The Cold Between (19 page)

Elena watched as the woman decided she was not insane or dangerous. “It's that way,” she said, gesturing away from the spaceport. “Half a block, then take a right. It's the first building after the alley. But you won't find a table at this hour.”

Elena gave her a polite smile. “Thank you very much,” she said. And then she took off down the street at a dead run, leaving the remnants of her career behind her.

Galileo

P
lease tell me, Captain Foster,” Admiral Herrod said, “that this early check-in means your man's murder has been resolved.”

Greg kept his face carefully neutral, but the remark annoyed him. He wondered, not for the first time, if Herrod annoyed him on purpose. “I'm afraid not, sir,” he said. “We have a diplomatic situation, and I could use some guidance.”

The afternoon sun shone through the admiral's window. Greg had not been sure if he would be catching Herrod mid-morning or halfway through the night; even when he used to comm Caroline on a regular basis, he had always caught her in the hospital, or woken her in the middle of the night. Early in their marriage his mistimed comms had frightened her and made her worry. In the last ten years, she had never been anything other than annoyed.

Herrod's eyebrows shot up. “Aren't
you
usually our diplomatic solution, Captain?”

Only when I don't piss off the local cops,
Greg thought, and hoped he wouldn't need to tell the whole story. “Under the circumstances, sir, I thought it was better to contact you first.
Volhynia is accusing a retired PSI captain of the murder, sir. Treiko Zajec, formerly of the Fifth Sector ship
Castelanna.
”

“That's old news, Captain. His name has been public for hours.”

“Yes, sir. But he's not guilty. One of my people can alibi him.”

“You're sure of this.”

Greg resisted the urge to rub his eyes. “Yes, sir.”

Herrod looked briefly relieved. “Well, that's something. What's the diplomatic issue? Is he asking for help?”

“He—no, sir. In fact he's specifically declined it.”

“Then why are we talking?”

“Because they've arrested him for a second time, sir, in spite of his alibi.”

Herrod's jaw set. “You know our situation with Volhynia, Captain.”

“They are not finding my man's killer, sir, and they're endangering a man I know is innocent.” It occurred to him that Zajec was, in fact, the only one of the planet's forty-eight thousand residents Greg knew had nothing to do with Lancaster's death. “I've got a soldier down there, sir, trying to protect him, but she can't do it on her own.”
And I need to get down there after her before she completely burns her career to the ground.

Herrod kept frowning. “We can reach out to them on the investigation,” he said, and Greg thought he sounded tired. “But a PSI captain? We can't help him, Captain Foster. It's all over the offices here that they hit
Demeter,
and in another week it'll hit the press. We can't be seen helping him. They've thrown down the gauntlet, and our priority status is deciding how to counter.”

Greg had been ready for this argument. “Zajec was PSI for forty-four years, sir. He's got intel, and he's got contacts. If we got him off of Volhynia, he might be able to help us.”

“And why would he do that?” When Greg didn't answer, Herrod shook his head. “You really think you know where PSI is coming from, Foster? You think you can read the Corps file on one man and understand five hundred years of history?”

So Herrod had been watching his comms. “All I understand, sir, is that we're provoking an organization who has done nothing but help us based on hearsay from a man who says he got shot at and ran away.”

“MacBride's story is backed up with evidence, and people are listening. I am sorry about Captain Zajec, but there are more important things going on right now.”

“More important than a man's life?”
More important than Elena?

Something crossed Herrod's face, and Greg wished he knew him better. “If I say yes, Captain Foster, would you believe me?”

“No, sir. Especially when saving that man's life could defuse this entire situation.”

Herrod's expression hardened again. “That's the problem with you remote scouts,” he snapped. “There are too few of you, and you start thinking you're making your own laws. We cannot help Captain Zajec, Captain Foster. That it is regrettable is obvious, but that does not change anything. We will address Volhynia about the murder investigation, but what they do with their prisoner is outside of our influence. Do you understand?”

Greg had understood before he had placed the call. “To be clear, sir,” he said calmly, “you're telling me we're abandoning a
man who protected colonists, freighters, and sometimes Corps ships for forty years because we don't want to offend one little provincial government?”

“Yes, Captain, that's exactly what I'm telling you.”

“You do understand that they'll kill him.” For all Greg knew, they had already.

“Don't think,” Herrod told him, “that you'd make a different choice in my position, Captain. You don't know every fucking thing there is to know.”

“So tell me what I'm missing.”

“What you're missing,” Herrod said, finally losing his temper, “is that I am still your superior officer, Captain, and there is more going on in this galaxy than you and your crew. You stand down from Volhynia and you get the hell away from there, and that's an order. Are we clear?”

“Yes, sir. We're clear.”

Herrod disconnected first, and Greg stared into the space where the projection had been. He thought about Danny Lancaster's sister, resigned in her grief. He thought of Elena, who had turned to him for help, only to have him hand the decision off to someone else. He thought of Ivan Rostovich's mother, sacrificing her older child to protect her younger.

He thought of his own mother. His mental picture of her was less memory now than an amalgam of old vids and stray emotions. He had been seven when she had reenlisted. All he remembered about that time was that his sister, Meg, had been furious, and had hurt his mother's feelings. Five years later, when their mother had been killed, he had focused all of his anger toward his sister. Meg had been expressive in her grief, broken and anguished, bleeding all over anyone who tried to get
close to her, and he had found it an irritant. In a few years, she had flushed all the rage from her life. In those same years, Greg had finally happened upon his own anger at his mother. Once found, it had never left him.

He got to his feet. “
Galileo,
wipe that last comm from the record.” He opened his desk drawer and drew out his duty weapon, a monster of a handgun that could have blown a hole through
Galileo
's hull, and shrugged on the shoulder holster. “Foster to Commander Broadmoor,” he said, pulling his uniform jacket over his weapon. “I want two armed platoons in armor in Bay One in four minutes.”

One of his favorite things about Emily Broadmoor was her consistent assumption that he did not ever owe her an explanation for anything. “Acknowledged,” she said, and disconnected.

He strode out of his office and marched down the hallway, eyes on the hall before him. Crew members he passed stopped and stood at attention. He returned their salutes crisply, never slowing down. If they were called on later to report on his state of mind, they would say he seemed certain, calm, professional. None of them needed to know he was about to flout a direct order, and potentially piss off an entire colony government.

He turned into the shuttle bay, and walked past the duty officer to call up their primary troop transport. He watched through the window as
Lusitania
glided effortlessly into position, settling near the aft bay door.
Lusi
was their second troop transport, the first having been irreparably damaged two years earlier. Elena had chosen the new ship's name, and when Greg had questioned her judgment, she had explained it was for luck. “Like gargoyles being ugly to ward off evil,” she had explained,
as if that made the name an obvious choice.
Lusi
had persevered, often under heavy fire, but her purpose this time was not to withstand artillery.

He needed her impressive bulk to send a message.

“Captain? What are you doing?”

Greg turned to see Will Valentis giving him an incredulous look. “I'm heading down to the surface, Commander,” he said, turning back to his task.

“You can't do that!”

Greg noticed the bay officer watching anything but his two senior officers. “We're left without options, Mr. Valentis,” he said formally. “They have taken a prisoner who is not guilty, and they have refused our request for negotiations.”

“He's not exactly an innocent, sir,” Will responded. “And for all we know he's been under suspicion for God knows what long before we got here.”

“They have arrested him, and they are suspending their investigation into Lancaster's death.” The bay officer would remember that, too. “I won't have it, Commander. They want to pursue old grudges, they can do it after we have found justice for my man. And before you start talking to me about politics, I'll be clear: I do not give a fuck about politics. Once I have my killer, they can go back to funding the Syndicates and selling their souls just the way they were before we got here, no harm no foul.”

But Will would not let it go. “Don't make this about Lancaster,” he snapped. “This is about the chief, and you are
not
thinking straight.”

Greg nodded at the bay officer, who opened the door for him. Will followed him in.

“What do you think she's going to do?” Will shouted. His voice echoed through the cavernous bay. “You think she's going to be
grateful
to you? You think she's going to turn around and give you a pity fuck for saving her boyfriend's neck?”

Without thinking, Greg turned around and punched Will squarely in the nose.

Will clasped his hands over his face, silent with shock, blood dripping through his fingers. Belatedly, Greg noticed his two platoons of infantry, lined up at attention, all looking straight ahead, ignoring the ship's two top officers having a very public fight. Emily Broadmoor stood to one side of them. He thought, for an instant, he saw her smile.

“Commander Valentis,” he said calmly, “the ship is yours.” He would have preferred to turn command over to Commander Broadmoor—or even Jessica—but for now he needed to maintain the fiction that he was acting within the bounds of ordinary Corps protocol. Will wouldn't have access to anything beyond regular Admiralty comms anyway. “We'll be in touch once we get to the surface.” He caught Broadmoor's eye and nodded. She turned to the platoons.

“Let's go, soldiers!” she said crisply, and the sixteen men and women turned and jogged through
Lusi
's passenger door. It wasn't just Emily, Greg noticed as they filed past—a lot of them were smiling.

Will was just gawking at him, his hand still over his insulted nose. Greg raised his eyebrows. “Anything else, Commander Valentis?”

For one instant Greg saw something cold in Will's eyes, something angry and poisonous and endlessly dark. It vanished as the man straightened. “No, sir,” he said.

“Very well, then,” Greg said. “Dismissed.”

Will turned on his heel and marched out of the bay. Greg looked down, and saw a stray drop of blood on the deck. Without a doubt the bay officer would have it taken care of before they were a hundred meters from the ship.

He walked up to Commander Broadmoor, who was looking at him with something like admiration. “You need a pilot, too, sir?” she asked.

He shook his head. “I'll take her down.”

“Very well sir. And may I say, sir?”

He raised his eyebrows at her.

“Nice punch, sir.”

Emily Broadmoor was fifteen years older than he was, and she had not been blessed with flawless features; but when her eyes twinkled like that, he thought she rivaled the greatest beauties of the galaxy. “Without condoning my own behavior, Commander,” he told her, “thank you. And do me a favor. Back him up—but keep an eye on him. He's already mad at me, and that punch isn't going to help.” He thought of that flash of dark rage on Will's face, and added, “Keep him busy if you can. I don't need him playing up the details of this exchange to the rest of the crew.”

“Of course, sir,” she said. “Safe trip, sir.” She saluted, and followed Will out.

Greg turned and climbed onto
Lusitania.
Fifteen soldiers were strapped into the passenger seats, and Lieutenant Carter was running a preflight check from the copilot's station. They all fell silent when he entered, watching him expectantly.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he told them, “we are engineering a jailbreak.”

Volhynia

K
atya's restaurant was a good deal more casual than Gregorian's, but it was also significantly busier. There were no empty tables at all, and four harried servers working efficiently across the two-dozen tables in the large, well-lit room. The decor was bright but not garish, all pale wood and burnished lampshades, and the air was warm without being stifling. More than that, the fragrances in the air were delectable; Elena thought she could smell yeast and oregano along with a myriad of spices and vegetables. Ordinarily it would have made her hungry, but thinking of cooking made her think of Trey, and those memories made her want to knock the maître d' over and find Katya herself.

He led her through a bustling, hot kitchen—where she was completely ignored—and then into a dark hallway that ended in a secondary exit. He stopped at a door toward the end of the hall, and knocked.

The door opened, and Elena found herself scrutinized by a tall, broad-shouldered woman with long, straight red hair. “Thank you, Mikhail,” the woman said after a moment. “You may leave us.”

He gave her a worried look, but did as he was told.

Katya waited until Mikhail was gone. “Is he dead?” she asked, guarded.

Elena shook her head. “Not yet,” she said. “But I need your help.”

A wave of relief swept over the woman's features, and then her expression shut down again. Elena would not have guessed they were related. Katya's features were more square and gaunt than Trey's, and where he always looked as if he was about to smile, she wore a perpetual scowl. But her eyes were black and deep-set like his, and Elena thought she could recognize gnawing worry.

“I cannot help,” she said flatly. “I cannot stand up to the police. You must understand, Commander Shaw. Trey is a grown man. Sarah is a child. I must protect her.”

“I don't need the sort of help that would put you in jeopardy,” she said. “All I need is to borrow your comm.”

“You should change your clothes, too. You stick out worse than a tourist in that uniform.” The voice came from behind Katya, higher and lighter, but with the same inflections. Elena looked down as a girl appeared, and here she found the family resemblance. Sarah had her mother's iron-straight hair, but hers was black, like Trey's, and every feature, from her high forehead to her prominent, distinctive nose, was his as well.

Katya said something quick and sharp to the girl that Elena didn't catch. Sarah gave her an eye roll that almost made Elena laugh out loud, and said something back. Katya looked briefly conflicted before nodding, but Elena thought she was more exasperated than upset. Sarah turned and hurried from the room.

Katya looked back at Elena. “Will they kill him, do you think?”

“Not if I get there first,” she said, with more assurance than she felt.

Katya closed her eyes. She was younger than Trey, Elena remembered, but in that moment she looked far older. “I did not think he would come back,” she said. “Not after all these years. I am not sure I would have asked him if I thought he would truly return. But having him here . . . I would not like to lose him.” She opened her eyes. “If you let me initiate the comm, it will appear the call is mine, should anyone have a trace going.”

Elena did not think a trace would make a difference, but nodded.

She gave Katya the ident, and hoped she knew the press as well as she thought she did. After a moment, a response came through. “Ms. Gregorovich?” Ancher said, sounding puzzled.

“How much do you want a story, Ancher?” Elena asked.

There was a brief pause as Ancher regrouped. “Chief?” She heard the smile in his voice. “Always nice to hear from you. This have anything to do with them arresting Zajec again?”

“I don't have time for backstory, Ancher. Here's the deal: you help me, you do as I say, and I let you roll vid the whole time, no editing. The only condition is you wait twenty-four hours before you air a damn thing.”

She held her breath. In all her work with the press, she had never offered unedited coverage before. Hell, she wasn't sure anyone in the Corps had. There were probably regulations against it. She figured she was past the point where such things mattered.

“You're on,” he agreed. “When and where?”

Sarah reappeared, holding a pair of tan trousers in her hand. Elena smiled her thanks, and stripped off her gray and black pants, tugging on the others. They were wide through the waist, and they ran shorter than she would have liked; but they fit well enough that they would not trip her up. She pulled off her uniform jacket and shirt, smoothing her unadorned white undershirt so it lay flat under the waistband of the trousers. “Five minutes,” she told him, trying to triangulate in her head, “across the street from the police station.”

“No shit.” He sounded gleeful. “What should I bring?”

“You have a gun?”

“Hell, no. I drink too much. Can I bring a vid crew?”

“No you can't. And remember: if this leaks out early, Ancher, I'll cut you off, I swear to God, and you'll never get another story out of the Corps, not even the smallest crumb of basic training gossip. Clear?”

“God, Chief, you need to lighten up.” But he was laughing. “I'll be there.” The connection dropped.

Elena turned back to Katya. “I don't suppose
you
have a gun,” she said, with little hope.

Katya looked chagrined. “I do not like them. Today, I wish I did.”

“It's all right,” Elena told her. “I don't like them, either.”

“Wait,” Sarah said, and before her mother could object, she dashed out the front door of the flat.

“She looks like him, you know,” Elena told Katya.

The woman gave her a sad smile. “I look like our mother,” she said, and she did not sound happy about it. “Our father—I have only pictures, and not many. But he looked like Trey, his nose too big for his face, always smiling, like there was noth
ing but delight in the world. I am happy she looks like him. It reminds me of the family I wish her to have.”

A moment later Sarah returned. “It is not a gun,” she said, hefting the object with some effort, “but it might help.”

Elena took the rolling pin from the girl, weighing it in her hand. It was stone, probably marble, gray and mottled and cool to the touch, and it must have weighed nearly three kilos. She nodded with confidence she did not feel. “This will do nicely,” she said. “Thank you.”

She headed for the door. “I don't know what they will do when I get him out,” she said, ignoring the doubts in her mind, and her complete lack of plan. “Is there somewhere you can go?”

“I have a friend in Riga who will look after us, if it comes to that.”

“There is an old man,” Elena told her. “A friend of Trey's. Ilya Putin.”

“We will look after him, too,” Katya promised, although that was not what Elena had meant. “Please, just take Trey somewhere safe.”

“I will,” she promised, remembering the conviction with which Trey had lied to Ynes.

“When you see him,” Sarah said, ignoring her mother's frown, “tell him that I love him.”

Elena felt her throat grow tight. “I promise,” she told the little girl. “And thank you, both of you.” She turned and left the flat, heading out the back door to catch a tram to the police station.