The Cold Between (25 page)

She wanted to kiss him again, to pull off his clothes and feel his skin against hers—innocently, if that was all he could manage. All that mattered was having him close. “It will be hours yet before we can comm anyone,” she said. “You could sleep.”

“Sleep.” He laughed a little. “I do not remember what sleep is like. But you must promise to wake me when it is time.”

She instructed the ship to sound an alarm when the Dead Hour hit, and she pulled sheets and a blanket out of another drawer. Trey let her make up one of the sofas, although she could not stop him from collecting the remains of their meal
and tipping it neatly into the ship's recycler. She was shaking out the blanket when he walked up to the bunk; she moved aside so he could sit. He lay down slowly, swinging his legs stiffly onto the cushion before letting out a little groan as he relaxed the muscles in his back. She saw his eyes close, and his face took on a peaceful expression.

She spread the blanket over him and began to pull it up over his shoulders. He reached out a hand and placed it on her arm. “Join me,” he said, his eyes still closed. “I assure you I am quite incapable of taking advantage of you at the moment.”

“That wouldn't stop me anyway.”

He smiled at her remark, and she sat on the edge of the narrow couch, lowering herself down next to him and pulling up the blanket. She wanted to face him, but she did not think there would be room; she turned on her side and pressed her spine against him. He turned a little and laid one arm over her waist. He felt warm, and she could hear him breathing, and feel his heartbeat against her back. He smelled of the same soap she had just used, with a touch of the disinfectant from earlier—and still, a trace of that vanilla.

“You surprised me,” he said at length, “when you challenged Stoya. I believe I might have handled the situation differently had I known you were going to threaten him.”

“I never threaten,” she replied. “And it wouldn't have mattered if you'd asked me. I didn't know I was going to do it until I did.” Which sounded, she knew, foolish and impulsive.
And now he's going to think of me as a child again.

He tugged her closer, and she nestled against him. After a moment she felt his lips against her hair. “I underestimate you,” he said.

“Everybody underestimates me,” she told him. “It's because I am a mechanic.”

She felt the rumble of his laughter against her skin. “I will try to stop,
m'laya,
but I make no promises. You may need to remind me from time to time.”

Something in that phrase warmed her heart, and suddenly Novanadyr was a million years away, and the only memories she had were of his kindness. “I will tell you as often as you need,” she promised.

He kissed her head again, but he said nothing else, and after several minutes she heard his breathing deepen. His heartbeat slowed, just a little, as he sank into sleep; she lay there, feeling his chest rise and fall against her back, alert for any change, any flaw, any suggestion of serious injury. She did not want to sleep—she wanted to watch over him every moment. Now that he was unconscious, she was free to worry as much as she liked.

But he was warm, and she was tired, and the pulse of the little ship's engine made the place seem almost familiar. Against her will her consciousness sank into itself, and she fell into darkness with him, free of dreams.

Galileo

C
aptain Foster had been right: Commander Valentis used to laugh a lot more. But he had always, as long as Jessica had known him, had a hideous temper.

She stared straight ahead, letting him yell at her, responding “Sir, yes, sir” at the appropriate intervals. She had known people who had dated him, but none had done it for long; Commander Grayson, her CO before Commander Broadmoor had taken over, had said, one night over drinks, that he seemed to seek out relationships because he thought he ought to, not because he wanted them. Jessica was always surprised he had the option: he had always made her skin crawl. Ted teased her about that, telling her that Valentis was precisely her type, but she didn't find it funny. She had no idea why Valentis put her off, but even here, in the captain's office with the door wide open, revealing her disgrace to the world, she felt deeply uneasy at his proximity.

“What did the two of you discuss?” he demanded.

“It was personal, sir,” she replied.

She supposed by some lights that was not precisely a lie. Surely a direct order to keep something from a superior officer was as personal as you could get.

“Were you discussing the chief? Is that why he went after her?”

“Sir,” she began, thinking she might explain at least a little, “I think with that police officer missing he was a little worried about her.”

He yelled directly into her face, and she could smell coffee, and something medicinal. “Worried about
her
? She murdered a police officer! She aided and abetted a known felon!”

“Sir, I don't think—”

“I don't care what you think, Lieutenant,” he snapped. “I want to know what the captain was thinking before he took off.”

That was easier. “I don't know, sir.”

“What were you talking to him about?”

She gritted her teeth, and thought bad thoughts about Greg Foster. “I told you, sir. It was personal.”

His face had turned an extraordinary color, and she wondered how good his health was. A moment later, though, she did not care. “You know, Lieutenant,” he said, “I've watched you spend five years fucking your way through this crew. You probably think you finally hit the jackpot with him. Well you better think again, Lockwood. He's gone completely off-grid this time, and if you've got any brains you'll cut your losses.”

Oh, what she would say if he didn't outrank her. “What do you mean, ‘off-grid,' sir?”

“I mean,” he said, practically spitting in her face, “he disobeyed a direct order from Admiral Herrod.”

Oh, hell.
“I didn't know that, sir,” she said, and she thought he could see the truth on her face.

“So given that,” he said, straightening up and walking back behind the captain's desk, “do you have anything to tell me?”

She rolled over in her mind the possibility of telling Commander Valentis what she knew. It might give her a shot at preserving her career, should the captain have truly run off against orders.

“I've told you, sir,” she said, resigned, “our discussion was personal.”

Commander Valentis changed colors again, and she gritted her teeth, staring straight ahead. She wished for Elena's aplomb. That woman, when she got angry, became the sharpest, flintiest, coldest creature Jessica had ever seen. She hoped she would get a chance to tell her friend that; for reasons Jessica did not quite understand, Elena always seemed to envy her.

“
Galileo,
” Valentis said, “revoke all access codes for Lieutenant Jessica Lockwood.” The ship responded with a low tone of acknowledgment, and he moved to stand in front of Jessica again. “Lieutenant, you are confined to quarters until further notice. If you choose to speak to me, I may still be able to prevent disciplinary action. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

He dismissed her, and she fled. It was only when she was in the hallway, half running toward the sanctuary of her room, that she realized she had been holding her breath.

When she got to her quarters she put a voice lock on the door and sat down in the overstuffed armchair she kept by the window. “
Galileo,
engage Lifeline.”

The ship processed for a single heartbeat, engaging the back-door access Jessica had hastily programmed in after she had spoken with Foster. Another flagrant violation of regulations, aided and abetted by Foster ordering her to make sure she was
always able to get the information she needed.
Bastard isn't going to revoke my access just for being loyal to my captain.

Who may have just screwed his own career, but she didn't have time to worry about that. “Did Captain Foster talk to Admiral Herrod before he took those platoons down to Volhynia?”

“There is no record of that conversation.”

“Did he wipe it?”

“There is no record of that conversation.”

So either Valentis was lying, or the captain had deleted the discussion in hopes of covering his tracks. Which brought up another question.

“Did Commander Valentis talk to Admiral Herrod?”

“No.”

Galileo
was always so short and sweet when she had the answers. “Did he talk to anyone back at Central Gov?”

“Yes.”

“Who'd he talk to?”

“Central Gov Command Center.”

Useless information. His call could have been routed to anyone from there. At least it explained how he might know about Herrod's orders. “
Galileo,
did the captain file a flight plan out of Novanadyr?”

“No.”

That should have meant that she was the only one who knew where he was going, but even a tone-deaf asshole like Valentis would guess. Everybody on the ship would know the captain had gone after Elena, and most of them would be relieved. It was long past time the two of them stopped sniping at each other.

Jessica closed her eyes and sat back. Her mother had been prone to temper tantrums, although never petty ones: she fought
for her family, and always loudly and publicly. Jessica thought her own tendency to work toward a peaceful solution was probably a reaction to that: she had been embarrassed more times than she could count by her mother appearing at her school, outraged, to challenge her teachers.

Greg Foster reminded her of her mother, and right now he was fixated on finding Lanie and . . . Jessica did not know. She thought the captain probably didn't, either. She had great sympathy for his emotional predicament, but she didn't think he was in the right frame of mind to offer Lanie any kind of coherent explanation. Lanie was going to stomp all over him—again—and he had no one to blame but himself.

Jessica found it strangely romantic.

She sent him a silent wish for luck, then turned her mind to the task at hand. “
Galileo,
what have you got on this Stoya character?”

“Born 3175.44.12, approximated, in Fuji Seaport, Osaka Prime. Parents unknown. Education unknown. Trained in law enforcement 3201–3202. Served as governor of Fuji Seaport until hired by the Volhynian cabinet twenty-three months ago.”

Lovely,
she thought. “Why did Volhynia hire a thug?”

“Stated reason: public perception of serious crime.”

“How close is that perception to reality?”

“The Volhynian crime rate has been decreasing for the last sixty years. Violent crime in Novanadyr was statistically negligible until the murder of Daniel Lancaster.”

“So it's possible the cabinet had something besides crime prevention in mind when hiring this guy,” she mused.

“That hypothesis is consistent with the data.”

“Can't you just tell me I'm right?”

“Insufficient data to determine validity of—”

“Never mind.” With no effort at all, she thought of three good reasons the government might want to hire a goon; she knew there were more possibilities. “What's his official status at the moment? Is he a missing person?”

“Yes.”

“What have the police done to find him?”

“They have ordered searches of all outgoing spacecraft. They have issued a public appeal for information.”

“They're assuming foul play.”

“That hypothesis is consistent with the data.”

“So how many ships have left Volhynia since Lanie stole the civilian cruiser?”

“Seven,”
Galileo
told her. “Four freighters. Two registered pleasure vehicles. The
Lusitania.
”

“All searched?”

“Yes.”

Jessica frowned. “What about before that? What about ships leaving Novanadyr between . . .” She checked the report. “1942 and 2007?”

“No official flights out of the spaceport.”

“What about unofficial?”

There was a pause as
Galileo
swept Volhynia's radar data. “Three hundred fifty-two intracity transports. One ship substratosphere to Riga.”

Jessica sat up. “Anything fly out of Riga after that?”

“Four ships. One under no flight plan.”

“What was it?”

“A single-person carrier, Fender class.”

She swung her legs to the floor and stood, pacing. “So he bolts in a little one-person Fender? Did it come back?”

“No.”

“Ergo, he met someone. Can you trace the Fender?”

This time the pause was longer. “Fender trail disappears at 192.234.3345.”

“Explain ‘disappears.'”

Another pause. “Insufficient information to explain lack of data.”

Her eyebrows went up. “You mean you don't know what you don't know?”

“Yes.”

Jessica could swear the ship sounded annoyed. “
Galileo,
can you make anything of the telemetry data on that Fender's journey?” she asked.

“Replies to that question constitute probabilities, not facts.”

“Fine, fine; I'll take probabilities.”

“The Fender's flight pattern is normal until it disappears from the field. Possible causes: field destabilization and destruction. Probability: 58.9 percent.”

“Why so low?”

“Field destruction produces a radiation signature. Radiation in this area is too high to verify any deviations.”

“What else?”

“Self-destruct. Probability: 35.7 percent. Secondary source. Probability: 78.2 percent.”

“Explain.”

“The presence of another structure with an anomalous transportation signature could have obscured the Fender's telemetry.”

“What kind of structure? Speculate.”

“Malfunctioning terraforming equipment. Previously undetected quasar. Stable cloaking field. EMP from—”

“Hang on,” she interrupted. “‘Stable cloaking field'? What about unicorns, while you're at it?”

“The distortion of the Fender's telemetry data is consistent with the field that would be generated by a stable cloak.”

“You're really going with that.”

“Data is consistent.”

Uneasiness hit her then, and she began to wish she had insisted on accompanying the captain down to Volhynia. He was out there, with whatever this oddity was. Elena was out there, too. If Stoya was alive . . .

Who would hire an Osaka thug to run a police station on a small, wealthy, safe colony? Of all the positions he could have had, with his record—why this one? Why Volhynia? Was it function?

Or was it proximity?

Twenty-five years ago, the
Phoenix
had been destroyed while investigating an unremarkable wormhole. Yesterday, Danny had been murdered after asking questions about that same phenomenon—and today, Volhynia's shady police chief bolts into the residual radiation field by the wormhole, only to vanish in the shadow of something that shouldn't exist.

Jessica was with Foster: she didn't believe in coincidence, either.