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The comms officer cackled, and beside her, Ted groaned again. “Would you people please stop laughing?” he said plaintively.
Elena resisted the urge to pat him on the head, then transferred the shuttle’s control to Galileo and let the autopilot bring them home.
Trey took his time walking to work. It was nearly 6:30, and he was already an hour late. Katya would be irritable; but then, Katya was always irritable with him. It bothered her that his former profession was an asset to her restaurant. She still insisted he stay in the kitchen, invisible to the diners; but word had spread that Katya Gregorovich had a pirate for a chef, and curiosity had brought customers in droves. He liked to think they kept returning because of his cooking, but realistically he knew that most of them were just hoping to catch a glimpse of him. It gave him an odd sort of satisfaction, knowing that strangers thought better of him than his own blood.
He walked along the sidewalk past the restaurant window, and caught the shadow of someone moving inside. Katya would not open for another half hour, but she would have been there since 5:30, preparing. Trey thought back: at 5:30 he would have been washing the woman’s long, dark hair.
Since his return to Volhynia, he had been approached by men and women alike, attracted by strange misconceptions of the life he had led. This woman had not spoken to him as a PSI soldier; she had spoken as an equal, as a friend. As someone interested in him, and not the uniform he used to wear. He had actually felt glad, for the first time in months—perhaps years—to be what he was.
He began to hum again.
He stepped into the alley behind the restaurant. The kitchen was in the basement, and the separate entrance helped Katya preserve the illusion that he was some paid stranger, and not her family. He had always excused her treatment of him, even felt deserving of it. Today, though, he found himself tired of penance. Perhaps it was time he stopped apologizing for his choices. Perhaps it was past time to face the world as it was, the good with the bad.
The wind shifted, and he froze, still thirty meters from the entrance.
Not here. Not my home … When he was fifteen years old, Castelanna had been hit by a Syndicate raider. Trey, who had not yet seen battle, had run haphazardly into the middle of the fighting. By the time he arrived there was only one raider left alive, and before he had a chance to do anything Fyodor had used a pulse rifle to blast off the man’s shoulder. The invader had dropped, dead before he hit the floor. Trey had been hit with a spray of human blood and flesh, and it was days before he stopped smelling death.
Forty-two years later, he smelled it on the wind.
He crossed to the opposite side of the alley, his back against the wall. He could see, just beyond the basement entrance, a heap that might have been a man, and a dark shadow on the pavement that had nothing to do with the morning light. He inched closer, alert for movement. Nothing. The odor told him that whatever had happened had been over for hours.
When he got close enough to get a good look, he began cursing and did not stop. The man was young: thirty, perhaps thirty-five. In life he had been handsome, slender and fit, his yellow hair striking against his olive-gold skin. Now all trace of animation was gone. He stared straight up with pale brown eyes that were already sinking back into his head, long-congealed trickles of blood tracing from the slash across his throat onto the cement beneath him. His torso and abdomen were a mass of haphazard cuts and slashes—much of him was now indistinguishable from any other piece of meat—but even underneath the blood Trey recognized the same black and gray uniform he had sent the woman away in that morning.
The dead man was one of hers. And Trey, the outsider, was going to have to deal with it.
CHAPTER 5 (#ulink_f8911fd9-673c-5fe1-a79d-88a181f5f7b1)
Galileo
Greg watched the shuttle pull in, easing to the floor of the hangar without a bump. The autopilot, he supposed; even Elena, as obsessive as she was about flying, allowed Galileo to handle the artificial gravity transfer. Still, it was a testament to her flying skills that he could not tell by sight. He had watched her fly through atmospheric turbulence and antiaircraft fire, her hands steady and true, her mind always on the task before her, no matter what waited on the other side.
He was dreading the task before him, but at least it was action. Galileo had been fortunate enough to suffer few losses through the years, but in the Corps death was an inevitability. To Greg, losing one of his own crew always felt like a missed opportunity, some horrible mistake he had no way of correcting, and the futility of it enraged him. All he could do now was break the news to her compassionately, give her as soft a landing as he could. What waited for him on the other side was the search for answers, and the vain attempt to convince himself that justice would mean anything at all. Justice, he had found, was a flimsy illusion used to stave off anger, and anger always won in the end.
He kept his eyes on the ship as the hangar was sealed from space and oxygenated, and as the massive outer bulkhead closed. The shuttle settled to the floor and powered down, and the side door opened, disgorging a mix of his crew and Demeter’s, all lumbering with a lack of sleep. He saw Jessica Lockwood, as crisp and composed as she had been the night before, and Ted Shimada, looking slightly green. Elena came out last, her eyes scanning the shuttle’s hull, reflexively checking for damage.
Wherever she had been, she had changed her hair; it was knotted at her neck, more loosely than usual. When she left the night before it had been down, and she had fussed with it, self-conscious about the change. Now she seemed relaxed, almost liquid, as if movement were effortless; she shot a smile at the ground crew sergeant that nearly shattered Greg’s calculated detachment. She was not, he knew, a great beauty by any objective measure, but he was years past any kind of objectivity about her. He wished he could stop the universe and keep her frozen in this moment before he had to break her heart.
He wondered if it would have been easier or harder six months ago, before he had needed to retreat from her. She might have already been home on Galileo when he received the news, sitting with him in the cafeteria over an early breakfast. He would have had time to take care of her before he had to focus on anyone else; he could have held on to her for a while, steadied her until she could stand on her own. She would not have been isolated from him, unable to take comfort, unable to hear anything in his words but the failure that had let a man die.
Harder. Definitely harder.
“You could say hello, you know.”
He looked down at Lieutenant Lockwood. Unlike Elena, Jessica was a classic beauty, wide-eyed and round-faced, and she used it like a cudgel when she needed to; but what he always noticed first about her were her shrewd green eyes. He suspected few people bothered to lie to her. He could not start now.
She had seen it in his face already, and her expression sobered. “Is this about the recall, sir?”
Anger flared, and alongside it guilt. He should have recalled everyone, not just the infantry. He should have immediately pursued any officer who did not respond. He should have thrown Will Valentis in the brig for insubordination. It all would have been too late anyway. “No, Lieutenant,” he told her, keeping his voice neutral. She would hear the whole truth soon enough. “But if you could start gathering people in the pub, I’m going to have to make an announcement.”
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 (#ulink_3b20d5e3-947c-56db-8cbc-94d95e4da6ee)
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.
