“WHO?”
“It’s Project Leader Kearn, sir. He’s on a secure channel.”
No one turned from their posts, but he knew they were listening. The bridge crew had been wound tight since he had reappeared; tighter still since his upping their ready status to a preflight alert. They’d all received military training, despite their posting to a research and contact ship. There was a different feel to the air, knowing Ganthor were involved. They were hard enough to handle as tourists, Lefebvre thought glumly.
He tapped the arms of his chair, once, twice.
“Comp-tech Timri.” Lefebvre didn’t look behind to where he knew she stood waiting, a reassuring aura of competence about her. “Take over here. I’ll receive the call in my quarters.”
“Yessir.”
Once in his quarters, safely alone, Lefebvre accepted the call. “Lefebvre here.” Maybe Kearn would assume he was still locked up.
“Kearn,” said an unfamiliar voice. “I know you are in command, Lefebvre. You can stay there. Just get the Russell III up here. Now. Port Authority has a priority docking arranged for you.”
“Sir?” The word was involuntary. Lefebvre realized why. It was the first time he could recall Kearn snapping an order at him.
“We have a problem,” the voice continued. “What are the Feneden doing?”
Lefebvre hadn’t paid much attention to their neighbor. “All quiet. There’s been no activity since a large group arrived back at the ship. What’s wrong?”
“I’ll brief you when you are here.” As if Kearn could sense Lefebvre’s immediate resistance, he continued, his tone suddenly dropping into something filled with foreboding: “We don’t have much time to save them, Lefebvre. And we have to. Hurry.”
The docking was priority one, as Kearn promised. The station didn’t clamp holds on the hull, leaving them free to leave without notice. A wartime precaution Lefebvre didn’t like in the least. What was going on?
Lefebvre stopped pacing by the com station. “Any more from Port Authority on Underside, Com-tech?”
“They say—well, this has to be wrong, sir.” Resdick’s voice hadn’t lost its note of strain. “I’ve requested confirmation.”
Lefebvre braced himself with one hand on the back of Resdick’s chair. “Let’s hear it.”
Resdick swiveled his head to look up at his captain, obviously more puzzled than alarmed. Lefebvre relaxed slightly. “It’s the Ganthor, sir. They’ve parked their ’digger in a shipcity lot. Apparently, sir—apparently they’re claiming to be artists, participating in the Festival of Living Art. The Iftsen are raving about their contribution to the Gallery. There’s a reception underway.”
Lefebvre had one thought. Esen. He didn’t know why he saw her hand in this and he certainly couldn’t imagine how she’d done it, but he laughed out loud, clapping Resdick on the back. “Get that confirmed, Com-tech. But if it’s verified, I want clearance from Port Authority to return to Underside immediately.”
“Belay that, Captain.”
Lefebvre whirled, again not recognizing the stern voice. It was Kearn, dressed in what had to be the most garish assortment of ill-fitting casual wear he’d ever seen, rushing in from the lift with Timri in tow. He’d sent her to meet Kearn at the entry port, knowing she could handle him if necessary. Her expression was one of absolute amazement, and she waved her hands at him as if trying to convey helplessness.
The clothes and Timri’s waving faded from Lefebvre’s sight as he met Kearn’s eyes. For the first time, Kearn didn’t glance away or become defensive. Instead, Lefebvre saw confidence there, the look of someone victorious. Paul, he thought with sudden, heart-stopping dread. Kearn caught him.
“This has nothing to do with our search or—personal differences, Captain,” Kearn said with startling accuracy. He held out a trip tape. “Set this course. Then I’d like you, Comp-tech Timri, and Engineering Specialist Warner to join me for a briefing.”
No one seemed to breathe, except Kearn, who stood waiting for obedience with unusual patience. Lefebvre studied him, trying to figure out how a person could change so completely, or if he’d somehow missed this Kearn all those years. The worried look was still there, only deeper, more concerned. The receding forehead gleamed with sweat, and the hands trembled. But there was a certainty of purpose, a steadiness Lefebvre had never seen before. This Kearn, he realized, could be worth hearing. “Aye, sir.” He took the tape and handed it to the nav officer. “Get us moving, Nav. We’ll be in the Project Leader’s quarters.”
“Yessir.”
“Sir?” This from Resdick just as they entered the lift. “You asked to be notified about any change in the Feneden.”
Kearn pushed past him. “What is it?” he demanded. “What are they doing? How do you know?”
“We left a remote vid,” Lefebvre explained, moving with Kearn to the com-tech’s post. “Report?”
“Here, sir,” Resdick cued the vid on the small screen set into the upper right of his control panel. The ship’s surveillance gear went via the security station on the next level down from the bridge. “See? They’ve had a visitor.”
Lefebvre saw. A private shuttle, one of the expensive sort, sat to one side. Its occupant, a lone e-rigged figure impossible to identify by species, let alone as an individual, walked to the Feneden ship and headed up the ramp as though expected. Then the picture went black.
“They launched, sir,” Resdick explained, then added unnecessarily: “Guess it fried the vid.”
Lefebvre turned his head and met Kearn’s eyes. “Is this good news, sir?” he asked.
Kearn rubbed one hand over his face. When it came away, he looked like someone seeing the odds mounting against him, but determined nonetheless. “I don’t know, Captain,” he said flatly. “But I find it hard to imagine it is. For anyone. Let’s get underway.”
Lefebvre nodded, wondering to himself: who had left with the Feneden?
And why?