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the truth. Then she said a name and watched for his reaction. “Adney.”
    Confirmation came in the slight lessening of tension around his mouth, an almost imperceptible nod.
    “That's pretty much why a lot of us are here,” she said, her voice still low. She didn't know why she'd added that information. No, she did. For some reason she couldn't define, but based on her cop's sense she'd honed over the past few years, she trusted this silver-haired man. It wasn't because he was attractive. She appreciated attractive—okay, her body did—but her mind knew attractive could just be a shallow package. This was something more. He was … He exuded something. An aura of command, of respect?
    Yes, command and respect, now that she thought about it.
    But more than that, she sensed that Adney's request was why he was here. And she wanted him to know he wasn't alone. Because in addition to the aura of command that ringed him like an impenetrable halo, she also felt a deep loneliness in him. A heavy weight that maybe had something to do with his injury, or maybe not.
    But it was there and it was palpable.
    And it wasn't just her cop's instincts telling her that but her years as the daughter of Lieutenant then Commander then Captain Cory Bennton.
    “Would you like to sit, sir?”
    “How long is the delay?” His voice was deep, resonant.
    “One hour, max, due to heightened security concerns.”
    He was shaking his head in dismay.
    The Takan on her left rose to his feet and called out to a group exiting toward the corridor. They waved. He headed for them in a long, striding gait.
    When Rya turned back, the silver-haired man had let his duffel drop to the floor next to his boots, its strap still in his fingers. It was heavy, but he wasn't going to let it go or out of his sight.
    “This is never a pretty maneuver,” he said, and, twisting slightly, angled himself down into the vacant chair.
    She sat in the Taka's seat, dropping her duffel to the floor. She caught the tail end of a half smile, half grimace on his face and realized her error. She'd said she was leaving.
    “My leg thanks you,” he said with a hint of wry humor, “but my ego is severely deflated.”
    She grinned back, doing another mental tally of him as he wedged his cane into a niche on the benchlike seats, then dragged his duffel between them. Early to mid-forties, perhaps; the silver hair was an anomaly. It was thick and, judging from some still-dark patches, had once been a rich brown about as dark as her own. Odd that he hadn't tinted it. Most people did. No one wanted to be mistaken for old.
    Maybe he didn't care what people thought. That piqued her curiosity as much as his injury.
    “Accident?” She pointed to his right leg, extending stiffly out.
    “Let's just say negotiations with a possible enemy combatant didn't go as planned.” He adjusted his coat as he spoke. She glanced at his hands, looking for a wedding ring, then chastised herself at the small warmth she felt on seeing his ringless finger.
    She studied his hands again. They were square, strong, the backs dotted with scars.
    No mere pretty boy, this former Fleet officer. Engineer, she thought. Or chief of maintenance. Worked with his hands and cared little about gashes and barked knuckles.
    “And the loser bought the beer?” she quipped, because part of his mouth was still quirked when he'd answer her question. Not a real combatant, then. Probably a bar fight.
    “Something like that.”
    His expression sobered.
    God, when would she learn her flippancy wasn't appreciated by everyone? The guy had probably been respectfully called Chief by dozens of subbies, and here she was making light of his injury.
    The schedule board flashed again, halting whatever apology she was hastily throwing together and hushing a good percentage of the conversations around her.
    This time there was a definite announcement. A two-hour delay for the shuttle to the moon colony, and a four-hour delay for the shuttle to