Elizabeth Moon - Once a Hero

“I suppose they really were wounded?”

Pitak snorted. “I’m no medic—how would I know? They were unconscious and covered with blood, wearing our uniform. What more do you want?”

It was a silly question, but Esmay didn’t bother to point that out. The itchy feeling between her shoulders wouldn’t go away. “Camajo wasn’t wounded . . . I think I’ll check with sickbay, if you don’t mind.”

“Snarks in a bucket, Suiza, why don’t you keep your mind on your work—or am I not giving you enough? Let Medical worry about the wounded, unless you want to transfer over there—”

“No, sir.” Esmay heard in her own voice the stubborn conviction that she was right.

Pitak glared at her. “You’re worried about something.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Spit it out then.”

“Sir, I . . . I have a bad feeling—” Pitak snorted and rolled her eyes like a skittish mare; Esmay persisted. “The thing is, sir, if they could get close enough to hand-plant a mine, they could have put some troops aboard.”

“Without anyone noticing? That’s—”

“Sir, Wraith was isolated at the time of the attack; individuals in EVA gear—or even in small pods—wouldn’t have shown up on scans by Justice and Sting ; Wraith ’s own scan was badly damaged. The tactical analysis suggested that the Bloodhorde might want to capture a DSR, not just destroy one. I know we don’t usually consider the Bloodhorde as having this sort of planning ability, but consider: if they can get a commando team aboard the DSR, they could cause enough disruption to make it easier for a follow-up ship or wave of ships to board and capture it.”

“I can see where that might be a plan, Suiza, but I repeat: those wounded wore our uniform. Our uniform, with the Fleet recognition code in the weave . . . you think they stole a bale of our cloth and made up uniforms, then stole Wraith ’s personnel list—”

“No, sir.” Esmay’s mind raced, trying to catch up to her intuition. “Suppose . . . suppose they boarded, forward of the breach, counting on the confusion. Communications to the forward compartments failed, with the damage . . . so whatever they did up there wouldn’t be known aft. They could have overpowered any uninjured crew, killed them, put on their uniforms, spaced their own uniforms and the dead—”

“It still sounds like something out of an adventure cube, Suiza, not like real life.” Pitak chewed her lip. “Then, on the other hand, the Bloodhorde go for the dramatic. You would argue then that the blood belonged to the real RSS personnel, now dead—and that inside those bloody uniforms, the enemy were unwounded?”

“Yes, sir, unless jump transit did them some harm. Those compartments weren’t any too sound, you said.”

“No . . .” Pitak glowered at her. “I must say, Suiza, your passion for completeness can be a real pain sometimes. We had enough to do already.” She reached for the comm switch. “But I’ll check.”

For the time it took for Pitak to work her way through the obstacles the medical section put in the way of the merely curious, Esmay tried to settle to her own assignment. The lines and figures blurred on the page . . . she kept seeing in her mind what she had not seen with her own eyes, the dark compartments of Wraith ’s bow section, cluttered with debris and unconscious men and women. Men and women with Camajo’s—or whatever his name really was—eyes, the alert eyes of those on a mission. She ran her stylus along a column of figures, trying to force her mind to some useful task.

A change in the tone of Pitak’s voice brought her upright, fully alert.

“Oh?” Elaborately casual, that. “Interesting—I helped evacuate some of them, you know, and they were covered with blood—yes. I see. Just the effect of the sleepygas? Are they still in sickbay then?” Her voice sharpened. “When?” Her eyes met Esmay’s. “I see.”

Esmay waited, as Pitak closed the circuit.

“If you retain this habit of being right, Suiza, you’re going to be hated.” Esmay said nothing. “They weren’t wounded, any of them. Twenty-five males . . . seemed a little dazed and confused when they woke up, and three hours ago they were sent off to various workstations around the ship. Camajo, as we both know, was sent here, to H&A. If they were Bloodhorde . . . that many Bloodhorde loose in our ship could do us real damage . . .”

“Yes, sir.”

“And I don’t even know where they are. A petty-chief named Barrahide, from Personnel, came and got them. Not somebody from Wraith , because all Wraith personnel who aren’t in sickbay are busy helping our people with damage assessment.” As she talked, Pitak was scrolling through the communications tree. “Ah. Here we are. Extension . . . 7762.” Another call, but this time Pitak talked as she waited for someone to pick up on the other end. “That’s if they’re Bloodhorde. They might not be. We need someone from Wraith . . . or rather, the captain does. But I’ll see what Barrahide can tell me.”

“Someone might take a look at the communications lines from the forward compartments to the rear in Wraith . . . was it explosive damage or were they cut?”

“Good idea, Suiza. You call my chief and tell him to check—Oh, Chief Barrahide? Listen, about those Wraith crew you took out of sickbay . . .”

Barin tried not to think about Esmay Suiza; he had enough to do, if only he could concentrate on it. Besides, she was two ranks above him; he was a mere boy to her. He told himself that, but he didn’t believe it. She respected him; after that first disastrous argument, she had treated him as an equal. He felt himself scowling. This wasn’t about respect, exactly. It was about . . . he squirmed, trying to push the thought aside. Planet-born, and higher-ranked . . . he had no good reason to be thinking of her that way, and he was. Her soft brown hair made Serrano black look harsh . . . her height made Serrano compactness look stubby. The back of her neck . . . even her elbows . . . he didn’t want to feel this, and he did.

Serranos, his mother had said, fall hard when they fall. He had taken that as he took most of the things he was told about his inheritance, with far more than one grain of salt. His mother was not a Serrano; her occasional sarcasms might be envy. His adolescent crushes had been obvious even to him as temporary flares of hormonal activity. He had expected to find someone, if he ever did, in the respectable ranks of Fleet’s traditional families. A Livadhi, perhaps. A Damarin—there was one of his year, a sleek green-eyed beauty with the supple Damarin back. If they had been assigned to the same ship . . . but they hadn’t been.

This was unsuitable. He knew that. Grandmother would raise those eyebrows. Mother would sigh that sigh. His distant cousin Heris would . . . he didn’t want to think about her, either. By rumor she had chosen an unsuitable partner, but he didn’t think that would make her sympathetic.

The part of his mind that had not wandered off down this seductive lane prodded him back to alertness. Commander Vorhes would have his head on a platter if he didn’t get those scan components out of inventory and down to the repair bay in a hurry. He shook his head at his own folly, and caught an amused glance from another ensign he knew.

“Heads up, Serrano—you hear about the mysterious intruders?”

“Intruders? What intruders?”

“Some casualties off Wraith who weren’t that badly hurt, so we put ’em to work, and then they disappeared. About that time someone in Hull and Architecture went spacey and started claiming they were Bloodhorde agents or something . . . anyway, nobody can track ’em down, and there’s a sort of alert—”