Kellean hopped over toward the landing ramp, focusing on the last tube as the team slipped it through the Guppy’s cargo hatch. The other five were already secured, lashed down to the deck and arranged neatly side by side. One of the crewmen inspected the tubes with a portable scanner, checking for leaks or any other damage that might have occurred during extraction. He finished quickly, and flashed Kellean a thumbs-up.
“That’s six by my count, base,” she signaled. “Locked, stocked, and ready for transport.”
“Acknowledged,” Farina replied. “Nice work down there, all of you. Time to close up shop and get yourselves back home. I’m sure you’ve had enough EVA for one day.”
“Will do, Skipper. See you back on top.”
“We’ll be ready,” the captain said, and closed the channel.
The main viewer disengaged the surface transmission and dissolved to forward visual, the bright red crescent of Mars carving an arc along the side of the screen. Soon after, the bridge crew resumed their stations. They traded a few anxious glances, but none talked openly about what they had just seen—not in front of the captain. Neither did Nathan, who maintained his pensive watch at Farina’s side.
The captain, meanwhile, stood up from her chair, exuding the same confidence that she always did. She studied the starfield on the viewer with a spacer’s practiced eye, retreating into her own thoughts for a moment before returning her attention to Nathan.
“Walk with me, Commander,” she said.
Farina turned command over to the senior watch officer, then headed for the exit with Nathan in tow. He closed the hatch behind them as they left, maintaining a discreet distance while they walked the long, narrow corridor into the heart of the ship. Their steps clinked loudly against the grated deck, augmenting the silence between them.
“I’ve never known us to be at a loss for words, Nathan,” Farina said. “If anything, we’ve had just the opposite problem.”
“That usually gets us in trouble.”
“Since when were you afraid of a little trouble?”
“I don’t know,” Nathan admitted, releasing a sigh. This was really the first time they had spoken since the incident in the wardroom, and he was surprised that Farina made such an easy overture. “Maybe I’ve been off the juice too long. When you’re jacking, you get used to taking chances. Out here, things are a little different. You worry a lot more.”
She smiled and shook her head knowingly.
“What?” Nathan asked.
“Nothing.” Farina chuckled. “You just sound like I did after I got my first command.” She lowered her voice, as if to intimate some terrible secret. “You might not believe this, but there was a time when I was one cocky bitch. Broke a lot of rules, just to see how much I could get away with. Then they promoted me, and suddenly I understood—there was a reason every pencil-neck officer I ever pissed off was such a pain in the ass.”
“Part of the job?”
“It is the job. It’s how things get done—and it’s the only way you can get your crew home in one piece.” The two of them stopped outside a stairwell that led down to C-Deck, and Farina looked up at him in earnest. “Congratulations, Nathan. You’re starting to think like a captain.”
Nathan could see that she meant it—not as a superior officer, but as a friend.
“I had a good teacher,” he said.
She frowned. “You’re not getting all sentimental on me, are you?”
“Wouldn’t think of it.”
“Good. Then you’ll tell me what I need to hear, not what you think I want to hear.”
Farina grabbed the handrails and lowered herself into the stairwell, sliding down the entire way until she connected with the deck below. Nathan followed as quickly as he could, catching up with her as she reached the access hatch for section three, just outside sickbay. A few tool pushers from engineering inspected the seals, making sure that the bulkheads wouldn’t rupture when that section went to vacuum. They saluted the captain, who motioned for them to remain at ease.
“Don’t mind me, fellas,” Farina told them, going over the preparations for herself. “Skipper’s gotta look like she’s useful.” She grabbed a wrench from one of the crewmen and banged against a polyalloy weld put in place to fortify one of the older seams. It sounded off with a loud, solid clang. “The old girl still has a few milliparsecs left in her, doesn’t she?”
The pushers grunted in agreement. One of them gestured toward the access hatch and the thick layer of carbon glass they had just mated to the porthole. “Figured you might want to watch,” he said, his face and coveralls smeared with welding soot. “We reinforced all the windows and got you a clear view of sickbay.”
“Outstanding,” Farina said, handing the wrench back and sending them on their way. As they left they muttered among themselves, mostly trading oaths about the dirty work and last-minute notice—but their expressions, Nathan saw, mimicked those of the bridge crew a few minutes before: expectation coupled with worry, as if everyone knew the same thing but was afraid to talk about it. Not one of them let it slip in the captain’s direction, though. They saved it for Nathan, who could only offer a reassuring nod.
“They respect you,” Farina said, observing the silent exchange. “That’s good.”
Then she turned away, peering through the thick glass at the empty corridor beyond. Soon it would be purged of air, reduced to vacuum to prevent the spread of any unknown organism while the cryotubes were transported to sickbay. Once there, Gregory Masir—who was waiting inside, dressed in an airtight biohazard suit—would lock the tubes up in an isolation chamber, from which he could remotely observe his new “patients.” Nathan had designed all the safety protocols personally, for all the good it did. The crew, by all appearances, didn’t seem to feel any safer.
As if reading his mind, Farina asked the one question he didn’t want to hear.
“How’s morale with all of this?”
Nathan cleared his throat, trying to find a tactful way of saying it.
“They’re nervous, like you’d expect,” he admitted. “But they’re handling it.”
“You think I could have broken the news to them better.”
“It might have been easier if you had made the general announcement before the Guppy launched,” he admitted. “Keeping it a secret until the last second makes them think they’re being kept out of the loop.”
“They would be right.”
“And that’s a problem. Everybody’s already stressed out because we haven’t commenced salvage ops. Now comes this mysterious rescue operation. Put the two together, what you got is a rumor mill—people talking, trying to fill in the gaps.”
“We’re just following procedure,” Farina said, unconcerned. “As long as we do this right, they won’t have any reason to worry.”
“And how long do you think that will last?”
“As long as it takes.”
Nathan fought the temptation to sound off again. His instincts still told him that everything about this was just wrong, that they should just bag their salvage and head back home, damning the consequences. But his loyalty to Farina was strong, and shunted his initial urge aside. Instead, he leaned in closer and hoped she would sense his urgency for herself.
“We don’t have to do this, Lauren,” he pleaded quietly. “The recovery team can still dump those bodies overboard. I can alter the ship’s logs. Nobody at the Directorate has to know.”
“We’re past that, Commander.”
Nathan stepped back. “What do you mean?”
“I informed the Directorate of our situation,” Farina explained, her tone flat—and committed. “They agreed it was essential we recover all human specimens, whether or not they are viable, and return them to Earth for processing and further study.”
“When was this?”
“Shortly after your discovery on the surface.”
Nathan flashed back on the captain’s briefing, her lecture on security—and how she depended o
n everyone’s input to determine what she would do next. Based on what she just said, he now knew that none of that had ever mattered.
“You’re saying we’ve been under orders this whole time? Why didn’t you say anything?”
“They told me not to,” Farina said. “And just so you understand, I’m probably violating that order right now by telling you.”
Nathan glared at her. “I don’t get it,” he breathed. “Why did you even bother to ask? Were you going through the motions, or just giving yourself cover?”
“You know me better than that,” she fired back. “I’ve got one priority, and that’s the safety of this ship and crew. If I thought for one second that this wouldn’t work, I’d relieve myself of command and let you take over. I needed you to tell me what was feasible—and right now, that’s exactly what we’re doing.”
Nathan believed in her, but felt uneasy now that the Directorate was involved. There was something about headquarters staff that he had never trusted. Maybe it was because half of them had never even been to space, or knew what it was like to serve aboard a cramped, creaky vessel for months on end. People like that made their decisions based on politics—and that meant you could never be sure of their motives.
A shrill alert pierced the confined space, its intensity magnified by the steel walls and low ceiling. Overhead lights dimmed to a swirling yellow, the ship’s automated warning system signaling an imminent section breach.
“All hands, all hands,” a voice cut in from above. “We are now go for atmospheric purge in sections two through eleven. This is not a drill. Duty personnel in affected areas should now be operating in protective suits on internal oxygen. Section chiefs, please acknowledge.”
Farina held Nathan’s stare for an instant longer, then slid over to a nearby intercom panel. She punched the number for the bridge, where the officer of the watch answered.
“Bridge, Captain,” she said. “What’s our status?”
“Everybody’s ready, Skipper.”
“Very well. You may proceed.”
“Aye, sir.”
She clicked the intercom off and returned to the window. From behind her, Nathan could see the few crewmen who remained moving through sickbay, their forms exaggerated by the thickness of the glass and the bulkiness of their orange biohazard suits. Masir caught them watching and threw a mock salute their way. Farina returned the gesture, almost sadly.
“They’re good people,” she said, more softly than before. “They’ll do their jobs.”
There was a sudden pounding on the other side of the bulkhead, which made them both wince. The hiss of escaping oxygen followed, a slow drain that jabbed Nathan with a fleeting panic. It was a spacer’s worst nightmare, the noise of a ship bleeding to death. He had to remind himself that this was nothing more than a controlled vent, confined to a small area.
“I know they will,” Nathan said, “but do any of us know what that job really is?”
Farina didn’t turn around—but he could see her reflection in the window, broadcasting the very doubts he had.
“You want to speak freely, Nathan?” she asked. “Permission granted.”
“The Directorate went to a lot of trouble to bury the Mons disaster. I just don’t see them being this anxious to dig it up after all these years.”
“What’s your point?”
“It seems like everybody would be better off if the people in those cryotubes stayed dead. We take our orders from the Directorate—but the Directorate takes their orders straight from the Collective. We might not be playing for the same team.”
Farina thought about it quietly, long enough for Nathan to know she took him seriously. “You think Special Services has their own agenda?”
“Or the Council, or even the Assembly. I know how those people operate, Lauren, and I can promise you—they do not have the same priorities. If somebody is running a game, we’d be the last to know.”
She closed her eyes, shaking her head wearily. “There are times when I really hate this job,” she seethed. “With everything going on, the last thing I need is to become the go-to gal in some corporate power play.” She turned to him again. “Any chance you can use our resources here to confirm your theory?”
“That depends on what you need.”
“I need a hammerjack, Nathan. I’m asking if you’re up to the task.”
He was stunned. The idea had occurred to him, but Nathan never expected Farina to sign off on it. “I have a crawler at my disposal,” he said. “That’s more than enough to string out whatever ice the Directorate has shielding their systems.”
“Can you do it without being detected?”
“Probably.”
“That doesn’t sound like very good odds.”
“I’m a lousy gambler.”
Farina took in a deep breath and folded her arms in front of her chest. Unlike Nathan, she was an excellent gambler and had built an entire career out of knowing when to bluff, when to fold—and when to move in for the kill.
“Very well,” she decided. “See what you can find out, then report directly back to me.” Farina paused for a long moment before adding, “I don’t want to know how you’re going to do this, do I?”
“Probably not.”
“I was afraid of that,” Farina said. She touched Nathan’s arm and gave him a brief and gentle squeeze. “I don’t need to tell you what will happen if we get caught. Violating corporate systems carries an automatic charge of information trafficking. That’s the big time.”
“Big as it gets,” Nathan said. “But if you’re gonna play, you might as well make it high stakes.”
“I thought you didn’t like to gamble.”
“I learn fast.”
Farina gave him a nod of approval.
“You certainly do,” she said. “Who knows? If we’re lucky, when this is over they might even let us share a cell together.”
The memory Lea had of her team—at least what was left of it—had taken on the shades of a fever dream since Chernobyl, gaps in logic fueled by a speedtec crash. She had vague impressions of their watching as she hobbled, bloodied and beaten, into the combat transport. Those stares had been a crazy contortion of sympathy and recrimination: loyalty to the commander who emerged from that apartment building under her own power, undercut by grief for those who had to be carried out. Nobody knew how to approach Lea after that. They were too invested in the legend to accept that she could ever fail. Eric Tiernan had tried, but in the end there had simply been nothing to say. Lea was the walking wounded. She needed to work it out on her own.
She remained that way during the entire flight home, huddled in her own corner of the CIC, trying to hide the symptoms of withdrawal as she crawled out of a tec-induced fugue. Even now, coming back to Corporate Special Services, she found that nothing much had changed. Adrenal-opiates still bent her perceptions, the decaying rush reinvigorated by her time with Vortex—and people still looked at her the same way, their guarded silence cover for what their body language couldn’t hide. Chernobyl had marked her. Lea Prism was no longer invulnerable.
As she entered the docking port on the roof, she sensed the proof of it immediately. A group of immaculately tailored lawyers gathered there, chatting each other up while they waited for the next transport. When Lea walked in, however, their attentions shifted in her direction. Keenly aware of their predatory interest as she brushed past, Lea suspected their reactions had less to do with hormones and more to do with smelling her blood in the water. They just circled, as instinct dictated, to see how badly she was bleeding.
Lea didn’t feed their speculation. Instead, she made a point of pulling her jacket aside, briefly revealing the small pistol she had strapped to her belt. The ones crowding her space got the message and backed off. CSS lawyers liked to fancy themselves killers, but show them a real gun, and they usually ran the other way. Murder by proxy was their preferred method, the kind spooks like Lea facilitated. Up close and personal was different—as Lea
conveyed with a frigid glance and a turn of her head, making sure they knew how inconsequential they really were.
Leaving the crowd behind, she headed straight for the magnetic lift. After she flashed her credentials and provided a retinal scan, the automated sentry allowed her inside. She punched the button for JTOC—the Joint Technical Operations Command, headquarters for T-Branch and home for the Special Projects division. Outside of the Works, the eight floors that comprised JTOC housed the most sophisticated technology available to the Collective—all of it geared toward keeping the various corporate factions in line, while striking terror among enemies of the state. Only after she started working here did Lea realize how precarious that balance really was. A tilt one way or the other could easily bring the whole thing down; that it hadn’t happened was a testament to the brutal efficiency of the place.
The lift stopped at the Operations level. Doors opened into a flurry of activity, mostly civilian staffers and junior officers darting through a maze of cubicles. An array of holoscreens pointed down on the action, pouring reams of information into the volatile mix. The pace was always like this, the chaotic atmosphere concealing a very deliberate function. T-Branch ran at least a dozen operations on any given day, all of which were tracked down to the last detail and coordinated by the support staff. They monitored everything from communications to troop positions, clearing orders through JTOC and providing tactical support for people in the field. The screens displayed mission status—satellite sweeps and thermographs relaying images in real time, covering so many nations that it seemed as though they had the entire world under scrutiny. A notable exception was northern Ukraine, which remained on one of the screens, a bright heat plume obscuring the entirety of Chernobyl. The area was still under surveillance, on the off chance that some Inru stragglers might still be there—but the blind spot only reminded Lea of how little she had known going in. All these resources, and they hadn’t mattered one damned bit.
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