Elizabeth Bonesteel - The Cold Between

At that Greg became annoyed. It was easy for a man stationed on Earth to ask such a thing; he had no real idea of what life was like for a starship crew. But Herrod had spent time among the stars, albeit decades ago, and Greg was frustrated by how much the admiral seemed to have forgotten. “My people have been out for nearly half a year, Admiral, and they haven’t had a break since Aleph. You want to explain to me why you’re using a live vid signal to complain about my crew taking shore leave?”

“You want to explain to me why your crew is taking shore leave when we’re in the middle of a diplomatic incident?”

All of Greg’s irritation vanished. “I’m unaware of what you’re talking about, sir.”

“Your ship was briefed on approach, Captain Foster,” Herrod said severely. “If you’ve been ignoring Central’s reports—”

“No, sir,” Greg said. His gut felt cold and hard; he knew what had happened. He should have dealt with Will months ago. “There have been some … internal communication issues lately. If you could brief me directly, sir, that would probably be most efficient.”

Herrod looked away, and Greg could see him weighing whether or not he ought to waste time taking Greg to task. In the end he stuck with the problem at hand. “We’re on alert in the Fifth Sector,” he told Greg, “from Volhynia around the pulsar through the hot zone. The public story is that Demeter went in for repairs at Aleph because they were attacked by Syndicate raiders. In truth they were hit by PSI.”

Hit by PSI. Greg could not let that go unchallenged. “That can’t be right, sir. Someone miscommunicated something, or Captain MacBride is playing a joke that got out of hand. PSI’s not going to hit one of our ships. Above and beyond the fact that they’re on our side, we outgun them, sir, and not by a little bit. It’d be suicide for them to engage one of ours.” A cold fear struck him. “Are they claiming casualties, sir?”

“They’re not claiming anything,” Herrod told him. “They’re not talking to us.”

So it wasn’t a joke. Christ. Relations with PSI had always been light on dialogue, but it had been more than eighty years since any kind of live fire had occurred between Central and the nomadic group. Central maintained bureaucratic structures to facilitate aid and distribution to the colonies spread sparsely throughout the galaxy’s six mapped sectors; PSI preferred a more ad hoc style of providing assistance. Despite the humanitarian goals PSI shared with Central, their solutions were too different to facilitate camaraderie, but most Corps soldiers would never think of seeing a PSI ship as a threat. Something had set them off, and Herrod didn’t seem to know what it was. “What is Captain MacBride claiming?” Greg asked.

“MacBride reports that the PSI ship Penumbra approached them adjacent to the hot zone, and fired on them unprovoked.”

“For what? Their cargo?” If Central thought PSI had been after Demeter ’s cargo, they would have made sure Greg was properly warned instead of simply loaning him twenty-five members of Demeter ’s crew to handle the shipment.

Herrod was shaking his head. “MacBride said they took their shot and then retreated. No demands for cargo, no comms at all.”

“But that doesn’t make any sense.”

“No,” Herrod agreed, “it doesn’t. Which brings me back to my original issue. We need you to be scouting for PSI activity in the area.”

Greg was already querying Galileo ’s sensors. “We’re showing all four PSI ships outside of this vicinity,” he said. “Closest is Castelanna, but even she’s six hours out, and she’s not moving. They’re all stationary. Galileo, what’s the local time?”

“Local time is Dead Hour plus thirty-eight,” the ship said smoothly.

“What the hell’s Dead Hour?” Herrod asked irritably.

“Artificial power outage,” Greg explained. “The colony’s power grid isn’t reinforced to withstand the EMP from the pulsar, so they take the waypoints down for about an hour every night while they get hit. It doesn’t always save their equipment, but it keeps the pulse from traveling along their connections.”

Herrod shook his head. “They’ve got more money there than half the First Sector,” he grumbled. “Why the hell don’t they update their grid?”

“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?”