Breach of Containment

He set aside, for a moment, the potentially troublesome thought that Chryse wouldn’t see Galileo as a threat. “So you’d like me to ask them if they need help, and let them know you’re concerned, and maybe see if I can get them to contact you with more details?”

“It sounds like I’m asking you to mediate a family squabble, doesn’t it, Captain?”

He did not believe Taras would involve him in something she thought was that petty. “I’m happy to be helpful, if I can, Captain Taras. I’ll let you know what Chryse says.”

“Thank you, Captain Foster.” And she sounded as relieved as he had ever heard her.

Later, Greg stood under the shower, organizing his thoughts, letting the water pummel the muscles in his neck. He couldn’t avoid putting the conversation into his official report; her comm would be on record already, and his command chain would want to know what she had said. But because it was neither dangerous nor related to Galileo’s current mission, he was not obligated to contact the Admiralty immediately. Regardless of his diminished influence, one thing about the Admiralty remained consistent: it paid to stay free of the sticky tendrils of Corps bureaucracy as long as possible. If the entire issue came down to nothing but a single conversation with a PSI ship, they wouldn’t be interested anyway.

Even though it’s Chryse?

Chryse, he had to admit, was different. Chryse was enigmatic on an unprecedented level. Many Corps ships had interacted with Chryse’s officers, but information exchanges were almost nonexistent. Greg had believed on some level it was because Meridia was so uncharacteristically open, and Chryse was going for balance. But the Corps abhorred opacity in anyone but themselves, and in PSI specifically. Even the most benign information on Chryse would be treated as important intel.

He rinsed off rapidly. “Galileo, how far are we from Yakutsk?”

“Three hours.”

He frowned. “How long was I running?”

“Two hours, four minutes.”

No wonder I ache. He shut off the water and reached for his clothes.

His friends often accused him of running to escape, to avoid the difficult things in his life; but in reality he couldn’t remember a time in his life when he didn’t run. His earliest memories were of sunrises by the beach, running along the ocean with his mother, his feet getting bogged down in the wet sand. She, with her longer legs, would run ahead, and then loop around to catch him from behind, sometimes sweeping him off his feet, sometimes diving into the ocean and holding out her arms, daring him to jump in after her.

But he didn’t, not often. Greg didn’t like to swim. Greg liked to run. And as often as he ran to stop thinking, he ran to ruminate, to have a space where he could turn everything over in his head when nobody would interrupt him or ask him to make a decision. Running allowed him to be alone, and these days, the moments in which he was alone were the only ones when he did not feel loneliness.

He wondered, now and then, if he should not be so used to loneliness.

He had just discarded his towel after one final pass over his short-cropped black hair when footsteps intruded on his thoughts. He looked up to find Gov’s assigned diplomat: Admiral Josiah Herrod, retired, who nodded when Greg caught his eye. “Good evening, Captain.”

“Good evening, Admiral.” Herrod, despite his nearly eighty years, was barrel-chested, sturdy, and imposing—and, Greg reflected, possibly the only person on board Galileo lonelier than Greg was himself. That was not because nobody knew Herrod, of course. It was because they knew him quite well—and thoroughly disliked him.

But nobody disliked him as thoroughly as Greg.

“Did it help?” Herrod asked him. “The running?”

Greg had, at first, assumed that Herrod’s assignment to the mission on Yakutsk was a thinly veiled threat. Before his retirement, Herrod had not only been highly placed within the Admiralty, but had been part of the Admiralty’s unofficial intelligence unit, Shadow Ops. Greg had learned years ago that Shadow Ops sometimes utilized methods that Greg—and, he hoped, most people with any soul at all—found reprehensible. He had never been clear as to whether or not Herrod condoned all of their methods, and the admiral had indeed helped Galileo from time to time; but he had also been part of the committee that had taken Greg’s chief of engineering from him, and Greg was disinclined to forgive.

But he had learned over the weeks that the man had some diplomatic skill, and Greg had grudgingly concluded that there was a good possibility he had been assigned because he was the best person for the job. In fact, he had more than once wondered why Herrod had not been sent to the Fifth Sector, where Central’s relationship with the wealthy Olam Colony was becoming increasingly strained. But Herrod’s combination of tact and bluntness had been keeping Yakutsk’s governors at the table longer than Greg would have thought possible. And for the sake of the mission, Greg could be satisfied with the knowledge that Herrod knew exactly why—and how much—Greg blamed him for everything that had happened over the last eighteen months.

“It did, thank you,” Greg lied.

Herrod pulled off his jacket and hung it on the wall. It was black, like an Admiralty uniform, but unadorned with piping of any kind. On Herrod, any jacket would look like a uniform. “Used to run,” the old man offered. “Found it inefficient. Too much time in my own head.” He cocked an eye at Greg. “Suppose that’s why you like it.”

“Suppose so.” Greg shifted; he was no good at small talk, even with people he liked. “If you’ll excuse me, sir.”

Herrod’s dark eyes grew amused. “I’m not an officer anymore,” he pointed out. “Your time is your own.” But he relented with a nod. “I’ll see you in a few hours, Captain Foster.”

Greg headed for his office, annoyed, feeling he had been bested in a way he did not understand.

CHAPTER 3

Yakutsk

In the years when Galileo patrolled the Fourth Sector, Elena had been on Yakutsk more than two dozen times. Baikul, the dome facing the luminous green gas giant Lena, attracted some light tourism—she suspected the doomed terraformer project had been their idea—but she had spent all her time in Smolensk, the dome facing the stars. Smolensk was serviceable and unadorned, without hotels or restaurants oriented to off-worlders, but Elena had always enjoyed it. There was an efficiency to the place and its people, a cheerful fuck you aimed at anyone who expected any non-transactional deference. Elena had received no respect for her Corps contacts, but her knowledge of machinery and her straightforward negotiation for the parts she needed had made her solid professional allies, if not friends.

She had seen some vid of the moon’s temporarily terraformed surface. It had been beautiful: heavy on low-growing flowers and rudimentary crops, with habitats built by the wary colonists slowly beginning to spread. The atmosphere, produced by the terraformers and secured by an artificial gravity field designed to keep the solar winds from sweeping it out to space, had turned the sky a lilac-tinged blue, touched here and there with carefully regulated rain clouds. It had the look of a beginning, a seedling, the start of something that might someday become more substantial. Early days on many planets were beautiful and full of promise, but Elena had seen enough terraformed worlds to have a sense of Yakutsk’s fragility.

When the terraformers had failed, she had spoken with Jessica. They both agreed it was most likely Ellis Systems behind the catastrophe. But in truth, she would not have been surprised to find it a simple equipment overload. That the colonists had been prepared enough to maintain the domes, never mind make it back before the entire surface became uninhabitable again, suggested they had never quite believed it would all work. Smolensk, at least, was probably glad enough to see the terraformers go. In addition to ordinary building and repair services, Smolensk had thrived on selling parts found among the debris that was constantly falling on the moon’s surface. The atmospheric controls in the terraformers would have deflected much of that supply source, and Smolensk’s profits would have taken a hit.

It was no wonder the domes were at each other’s throats again.

Between the diplomatic reports and what Jamyung had told her, Elena expected a level of chaos in Smolensk. Budapest stocked no hand weapons, so none of the crew were armed. The best Elena had been able to do was make sure she, Bear, and Chiedza were all dressed in vacuum-ready env suits, hoods easily accessible in their pockets, as prepared as they could be for physical attack or attempted ejection from the dome. Even as they brought much-needed food supplies, she expected suspicion and threats, or worse.

But when they reached the colony, Elena found her fears had been misplaced. Smolensk was not chaos. It was a ghost town.

She stood next to Bear as he talked to the import official, with Chiedza behind her double-checking the supplies they’d brought against Yakutsk’s intake list. Through the windows of the small depot, she could see the city’s normally crowded streets were nearly empty. Not that they weren’t lived in—all the walkways were covered in Yakutsk’s ubiquitous red dust and littered with footprints—but she saw only three people walk by in the ten minutes she stood next to Bear.

She had seen Smolensk during political coups, a strange hybrid of anarchy and brisk commerce. She had seen drinking and fighting next to mundane business transactions. She had never seen it empty.

“I’ll need to verify this with the company,” the official said. He didn’t seem afraid, Elena noticed, but he was irritable. Ordinarily, Smolensk-level irritable. Nothing to fear?

So where is everybody?

She looked over at Bear. “When are we leaving?”

He shot her a look. It had taken her some time to convince him to let her go look for Jamyung. This might not be the Corps, she thought, but he still wants me to know he’s pissed off at me. “Three-quarters of an hour,” he told her. “Do not be late, Shaw. If you are, we’re leaving you behind.”

She headed out into the city, keeping her hand over the folded suit hood in her pocket. Realistically, she knew it was a useless precaution. If someone wanted to throw her out of the dome, they would certainly think to divest her of her hood first.

She thought of Jamyung’s vacated scout and deeply missed the little snub-nosed handgun she used to carry on missions in the Corps. She clutched the hood more tightly.

She had not seen Jamyung in more than two years, but she recognized the shop from a distance: prime real estate, not five minutes from the port, a nondescript and windowless gray building, surrounded by a massive vacant lot filled with piles of junk. Neat piles, of course: battery parts in one corner, nanopolymers in another, carefully insulated crates containing logic core pieces, and one massive bin of conduit and connectors. When she had first seen it, it had seemed like a candy store, but nothing kept outside was particularly valuable. All of Jamyung’s specialty parts were inside, in a locked basement vault that was as large as the lot itself.

She rapped on the door. “Jamyung?” she called, and tried the wall panel. The door slid open—unsurprising; these were business hours—but the lights were off. She frowned, leaving the door open behind her, and pulled a pin light out of her tool kit, illuminating the space with cool gray. The room was typically Spartan, containing only Jamyung’s desk and a chair; but the desk was askew, revealing the trapdoor to the basement vault. He had opened it—or someone had broken in. She stepped over, uneasy, and blinked into the darkness. If he was down there, he was too far afield for her to see his light. “Jamyung?” she called. Her voice slapped flatly in the low-ceilinged space.

“He’s not here.”

She started and turned, her hand going to her hip for her nonexistent weapon, then relaxed. Clearly this was one of Jamyung’s scavengers: short, slim, dark-haired, beige-skinned, and dressed in brown—deliberately nondescript. Dark eyes blinked at her, neither pleased nor bothered.

“Do you know where he is?” she asked.

“Dead.”

The bottom dropped out of Elena’s stomach. “Dead. Are you sure?”

The scavenger nodded.

“What happened?”

“He got vacated.”

Shit. “What’s your name?” she asked; and then, as an afterthought, “I’m Shaw.”

“Dallas.”

She took the offered long-fingered hand; Dallas gripped her hand briefly and firmly, then let go. Polite, she thought, and professional, just like Jamyung. “Dallas, was his vacating part of the political nonsense that’s been going on here lately?”

A snort of near laughter. “Nah. Politicians didn’t care about Jamyung. He got tossed by strangers.” The scavenger waved long fingers at her.

“Like me?”

“Different from you,” Dallas elaborated, “but still strangers. Dressed like Baikul agents, but they hadn’t grown up in a dome.”

Damn, damn, damn. It seemed Jamyung had been right about the object after all. “Do you know where he is?”

A nod.

She checked the time: more than half an hour left. The least I can do is bring him in from the cold. “Can you show me?”

A shrug this time. “Easy enough to find him. He’s not going to get up and walk away.”

To Elena’s surprise, Dallas met her at the side airlock in a full env suit, tugging a low anti-grav pallet. Despite the lack of visible grieving, the scavenger had apparently already been planning to retrieve Jamyung’s body. She was not the only one, it seemed, who had developed some loyalty to the dead trader.

She secured her own hood and let Dallas walk ahead of her to open the door. It was a passive pass-through, like they used for the shuttle docks, with a short corridor used as a buffer rather than an atmospheric generator. She waited while the outer door opened, and together they stepped out into the bleak frigid darkness that was the surface of Yakutsk.

The sky above them was black and dusted with stars, but there was a tiny glowing lip of orange-yellow peeking over the moon’s horizon, diluting the severe night sky. The gravity was far lower than it had been inside the dome, and she gave herself a moment to adjust, gripping the edge of the doorway. Dallas was clearly used to it, however, stepping forward confidently, and Elena followed with slow and careful steps, growing accustomed to the bounce. The dome’s lower windows were unshielded, and cast artificial light partway onto the flat, dusty landscape; Dallas had turned on a headlight, and Elena pulled the pin light out of her tool kit.

“He’s close,” Dallas told her.

In fact, she saw them in the shadows, less than twenty meters ahead: bodies, perhaps two dozen, in a haphazard pile. Most of them, she noted, were still wearing env suits, although they were hoodless. Torture, then: keep them alive out here to think about it for a while, and then yank off the hood.

What has this place become?

But Jamyung had not been wearing a suit. She spotted his familiar flimsy overalls, the flat soles of the shoes that had always seemed too small for him. Approaching the body, she shone the light on his face: familiar, frozen, startled, dead.

Shit.

Behind her Dallas brought the pallet. “I’ll get his feet,” the scavenger said, and positioned the skiff next to the body. Elena walked around to Jamyung’s head and slid her arms under his shoulders. Light, here on the surface; probably light inside, too. Wiry and muscly, but never large. Barely as tall as Jessica.

“You’re my last hope here.”

Damn, damn, damn.

“On three,” she said, and counted. They lifted, and laid the body gently on the pallet. Dallas made an attempt to brush some of the red-brown surface dust off Jamyung’s overalls. Whether or not it was grief, it was at the very least respect, and Elena was glad of it.

Dallas pulled, and Elena flanked the skiff as they made their way back through the airlock. Caught by an unusual bout of claustrophobia, she tugged her hood off as soon as the corridor pressurized. She looked down at Jamyung; the ice that had frozen around his mouth and nose was already melting. “He won’t last long in this warmth,” she said.

“Got a place for him,” Dallas told her, and she nodded.

And then she noticed something.

Reaching out with a gloved hand, she slipped her finger behind Jamyung’s exposed right ear. He’d worn it on his right, she was sure; she had memory after memory of him querying his comm, telling her he was taking alternate bids on what she was buying, trying to drive up the price. She’d never fallen for his trick.

But there was no comm now behind his right ear.

She checked the other side. “Did he take his comm off often?” she asked Dallas.

“A comm means money’s coming in,” Dallas said. “He wouldn’t ever disconnect.”

She looked up then, wondering why she hadn’t asked before. “Do you know—when he was killed, was there anybody in port? Like we are now?”

Dallas shrugged. “I don’t keep track of visitors. Too many.”

“You saw them take him.” A nod. “Did they scrape off his comm?”

“Nope. Grabbed him. Hauled him off. Threw him out.”

“Did he fight?”

“Wouldn’t you?” When she glared, Dallas added, “Screamed bloody murder, hung on to the doorway. Took three of them to get him out.”

The doorway. It made no difference; she doubted he would have had that kind of presence of mind. Still, he had been right about people being after him, had made the effort to locate her to ask for help … She walked up to the door and ran her fingers around the frame.

And when she pulled her hand away, a tiny, blood-covered comm strip was stuck under her fingernail.

Comms weren’t guaranteed durable storage, although many people used them that way. Anything important, anything you really wanted to keep, was better passed on to a longer-term system. Most people kept their information on the open network, encrypted with bio codes: vids, games, books, messages from family and friends. Elena, when she had been with the Corps, had saved almost nothing locally; but even so, when she resigned, she destroyed her comm strip rather than turning it in. The one she was wearing now she’d had only for a year, and it held nothing beyond ordinary comms traffic and a few vids from her mother. An older comm, like Jamyung’s, would be packed with intertwined data, but recent messages would be easy to retrieve.

And the best place to find a decent scanner that could examine the comm was in Jamyung’s vault.

Without looking at Dallas, she dropped into the hole in the floor next to Jamyung’s desk. Increasing the output of her light, she straightened, and scanned the big room. It had been, not unexpectedly, entirely tossed; but Jamyung’s diagnostic equipment was more or less where he had left it. His comm scanner was on the floor, still in one piece, and Elena wasted no time adhering the comm chip to the tabletop and flicking on the scanner.

And there it was, right on the top, recorded less than two minutes before the comm was deactivated: a message.

She tried to replay it, using her own comm to amplify, but it was encrypted. Damn. He had to have left the message for her. What would he have used to encrypt it, with little to no warning that the end was coming? A number? How could she guess? An ident code? A bio key? His own bio key would be invalid now that he was dead, and she was fairly certain he wouldn’t ever have had access to hers. Remembering his cleverness, she tried it anyway, but the message didn’t budge.

A code word, then. Something he thought she would try.

“Jamyung,” she said. And then: “Dallas.” Maybe he’d sent the scavenger to meet her for a reason.

Nothing.

Budapest. Earth. Yakutsk. Smolensk. Rat-fucking murdering bastards. None of them worked. She was running out of time.

And then it came to her, certain and obvious.

“Galileo,” she said, and the message began to play.

“They’re here,” Jamyung whispered. Wherever he was, he was in hiding; she heard bangs and crashes around him. “They won’t find it. Don’t let them get it. It’s in the back, in the compost. Well, it was compost. The cats get at it now. Take it out of here, and don’t let them know. I don’t know what the fuck it is, Shaw, but you need to keep it away from these bastards. It won’t help them, not on purpose. But maybe it won’t have a choice. Don’t give them the chance, Shaw. Don’t—”

Jamyung took a gasping breath, and the message ended.

Elena sat back on her heels, thinking, pushing aside a wave of sorrow at the trader’s death. She still found his description unconvincing, and his anthropomorphizing of this unknown object didn’t change her mind. But he’d died for something, and whether or not the thing was really talking to him, someone had thought it was important.

She wanted to know why.

She checked her comm; she had twelve minutes before Bear would expect her back. She stood, and turned to Dallas. “Where’s the compost heap?”

CHAPTER 4

Galileo

Greg rarely used the off-grid anymore. Earlier in his career, it had been a last-ditch method of communication with parties he was not officially supposed to be contacting: PSI ships, off-schedule freighters, even—occasionally—Syndicate raiders, although in those instances he was almost always delivering some sort of threat disguised as compromise. As a general rule, if he could provide the Admiralty with a positive result, they didn’t much care if all his negotiations were on the record with Galileo’s comms system or not. The off-grid allowed him to use tactics of which the Corps would not have officially approved.

The Admiralty would know, if they cared to check Galileo’s logs, when he had spoken with Captain Taras, and what she had asked him to do. They would not know when—or if—he had managed to contact Chryse unless he chose to tell them.

Greg went through the door connecting his office with his quarters and let it sweep closed behind him. Some of his pent-up tension evaporated in the silence. He was aware it was an odd room, given how long he had lived in it: unadorned with vid, picture, or artwork of any kind, nothing personal except a few physical books his mother had left him when she died. For years, the Corps-issue dresser had held a still picture of his wife, and he had kept it long after he had realized he had no love for her anymore, long after he had resigned himself to hanging on to a marriage that meant nothing to him. Getting rid of it after their divorce had felt freeing, but also disorienting. Some days he walked in still expecting to see her looking back at him, pale and beautiful and not at all what he wanted.

The books, which were a more fond reminder of the tendrils of the life he still had outside the Corps, held half the off-grid, with the other half tucked under his mattress. He kept it in two pieces, just in case. As far as he knew, the only other people who knew its location were Jessica Lockwood, his second-in-command, and Ted Shimada, Galileo’s chief of engineering. He trusted both of them to keep it to themselves.

He retrieved the two clear polymer sheets and slid them together, laying the unit on the top of his dresser. It pulsed once, an almost subvisual wave of deep purple, and he keyed in Chryse’s ident. Greg’s off-grid would show up as Galileo on the other end, unless Chryse had more detailed data from the last PSI ship that had received communications from this unit. That ship—Orunmila—was in the Third Sector, and it occurred to him that, among all of the questions he might have asked Taras, he should have asked how much of PSI’s intelligence about the Corps they shared with each other. It might have saved him a considerable amount of time.