The Cold Between

She went white under her freckles, but he saw her straighten. “Yes, sir,” she said. She hesitated for a moment. “Do you need me to stay?”

She had followed his eyes and was watching Elena as she ran her hands along the shuttle’s exterior. “That’s all right, Jess,” he replied, more gently. “Just get the others together.”

She gave him a salute and disappeared out into the hallway. He closed his eyes for a moment, wishing for the last six months of his life back, then entered the hangar.

Elena looked up at his step, and she stiffened, all that liquid grace gone, waiting for him to reach her. He caught sight, as he drew closer, of a bruise on her neck—no, he realized, momentarily disconcerted, not a bruise. She had found company. It surprised him—it was unlike her to move on so quickly from a broken love affair. He wondered who it was; he had not noticed her showing an interest in anyone since her breakup with Danny Lancaster. Then again, he had always done his best not to look.

He stopped in front of her, and unlike Will Valentis she held his gaze, her dark eyes steady. She had never shown him any deference, even years ago when she was just another ensign under his command. And just like she had every time he spoke to her, in every conversation they had had for seven years, she saw it in his face before he made a sound. Her eyes widened with dread.

“Who is it?”

Of course she would know what had happened. There was a particular flavor to it, the death of one of their own. “I’m sorry, Elena,” he said. “It’s Danny. He’s been killed.”

He watched her face change, stage by stage: astonishment, doubt, denial, anger. Her eyes flashed, sharp and flinty. “Are you sure?”

“They have his ident. I’ll send Doctor Hastings down to verify, but there’s really no question.”

Her fingers convulsed against the ship. She turned away and then froze, as if she was trapped in a small space. “What happened? He drinks too much, all the time, was that it? Did he—”

Damn all colonies straight to hell. “He was murdered, Elena. I’m sorry.”

For a moment she did not react at all, and he thought he would have to repeat it. But then she said, “What?”

He looked away, reflexively running a hand over his short-cropped hair. “He was knifed. His comm was taken. For what it’s worth they’ve arrested a suspect—someone they’ve been watching for a while.” He left it at that; she did not need to know the rest. The rest he would take up with Will after the news of Lancaster was public and he did not have to rein in his emotions anymore.

“So you’re telling me he was mugged. That Danny was killed over money.” She pushed herself away from the shuttle, turning her back to him, her arms wrapped around herself. Her spine was stiff, but he could see how fast she was breathing. Rage and grief; he had been through it with her before, when Jake had been killed. When they had still been friends. “How long will they let us stay?” she asked, her voice low.

They meant Central. Elena knew the rules. “I haven’t spoken with them yet.” Mindful of Herrod’s order to depart that morning, he was waiting for more intel from the Novanadyr police department before he informed the admiral of his intent to remain. He thought he knew how Herrod would respond, but despite his hard line with Will, he was not beyond a little insubordination himself. They could do their part monitoring for PSI movement while they were in orbit, and if Herrod didn’t like it, he could haul his aging ass off of Earth and relieve Greg in person.

She shook her head. “We’ve already been out six months. What’s a few more days?”

He did not answer. She knew as well as he did what long tours did to soldiers, how events like one little night of shore leave became the difference between efficiency and anarchy. Greg believed he had the best crew in the fleet, but he knew a few more days might break them. A few more days might break her, too.

“Why did we come here, Greg?” she asked, in that same quiet voice.

It had been weeks, he realized with some surprise, since she had used his first name. Since their argument. “You know why,” he answered, confused. “Demeter needed repairs, and we took on her delivery. We—”

“I know what we did, Greg. I want to know why.” She turned to face him, and her rage hit him like a slap. “What was so critical about their cargo? Their timeline? Some two-bit trawler hauling for some overfed liquor merchants adds three weeks to our schedule, and you don’t even blink?”

“Elena—”

“No, let me guess,” she snapped. “You can’t tell me. Some need-to-know bullshit. Well Danny is dead, Greg, because of your need-to-know bullshit. Over money, for God’s sake, that paltry ten thousand that was all he ever managed to save, no matter how many times he won at cards, no matter how much—”

She stopped, and he saw the reality of it begin to sink in, and he wanted to throw away his rank and his detachment and his pointless self-involvement and put his arms around her, pooling her grief with his own. He had long since abdicated any right to offer her comfort, and for a moment his composure threatened to disintegrate in the face of a wave of self-loathing. Dammit, he should have had someone else tell her. He had forgotten, after all these months of avoiding her, how easily she could dismantle him.

He watched her expression close, her breathing steady, her posture straighten. Little by little she hid herself from him again, tucking away all her rage and bitterness.

“Thank you for telling me, Captain,” she said calmly.

This was worse, he thought: this deliberate separation, this rejection of anything he might offer her. “Elena, if you need anything—”

“Don’t.” The word was a choked whisper.

He nodded. “I’ll be informing the rest of the crew in a few minutes. Just so you know.”

She looked away from him, and he turned back to the door, grasping at the shards of his anger. He needed it back. His rage helped him to forget how entirely pointless his presence was, how useless he was to her, to his crew, to the dead man.

There would be justice, and it would make no difference.

He shook off self-pity and left the hangar to tell his crew their comrade was dead.

He spoke to them in the only area large enough to hold the entire crew: the massive VIP conference room, years ago repurposed as the ship’s pub. He kept it brief and factual, talking about justice and love and losing one of their own, and he saw in some faces, at least, that it helped. They believed in him, and they believed he would find justice for Danny. After all, he was the man who made things happen, who circumvented regs and logic and the goddamned laws of physics when it suited him. His reputation, as exaggerated as it was, worked in his favor. When he finished they were shocked and grieved, but reassured that he would get to the bottom of it all.

When Greg turned to Will at the close of his speech, his first officer looked pallid and shaken, unable to hide his shock. Will had played some poker with Danny—Danny excelled at losing money, and was popular at the gambling table—but Greg had not thought they were so close.

It was a rare crack in Will’s armor, and Greg thought he could use it.

“With me,” he said stiffly, and walked out, trusting Will would follow him. There were too many people still milling about to risk having this discussion in public.

Will trailed into Greg’s office after him and sat in his usual chair without asking. Greg leaned against the edge of the desk, arms crossed. Will met Greg’s eyes, already defensive.

“I hate coincidence, Will,” Greg told him.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“I’ll spell it out, then,” he said, still calm. “One of my men gets killed in the middle of a cargo mission you requested, right around the time I get my ass handed to me because you decide Shadow Ops has somehow given you the authority to keep me out of the loop on a general alert. Which coincidentally involves some fairy story MacBride is telling about being attacked by PSI. And here’s the most interesting thing about that. Do you know who Novanadyr is holding for Lancaster’s murder? Some PSI expat who just settled there. Who somehow manages to kill a trained fighter with an old-fashioned, low-tech blade.” Greg leaned forward, looming over Will’s chair. “Lancaster was nearly decapitated, did you know that? I didn’t tell the crew, but I’ve got that picture in my head. A thirty-five-year-old man, with a sister and four nieces, bleeding out in seven seconds on an alien planet.”

He had not raised his voice, but Will had flinched. “So let me reiterate, Commander Valentis: I hate coincidence. Explain to me why I shouldn’t shut down your investigation right now and tear up the concrete on that rock down there until I find out what happened.”

“You don’t have the authority,” Will said, his voice dry.

So much for sympathy. “We are ten days away from the closest Central hub, Commander,” he returned. “Five months away from Earth, if we take a straight shot. I can do whatever the fuck I want out here, and every soldier on this ship will back me up.” He leaned back. “Try again.”

Will swallowed, and looked away. “I don’t believe Lancaster’s death is related to my work, sir,” he said.

Greg stood up and circled behind his desk, parsing that. “Why not?”

“Sir, I—dammit, Captain, I’m under orders here. From people who outrank you.” He sounded desperate. “I can’t just give you this investigation. It’d be my career.”

“It always comes back to your career, doesn’t it, Will? It’s never about the crew, or even the mission. It’s always what’s in it for you.”

Will had reddened. “That’s not fair, Captain. What I’m doing for S-O is important.”

“Yes,” Greg said icily. “I’m sure it is. So important you can’t tell a living soul, so now we’ve got a dead one.”

“You’re not putting Lancaster’s death on me.”

“Then tell me who to put it on, Will.”

Will exploded. “I’ve told you! I—” He looked away, then got to his feet, agitated, running his fingers through his short black hair. He was graying here and there; Greg had not noticed before. “Lancaster spoke a lot with the Demeter crew, yes.” He began to pace. “You know what he was like; he wanted everyone to get along, and most of our crew hasn’t exactly welcomed them with open arms.”

Greg thought that went both ways, but he let it pass. “Would they have discussed anything proprietary with him?”

Will had stopped at Greg’s window and was looking down at the planet. “They shouldn’t know anything proprietary,” he said at last.

That had cost him, and Greg tried to remind himself to appreciate that. “But if they did,” he pressed, “would they have told Lancaster?”

“I won’t speculate.” Will’s expression had closed, and Greg thought that small admission was the only thing he was going to get.

Greg allowed himself to rub his eyes; there was no point in posturing anymore. Will had told him all he needed to know about how deeply Demeter was involved in all of this. Any further investigation was going to have to be his own. The problem was how to ensure he could investigate unencumbered. He did not want to make an enemy out of Will, not in the middle of a crisis. It had crossed his mind, however, that they might be beyond that point.

“Here’s what’s going to happen, Commander.” He spoke calmly, wanting Will to understand that his decision was not made in a temper. “We’re going to stay here as long as it takes to get Lancaster’s death resolved. That means more than just Novanadyr charging his killer; it means we find out why he did it.”

“Central won’t allow that.”

“You let me worry about Central.” There were delaying tactics he could use, everything from semantic arguments to outright lies. If he achieved his ends, he thought the Admiralty would forgive him, or at least not come down on him too hard. “But in the meantime … I’m shutting you down, Commander. Your investigation stops right now. S-O gets nothing until we find out what happened to Lancaster.”

“You can’t do that, Captain!” Will turned on Greg, shouting into his face. “They are not just my superior officers. They are yours as well, and this will not be tolerated!”

Greg held on to his temper. “Maybe not,” he said evenly, “but that’s on me, Will. I’m revoking your external comm privileges, effective immediately.”

And to his astonishment, Will laughed. “They’ll bust you for this,” he said, with certainty.

“Maybe.” Greg wondered exactly who Will’s allies were. “But if they do, it’ll be after we get answers for Danny Lancaster.”

CHAPTER 6

Jessica sat before a cup of bitter coffee, surrounded by her silent and somber friends. After the captain’s speech, about half of them had stayed in the pub: more than a hundred people, including the Demeter crew members. They might be self-satisfied jackasses, but their distress seemed genuine. Danny had spent a lot of time talking to them, even Lieutenant Commander Limonov, widely known to be half-mad. Danny had listened to the man’s ravings, all his tin-foil-hat theories of aliens and government conspiracies, with what had always seemed to be genuine interest. Now Limonov sat with his crewmates, scowling miserably into a clear glass of dark liquid, and Jessica reflected that everyone needed someone to listen once in a while.

“Excuse me.”

Along with the rest of the table, Jessica looked up. Captain Foster stood over them, his demeanor grave and military, unrecognizable from the hollow-eyed, resigned man she had left in the hangar.

Damn, he’s a good actor.

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” he said, “but I need to borrow Lieutenant Lockwood for a moment.”

The others murmured excuses and one by one removed themselves from the table. Jessica wondered at that; surely she and the captain should have been the ones to leave. But it was deference to him, she realized: no matter how big a jerk he was to Elena, no matter what sorts of rumors persisted in the hallways, Captain Foster’s crew adored him. She adored him a little herself, which irritated her sometimes; she did not like to think she was subject to military psychology. But she had to admit, no matter how well she got to know him, no matter what stupid mistakes she saw him make, she would always be willing to walk into death for him.

He waited for the others to leave, then dropped into a chair next to her. He was a good-looking fellow, her captain. A bit on the thin side, sure; but he had a handsome, chiseled face just this side of perfection, well-muscled arms, and lovely, long-fingered hands that gestured gracefully when he was speaking. And his eyes, of course. Those eyes, light gray and black, strange zebra-stripe eyes, laser-bright against his dark skin. She had thought, when she met him, that they were a cosmetic affectation. It had not taken her long before she realized affectations were alien to him. He dealt purely in somber reality, although she caught flashes, sometimes, of lightheartedness. As she looked at him now, he seemed weary and defeated, and she wondered how much was Danny, and how much was Elena.

Jessica did not understand it at all. For months Elena had seemed to recognize, on some level, that Foster needed to keep away from her, and had tried to give him space; and then everything had blown up a few weeks ago in the pub. Jessica did not believe he had really meant the things he had said, but she knew how Elena held a grudge. He was going to be a long time rebuilding that bridge, if he could do it at all, and she did not think having to break the news of Danny’s death had eased any tension.

“Did Commander Valentis say anything useful?” she asked him.

She had seen the look on his face when he had left with Valentis. Five months ago Foster had handed her the first of Commander Valentis’s reports to Shadow Ops, with a carefully worded request for her to see what she could make of the parts that had been redacted. Without explicit authorization to decrypt, she had simply documented the algorithms, and how long it might take a competent hacker to break them.

When he had shown up with the next report, she had asked why he was confiding in her, and not Commander Broadmoor, his security head. “Because you’re more loyal to me than to the rules,” he had told her.

She had never been sure what to make of that, but she couldn’t disagree.

He unfolded his long legs under the table and crossed them at the ankles. “Not so you’d notice,” he replied. “Double-talk about Lancaster and the Demeter crew, and how it’s all just a coincidence it happened on this cargo drop.”

“You believe him?”

To her surprise, he paused. “I don’t know,” he said at last.

On top of everything else, she found herself hit with a wave of unease. “You think his story is credible.”

“I think,” Foster said slowly, “that ‘credible’ and ‘true’ are not the same thing.” He looked over at her, and she saw a familiar sharpness in his eyes. “How comfortable would you be digging into the life of a dead man?”

The breach of privacy should have horrified her, but it was action, and it might actually prove useful. “Parameters, sir?” she asked.

“No parameters, Lieutenant. I want everything.”

“What if I run into something locked?”

“We’ll clear it after the fact.”

She held his gaze for a moment. “Locked” could mean tagged as private, or it could mean classified and sealed under threat of court-martial. She wondered briefly if her captain was testing her. Greg Foster got creative with regulations sometimes—she had heard him interpret orders with impressive semantic gymnastics—but there were lines he just didn’t cross. It occurred to her to ask him if he understood what he was suggesting. She had learned over the years, though, that he missed almost nothing. He knew exactly what he was asking her to do, and how good she would have to be to do it.

This was more than circumventing regulations. This was working around the Admiralty, around Shadow Ops, around Central Gov itself. Regardless of her intentions, she could be charged with treason. There was something bigger happening, something he had not told her yet—and he didn’t trust his own command chain to handle it. That he trusted her was both flattering and daunting, and she had no intention of letting him down.

“She spent the night with someone, didn’t she?”

It took her a moment to recognize the change of subject, and she grew immediately wary. Like every practical, pragmatic man, he had a blind spot, and his had been the same as long as she had known him. “Why do you ask?”

She knew he had heard her bristle. He always heard it when she bristled. “This guy—do you think they’re at a point where she’d lean on him? No matter what she thinks she needs, at some point being alone is not going to work.”

Oh, hell, he thought it was someone on board. “It wasn’t one of ours, sir,” she told him. “He was a stranger. Some guy she met at the bar.”

“That doesn’t sound like her.”

“You think I’m making it up?”

“Of course not. I just—you know her as well as I do. You’re telling me you’re not surprised?”

She thought back. She had been pleasantly tipsy when Elena had left the group, but she remembered the pirate, how he had leaned toward her friend and smiled, how Elena had laughed, her whole body relaxing for the first time all night. “Not with this guy,” she told him. “He was tall, dark, and handsome, and looked like he’d had his nose broken a half-dozen times and didn’t care about getting it fixed. He even wore the uniform, which seemed a little weird at a local pub, but it looked good on him.”

“Uniform? You said he wasn’t one of ours.”

Oops. “No, sir. He was PSI.”

Foster became utterly still, and for one disconcerting moment she could not read his expression at all. “Are you certain of that, Lieutenant?”

All of her alarm bells were going off. “Certain? No. He was wearing all black, and he had his hair pulled back in a braid, like they do. Of course, he was friendly, at least with her, so maybe he was just playing the part.” Jessica thought of her friend—tall, dark, and lovely—and did not wonder that anyone, even a PSI soldier, would warm to her. “What is it about PSI, sir?”

“We don’t know anything about them,” he tried. “We don’t know why this man was there. None of our intelligence suggests they do shore leave like we do. What could he want on Volhynia, then?”

She took in the anxiety on his face. She was beginning to think this wasn’t about jealousy after all. “Don’t bullshit me, sir. I know you. You don’t get paranoid about PSI. Hell, you’re not shy about working with them when we need them.”

“That’s in the Fourth Sector. I don’t know them here.”

“But they’re on our side, sir. Aren’t they?”

He was silent for a long time, and her spine began to tingle again. PSI was an acronym pulled from a dead language, which roughly translated meant freedom, truth, intellect. In her experience, they lived up to the sentiment. Like many people who had grown up on a world with limited resources, she viewed PSI as a positive force, sometimes heroic. PSI supply drops had kept her warm and properly fed as a child. It had never occurred to her before that she knew nothing of them at all.

“It’s more than just Danny,” she said quietly, “isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“And you can’t tell me.”

“No.”

She took a moment to silently curse rank and regulations, then nodded. “I’ll get on Danny’s records, sir,” she said formally. There was little she could do for Danny, but she could do this.

“Thank you, Lieutenant. And as soon as I can—” He was interrupted by a chime from his comm. “Yes?”

Jessica heard nothing; he had it set to private audio, the patch behind his ear flashing dimly as he listened, but by his lack of response she knew the message was not from a person, but from Galileo herself. She saw the color drain from his face, and his eyes grew hard and determined. Before he was finished listening, he was on his feet. She stood as well, and wished she hadn’t; the difference in their heights seemed less dramatic when she was sitting down. “Sir?” she asked.

“They’ve released the killer’s name,” he told her tersely. “I need to talk to the chief.”

CHAPTER 7

Elena sat on the floor between her bed and the window, staring out at the stars. She could so easily imagine being out there in the icy darkness, weightless, airless, soundless. Sometimes as she watched she held her breath; but she could still hear her heartbeat, and under that the soft, constant thrum of Galileo’s systems. The ship made a different sound when they were in the FTL field at speed, but even at rest it sang, gentle as a lullaby. That song always made Elena think of Jake, and for a long time it had left her sad; but in recent months, despite her battles with Greg, it had made her feel strong, and less alone. Even after she broke up with Danny. Especially after.

She tried to feel grief, but all of her rage, all of the intensity that should have been about Danny was focused on Greg. Why had he brought them here? He hated tourist planets. She had wondered about his mother, about being close to the wormhole and the site of the Phoenix accident; but the man she knew wouldn’t have kept tired troops out another three solid weeks just to get three billion kilometers away from where a starship had been blown to pieces twenty-five years ago. There was something else happening; she had seen it in him. Only there was no way for her to ask him, this man who had become a stranger to her, what was really going on.

The anger was childish and pointless. She was stupid. And more than anything, she wished for the Greg she had known six months ago, who would have sat here, as he had after Jake died, asking nothing of her, just staring with her out at the stars.