Free Redemption Protocol (Contact) by Mike Freeman Page B

meeting rooms.
    Abbott's penetrating silver eyes were framed by his famous lion's mane of swept back golden hair. On Abbott's left stood a tall young man wearing a cavalry uniform and leather boots. He had the face of a bull terrier. Havoc thought he bore more than a passing resemblance to the Emperor of the Neuworld Empire. On the young man’s shoulder stood a younger looking lad in similar attire; his boyish good looks, curly hair and blue eyes marking him out as a young girl's heart breaker. Both lads were gazing directly to their right, straight past Ambassador Abbott, and with no small reason.
    On Abbott's right stood a stunning blonde with long hair that curled around her chest. She wore a fitted leather jacket, trousers that were sprayed on to her long legs before widening around her calves and black heeled boots with pointed toes. She stood with her hips tilted in a beguiling stance that only served to emphasize her alluring curves. Her face was attractive, but Havoc thought it had a cold, alabaster quality. His eyes traced familiar contours.
    Chaucer cast to Havoc as he refilled his mug of tea.
    > Oh, to be twenty years younger.
    Havoc glanced at Chaucer in response to his private radio communication.
    > You go for blondes, do you?
    Chaucer looked amused as he subtly tipped his head sideways.
    > I wasn't talking about her. I was talking about the gorgeous young prince. What a stunner.
    Havoc chuckled.
    Chaucer raised an eyebrow as he turned.
    > You're in with the blonde, darling. She can't take her eyes off you.
    “Hmm.”
    Stephanie Calthorpe was the Chief Adviser to Michael Abbott and eighteen years ago had been the fiancée, soon to be ex-fiancée, of a certain Mr John Havoc. She strode toward him with her shoulders back and her head up. Her swinging hips tantalized every man in the room. He admitted it. She looked fabulous.
    “Hello, John.”
    “Hello, Stephanie.”
    She stared at him as she bit down on her full bottom lip.
    Darkwood leaned around the door of his meeting room.
    “Could I have a quick word now, please, John?”
    Saved, he thought, feeling like a calf hoisted out of the lion pit.

 15. 
     
     
     
     
    Havoc joined Darkwood in the meeting room.
    “Come in, John, come in.”
    “Thank you, Mr Darkwood.”
    Darkwood turned the privacy glass opaque. His eyes were dark pools above his aquiline nose and his raven black hair was styled in a sophisticated wave from front to back. Havoc found Darkwood’s appearance innocuous; it was when Darkwood started talking that he grabbed Havoc’s attention – Darkwood’s voice was authoritative.
    “Please call me Lucius. But as you prefer.” Darkwood waved his hand magnanimously; 'you pick', it said. “First, John, I know you have an important question and I will answer it right away.”
    They stood facing each other on opposite sides of the small meeting room. Havoc couldn't quite get to the requested level of informality, at least not yet.
    “Thank you, Mr Darkwood.”
    “The busts don't weigh anything, John. You can relax. They are micro-thin ceramics. Neither do the paintings, the textures sit on aerogel. There. You can breathe now.”
    Havoc laughed.
    Darkwood, laughing, continued, “every one of you military types has got worked up about mass . As you can see, I'm a great admirer of Alexander. I’ve had it suggested that I blame my esoteric interior design on someone else, my brother perhaps, but I say never be ashamed of the things you love.”
    Darkwood looked at him. Havoc smiled and nodded. The atmosphere was relaxed. Havoc spread his hands, indicating the ship around them.
    “So can I ask, Mr Darkwood, what you...?”
    “Ah. Why am I here?”
    “Yes.”
    “I had a regrettable advancement four years ago, John, you may have heard about it?”
    Havoc nodded. Darkwood's father and elder brother had been lost in space four years ago. Their ship had never been found. Darkwood's father had viewed business as an alternative form of warfare,