The Cold Between (42 page)

Galileo

Y
ou okay with this, Lockwood?” asked Emily Broadmoor.

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Because I can ask the captain to have someone else do it.”

Jessica looked at Commander Broadmoor. The distinct lack of good humor in her expression suggested to Jessica that she'd happily take the task of talking to Will Valentis on herself. Part of Jessica would have happily turned it over to her. “I volunteered, ma'am,” she explained.

He doesn't think of me as a threat,
she had said to Captain Foster.
He thinks he can spew that twisted patriotic shit and win me over. He'll talk more to me than to you.

Commander Broadmoor studied Jessica's face, then nodded. “But I'm not giving you more than three minutes. I don't trust that bastard.”

“That should be plenty of time, ma'am.” She waited for the commander to turn away, and opened the door.

Will Valentis looked up from his seat on his couch. Most Central starships had a brig of some sort, but Captain Foster had repurposed
Galileo
's less than a year after they deployed, mostly for rec rooms and kitchens. They had not needed it until
now; most of their guest quarters were currently dedicated to confining the
Demeter
crew. Jessica appreciated Commander Broadmoor's caution with Commander Valentis, but she did not think he would become violent, at least not with her. Among other things, he had nowhere to go.

Valentis looked back down at his reading. “Did you come here to gloat, Lieutenant Lockwood?”

“No, sir,” she said.

His lip curled in a halfhearted sneer. “I guess nobody's told you you don't have to call me ‘sir' anymore.”

“Force of habit, sir.”

She waited, and he finally shoved aside his reading. “Fine, Lieutenant. What are you doing here?”

“Captain Foster asked me to tell you what's been happening, sir.”

His response to that was predictable. He frowned sourly, and glared at her. “Still running errands for him, I see,” he said. “He still doesn't understand what he's done to himself.”

Jessica was fairly certain who was misunderstanding. “He wanted me to tell you,” she said, as if he hadn't spoken, “that nobody's spoken for you. Nobody from the Admiralty, or from Shadow Ops. The party line seems to be that you and MacBride were trying to start a war over the dellinium mine.”

Valentis seemed irritated, but not yet worried. “He's missing the point,” he explained to her. “They'll court-martial him for that. It was a perfectly legal refinery.”

Question one,
Foster had said.
Did Will know about the mine?

“Maybe, sir,” Jessica continued. “Although the Admiralty has already granted clemency to Captain Zajec.”

That shook Valentis's composure. He stood, and began to pace the room. With some effort, Jessica stood still. If he tried to touch her again, she was going to punch him, and she didn't think that would help her get information from him. “That doesn't make sense,” he said. “He's the perfect—”

“Fall guy?” Jessica finished for him. He stopped, wary again, and she cursed her own impulsiveness. With some effort, she softened her expression, trying to look sympathetic. “You know they can't prove anything. I mean, when it comes to you, sir. The path to Stoya's pretty clear, and Captain MacBride is going down. But it seems to me—” She stopped. “I'm sorry, sir. It's not my place.”

But he had stopped pacing and was watching her, and instead of hostility she saw a sort of hungry hope. “No, Lieutenant,” he said. “You're free to speculate with me. Go on.”

She took a breath, and ran down what she knew. “I don't think Danny was your fault, sir,” she said. “If I have this right—he was asking you about the
Phoenix
and the wormhole, and you told Shadow Ops that he was getting too close. They were the ones who turned their assassin on him. That's why you were so upset when he died, isn't it? You didn't realize they were going to kill him.”

He was nodding, almost eagerly. “They didn't need to do it,” he told her. “Lancaster was an idiot. He thought he'd unravel the mystery of the flight recorder, and suddenly he'd be a hero. He thought he'd get her back.” His face darkened. “He was pathetic. Just like Foster was pathetic, heading after her.”

Jessica made a mental note to ask Elena what the hell had made Will hate her so much. “Is that why you sent them after him, sir?”

“He was unfit,” Valentis insisted. “He ran after her. Playing the fool for her.
Again.
”

Question two: Was it his idea to have me killed?

“He ignored his duty, made impulsive decisions that endangered everybody—”

“Like engaging a PSI ship single-handedly to start a war, sir?”

At that, his expression closed. “I was following orders, Lieutenant. It's something you should try sometime.”

He was glaring at her, and she dropped his gaze, looking down at her feet. “That's probably a good defense at a court-martial, sir.”

“You're damn right it is.”

“Too bad you're not going to get one.”

He took a step toward her, and she saw his hand reach out. She looked up, meeting his eyes. He must have seen something there, because he stopped before he touched her. “What do you mean?”

Having him standing so close was revolting, but she wanted to see every detail of his reaction. “That's what Captain Foster sent me to explain to you, sir. As part of the treaty with PSI, we had to make a few concessions. One of them is you.”

Valentis went gray.

“Let me see if I remember the exact wording of the Admiralty's order: ‘Given that Commander Valentis moved forward into battle unilaterally, concealing relevant information from his command chain, we accede to Captain Solomonoff's request to transfer the prisoner to
Penumbra
for disposition.'”

He began to sweat. “He can't. They can't. Lockwood. You know what they can do, you know her reputation—she'll put me out an air lock!”

“I'm told that's not a consideration, sir.”

Valentis tried bluster. “I will not be treated this way!”

At this point, she thought, there was no reason to playact anymore. “I think you will, sir,” she said, her eyes boring into his. “Because I think you'll find if you stay on this ship, you're not likely to get any different treatment from us.”

“My own people wouldn't do that to me.”

She drew herself up as tall as she could, and took a step closer to him, gratified when he shrunk away. “We're not your people, sir,” she hissed at him. “You would disappear without a trace, and no one would miss you.”

She stared into Valentis's dark eyes, not blinking, and eventually he looked away. She settled back on her heels and turned, heading for the door. “In truth, sir, I wish you luck on
Penumbra.
They seem a decent bunch; you might even be able to redeem yourself. But don't eat the bread. Their baker is likely to poison you.”

The door slid shut behind her, and she walked away.

Penumbra

I
could request a transfer,” Elena suggested.

“To where?”

She thought of
Constellation,
of
Abigail,
of
Demeter.
All the Fifth Sector ships had the same reputation.

“A freighter, then. I've got friends in commerce. They're always telling me they'd take me on.”

“And this would make you happy,
m'laya
? Moving cargo for the rest of your life?”

“I—” Contingencies. That was her job. “I would be flying. I would be out here. That would be enough.”
If I had you, too.

“You would be miserable, Elena, and you would grow to hate me.”

“If you don't want me, just say so.”

“Do not be a fool.” He leaned closer to her, and put his forehead against hers. “I need you like my arm, like my hand, like the heart in my chest. But I will not destroy you,
m'laya.
Not for anything.”

There had to be a way. “You were good, when you were out here,” she whispered.

“I was.”

“But you were never happy, were you?” She had seen it in him, even as he caught up with old friends, as he made peace with Valeria, who had all those years with him that Elena would not.

He did not reply for a long time. “No, I was not.”

“So there is no answer? Is that what you're saying?”

He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her into his lap. She curled up against him, tucked in his arms like a small animal. “The answer,
m'laya,
is that I love you, and I always will. And that this time we have must be made to be enough.”

There was no time, she thought, that would ever be enough.

“Tell me about
Galileo.
”

They lay as they had every night for the last two weeks, undressed under a single light blanket, Elena next to the window so she could open her eyes to the stars. She nuzzled his chest, inhaling the familiar scent of him, and listened to the quiet thrum of
Penumbra
's systems in the background.

“She makes this sound,” she told him, “coming in and out of the field. This low little
coo,
like a dove. It's a strange noise, and I've never found out what causes it; no other ship out there seems to do it, but she does it every time. And her drive—the starlight drive is always on, even when we're not in the field, and it has this rhythm. Like a rhumba, only more complicated. You could dance to it, but your feet would get tangled up. It's this sound that's in the background all the time, like my heartbeat; even when I'm not listening for it, I hear it. When I go visit my mother, or on holiday, I can't sleep properly because it's not there. Jessica thinks I'm antisocial because I spend all my time off at home, but it's not true. I just feel better when I'm there. Safer.”

She settled her head against his chest. “At night . . . I watch the stars if they're out, but of course sometimes we're at speed, and all I can see is that streaky blue through the polarizer. But I can hear her. Even through the pillow I can hear her. And when the day has been long, when I feel lost and alone, I put my head under the pillow, and all I can hear is her heartbeat, gentle and constant, and I know somehow everything will be all right.” She could not finish. “I'm sorry, Trey. I don't know why I'm crying.”

He kissed the top of her head and pulled her closer. “It is all right,
m'laya.
I do.”

Galileo

G
reg had been sitting in the pub for nearly an hour before he realized what felt different about the place.

In the week since they had been under way, the general air of festivity aboard ship had quieted to its usual easy routine. His crew was still exhausted, still talking wistfully of their return to Earth; but the tension and irritability of their time with the
Demeter
crew had passed. While they were not as fresh as they would be after they had had a chance to see their families, there was a tranquility about the ship's hallways, a sense of harmony.

There was mourning, too. Danny was still missed. Greg was glad to hear the story of his heroism repeated, and all the less charitable stories of his gullibility and lack of intelligence were quickly becoming lost to memory. Any unflattering speculation about why Elena had broken things off with him had disappeared. All of his actions could be explained as an attempt to decipher the puzzle of the
Phoenix,
and in that narrative, his only mistake had been to trust Will. With many of the crew feeling betrayed for the same reason, it did not taint his memory. Daniel Lancaster, perennially average, would be remembered as an investigator and a crusader for good. Greg had already sent a
long vid to his sister, explaining what her brother had done, and for the first time in a long time he felt he was leaving someone with a memory that might actually help.

But it was not the ship's newfound tranquility that struck him that evening. What struck him was that he was no longer spying on them. He was not sitting in a corner hiding behind a bottle, real or faked. He was sitting with them, a part of them, no longer separate.

Taifa Reid, captain of
Arizona,
his first deployment, had told him you had to stay separate, that to integrate yourself too much would make your job impossible. Greg found, so far, that he enjoyed the phenomenon too much to want to resist.

They did not require much of him. He could sit at a crowded table and just listen, laughing at other people's stories, or he could sit on his own, and say hello now and then to those who stopped by. He found he could even tell stories, sharing doubts and fears and laughter, as if he outranked no one. Tonight he sat with Elena, largely in silence, and sipped tea with her. She had introduced him to a green tea that was less smoky and bitter than the ones she favored, and he found it had the advantage of both calming his nerves and giving him clarity.

He had been careful with her since she had come home. He had not asked about Zajec, or how they had made their farewells. He could see on her face sometimes a crestfallen look, as if she had lost something somewhere; but he let her be. They were starting over, like strangers, despite knowing everything about each other. All he could do was stand still, hands open, and let her decide how close she was willing to get.

They spoke, a little, about going back to Earth, although neither of them brought up Central's investigation, the out
come of which was out of their hands. He told her about talking to his father, and to his stepmother. His father had wept, and Greg had felt both guilty and strangely grateful. Eventually his stepmother had to take over the call, and Greg had taken the opportunity to apologize to her for years of poor behavior.

“I don't expect forgiveness,” he had said, meaning it. “But I can promise I will do my best to be different from now on.”

He had made that promise to a lot of people.

Elena was going to do what she always did: head for her mother's house and let herself get inundated by relatives. She said it always cured her of any need to see them, like a vaccination. He thought he might like to meet her family someday, if only to see why she was always so grateful to come home to
Galileo.
He wondered if seeing them would ease the loss of Zajec, or make it worse.

“So what are you going to do?” she asked, and he knew what she meant.

“Get a divorce,” he told her. “Be on my own for a while, see what that's like.” He would never be comfortable with the kind of marriage Caroline wanted, and he was tired of lying.

“I'm sorry, Greg,” Elena said.

“It's overdue.”

“I know. That's why I'm sorry.”

He watched her sip her tea, her eyes wandering over the crowd. He supposed there was no harm in asking. “What about you?” he asked. “How are you doing?”

She kept her fingers around the mug, clutching it as if she were freezing. “Most days,” she began, “I feel like I've been torn in half, like I don't know why everybody isn't staring at
me, because I'm walking around bleeding all over everything, and I have to keep moving so I don't drown in it. But sometimes . . . once in a while, anyway . . . you know how they say when you fall in love you lose your heart?” She met his eyes, and he caught a glimpse of the woman he knew, strong and passionate. “I feel like I'd been missing mine, and he found it, and returned it to me. Like I'm whole for the first time in years. Maybe ever. And in those moments, I feel light and free and invincible.” She blushed and looked away, smiling into her teacup. “I know, it sounds mad.”

“No it doesn't.” She looked up when he said it, and he saw the surprise in her eyes; and for a moment he let himself look at her, taking her in, feeling grateful that whatever else had happened, whatever her reasons, she had stayed.

“Where is he?”

The pub fell silent, and the crowd's eyes went to the door. Jessica Lockwood stood there, neat and military and absolutely furious. He thought he could see her eyes flash from across the room. She had not seen him yet, but was scanning the crowd, starting at the bar. He suspected she wanted the chance to throw a drink in his face.

Elena had not moved. “I thought you were going to wait,” she said.

“Figured the sooner the better,” he told her, “while I've still got some friends back at Central.”

Jessica's eyes lit on his. “
You,
” she snarled. She stormed toward him, the crowd dodging out of her way.

“Don't go anywhere, and that's an order.”

“Are you kidding?” Elena said. “I wouldn't miss this.”

Jessica loomed over Greg, ignoring Elena entirely. He stayed seated; he might as well give her the advantage of height. “What the
hell
have you done?” she shouted.

“Could you be more specific, Commander?” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Elena hide a smile behind her teacup.

Jessica was poking a finger in his face. “That! That right there! What the
fuck
are you doing, promoting me?” She was stomping her feet in fury, and he thought she was not far from taking a swing at him.

“It's standard practice,” he told her, “when someone has consistently done exemplary work over a long period of time. Besides, I needed a second.”

“After everything I did for you, after
saving your ass
while you were gallivanting on the other side of the universe? You
know
how I feel about bureaucracy! You
know
I never wanted a promotion!” She rounded on Elena. “And don't just sit there grinning at me. I know you had a hand in this.”

“I didn't,” Elena laughed. “I told him you'd tear his head off, but he didn't care.”

“You could have stopped him!”

“Let me ask you a question, Commander Lockwood,” he said. “If Elena and I get court-martialed and tossed in a military prison—which is, you'll admit, not an impossible scenario—who would you choose to run the ship?”

She froze, still glaring, and he could see her thinking. “
Shit,
” she said, her voice dropping to a normal volume.

“That's what you get for being good at your job,” Elena told her.

Jessica scowled. “Don't I outrank you now?”

“Yes you do, ma'am.”

“Good.” She dropped into a chair on the other side of Greg. “Go get me a drink, Commander. A big one. With fruit.”

Elena stood. “Yes, ma'am.” She leaned down to leave her tea on the table. “You have created a monster,” she whispered to Greg, but she had a twinkle in her eye.

Greg watched her walk away, aware of Jessica's eyes on him. “You guys seem almost normal,” she observed, relaxed. “How's it going?”

“Was all that yelling just for her benefit?”

“No,” she said, “but it's more fun when it's both of you. You gonna tell me anything?”

He thought. “I don't know,” he admitted. “I'm kind of afraid to curse it.”

“Best to say nothing then,” she agreed. He took his eyes off Elena to look over at her, and she raised her eyebrows. “What? I am superstitious. So are you.”

“No I'm not.”

“Well you should be. It's safer.” She settled back in the chair. “I suppose I should thank you.”

“You earned it.”

She winced. “Can't I just continue believing you're doing me a huge favor because I told you what to say to Lanie?”

“I forgot all your advice.”

“So it was all just you?”

He opened his mouth to say yes, and in his mind's eye he saw an alien cityscape, bleached and sterile and beautiful. “No,” he told her. “Not just me.” He leaned back in his chair, watching Elena laugh at the bar with an ensign. Karenssen, he remem
bered: twenty-four, a math prodigy. Shaky pilot, but a damn good shot. “Do you know her?” Greg asked, gesturing at the young woman.

“Sure. Kris Karenssen. Nice kid.”

“Tell me about her,” Greg said, and settled in to listen. He had 224 people to get to know.

Volhynia

“Are you sure he's on this ship?”

“Yes.”

“But what if he changed ships? What if he changed his mind?”

“Hush, child. I spoke with him not an hour ago. He is on this ship, as you will see for yourself shortly.”

Sarah bounced on her toes, craning her neck to look over the heads of the crowd awaiting the
Yangtzee,
the transport shuttle from Shenzhu. She did not have to crane much, Ilya noticed; at twelve she was already tall, almost as tall as Ilya himself. Within a year she would be looking down on him from those dark, serious eyes. She had the strong features of Treiko's father, and would never be a delicate beauty; but there was an animation about her, a shrewd, good-humored intelligence in her eyes, that Ilya was fairly certain would garner her as many admirers as she might want. Treiko had seen it, too, he knew. Ilya had seen the dismay in his friend's eyes whenever he spoke of the girl, and how quickly she was growing.

Children grew, Ilya knew. He had watched so many of them
get older, become men and women. He still remembered Treiko as a boy: shrewd, like Sarah, but instead of good humor his face had always held wariness. Seeing him had made Ilya sad, and angry. When he had returned as a man, Ilya had been gratified to see laughter in his eyes, but it had shocked him to see that boy so old. Surely that much time had not passed. Surely Ilya himself was not really such an old man.

They heard the surge of the big shuttle's engine from within the spaceport, and Sarah's hand convulsed on his arm. “They're here,” she said. “Do you suppose he will be alone?”

Ilya had not asked. He suspected, if Treiko had brought her back with him, that he would have said so.

The crowd's focus turned to the spaceport entrance, and after a moment the passengers began streaming out, first in ones and twos, and then in a substantial crowd. Conversation swelled; families hugged loved ones; friends laughed in greeting; returning vacationers stumbled wearily to local transports with their packed belongings. Ilya loved watching people, but he detested crowds, and he wondered if they might have a sufficient view of the passengers from off to one side.

Sarah's fingers tightened. “There,” she said. Ilya glanced down at her, expecting her to be jumping and waving, but she just nodded in the direction of the spaceport entrance. Ilya looked up, and met his friend's eyes.

Treiko looked better than he had the last time Ilya had seen him. He still had some cuts on his face, and there was a mostly healed bruise on his chin; but he had shaved, and his hair was combed, and his burnished skin glowed healthily in the sun. To Ilya's surprise he was dressed all in black: his old PSI uniform. Ilya had never seen him wear it during the day.

There was no one with him.

Ilya raised his hand, and Treiko's face twitched with something resembling a smile—he clearly had not expected to be met at the spaceport. And then his eyes shifted from Ilya's and lit on Sarah. His expression froze, and for several moments he didn't move.

“I don't think he's happy to be home,” Sarah whispered.

“I think he is happy to see you,” Ilya told her truthfully.

Treiko threaded his way through the crowds. A few people started when they saw him, and backed away; a few, undoubtedly recognizing him from the frenzied news reports of the last several weeks, gaped and smiled. Most people ignored him, and Ilya wondered if he found that a relief.

He stopped in front of them, looking down at Sarah.

“Shouldn't you be in school?” he asked.

The child looked up at him, and suddenly she did not look half-grown. She looked like a little girl, frightened and hopeful. “We are on holiday this week.”

“And your mother does not have you working?”

“Well,” Sarah hedged, “I told her I was doing a school project with my friends today.”

“Hm.” Treiko was trying very hard not to smile. He looked up at Ilya. “Thank you for coming, my friend. How are you?”

Ilya shrugged. “I am old, and my joints ache,” he complained. “There is a storm coming, but not enough of one to wash away the insects.”

Treiko was studying him intently. “You were not hurt?” he asked.

Ilya shook his head. “I let them think I was senile. They asked me questions, but they did not persist. That nice Central
security officer came to see me, but they were gone by then. I liked him very much.”