"I suppose they really were wounded?"
Pitak snorted. "I'm no medic—how would I know? They were unconscious and covered with blood, wearing our uniform. What more do you want?"
It was a silly question, but Esmay didn't bother to point that out. The itchy feeling between her shoulders wouldn't go away. "Camajo wasn't wounded . . . I think I'll check with sickbay, if you don't mind."
"Snarks in a bucket, Suiza, why don't you keep your mind on your work—or am I not giving you enough? Let Medical worry about the wounded, unless you want to transfer over there—"
"No, sir." Esmay heard in her own voice the stubborn conviction that she was right.
Pitak glared at her. "You're worried about something."
"Yes, sir."
"Spit it out then."
"Sir, I . . . I have a bad feeling—" Pitak snorted and rolled her eyes like a skittish mare; Esmay persisted. "The thing is, sir, if they could get close enough to hand-plant a mine, they could have put some troops aboard."
"Without anyone noticing? That's—"
"Sir, Wraith was isolated at the time of the attack; individuals in EVA gear—or even in small pods—wouldn't have shown up on scans by Justice and Sting; Wraith's own scan was badly damaged. The tactical analysis suggested that the Bloodhorde might want to capture a DSR, not just destroy one. I know we don't usually consider the Bloodhorde as having this sort of planning ability, but consider: if they can get a commando team aboard the DSR, they could cause enough disruption to make it easier for a follow-up ship or wave of ships to board and capture it."
"I can see where that might be a plan, Suiza, but I repeat: those wounded wore our uniform. Our uniform, with the Fleet recognition code in the weave . . . you think they stole a bale of our cloth and made up uniforms, then stole Wraith's personnel list—"
"No, sir." Esmay's mind raced, trying to catch up to her intuition. "Suppose . . . suppose they boarded, forward of the breach, counting on the confusion. Communications to the forward compartments failed, with the damage . . . so whatever they did up there wouldn't be known aft. They could have overpowered any uninjured crew, killed them, put on their uniforms, spaced their own uniforms and the dead—"
"It still sounds like something out of an adventure cube, Suiza, not like real life." Pitak chewed her lip. "Then, on the other hand, the Bloodhorde go for the dramatic. You would argue then that the blood belonged to the real RSS personnel, now dead—and that inside those bloody uniforms, the enemy were unwounded?"
"Yes, sir, unless jump transit did them some harm. Those compartments weren't any too sound, you said."
"No . . ." Pitak glowered at her. "I must say, Suiza, your passion for completeness can be a real pain sometimes. We had enough to do already." She reached for the comm switch. "But I'll check."
For the time it took for Pitak to work her way through the obstacles the medical section put in the way of the merely curious, Esmay tried to settle to her own assignment. The lines and figures blurred on the page . . . she kept seeing in her mind what she had not seen with her own eyes, the dark compartments of Wraith's bow section, cluttered with debris and unconscious men and women. Men and women with Camajo's—or whatever his name really was—eyes, the alert eyes of those on a mission. She ran her stylus along a column of figures, trying to force her mind to some useful task.
A change in the tone of Pitak's voice brought her upright, fully alert.
"Oh?" Elaborately casual, that. "Interesting—I helped evacuate some of them, you know, and they were covered with blood—yes. I see. Just the effect of the sleepygas? Are they still in sickbay then?" Her voice sharpened. "When?" Her eyes met Esmay's. "I see."
Esmay waited, as Pitak closed the circuit.
"If you retain this habit of being right, Suiza, you're going to be hated." Esmay said nothing. "They weren't wounded, any of them. Twenty-five males . . . seemed a little dazed and confused when they woke up, and three hours ago they were sent off to various workstations around the ship. Camajo, as we both know, was sent here, to H&A. If they were Bloodhorde . . . that many Bloodhorde loose in our ship could do us real damage . . ."
"Yes, sir."
"And I don't even know where they are. A petty-chief named Barrahide, from Personnel, came and got them. Not somebody from Wraith, because all Wraith personnel who aren't in sickbay are busy helping our people with damage assessment." As she talked, Pitak was scrolling through the communications tree. "Ah. Here we are. Extension . . . 7762." Another call, but this time Pitak talked as she waited for someone to pick up on the other end. "That's if they're Bloodhorde. They might not be. We need someone from Wraith . . . or rather, the captain does. But I'll see what Barrahide can tell me."
"Someone might take a look at the communications lines from the forward compartments to the rear in Wraith . . . was it explosive damage or were they cut?"
"Good idea, Suiza. You call my chief and tell him to check—Oh, Chief Barrahide? Listen, about those Wraith crew you took out of sickbay . . ."
Chapter Fourteen
Barin tried not to think about Esmay Suiza; he had enough to do, if only he could concentrate on it. Besides, she was two ranks above him; he was a mere boy to her. He told himself that, but he didn't believe it. She respected him; after that first disastrous argument, she had treated him as an equal. He felt himself scowling. This wasn't about respect, exactly. It was about . . . he squirmed, trying to push the thought aside. Planet-born, and higher-ranked . . . he had no good reason to be thinking of her that way, and he was. Her soft brown hair made Serrano black look harsh . . . her height made Serrano compactness look stubby. The back of her neck . . . even her elbows . . . he didn't want to feel this, and he did.
Serranos, his mother had said, fall hard when they fall. He had taken that as he took most of the things he was told about his inheritance, with far more than one grain of salt. His mother was not a Serrano; her occasional sarcasms might be envy. His adolescent crushes had been obvious even to him as temporary flares of hormonal activity. He had expected to find someone, if he ever did, in the respectable ranks of Fleet's traditional families. A Livadhi, perhaps. A Damarin—there was one of his year, a sleek green-eyed beauty with the supple Damarin back. If they had been assigned to the same ship . . . but they hadn't been.
This was unsuitable. He knew that. Grandmother would raise those eyebrows. Mother would sigh that sigh. His distant cousin Heris would . . . he didn't want to think about her, either. By rumor she had chosen an unsuitable partner, but he didn't think that would make her sympathetic.
The part of his mind that had not wandered off down this seductive lane prodded him back to alertness. Commander Vorhes would have his head on a platter if he didn't get those scan components out of inventory and down to the repair bay in a hurry. He shook his head at his own folly, and caught an amused glance from another ensign he knew.
"Heads up, Serrano—you hear about the mysterious intruders?"
"Intruders? What intruders?"
"Some casualties off Wraith who weren't that badly hurt, so we put 'em to work, and then they disappeared. About that time someone in Hull and Architecture went spacey and started claiming they were Bloodhorde agents or something . . . anyway, nobody can track 'em down, and there's a sort of alert—"
"Nothing official yet?"
"No—" A loud blat-blat-blat interrupted them. "Unless this is it."
It was. "All personnel report to nearest lift tube bay on Decks Seven and Eight for identification confirmation . . . All personnel . . ."
Barin and the others in sight drifted toward the nearest lift tube bay. "This is silly, you know," the other ensign said. "They'll never find anyone in this maze . . . five arms, the core, eighteen decks, all the dead space here and there, let alone the inventory bays . . . it's impossible."
"If it's really a Bloodhorde assault group, they'd better find 'em," Barin said. "Anyway, we've got internal scan in every compartment." He remembered what Esmay had told him about the in
ternal scan evidence used in her trials. "They'd have to know how to disable it to escape detection. Shouldn't be that hard to track 'em, even in a ship this size."
"What could they do, anyway? If we don't find them, they'll just rattle around. It can't be but a few—" The other ensign slowed as the crowd ahead came in sight.
Barin thought of what Esmay had told him about the mutiny and what he'd heard of Heris Serrano's capture of Garrivay's cruiser. "It doesn't take many to create havoc," he said. "If they get command of the bridge . . ." All at once the ship which had seemed too large to be a ship, too safe to be interesting, felt fragile in the immensity of space. He tried to tell himself again that internal scan would find the intruders . . . but there were compartments without full pickup. And the volume of data alone would make it easy to miss significant details. That new AI system which had already glitched on keeping up with changes in the layout . . . could it really handle a job like this?
He joined the line forming in front of a Koskiusko crewman wearing Security patches. Ahead of him, others asked the questions he wanted answered, but the answers weren't coming. "Just look in here," they were all told. "Handprints there. You'll feel a prick . . . now move along . . ."
Full ID checks? Barin hadn't been through a full ID check since he entered the Academy. Did they really think someone could fake a retinal scan or handprint pattern? Could someone fake all that? He shifted from foot to foot. Behind him the line thickened. It was taking at least a minute to process each person and hand out a new ID tag. He occupied his mind with the obvious calculation . . . a max of sixty people an hour through each checkpoint, and they had only ten checkpoints? It would be hours and hours before they'd confirmed and issued new tags to the whole crew . . .
"Look in here, sir . . . and your hands . . . you'll feel a prick." He blinked from the flash as the machine checked his retinal pattern; he felt a sharp prick as it drew his blood to check against his record. The machine bleeped, and Barin took the bright pink tag they offered. Unlike his old one, it didn't have his picture, just the shiny strip that would allow scan to recognize him as legitimate. Even as he walked off, on his way to inventory for the parts Vorhes had wanted, he saw more security personnel arriving with more screening equipment.
He took the tube up to Deck 13, and gave his request to the master chief who was supervising the automated retrieval system. She did not have one of the new pink ID tags, but nodded toward his.
"I expect the captain'll shut down the automated system soon, and then I can go get my new tags. You're lucky you got here now."
Inside, the noise of the shifting racks was only half as loud as usual. Soon enough, one of the little robocarts slid up to the door with his order; the chief checked it off.
"Do you need transport, sir?"
Barin eyed the load and decided he could manage. "No, thank you."
"Fine, then."
He picked up the packaged components and decided not to take the tube back down . . . he could walk around the core, clockwise with the traffic, then take the ladder up to Deck Twelve and be in the Tech Schools inventory for the other things Vorhes wanted. And he might see something . . . his pulse quickened. If they were intruders, and if they were Bloodhorde, what would they look like? All he knew about the Bloodhorde was that they favored tall blonds.
As he passed the base of T-5, he could see into the ship security bay, which looked like a kicked anthill. Why couldn't he have been in the ship's own crew? He could imagine himself easily as that lieutenant of security, the one scowling at him now as if to wonder what an ensign from the 14th's remote sensing section was doing here. It would be a lot more interesting than his job . . . he wouldn't see any intruders, or any enemy on the outside either. He strode on, wishing hives on the person who'd assigned him to scan on a DSR, instead of something suitable to a Serrano.
The schools inventory, when he got there, was empty. He leaned on the counter, tempted to stick his wand in the console and find out where the parts were that he wanted. It wasn't safe, really . . . if everyone was lined up getting new ID tags, who was making sure the intruders didn't get into someplace like this? Although why they'd want to . . .
He heard footsteps coming, and felt his pulse quicken again. What if it was intruders? He glanced around and saw nothing useful as a weapon . . . but the plump sergeant who puffed into view wore a new pink ID tag.
"Sorry, sir," he said, his cheeks scarlet with exertion. "I had to run up all the ladders . . . they've turned off the lift tubes, just in case, which is ridiculous . . . it only makes more work for the rest of us."
Barin handed over his list. "Perhaps they're concerned that the intruders might cut the power to the lift tubes."
"You don't think they would!" The sergeant paused in the act of entering the access codes.
"I don't know what they'd do," Barin said. "But if someone wanted to cause trouble, that's one way to do it."
"Stupid," the man said, and completed the entry. "Let's see . . . aisle 8, level 2, tray 13. Just a moment, then." The schools inventory had never been automated, and Barin waited while the sergeant found his items and handed them over. Barin signed the terminal and headed back. Should he use the ladders here . . . T-1 was probably less crowded . . . or go on around and straight down in T-3?
He split the decision, dropping to Deck Six, then going around core to T-3 for the final descent to Deck Four.
Vokrais had found the place, one of the maintenance shafts for the lift tube clusters, this one at the inboard junction of T-3 and T-2 on Deck Six, on his way to the meal at which he'd picked up the disgustingly dull knife and fork now hidden under his jumpsuit. He'd found Metris again, and passed the word. Metris would pass it on, as he would. How long did they have? His blood sang with excitement, clearing away the dregs of the sleepygas. This was nothing like the usual ship boarding, when they blasted their way in, weapons in hand, to take swift control of some fat, lazy trader. This was a real challenge.
He wondered if anyone had noticed their weapons and equipment, back on Wraith. They'd found the mine—that was common gossip, which they were glad to tell a presumed Wraith crewman.
"Would have blown you to hell and back," someone had said to him. "If our people hadn't found it and foamed it down."
But had they foamed the inner compartments too? If so, his favorite knives and tools might be safely embedded in the foam, and he could retrieve them later. It had been his grandfather's battle knife too . . . he wanted it back.
They needed weapons. He knew he could take any two or three of these effete technicians barehanded, but there were thousands of them. His whole team together could kill dozens, but it would not be enough. Somewhere on this monster ship were weapons of all sorts, hand weapons and ship weapons, ammunition, powerpacks . . . everything. He just had to find it.
His supposed supervisor wasn't watching him closely; he walked off casually in the direction of the dumps . . . no, they called them "heads" for reasons he'd never figured out. He was willing to call any of these fools shithead, but it still seemed an odd name for the receptacle. He felt eyes on him, and glanced back to see his supervisor, looking annoyed. The man shrugged as Vokrais went on through the door.
Inside were three others, a man and two women. Vokrais eyed the women. The Bloodhorde hired some female mercenaries, but they fought in all-female units. That was the natural way, otherwise men would think of nothing but rut, day in and day out. He was thinking of it now, as the tall redhaired one was washing her hands. She looked into the mirror, met his gaze, and scowled at him. Scowl all you wish, Vokrais thought. You will be tossed on my spear before morning. Or another one would; it didn't really matter.
When they left, he explored the echoing space with its seamless hard floor, its shiny walls. He found two other doors; one opened into a storage closet, and one into a different corridor. He tested the top of the closet—he could get out that way, if he had to—but chose to walk out the other door as if he had come in that way.
Here he would have no pesky supervisor watching his every move. He tried to remember where his pack-second had been sent, and thought of using the data wand.
He pushed it into one of the dataports, and flicked through the controls coding queries.
"Need some help?" someone asked at his elbow. Vokrais managed not to strike, but his move was sudden enough that the man—older, gray-haired—stepped back, startled.
"Sorry," he muttered. "Timing still off . . ." and he gestured to his ID tag, which had the Wraith shipcode on it.
"Oh—I thought perhaps you were lost or something. That's a slow-stream dataport; if you want a quick answer to anything, there's a fast-stream down there."
"I would like to find the other survivors," Vokrais said. He struggled to remember the names on the uniform tags. "Camajo, Bremerton . . ."
"Ah . . . you know their numbers?"
No, he didn't know their mythical numbers that went with their mythical names. He shook his head, not trusting his voice.
"A search on Wraith should get 'em," the man said, and put his own wand into a port a few meters away. Vokrais noticed that this one had a double ring around it, blue and green. The one he had been using had a double band of yellow and green. "Here you are," the man said then. "I'll transfer it to yours . . ." He reached for Vokrais's data wand, then snugged it next to his for a moment, and handed the wand back.
"Thanks," Vokrais remembered to say; the man nodded and strode off. He looked at the display options, and walked down the corridor as if thinking, looking at the names and duty assignments coming up. Would that man remember him? Report him? Would anyone be expected to know about the color codings on the dataports? He'd felt smug that he'd recognized a dataport at all.
The Serrano Connection Page 27
