The Crypt: Shakedown: (A Military Sci-Fi Novel), page 34
…like Boomer…
…or the nanny…
…Sam Yannis…
…Wanda Hinson…
…or that stranger in the car…
Anne gave her body a shake, chasing those memories away.
“Major? Did… did you hear me?”
The slobbering mess was talking. Ensign Bethany Darkwater, sitting in the tiny storage room, her back against the bulkhead, knees to her chest, her arms wrapped tight around them.
“I got distracted,” Anne said.
Who wouldn’t be distracted with this tapping in their head, with a resurgent itch bringing back memories Anne had thought long-since buried, like they’d been dropped in a deep pothole that got filled in and paved over.
“Say it again,” Anne said.
Darkwater nodded. “I will, Major. But… may I ask you to put down the knife?”
Anne looked at her right hand. Sure enough, she held a copper shiv. Black electrical tape around the bottom made for a handle.
Chief Marchenko said he didn’t remember making the shivs, but Anne had found a small note of his with five bloody thumbprints on it. Marchenko had sliced his thumb after completing each blade, marked the paper to show his progress. He didn’t remember the note, either. Anne had kept it—along with the shiv she’d found under Marchenko’s mattress—for herself, and reported to Lincoln that only three such weapons existed. The shivs used by Gillick, Winter, and Eskander had already been melted down.
One shiv, though, remained missing.
Anne meant to find it during the two-day return dive, but she must have forgotten. It was hard to remember things because of transdim, and because that bully Cooley kept giving her busy work meant for specs, not for a goddamn Major, not for a goddamn intel chief.
Cooley was asleep. He’d bunked with the XO. While he was out, while Anne could actually think, she knew she needed to question Darkwater. Darkwater, who wasn’t Darkwater.
Anne didn’t remember pulling the shiv.
There wasn’t any blood on it. Not yet.
No harm, no foul.
Anne slid the shiv in her coveralls, between a flap of canvas she’d turned into a sheath. Electrical tape on that, too. The stuff came in handy. A sheath was important, because details mattered.
“Thank you, Major Lafferty,” Darkwater said. “My answer is no, I am not a purist spy.”
If she was, Anne could kill her now. Take some time with it. Two hours until they came out of transdim. Around half the crew was sedated or restrained. People screamed all the time on this looney bin of a warship. Would anyone hear Darkwater scream?
With a single swipe of her hand, Darkwater wiped away both tears and snot.
“I’m not a Purist spy,” she said. “I swear it.”
“Because a spy would never tell a lie. Isn’t that right, Ensign? I’m sure you’re as honest as one can be.”
Darkwater looked scared. So scared. She trembled. Anne could smell her fear. There was something compelling about it, something… intoxicating.
Tap, tap, tap…
Oh, that clutching need, that all-consuming heat…
So easy to make it go away.
Anne shook her head, hard, clearing away those thoughts. She was better now.
She was better.
“I’m telling you the truth,” Darkwater said. “I’m horrible at lying. I really am, Major, I really am.”
Anne felt calmness course through her, felt it wash away the urges. She’d been upset, but she had a job to do. The security of the ship was her responsibility—not Cooley’s. If Darkwater was a Purist spy and Anne didn’t find out for sure, she would fail Captain Lincoln. She’d fail her crewmates. She’d fail her father.
Anne couldn’t allow that to happen.
Darkwater was going to spill.
Anne squatted, resting her butt on her heels. That put her almost at eye level with Darkwater. Tears glistened on the ensign’s cheeks. A bit of snot glimmered on her upper lip.
“I see,” Anne said. “You’re terrible at lying. Fair enough. Were you good at it when you worked that run between Jupiter and Saturn?”
Darkwater shook her head. “No! I was terrible at it then, too! I couldn’t even barter, because everyone knew when I was bluffing. I would … I…”
If Anne could have controlled her grin, the ensign might have gone on longer, but that didn’t matter now.
“I guess I need to work on my poker face,” Anne said. “Do you know what gave you away?”
Darkwater blinked against fresh tears. She looked more terrified than ever.
“Because… I don’t have a pilot history on my record?”
Well, how about that? The old ensign was all kinds of smart.
Anne slowly drew the copper shiv out of its makeshift sheath.
“I’ll give you one chance to tell me your real name. If I have to ask twice, you won’t be happy.”
Darkwater stared at the weapon. She opened her mouth to speak. She closed it. Anne heard the woman’s teeth chattering.
Anne grabbed her short hair and yanked, cranking Darkwater’s head to the side, exposing her neck.
“Susannah Rossi! I’m Susannah Rossi!”
An electric rush coursed through Anne, from her hair to her toes and back again.
“Are you a Purist, Rossi?”
The kill would be justified. That would show Cooley, show him good. Anne would be a hero—again. Daddy would be so proud.
“Yes, I’m a Purist, but please don’t kill me, I—”
Anne’s hair-filled fist shook Rossi’s head.
“Are you a spy, Rossi? Tell me now or I’ll cut out your tongue.”
“Yes, but not for the Purists! I’m a spy for Admiral Bock!”
Anne froze, her fingers still locked in the ensign’s hair.
Bock?
Tap, tap, tap…
The itch tickled in Anne’s soul. The want. The need.
So easy to make it vanish, but Daddy would want to know this information.
Anne let go of the ensign’s hair.
“Say that again, Rossi. Quietly. Slowly.”
Darkwater/Rossi drew in a ragged breath, her mussed up hair framing her tear-streaked cheeks.
“I got attacked,” she said. “I fought back. The man who attacked me, he’s… he’s dead. Admiral Bock told me if I didn’t pretend to be Bethany Darkwater and find out what the Keeling was all about, I’d spend the rest of my life in jail.”
This was big. Anne grabbed a plastic crate and sat.
“Admiral Adrienne Bock told you to spy on this ship?”
Darkwater/Rossi nodded.
It could be bullshit. Then again, Epperson kept a tight grip on things. It was no secret the other admirals didn’t even know what the Keeling was, other than a black hole into which Fleet poured a black budget. Epperson reported directly to President McKinney, and only to McKinney, a fact that infuriated the other admirals.
“How do you get information to Bock?”
“I don’t know yet,” Darkwater/Rossi said. “I was told to learn all I can. They’ll figure out how to contact me later.”
It made sense. Bock wanted to know what was going on. She’d seen an opportunity to put her own person aboard and jumped at it, even though the details had yet to be worked out. Maybe the contact attempt would come when the mission was—
The 1MC sounded.
“This is the XO. General quarters. We are ahead of schedule and will enter realspace in ten minutes. Vacsuits on. Release everyone who appears calm from restraints. Those that remain agitated, release them the moment we surface. Medics, immediately begin administering counter-doses for those who were sedated. That is all.”
Darkwater/Rossi sat there, shivering.
“Here’s what’s going to happen,” Anne said. “You will return to the atrium. You will tell no one about this. You’re in a lot of trouble, but remember that I’m the intel chief of this boat. If you help me with my investigation, I’ll protect you. You’ll come out of this smelling like a rose. Understand?”
Darkwater/Rossi nodded madly, like her head was on a loose spring.
Anne stood and ran her hand along the sphincter door. It opened with a huff of air, bringing with it the sounds of sailors running through the passageway outside. The ship was coming awake.
“Go,” Anne said.
Darkwater/Rossi was through the door like a recoilless round, out and gone the same instant.
Admiral versus Admiral.
Anne could pick and choose how to benefit.
Bethany/Susannah Darkwater/Rossi would be the game’s first pawn.
55
Trav shifted in place. His vacsuit pinched in the crotch. He turned his body slightly, trying to hide his action behind the command station, then grabbed a handful of the material and gave it two quick tugs.
There, that was better.
Lincoln lifted the command station’s handset and spoke on the 1MC. “This is the captain. We will exit transdim shortly. Release restrained crew and report to general quarters. Man battle stations torpedo. Upon surfacing, man battle stations guns. That is all.” She returned the handset to its cradle. “Xeno, prepare to surface.”
“Aye-aye, Captain,” Hasik said. “Preparing to bring us out of transdim.”
Hasik still refused to use the dive/surface lingo. He picked up his sound-powered phone to the atrium. Hasik looked like he hadn’t slept for the entire two-day return trip. There were smears on his glasses he hadn’t bothered to wipe away, and behind the lenses, visible bags under his eyes. What was left of his thin, gray hair stuck up in clumps. His vacsuit was unfastened, arms tied around his waist. His crutch leaned against the xeno loft railing.
Trav faced forward. Almost done with the return trip, and he’d seen no bugs. Nor had he heard the voice of Dear Old Meemaw. He didn’t know why he hadn’t experienced those things this time, but he was grateful.
“Signals,” Lincoln said, “I want confirmation on Ishlangu the moment you have it.”
Sara Ellison manned the signals station.
“Aye-aye, Captain,” she said. “Will confirm Ishlangu the moment I have it.”
Trav glanced back to the intel loft where Lafferty topped the steps and slid into her seat. While Hasik looked exhausted, Anne radiated energy. She was obviously fired up to leave transdim behind. Trav could relate. Everyone could relate.
Akil Daniels and Jester Gillick were already seated in front of her. Gillick had a metal brace that ran from his forehead down his nose and across both cheeks, smears of nanocyte salve visible beneath. The skin beneath it was yellow and purple, remnants of Nitzan Shamdi’s headbutt and the two surgeries that followed.
There was a reason smart sailors didn’t mess with Raiders.
“Darsat,” Lincoln said, “activate system and begin DTR sweep.”
“Activating darsat, aye-aye, Captain.” Carmel Waldren manned the darsat station. “Commencing DTR sweep.”
Lincoln waited for the system to do its work.
“Darsat activated,” Waldren said. “Reaslpace detection strength is weak. Detection radius is fluctuating between five-zero and one-one-five kilometers.”
Lincoln gave the command slate a small thump of frustration. She wanted a larger range for darsat-to-realspace detection, but the mercurial fates of transdim weren’t allowing it.
“Realspace contact acquired,” Waldren said. “Bearing, port zero-three-zero. Elevation… can’t lock it down. I… contact is lost, Captain.”
“Get it back,” Lincoln said. “Pilot, turn thirty degrees to port, maintain vertical plane.”
Waldren’s brief contact blip was likely the Ishi. Lincoln directed the Keeling toward it, hoping to get closer. Trav felt only the slightest pull of inertia as the ship angled to port. In the orb, the Mud rotated to starboard.
He hoped he’d get to see Vesna again. Even if she thought he was a coward, she was a link to the past and happier times. He wanted to tell her about the briefing with Epperson. Would she agree Trav’s trial had been a sham? Or would she think he was getting what he deserved? Vesna’s opinion mattered. It mattered a lot.
That trial. A sentence of two years on the Keeling. Two weeks down, a hundred and two weeks to go. How long until Trav could see Molly again? He had no idea.
“Realspace contact acquired,” Waldren said. “Bearing, port zero-two-five, our directional change has it angling toward zero-zero-zero. Range… nine-zero kilometers.”
“Same contact?” Lincoln asked.
“Unknown,” Waldren said. “Gravitational signature unavailable.”
It was almost assuredly the same contact, but Waldren’s job wasn’t to make assumptions. If she couldn’t identify a ship, or even a ship’s rough classification, she wasn’t going to say otherwise.
Lincoln rested her elbows on the command slate, shifted toward Trav. He’d learned that gesture meant I have something for your ears only. He mirrored her posture. Their shoulders touched.
“Ninety kilometers is closer than I’d like,” Lincoln said quietly. “I’d prefer to be a hundred and fifty klicks away, at least. That little bit of extra distance gives you more reaction time if something goes wrong.”
Trav nodded. The captain was still teaching, still sharing. Every bit helped.
Lincoln stood straight. “Very well, darsat. Any other contacts?”
“Negative,” Waldren said. “Contact signal is weak and fading. I may lose it again.”
The Ishlangu would be the only ship there to greet them. It had been scheduled to arrive at these coordinates the day before, allowing it time to recharge its punch-drive. The Keeling didn’t use its punch-drive in the alternate dimensional membrane, so it was fully charged. As soon as Keeling came out of transdim, the two ships would punch for Union space. Good old normal, mundane, every-day faster-than-light travel.
Lincoln put her elbows on the slate, leaned toward Trav. Again, he mirrored her.
“What would your call be, XO? Try to get more distance before we surface?”
He’d already thought that through.
“Not while DTR strength is weak,” he said. “I’d rather come out now while we know where the contact is.”
Lincoln nodded. “I agree.” She stood straight, gripped his shoulder. “See, XO? You’re starting to think like—”
Her scream tore through the CIC. She backpedaled so fast she smacked hard against the intel loft railing.
“Get it away!”
Lips curled, eyes wide, Lincoln stared at the command slate.
Trav stepped toward her, his hands out to his sides, his fingers splayed.
“Captain, it’s not real.”
“Make sure,” she said. “Get if off of there. Make sure.”
Trav waved his arm above the command slate.
“See? Nothing there. It’s not real.”
Lincoln closed her eyes tight, opened them again.
“It’s gone,” she said. “It’s gone.”
The fear in her voice. What had she seen?
Trav glanced around the CIC. Every pair of eyes stared back. Even the chiefs—Erickson, Cat Brown, Alex Plait, Dardanos Leeds—looked shaken. In an instant, the crew was questioning Lincoln’s stability, was afraid for what might come next.
“Attend to your duties,” Trav snapped.
Heads faced stations.
“Xeno,” Lincoln said, her voice sharp, “bring us out of transdim. Right now.”
She didn’t sound like her calm, cold self. She sounded like a person who’d witnessed something unspeakable and was trying hard to keep her shit together.
As far as Trav knew, Lincoln had suffered no hallucinations on this patrol—until now. Maybe she had and was good at hiding them, but if so, they’d been nothing like this one.
“Aye-aye, Captain,” Hasik said. “Bringing us out of transdim.”
The orb filled with the multicolored static that made the CIC look like a dance club full of revelers wearing matching coveralls.
“We’re back in realspace,” Hasik said.
“Rebooting darsat,” Waldren said.
Ellison sat up like a shot. “Distress signals from Ishlangu! They’re under attack!”
Lincoln rushed to her seat. “XO, sound general quarters. ECM, prep standard decoy.” She fastened her harness. “Weps, load blazer torpedo in tube one, Mark16s in tubes two, three, and four. Darsat, I’m blind, get me eyes, now!”
A crew’s worst nightmare—a friendly ship in trouble and they couldn’t see a thing.
“Loading torpedoes, aye,” Brown said. “Gunners report visual of a damaged Union warship, eleven o’clock high.”
“Signals,” Lincoln said, “I need to talk to Ishi.”
“Can’t reach them, sir,” Ellison said.
“Darsat contact,” Waldren said. “It’s Ishlangu, grav-sig verified. Bearing, port zero-one-four. Elevation, one-one-five. Range eight-five kilometers. She’s launched at least three decoys. The local STC field is soup.”
Trav’s pulse hammered in his eyes and throat. It was the battle at Asteroid X7 all over again. Soup—the local space-time reality was warped and twisted, bent and wavering enough to invalidate any digital or quantum data. The Keeling had surfaced into a zone of utter STC fuckery.
The orb’s colored static blinked out. Distance rings and rage lines appeared, along with a blue icon labeled Ishlangu.
“Visual acquired,” Ellison said. “Ishlangu showing heavy damage.”
“Send to command slate,” Lincoln said.
The course chart that had been on the slate vanished, replaced by an image of the Ishlangu, vibrating and wavering from the effects of space-time manipulation. One chem-thruster firing, the other broken, twisted, and cold. A ragged hole starboard amidships. A shredded, deep gouge on the bow armor, venting atmosphere.
“Two new darsat contacts,” Waldren said. “Identities unknown.”
She read off the angles and ranges as she placed them in the orb. Two red icons, no labels, port zero-two-zero low and port zero-three-five low, both just over three hundred kilometers away.
Ishi was engaged two-to-one. There was no way she could perform a straight run needed to enter punch-space without taking heavy enemy fire. Give any decent gunner a target like that and they could land nine out of ten salvos inside a twenty-second span. And if Ishi got hit during the run? Its approach profile might skew enough that when it hit the window, it would rip into a thousand pieces.
