by P. R. Adams
“Commander Benson?”
The voice had a muted, distorted quality, as if spoken through meters of water. Was she drowning?
A pinprick of pain started in the crease of her left arm, then turned into a slow-spreading stream of fire. It raced through her chest, into her belly, then into her legs and right arm.
Her lips tingled. They parted, and she took a breath.
Sweet. No. Chemical. Sharp chemicals. The sweet smell was…alcohol? And there was a dull taste on her lips. Latex?
Next came her eyelids, sliding up like a rusted airlock hatch.
Blinding lights, stainless steel.
She turned. Someone—Dietrich—on a gray surgical bed to her left. Bright white sheets, pale aqua walls. It was like looking out onto a peaceful ocean. Was the heat from the sky? Maybe she and Halliwell were on a beach, slowly cooking beneath a brilliant afternoon sun, enjoying a heat of their own?
“Commander Benson?” The voice was there again, but this time it was clearer. Male. Deep. Resonant. Confident.
It came from the direction of her feet. She looked that way. A tall, white-haired man grinned at her. He seemed tall, maybe close to her height. She couldn’t recognize his uniform—not Navy, not Army or Marine. Her heart skipped a beat: Was he Azoren?
He frowned. “Are you all right, Commander?”
She licked her lips. Definitely latex. “Water?” It was a croak.
The man’s frown deepened. “I don’t know what I’m thinking.”
Whoever he was, he slipped along the right side of her bed and poured water from a pitcher into a cup, then helped her take a drink.
“Thank you.” It was cool but not freezing. She felt much better.
“You’re welcome.” He nodded back toward the entry to the room she shared with Dietrich. Someone stood in the hatchway. “I believe there’s someone who’d like to talk with you, if you’re up to it.”
“Who—?”
But it was obvious who, if Benson was willing to squint: Petty Officer Stiles. She wore the same sort of uniform as the white-haired man, although hers was tailored.
Benson turned back to him. “Who are you?”
“Colonel Avis McLeod. You might say I’m Lieutenant Stiles’s boss. For now.”
Colonel. Lieutenant. Benson tried to wrap her head around that. She waved for more water and drank it when it was offered.
Nope. It still made no sense at all.
“Colonel McLeod. Should I know you?”
“Not if I’ve done my job well. I’m a senior field director from the Group for Strategic Assessment.”
“GSA.” Her stomach flipped. Things started to fall into place. Benson wore the same uniform. She was a lieutenant. She hadn’t helped repel the Azoren—
Benson groaned and curled into a ball.
Gunfire exploded all around her. The boarding party! Their weapons, tearing the cargo crates to pieces! Halliwell! Grier! The Pandora crew!
Benson’s crew!
McLeod grabbed her shoulder. “It’s just memories, Commander.”
She shivered as pellets ripped into her side. They’d almost punched through the armor, and they’d found places that weren’t protected.
Her neck!
Fingers traced along the spot that had felt simultaneously hot as the sun and cold as a frozen ocean of ammonia. Her skin was slick in one spot, smooth in others. She felt under the sheets covering her, digging along the side of the gown until more slick spots told her the memories were real.
McLeod released her. “The resuscitation process can be problematic. Coming out of a death like you suffered, it can leave the victim reliving the memories for a while.”
Benson had heard that. Dietrich had explained the medical and chemical process. That helped a little. Memories. Just memories.
But people who died and were resuscitated often were forced into separation. That was one of the reasons the military was often refused the process. Would her career be destroyed so quickly? Destroyed by something she couldn’t even understand?
“What…?”
“What happened?” The colonel beamed. “Or do you mean what really happened?”
She simultaneously hated and appreciated that knowing hint of a chuckle in his voice. “Yes.”
“I’m afraid we owe you and your crew an apology, but…”
He considered the hatch. And Stiles. He wanted her in the room, and he wanted Benson to give her approval.
She clenched her hands into fists beneath the sheets. “Who survived?”
“Lieutenant Stiles was able to get Commander Dietrich, Chief Parkinson, Sergeant Halliwell, Petty Officer Kohn, and Corporal Grier into cold sleep in time to preserve their viability.”
“They’re alive?”
“Your crew is alive. The ones who survived the privateers. I’m…sorry about that. We had been led to believe SAID’s agent would intervene in time to save Republic personnel.”
“SAID?”
“It really would be easier if you allowed Lieutenant Stiles to join us.”
But that was the last thing Benson wanted. She wanted to find Halliwell and curl up beside him in his bed. Would he still be functional? Would he remember her? The boarding weapons had done so much damage, and he’d lost so much blood. There were limits to even the resuscitation technology.
Or so she had heard.
Getting answers was only going to happen if the GSA officer approved, and he was clearly linking that to Stiles being brought into the room.
Benson brought her hands up, examined her fingers. They were intact.
“Commander?”
She pressed her fingers against her face. “All right. Bring her in.”
Stiles’s boots seemed to whisper across the floor. She came to a stop at Benson’s left, lips quivering slightly. “Thank you, Commander.”
“Don’t you dare thank me, Pet—Lieutenant. My people died because of you!”
A tear trickled down the young woman’s cheek, and she turned her focus to the wall. “I’m sorry.” That was barely even a whisper.
McLeod cleared his throat. “Commander, perhaps if I provided an explanation?”
“That won’t bring back Commander Gaines or Private Lopez or Lieutenant Clark.”
“Or Commander Martinez. I understand that. But if I frame the matter appropriately, perhaps you’ll appreciate the value of those tragic losses.”
“I don’t give a damn about Lenny’s death. He was the cause of—”
“Commander Martinez was following orders, same as you would in his shoes.”
She glared at the colonel. Would she follow orders to do what Martinez had done? Would she put her crew in harm’s way? Why? “The safety of the crew is paramount.”
“Commander, in the military, the safety of our nation is paramount. Everything else is secondary. And if you don’t understand that, perhaps you aren’t ready to wear the rank you’ve been given.”
Benson clamped down hard to keep herself from saying something that could ruin her career. Finally, she sucked in a breath, held it, then blew it out. “Go on.”
“For the past several years, the Azoren have been building up their military. New ship designs, increased production, entirely new military and intelligence branches. There are well over thirty civilian Azoren ships flying in Moskav space at any one time, raiding worlds and commerce vessels. But lately, they’ve been focusing less on the Moskav front and more on the Gulmar. And on us.”
“How do we know this, Colonel?”
“Through a lot of sacrifice. Like the sacrifice of your crew.”
“My crew wasn’t given the option of sacrifice.”
“That’s how war works, isn’t it? I truly am sorry about the deaths that couldn’t be undone. Those people have already been identified, and they’ll receive recognition for their bravery.”
A tear leaked from the corner of Benson’s eye. Did being the victim of murder constitute bravery, or was it just sloppiness? “So, the Pandora w
as part of your grand effort to provoke the Azoren?”
“Provoke? Commander Benson, the last thing we want is war, especially with the Azoren. But that can’t be said about them. They’ve had their eye on the core worlds they feel rightly belonged to them since the day they signed the armistice.”
“More of your sacrificial knowledge?”
“It is, whether you accept it or not.”
“I happen to have known some intelligence types, Colonel. Several of the people I went to the Academy with went into intelligence service. Most had a certain…viewpoint.”
“A bias toward seeing enemies everywhere, even if it meant twisting the data?” McLeod chuckled. “It’s part of the job.”
“It’s not a good idea to trust someone who trusts no one else.”
Stiles bowed her head. “That’s why we have different intelligence operations groups, ma’am. Because we can’t trust everyone.”
The SAID agent. Benson took in the two GSA operatives. “Who ran this?”
McLeod twisted just enough to take in the open hatch. “Some years back, the SAID…inserted some special operatives into enemy hierarchies. Those agents have continued to feed critical intelligence back to us through various means. They’ve also made it possible for us to insert other operatives into the sprawling bureaucracies, militaries, and even just common citizenry.”
“So this was an SAID spook mission?”
“In cooperation with the GSA and Central Command.”
“Using military assets without telling them?”
“The alternative would have been to order them in. Such assets couldn’t be allowed to be captured by the Azoren, Commander. The methods they use to extract information…” His eyes went to Stiles. “Everyone breaks eventually.”
The young woman raised her chin high, as if to challenge him. “Commander Martinez was briefed at Persephone Station that the Pandora would have special equipment installed. He was also told he would be taking on a GSA operative and gear.”
Benson couldn’t believe Martinez hadn’t shared this information. “You.”
Stiles nodded. “He thought it was Lopez.”
“And the equipment? That was for ships to test security in the DMZ?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And the Rakshasa?”
Stiles glanced at the colonel, who nodded. “That was the real mission.”
“The real—?”
“The SAID operative. He’d been deeply embedded in Azoren operations for a few years, then he’d come back for specialized training before heading into Gulmar space.”
What was it Rai had said? Penn had come to Chung with the idea to kidnap the Haidakura executive? “Penn was an SAID agent?”
“An extremely valuable one, with knowledge about Azoren and Gulmar intelligence and military operations.”
“Then why didn’t he help us against Chung’s people?”
“Because he had another mission objective we weren’t made privy to.”
McLeod’s lips twisted into a frown. “We suspected the SAID might try something like that. They have a well-established history of treating military assets poorly. Lieutenant Stiles was the right solution, fortunately.”
Benson’s jaw dropped. “Solution? Colonel, your operative was the most—”
He held a finger up. “Lieutenant Stiles avoided confrontation to reduce the odds of a complete slaughter. That’s exactly what Agent Penn was angling for. Of you and the privateers. Because in the end, all he cared about was creating a scenario where the Azoren and Gulmar moved closer to war.”
“That Azoren destroyer?”
“The Hammer of Heaven. Destroyed. It had some political significance to the Azoren higher command and to the fleet assigned to monitor Gulmar space.”
“And we were the distraction?”
“The bait.”
Benson pressed her hands against her face. “I feel so stupid.”
Stiles patted the commander’s shoulder. “The intelligence world is like that.”
“I’d been hoping Dev would be the one to help us. He seemed so different.”
“He did.” The young lieutenant’s eyes rose to the colonel’s. “You’ll see in my report that he wasn’t really a part of Chung’s crew.”
“I think they—” Benson shrugged. “—tolerated each other. Common goals?”
McLeod’s face twisted. “Gulmar criminal organizations are hard to fathom. Most of them are fairly particular about who can join, and the loyalty expectations are just as great as any military’s.”
Benson felt strong enough to take the water cup herself. She emptied it in one gulp. “Was it worth it? Did you get your war?”
The two GSA officers couldn’t meet her gaze.
It was McLeod who finally spoke. “We didn’t want war, Commander.”
Stiles’s head came back up. “But it will come. Eventually.”
We’re not ready for war, and now my career is over. Benson craned her neck until she could see Dietrich more clearly. The doctor was still unconscious, but there was a sad, hollow look about him. “So what happens now? Discharges?”
McLeod smirked. “That policy doesn’t apply at this point, Commander.”
Benson wasn’t so sure she felt relieved, at least not like she’d expected. “So, we take the Pandora back to port for re-staffing?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Then—?”
The white-haired man pulled a device from inside his uniform jacket. “You’ll have the opportunity to discover your new assignment in approximately one hour.” He set the device next to her. It was black, slick, and about the size of the old playing cards some folks still used to pass the time.
“A command tablet?”
“You’ll need it, I’m afraid. We’re dramatically short of qualified officers.”
“Thanks for the compliment.”
After squinting for a second, McLeod groaned. “I’m sorry. That came out backhanded, didn’t it?”
“All’s forgiven.” She picked up the tablet, which scanned her face and eyes.
“The rest of your crew should start coming around soon. Have them suit up. You should bring your Marine non-comm with you.”
Halliwell! “Where—?”
“One room over. He’s in with the other Marine.”
The other Marine. Corporal Grier. “And this appointment?”
“Follow the directions from your tablet.”
The tablet opened, presenting her with options while it downloaded her data from the Pandora: update her status, check on crew, examine her schedule.
It was all a bit much. Command tablets were reserved for ship captains. Ship captains of real ships, with crews. It was overkill for something the size of the Pandora.
Had she misjudged Stiles so completely?
McLeod raised an eyebrow. “I’ll see you in an hour.”
Stiles turned, but before she could go, Benson reached out. “Lieutenant?”
The younger woman flinched, as if ready for rebuke. “Yes, Commander?”
Benson took the younger woman’s hand and squeezed. “I’m sorry.”
The lieutenant relaxed, and her delicate fingers squeezed back. “Thank you, ma’am. But you might want to wait before you say that.”
She followed her boss out of the room, and Benson threw the covers back on her bed. “Threw” might have been a bit extreme. After cold sleep and resuscitation, she was still weak. There was a fresh uniform waiting for her on a nearby chair. She hobbled toward that, then leaned against it when dizziness left her shaking. Uniform pressed to her chest, she shuffled into the bathroom. The shower couldn’t possibly produce hot enough water, but it reddened her skin and seemed to revive her.
After an eternity, she got the outfit and boots on, then headed for the adjoining room.
But her excitement at seeing Halliwell again was dampened.
What had Stiles meant by turning aside the offered apology? Was there something she hadn’t shar
ed, something that Benson should still hold against the GSA agent? Or was the situation they faced so dire that it might have been better to be dead?
When Benson saw Halliwell’s eyes, she set aside her worries.
But she knew they would come back soon enough.
4
Lights seemed to dim in the passageway as Benson compared the map on the tablet to where she actually stood. Paint peeled from the walls, one of the hatches she’d passed had been frozen half-closed, the deck was uneven, and the metallic ribbing was often visible through chipped sections of tile.
Halliwell glanced over her shoulder at the map. He’d sneaked some cologne from somewhere that came close to his normal scent, which was distracting. “I think we’re a deck below where we need to be.”
“The deck above is shut down. All the decks above are shut down.”
“This one should be shut down, too. The way that deck above is buckled…”
She turned at the sudden buzz of a live electrical current. “It should.”
He took the tablet from her, fiddled with it, then handed it back. “We’re a deck above where we need to be.”
They were, and they had five minutes to get to their meeting. Benson stomped back toward the last accessible stairwell, the pounding of her boots echoing into the corridor until Halliwell shuffled forward at a quicker clip and waved for her to follow. It would have been nice to show up late and point out that the station’s mapping software was so out of date that it showed up reversed on the tablet, but it would be even better to show up on time.
The sound of their breathing coiled around the stairwell tube—labored, shallow.
She was lightheaded, her sense of depth off, and everything felt cold.
Resuscitation was a scientific miracle, but it came at a cost, especially when the death was particularly brutal. Hers hadn’t been so bad: bleeding out, no serious internal injuries beyond cracked ribs. But Halliwell had been touch-and-go for the surgical team. He’d suffered two wounds that could have been fatal on their own. His collapse could have come from either one, but both had left him with significant tissue damage that would be weeks regenerating fully, even with the advanced medications in his system.
