Breach of Containment

by Elizabeth Bonesteel

  He had said as much, once, to Jessica.

  “Ship is full of people, sir,” she had pointed out.

  He’d called her on her hypocrisy. Jessica had a string of lovers she had built up over the years, but she hadn’t added anyone new in a long time—not since Greg had promoted her to second-in-command. The Corps had no official regulations forbidding people from having personal relationships that crossed rank, but Jessica found the idea too problematic. He had seen enough relationship catastrophes in his career to agree with her.

  But he suspected, as observant as Jessica was, that she knew more about his feelings for Elena than he had told her. Jessica would know that Elena, not some set of personal ethics, was the reason Greg would never consider getting involved with a member of his crew. And she would know exactly what it had done to him to see Elena again, and why the last person he wanted to talk to, even in a crisis, was the woman who had been his lover for the past year.

  Steeling himself, he sat down at his desk with a massive cup of coffee, and commed Cassia.

  “You look like hell,” Andriya told him. “How’s your crew handling the silence?”

  Andriya Vassily was short and compact, dark-skinned and muscular, aggressively beautiful, and one of the brightest people Greg had ever known. She had been a few years ahead of him at Central Military Academy, brash and confident and accomplished. He had suffered a debilitating crush on her for months until he met Caroline, who had eclipsed everything else for a long time. During the subsequent years, as his marriage atrophied, he often wondered what might have happened if he had said something to Andriya back then, if he had let her burn through him the way she had so many others. He would never have met Caroline, and he would have met Elena scarred and cynical and free of emotional encumbrances.

  Everything would have been the same, you damn fool, he told himself. But he wondered anyway.

  “About as you’d expect,” he said. “Hyper-focused on their usual duties, and waiting for the other shoe. What about yours?”

  “The soldiers are fine,” she said. “The scientists, though . . .” Cassia was a research carrier, and a de facto mobile hospital; much of her staff wasn’t Corps at all. “My psych officer is pulling double shifts so he can deal with all of them.”

  He took a risk. “What about you?”

  Weariness flickered in her fine eyes, and then her expression closed, and she grinned. “Ready for the good fight, as always. Did you comm to talk philosophy, Foster, or do you have a question?”

  Andriya’s first and last defense against too much intimacy: work. For once, it didn’t annoy him. “We’ve got a PSI officer on board who I think you’ve met: Ilyana, off of Chryse.”

  At that, Andriya’s graceful eyebrows shot up. “Yakutsk must be a hell of a clusterfuck if Chryse is there as well. I thought they were out by the Third Sector.”

  “Chryse is en route,” he said, keeping his suspicions about Chryse’s damage to himself. “Ilyana came ahead. I’ve read some things about her, but she’s . . . not what I expected. I was hoping you could give me your impressions.”

  Andriya was frowning. “It was a long time ago. Six, seven years, I think. But I do remember her. We were doing an evac of Adsilia, and we didn’t have the space. Chryse sent some shuttles, with Ilyana to coordinate.”

  “She was on board Cassia?”

  “Only in the landing bay.”

  “But she made an impression.”

  “Oh, yes.” Andriya sounded grim. “Adsilia was a mess. People were dying faster than we could get them off. Whole evac shuttles had to be quarantined. I didn’t lose anybody, but Captain Crayne did. And throughout all of it, Ilyana was businesslike and efficient and completely fucking bloodless. I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone colder in my life, Greg.”

  “Did she help at all?”

  “Her ideas were solid, sure,” Andriya said. “She suggested methods of transferring refugees, and what we might do with the ones who’d decided they wanted to go back home. Practical thoughts.”

  “What sort of knowledge did she have?”

  “Some medical—enough to understand the contagion issues—but a lot of technical. Comms more than mechanics, but still. I’m guessing she’s not as good as Commander Lockwood, but I’m betting she could hack her way around a few things.”

  “Modern knowledge? Up to date?”

  “Like she’d trained with my own crew.”

  Greg thought of Ilyana’s reputation as a spy. “You said bloodless,” Greg pressed. “What does that mean?”

  “I know you get compassion fatigue out here. Happens to all of us.” Greg thought she was speaking from experience. “But she seemed better at shrugging it all off than anyone I’ve ever dealt with. She expressed sorrow about the refugees, but it was polite, you know? Pro forma. And a lot of people were dying, Greg. A lot.”

  “Were you speaking Standard? Maybe it was a translation issue.”

  “Don’t think so. Her Standard was flawless. No accent at all. I would have assumed it was all she spoke if I didn’t know better.”

  Greg sat back. What the Corps knew of her was almost nothing. Commander Ilyana of Chryse had appeared for the first time, described as a woman in her mid-twenties, seven years after Leslie Millar’s disappearance on Achinsk. All of the reports Greg had read more or less matched Andriya’s recollections: hyper-competent and emotionless. A cipher.

  The perfect spy.

  “You’re worried about this.” For a woman who didn’t want any emotional involvement, Andriya knew him very well.

  “I’m worried about all of it,” he confessed. “And you know how I feel about coincidence. The First Sector may just be having comms problems, but right after we’re shipped out here to Yakutsk? And I don’t care for Ellis and Olam being so cozy, either, never mind a non-Corps recon fleet. They keep talking about help and stability, but it’s sure looking like a power grab to me.”

  “And the longer the First Sector is out, the more the Fifth Sector starts looking like an attractive, organized governmental alternative.” She shook her head. “Ever think we should just withdraw from the Fifth Sector and move on?”

  He chuckled. “I’d say that was a great idea,” he said, “if I didn’t think that was exactly what they wanted.”

  “Let them try. They can’t survive without us.”

  But after they had disconnected, Greg thought, No, that’s not it. They can survive without us. They just can’t survive alone.

  He commed Bayandi from the off-grid, sitting in his quarters again. As he waited for Chryse to pick up the signal, his mind wandered toward his father. Even if the disconnect was down to the loopback virus, that meant Earth was not receiving anything outside of the First Sector. Tom Foster never said anything to his son, but Greg knew he worried, even when everything was normal. Something in his face every time he picked up a comm, a brief muscle spasm around the outside of his eyes, told Greg what his father was remembering. One day, twenty-seven years earlier, when Greg was only twelve, his father had received a comm telling him Greg’s mother was dead. Greg knew, on some level, his father would always be waiting to hear the same news about him.

  Earth has defenses. They will be all right. He resisted the urge to ask Galileo—again—if contact with the First Sector had been restored yet.

  Bayandi, as he had the first time, replied quickly. “Captain Foster,” he said, “I am pleased to hear from you. How is Commander Ilyana?”

  “Physically she’s doing well,” Greg replied, emphasizing the first word. “My nurse tells me most of the tranquilizer is out of her system.”

  “I am glad to hear that.” Bayandi sounded relieved. “I’ll comm her when we’re finished to make sure she is all right.”

  Greg wondered if he had been too subtle. “Captain, I’ve got a couple of questions about Commander Ilyana, if you can answer them.”

  “I will answer what I can, Captain. But I must tell you, Commander Ilyana’s business is her own. I cannot
violate her privacy.”

  “Of course not.” What does he think I’m going to ask? “But I’ve spoken to some people who have worked with Commander Ilyana in the past. I’m finding her behavior doesn’t match what I’m being told. I’m wondering if something has happened to her lately, or if she’s just changed over time.”

  “Ah.” That one word carried so much: sadness, chagrin, worry. “I believe I can explain without being specific, Captain. Commander Ilyana has been handling a great deal as of late, most of it entirely on her own. One of the reasons I sent her to Captain Taras was that I was hopeful some time away from Chryse would help her to relax. I did not think to check Cytheria for medications of the type she might misuse.”

  Greg frowned. Apparently Bayandi sent Ilyana to Meridia for a holiday. “Was she exhibiting any self-destructive behavior on Chryse?”

  There was a silence, and Greg thought Bayandi was struggling with confidentiality. “She was not self-destructive, no.” Greg had not expected such a direct response. “What is it you’re seeing that alarms you, Captain?”

  Alarms was not precisely the right word. “She seems calm,” Greg said. “Strangely so. Especially in the face of everything that’s happened.”

  “You mean the First Sector silence.”

  “You seem calm as well, Captain.”

  Bayandi made a low sound of consideration. “Please understand, Captain. I am not insensible to how distressing this must be. But my own people . . . we do not see such cartographical divisions. You understand?”

  Greg was not entirely sure he did, but he didn’t think this was the time for a deep philosophical discussion. “I have one other question, Captain. Commander Ilyana tells us she was sent to deliver a message. Why didn’t you mention this when we spoke before?”

  And this time the emotion in Bayandi’s voice was easy to identify. “I did not send Commander Ilyana with any message, Captain.” He was genuinely puzzled. “What message did she give you?”

  Greg found himself on his feet, pacing, his stomach in knots. “She told us Ellis was working specifically to undermine the Fourth Sector. She said they’re in collusion with the Fifth Sector, and Olam Colony in particular. She showed us some records to support that. She said they’ve been working at this for a long time.” She said we are at war.

  From his tone, this apparently cleared nothing up for Bayandi. “We do have those records,” Bayandi said. “And I would have shared them with you, had I thought they would help on Yakutsk. Much of that information I assumed you already had, especially given your unofficial investigations into Ellis.”

  “But you didn’t send Ilyana to talk to us about that specifically?”

  “That would be an inefficient way to transfer such data, wouldn’t it? And I had no wish to . . . burden Commander Ilyana with anything.” His worry was palpable. “Captain, please—do keep an eye on her. She . . . like so many, Captain, she believes she is strong. She believes she needs no one. She is wrong, of course, but there is no way to tell her that.”

  Yes, Greg thought. I know one or two soldiers like that. “Commander Ilyana has an official escort,” Greg told Bayandi. “I’m also monitoring her comms. I apologize if that seems like an intrusion, but under the circumstances, it seems prudent.”

  “I would do the same in your position,” Captain Bayandi assured him.

  “Is she dangerous?” Greg asked bluntly.

  This time Bayandi’s pause was longer, but when he spoke, his voice was decisive. “I have known Tatiana Ilyana for forty years,” he said. “In all of that time, I have never seen her deliberately harm anyone, including herself. I imagine I know what your colleagues have told you of her, Captain. I will not tell you they are wrong. But she is loyal and passionate, and she fights tirelessly for her family. Please.” His voice softened. “Look after her for me, Captain. When I reach Yakutsk . . . I may be able to help her.”

  “She’ll be safe here,” Greg promised.

  But as he folded up his off-grid, Greg couldn’t help but wonder if Bayandi was asking more than he had said.

  He had just tucked the polymer sheet under his mattress when his door chimed, and Galileo projected her old, outdated name before his eyes: Chief Shaw. Sentiment. Jessica had kept Elena in the system, along with all of her command codes. Galileo knew Elena wasn’t Corps anymore, but the ship identified her as it had been told to do.

  But when he opened the door, Elena wasn’t alone. With her was a young woman, in her mid-twenties at the oldest, thin and tall with dark skin and bronzed hair and narrow, cynical eyes. This, Greg deduced, had to be Chiedza, Budapest’s supply officer; she was not old enough to be the accountant. Greg had not thought she and Elena were particularly friendly, but Elena was standing close to the younger woman, the look on her face telling Greg she was worried. “What is it?” he asked.

  Chiedza straightened, hands at her sides, but Greg saw her fingers trembling. “I didn’t have anyone else to tell,” she said, mildly resentful. “But—I have some . . . friends by the First Sector border, Captain Foster, and I just heard from them. They say—they found out why the First Sector went dark. Athena Relay has been destroyed. They’ve seen the debris. It’s in pieces.

  “And all ten thousand people who lived there are dead.”

  Chapter 25

  Yakutsk

  “So, what,” Commander Lockwood asked, “we just wander into the mech room and start hacking around with stuff?”

  Dallas looked down at her, unable to suppress a smile. “Pretty much.”

  Jessica Lockwood, Dallas had decided, was a difficult person to dislike, despite her profession. On the one hand, she was hyper-competent, talking with her captain and the infantry she had deployed in the city with intelligence and professionalism. She had to be feeling some worry about the First Sector—not her original home, she had mentioned, but intimately tied to the lives of most of the people she worked with—but she had remained calmly focused on her assignment, which seemed to be something between defending Villipova and trying to engineer some kind of alliance between Smolensk and Baikul. Dallas had considered telling her the former might be imprudent, the latter was impossible, and she should quit while she was ahead.

  But wouldn’t it be interesting, Dallas thought, to watch her try?

  But when it came to everyday subterfuge, she was deeply uncomfortable, and skeptical of every method Dallas brought up. She had a lot of trouble believing that all she needed to do was put on some civilian clothes and dye her bright hair a nondescript brown in order to blend. Dallas had explained that there were no redheads on Yakutsk, and without that vivid reminder, anyone looking at her would be inclined to fold her into the homogeneous crowd of scavengers that made up the bulk of the city’s population.

  “I still walk like a soldier, don’t I?” she had said before they left.

  On that point, Dallas had to agree. She had tried, it was true; but the effect had been stagey and obvious, and Dallas had had trouble keeping a straight face. “You can wait outside the office, then,” Dallas had told her after a particularly comical attempt to shake off her military training. “I’ll get you an ident.”

  Convincing Villipova had been almost frighteningly easy. The governor had indeed remembered Dallas, and had issued a set of idents for any assistants required, without asking for anything other than a list of the team’s professional qualifications. Dallas had identified Commander Lockwood as “a specialist in logic cores and intra-machine communications.”

  “That’s a pompous title for a hacker,” Lockwood had remarked.

  “Villipova likes pompous titles,” Dallas told her. “And now that you have an ident badge, you look like everyone else. Stop twitching like you cheated the house on game night.”

  She had done better until they approached the new environmental building. Villipova had not been there, but there had been a half-dozen off-world systems architects, and a ludicrously tall thin person in a bad suit. Dallas frowned at that one. His body language
was all wrong—clearly off-world, but artificial somehow. He had been trained—not to fit in, Dallas thought, but to be anonymous.

  Dallas didn’t like anonymous.

  “That’s Gladkoff,” Commander Lockwood said as they walked closer.

  “The killer?”

  Commander Lockwood’s lips set, but Dallas did not think she was disagreeing. “He howled about self-defense,” she said, “but between you and me that’s bullshit. Your friends were lousy shots. He had no business doing what he did.”

  “Will he be prosecuted?”

  At that, Commander Lockwood had looked up, and her bright green eyes were curious and speculative on Dallas’s face. “Under whose jurisdiction?”

  Dallas stayed between Lockwood and Gladkoff. The Ellis salesman didn’t even look up at two nondescript locals. By the time they passed through the building entrance, ignored by everyone but a single architect who skimmed their idents, Commander Lockwood was out of breath and moving just as awkwardly as she had been at the flat.

  “Don’t you Corps people work out?” Dallas asked.

  The teasing seemed to snap her out of her mood, and she relaxed, shooting Dallas a look. “I don’t do what we just did,” she confessed. “The stealth. I’m trained in tech security. Past that, I tell other people what to do, and sometimes yell at the captain.”

  Dallas had, in fact, noticed a level of informality in her conversations with her deep-voiced superior. “Is that allowed?”