by J. N. Chaney
“Flukes do happen, sir,” he said. “I’ve heard some pretty wild tales of skin-of-the-teeth survival in battle.”
“And some of those are even true,” Tanner replied. “But yes, that does happen, and it does seem to have happened in this case.”
Now it was the XO who looked confused. “So what are we doing here then, sir?”
“Appearances can be deceiving, XO,” Tanner replied. “This man somehow didn’t die aboard the Centurion, it’s true. But he wasn’t found and rescued by the ON. Instead, the man simply resurfaced about six months ago, claiming that he’d been found by salvagers, managed to get away from them, then made his way back to ON lines. I’m a fan of dumb luck, but this stretches my concept of it and tickles my natural cynicism. I know I’m guilty of being overly cheerful—”
Someone snorted, but Tanner went on, unperturbed. “And yet, I’m left with an intense need to know how this could have happened, given that good luck rarely occurs when we’re fighting an enemy as creatively evil as the squids.”
Thorn narrowed his eyes. The story was plausible; there were salvagers, grubby opportunists, who carried on the age-old tradition of plundering battlefields after the fighting was done.
“But we don’t believe that, I gather,” the Security Chief said.
“No, we do not,” Tanner replied. “People, meet our newest Nyctus problem. We call them Skins.”
2
“Lieutenant Wixcombe, report to docking port four ASAP.”
Kira glanced up as the synthesized voice spoke over the general address system, then sighed in disgust. Finally, she’d managed some free time, having bargained with both the Duty Watch Commander and another of the Stiletto’s Lieutenants, a sallow-faced young man named Davis, who totally sucked at poker. With two more favors in her bag, she’d used the first to finally get more than a few hours of sleep, and had planned to use the second to get serious about contacting Thorn.
But now—
“Lieutenant Wixcombe,” the mechanical voice repeated. “Report to—”
“Yeah, yeah, on my way,” she snapped, prying herself out from behind the tiny worktable in her cramped quarters. The Stiletto, a heavy cruiser, was by far the most spacious ship to which Kira had yet been assigned, but crews grew in proportion to the size of the ship, so it really wasn’t any more spacious than, say, the Hecate—not on a per-person basis, anyway.
Still, she thought, fastening her uniform and grabbing her cap, the ON could no doubt make an empty field seem crowded.
She made her way along narrow corridors, stepping over hatch coamings along the way with practiced ease. Captain Densmore insisted that every member of the Stiletto’s crew be able to navigate every centimeter of the ship in complete darkness while blinded by smoke. It was a dedication to crew survival Kira hadn’t heard any other Captains practicing.
It was also another reason Kira was convinced Densmore actually wasn’t a spy for the Nyctus.
She stopped to let a trio of crewmen pass by, each carrying a hefty power cell. They nodded as they passed Kira, and she nodded back, a formal acknowledgement of an officer by enlisted Ratings when there wasn’t room to properly salute.
She carried on, heading for Docking Port Four. She had no idea why, but that was typical aboard the Stiletto. Technically a ship of the line, the Stiletto was actually much more specialized. If she was on the front line, then something had gone really wrong in the war. Her real mission was support for covert ops. She deployed and recovered spec ops teams and other intel specialists on furtive missions, most of which Kira knew absolutely nothing about. But then she didn’t need to know about them, and was only read into those missions she did. Keeping secrets came naturally to intel officers. Keeping secrets on the Stiletto was practically religion.
She stopped again, this time to let a forgettable man in a plain day-uniform pass by. The man, who barely acknowledged her, had no insignia or rank badges, just a security chip with a four-digit number on it—5783. Kira watched him recede down the corridor. Whoever Mister 5783 was, he wasn’t ON.
That was another reality about the Stiletto; ON ships did sometimes carry civilian personnel, usually shipyard representatives overseeing flight trials, various types of contractors, or certain mission specialists. Densmore’s ship had more than its share of civvies aboard, though, all of the spooky variety. Kira wasn’t even sure how many civilian personnel were aboard the Stiletto. She presumed someone had a head count for civvies, in case the ship ever got into trouble and had to be evacuated.
Although Kira suspected the Stiletto would likely be scuttled long before there was any threat she might be compromised by the Nyctus.
The only thing she did know about Mister 5783 was that the blue diamond on his security chip marked him as a member of the ELINT—electronic intelligence—department. That was the Stiletto’s other major role—eavesdropping on electronic comms of all types, from transmissions to the characteristic EM emissions of ships underway.
ELINT occupied almost a third of C-deck, a part of the ship into which Kira had only been once—and then with most consoles covered up. That was part of Densmore’s everybody-know-every-centimeter-of-the-ship-even-in-the-dark thing, but Kira was absolutely confident that after only one visit, she’d be able to get hopelessly lost in ELINT, even with the lights on.
Intel was a world of compartmentalization. And the more Kira learned just how compartmentalized it was, the more dysfunctional it all seemed.
She reached Docking Port Four, to find Densmore already there. A striking woman, Alys Densmore had a perpetual sense of knowing about her—both of secrets kept and the ability to glean anything from anyone, a kind of prophet whose sole purpose was to sniff the wind and understand who held what advantage at any point in the war. On one level, it made her mysterious, an enigmatic, figure of vague menace. On another, though, it just made her annoying.
“Ma’am,” Kira said, saluting. “I was called here, but I’m not sure why.”
Densmore nodded. “In about ten minutes, a civilian shuttle is going to dock here. It will contain the pilot and one passenger. The passenger will be your responsibility. You will escort him to briefing room five-alpha and proceed to debrief him. I’d like your summary report on my desk by oh-eight-hundred tomorrow.”
Kira suppressed a grimace that all commanding officers could sense no matter how minor. It was in their skill set, and thus Kira’s face was a marvel of neutrality. Not only was she going to lose the duty-free shift she’d bargained for, but now she was going to be stuck babysitting some civvy for who knew how long. A hint of her displeasure must have leaked into her expression, because Densmore gave her a narrow-eyed look.
“Is there a problem, Lieutenant?”
“No—” Kira began, then stopped, because there were moments, rare but important, where being wholly honest with a superior officer was the best course of action.
“Actually, ma’am, there is. I’ve been aboard this ship for almost three years now, and you’ve consistently rated me above grade that entire time. I’ve never been late for duty. More often than not, I’ve stayed on duty past the end of my shift to help with some damned thing or another. I—”
“Am getting burned out,” Densmore said. “Is that where this is going, Lieutenant?”
Kira gave a slow nod of grudging admission, realizing who she was speaking to. “Actually, ma’am, I think that is part of it.” She shook her head. “No, that’s actually all of it, really. I just need some time to recharge. I’m roasted, and not in a good way. My judgement is—it’s not bad, but it’s not what it should be, and you deserve my best.”
“And you want to try to meet up with Lieutenant Stellers?”
This time, Kira avoided a scowl. It really wasn’t any of Densmore’s—or anyone else’s—business, what she got up to during her personal time off. But her relationship with Thorn was no secret to Densmore; in fact, she probably knew as much about their relationship as anyone. So Kira finally shrugged.
>
“If I can track him down, yes. I haven’t seen him in—” She paused, thinking. It had to be at least six months, a brief cross-over of their paths at Code Catapult, an ON’s FOB—forward operating base. The Hecate and the Stiletto had both docked there for resupply, giving them almost two full days together. There’d been no time together since.
“About six months,” Densmore said, offering Kira a thin smile. “You met him at Code Catapult.”
Kira smiled back. “You certainly know your crew, ma’am.”
“I know everything, Wixcombe,” Densmore said, her smile taking on a more predatory edge. But she immediately relented into something more like actual good humor. “Which means I also knew you’d finagled this duty shift as time off.”
Kira blinked. “Wait. You knew that, and you assigned me duty anyway, debriefing this civilian—”
“When you’re aboard this ship, your time is my time, Lieutenant Wixcombe.”
“Yes, of course, ma’am, but—” Kira let the complaint die of natural causes. She really didn’t want to get into this.
But Densmore let herself grin, if only just. It was a look of understanding, forged over years of dealing with the machinations of junior officers and their complex lives. “You wanted the time to try and contact Stellers, because you’ve been trying ever since the Vision of Nebo, but he hasn’t been reachable.”
“You know, ma’am, I appreciate that you’re the Captain and all, but I think your crew—and especially your officers—are entitled to some privacy.”
Densmore held up a hand. “No, I haven’t been eavesdropping or spying.”
This time, Kira forced herself to maintain her composure, while quietly reinforcing the shield she’d erected around her thoughts. Her captivity by the Nyctus had shown her that, when it came to locking down her own mind, there was almost no one who could enter that space without her permission. Thorn was the only exception. She’d done so ever since, partly out of sheer reflex, born of the trauma of that awful ordeal as a captive of the squids.
But a big part of it was Densmore herself. Kira and Thorn had come to suspect that Densmore might be in league with the Nyctus, which would be a massive problem for the ON. They’d shared their concerns with Captain Tanner of the Hecate, who’d offered to keep her aboard his ship, when Fleet began talking about assigning her to work for Densmore.
After some thought, she and Thorn had decided that putting her in close proximity to Densmore might be for the best. They didn’t have enough evidence to actually level any sort of accusation against her, so the best they could do was have her accept the posting to the Stiletto—with Tanner’s help—to keep an eye on the enigmatic woman.
And here she was. Three years had passed, and she’d found absolutely no evidence Densmore had any connection to the Nyctus at all. Kira had concluded they were wrong, Densmore wasn’t compromised—but she still kept her thoughts guarded. The woman finding out that Kira had been spying on her, to see if she was a spy, would at least lead to a tense, awkward conversation.
But Densmore had just made an explicit reference to spying. Did she know, or at least suspect something, after all?
All of this flashed through Kira’s mind in a moment, firmly behind her formidable mental shields. Densmore didn’t seem to notice, though, as she just kept on speaking.
“I’ve been trying to get a hold of Stellers myself,” she said to Kira. “I have no doubt you have too, and I assume you’ve had no success either.”
“Yes, ma’am. Right after the Vision, I tried to contact him. I’ve tried several times since, but gotten nothing,” Kira said.
The Vision. That’s what the Starcasters had come to call the gut-wrenching event, when they’d all witnessed, firsthand, the destruction of Nebo by a Nyctus KEW bombardment in real-time, and from the perspective of a remarkable little girl. Kira still hadn’t begun to really process the implications of it, which hit her harder and more deeply than most. In fact, she’d been avoiding it, just keeping the horror of it in a part of her memory she could ignore.
For now. But not forever.
She needed to talk to Thorn.
The certainty of it, the absolute necessity to contact Thorn, made up her mind for her. “Ma’am, I’ve taken no leave in three years. Most of that time, I’ve been aboard this ship, doing what I think is some pretty damned good work for you.” Her body language was rigid with decisiveness. At a cool look from Densmore, she settled back, hands held still with an effort. “I want to take some leave now. I’ve earned it, and I’m entitled to it.”
Densmore gave that slightly predatory smile again. “The exigencies of service, Wixcombe. We’re at war, so, yes, you might have earned it, might be entitled to it, but I don’t have to approve it at all.”
“Ma’am—”
“But I will,” Densmore went on, her smile fading. “The fact is, you have done damned good work, and if I refuse this request for leave, I know what will happen—you’ll start doing your job, and nothing more.” She shook her head. “In the type of work we do, doing your job isn’t enough. I need you at the tip of the spear, not somewhere back along the shaft, just helping to push the tip along.” She glanced at the docking port; the panel beside it showed that the approaching shuttle had been captured by the auto-docking system and would be connected in just over a minute.
“Your request is approved, Wixcombe. We’ll be making a stop at Code Gauntlet in two days’ time. You can depart there. I can give you three weeks, then I want you back aboard the Stiletto. Work out the details with the XO. In the meantime, I want you to carry on as I’ve instructed. Debrief the civilian about to disembark from”—she paused as something suddenly blocked the view out of the docking port with a heavy, metallic clunk—“that shuttle. I’ll find someone else to run the case. You can hand off to them once I do.”
“Understood. Thank you, ma’am.” Relief colored her tone, a genuine sensation she hadn’t felt in a long time.
Densmore didn’t leave immediately; instead, she waited for the pressure light to turn green on the airlock, the doors to slide open, and an unremarkable man in unremarkable clothes to step out of the shuttle. As soon as he did, Densmore spoke, a single word.
“Well?”
The civilian shook his head, and Densmore withdrew, leaving Kira with the bland man who gave her a wan smile.
“Smith, or is it something else?” Kira asked him.
“Smith will do fine.” He grinned, the expression not reaching his eyes.
Kira looked skyward, exhaled, then fixed him with a look of tired resignation. “But of course.”
Mister Smith, it turned out, was a civilian contractor who’d been verifying the installation and proper operation of certain new security features in ON information processing systems, under a project codenamed Hermes. Debriefing him took all of ten minutes, since there was very little he was willing to share with Kira beyond the project’s name and the fact that he’d visited four bases in swift succession. He mentioned the food at Code Gauntlet, the beds everywhere else, and a general poor quality of coffee at all four locations. Beyond that, he was an enigma, a hole into which her focus could get lost the moment he started speaking in his sonorous tone.
It didn’t matter to Kira. She simply took down everything he said verbatim and asked a few standard follow-up questions, then she thanked him and let him be on his way. She’d been doing this long enough now to know that his statements no doubt contained hidden messages, included as particular phrases or combinations of words. By dutifully recording his statements exactly as he spoke them, she was capturing both the frankly boring overview of his recent work, as well as the coded messages, which would presumably mean something, to someone, somewhere.
The messages were, no doubt, tied to Densmore’s single word question—well?—and the negative head shake. Beyond that connection, Kira knew her involvement ended when she closed the report and sent it on, to be lost in the mire of endless information fetishized by the navy.
<
br /> She would, of course, never hear any feedback, and that was fine with her. Flirting with the idea of a mind probe ended when she carried such an action to its logical conclusion. Of all the outcomes, none were good. There was even a small chance this was a test, but if that was true, it only served to reinforce something Kira had come to know over the past three years.
Kira hated the spy business.
She finally returned to her quarters, hoping that Mister Smith didn’t need any further handling for the next couple of days. Subjects, as those like him were called, rarely did. Not for the first time, Kira wondered why they bothered with human debriefers like her at all. Why couldn’t Mister Smith have just recorded his statements? What point was there having her sit there and write them down? Again, there was probably a reason—but no one had yet shared it with her.
Need to know sucks.
Kira stretched her legs out as far as the cramped cubbyhole of her quarters would allow and let out a long, slow sigh. She assumed the spooks knew what they were doing, but to a frontliner like her, it just seemed like a lot of convoluted bullshit, all intended to keep as many people as ignorant as possible of the facts. Being siloed was a necessary thing, but it made her job into a series of half-secrets and lies that built up inside her like the sludge in a fuel tank.
No doubt about the spy business. It was hateful. Leave would do her good.
Kira lay down on her bunk, clearing her mind of spooks and lies and the web they wove. At the center of her thoughts was a fixed point.
Thorn.
One of the benefits of being an accomplished Joiner, it turned out, was potent mental discipline; it was what made Joining work. Kira could organize and compartmentalize her thoughts pretty much as she wished—right up to the moment she couldn’t, and it all came crashing down around her. Joiners would bend until they broke. For now, Kira was bending.