The Burning Dark (8 page)

The Flyeye glanced down, and Ida heard some tapping as she pulled the data sheets up.

“The
Stars
and the
Stripes
are both out of service. No further engineering notes. No entry on the …
Carcosa
?” The Flyeye repeated the name, then spelled it out. Ida confirmed it was correct.

Ida felt that deep, sinking feeling in his stomach, a mix of nausea and adrenaline that left him hollow and dizzy.

Maybe he was dreaming. Maybe he could just slide back into bed, and Astrid would be waiting for him. He remembered the farmhouse and the red barn. He’d been seeing those a lot, lately.

The Flyeye moved her head to look at someone off-screen; exaggerated by the operator’s headset, the motion was enough to snap Ida out of his reverie.

The Flyeye turned back to her camera. “Do you have another request, sir?”

Ida considered. He had a hundred requests, a thousand individual entries he wanted the operator to look up. The flight histories of every ship in the First Arrowhead for the last two years. Service records and notes on every crewman on board the
Boston Brand
. The same again for everyone in the whole Arrowhead, including the list of the dead from the U-Star
Carcosa
. Reports on Tau Retore for the same period. News items. Observations on Spider movement and activity in the Tau Retore system and the next dozen closest.

He wanted a detailed listing of his own service history, including retirement remarks, commendations, and awards, along with medical records.

“Sir?”

Ida sighed and reached forward, hand hovering over the “terminate call” button.

“No further requests,” he said, tapping the screen. It went dark. “Thank you,” he said, all too late.

4

The “food” was spicier
than usual, but Serra didn’t mind. Next to her at the table, Carter spooned in mouthful after mouthful of the stuff. He normally hated anything remotely approaching hot, but even just a few hours outside the station on another EVA to try to fix the environment controls seemed to have spurred his hunger.

Serra didn’t mind at all. In fact, she rather enjoyed it, the pleasant glow in her mouth replacing that thing called “flavor” that she thought she could remember if she tried hard enough.

“Heard the Omoto got fucking hammered,” said DeJohn. “Heard it over the link. That rock was fucking toasted.”

“Damn!” Carter held his hand up, and DeJohn gave him a high-five.

Serra grinned. Nothing better than news of a victory, no matter how far away, no matter how small. Victories were few and far between, moments to be savored, celebrated.

DeJohn sucked a sporkful of protein slime over his teeth. The sound was revolting, but manners weren’t high on the priority list for combat troops. Combat troops taking apart a stupid space station. She shook her head and took her next mouthful.

“What?”

Serra glanced up. DeJohn was looking right at her, but it was Carter who had spoken. He had half turned toward her and seemed to be staring at her plate.

“What?” she said.

“You shook your head.”

“I guess that’s the end of the Polarii,” said Serra. She tapped her spork on her tray and winked sideways at Carter before looking at DeJohn. “Shame.”

Carter collapsed in mirth. Serra and he both knew about DeJohn’s predilection for Polarii women. DeJohn looked slightly worried as he processed the information, before Carter reached forward and slapped his shoulder across the table.

“Relax!” he said. “Man, you are
so
easy.”

DeJohn laughed, but it was unconvincing. Carter rattled his tray on the table and stood.

“Gonna get some more,” he said, glancing at Serra. “Coming?”

Serra’s tray was half full. “Nah, I’m good.”

Carter gestured to DeJohn, but DeJohn waved him off. Carter stood and joined the back of the queue of marines slowly shuffling past the serving counter.

Serra ate some more, but there was no conversation. When she looked up after a few mouthfuls, she saw DeJohn was looking at her. Fuck. She shouldn’t have mentioned the Polarii. Now DeJohn was wired, and when he was wired he was a fucking pain in the ass.

Serra shifted in her chair. She was smaller than he was, but still muscular; any difference in strength between the two marines would have been compensated by Serra’s increased agility. She shook her head again and returned to her food. DeJohn was fine, but he was also a creep sometimes, especially when he started thinking with his dick. It didn’t particularly bother Serra—life in the Fleet, am I right?—but it was fucking boring. Then again, maybe she didn’t blame him. Months and months out on this wreck and hardly a female left among the crew. She was pretty sure there was something about shore leave that Fleet Command had conveniently ignored.

They ate in silence for a while, Serra doing her best to ignore DeJohn’s gaze. By the time Carter returned, she’d nearly finished her tray. Carter dropped into his seat, spork hanging from his mouth and fresh mountain of something grayish green on the table in front of him. He pulled the spork out with a wet sucking.

DeJohn tore his eyes off Serra. “Been around the hub lately?”

“Nope,” said Carter, hunched over his new tray. “Why?”

“Heard that fuck Cleveland shifted his shit around to the end of the officer’s row on Omega Deck. Fucking prick scared as shit.” DeJohn laughed.

Serra and Carter exchanged a look. “King said to keep away, remember?” Carter said before popping another mouthful.

“Fuck King,” said DeJohn. “And we can just take a look. I wanna know what that prick is doing here, anyway.”

Serra frowned and turned back to her plate.

“Carminita?”

Serra looked up. “What?”

Carter and DeJohn slowed their chewing. Carter raised an eyebrow. “Huh?”

Serra bit the inside of her cheek. She felt cold, and … somehow she didn’t feel alone. She was in a canteen full of crew, sharing a table like she always did with Carter and DeJohn, but she had this feeling that there was someone else, somebody sitting in the empty chair to her right.

And she looked, just to be sure. The chair was empty, of course.

“I think we should stay away from Omega Deck,” said Serra, her voice almost a whisper. She blinked and turned back to her food.

Where did that come from?
She didn’t know. Then again, she didn’t know where the voice was coming from either.

DeJohn sniffed loudly. “There’s a good little marine. The marshal asks you to suck his dick, would you do that too?”

“It’s not King,” said Serra. “We should stay away because … just because,” she said, feeling stupid. She stopped eating and pushed her tray away. She saw DeJohn scratch his ear, his eyes flicking between her and Carter.

“Not this shit again,” said DeJohn. Carter frowned at him and leaned over the table toward her.

“What’s up?”

Serra held his look a moment, then shook her head and returned her attention to her tray.

“Anyway,” DeJohn said, “there’re better things to do off shift, right?” He nudged Carter, but his friend ignored him.

DeJohn chuckled, low, deep, his eyes crawling over Serra again. She sighed, then stood and began to walk away, empty tray dangling from one hand.

“Hold on, I’m coming,” said Carter. She could hear him quickening his pace as he fought to clear his second tray.

Serra nodded but didn’t turn around. By the time she’d dumped her tray on the collection trolley by the canteen’s doorway she was unsteady on her feet. But only when she reached a little farther down the corridor, where there were no people around, did she allow herself to lean on the wall. She bent over, hands on knees, fighting the dizziness.

Someone called out her name again, the name only her long-dead grandmother used, but she ignored it, took a deep breath, and then stood up straight and kept walking.

5

Ida found Izanami six
hours later, as the
Coast City
’s artificial day cycled toward midmorning.

After he’d cut the connection to Fleet Command, Ida sat in his room in the dark for what felt like a thousand years. There was a hell of a lot to take in.

Stuck in a space station full of jarheads was, in a way, like being back in the academy. All it took was someone taking a dislike to someone for rumors and stories to spread. Ida had seen it happen before. But picking out Ida as a liar who hadn’t earned his medals was a surprisingly specific storyline for DeJohn to take up. Ida wondered who had started it. Carter, no doubt. He was the leader of the engineering team DeJohn was in, and the most senior noncommissioned officer left aboard. Maybe that was part of it—Ida had seen the silver bar of the Fleet Medal on Carter’s tunic too. The Fleet Medal offered certain privileges that Carter no doubt enjoyed, only now there was someone else aboard—someone with a higher rank, even though no longer on active duty—with those same rights. Carter probably felt threatened, in some way, no longer the special one. And so a whisper about Ida’s award being fraudulent had started, with DeJohn just happening to be the loudest.

But it seemed it was more than a whisper campaign. The more Ida thought about his late-night call to Fleet HQ, the more surreal it felt, like it really had been a dream. Maybe he’d given the Flyeye the wrong date, and the Op had looked up the wrong records. Or the Flyeye was working on too much caffeine and had made the mistake herself. Perhaps a computer glitch had caused the wrong data to be displayed; someone had screwed up the entry accidentally or—worse—deliberately.

He needed to do more digging, get it sorted out.

Not that he needed to prove himself to Carter and DeJohn. But … but it
bugged
him. Being sent out to the Shadow system was the most obscure retirement duty he’d ever heard of. If he didn’t know better, he would have said that someone at Fleet Command had it in for him.

Izanami was in the surgical unit. She jumped when Ida called her name.

“This a new hobby, sneaking around the station?” She glanced down. Ida followed her gaze, realizing he was still in his socks. He sighed. Bootless, in grubby shorts and T-shirt, he must look crazy. But the feeling of self-consciousness passed as he began to describe the conversation with the Flyeye at Fleet Command. As he explained, Izanami’s expression changed from a puzzled smile to a frown, her forehead creasing deeply.

“How is that possible? A mistake with Fleet records?”

Ida scratched his unshaven cheek. “It’s possible, but even if it was a mistake, it seems to match with what DeJohn and the others think. None of them have ever heard of Tau Retore. It was six months ago, but this wreck isn’t
that
far around the edge of Fleetspace. There’s no way the news could have passed by.”

Izanami dropped into her chair silently, tapping a pen against her teeth.

“Well,” she began with some hesitation, “the lightspeed link hasn’t been that reliable.”

Ida curled his lip. “Interference from the star? Yeah, I had that myself. But bad enough to cut the station off so they missed the reports? Were you guys cut off?”

Izanami just shrugged. Ida thought maybe she hadn’t been on the station then.

“But … you believe me, right?” he asked.

Izanami’s pen stopped and she looked at him, her eyes narrowing. “Of course.”

“I think you’re the only one who does.”

Izanami sank deeper into her chair. “What are you going to do? Try Fleet records again? If you asked the marshal—”

Ida shook his head. “It runs higher than him—it has to. If the commandant was still here I could ask him—maybe that’s why he left before I arrived. No, I need to talk to Stockley, Stevens. The other commanders of the First Arrowhead. See if they’ve landed in the same mess.” Ida frowned and looked at the floor. “How, though? The lightspeed link to Fleet Command is just going to lead me around the same circle.”

Izanami smiled and stood. She reached out and laid a hand on Ida’s shoulder. Her touch was cold and so light, he could hardly feel it through his thin T-shirt. “Well, you have your own link now. There’s nothing to stop you.”

Ida looked at Izanami. “The radio set?” He felt the smile grow on his face. “That might work. If I can find out their current postings, I could try getting in touch directly, bypassing Fleet Command.”

“You’ll need to use Fleet Command to get their posting first, though?”

“Yeah,” Ida said. He frowned again. “Maybe. I’m not sure I have clearance anymore. Maybe I can pull a favor or two.…”

Izanami withdrew her hand. “You’ll get to the bottom of this. I know you will.”

Ida smiled and nodded his thanks and headed back to his cabin. The station was cold again, and he picked up his pace, rubbing his upper arms and looking forward to putting a second pair of socks on his frozen feet.

*   *   *

Ida slumped on his
bed and ordered the cabin lights to darken. He lay still and closed his eyes, collecting his thoughts. He was exhausted, physically and mentally.

His efforts had been fruitless. Talking to Fleet Command via lightspeed link had been a frustrating and time-consuming process, given the clearance required for the information and the endless delays that caused. He’d spent hours on hold, or being transferred between operators and departments, or repeating his original request over and over again to new operators and supervisors who had no clue who he was or what he wanted. His original plan to call in favors owed evaporated when it became clear nobody could locate the people he wanted to speak to.

But it was the interference from Shadow that was the most frustrating. It had grown progressively worse the longer Ida kept the lightspeed link open. Several times it had gotten so bad, the link automatically disconnected. Ida had never seen anything like it, but then he’d never been in orbit around a star like Shadow. When he patched into the
Coast City
’s solar observatory again, the graphs flew wildly over the screen as numbers that meant little to Ida hurtled past. Shadow was active; that was for sure. Flares and sunspots and a lot of stuff Ida had no clue about; the activity even seemed to be affecting his knee, the psi-fi field periodically glitching in time with the rhythms of the star as he sat motionless at the desk.