The lower levels with the big ships felt like another world. She couldn’t ever take in an entire ship. They were so huge that she really couldn’t comprehend them, not even when she got to see them on the monitors.
On the monitors, the ships looked like finite things, bird-shaped and black, built for speed, it seemed to her, rather than long-distance travel.
Then she walked up to one, and couldn’t even reach its nose when she raised her arm above her head. The ship was so huge that it looked like the mountain itself.
That had been a DV-Class vessel. She had seen several of those, because she took the tour whenever it was offered. But she had never seen an SC-Class vessel.
She had tried to bone up on them all night. They were Security-Class vessels, and they were supposed to work in groups, securing sections, handling problems.
It seemed to her that the crew of a Security-Class vessel had to be highly specialized, but the more research she did, the more she realized that even SC-Class vessels had large crews with very diverse jobs. The major differences between an SC-Class vessel and a DV-Class vessel were of size of course, but mission as well. SC-Class vessels went on shorter trips, and usually didn’t include families.
From what she could tell about the Renegat, it wasn’t fitting into any of the SC-Class patterns. It was going on a long trip, alone, and it was having problems.
The crew admitted that much in the broadcast they’d sent to everyone on Sector Base Z. They said some of the crew were leaving, but didn’t explain why.
The rumors Justine had already heard were about dissension in the ranks, and a hatred of the way that the captain was running the ship. But she had also heard that some of the crew who were leaving were terrified of the distance the Renegat had to travel in foldspace.
That very thought made her stomach twist. She had once vowed that she would never ever ever travel through foldspace. It seemed weird and scary and dangerous.
But it wasn’t as weird, scary, and dangerous as Prescott. She had thought him so wonderful when she met him. He had one of the best jobs in the sector base, working on some classified project on a level she could never access.
He got a lot more respect than she did, and a lot more perks in the base. He had access to base housing even though he didn’t have a family—yet, he would say to her when he mentioned that, his blue eyes twinkling, as if he expected them to have a family.
And truth be told, she had originally hoped to have a family with him. He’d seemed perfect—those marvelous eyes, that unusual blondish hair, the smile that would make everyone else smile. He was smart and witty and charming, and so very angry underneath.
She shifted slightly, then looked around. She half-expected him to walk through the dining hall, to see her standing here, gambling her future—on what? On an opportunity she wasn’t sure she wanted?
She swallowed hard, then wiped her hands on her best black slacks. She had already asked her supervisor to find her a position off the base, maybe on a starbase somewhere or even on a ship, and she had been told that as a general researcher, her skills weren’t in high demand in areas that had limited personnel.
She couldn’t quite understand that: it would seem to her that someone who could research anything quickly and in depth would be more valuable on a ship than, say, someone who specialized in only one thing.
She had even made that argument to her supervisor, who shrugged, saying she didn’t make the rules. But her supervisor had also added that the general researchers on the starships were usually born in space, not on land.
Justine had heard that anti-land prejudice a few weeks later when she’d gone to one of the job-opening offices on the base. She had skipped over the one for established employees and gone to the one kids who had just gotten out of school went to. The people there had told her the same thing, but they said they’d try.
She had mentioned Prescott—not by name—but she had said that she wanted to get off the base to get away from him, that she was worried he was using the tools he had at his job to spy on her. They asked for his name to report him, and that had scared her away.
Very far away, in fact. She hadn’t gone back.
But someone in the office had called her the day before to tell her about this opportunity.
There seemed to be two different levels of interviews. First, the applicant would go to the table where a man who looked vaguely familiar sat. He would ask two or three questions, and either send the person through a door or ask them to leave.
Most everyone left.
She supposed she would as well. Because who needed a general researcher, particularly on some scary foldspace trip?
Last night, as she thought and thought and thought about this opportunity, she wondered if she had enough courage to go if someone offered her the position.
She would have to leave everything she knew, and get to know a brand new environment, doing different things than she had ever done before, while convincing people that she actually knew how to do her job.
And, to be fair, she did know. She was one of the best (if not the best) general researcher on the base.
She just needed to leave. She wanted to keep her job, at least, because the work would be familiar, even if nothing else was. She loved the work, and she didn’t want to leave it too.
It took less than an hour for her to reach the front of that long line, which surprised her. She would have thought she was going to be in line for half a day if not more.
When she reached the desk, she realized why the man sitting behind it looked familiar. He was Fyodor Labhras, her supervisor’s supervisor back when she was just starting out, someone who didn’t know a lot about research, but who knew a lot about running things.
“Justine Breaux,” she said as she stepped up, just like she was supposed to do.
She held out her wrist so he could scan the chip inside for all of her information.
“I remember you,” Labhras said. “You were one of the best young researchers in the department. You don’t want to get on this ship. You should stay here.”
She opened her mouth to answer him, but didn’t exactly know how. If she disparaged Prescott, would that make her unhireable?
“I suppose you want adventure,” Labhras said a little sarcastically. “That’s what everyone else says when I try to discourage them.”
She swallowed hard. “Is that your job then, to discourage us?”
He shook his head. “I’m supposed to filter you through, is all. For some reason, they didn’t want to automate this, but I think they could. I think they want a human to ask questions.”
Justine frowned.
“And maybe discourage,” he said a little more softly. “Because you need to think about this before you go. More than two dozen career Fleet people are leaving this ship, and they won’t tell me why. I think that’s a gigantic red flag.”
“You don’t think it’s the mission?” she asked.
“The longest trip ever through foldspace? Maybe,” he said, but he didn’t sound convinced. “I think most long-term spacers on an SC-Class vessel would consider that a challenge, don’t you?”
She didn’t know. She didn’t know long-term spacers. She had no idea what people who lived their entire lives in space were like.
She dry-swallowed for the third—or was it the fourth?—time.
“You probably want to come back later,” Labhras said, “maybe see if all the openings were taken.”
She shook her head. The movement came before she even had a conscious thought about it.
“I want to try,” she said. “It’s an adventure.”
“One a lot of experienced people don’t think is worthwhile,” Labhras said. “The questions I’m going to ask you are also a red flag.”
Her frown deepened. Why would he think that?
“And these are more personal than anything you’ve ever been asked here at the base before,” he added.
She took a deep breath, bracing he
rself.
“Are you in a relationship?” he asked.
“Like, married?” she asked.
“Like, any long-term relationship. The kind you value,” he said.
She thought of Prescott, thought about the future she had once imagined, felt her heart ache.
“No,” she said.
“Your personnel record says you have no children,” Labhras said. “Do you have any foster children or close relationships with the children of friends, distant relatives, anyone?”
“No,” she said, not understanding why that question was even there. “I don’t even have distant relatives.”
She didn’t have relatives. Her parents had died in an accident at the base, and they had left family behind at another sector base. She was nearly grown when the accident happened, so she wasn’t raised by anyone special.
“Close friends you couldn’t survive without?” Labhras asked.
For some reason, these questions felt wrong. “What is this about?”
He gave her a flat look, and she could almost hear his thoughts. He thought she was slow. Maybe she was. Or maybe she just wanted to hear him say what was implied.
“They don’t want to take anyone who will be missed,” he said. “They think you’re not coming back.”
She felt the blood drain from her face. That was blunt. A lot more blunt than she had expected.
But the way he phrased that first sentence sent a chill through her. Not because of this mission, but because of Prescott. Had he known that he could do anything to her that he wanted because she wouldn’t be missed? Had she surprised him when she left the relationship?
Did he know how very vulnerable she was?
The answer was probably yes.
“Okay,” she said. “That’s clear.”
She took a deep breath. Labhras leaned back in his chair, as if he expected her to leave now.
“No one will miss me,” she said. “I want the adventure. What do I have to do to qualify for it?”
His entire face fell. She had never before had someone she didn’t really know look so disappointed in her.
“All you have to do is walk through that door,” he said.
“Okay, then,” she said, and skirted the table, her heart hammering.
She usually wasn’t an adventurer. But she could be. Anyone could be, right, if they only tried.
She stopped for a half second in front of that door. It slid open, revealing a wide, well-lit corridor beyond.
One step, and she was in a completely different future.
One step, and she would be someone else.
She took a deep breath—and then she took the step.
And completely transformed her life.
The Správa
Lieutenant Baker couldn’t raise Preemas on her own. He wasn’t responding to hails from Vice Admiral Gāo’s office. So Gāo did the next best thing. She had the head of Sector Base Z round up Preemas.
While that process was happening, Gāo spoke directly with the head of Sector Base Z, a man named Rufus Gerlik. He had chosen an open full-size hololink to speak with her. She sat in the chair in the center of her research area. She had shut off the art on the walls, so that they looked blank.
Gerlik’s holo stood in front of her, threading his hands together. He was a small, balding man who looked like the stress of his job was too much for him. Or maybe he was worried that she was going to file some kind of complaint.
On Sector Base Z, he stood in front of some kind of black nanobit wall, which looked like part of a corridor rather than someone’s office. But there wasn’t enough for her to see to make a real determination. And, truth be told, she really didn’t care what part of the sector base he was in.
It looked to her like he stood in front of her, with a black wall behind him that held him in place, with the walls of her study farther back. It felt a bit disconcerting for him to just stand there, while she was sitting, but, she reminded herself, she had not opted for the full holographic screen. She was just showing him a view of her face.
Gerlik already informed her that he had sent for Preemas, and would step aside once Preemas arrived. She told Gerlik that when Preemas arrived, she and Preemas would need a private conversation.
Gerlik snickered, then nodded. The snicker bothered Gāo more than it probably should have. It suggested Gerlik didn’t like Preemas or maybe Gerlik didn’t like the situation Preemas had put them both in.
Gāo really didn’t blame Gerlik for believing that Preemas needed his help. Having a captain arrive at a sector base was a normal occurrence; making certain that captain had the crew he needed was an occasional function of a sector base.
But this had gone even farther than that. It sounded like Gerlik helped Preemas set up a full recruitment fair.
“Before he arrives,” Gāo said to Gerlik, “tell me how many crew members have left the Renegat.”
Gerlik shifted, tugging on his left wrist as if he were trying to detach the hand. The man had more nervous quirks than anyone she had ever seen.
“I don’t know exactly,” Gerlik said. “We’re not required to keep track of ship personnel. But I can tell you that fifteen from the Renegat asked for reassignment here at the sector base.”
Then he lowered his voice and leaned forward, as if he were actually in the room and needed to get close to impart a secret.
“I must say, though, Vice Admiral, none of those fifteen are qualified for a commensurate position on my base. They were sent through personnel, of course, but personnel contacted me, a bit surprised that these people had even served on an active Fleet vessel.” His voice went lower still. “Do you have any idea how many reprimands these people had between them?”
“I have a hunch,” Gāo said. “Captain Preemas was supposed to be working with a difficult crew. It’s a rehabilitation project. No one was supposed to leave the vessel. They were all supposed to be working together on this particular mission.”
She didn’t add that the Renegat’s arrival at Sector Base Z had not been approved through her, either. It was one thing to have Preemas ignore her orders on the crew—most Fleet personnel would understand his desires to do that—but adding other things that showed disobedience would not do her reputation much good either.
“Well,” Gerlik said, “according to what we’ve been hearing, your Captain Preemas has made some waves that the crew did not like. I’ll be honest with you, Vice Admiral. I wouldn’t want to command a difficult mission with people who did not want to serve under me.”
Gāo knew nothing about Gerlik. She had no idea if he had ever served on a Fleet vessel or any kind of mission. People who ran sector bases did have to manage an incredibly large staff, but sector bases had a luxury that starships did not—there was usually a large employment pool to pull from.
“I understand he’s been recruiting,” Gāo said, and did not add that she knew he had the assistance of the base. “I do not want anyone to leave with Captain Preemas.”
“Um,” Gerlik tilted his head, then gave her a small smile. She half-expected him to tug at his remaining hair, like a little boy. “I don’t have that kind of authority. While a lot of people at the base serve the Fleet directly, many do not, and others are retired or inactive. I don’t have the authority to prevent everyone from traveling with Captain Preemas.”
Gāo kept her frustration off her face. She would have been able to find a way to prevent Preemas from taking anyone with him.
“Then get him off the base,” she said. “Revoke his access, now.”
“We’re completing an assessment of the ship now,” Gerlik said. “It can’t leave until we’re done.”
“An assessment?” she asked, suspecting he was trying to confuse her. “If it’s just an assessment, Director, then you can stop at any time. If you’re effecting repairs or improvements, then I can understand. Those were not authorized either.”
“Um,” Gerlik said again, doing that same silly forehead tug. That made Gāo men
tally vow that she would never tug at her own hair again. It looked ridiculous. “I’m sorry, Vice Admiral, but my mission here requires me to complete improvements for any Fleet vessel that arrives, should the vessel make that request. No one has to go through channels to get an extra anacapa drive or to make certain that all of the attitude controls are up-to-date.”
Gāo crossed her arms. “Are those two things he asked for?”
“Um, no, sir,” Gerlik said. “I don’t know what he asked for, only that the ship is undergoing assessment right now, and some kind of upgrade on certain systems that Captain Preemas and his Chief Engineer believe will be heavily taxed on this mission.”
Preemas’s Chief Engineer, Nadim Crowe, was one of the few crew members that Gāo had met personally. Crowe had a terrible reputation, mostly because he disagreed with almost every single captain he had ever served. But she had investigated his files and discovered that Crowe’s disagreements were usually over something that was about to go wrong; the captains rarely listened to him, and got angry when it turned out that Crowe had been right.
Combine that mouthiness with a terrible incident he had been involved in as a young man, and he was almost unhireable on a normal Fleet vessel. She had spent a lot of time with Nadim Crowe’s file, trying to figure out if she could find him a different position in the Fleet.
But he had already used up most of his opportunities, and she had finally put him on the Renegat. When she had done so, she had comforted herself with two thoughts. The first was that Nadim Crowe wouldn’t put up with any of Captain Preemas’s craziness, and the second was that Crowe could save the entire crew with a fork and some spit if the situation called for it.
“Nadim Crowe asked for the repairs?” Gāo asked, mostly as clarification.
“Um…” Gerlik frowned, and she could tell now that he was looking at a different floating screen. Apparently, he hadn’t remembered Crowe’s name. “Yes. Yes, Chief Engineer and First Officer Nadim Crowe.”
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