* * *
The assignment to form a support team for a forensic group investigating the Stack Islands marked his return to limited full duty. Barin looked at the information he'd been given and went to find Corporal Gelan Meharry.
Gelan Meharry didn't look much like his big sister. Barin had met Methlin Meharry only that once, on Heris's ship, back when he was trying to clear Esmay's name. She had looked every bit as dangerous as her legend, and he'd wondered at the time why she hadn't had the scar on her face removed. It was not something to ask about. Gelan had the same green eyes, but his hair was darker, and he looked more subdued than sullen.
"Lieutenant," Meharry said. Then his eyes lit up. "Excuse me, sir, but—are you related to Commander Heris Serrano?"
"That's right," Barin said. "She's my aunt. And you're Methlin Meharry's brother."
An expression Barin readily understood passed across Meharry's face. "Her baby brother, she'll tell anyone . . ."
"I know the feeling," Barin said. "But from what I hear, you're no one's baby. You nearly scotched the mutiny before it started, is how the story goes."
Now the face was closed, almost as if in pain. "Thanks, sir, but that's not quite how it went. If I'd figured out a way to do something sooner . . ." His voice trailed off; Barin knew that mental path well.
"If I had figured out sooner that there were leaks in gas lines, I wouldn't have lost two men out of my damage control team," Barin said.
Meharry looked at him.
"Hull breach," Barin said. "Cracks in adjoining compartments, in Environmental. We were trying to save the growth chambers. Spalled fragments had gone everywhere; we had leaks all over the place. I was so worried about the hydraulic lines, I didn't even think—" He shook his head, unable to go on.
"It wasn't your fault, sir," Meharry said. "You can't think of everything."
"Nor can you," Barin said. "I'll bet you were thinking as hard as you could, weren't you?"
"Yes, sir. But I couldn't find a way—"
"Sometimes there isn't one," Barin said. He didn't really believe that for himself, but telling himself that was getting him through the days. "Anyway, Corporal, what I'm actually here for is that we're both assigned to a team that's going back out there—to both the prison and the weapons research facility or what's left of it. Apparently the powers that be think the planet's secure enough now that they can afford the time and manpower to do some forensic work."
Meharry's jaw muscles clenched. "I . . . don't really want to go, Lieutenant."
"No, I imagine not."
"But we do what we have to," Meharry said. "When do we leave?"
"Tomorrow. I was hoping you'd help me out; I'm supposed to pick some people out of the pool of extras, and I just got out of hospital. I haven't a clue who's good at what. The forensic team's already assigned; they're specialists. There's a bunch of civilian scientists and technicians. But I'm supposed to come up with data transcription clerks, communications—support generally. You've been here for months; could you help me with this?"
"Of course, sir." Meharry took the thick stack of personnel sheets Barin handed him. "How many? And are we supplying food service support?"
"There's five on the forensic team, about a dozen civilians, and I was told that I could have as much for support as I wanted. The major said the more I could get out of his hair the better. And yes, I'm supposed to arrange food service. And all I've had here is hospital food." Barin put a plaintive note in that and was relieved to see Meharry smile.
"Let's see if—yes, here's a good cook on your list. And another. Clerks—hmmm. Koniston's always cheerful and doesn't make funny noises when he's working—" Meharry looked up and explained that. "Andersson's a good clerk, but he drives me nuts; he's always hissing or clicking his tongue or something. We don't need that in a small team. Koniston, Bunley, Mohash and . . . let's see, is Simi—no. Well . . . Purto, then. Four clerks ought to be enough. Communications . . . we should ask Ensign Pardalt, sir."
"She's the one who built that whatchamacallit to get a signal out?"
"Yes, sir. She was a junior instructor in history, I think it was, and after that they moved her into communications. She probably knows all the techs."
"I'll find her," Barin said. "I'm guessing we need a couple of techs—"
"Sir, I'd recommend four. If we have personnel on both Stack islands, we'll want a primary and backup for each team."
"Yes, of course. Do you think you can pick out the rest of what we need, and have a list for me when I get back from seeing Ensign Pardalt?"
"Yes, sir." Meharry paused, then went on. "Sir, am I supposed to be on your team, or with forensics?"
"They said they'd assigned you to me, because then you'd be handy to answer any questions."
"Yes, sir."
Barin found the communications building easily enough, but locating Ensign Pardalt took longer. She was not in her temporary office, or anywhere in the main control rooms. Finally a pivot said she was probably down in data analysis. Data analysis was in the basement.
At first he thought the young woman hunched over a stack of printouts was an enlisted tech; she didn't look up, which gave him a chance to notice the insignia before he blundered. He watched her a moment longer. Sleek red hair, hanging forward a little as she scanned the papers and tapped on her handcomp. Pale brows drawn together with intensity of concentration.
"Excuse me," Barin said. "I'm looking for Ensign Pardalt."
She looked up, and blinked at him a moment, then flushed and pushed back her seat to stand. "Sir, sorry . . . I'm Ensign Pardalt."
"I'm Jig Serrano," Barin said. "Sorry to interrupt you, but I need some advice."
"Advice? From me?" She looked almost scared.
"Yes," Barin said. "I'm supposed to assemble a support team for a trip out to the Stack Islands, and I need the names of some decent communications techs. Corporal Meharry suggested that you might know who on this list would work best in a situation like that." He held out the list.
"Oh . . . well, I don't know them all . . ." But she scanned down the list; he recognized total concentration and said nothing more.
"How many?" she asked.
"Four or five," Barin said.
She rattled off four names, marking them with her stylus.
"Thanks," Barin said. "May I ask what you're doing?"
"Trying to figure out who disabled the weather satellite so that no one saw the Bonar Tighe's troop shuttles approaching the Stack Islands," she said. "The problem is, MetSat IV had been acting up for a couple of years. So it could have been just a random glitch—"
"Convenient, though," Barin said. "The previous acting up could have been cover for this."
"Yes. But I can't think of a way to prove or disprove that."
It sounded tedious enough to him. "I don't suppose you'd like to come along on our little jaunt?"
She looked alarmed. "Not really, sir, but of course if you need me . . ."
"No, that's all right. I'm just glad I don't have your job."
CHAPTER TWELVE
R.S.S. Indefatigable
Heris Serrano had a few days' peace while Seabolt thought of some other nonsense to obsess over. So far they'd been lucky; no mutineer had attacked them, and they'd detected no sign that one had passed. She was working on another drill schedule when she got a call from the bridge.
"Captain, I just wondered . . . what if an ansible transmits a pre-message alert, but then no message?" Jig Hargrove, the junior officer on communications this shift, had an earnest face that turned even the simplest question into Something Serious.
"What do you mean?" Heris asked.
"You know how—" Heris winced; all the junior officers had picked up Seabolt's habit of starting every explanation with that phrase. "—how an ansible sends out an ID and clear-channel blip before sending a message?"
"Yes," Heris said. "And the following message will be delayed by the time it takes the ansible to return a `ready' me
ssage to the originator, and the originator's message to arrive."
"Yes, so we expect a lag, up to about four hours, between the initiation sequence and the message. But I've been waiting almost the whole shift for a message, and nothing's come through. And Commander Denehy said to report anything out of the ordinary. I just don't know if this is."
"How long, exactly?" Heris asked.
"Six hours, eighteen minutes. I guess it could be a ship that's farther than three light-hours from the ansible, but most people don't try to raise one until they're a lot closer than that."
"What's the ID? Why do you think it's a ship?"
"Well, this is the system—" Hargrove held out a description. "It's got no inhabited worlds, and no permanent settlement, though there's a research station on that eccentric planetoid. I suppose it could be that."
"I suppose," Heris said absently, looking at the system specs. "One mapped jump point, but only a yellow rating . . . oh, because of the planetoid. What are its backjump stats?"
"Sorry, Captain—I don't know. Just its com status."
"Commander de Fries—" The senior navigation officer looked up. "I need a backjump analysis of these coordinates—" Heris flicked them to his screen.
"Right away, Captain."
Heris turned back to Jig Hargrove. "Does that ansible have reversible scan capability?"
"No, Captain. The note on it in the catalog says it's just a single-channel model, for the use of the research station. It's not even very secure; its access code is in all the updated files. Anyone could have tripped it—though I suppose it could have been just damage."
"Captain—" That was deFries.
"Yes?"
"Backjump analysis: because this isn't considered that stable a jump point, the only mapped one-jump location is CX-42-henry—"
"That's one of the one-to-go points for Copper Mountain," Heris said.
"That's right, Captain. Copper Mountain is the nearest two-jump outlet, estimated FTL time eleven days, and that's due to the short leg in from CX-42-henry. There's a notation that successful jumps were made to the vicinity of RG-773-alpha, but there weren't enough to qualify for a mapped route. Estimated FTL time on that one is nineteen days. Some of the scientists considered it a more direct route to their home systems, over in Sector Five."
"I suppose it would be," Heris said. "Do you have any data on that system which would tell us how far that planetoid is now from the ansible? How long a lag there might be between an initiating signal and the following message?"
"I'll work on it," he said.
Heris felt a prickle of excitement down her spine. What could trigger an ansible besides a signal? And why would someone start to signal and then fail to carry it out?
Because someone stopped them. They changed their minds. Someone stopped them.
"If a loyalist Fleet vessel . . . or a civilian ship . . . found itself in trouble with mutineers, they might try to signal, and be blown away before they could," Heris said softly.
"Yes, and a flying rock could have hit it," de Fries said.
"We need to go look." She was as sure of that as of two plus two.
"We're on picket duty. The admiral said we're to interdict mutineer travel, watch the jump points—" Seabolt, naturally, would take that view.
"I am watching a jump point," Heris said. "I'm watching a jump point around which suspicious activity has taken place."
"I don't think you can call a malfunctioning ansible suspicious activity."
"Commander, do you have any idea how reliable those things are? How rarely they malfunction? And when they do, it's something like sending a string of gibberish, not turning themselves on for no reason."
"But—"
"I say it's suspicious, and I'm the captain . . . and the commodore." And the great panjandrum with the little round button on top, too, she thought to herself. "I'm going to inform HQ, of course—only an idiot rushes off without leaving word behind—and the next question is whether to go in with all the force available—or send in a scout."
"A scout would be safer," Seabolt said.
"For us, right now, maybe. But just supposing there is a mutineer force in that system, and someone tried to tell us and failed. All a scout could do is alert them that someone knows their location. Similarly, if I take in one ship and it's not enough to defeat them . . . that's worse than not going at all."
"You wouldn't take all—everything—" Seabolt sounded like a supply sergeant, she decided.
"They didn't give me this many ships to just sit here being a target," Heris said. "I want a tightbeam to the ansible and a secure code for transmission to headquarters."
* * *
R.S.S. Bonar Tighe, now mutineer flagship
* * *
Cecelia swallowed against the rise of sour bile in her throat. It had seemed like a good plan; it was a good plan. It was the only plan . . . but she felt more tension than before the start of a big event. Worse than riding down to a huge fence on a headstrong horse.
It was just the same. She could be hurt, she could die, but she'd rather die doing this than live without doing it—right?
Talking firmly to her fluttering stomach, she went on mopping the guards' latrine; Miranda was behind her with the brushes, the bottles of spray cleaner. She felt for the bucket with her heel, without looking. On the next forward stroke with the mop, she pushed too hard, stumbled forward, lurched back, and knocked the bucket over.
"Nooo!" she cried, whirling around and grabbing for it. "No, I didn't mean to—I'm sorry—" The end of the mop almost hit Miranda, who fended it off by grabbing it one-handed; Cecelia scrabbled for the bucket and picked up the bottle of spray cleaner Miranda had dropped.
"You idiot!" the guard said, starting to laugh. "I knew you were clumsy, but—"
The end of the mop caught him in the solar plexus; Miranda's lunge with a mop was as perfect as with a foil, and he folded around it with a whoof of outrushing breath. Cecelia gave him a spray of ammonia-based cleaner in the face as he tried to gasp for his next breath. He gasped, choked, wheezed—and she had smashed his trachea with the handle of the glass scraper. Behind her, she heard sounds she interpreted as Miranda taking down the guard in the kiosk—a potent thud, another gasp and gurgle. She grabbed her guard by the arm and dragged him toward the cells—they needed his fingerprint for the cell locks—while Miranda inserted the other guard's keycard and used his fingerprint to hold the brig access open.
"That was fast," Chief Jones said, as Cecelia panted around the corner, yanking at the dead weight of the guard.
"Nothing ventured, nothing gained," Cecelia said. She pushed the body up to the bars. "Here, help me lift him—he must be wearing lead." Arms reached through the bars to lift the dead weight up, until she could insert his finger in the ID slot.
The bolts slid back with a solid clunk, and Cecelia pulled the cell door open.
"Donaldson, you and Kouras get the other cells open. Tiraki and Dirac, go help Miranda at the kiosk—see if you can set overrides. If not, we're going to have to take their fingers. Send Miranda back to help Markham."
Cecelia swallowed and tried not to look shocked. She understood the problem but the very thought of cutting parts off the dead revolted her.
"Cecelia, you brief the other cells on the chemicals stored in this section."
She almost said "yes, sir." Already, other prisoners were emerging cautiously from the other cells around the corner—men with straggly beards under their shaven heads, women whose hair was just growing out.
"This is our mission," Chief Jones said. "First, we get word out to Fleet about this ship in this location. Second, we do our best to disable this ship, by going EVA to damage or destroy its scan domes, its communications masts, and its FTL nodes. Third, we try to escape. We need an EVA party, a communications party, and a decoy/distraction party who will run around making as much noise and trouble as possible while heading for plausible targets. I've had EVA experience and so has Petty Ma
jor Sifa—who else?" Hands raised, and she nodded.
"Fine—I'll take all of you. We already have Tiraki, Dirac, and Donaldson on the communications party—any other senior com techs?" No one answered. "I want two or three good scrappers with them—who—good, you and you." She glanced around. "The rest of you, divide into two groups, one with Petty Light Kouras, and the other with Petty Light Hartung. They'll brief you on the run—we don't want to sit here jawing until they figure out something's wrong."
"What about the civs?" one of the men asked, staring at Cecelia and Miranda.
"We wouldn't be loose if it weren't for them," Jones said. "They've already chosen which party they'll be in." She grinned at Cecelia. "Cecelia here wants to see the stars from outside, and Miranda's going to keep an eye on Anseli with one of the distraction groups." She paused a moment, but no one asked another question. "All right, people. Let's move."
* * *
The brig area was at one end of the barracks area, with only one exit to the rest of Troop Deck. On their way out, the escapees emptied the shelves of the lockers available: three bottles of spray cleaner, two mops, two brooms, and a squeegee. One stuck the canister of toilet bowl cleaner in his pocket. They had the guards' weapons, the canister of riot spray from the kiosk, and the guards' gas masks and filters—a total of four. They had the little repair kit from under the desk and the damage control locker contents. Hammers, prybars with one end pointed and one flat, tubes of adhesive and dispensers that looked, to Cecelia, very much like something builders used to caulk windows. Chief Jones had explained how they'd use them—and they'd ransack every damage control locker they passed. Rope, wedges . . . soon they looked, Cecelia thought, like a combination of mountain climbers and repairmen.
At this time of day, the four nearest squad bays were always empty. Cecelia and Miranda went out to scout, carrying mops, buckets, and cleaning supplies as usual, with two of the men pretending to guard them. They made it to the first lavatory, where they could see down another empty corridor and wave the rest forward.
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