Breach of Containment

by Elizabeth Bonesteel

  “If you want to rest,” Elena told her, “the benches aren’t that uncomfortable.”

  “I believe I should like to stay awake now,” Ilyana said.

  Elena guided her to the copilot’s seat, then retrieved some prefab meals from Nightingale’s meager stores. She saw Ilyana’s nose wrinkle, but the woman thanked her graciously enough and ate. Elena wondered if her avoidance of the meals on board the other ship had merely been distaste.

  “The food on Galileo is better,” she offered.

  There was a pause, and Ilyana smiled. “I do not think it could be worse.”

  The trip back to Galileo was both uneventful and strange. Ilyana should have been weakened as her system metabolized the last of the drug; instead she seemed oddly manic, pacing up and down, hands running over the bulkheads. She asked questions about the age of the ship, the design, the build; she asked about aesthetic choices, and whether everybody in the Corps liked the blue-gray walls or if anyone ever asked for color. When she had exhausted the subject of shuttle architecture, she asked about the prefab meals: Who designed them? Why wasn’t taste prioritized? At that, Elena had laughed and told her some people actually liked them. Ilyana had looked at her as if she had posited the existence of time travel.

  There was an inconsistency to Ilyana’s communication. When she was opining about the unfamiliar military accoutrements of the shuttle, she spoke quickly, without pause, a surprising number of engineering facts at her fingertips, like every voraciously curious soldier Elena had ever known. When Ilyana responded to Elena’s questions, however, there was almost always a pause, the sort that Elena always attributed to silent translation. But the woman’s facility with Standard was so fluid, if Elena had met her in another situation, it would never have crossed her mind that she spent most of her days speaking another language. Elena herself was much more likely to comprehend a language than to be able to speak it well; she supposed there should be no surprise in finding someone who was precisely the opposite.

  Ilyana did not fit what Elena had heard of her. Officially, she was Chryse’s conduit to Central, and the Corps in particular, and was known to be stiff and humorless. Unofficially, there were suspicions that she was a spy. Elena thought of that as she answered questions about the materials used in Nightingale’s construction. None of it was proprietary; Nightingale had been cutting-edge some years ago, but any technology the Corps might have hoarded had long since been released to the public. Elena had braced herself against questions about weapons, or other missions; but Ilyana had asked nothing. She had seemed, more than anything, delighted at everything new before her.

  By far the strangest part of the trip was Ilyana’s brief conversation with Captain Bayandi. Elena had contacted Chryse as soon as they had decoupled from Cytheria, and it was only when she saw the startled look on Ilyana’s face that it crossed her mind she should have asked first.

  But Bayandi did not shout, or chastise Ilyana in any way at all. He sounded, to Elena, entirely relieved. “I am pleased to hear your voice, Ana,” he said warmly. “You are well?”

  Ilyana thought about that for a few moments. “I am tired,” she said at last. “And rather weak. And hungry.”

  “The food I’m carrying is not terribly good, I’m afraid,” Elena volunteered, and Bayandi gave a brief chuckle. “Sir,” she said, “we’ve had to abandon Cytheria, at least for the moment. I want to make sure Commander Ilyana gets proper medical attention. And with the situation on Yakutsk, I’m not sure when we’ll be able to go back for her ship.”

  There was a pause on the other end. “I will try to pick up Cytheria on our way to Yakutsk,” he said.

  Elena wanted to ask Bayandi about Ilyana’s message, about why he had sent her to begin with. Greg had said only that Chryse was coming to help; but he had spoken with Bayandi about Yakutsk, and no message had been mentioned. She looked at Ilyana, sitting at a strange sort of attention, on the edge of the chair, as if waiting for a command from her captain. Maybe now is not the best time to ask.

  But she filed it away to discuss with Greg.

  They came out of the field close to Galileo, Lena behind them, the sterile moon below. Elena engaged the comm. “Galileo, this is Nightingale, come back.”

  There was a pause, and she tensed. Then she heard Samaras’s familiar voice. “Nightingale, Galileo. Landing Bay Two.”

  She frowned. Bay One was larger; she had flown out of One. Aware of her company, she only said, “Acknowledged.” And then, on impulse: “Evan, can you put me through to the captain?”

  Another pause. She was not liking this at all. “One moment, ma’am.”

  She waited, aware of Ilyana’s eyes on her. After a moment, Jessica’s voice came over the comm. “The captain’s indisposed,” Jessica said smoothly. Ilyana, who did not know her, would not have heard the tone of anxiety in her musical voice. “Have you got Commander Ilyana?”

  Indisposed? What the fuck is going on? “She’s all right. She’s here with me. But I’d like a medic in the landing bay.” At that, Ilyana raised a hand to protest, and Elena gave her a reassuring smile. “Just to make sure.”

  “Of course. I’ll see who Doctor Hastings can spare.” And Jessica cut her off.

  “Just a few minutes now,” Elena said to Ilyana, and maneuvered her ship around to Galileo’s port side. Privately, her anxiety level was rising. Ilyana’s presence was important, so why wasn’t Bob greeting them himself? Was it Arin? Had something happened? Was Greg going to be taking her aside, breaking the news to her, trying to make sense of the nonsensical, as he’d had to do so often in his career?

  Why does everything go wrong the instant I look away?

  Chapter 15

  Galileo

  For the second time that day, Jessica met a shuttle in Landing Bay One with a medical team at her side.

  He’d better be alive, she thought, or I am going to kill him.

  Leviathan swept in on autopilot, and Jessica was heading for the ship before its engines had shut down. The door opened automatically and she climbed in. There he was, on the floor, eyes closed; but she could see him breathing, slow and steady, and there was no blood. Small favors, she thought, and pressed herself against the back wall to give the medical team room to work.

  Bob had come himself to greet the shuttle, his aging features stiff with absolute fury. She had told him what Greg had done, half expecting him to shout at her. But he had simply accompanied her to meet the shuttle, completely silent, and she suspected he was saving his rage for Greg. Bob had great affection for all of them, Jessica knew; but he had known Greg for the captain’s entire life. Bob felt a responsibility for Greg that he didn’t for the rest of them, which was a good thing. If he reacted with such fury every time any of them did something stupid, he’d do himself damage.

  Bob scanned Greg, expression closed, then nodded at the team. He looked at Jessica as the others picked Greg up and carried him out. “No physical injuries,” he told her.

  “Nothing? Not even a head injury?”

  Bob shook his head. “I’ll let you know when he wakes up,” he said tersely, and left the ship.

  Jessica looked around. Leviathan was undisturbed: equipment stowed, spare env suits and hand weapons tucked in their places behind her. Even the artifact sat squarely in the center of the shelf where Greg had placed it, its container open, innocuous in its gray mundanity. After this, though, she couldn’t help but see its squat corners as somehow menacing.

  Stupid, she thought, and closed the box. “Galileo,” she asked her ship, “is Leviathan still comms-locked?”

  “Yes,” Galileo told her.

  “Leave it that way,” she said. “On my order. Nobody hooks this sucker up to our systems, understood?”

  “Acknowledged.”

  Samaras’s name came up before her eyes. “Yes, Lieutenant?”

  “Ma’am, I’ve got Governor Villipova on the line for the captain.”

  Shit. Of course. “Put her through to me, Lieutenant,�
�� she told him tiredly.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  The pause before the connection was longer than usual, and Jessica imagined Villipova arguing with Samaras about Greg’s lack of availability. Indeed, when Villipova came on the line, she sounded distinctly irritable.

  “Commander Lockwood,” the governor said, and Jessica knew in advance what her complaint would be. “We have a very serious situation here. Surely your captain can be . . . disturbed under the circumstances.”

  Pompous ass. “I’m fully briefed on the situation,” Jessica reassured her smoothly. “What can I do for you, Governor?”

  Jessica heard Villipova make a sound, something between a sigh and a grumble. “Baikul is violating the cease-fire even as we speak,” she said.

  “We’ve recorded no movement from Baikul.” She’d heard nothing from the systems she had asked to monitor the surface. “You’re certain?”

  “I have received death threats, Commander.”

  Which is not proof. “Do you have troop activity, Governor?”

  “If you’ve been briefed,” Villipova said impatiently, “you know that Baikul has infiltrated our dome numerous times in the past. Of course there is troop activity. They are already within the dome.”

  All of Central’s intelligence suggested that threats from within the dome tended to come from Villipova’s own people, and with Smolensk’s recent economic instability, it seemed the more likely scenario. Under the circumstances, though, that was probably worse than invaders from Baikul: familiar faces, blending in. No way to tell who was who. What a way to live. Jessica closed her eyes. “I understand, Governor. Hold for a moment, please.” She muted Villipova and commed Emily Broadmoor, outlining the situation. “It’s not out of the question,” Jessica said, “that Baikul is involved, but we’re not here to wrestle with local politics. Do you have suggestions?”

  Emily thought for a moment. “Two platoons,” she said at last. “Minimal infantry, but a clear showing of defense. Set them in the governor’s offices—both of them—and have it be a protective detail, not a combat detail.”

  “Very well, Commander,” Jessica told her. “Get your people together and meet me in Landing Bay One.” She brought Villipova back on the line. “Governor, we’ll be there in half an hour.”

  “That seems a long time, Commander Lockwood.”

  “That’s how far away we are, Governor, and that’s how long it’s going to take.” She was beginning to have trouble hanging on to her temper. “We’ll see you shortly.” And she cut the woman off, then spent the three minutes it took Emily Broadmoor to gather her infantry to hurl every curse she could dredge up out of her memory at Greg Foster’s foolishness.

  Jessica spoke with Oarig as she led her platoon down the main street in Smolensk toward Villipova’s office. Alex Carter had commed her shortly after his platoon’s arrival in Baikul to tell her Oarig was trying to send them home, and Jessica had offered to clear up the issue. “I don’t need a protective detail,” Oarig insisted as soon as Carter had connected them.

  The comm was audio only, and Jessica indulged in an eye-roll. “Given the way you were installed as governor—less than two weeks ago, if I remember correctly—I would have to dispute your assessment.”

  She did not have to wait long for him to digest that.

  In truth, Jessica was more worried about Oarig’s inexperience—and the destabilizing influence of his recent murderous coup—than Villipova’s temper. Frightening him, she hoped, might make him actually consider his behavior. “A threat like that wouldn’t come from Smolensk,” he stammered, and she thought she might be getting through to him.

  At least he’s got the brains to understand that much. “No, Governor. But this detail is tasked with protecting you, regardless of who comes after you. Of course, if you’d rather we left . . .”

  “No.” His response was comically hasty. “Will they do what I tell them?”

  “They’ll protect your life, full stop. They are explicitly prohibited from taking sides or engaging in politics beyond that.”

  She had told her people, in fact, that if the situation appeared dire, they were free to tie him up and carry him away against his will, if that was the only way to guarantee his safety. If Baikul wanted another coup, they wouldn’t have to kill anyone to get it.

  During their descent to Smolensk, she’d had Bristol fly them over the wreck of Lanie’s shuttle. Most of it was burned out now—Greg had said they’d blown it to give themselves cover—but past it she could see the storage crates.

  Or rather the remains of them.

  They had been torn open, every one, their contents spilled into the thin, freezing atmosphere. Months’ worth of food and viable seeds wasted on the moon’s surface. She closed her eyes and told Bristol to hurry.

  Starvation, on top of everything else, she thought. Yakutsk was Yakutsk, and civil unrest had long been part of its cultural DNA; but this was different. This was all of the old territorial bullshit, plus a real, unavoidable crisis.

  She commed back to Galileo. “What have we got in our food stores?” she asked.

  “Twelve tonnes of fresh produce. Six hundred and fifty tonnes of MREs.”

  Not enough. But it might hold them for a few days, maybe a week. She made a note to herself to contact Meridia when she got back to find out what they might be able to contribute.

  Smolensk, as it turned out, had a much more organized civil defense force than Baikul. It made sense, she supposed; Baikul relied mostly on tourism, its domed sky exposed to the jewel-green gas giant, and tourists tended to be put off by armed forces. But Smolensk was a trade center, and those in the market for much-needed parts were often less than friendly. Security guards were not only unobjectionable, but necessary. They were also, for the most part, controlled by Villipova’s office.

  That was going to make her job here a bit more delicate.

  The governor’s office was no more large or grand than any other building in the city. Villipova had set up shop between two parts dealers, both specialty shops, both low traffic. There was no good place to leave the infantry out here without alerting the public, who were already peering curiously out of windows. Traffic on the streets was minimal—Elena had warned her about this—but apparently the citizens had no qualms about old-fashioned methods for keeping track of their neighbors.

  Well, if they were already outed, she might as well take advantage.

  “Stay here,” she told Bristol. He was not a strategist, but in the eighteen months since he’d saved her life during a particularly ugly firefight, she had come to rely on his steadiness. “Don’t stand in formation, don’t stand at attention. They think they know why we’re here, but let’s not slap them in the face with it.”

  “You want us at ease, ma’am?” he asked.

  “Hell, no. I don’t want anybody in that building without my explicit approval. And if they come after you? Disarm them if you can, and take them out hand-to-hand. Self-defense only. And nobody kills anyone unless there is absolutely no other choice, is that clear?” She turned to look at each of them in turn, meeting their eyes, seeing them nod. “On your toes,” she told them. “These people have lived in what’s essentially a war zone for most of their lives. They may not be soldiers, but they’re not civilians, either. And if I have to explain to the captain why I lost any of you for a bunch of cranky mechanics, I’m going to be very unhappy. Understood?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” they all said together.

  Jessica thought, in that moment, that this command business was maybe not so bad.

  Chapter 16

  Greg awoke, exhausted and fuzzy-headed, the hangover far worse than the ones he used to suffer when he was drinking. He moaned and shifted, and only then realized he wasn’t in his own bed; his eyes opened, and he blinked at the harsh ceiling lights of the infirmary. Why do we do that? he wondered, squinting and waiting for his eyes to adjust. In this place, where people need peace and quiet and time to recover, why do we blast
them from the ceiling?

  He grew accustomed to the brightness, and he opened his eyes more widely, trying to remember how he got here. His last memory was the mental image of a child drowning . . . no, that wasn’t quite it. His last memory was of agonizing, crippling grief and loneliness. He felt the back of his throat close up as his mind brought the experience back, and irritably he pushed himself up on his elbows. He had no time for this kind of indulgence. He had left that loss behind a long time ago.

  “Lie back down,” Bob Hastings snapped at him. The doctor walked into the room, scanner in hand, looking as angry as Greg had ever seen him.

  “I’d rather sit up,” Greg said. “It keeps—”

  “I told you to lie the fuck down.”

  That’s new, Greg thought. Warily, he did as he was told, never taking his eyes from the doctor.

  Bob waved the scanner over him, teeth clenched, methodically studying the readout. “What in the hell did you think you were doing, Greg?”

  “It was an experiment,” Greg said. “We had to find out what it could do, and I was the only person around who’d had any reaction to that thing. It had to be me.”

  “Maybe I’ll come to believe that,” Bob told him. “And maybe I’ll decide not to relieve you of duty over this.”

  Now Greg found himself getting angry. “Relieve me of duty? What for?”

  Bob looked up from the scanner, blue eyes blazing. “You have no idea what that thing is. You have no idea how dangerous it is. You’ve already seen it affect one person—who, by the way, explicitly warned you not to touch it.”

  I guess Elena’s back. “She told you that, huh?”

  “She did. She’s in the other room with Ilyana, who’s being looked after by my head nurse. I believe she’s waiting for my permission to come in here and read you the riot act.”