Forsaken Skies by D. Nolan Clark Read Free Book Online Page A

tell me to mind my business today, already.”
    Lanoe didn’t nod. Didn’t blink, either.
Cold damned fish,
Valk thought.
    Valk put a hand on his chest. “I’m Tannis—”
    â€œI know who you are,” Lanoe replied. “I looked up your service record after we spoke. I have to admit I was a little surprised to find you here. Tannis Valk, the Blue Devil.”
    â€œThey don’t call me that anymore,” Valk insisted.
    â€œHad you in my sights once. Dogfight back in the Establishment Crisis.”
    â€œThat’s right. It took every trick I knew but I shook you off my tail,” Valk replied.
    That day, when the two of them squared off, Lanoe had tried to straight-up murder Valk. The fact he hadn’t succeeded had come down to pure honest luck. Valk had been flying a fresh ship with plenty of fuel, while Lanoe had been at the end of a long patrol, running on fumes.
    It was the only reason Valk was still alive.
    Lanoe jumped down from his cockpit and strode over to get right in Valk’s face. “We were sworn enemies, back then.” He shot out a hand. “Damned good thing that stupid war is over and we don’t have to try to kill each other anymore, huh?”
    Valk grabbed the hand and shook it. There was no way for the pilot to see it, but inside his helmet he wore a goofy grin.
    â€œHow about I buy you a drink?” Valk asked.
    The pilot’s hard eyes twinkled. “It’s the least you can do after refusing to let me shoot you down.”

    Maggs took his time in the washroom.
    Before the gilt mirror he slicked his hair back one last time. Took a bit of razor paper to the stubble on his Adam’s apple. Adjusted the ceremonial dirk in its scabbard at his hip.
    He wore a thinsuit, a dress uniform. By regs his only insignia was the gray cryptab on his chest. Since his guests weren’t Navy they wouldn’t be able to access the data it held, so they couldn’t see his Blue Star or any of his commendations. There were other ways to indicate one’s station, however. He had polished all the fittings of the suit, burnished the laurel leaves that wrapped around his collar ring. He fussed with the Velcro patch on his shoulder, hanging his gloves there just so, until the fingers hung down like the braid of an epaulet.
    He put as much care into his appearance as if he were going to inspection at the Admiralty. One had to look the part.
    The washroom door cracked open and a pinched little face peered inside. Maggs vaguely recognized one of the restaurant’s waiters. “Your guests have arrived, sir. Thought you’d like to know.”
    â€œI’ll be with them presently,” Maggs said, not even looking at the fellow. He made one last swipe at a speck of dust on his sleeve, then stepped out of the washroom and out onto the restaurant’s back patio.
    Then he saw the Nirayans, and knew his whole effect would be lost on them. They looked like refugees from a war zone, more than anything. The girl was pretty, he supposed, though in that natural, graceless sort of way of the very young. The old woman looked like a gnarled tree that someone had draped clothes over.
    Never mind. He would be gracious, as always. There was such a thing as decorum.
    He favored them with a wide, warm smile, and outstretched arms. They did not get up from their seats. Ignoring the slight—most likely they’d never had to learn table manners—he pulled out a chair for himself and dropped artfully into it, one arm slung over its back.
    â€œShall I order?” he asked, picking up a tasseled menu.
    They looked flummoxed. “You’re Lieutenant Maggs?” the old one asked.
    He tapped his chest with two fingers. “In the flesh. You must be Elder McRae. And this, of course, is young Roan, your assistant.”
    â€œShe’s an aspirant,” the old woman corrected.
    â€œI suppose we all aspire to something,” Maggs said,