by P. R. Adams
The staff sergeant frowned. “That’s why you want to invest?”
“Who should I trust more—someone who shows motivation and determination despite challenges or someone who has all the advantages in their history?”
“It depends on the person. Don’t trust me because I came from dirt.”
“No. I trust you because you aren’t content to lean on that as an excuse for the rest of your life.”
Halliwell grunted but seemed content with that.
Benson clasped her hands in front of her. “Well, I didn’t mean for things to become so gloomy.”
Grier punched Halliwell in the shoulder. “Some people just like to sulk.”
He scowled. “That’s because some people see things as they are.”
“Okay.” Benson cleared her throat. “The message here was supposed to be, ‘Thank you, and watch your back.’ That’s all. The things we’ve seen, the things we’re likely to see more of…”
Parkinson shifted in his seat. “Maybe it’s more important to say we should be careful who we talk to and what we say. Right?”
“I think that’s a good point, Chief.”
Kohn’s face twisted, as if he were upset.
Benson tilted her head. “Petty Officer Kohn? Do you have something?”
“Just—” He lowered his eyes. “Well, after all we’ve seen. I just wonder—all the bad things that happened to Commander Gaines’s family…y’know, all those mysterious deaths, then her dying out there in the DMZ. Now that we know the truth, do we really believe all these things classified as accidents really were?” He looked at Dietrich. “I mean, every time a ship goes missing or blows up near the DMZ…”
Now it was Dietrich whose eyes widened. “Oh.” His hands shook. “Excuse me.”
Benson felt stupid for not connecting the dots Kohn had. There was suddenly something to possibly explain a lot of pain in people’s lives. Had she missed that because of her lack of connection with her crew? She could only lie to herself for so long that they had been Lenny’s crew.
Once Dietrich was gone, she stood. “The second I hear anything, I’ll let you know. And if you could do the same, I’d appreciate it.”
The others got to their feet. Most offered up hands for another shake or in Grier’s case simply moved in for a hug. “We’ve got your back, ma’am.”
“Thank you.”
Halliwell hung back, waiting just inside the hatch. There was an offer in his eyes—if Benson needed something to fill the time until her next watch, he was there.
She relaxed just a little and took his hand. She might be surrounded by enemies, but she had at least a few people she could trust.
And she intended to spend some time with the one she trusted most.
4
Someone had cranked up the lights on the bridge before Benson arrived. It was brighter than before and smelled like a maintenance team had gone to work during the night with a bucket of cleaning fluids. McLeod stood to the left of Scalise, who had her fingers wrapped tight around the ring atop the rail circling the raised area of the command station. She didn’t turn when Benson stepped onto the deck, but the colonel did.
He positively beamed when Benson stood beside him. “Good morning, Commander.”
She flashed a smile of her own, although she didn’t feel his apparent confidence. “Good morning, Colonel.”
“Ready to wrap this up?”
“Long past ready.” Benson tried to catch Scalise’s attention with a glance, but the other woman’s eyes were glued to the screen. It could have been resentment driving her, or it could have been an intense focus on her duties.
Benson hoped it was the duties.
In the days since the meeting in the galley, Gadreau and Scalise had been even colder. As an SAID agent, Patel’s continued hostility was just something that had to be accepted, but the military officers should have been different. There was apparently no way to get across to them just how big a threat the Azoren were. If fellow officers couldn’t understand the need to set aside petty differences, how could Benson hope for the people in government to?
McLeod clasped his hands behind his back. “Seeing a ship exit Fold Space never gets old.”
“It doesn’t.” Benson didn’t need to lie about that. It was a wondrous sight.
Lieutenant Ferrara turned a ghostly pale face to Scalise, then looked between McLeod and Benson. “Exiting Fold Space in thirty seconds.”
The colonel nodded. “Thank you, Lieutenant.”
Benson couldn’t believe the helmsman was still on duty. His hair was damp and clung to his brow. He looked caught between violent sickness and complete exhaustion, as if he might just collapse and lie on the deck until his waxen, bronze skin oozed off his skeletal frame. Neither Scalise nor McLeod seemed to care about the lieutenant’s condition, but Benson sensed there was reason for concern.
She stepped up to the helm station. “Lieutenant, could you show me your view of the process?”
His dark eyes flitted from her to the console. “Right here, ma’am.”
The large display that dominated his station flickered with a rainbow of colors. They shimmered in waves that radiated out from the prow.
Cresting. The energy of their Fold Space engines was rolling outward, striking the juncture between the space the ship traveled in, the space where distance was measured in decimal multipliers. Where they were at the moment, they were covering about ten times real distance. In another handful of seconds, the Fold Space engines would wind down, and they would drop into the world where math and physics were again meaningful, at least in the way she’d come to understand them.
It was the universe with an all-new calculus for her, a universe where she would have to contend with new enemies who apparently resented her mother more than genocidal maniacs or corporations run rampant as cold-blooded rulers.
Something shivered inside her.
And then the waves disappeared from the display, and the ship shivered almost imperceptibly as it transitioned from one dimension to another.
Sweat beaded on Ferrara’s face, and the softest groan escaped; he winced. “We’ve exited Fold Space!”
Benson touched his elbow. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, ma’am. I just need to resume my pain medication.”
“Can’t they give you anything until you’ve been handed off for treatment?”
“Not while I’m on duty, ma’am. It’s too risky.”
“That’s nonsense. When your shift ends, I want you to talk to Commander Dietrich.”
Ferrara looked over his shoulder at Scalise. “I-I’ve already talked with Commander Ballinger. She says it’s the captain’s call.”
Another pained wince.
“See me after your shift ends, Lieutenant. That’s an order.”
He frowned, then nodded.
The hatch opened, and Gadreau crossed to McLeod’s position. They whispered for a few seconds, their eyes darting around the giant display that now showed the black space between the Clarion and Kedraal.
Lieutenant Bales—the dark-skinned communications officer to Ferrara’s right—turned to Scalise. “Marie Belle, Istanbul, Pandora, and Pulsar reporting in, Commander.”
Scalise tugged on her sideburns. “Gunship-028?”
“Nothing yet, ma’am. They had fallen behind earlier.”
“I want to know the second they’re through.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Benson gently patted Ferrara, then drifted back to the command station. She didn’t wait for Scalise to acknowledge. “You worried about technical problems?”
The lieutenant commander’s lips pursed. “They hadn’t reported any.”
“But they’d drifted back.”
“They were pushing their Fold Space drive. It’s a good idea to start the spin-down early when you’ve been riding hard.”
“I’m going to have Lieutenant Ferrara talk with Dr. Dietrich. After shift.”
That drew a glare fr
om Scalise. “I thought this was my ship?”
“It is. I don’t believe in people suffering unnecessarily.”
“He can handle one more night. He’ll be released to medical treatment once we have clearance from Kedraal Naval Operations Center.”
“Dr. Dietrich found a good mixture of pain medications for me.”
“Your doctor’s a lush, Commander. Everyone knows that.”
Heat shot through Benson. Her focus sharpened. “That’s unprofessional, Lieutenant Commander Scalise. You’re talking about a respected surgeon.”
“He has a reputation throughout the Navy.”
“That’s enough.”
Benson could feel the eyes of the others on the bridge—watching. Listening.
Scalise’s face was red, but she was back to staring at the giant display. “Lieutenant Bale, any updates on the gunship?”
“Not yet, ma’am. But we’re being hailed by the Home Defense Fleet.”
McLeod cleared his throat. “I’ll take that call, Lieutenant.”
Scalise pressed her chin against her chest. “Would the colonel like to take the command station?”
“No. Thank you, though, Commander.” McLeod’s voice was cheery.
He has no idea how sensitive she is. Benson turned in time to catch Gadreau’s smug sneer just before he exited the bridge.
“Excuse me, Colonel.” Benson caught McLeod’s distracted nod, then hurried after the Marine as quickly as her tender leg allowed.
Gadreau was halfway down the passageway, moving at close to a jog.
“Captain Gadreau!”
“I’m busy, Commander.” He picked up the pace.
“Not too busy. Wait for me.”
He continued on, actually picking up speed.
“That’s an order, Captain!”
Gadreau scraped to a stop and sighed. Benson slowed to make her point. She was getting tired of the immature behavior and the lack of discipline and respect, and if she was going to find herself released from service as it seemed might happen, she was going to bring the nonsense with the Marine captain to an end.
He stared past her when she finally came to a stop in front of him. There was a physicality about his body language that hinted it was a real exertion for him just to stay calm. “What is it, Commander? I have Marines waiting for me.”
“You have a commander waiting for you—right here, right now. That takes priority.”
The big man trembled, and his cheeks colored. “Colonel McLeod released me.”
“He did?”
“Yes. Ma’am.”
“I’m sorry. I missed that. I’ll talk with him in a minute.” She took a calming breath.
And let the captain stew.
His eyes drifted down the passageway to the bridge hatch. “We’ll be under Kedraal Naval Operations Center command in a few minutes.”
“Is that some sort of threat?”
“An observation. Commander.”
“What’s your relationship with Agent Patel, Captain?”
“Relationship? I have no idea—”
“You knew a lot more about those Azoren stealth suits we saw on Jotun than anyone else.”
“You want to hold my experience against me?”
“No. I’m trying to put together something that’s been troubling me. You used to be part of anti-piracy operations. You used special gear.”
“Sometimes.”
“Against pirates. Technology that was comparable to what the Azoren had.”
“I’m not an engineer.”
“But you did work with Agent Patel, didn’t you?”
“I’ve been at this for nearly two decades, Commander.”
“So you’ve worked with a lot of people. I understand. Staff Sergeant Halliwell was one of them. He remembers seeing you.”
Gadreau’s eyes finally rose to meet hers. He leaned in close enough that she could smell coffee and something else on his breath. Alcohol? “Your pretty Marine’s got a big mouth. And he’s got a history, just like all the train wrecks you’ve attached yourself to.”
“Everyone has a history, Captain.”
“Yeah? Not everyone’s got things to hide, though.”
“I have nothing to hide.”
“Really?” The thick-chested man glanced back to the bridge hatch. “I guess we’ll see soon enough.”
“What’s that mean?”
The Marine turned away from her and headed for the hatch that opened onto stairs.
“Captain Gadreau, what—”
He passed through the hatch, boots clanging on the steps until the noise was sealed off by the closing hiss.
She took a step toward the stairwell entry, then her communicator buzzed.
Colonel McLeod. He looked mildly annoyed when she connected. “Commander, would you join me on the bridge, please?”
“On my way, Colonel.”
Her knee complained as she hobbled back, but it was nothing compared to the headache forming behind her eyes. It was the annoying, throbbing pressure that felt like her brain was physically pushing against the back of her eyes.
Tension. Anxiety.
It made concentration tough, and that was exactly what she needed at the moment. Gadreau’s evasiveness about his past, his dislike of her and Halliwell, his knowledge of the Pandora crew, Scalise’s claim that Dietrich was a drunk—someone was definitely feeding private information about Benson’s people to the two officers, undermining Benson’s authority and putting people at risk.
It had to be Patel.
The only question was why. Why go after the people who supported her?
Things had come to life on the bridge. Lieutenant Bales seemed to be caught up in a discussion with someone, and McLeod now leaned against the command station ring, nodding as Scalise whispered to him.
He waved Benson over when she was through the hatch and moved slightly back from Scalise to make room. “Commander.”
There was nothing obvious on the giant display. “Is something wrong?”
McLeod looked up to Scalise, and she frowned, then said, “Gunship-028. It came out of Fold Space but isn’t responding to hails.”
“Communications systems outage?”
Scalise nodded. “We hope so. It’s still at full deceleration.”
“So the other systems are working. The crew is probably fine.”
“Captain Barrowman has asked us to ensure the gunship is all right.”
Barrowman. Home Defense Fleet.
McLeod’s lips compressed. “Which means, I understand, that we’ll need to make hard maneuvers.”
The lieutenant commander grunted. “Hard deceleration. Acceleration couches, minimal crew on deck. We’re already at full burn. It’s the only way we can slow enough to let the gunship get up to our position before they arrive inside fleet space.”
“Hm.” The GSA officer didn’t really seem to care about the particulars of the problem. “So, the question we have, Commander Benson, is whether we want to do this alone or keep the task force together.”
And Scalise sensed some sort of risk in the decision, or she would have made it herself. That much was obvious.
They would be vulnerable for a short window with most of the crew in acceleration couches. Better to put only one ship at risk should something go wrong, obviously. But they were a task force. There were expectations. It really wasn’t all that unclear.
Benson pressed the heel of her palm against her brow. “We’ll need to keep the task force together.”
The corner of McLeod’s lips twisted for just a moment, as if he disagreed. “All right. Would you coordinate with the other captains, please?”
Unlike McLeod’s subtle reaction, there was no missing Scalise’s: Her face became a pinched, purple mess and her eyes narrow slits. She turned away and leaned against the command station for support.
She hadn’t had the will to make the call, but she wanted to give the orders.
Benson would have a lot of notations for
the lieutenant commander’s record. With any luck, the woman would find a patient and persevering commander with her next assignment.
There were no arguments—not even real disagreements—when Benson passed along the orders. Everyone understood their obligations to hold together.
But the captain of the Marie Belle requested a chat.
Benson accepted and stepped aside. She only knew the other commander through some radioed discussions—Carter Lo; retired commander; had a shot at captain if he could wait it out, passed; decorated; respected.
She sighed. “Commander Lo?”
The image on her communicator display was of an older man with dark hair now graying. Yellow teeth poked out through a thin-lipped smile. “Commander Benson, thank you.” His voice was small, quiet. “I wanted to say that you’re making the right call here.”
Is he being patronizing? “I appreciate that.”
“We’re having some problems, but we can keep up with the Clarion.”
“That’s good to hear, Commander. Is that—?”
“It’s not why I wanted to talk with you, no.” The smile slipped away. “I thought you should know there have been communications going around. Things that…”
“Communications?”
It seemed like he might have blushed. “I’m sending to you what I have.”
Her heart skipped a beat. What did he mean? “Thank you.”
She disconnected and turned back to the bridge.
Scalise had Bales sound the signal to send everyone to their acceleration couches, then folded her arms. “We’ll be going to just my staff, Colonel.”
“Hm?” McLeod seemed caught up in other thoughts. “Oh. Yes.”
Benson followed him to the hatch but stopped there. “I think I’m going to stay on the bridge.”
He nodded, still distracted. “They have a position for you?”
Scalise had already activated the bridge acceleration couches—rubbery chairs that were now filling with gel. The helm station had four, and there were two at the back of the bridge, where Benson normally liked to stand.