’ve just met my wife.”

Havoc looked at Stone, bemused. Stone wasn't obese, just overweight. But no one above Standard-2 got fat unless they wanted to.

Touvenay raised his chin imperiously.

“I find it bizarre that someone would volunteer for a long range mission to escape other people. One will never live in closer proximity to others in one’s entire life.”

Stone shook his head affably, apparently oblivious to Touvenay’s acerbic delivery.

“I didn't say I was coming here to get away from people generally, Touvenay. I said my wife, specifically. And she isn't here. You’d know if she was. I’d be out there.”

Stone laughed as he pointed into space and mopped his brow with a handkerchief. Stone didn’t seem to have much of a neck; his head hung in front of his body like a benevolent vulture. Stone was bald and there was an odd shaped dome protruding from his head. It reminded Havoc of the blister formed when a sensor package is retrofitted to a fuselage. Havoc's face stayed neutral but Stone watched him taking in his baldness, short stature and weight.

“For my wife,” Stone said.

Havoc raised an eyebrow.

Stone gestured around his belly as he wiped his handkerchief over his neck.

“I wanted her to leave me. Didn’t work though.”

Stone noted the looks of increasing incredulity around him.

“Not my best idea.”

There was a pause. Then an explosion of laughter.

Stone ran his hands down his sides.

“Chicks dig this shape. Believe it.”

Havoc didn’t and from the laughter, neither did anyone else.

Stone laughed as well. He raised his glass and took another drink, mopping his forehead with his free hand.

“You’re welcome.” Stone leaned forward conspiratorially. “So we’ve got a few heavy hitters on this trip, don’t you think? Our Ambassador has got to be exceptional,” – Stone strongly stressed the 'x' in exceptional as he referred to the top level of human capability, then gestured toward the people filing out of a meeting room and making their way to the bar – “and those security types are going to be enhanced or more.”

Havoc smiled with the rest of the group, tolerating Stone's appalling breech of etiquette with good humor. One never referred to another person’s level in polite conversation, whether standard, enhanced or exceptional, it just wasn't done. Stone was clearly a little giddy on his first trip out.

“And Darkwood has got to be exceptional, if not an
ultra
.”

Touvenay smiled.

“Ah, the ultra question. Truly Gods amongst men.”

Stone tapped his nose.

“Eh? Eh? Hmm?”

Fournier shook his head.

“Don’t encourage him. Next he'll do other dimensions and the afterlife.”

Stone grinned.

“I still maintain that our Ambassador is an ex-ceptional character.”

Touvenay looked thoughtful.

“To get Abbott and Darkwood on board they must have found something remarkable.”

At the mention of Abbott's name Havoc felt his already depleted tires explode beneath him.

“Abbott? Michael Abbott?”

Touvenay nodded.

“Yes. You know him?”

“No.”

“But he knows you?” Fournier said.

“No.”

“You know his wife?” Stone said.

“No.”

Laughter.

Stone’s eyebrows waggled toward the blimp on the top of his head. Controversy, they waggled. Stone was loving this trip already.

Havoc, on the other hand, was preoccupied with the implications of Michael Abbott, Chief Ambassador to the entire Alliance of Free Peoples and one of the biggest hitters in all Hspace, being on this mission. Abbott was comfortably the most powerful person he'd ever been on a ship with. And on a personal note, wherever Michael Abbott was, his Chief Adviser, Stephanie Calthorpe, was too. Small world, he thought.

If Abbott was on a long range mission, Havoc could think of one reason and one reason only.
Contact
. Another civilization and presumably not human since they already knew all of them. Not to mention that you wouldn’t send a covert research vessel to meet them, and certainly not with people like him on board. Darkwood's ship on an Alliance mission with a top level diplomatic team and Fournier, a scientific genius, so presumably a top drawer science team. A covert attempt to make contact with an alien civilization. Havoc’s head spun.

Stone made a comment but Havoc didn't really catch it, he was too busy reassessing the room in light of his deduction. Did it make sense? He looked around to assess the 'security types' that Stone had pointed out. They looked more like the kind of people he was used to working with – and against, come to mention it.

One didn’t scan other people in polite society – if someone was worth scanning, they were capable enough to detect your scan. It was tantamount to announcing that you were thinking about killing them, either now or in the future, but you were still trying to decide if it was a good idea. That said, you could still deduce a lot about people by simply being observant. Mass was a dead give away for certain military subtypes. It was just plain difficult for a Titan X to disguise the fact that they massed three hundred and twenty kilos and had feet thirty centimeters wide. As it happened, it wasn’t hard for Havoc to recall the exact characteristics of a Titan X; they came readily to mind. After all, he was pretty sure he was looking straight at one.

The six 'security types' Stone had referred to were getting drinks. One man towered over the rest. Stone gestured toward the giant.

“Ethan Marsac. Looks like he should be in the gladiatorial ring with a harpoon.”

Havoc agreed. If he shook Marsac’s hand he would do it gently – after all, he wanted it back. Marsac was massive, like an Olympian God. Comfortably over two meters tall, he looked as if he had been hewn from a block of granite. Marsac’s skin was lustrous ebony and his head was clean shaven. Stone was right – the wives of the senate would have loved him. Marsac turned toward him as he reached for his drink. Written across the front of Marsac’s vest top, in gold capital letters, was the word 'TITAN'.

Havoc laughed.

“Subtle.”

There was a chance that someone so obviously broadcasting their capability was employing misdirection, but it was hard to fathom why in this case. A Titan X was capable and hard to hide. Havoc gave Marsac a 'high' on this personal threat scale. Only an idiot would want to take on a Titan X. He hadn't stayed alive by being blasé about these things.

Stone peered at him, his eyes bright.

“So what are you going to do when Marsac strings you up?”

There was a collective intake of breath at Stone's allusion to Havoc's criminal status. Mischievous bastard. Still, Havoc felt relaxed. He had nothing to prove.