Command of the Blood Service: Book 3 in the Military Sci-Fi Epic by Allen Ivers

Author:Allen Ivers [Ivers, Allen]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2021-07-15T22:00:00+00:00

17

Deckard

“How often does this happen?” he asked, swirling the whiskey around the bottom of the glass.

Cassandra lifted up the decanter, refreshing his glass with more. “Regularly. But not often. A given percentage of new arrivals think they alone can break the mold.” She settled into her chair, letting one hand dangle off the armrest to scratch at a dog’s crooked ear.

The Lady of the House had quite the extravagant set-up here. Her desk was hewn directly from the stone, a work of sculpted brutalist art. Meanwhile, laminate flooring had been laid to cover the rest of Charon’s bare rock, hiding the planet behind faux wood walls—or was that real birchwood? Interpretive art pieces hung on the walls, splashes of color and shapes that shifted as he leaned. He imagined they had a more cohesive image from Cassandra’s seat. Her high back throne of a chair was all exaggerated curves and sweeping angles.

And her two dogs sat by her side, ears perked and eyes sharp on Deckard—he recognized a bodyguard when he saw one. At their feet were scraps of their last meal, bone shards and dried meat not yet fully consumed. Among them was a brown and mottled bone that looked an awful lot like a human tibia.

Where could they have gotten that, he wondered morbidly.

“How many make it onto a ship?” Deckard asked, pointed.

Her eye twitched. If it had been slower, he’d have thought she was winking at him, coy and reserved. But this was the crack in a shield, a computer glitching, before an icy smile. “It’s been done.”

One of the dogs growled at something. Deckard glanced at it, and the dog sneered back up at him. It might have been disturbed by a passerby in the hall, or by a smell on the air, but Deckard had just volunteered to be the focus of its ire.

Cassandra reached down, tapping one long finger on its shoulder and the dog silenced like she’d cast a spell on it. “For a man drinking my expensive whiskey, you’re awfully tense, Admiral.”

“I suppose I’m eager to hear Philippe’s response to our predicament.”

Cassandra took a sip of scotch, savoring the flavor. Not answering.

Deckard’s eyes narrowed. “It’s been two weeks, Cassandra. Has there been no response at all?”

She considered the intricate orchid carved into the bottom of her glass. “Not a peep. But that’s not altogether unusual for Philippe.”

Deckard stared into his own glass, looking for that patriotic flower behind the amber liquor. The flower looked twisted through the liquid, like a talon or claw. “He was sighted coming through Akagi. He’ll be coming straight here.”

Cassandra remained motionless, but she couldn’t stop her eyes from snapping up. That black shard of her mask shimmered in the light. “And when he does, you’ll be rewarded for your service. But not before, Admiral.”

This was beginning to sound more and more like bounty hunting, or mercenary work. He smirked. Deckard would be some kind of freelancer, next level power with a dreadnought at his call. This here,

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