Читать книгу The Cold Between - Elizabeth Bonesteel - Страница 10

What is the half-life of the radiation produced by the destruction of a hybrid nuclear starlight engine?

Captain Greg Foster read the message again, then turned away to look out his office window. The planet of Volhynia filled the viewport, green plains and azure seas dotted with swirls of clouds, the stars shifting behind it as Galileo paralleled its orbit. All planets looked beautiful from up here, he reflected, no matter what lurked beneath the atmosphere. One of the loveliest planets he had ever seen was Liriel, an emerald jewel in a stable, six-planet star system. But Central’s fleet had struggled to evacuate the fifteen thousand colonists before the failure of their terraforming equipment had surrendered the surface to sulfur and methane. They had lost civilians. Few, in context, but Greg knew every name. He had been decorated for his work on Liriel, but he still counted it a personal failure.

The most important lessons, his mother had taught him, are the ones that go wrong. At least whatever was wrong with Volhynia was not in its atmosphere.

He turned back and reread the question. Mathematically it was a simple problem, one every Central Corps officer was expected to be able to solve without the aid of a computer. Depending on the size of the engine, radiation from the explosion would drop to tolerable levels anywhere from three to seven years later. That was a big reason nobody ran hybrid engines anymore; beyond the efficiency gains that had been made in pure starlight tech, the risks of failure were too high. Nobody wanted to block a travel corridor for such a long period of time, never mind irradiate a habitable planet. The hybrid design was inherently unstable, and nobody had been sorry to see it abandoned.

Curious, though, that only one Central starship had ever lost a hybrid engine. Curious that twenty-five years later, the site of the Phoenix’s destruction was still too hot for travel.

Conspiracy theories abounded. Everybody seemed to think Greg ought to care, that he ought to seek absolute proof of what had happened to his mother’s starship. When he was young, he had been caught up in unproven government conspiracies and rumors of alien invasion. He had almost let it destroy his life. Now he had been part of Central Corps for fifteen years, nine as captain of his own ship, and he had learned that the simplest answer was almost always the truth. Central did not have the resources for an expansive cover-up, even if it would have provided some benefit—and there was no discernible benefit to the loss of 456 trained soldiers.

What is the half-life of the radiation produced by the destruction of a hybrid nuclear starlight engine?

He swept his hand through the message, and it disappeared. “Galileo,” he asked, “what’s the current radiation level at the site of the Phoenix disaster?”

There was an almost imperceptible pause as his ship queried the larger net. “Current radiation levels at location 345.89.225,” Galileo told him in her warm androgynous voice, “are ambient 13, critical 22.2.”

Meaning you’d melt before you got anywhere near it. Greg put his thumbs over his eyes. “A nuclear starlight explosion nets what, sixteen, eighteen?”

“Nuclear starlight explosion yields are dependent on size, configuration, attendant materials, fuel levels, ionic—”

“Okay, okay,” Greg said, and the ship fell silent. Officially the Phoenix had not been carrying cargo. Deep space exploration had been her charter: the elusive search for alien life, which no one anymore thought would be successful. Boring stuff. Even the wormhole at the center of the Phoenix’s patrol territory was uninteresting, the meager secrets of its unapproachable entrance having long since been exhausted. His mother, before she left, had seemed unenthusiastic, despite her love of space travel.

There was no data on the Phoenix’s fuel levels, or anything else. Despite twenty-five years of long-range scans, the unique audio signature of the ship’s flight recorder—which might have provided them with everything from engine status to last-minute comms—had never been detected, despite the extensive debris. The recorder should have had sufficient shielding to survive the hybrid blast. Yet another anomaly that had never been explained.

“Assume one-half fuel level on a sixteen-ton D-10 config. What yield does that give you?”

His ship answered promptly. “Sixteen point one seven, repeating.”

Greg did some quick math. Assuming the maximum seven-year half-life, the Phoenix’s residual radiation should have hit ambient eight less than twelve years ago, ambient four six years after that. “So here’s a question,” he said. “What type of cargo might spike the previous explosion to produce radiation of fifty-six?”

“Armed hybrid torpedoes,” Galileo returned promptly. “Ellis Systems terraforming modules 16 and 45. Twelve kilos of dellinium ionic solids. Seventy tons of—”

“Stop.” The dellinium rumor was old, based on readings right after the explosion that had been corrupted by the nearby pulsar. Once the initial shock wave had passed, they found no evidence of dellinium at all, much less twelve kilos of the stuff. The Phoenix had carried no terraformers, and even if she had, Ellis had been a tiny research company at the time, not yet building heavy equipment. Weapons seemed the most likely conclusion … but then he was back to conspiracy theories. If the Phoenix had been hauling weapons, surely something, somewhere, would have come out about it; an exploratory mission never carried that much firepower.

There were no answers. There would never be answers. He should have learned to live with it by now. He had learned to live with it, even in the face of messages sent to him, year after year, by lonely and desperate people convinced the Corps knew more of the accident than they were telling. It had been years—decades—since he had given those theories any credence. And yet … there was something different about this message, sent anonymously, and the two that had arrived before it, spread over less than two weeks. He could not believe that it was coincidence that they had diverted to Volhynia, so close to the site of the disaster, at the same time as the messages started to arrive. Someone knew something—was trying to tell him something—and he could not work out what it was.

It unnerved him to realize how easy it would be for him to fall into that abyss all over again.

After his mother died, he worked toward joining the Corps because it was what she had wished for him. He had been in the field nearly two years, barely a lieutenant, before he had accepted she had been right: he belonged here. He had saved lives. He had ended wars and transported engineers to repair failing terraformers and weather converters. He had made food and medicine drops, carted researchers and humanitarian workers to worlds where people were struggling to make the unlivable into a home. He had made a difference, just as his mother had always told him he would. Despite that, though, all he ever saw at night—as he lay awake awaiting whatever meager portion of sleep would be granted to him—was her name among the dead.

The low chime of his office comm shook him out of his glum thoughts. A message ident flashed before his eyes: Adm. Josiah Herrod, Central Admiralty, Earth. Greg frowned. A real-time call from the Admiralty, and vid at that: they wouldn’t have allocated the bandwidth unless something was up. Out of habit he straightened, and felt a moment’s relief that he had been avoiding alcohol for the last two weeks. Off-duty or not, he didn’t want to talk to Herrod while he was drunk.

“Connect,” he told Galileo.

A moment later the admiral’s face appeared before him. He was seated at a desk similar to Greg’s, but instead of stars, the window behind him revealed a span of green grass and the wall of a blue-gray brick building. The light was dim, and Greg was not sure if it was early morning where Herrod was, or evening. “Admiral Herrod, sir,” he said formally, and saluted.

“At ease,” Herrod said automatically. Herrod was roughly twice Greg’s age, although his gray hair still retained much of its original dark brown. He had a broad face, a broad nose, and a perpetual frown, and Greg had the impression the man did not like him much. For Greg’s part he found Herrod too often stiff and uncompromising. Of course, this was not an unusual affliction for Corps brass who had been long out of the field, and it had been more than thirty years since Herrod had been off-planet. Still, he tolerated Greg’s idiosyncrasies, albeit with less grace than some of his peers; and if he sometimes lacked subtlety in his decision-making, he had been known, when presented with evidence, to change his mind. He was not the most nagging of Greg’s superior officers, and he had never been prone to vid comms across five sectors for no reason.

“What can I do for you, sir?” he asked.

Herrod’s hands were folded on the desk before him, and Greg saw his fingers clench. “What you can do for me, Captain,” Herrod said, “is explain to me what you’re doing loitering over Volhynia.”

Greg frowned again. Herrod would know; their presence here was official. “We took on Demeter’s cargo on Aleph Nine, sir,” he explained. “Volhynia was the last drop.”

“I’m aware of the cargo transfer,” Herrod snapped, and Greg thought perhaps this was not some kind of test after all. “What I want to know is why you’re still there.”

At that Greg became annoyed. It was easy for a man stationed on Earth to ask such a thing; he had no real idea of what life was like for a starship crew. But Herrod had spent time among the stars, albeit decades ago, and Greg was frustrated by how much the admiral seemed to have forgotten. “My people have been out for nearly half a year, Admiral, and they haven’t had a break since Aleph. You want to explain to me why you’re using a live vid signal to complain about my crew taking shore leave?”

“You want to explain to me why your crew is taking shore leave when we’re in the middle of a diplomatic incident?”

All of Greg’s irritation vanished. “I’m unaware of what you’re talking about, sir.”

“Your ship was briefed on approach, Captain Foster,” Herrod said severely. “If you’ve been ignoring Central’s reports—”

“No, sir,” Greg said. His gut felt cold and hard; he knew what had happened. He should have dealt with Will months ago. “There have been some … internal communication issues lately. If you could brief me directly, sir, that would probably be most efficient.”

Herrod looked away, and Greg could see him weighing whether or not he ought to waste time taking Greg to task. In the end he stuck with the problem at hand. “We’re on alert in the Fifth Sector,” he told Greg, “from Volhynia around the pulsar through the hot zone. The public story is that Demeter went in for repairs at Aleph because they were attacked by Syndicate raiders. In truth they were hit by PSI.”

Hit by PSI. Greg could not let that go unchallenged. “That can’t be right, sir. Someone miscommunicated something, or Captain MacBride is playing a joke that got out of hand. PSI’s not going to hit one of our ships. Above and beyond the fact that they’re on our side, we outgun them, sir, and not by a little bit. It’d be suicide for them to engage one of ours.” A cold fear struck him. “Are they claiming casualties, sir?”

“They’re not claiming anything,” Herrod told him. “They’re not talking to us.”

So it wasn’t a joke. Christ. Relations with PSI had always been light on dialogue, but it had been more than eighty years since any kind of live fire had occurred between Central and the nomadic group. Central maintained bureaucratic structures to facilitate aid and distribution to the colonies spread sparsely throughout the galaxy’s six mapped sectors; PSI preferred a more ad hoc style of providing assistance. Despite the humanitarian goals PSI shared with Central, their solutions were too different to facilitate camaraderie, but most Corps soldiers would never think of seeing a PSI ship as a threat. Something had set them off, and Herrod didn’t seem to know what it was. “What is Captain MacBride claiming?” Greg asked.

“MacBride reports that the PSI ship Penumbra approached them adjacent to the hot zone, and fired on them unprovoked.”

“For what? Their cargo?” If Central thought PSI had been after Demeter’s cargo, they would have made sure Greg was properly warned instead of simply loaning him twenty-five members of Demeter’s crew to handle the shipment.

Herrod was shaking his head. “MacBride said they took their shot and then retreated. No demands for cargo, no comms at all.”

“But that doesn’t make any sense.”

“No,” Herrod agreed, “it doesn’t. Which brings me back to my original issue. We need you to be scouting for PSI activity in the area.”

Greg was already querying Galileo’s sensors. “We’re showing all four PSI ships outside of this vicinity,” he said. “Closest is Castelanna, but even she’s six hours out, and she’s not moving. They’re all stationary. Galileo, what’s the local time?”

“Local time is Dead Hour plus thirty-eight,” the ship said smoothly.

“What the hell’s Dead Hour?” Herrod asked irritably.

“Artificial power outage,” Greg explained. “The colony’s power grid isn’t reinforced to withstand the EMP from the pulsar, so they take the waypoints down for about an hour every night while they get hit. It doesn’t always save their equipment, but it keeps the pulse from traveling along their connections.”

Herrod shook his head. “They’ve got more money there than half the First Sector,” he grumbled. “Why the hell don’t they update their grid?”

“Tourism,” Greg replied, although he shared with Herrod an impatience at the planet’s odd decision. “When we come out of the pulse, sir, I’ll get my people on recon.” He hesitated. “You want me to pull them home, sir?”

Six months away from the First Sector, away from most of their families. Six weeks since they had had any time that was their own. They had barely nine hours before they were due back. He could recall them, and they would come, and they would do their best for him; but they had so little left. Most of them didn’t even really understand how close to the edge they were running.

Herrod appeared to be weighing the option. “Your discretion, Captain,” he said at last. “As long as PSI’s ships aren’t moving, we’ll stay off high alert. But I want you away from there in the morning, do you hear me? Find out what PSI is doing in the sector. Get them to talk to you if you can—but put it together. I want to know why they fired on Demeter, and I want to know if they’re going to do it again. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I want a report in twelve hours. Directly to me, Captain.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And fix your communication problem,” Herrod finished. “I don’t want to hear again how a starship captain isn’t getting his orders.”

Damn, damn, damn. “Yes, sir,” he said. “It won’t happen again, sir.”

“You’re damn right it won’t. Herrod out.”

The vid vanished. “Galileo, let me know when Novanadyr comes out of the Dead Hour. And get me Commander Valentis.”

Galileo usually acknowledged his orders, but this time the ship simply opened the connection to Will Valentis without saying anything. He thought perhaps it knew he was angry.

Will could have taken the entire night for shore leave, but he had returned early. Greg had wondered about that. Six months ago he might have asked, might have encouraged his first officer to take more time to relax. Now he was just glad the man was back on board … and within reach, in case Greg found he had to strangle him. When the connection completed, Greg did not wait for Will to speak. “My office,” he said. “Now.” And he cut the line.

Will reported promptly. Will always reported promptly. Seven years they had served together, and Greg could not think of a single time his second-in-command had been late. He could not think of a time that Will had neglected to pass on relevant information, either, but he knew why it had happened now.

And he was entirely out of patience.

Will stood at attention, and Greg let him stand, stiff and rigid and staring straight ahead. “I just got off the line with Admiral Herrod,” he told Will. “You have something you need to tell me?”

“No, sir.”

Not an oversight, then. “The admiral seems to think I was supposed to know about a general alert in this sector,” he said, “because Demeter was hit by PSI. You know anything about that, Commander?”

Will blinked, and his eyes shifted briefly. “Sir, I—” He stopped and regrouped. “I’m sorry, Captain. I should have briefed you.”

Which was a reminder that it was Will who had been briefed on the situation, and not Greg. Will was enjoying his temporary power trip far too much. Greg let lie, for the moment, the fact that such vital information had not come directly to him. “You want to tell me why you didn’t?”

Will hesitated again. “Sir, you know there are things I can’t explain.”

And that was the crux of it. Six months earlier, when they had been on Earth, Will—perennially ambitious and stagnating as Greg’s first officer—had been tapped by Shadow Ops for a secret investigation. Greg had been notified of the fact of Will’s assignment to Central’s intelligence branch, but not the details. As a result, he had been required to give Will extensive leeway on comms and internal reporting, and in return Will provided him with a heavily redacted copy of his monthly report to S-O.

Greg had not been gracious about this. He should have been happy for his old friend, a man who had never been destined for command. In fact, intelligence seemed better suited to his talents, and might actually provide him with his long-sought avenue for advancement. But the secrecy had bothered Greg, despite having no concrete reason to mistrust Shadow Ops. Perhaps worse, Will enjoyed far too much leaving him out of the loop.

It was Bob Hastings, the ship’s senior medical officer and Greg’s oldest friend, who had made Greg stop and think. “He’s seven years older than you, Greg, and he’s spent all this time in your shadow,” Bob had pointed out. “Let him be good at this. Let him have something that isn’t a subset of you for once.”

So when they had arrived at Aleph Nine alongside the damaged Demeter and Will had asked him to have Galileo fulfill Demeter’s cargo obligations, he had agreed, despite the fact that it was prolonging their mission another three weeks. MacBride was providing twenty-five members of his crew to do the actual work of delivery, and it would take Galileo to a planet well-known for its recreational value.

The decision had made sense at the time. Now he wondered what had really been behind Will’s request.

“How about you redact what you need to redact,” he told Will, “and explain to me how you thought the sector being on alert was an important point to conceal.”

Will shifted uncomfortably. “The alert was relevant to Demeter, sir. You put me in charge of that mission.”

“I made you supervisor of her crew while they were on board.” Greg had no doubt the man understood the distinction. “Regardless, the alert is relevant to all ships in this sector. This is the safety of my crew we are talking about, and you chose to say nothing to me.”

“Sir, if I can explain—”

“No, Commander, you cannot.” He rounded his desk and stood before Will. Will was one of the only people on board as tall as Greg himself, but he kept his eyes on the opposite wall as Greg glared at him. “Out here, on my ship, I am the law. Not Shadow Ops. Not the Admiralty. Not you, Commander Valentis. This omission of yours, whatever excuse you concocted in your head, is feeling awfully close to mutiny for my taste. You think I’m going to be putting up with mutiny, Commander?”

Will swallowed. “Sir, I have no intention of being mutinous.”

“That’s encouraging to hear,” he said. “But your intentions are irrelevant. If I find out you’ve concealed anything else from me that affects the safety of this ship and this crew, I will write you up, regardless of any orders you feel you might have from S-O. Is that clear, Commander?”

Will reddened, a sure sign he was angry, but all he said was “Yes, sir.”

“You have anything else you need to be telling me, Commander Valentis?”

“No, sir. Nothing else.”

“Then you’re dismissed.”

Will snapped up straight and saluted, then turned and stalked out of the room. Not once had he met Greg’s eyes.

Only when Will was gone did Greg allow himself to react to what Admiral Herrod had told him. War with PSI. Son of a bitch. As long as he had been alive PSI had been a source of help and intelligence. Their people did not mingle with Central’s—they dealt more with colony governments and freighter captains than they did with Central Gov—but they had helped with everything from evacs to firefights, always on the side of Central and the colonies. The only groups they were actively hostile toward were the Syndicate tribes, and since the Syndicates often attacked PSI ships directly for their cargo, Greg could hardly blame them. PSI brought food to the starving, and equipment to planets losing their terraformers; they served as a refuge for homeless children, and often for adults who felt they had nowhere else to go.

But Central knew almost nothing of them. They had pieced together enough intelligence to make a guess at some of their patterns and rituals, but little more. For their part, PSI seemed singularly disinterested in engaging with Central. Why would they fire on Demeter? Had MacBride done something stupid?

Or was PSI changing their tactics?

His eyes returned to the window. Galileo flew between the pulsar and the planet, her shielding protecting her from the EMP. Her shuttles would be similarly protected, had they been allowed to take off during the blackout. Central should have insisted Volhynia upgrade their system years ago, but the government wasn’t inclined to push the colony to do anything. Central needed the bulk of the human population—most still living on Earth, or on the densely populated First Sector colonies—to believe prosperous worlds like Volhynia were the rule rather than the exception, and with widespread starvation in the Third Sector, they didn’t need Volhynia publicizing how little Central had to do with their success. Greg had spoken to the officials on the surface to arrange the cargo drop-off; they were smug bastards, and it had taken most of his energy to be polite to them. They seemed to think the dumb luck of their ancestors, who had managed to find a planet that was natively adapted to human life, somehow implied merit. Greg had little patience with such arrogance.

His father had always seen it differently. “A man who has never lost can’t understand what it is like to be without,” he said. Greg found that a weak excuse. He had always had food and clothing, diversions and transportation, friends and opportunities. He had led a charmed life. He still did. And every day, every time he inhaled, loss clawed at his throat and threatened to suffocate him. Nothing that Volhynia had was certain. Life could drop out from under you with no warning at all. Those officials were fools to believe they would never need Central’s goodwill.

With a silent apology to his people, Greg signaled the recall of the infantry down on the surface. He could not solve the Phoenix disaster—not now, maybe not ever—but he could find out what was going on with PSI. And maybe, if he could do it quickly enough, they could avert a war.