The False Admiral (8 page)

“Don't worry about it. I'm sure the computers were still up when we were hit. If there was a contamination hazard, that section would have sealed.”

“I'm releasing precautionary nanomachines anyway.”

“Why? Because it's green out there? Didn't you already do that, back at the airlock?”

“This isn't a debate.”

I let her overrule me. The voice of caution was sometimes tiresome, but usually correct.

It took longer than I liked to leave engineering and join Deilani and Salmagard.

They were only faint outlines in the green mist that had filled the curved space that housed the radiation shield. The shield itself was shattered, of course—that was much easier to do than to tear open the side of an armored freighter. And this freighter was armored. Unfortunately, that was now evident to the trainees, and they were free to wonder why a boat like this needed armor.

“How?” I said stupidly, gazing at the damage.
“How?”

“Weapons fire?” Deilani suggested.

I shook my head. “No.”

“Meteor?” Nils wondered aloud.

“Impossible,” I said.

“Why?”

“The repulsors would've stopped it.”

“This tub has repulsors?” He sounded disbelieving.

“Why not?” Deilani said, and I looked over at her blurry form. “It's got military armor.”

“What? Why?” Nils was bewildered.

“Look for yourself.”

Irked, I joined them at the tear in the bulkhead. Outside was nothing but swirling green mist. We couldn't see anything at all. No landscape whatsoever. We were about halfway up the ship, which meant it was quite a long way to the ground. I pulled Deilani back from the edge. “Show me what you found.”

She did. The stuff was black and heavy. It seemed like rock, but it was definitely new to me. It wasn't as though I'd visited every developed planet in the galaxy, and I was no geologist—but this stuff was strange.

“I don't suppose you're good with geology,” I said.

“I don't suppose you'd like to explain that armor.” I couldn't see her face, but her voice told the whole story.

“I don't suppose you'd like to lighten up.”

“A disguised freighter with armor? And you want to tell us you're not a spy?”

“Hey,” I said. “This isn't
my
ship. And I don't think this happened in zero-g.”

“It didn't.”

“Then it can't be the reason we landed. Is there a lot of this?”

“A couple of kilograms' worth. That's the biggest piece I saw; I can't see much. It's mostly like gravel.”

“Uniform?” I asked curiously.

“No, not at all. It's a mineral, or something like one. These are broken pieces—see the smoother side?” She seemed impressed. When she was busy accusing me of espionage every five minutes, it was easy to forget that she was a scientist. I'd have to trust her on this one.

“I do now.” So Deilani and I could get along; we just had to be totally preoccupied. “How'd it get in here?”

“Your guess is as good as mine. Maybe better.”

“It's not,” I assured her. Salmagard was standing by the tear in the bulkhead, gazing out. “What is it?” I asked. She couldn't possibly see much out there.

“My readings, Admiral. I think the interference is coming from outside.”

“Just don't fall.” I'd worry about readings and interference later. “You want to take a closer look at this?” I asked Deilani.

“Might as well; the nanomachines are already live.”

“Fair enough. What could have done this to the ship?”

“Are you actually asking me?”

“Why shouldn't I?
I
don't know.”

“You don't even want to know what all of this looks like to me,” Deilani said. She'd gone through suspicion and into disgust, then come out on the other side. Maybe now she'd understand that this was as bizarre to me as it was to her, and calm down a little.

“Admiral?”

“Go ahead, Private.”

“Sir, these anomalous readings could account for what I picked up earlier.”

“How sure are you?”

“In light of the plausibility of it . . .” She trailed off, sounding embarrassed.

Bad readings were strange, but they were a lot more believable than some kind of phantom stowaway. I hoped she was right.

“Are you picking up movement out there too?”

“Yes. But there's also something interfering with the sensors. I'm trying different optics to penetrate this mist. It's not normal mist, sir.”

“Clearly. If it was, it wouldn't be able to exist in no atmosphere.” I stepped up to the tear and looked up. The mist above was paler than the mist below. “Is anything working, Private?” I asked.

“No, sir. My scanner could be malfunctioning.”

I'd always envied those imperial combat scanners. It was like having an entire support team attached to your head, a support team I could've used once or twice. It wasn't doing us any good here, though.

What were the odds that Salmagard would have a defective one?

“So there was never anyone to begin with?” Nils asked.

“Who would it have been?” I shrugged. “And we've got bigger problems. This tear might go all the way down the hull. I don't think it's likely, but we could be bleeding air without realizing it. We need to start collecting O
2
tanks, and we need to find a water supply and stockpile some just in case.”

The plan hadn't changed; we'd just gotten distracted. We had to stay focused on the essentials.

“I can collect O
2
reserves,” Salmagard volunteered. I wondered
what her family back on Earth would think of their little princess doing this kind of manual labor.

“Nils, go back to Medical. Take a look around and figure out whatever we're going to need power for—then you need to find power sources.”

“Like what?”

“A latrine isn't much good without power, and we'd better keep one med table juiced, just in case. Think about hygiene, convenience. Comfort. We have to try to get ready for the long haul. Use your imagination. Ask Deilani if you have to. Just make it work, and stock it up. Private, give the lieutenant my weapon so she won't feel uncomfortable being alone with me.”

Salmagard produced my sidearm and held it out to Deilani, who hesitated for only a moment before taking it. I couldn't read the trainees with their helmets deployed.

“What about us?” Deilani asked, watching them go.

“We're going to break into Tremma's quarters. I need a terminal that hasn't been affected by whatever put the ship out of commission.”

“The captain's personal reader,” she said.

“Right. I don't want to set up in Medical until we know more about what happened here. We might just be digging our own graves. Follow me.”

“Cheery.”

“You have a better idea?”

“No, I agree. Let's do it if we can.”

We left engineering. I was tired of climbing ladders.

“How are you going to access his secure terminal?” Deilani asked.

“We'll think of something.”

“And you're trying to convince me you're not some kind of criminal.”

“I haven't been trying to convince you of anything,” I told her. “Except maybe that it's not in your best interests to fixate on me when we might be in serious trouble. You want to know my secret?”

“Please,” she said dryly.

“Fine. I don't like to tell people this because sometimes it makes them insecure,” I told her. “But I'm a pretty great guy. Like, to the point that it's disruptive to the people around me.”

“Oh, Empress. Just shut up.”

“No, really,” I said, shrugging. “That's why they made me an admiral. Because I'm such a catch.” I looked back at her. “You can tell, can't you?”

“And I've got first-tier genes.” She wanted to hit me.

“You might, for all I know.” She didn't. Genes could gain value through deeds and accomplishments, but that value could also be lost. In Cohengard, it had been.

“I don't. I've been tested.” There was a clatter, and Deilani let out a little cry, stumbling. I made a grab for her, but I was too slow. It wasn't a serious fall; she caught herself with her hands easily enough. I pointed my light at the deck. Her foot had gone straight through a corroded grate.

“This bloody
ship
,” she swore, whacking the grating with her fist. It rattled loudly.

“I know.” I put my hand out. She stared at it, then gave me an incredulous look.

“Are you helping me up or inviting me to dance?” she asked.

That stung a little. I adjusted my posture and folded my arms.

“Which do you prefer?” I asked. She groaned and pushed past me.

Tremma's quarters were easy to find; Evagardian ship layouts are elegant and efficient, and they don't vary much. This was a Ganraen ship, but in some ways it had been rearranged for the convenience of its imperial crew.

“At least we don't have to worry about security.” I was looking on the bright side; having no power had its perks. On the other hand, having no power also meant there was nothing to physically move the door aside but us, and this one was less cooperative than the last few we'd encountered.

I put my hands on the metal and pushed with all my strength. “Shoot the seal,” I told Deilani.

“What?”

“Hurry up. Just compromise it a little bit—that's all we need. Then we can open it.”

“I don't believe this. The ship's falling apart and you want to break it even more.” She positioned my pistol, activated her helmet, and looked away. We both flinched at the shot, though we couldn't possibly feel the sparks through our suits. I felt the seal break, and heaved on the handle. The heavy Ganraen door didn't slide easily in its track, and I needed Deilani's help to move it enough for us to get inside.

“Are you even up to physical standards?” she asked, annoyed.

“Whose standards?”

“You're not even trying anymore.”

“It should be proof I'm not a bad guy,” I said. “A bad guy would be in better shape. Go easy on me; I'm detoxing.”

Tremma's cabin held no surprises for us. It wasn't as ugly as
the rest of the ship, but he spent most of his time in a sleeper. There were a few mementos, touches of home—and Tremma's home appeared to be the Tressgard system, though I couldn't determine which planet from just these trinkets.

There was a commemorative statuette from a recent event at the Baykara Games at New Brittia, suggesting that Tremma had been in Free Trade space not long ago.

So, he was into that gladiatorial stuff. How un-Evagardian of him. The Empress frowned on death for entertainment, and it was illegal in Evagardian space.

Maybe he'd been there for work. I didn't know.

There was only one place in the Empire where imperials could legally kill one another in front of an audience, and that was very different from the Baykara blood-sport-for-profit model. That was at Valadilene, in the Vanguard and Acolyte selection programs, where the very best of imperial youths in the Service actually competed for the chance to give up their lives in pursuit of high positions in Evagard's most elite units.

Between the two, the Baykaras' barbaric killing for entertainment business offended me less.

I went to Tremma's desk and got to work on his console.

“How are you going to access it? An officer's codes can't be . . . How did you do that?” Deilani asked, narrowing her eyes.

“He left it unsecured.”

She didn't back down.

“Is this why we split up? So they wouldn't see you do this?” She was looking at me like I'd done something wrong.

“See what? You're imagining things. Take a look at this.”

“What is it?” Deilani gave up and joined me.

“It's our cargo manifest—look, we're on it. See? I'm an admiral on here, too. I just have good codes, that's all.”

“Still no name. We'll see how smug you are when you're in prison,” Deilani muttered, scowling. “You won't need a name there, either. Just a number.”

I snorted.

“What are you doing?”

“I was wondering if there was something on this ship that might help explain some of this,” I told her.

“What
are
we carrying?”

“All kinds of stuff . . . but look, with this we can confirm it. Four passengers in sleepers, two crew, inactive but on call—so they were probably in their sleepers until something woke them up.”

“What, though?”

“Can't tell from just this. Wait a minute—there's an entry in the log. They accessed one of the cargo containers. Let's see what it is.”

“‘Marragardian marble,'” Deilani read over my shoulder. “What the hell would they want with— Oh. Oh, Founder. Why didn't I see it earlier?”

Armored ship. Imperial containers. Shady business everywhere. Obviously there wasn't anything as benign as marble in those crates in the hold. Deilani just hadn't thought it through; she'd been too busy thinking about me.

“Good question.” I didn't even try not to sound smug. She swatted me. “I'm your superior, damn it.”

“You're a pirate, or a stowaway, or a thief, or a spy—you are
not
an Evagardian officer.”

“And you are not at all my type.”

“A real officer, of course, could not lay a finger on an enlisted woman,” she added.

“Rules are made to be broken,” I pointed out. “And rules about fraternization aren't really rules. They're more like guidelines.”

“Spoken like someone who knows nothing about the Service.”

“It's the drugs. I never believed it about liners like the private. I do now. Say what you want about the gentry, they have their charms.”