The Cold Between (5 page)

“Tourism,” Greg replied, although he shared with Herrod an impatience at the planet's odd decision. “When we come out of the pulse, sir, I'll get my people on recon.” He hesitated. “You want me to pull them home, sir?”

Six months away from the First Sector, away from most of their families. Six weeks since they had had any time that was their own. They had barely nine hours before they were due back. He could recall them, and they would come, and they would do their best for him; but they had so little left. Most of them didn't even really understand how close to the edge they were running.

Herrod appeared to be weighing the option. “Your discretion, Captain,” he said at last. “As long as PSI's ships aren't moving, we'll stay off high alert. But I want you away from there in the morning, do you hear me? Find out what PSI is doing in the sector. Get them to talk to you if you can—but put it together. I want to know why they fired on
Demeter,
and I want to know if they're going to do it again. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I want a report in twelve hours. Directly to me, Captain.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And fix your communication problem,” Herrod finished. “I don't want to hear again how a starship captain isn't getting his orders.”

Damn, damn, damn.
“Yes, sir,” he said. “It won't happen again, sir.”

“You're damn right it won't. Herrod out.”

The vid vanished. “
Galileo,
let me know when Novanadyr comes out of the Dead Hour. And get me Commander Valentis.”

Galileo
usually acknowledged his orders, but this time the ship simply opened the connection to Will Valentis without saying anything. He thought perhaps it knew he was angry.

Will could have taken the entire night for shore leave, but he had returned early. Greg had wondered about that. Six months ago he might have asked, might have encouraged his first officer to take more time to relax. Now he was just glad the man was back on board . . . and within reach, in case Greg found he had to strangle him. When the connection completed, Greg did not wait for Will to speak. “My office,” he said. “Now.” And he cut the line.

Will reported promptly. Will always reported promptly. Seven years they had served together, and Greg could not think of a single time his second-in-command had been late. He could not think of a time that Will had neglected to pass on relevant information, either, but he knew why it had happened now.

And he was entirely out of patience.

Will stood at attention, and Greg let him stand, stiff and rigid and staring straight ahead. “I just got off the line with
Admiral Herrod,” he told Will. “You have something you need to tell me?”

“No, sir.”

Not an oversight, then. “The admiral seems to think I was supposed to know about a general alert in this sector,” he said, “because
Demeter
was hit by PSI. You know anything about that, Commander?”

Will blinked, and his eyes shifted briefly. “Sir, I—” He stopped and regrouped. “I'm sorry, Captain. I should have briefed you.”

Which was a reminder that it was Will who had been briefed on the situation, and not Greg. Will was enjoying his temporary power trip far too much. Greg let lie, for the moment, the fact that such vital information had not come directly to him. “You want to tell me why you didn't?”

Will hesitated again. “Sir, you know there are things I can't explain.”

And that was the crux of it. Six months earlier, when they had been on Earth, Will—perennially ambitious and stagnating as Greg's first officer—had been tapped by Shadow Ops for a secret investigation. Greg had been notified of the fact of Will's assignment to Central's intelligence branch, but not the details. As a result, he had been required to give Will extensive leeway on comms and internal reporting, and in return Will provided him with a heavily redacted copy of his monthly report to S-O.

Greg had not been gracious about this. He should have been happy for his old friend, a man who had never been destined for command. In fact, intelligence seemed better suited to his talents, and might actually provide him with his long-sought avenue for advancement. But the secrecy had bothered Greg,
despite having no concrete reason to mistrust Shadow Ops. Perhaps worse, Will enjoyed far too much leaving him out of the loop.

It was Bob Hastings, the ship's senior medical officer and Greg's oldest friend, who had made Greg stop and think. “He's seven years older than you, Greg, and he's spent all this time in your shadow,” Bob had pointed out. “Let him be good at this. Let him have something that isn't a subset of you for once.”

So when they had arrived at Aleph Nine alongside the damaged
Demeter
and Will had asked him to have
Galileo
fulfill
Demeter
's cargo obligations, he had agreed, despite the fact that it was prolonging their mission another three weeks. MacBride was providing twenty-five members of his crew to do the actual work of delivery, and it would take
Galileo
to a planet well-known for its recreational value.

The decision had made sense at the time. Now he wondered what had really been behind Will's request.

“How about you redact what you need to redact,” he told Will, “and explain to me how you thought the sector being on alert was an important point to conceal.”

Will shifted uncomfortably. “The alert was relevant to
Demeter,
sir. You put me in charge of that mission.”

“I made you supervisor of her crew while they were on board.” Greg had no doubt the man understood the distinction. “Regardless, the alert is relevant to all ships in this sector. This is the safety of my crew we are talking about, and you chose to say nothing to me.”

“Sir, if I can explain—”

“No, Commander, you cannot.” He rounded his desk and stood before Will. Will was one of the only people on board as
tall as Greg himself, but he kept his eyes on the opposite wall as Greg glared at him. “Out here, on my ship, I am the law. Not Shadow Ops. Not the Admiralty. Not you, Commander Valentis. This omission of yours, whatever excuse you concocted in your head, is feeling awfully close to mutiny for my taste. You think I'm going to be putting up with mutiny, Commander?”

Will swallowed. “Sir, I have no intention of being mutinous.”

“That's encouraging to hear,” he said. “But your intentions are irrelevant. If I find out you've concealed anything else from me that affects the safety of this ship and this crew, I will write you up, regardless of any orders you feel you might have from S-O. Is that clear, Commander?”

Will reddened, a sure sign he was angry, but all he said was “Yes, sir.”

“You have anything else you need to be telling me, Commander Valentis?”

“No, sir. Nothing else.”

“Then you're dismissed.”

Will snapped up straight and saluted, then turned and stalked out of the room. Not once had he met Greg's eyes.

Only when Will was gone did Greg allow himself to react to what Admiral Herrod had told him. War with PSI. Son of a bitch. As long as he had been alive PSI had been a source of help and intelligence. Their people did not mingle with Central's—they dealt more with colony governments and freighter captains than they did with Central Gov—but they had helped with everything from evacs to firefights, always on the side of Central and the colonies. The only groups they were actively hostile toward were the Syndicate tribes, and since the Syndicates often attacked PSI ships directly for their cargo, Greg could hardly
blame them. PSI brought food to the starving, and equipment to planets losing their terraformers; they served as a refuge for homeless children, and often for adults who felt they had nowhere else to go.

But Central knew almost nothing of them. They had pieced together enough intelligence to make a guess at some of their patterns and rituals, but little more. For their part, PSI seemed singularly disinterested in engaging with Central. Why would they fire on
Demeter
? Had MacBride done something stupid?

Or was PSI changing their tactics?

His eyes returned to the window.
Galileo
flew between the pulsar and the planet, her shielding protecting her from the EMP. Her shuttles would be similarly protected, had they been allowed to take off during the blackout. Central should have insisted Volhynia upgrade their system years ago, but the government wasn't inclined to push the colony to do anything. Central needed the bulk of the human population—most still living on Earth, or on the densely populated First Sector colonies—to believe prosperous worlds like Volhynia were the rule rather than the exception, and with widespread starvation in the Third Sector, they didn't need Volhynia publicizing how little Central had to do with their success. Greg had spoken to the officials on the surface to arrange the cargo drop-off; they were smug bastards, and it had taken most of his energy to be polite to them. They seemed to think the dumb luck of their ancestors, who had managed to find a planet that was natively adapted to human life, somehow implied merit. Greg had little patience with such arrogance.

His father had always seen it differently. “A man who has never lost can't understand what it is like to be without,” he
said. Greg found that a weak excuse. He had always had food and clothing, diversions and transportation, friends and opportunities. He had led a charmed life. He still did. And every day, every time he inhaled, loss clawed at his throat and threatened to suffocate him. Nothing that Volhynia had was certain. Life could drop out from under you with no warning at all. Those officials were fools to believe they would never need Central's goodwill.

With a silent apology to his people, Greg signaled the recall of the infantry down on the surface. He could not solve the
Phoenix
disaster—not now, maybe not ever—but he could find out what was going on with PSI. And maybe, if he could do it quickly enough, they could avert a war.

Volhynia

E
lena walked along Novanadyr's wide streets, the bright morning light casting long shadows. She could not remember the last time she had stayed up all night for anything beyond her job. Back when she was in college, she thought. Before she enlisted. Back when it was easy to ignore her worries and be carefree, at least for a few hours.

The night would catch up with her, she knew. In this moment, however, she could not remember ever feeling so delightfully wide-awake.

Traffic picked up as she neared the spaceport. A few quiet solar mass-transit trams slid past along the center of the street, and she caught sight of some private shuttles speeding politely over the low rooftops. She realized, as numerous pedestrians smiled at her and wished her good morning, that she was wearing a wide grin. Well, so be it: for once she could be part of the crowd who had enjoyed shore leave.

They had made love as the sun rose, and then he had washed her hair, and found her an elastic she could use to tie it back. She caught him watching as she looped her hair into an efficient knot at the nape of her neck, and when she asked he had smiled.
“I had never realized,” he told her, “how lovely a woman could be in a soldier's uniform.”

It was hyperbole, she knew; he had grown up around women in uniform, and she was certain many of them were far more beautiful than she was. But somehow, in the moment, she believed him.

Despite the early hour the spaceport floor was crowded, numerous visiting shuttles lined up against the walls.
Exodus One
rested undisturbed where Elena had left her the night before. She began her preflight check, and caught herself humming; dancing was impractical when she was leaning down to look at the undercarriage, but every part of her felt full of music.

“Why are you so goddamned cheerful?” a voice growled behind her.

She turned and grinned at Ted. “Good morning, Lieutenant,” she greeted him. “How does the day find you?”

Ted Shimada was, at most times, a good-looking man, lean-muscled and hearty, but this morning he looked haggard. “There's a remote possibility I had too much to drink last night.” She laughed aloud, and he winced. “Fuck, Lanie. Seriously.” He squinted at her. “You
are
cheerful, aren't you? Who'd you spend the night under?”

“Some guy I met in a bar.”

“You? Picked up some spaceport cruiser? I don't believe it.”

“He wasn't a cruiser,” she told him. “He was PSI.”

That shocked most of the hangover right out of him. “Seriously? You picked up a
pirate
?”

“Well,” she said, a little alarmed at his response, “sort of. He's retired.”

Ted's expression froze, and his eyes took on a cunning look. “You picked up an
old
pirate.”

“Old my ass,” she declared, turning back to her task. “I didn't sleep.”

“Yeah? How long?”

“Six hours, give or take.”

He shook his head in wonder. “Jessica is going to tell everyone on board, and the comms guys are going to stare at you like cats in heat for a
month.
”

She stopped and turned back to him. “Actually,” she said hesitantly, “I was thinking of telling Jess I hid in some dive hotel alone all night.”

“You think you can sell that?”

“Can't I?”

“Let's see.” He considered her. “Stop smiling so much.”

She drew her lips together and tried to look serious.

“Stand up straighter. Be military.”

She stood at attention.

“Now stop humming.”

She had not realized she was still doing it. Swallowing a grin, she complied.

He shrugged. “That's not bad. Of course,” he added, as she went back to the preflight, “that big-ass hickey on your neck pretty much gives the game away.”

Elena put a hand to her throat. Sure enough, there was a tender spot under her left ear. She glared at Ted, who put up his hands in self-defense.

“Don't yell at
me,
” he objected. “
I
didn't bite you.”

The others trickled in as she worked, ticking their names off at the wall terminal. Fifteen minutes from departure she had twenty-one; not a bad showing from a roster of thirty. Most of the stragglers were from the
Demeter
crew; the few who had
already arrived waited outside the shuttle for their friends, talking to each other in low voices and falling silent every time a
Galileo
soldier walked by. Elena did not understand them. Enthusiastic friendship was hardly required, but
Demeter
's borrowed soldiers seemed intent on open hostility between the two crews. She should have asked the bay officer to assign them a dedicated shuttle, but she supposed that made her no better than they were.

Belatedly it occurred to her that Danny might be on this shuttle as well, and would hear how she had spent her evening. Well, she had made it clear to him when she turned down his invitation the day before that he had no claim on her any longer. He had thrown that away all on his own.

She had finished her check of the ship's air seals and was turning to look for the dispatcher when she came face-to-face with Jessica, who had crept up silently behind her. Despite the fact that Jessica was likely just as hungover as Ted, she looked perfect: coppery hair tamed away from her face, expression bright-eyed and alert, the picture of a disciplined officer. Except that she was staring at the bruise on Elena's neck, her expression cheerfully curious.

“So,” she asked, “did you find someone else?”

Elena shook her head, and saw her friend's eyes widen slowly. “
Seriously?
” she said, nearly shrieking. “You fucked a
pirate
? Those guys are
dangerous.
” Jessica was looking at her friend with naked admiration. “You are out of your mind. So how was he?”

Elena thought of all the ways she could answer that. She thought of the night behind her, of how he had touched her, of how he had spoken to her. She searched until she found the right word.

“Thorough,” she said.

Jessica stomped with impatience. “Elena Marie Shaw, after all the years we've known each other, all you're going to give me is ‘thorough'?”

Elena considered. “Extremely thorough,” she amended.

Departure time neared and they were still down four. It was Jessica who cleared up the discrepancy for her. “Someone said Foster pulled the infantry guys back early,” she said. “Didn't say why.”

Elena frowned. Jessica seemed unconcerned, but Elena didn't think Greg would have pulled any of them back early without a solid reason. If it had been an incipient emergency, he would have told all the senior officers, but she could not shake her unease. He would be awake when they got home; no matter how acidic he insisted on being, she would have to ask him.

Greg never took shore leave—captain's privilege, he always said. Six months ago she would have cheerfully stayed home with him, enjoying his quiet company. As things stood, though, it had been easy for her to decide to leave. Their friendship had been strained for half a year, and the public argument they'd had two weeks ago had undone the last of her equanimity. If she had stayed behind, she would have run into him, and he would have goaded her into shouting at him again. Losing Danny should have hurt more than losing Greg, but she had so few true friends in her life. Lovers were easy; she felt she had left Danny behind already.

Greg was not so easily replaced.

She climbed onto the shuttle and settled into the pilot's seat to steer them out of the main hangar. The morning sun blazed through the front window, and in deference to Ted's quiet groan
she engaged the polarizer. She angled them upward, keeping the incline gentle as they transitioned from the planet's gravity to the ship's artificial field. The sky darkened quickly as they rose through the clouds, and then the stars came out. She brought them around to the planet's night side, and there, sleek and streamlined, graceful as a swan with wings outstretched, drifted the CCSS
Galileo.
Her ship. Her home.

Galileo
had been state-of-the-art once, seven years ago, when she had first been christened. Even now, with all of the larger, faster ships that had been deployed since, the little craft was a gem, although Elena acknowledged she might not be entirely objective. Certainly the ship's hull bore some battle scars, the sleek metallic surface discolored and battered here and there; but she could still outfight a vessel twice her size, and even with a slower top speed, she was faster off the mark than any ship that had been built since.

Demeter
was both newer and larger, outfitted with cutting-edge tech out of Ellis Systems' research branch, and Elena overheard her crew make disparaging comments about
Galileo
from time to time. She let it go, aware of where her own loyalties would lie if their positions were reversed. They were lucky they didn't have to deal with Commander Jacobs, her old boss, who would have slapped them down publicly and succinctly, and with more than a few insults. Jake had always been impolitic and passionate, and in the year since his death she found she missed that part of him the most.

Only a year ago. Just a year. A year ago Jake, not Elena, had been chief of engineering, and she had been content working for him. A year ago she had had Danny to keep her warm, and Greg to keep her sane. Now she had none of them, all lost, one way or
another. In recent months she had considered transferring off of
Galileo,
leaving behind all of the pain and alienation and starting over on another ship. But on this morning, flying home with a night's worth of warm memories, that choice seemed ridiculous. How would her life look different if she went somewhere else? Leaving was an overreaction. It was giving up, and she had never been one to quit.

She hailed her ship. “
Galileo,
this is
Exodus One
requesting hangar access.”

“
Exodus One, Galileo.
Shuttle hangar seven. Welcome back, Lanie. You missing anybody?”

“Nobody but the infantry.”

“Well, you're ten minutes late. Hurry up before you all miss breakfast.”

Elena glanced around the cabin. “I don't think you're going to have a lot of takers on the food.”

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.