Breach of Containment

by Elizabeth Bonesteel

  “You need to wait until I check,” the man told her.

  “She’s got beer,” the woman said, not slowing down.

  He frowned, but he seemed more exasperated than worried. He scanned through Elena’s documents as she cultivated a look of boredom and vague impatience.

  “All set,” he said at last. “You need help with that?”

  Elena did her best not to sigh with relief. “No, I think we’ve got it,” she said. The woman had already pulled the beer off the ship and set it on the lift, heading back inside for more.

  Elena went in after her, wrestling with coffee crates. “If I’d had any idea,” she said conversationally, “I’d have asked for more beer.”

  “They never send enough,” the woman agreed. “Always coffee, of course, because they want us all to stay awake. Like we’re going to work double shifts just to be nice about it.” She laughed. She had an easy laugh, loud and unself-conscious.

  “Next time,” Elena assured her, and felt a pang of guilt.

  No next time. And no guilt, dammit. You knew this. These people you’re killing—it’s a trade, remember? An eye for a thousand eyes.

  They unloaded the cargo, and Elena followed the woman out of the hangar, the cargo on the lift before them. “Sixteen hours you were out?”

  “Yeah.” Elena made the syllable sound exhausted. “Out of Shixin.”

  “A lot of tourists this time of year, aren’t there?” The woman shook her head. “I went to Shixin a couple of years ago. You couldn’t even walk through the spaceport. They were all there rubbernecking like they’d never seen a domed city before.”

  “They probably hadn’t,” Elena remarked.

  “Which is fine,” the woman said, “except what were they doing standing and staring at it from inside the spaceport?” She laughed again. “I’m Jats. Mika, to my friends.” She held out a hand as they walked, and Elena shook it.

  “Taylor,” Elena said. “Olivia Taylor. It’s nice to meet you.”

  The woman’s smile widened. “After sixteen hours,” she said, “I’ll bet you’re wanting something to eat.”

  The kindness, Elena thought, might kill her before anything else. “That would be lovely,” she said, and meant it.

  “Of course, it means a body search.” Mika sounded apologetic. “No way around that, unless you want to sit in your ship until turnaround time.”

  “For food, you can search me twice.”

  At that, Mika laughed, and gestured to a door in the corner. “Once should do it, but no promises.”

  As Elena approached the doorway, she felt a brief flare of warmth against her leg. Damn. “Oh,” she said, and stopped. “I’ve got—something to declare, is it? I forgot I had this with me.”

  Mika stopped. Her smile hadn’t faded, but her eyes had gone wary, and one hand moved to rest on her sidearm. “What is it?”

  How would a civilian handle this? Elena thought. She moved her hands away from her body, palms forward: I am not a threat. “It’s a sculpture. My brother gave it to me the last time I was home, and I stuck it in my pocket. I meant to take it out before I left.” She kept her expression apologetic. “You want me back in the shuttle?”

  Mika had spied the lump in her right pocket. “There?” she said, gesturing, and Elena nodded. She sighed. “I’m going to have to ask for help. Just—don’t move, okay?”

  Elena nodded and kept still. A moment later, the man who had scanned her documents returned. He was not smiling.

  “She has something in her pocket,” Mika told him.

  He shot Elena an exasperated look, then reached down, unzipping her pocket to remove the artifact. Behave, behave, behave, Elena thought at it desperately.

  The man frowned, turning it over in his hands, then tossed it to Mika. “Put that in the scanner.” He faced Elena again. “Against the wall,” he told her, “hands above your head.”

  She forced herself to remain relaxed, and rested her palms against the wall. He ran a scanner over her, and then his hands, thoroughly investigating every fold of her borrowed uniform. He ran his fingers through her hair, feeling the contours of her skull; he checked her neck, her spine, her ribs, every part of her. She kept her eyes closed. It was necessary, of course. It made perfect sense. It was impersonal, and he was scrupulously professional. But she had to clench her teeth to keep from shuddering, to repress the urge to turn and punch him just for touching her.

  It didn’t matter. Mika would run the artifact through whatever scanner she had, and see the no data bounce back. Its cover as a sculpture would be blown. She wondered if she could break away, run back to Wanderlust, trigger some kind of self-destruct that would destroy the rest of the station . . .

  “It’s clean,” Mika called from the scanner station. She turned, tossing the artifact into the air as she walked. “Polymer, through and through. Like they use in the interior bulkheads. Pretty, though, isn’t it?” She gave Elena another smile, her suspicions gone. “Where’d your brother get it?”

  The man searching Elena had reached her feet, and was probing her boots carefully. “Not sure,” she said. “He goes to these art fairs. Buys off the tables using hard currency. He thought it had a nice shape.”

  “Yeah.” Mika kept tossing it. “Fits right in the palm. Ian, you want to hold it?”

  Ian glared at her, and Elena had a sudden impression of two people with disparate temperaments who had worked together for a long time. “No, I don’t,” he said clearly. He turned back to Elena. “You’re clean. But listen . . . don’t bring toys in here again. I don’t have time to waste on this shit.” He stalked off.

  Elena pushed off the wall and ran a hand over her mussed hair. Irritably, she pulled the tie out of the back of it and pulled out the tangles Ian had introduced. “I should have cut it off,” she complained, and Mika shot her a sympathetic grin.

  “He’s not as bad as some of the others,” she said.

  “That’s something, I suppose.” Elena did not find it at all comforting. “I’m going to tell my brother to stop giving me presents.”

  “Ask him where he got this first,” Mika suggested. “And bring another one next time. We could use a little aesthetic beauty.” Somewhat reluctantly, she held the artifact out to Elena. “Around here, it’s easy to forget that form over function isn’t necessarily bad.”

  Elena took the object back. Its surface was cool, just like any other ordinary polymer, just like the solid object it had told Mika’s scanner it was.

  It . . . lied.

  She had no time to consider the implications of that revelation.

  Slipping back into her role as exhausted delivery person, she unzipped her pocket and dropped the artifact back in. “We all need a little beauty in our lives,” she agreed.

  As she followed Mika out of the landing bay, she felt the object in her pocket grow warm against her hip, and the irrational part of her mind wondered if it was laughing.

  Chapter 39

  Galileo

  In the tiny storeroom where Greg’s security people were keeping Ilyana, the PSI officer was sitting in a chair, arms folded before her on a small table, that bland smile on her face. Greg, monitoring on vid from the next room, could hear her humming, her voice low; sometimes the sound would get louder, and she would rock, just a little, before growing still again.

  “Did she say anything?” he asked Commander Broadmoor.

  The security chief shook her head. “Hirano says she didn’t resist at all. Shot Herrod and just wilted.”

  “Where’d she get the weapon?”

  “It was Herrod’s, apparently. She must have lifted it before we arrested him, because Gilbert found nothing when he tossed the room.” She looked over at Greg. “Hirano’s beating himself up pretty badly, sir.”

  He should have found the gun, Greg thought, but he couldn’t bring himself to lay too much blame on the security officer. Greg’s own instructions had been to treat Ilyana as a guest. And even with all his own habitual paranoia, he wo
uld not have seen her as a physical threat. “They were friendly, Ilyana and Herrod. There was no reason to suspect she would have hurt him. I’ll have a word with him later, but let him know that he won’t be disciplined for this.”

  Emily Broadmoor raised her eyebrows, but said nothing. She would think he was being too lenient. It was possible he was. But he could not see this as anything other than his own dismal failure.

  Jessica’s revelation about Chryse should have surprised him, but it hadn’t. It was the last piece that knit all of this together, but he still didn’t understand what any of it meant. And he hadn’t realized how hard it would be, telling Jessica that Herrod was dead. Despite the man’s evasiveness and divided loyalties, Herrod and Jessica had always worked well together, and Greg believed—despite her frequent denials—that she’d been fond of him. She had gone very quiet when he had told her, and sworn only once.

  “I want you in touch with Shimada,” he ordered. “I’ll get him an off-grid, and have him keep the line open. Find out what that comm is sending.”

  “Do you think Herrod knew?”

  Irrelevant. But he did not say that to her. “I’ll find out what I can from Ilyana,” he told her, “but I’m guessing that might be an uphill battle.”

  He had said that before realizing Ilyana was essentially catatonic.

  Petra Arapova, Galileo’s head counselor, stepped into Ilyana’s makeshift cell and sat down across from her. “Commander Ilyana,” she began, “I’m not here to interrogate you. Nothing you say to me can be used to prosecute you in any way. I am here to evaluate your mental state, and that is all. Do you understand?”

  At Petra’s question Ilyana met the counselor’s eyes, but said nothing, still humming.

  “I’m going to ask you a few things, Commander, and I’d like you to answer if you can.” Petra gave Ilyana a reassuring smile, but the woman still did not respond. “Can you tell me where you came from?”

  No change.

  “Were you born Leslie Barrett Millar on Achinsk?”

  No change.

  “Have you been living for the last forty years on the PSI ship Chryse?”

  The humming grew louder, and almost imperceptibly, Ilyana began rocking.

  “Why did you leave Chryse, Commander Ilyana?” The rocking stilled again. “Would you like us to contact Captain Bayandi for you?”

  That, of all things, seemed to get through to her. Ilyana blinked that strange, slow blink, and finally focused on Petra, giving her a friendly smile. “Thank you, Commander Arapova,” she said formally. “But that is not necessary.”

  After a moment her eyes lost focus, and she began to hum again.

  Petra tried a number of other questions, but Ilyana responded to none of them, only rocking, just a little, every time Petra mentioned Chryse. There was something there, and Greg found himself growing angrier. Bayandi had vouched for her. He had said she was not violent. Something was missing. “Samaras,” he said, connecting with the comms officer, “get me Captain Bayandi on Chryse.”

  Greg was not sure what time it was on Chryse, but Bayandi, as always, picked up instantly. “Captain Foster,” he said, and his voice sounded pleased. “How nice to hear from you again. What can I help you with?”

  Tell me why you’re coming to Yakutsk. Tell me what you know about Ellis. Tell me why Admiral Herrod is dead. “We’ve had to arrest Commander Ilyana.”

  There was a long silence on the other end, and when Bayandi spoke, Greg heard no surprise. “Was anyone hurt?”

  “Yes.”

  “Badly?”

  “A man was killed.” Greg waited, and heard nothing. “Captain Bayandi, I think I’ve been extraordinarily patient throughout all of this. You’ve stonewalled nearly every question I’ve asked you.”

  “I would like to speak with Ana, please.”

  “She’s not talking to anyone,” Greg said. “But after I’m finished talking with you, I’m going to sit down with her and find out how Chryse is involved with Ellis Systems, and exactly why you’re receiving data comms from Yakutsk.”

  The silence was longer this time. “I would like to discuss all of that with you, Captain Foster.” He sounded apologetic. “But for now—please. I must speak with Ana. You may listen, of course. But—please understand. She believes she is alone. I need to let her know she is not.”

  There was something in Bayandi’s voice, something that made Greg think the man was not asking purely as a commanding officer. And don’t I know what that’s like?

  Greg commed Petra in the interview room, and told her what he was going to do. The counselor’s lips tightened—disapproval, of course—but she nodded, sitting back to watch her charge.

  “Commander Ilyana,” Bayandi said, when Greg patched him through.

  The change in Ilyana was instant. She stopped humming, pushed the chair back, and stood, spine stiff at attention. “Yes, Captain.”

  “I am told, Commander, that you killed someone.”

  At that, Ilyana’s face crumbled, and Greg caught an expression he was not sure he could identify—anger, perhaps, or sadness. “Yes, sir. It was necessary, sir.” Her voice was awkward, stilted.

  “Violence is never necessary, Commander.” That got Greg’s attention; he had not heard Bayandi sound harsh before.

  “It was for Chryse, sir.”

  Greg expected Bayandi to challenge her. Instead, the captain was quiet for a moment, before he said, much of his harshness dissipated, “That was not your mission, Commander.”

  “Yes, Captain.”

  “You will have to be disciplined.”

  “I understand, Captain.”

  “You will do as these people say, Commander Ilyana, without question. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And you will hurt no one else, no matter what the reason. Not even if you are attacked.” His voice was stern, as if he were scolding a recalcitrant child. “Am I making myself clear, Commander?”

  She looked appropriately chastised. “Yes, sir.”

  “Very well, Commander. At ease.” Ilyana sat again, and began to hum, and Bayandi said, “Captain Foster, if you and I could speak.”

  Greg took the comm private, his eyes on Petra through the window. “What is to become of Commander Ilyana?” Bayandi asked.

  There would be tests, Greg knew. It was possible Ilyana was faking her mental state, but Greg didn’t believe it. Ilyana being PSI, she would likely be released back to her own people; but if Chryse was working with Ellis . . . “We’re still unraveling what happened, Captain. Can you tell me why she would do something like this?”

  “Commander Ilyana has been under unprecedented pressure, Captain Foster. Having said that—forgive the question, but is there any way this was self-defense?”

  Greg thought of Herrod: stiff, old, mentally brutal, physically frail. “No. There were two witnesses.”

  “And what do they report?”

  “Ilyana and Herrod were talking,” Greg said. “They’d talked before.” They were friendly. It made me suspicious, just not of the right person. “Based on the witness reports, she wanted to keep him from revealing a particular piece of information.”

  “What information?”

  Something I don’t know, that you might. “Without going into detail, Captain— Herrod was attempting to punch a hole in Ellis Systems.”

  At that, Bayandi’s voice sharpened. “This Herrod person was trying to stop Ellis?”

  Greg wondered if Herrod had known about Chryse, if he might have left Elena alone if he had. “His methodology was flawed.”

  “She silenced him because she was concerned he might change his mind?”

  That seems like a strange conclusion to draw. “I can’t speculate as to her reasons, Captain.”

  “Captain Foster,” Bayandi said decisively, “Commander Ilyana’s state of mind is unhealthy at the moment. Your own medical people will verify this. I would like to make a formal request of Central Corps that she be remanded
to Meridia for punishment by her own people.”

  Greg frowned. “Why Meridia? Why not Chryse?”

  Bayandi paused again, this time for so long Greg began to wonder if the line had dropped. “It is past time for you to pay me a visit, Captain Foster,” he said at last.

  Greg should have found it menacing, to be invited to Chryse, her ties to Ellis exposed. But there was something in Bayandi’s voice, something unutterably sad, something that reminded him of the tune Ilyana had been humming, over and over, as she rocked.

  “Very well, Captain,” he said. “I’ll come to you.”

  Greg was checking in on Galileo’s search for Antigone when Pritchard appeared at his door.

  The number of ships that Galileo thought might be Elena’s shuttle had been reduced by nearly half, and Greg thought that perhaps by next year he might narrow it down to a small enough number to actually investigate. His rogue installation query had produced slightly more interesting but equally pointless results: seventeen cities on established colonies that he had already speculated were related to Shadow Ops research, four moons that were officially uninhabited, and no fewer than forty-seven “free-floating structures of unknown origin and purpose.” Forty-seven bits of space junk, any one of which might hold Ellis’s research station. Useless. Greg was finding nothing, and his last link to Elena was dead.

  “Come in,” Greg said to the man, and watched as Herrod’s aide crossed the room. Herrod had called the man son, but he was not much younger than Greg: over thirty, at least, by the look of the lines around his eyes. Of course, under the circumstances, he probably looked older than he was; he wore an expression that suggested something between grief and anger.

  But when Pritchard spoke, his voice was measured and polite. “Captain Foster. I’m sorry to bother you.”

  “No bother, Mr. Pritchard.” Greg gestured at the chair before his desk, but Pritchard shook his head. Greg rubbed his eyes. “I’m sure you know the admiral didn’t have a lot of fans on this ship. But his death is unacceptable, and I don’t believe you’ll find that any of us will treat this as anything other than a serious crime.”