Against the Odds

Chapter Nine

Esmay stared at the same page she’d read many times before. She had nothing to do; with the ship overcrewed, no one needed her help. Hours and days ran together; she tried not to think about how long it was taking to get anywhere, how much time passed in which anything might be happening. The Fortune’s last datafeed, before going into jump, had included nothing substantive about the mutiny, only speculation as to its effect on prices.

Barin was out there somewhere. He might be in combat, and here she was, stuck on a ship that might just as well have TARGET blaring from its beacon. She held a mental argument with his grandmother, in which—since she had both parts—she could win. In real life . . . in real life, admirals had the power.

In the middle of her sleep shift, Esmay rolled over, tangling her legs in the sheet yet again. She pulled it straight with a muffled oath. This would never do. What’s done is done. What’s over’s over. She closed her eyes firmly, until speckles and smears of light rolled across the darkness, took a deep breath, and . . . she could feel Barin’s touch on her face, her neck, her body. She could smell him, taste him . . . he was calling her, longing and fear both in his voice, and then, in a great flash of light, he was gone. Esmay sat up abruptly, forgetting the geometry of her compartment, and banged her head smartly on the cabinet overhead.

Would she ever see him again? Was he thinking of her? Was he even alive? She snapped on the light, blinked back hot tears, set her jaw, and grabbed a robe. She could go shower.

She opened the door to find Betharnya standing just outside.

“I heard a thud,” the Betharnya woman said, in her odd accent. “I wondered if you were all right.”

“I’m fine,” Esmay said. “I’m going for a shower.”

“No one hit you?”

“No.”

“You have a lump on your head, at the hairline,” Betharnya said, with professional detachment.

“No one hit me,” Esmay said, suddenly angry. “You can look if you want to.” She flung the door aside, but the woman caught it in midswing and took a very thorough look inside.

“Ah.”

“Satisfied that I’m not hiding a lover?” asked Esmay.

“Yes. And that you are miserable.” Betharnya closed the compartment door quietly.

“It’s none of your business,” Esmay said, and headed for the showers, but the woman kept stride with her.

“It may be my business if you endanger us. You were having nightmares?”

“You were just standing around outside my compartment spying on me?”

“No. I was not. I was walking past, I heard mutterings and then a loud noise, like someone being hit, then a curse, then the click of a light switch, then the rustle of clothing, then you came out . . .”

“You couldn’t hear all that,” Esmay said.

“I have very good hearing. It is a curse.”

“It is a fake.”

“You are not so polite as you are at meals, Sera.”

“It is the middle of my sleep shift, I have had no sleep, I had a bad dream, and I whacked my head on the cabinet, and yes, you’re right, I’m upset. And miserable.”

“A shower is a very good idea, then,” Betharnya said. They had come to the door of the shower area. She turned away. “Don’t make it too hot,” she said over her shoulder.

“Are you just going to walk off?” Esmay asked. The woman waved a hand, in a gesture that could have meant any of several things, and kept walking.

Esmay walked into the shower room and saw herself in the mirrors above the sinks. The rapidly purpling lump was all too obvious. And entirely too much: she burst into tears, beating her fists on the smooth, cold edge of one of the sinks. Barin, Barin, Barin! No one came in; as far as she knew no one heard. Then she went into a shower cubicle and washed off the sweat and tears of her misery. Back in her compartment, she went to sleep and slept until the alarm rang.

“Who slugged you?” asked Basil at breakfast. She already knew what she looked like; she had seen it while getting dressed.

“Nobody—I woke up too fast in the middle of the night and whacked myself on the cabinet.”

“Did you put ice on it?”

“No—I didn’t even think of that.”

“You should always put ice on it,” Basil said quite seriously. “When my daughter falls down and gets a bump, my wife puts ice on it.”

Betharnya strolled in. “Ah, you have a wife?”

“You know I do.” But the back of his neck slowly turned a rich crimson; Esmay watched, fascinated.

“And you, Sera—your head is better?”

“Much better,” Esmay said. “If anyone needs any help, I’m quite able to stand a watch today.” She offered every day.

“No, no,” Goonar said, coming in with a plateful of something that smelled delicious. “You’re not standing any watches—you’re our guest.”

“Well, I should make myself useful,” Esmay said.

“Mmm. What you would be most useful for is probably not something you want to do,” Goonar said. “We could use some information on this mutiny business, for instance.”

“I don’t have any,” Esmay said. A chill ran down her back.

“Ah. Well, I didn’t expect you would, or that you’d tell us if you did. Loyalty’s a good thing to have, even to something you’re estranged from. Families change their minds.”

“I don’t think Fleet will,” Esmay said.

“You never know. And your sort of talent isn’t limited to combat operations anyway. Tactical sense is useful in many places.”

“But—” But I loved it was the wrong thing to say, Esmay knew.

“However,” Goonar went on, “If there are unclassified things you could tell us—what we might expect, as traders, from Fleet in this mutiny situation—or what the mutineers might do—”

“I haven’t been briefed,” Esmay said. “I was on my way to a new duty station. I know what’s on the news, that’s about all. But if I had to guess, I’d say this is a serious attempt to seize power—a military coup. There are people in Fleet who think the civilian government is weak, and doesn’t support the military enough.”

“That sounds like our cousin Kaim,” Basil said, leaning forward and giving her a look clearly meant to convey unusual trust. “Kaim’s in Fleet himself, a senior NCO, but he’s always been a bit odd, and on his last visit home he was extremely odd. We don’t know if he’s finally lost it—his father did—or what to think.”

“Do you think he’s part of the mutiny?”

“I don’t know—I hope not—”

“He’s always going on about plots and things,” Basil said. “Mostly we don’t pay attention to him, not that we see him that often, unless we can see how it affects trade. Last time he was talking about rejuvenation problems and how he thought Fleet was using NCOs as lab animals, he said. That’s why they shut down inquiry into the rejuv failures.”

Esmay shook her head. “Everybody’s had some bad drug batches come out of the Patchcock plants, and from what I heard, it was Hobart Conselline who shut off research on it.” It occurred to her then that if the mutiny had anything to do with rejuvenation, that probably meant it wasn’t supported by the Consellines.

“Ah. That makes sense. This whole rejuvenation thing—it’s going to make trouble, one way or another. Take me—the way our company’s set up, the old yield place to the young as the young mature. What’s to happen if the old don’t—if they stay young? It wouldn’t matter if it were only a few rich people, but what if my uncle and father were still ship captains? Where would I be?”

“I don’t know,” Esmay said.

“But do you think the mutineers will attack civilian ships, traders? Other civilian targets?”

“They might,” Esmay said. “To put pressure on the government, they have to either defeat the loyal military, or show that it can’t protect you. Or both. I’m afraid you can expect trouble, and soon.”

Goonar shook his head and said nothing for a long moment. Then he said, “I should tell you, Sera, that we’re carrying a fugitive to Castle Rock. A priest from the Benignity.”

“A priest?”

“Yes. He says they think he’s a heretic with some kind of secret. Fleet knows about him; they’ll take charge of him at Castle Rock.”

“What would Fleet want with a priest?” Esmay asked.

“I don’t know,” Goonar said. “I want him off our hands, anyway.” He glanced at the chronometer. “I’d better be off.”

He hadn’t expected to wake up; he’d said sorry and goodbye and all that.

The lights scared him; he heard someone saying “Turn those off!” over and over, and didn’t recognize his own voice. Then a dark shape came between him and the light, and spoke to him. For an instant he saw it flying away, silhouetted against the light, then it resolved into a person beside the bed.

“Take it easy, Serrano,” the voice said.

Serrano. He blinked, and his vision cleared. He was a Serrano, though he wasn’t sure which one. Serrano meant duty, meant expectations, meant . . . someone had died, and it was his fault.

“How many?” he said, around a tongue that felt like a dirty sock.

“Do you know your name?” the person said.

“Serrano,” he said, repeating what he’d heard.

“Full name?”

He blinked again. He was fairly sure he wasn’t one of the female Serranos, but which one of the men . . . ? “Sabado,” he said.

“Still confused,” the voice said. “Back to sleep, son.”

Son? Was that his father? He was fairly sure it wasn’t his father. Darkness closed over him while he was still puzzling about it.

The next time he woke with brutal clarity, perfectly aware of who he was—Lieutenant junior grade Barin Serrano—and what had happened: because he had screwed up, men were dead. He was no more use than he had been on Koskiusko, when he’d been a captive. His head felt as if someone were hitting it with a hammer, and he knew that was right and just.

“Do you know your name?” someone asked. He glanced over at the person in the green scrubs, recognized him as belonging in sickbay.

“Yes. Barin Serrano, Lieutenant junior grade . . .”

“Do you know where you are?”

“Sickbay,” Barin said. “Rosa Maior.”

“Right. Do you know what day it is?”

“No . . . was I knocked out?”

“You could put it like that. You could also say you were damn near killed—do you remember any of it?”

“No,” Barin said. He didn’t, really, though he had a few burning images: a dark shape flying through flame, a great black gap with stars beyond . . .” Somebody died,” he said.

“Yeah, but a damn sight fewer than there’d have been without you.”

“How many?”

“Two. The idiot who panicked, and somebody blown out the hole in the bulkhead, only he hit the edge. Three of you with injuries: burns, broken bones. You’re the worst—you were right in the middle of it, from what I gather. But you’re alive. Now answer me some more questions, son, so I can get on with my work.”

“Sure,” Barin said.

“Who’s Chair of the Grand Council?”

“Uh . . . Hobart Conselline.”

“Grand Admiral?”

“Savanche.”

“Who’s captain of this ship?”

“I . . . can’t remember.”

“That’s all right. What’s two plus two?”

“Four,” Barin said, mildly annoyed.

“Good. Now, what hurts?”

“My head,” Barin said. He tried to ask himself if anything else hurt, but his head dominated.

“Well, we can’t put you in a regen tank until the concussion resolves. The pressure’s down . . . we’ve done some surgical fixation—that’s why you’re mostly immobilized.”

He hadn’t noticed, but now he realized he wasn’t able to move.

The next day his seniors descended on him in a group. He braced himself for condemnation, but instead they told him he was a credit to the service.

He couldn’t understand it. Why were they praising him, when it was his fault to start with? If he’d paid more attention during his ensign rotation in Environmental, he’d have known they used a specialized chemscan. He wouldn’t have ignored Wahn’s complaint that his unit didn’t have all those fancy names. If he’d paid more attention in chemistry, he’d have known that methane had a molecular weight of sixteen. He’d have known that even at low pressure and low temperature, oxygen and methane formed an explosive mix across a wide range of concentrations. If he’d known Ghormley better, if he’d had more persuasive ability, more command presence, the kid wouldn’t have panicked and bolted like that. If he’d known what he should have known, if he’d made sure they had the right equipment, the explosion would never have happened.

Ghormley would still be alive. Betenkin would still be alive. O’Neil and Averre and Telleen wouldn’t have been hurt. There wouldn’t be a hole in that bulkhead, and the ship wouldn’t be missing almost half its life support.

The headache subsided, but the ache in his heart did not. When O’Neil came and thanked him a few days later, that made it worse.

“I’m sorry,” Barin said. “I should have—”

O’Neil shook his head. “You did the best you could, sir. Tell you the truth, when you said ‘methane,’ I sorta froze. Couldn’t think, just wanted to run like Ghormley did. But you had a plan—”

“Not much of one,” Barin said.

“That’s not what the Environmental Officer said. He said it was a goddam miracle anyone got out alive, and the ship didn’t blow, and he wouldn’t have liked to stand there the way you did.”

If he argued, they’d think he was fishing for more compliments. “I can’t remember much of it, that’s the truth,” he said.

“Just as well, probably,” O’Neil said. “Averre and Telleen were in the lock; Betenkin and I were next, and Betenkin had unclipped to go through when the flash came. The overpressure slammed the lock back through into the corridor—that’s how Averre and Telleen got hurt, smacked against the bulkhead there—then it sucked back out, Betenkin with it. If I hadn’t been holding onto the safety bar, I’d have gone too. I didn’t see what happened to you, exactly, but they found you kind of caught in some of the piping; your leg had jammed, and they think that’s what kept you from being swept out with the blast. Ghormley was dead, and you were alive, just barely.”

“I couldn’t stop him,” Barin said, blinking back tears he hoped O’Neil didn’t see. “I was too far—”

“Now, sir, you know if you’d moved it’d have done the same thing. You gave us all the best chance you could, just standing there. Nobody’s blaming you.”

They should, but he couldn’t say that either.

“How’s the ship?” he asked instead.

“Limpin’ along. I doubt they’ll be able to do much but scrap her. Lost a third of the FTL nodes; they’re sending a DSR here to see if they can do anything.”

Sending a DSR? They wouldn’t send a deep-space repair ship unless Rosa Major couldn’t make it back on her own. Barin pushed away the memory of the Koskinska going to the rescue, of himself as captive, that earlier humiliation.

“Got two of the mutineer ships, but three made it out of the system. The good news: Fleet’s got the Copper Mountain system back. Scuttlebutt is they’re sending wounded there for advanced care.”

Copper Mountain . . . his last memory of Copper Mountain was that ridiculous quarrel with Esmay. Suddenly he wanted Esmay, wanted her fiercely. But what would she say? Esmay, twice and three times a hero, who always did the right thing in a crisis . . . what would she think of him? Would she be ashamed? And she wasn’t even in Fleet anymore. Would he ever see her again?

Cecelia de Marktos, en route to the Guerni Republic with Miranda Meager-Thornbuckle, ignored the warnings about the mutiny with her usual blithe assumption that no one would interfere with her. She registered her flight plan with the nearest Fleet headquarters, so as not to be mistaken for a pirate or foreign spy, but refused their advice to take passage on a commercial liner.

“The mutineers aren’t going to bother with two old women on a tiny little ship like Pounce,” she told the earnest young man with the furrowed brow.

“But they might—and you’re helpless if they do—”

“I think the risk of traveling on a large commercial liner with hundreds of other potential hostages is much greater,” Cecelia said. She had not told them her passenger’s identity; Miranda would make a fine hostage, but she didn’t intend to become one.

“I can’t stop you,” the young man said, for the third or fourth time. “I can only advise you very strongly—”

“Not to do it. Yes, I understand. Still, it’s my old bones, and I never expected to live this long anyway.”

Miranda waited until they’d undocked and were well on the outbound leg before she commented. Then it was only, “And you think Brun got her reckless attitude from me?”

“She’s not my daughter,” Cecelia said. She had all the automatic devices available for such ships, but jump insertion was still tricky. Her course would, she hoped, take her safely past all the probable trouble zones in a series of linked jumps, popping them back into realspace on the Guernesi border.

“People tried to warn Brun, and she ended up a prisoner—”

“That was different,” Cecelia said. She had the uneasy feeling that it wasn’t that different, but she also knew there would be no way to conceal Miranda’s identity if they took a commercial ship. Especially in the current political crisis, such ships demanded positive identification, and someone would be sure to tip off the newsvids. As far as anyone outside the immediate family knew, Miranda was still on Sirialis.

Cecelia had been regretting her bright idea for some days now—Miranda, though perfectly sane in her behavior, was not the travel companion she would have chosen for such tight quarters. Miranda belonged in a suite, with room for a maid, not in Pounce’s narrow passage and meagre compartments. They couldn’t pass each other without bumping hips. Worse, she could not forget the sight of Miranda’s lunge at Pedar, that instant’s motion she’d seen before the man collapsed . . .

It had taken an act of will not to remove every sharp object from the little ship’s tiny galley, but no act of will could keep her from having nightmares. She had willingly locked herself up alone with a murderer. How could she be so stupid? But Miranda wouldn’t kill her . . . she had done nothing to Miranda or her children . . . of course she was the only person to whom Miranda had confessed . . .

“I don’t suppose you’ll ever tell me where Brun’s children are,” Miranda said.

“I thought you didn’t want to know,” Cecelia said, startled by the abrupt change of topic.

“I’d like to know if you’re sure they’re safe.”

“Yes. Absolutely certain. They’re with families who love them; they have family names to grow into. The last time I saw them, they were healthy and happy.”

“That’s good. I thought, after you’d gone, that perhaps we should have asked around Brun’s friends . . . someone like Raffa, for instance, might have been able to place them.”

Cecelia clamped her teeth together and hoped her face had betrayed nothing. “Raffa has her own life now,” she said. “I very much doubt—”

“You’re right,” Miranda said. “I was forgetting—I’m so used to having her around to help Brun, but she’s married Ronnie and they’re off pioneering someplace, aren’t they?”

“Berenice is still quite annoyed with Ronnie about that,” Cecelia said. “She didn’t mind his marrying Raffaele, but she did not approve of their decision to emigrate.” If she could keep the conversation on Ronnie’s mother’s feelings, that might be safe ground.

“I know he’s your nephew, Cecelia, but he did always seem a bit more flighty than our boys.”

“According to his mother, he’s not flighty now.” She managed to chuckle at the memory. “The last word she had was a message cube with video of him and Raffaele, both of them sunburnt and dirty, grinning like idiots, is how she put it.”

“Any grandchildren yet?”

Cecelia chose to interpret that the way her sister would have. “No . . . and she’s not pleased about that, either. Apparently she and Raffaele’s mother have had a set-to about it, because Raffaele’s brother and Penelope Price-Lynhurst just had a baby. Berenice is claiming it’s not fair. Luckily I wasn’t there, but apparently it rattled the teacups.”

Miranda laughed. “Berenice is so unlike you . . .”

“So I’ve heard all my life. I keep trying, but we are never going to get along.” Cecelia leaned back in her seat. Maybe it wasn’t going to be so bad. If they could talk about other peoples’ children the whole trip, it would be boring, but safe. She hoped Miranda would have the sense to keep off politics.

Day by day, through the sequence of jump points, they worked their way across Familias Space. Miranda proved capable of producing edible meals from the small galley and spent quite a bit of time in her compartment. Cecelia’s nightmares ceased; she no longer tensed up when Miranda came up behind her when she was in the pilot’s seat. She did occasionally wonder what was going on in the world outside—how far the mutiny had progressed, where Heris Serrano was—but that was someone else’s problem. She had enough to do, she told herself, keeping Pounce on course.

The downjump transition occurred six hours ahead of schedule, when Cecelia and Miranda were sitting down to mugs of soup. As the alarm squawked, the ship quivered like a horse shaking off flies and then lurched abruptly. Hot soup landed in Cecelia’s lap; she jumped up and staggered into the cabinet as the ship lurched again. The automatic voice warning came on as Cecelia groped for an ice pack for her scalded leg. “Malfunction . . . malfunction . . . malfunction . . . proximity alarm, excessive flux . . . pilot override . . . pilot override . . .”

Clutching the ice pack to her leg, Cecelia edged carefully along, one hand on a grab bar or other handhold, until she was back in the pilot’s seat. Where had she gone wrong? She’d checked and rechecked the charts; she should have been safely distant from any large mass. All the jump points she’d entered were green-coded, safe and stable . . .

Half her control panel telltales glowed red. Jump drive down, insystem drive down, shields down . . . Cecelia cut the power to emergency level; the lights dimmed. Then she made herself go through the checklist, ignoring the red lights unless they were on it. First was hull integrity: still green. Then atmosphere: still green. She knew that already; she was alive and conscious, so there had to be air. Then environmental systems: yellow. She hesitated, but the protocol said keep going. She keyed it to the short list, and went on. When she’d worked her way through to the reds—drives, shields, longscan, the minimal weapons she carried—she came back to the yellows.

“What’s the score?” Miranda asked quietly.

“We’ve got an intact hull, something to breathe, and some damage to environmental . . . yes . . . correctable. I need to reset the trays and a filter’s come loose. Otherwise, we’re not going anywhere real soon.” Except they were, at their exit velocity, which was faster than she’d have chosen. But she’d deal with that later.

“What happened?”

“Don’t know yet.” Cecelia took the yellow list and headed back to deal with what could be fixed quickly and easily. Item after item returned to green status. They weren’t leaking air; internal power was adequate for all uses at present; all environmental systems were functioning correctly. The reds . . . were beyond her capability. Beyond anyone’s, in such a small ship; even if she’d known how to fix the drives, she couldn’t have accessed them.

She came back to the pilot’s compartment and shook her head at Miranda. “Now I have to figure out where we are, and how fast we’re moving . . . we’re purely ballistic at this point.”

“And what happened?”

“And what happened, if I can. You never got any spacecraft ratings, did you?”

“No—I have atmospheric licenses for flitters and helos, but not spacecraft.”

“Um. Well, while I’m working on position and course, suppose you take a look at this.” Cecelia took a hardcopy manual out of the bin under her seat. “I don’t want to use more power than necessary.”

“I see. Then you’d like me to go shut down the galley, I suppose?”

“Yes, if the shift to emergency didn’t cut it off automatically.” She couldn’t remember, at the moment, whether it would or not. Cecelia opened the cover of the Emergency Position Locator System and read the instructions graved on the inside of the cover. Supposedly this system, with its own internal powerpack, could place them accurately anywhere in Familias Space. She hoped they were still in Familias Space.

The EPLS, designed for emergency use, had only a short list of instructions. Cecelia entered their previous course data, the last jump point they should have passed, and waited for something to come up on the screen.

waiting for calculations, in glowing red letters. She stared at it for a long moment, then became aware of the pain in her leg. The burn. She’d dropped the ice pack somewhere while attending to the loose filter fitting.

“Miranda—”

“Yes?”

“See if you can find the ice pack—I put it down while I was working back near the berths—make sure I didn’t leave it to melt somewhere troublesome.”

“Right.”

The steady red glow didn’t change. Cecelia had no idea how long the calculations would take, if the device worked at all. She pulled the damp fabric of her slacks away from the painful spot on her leg, hissing at the pain. She didn’t want to leave the bridge. Looking around, she remembered that she hadn’t tried retrieving the automatic log.

With one eye on waiting for calculations, Cecelia tried to read the automatic log. At first, it made no sense, then she remembered that she needed to convert it to a text function. The jumble of symbols sorted themselves out into a sketchy journal. There was jump point Rvd45.7, and then (elapsed time 28.52 standard hours), jump point Tvd31.8. Two standard hours later—2.13, actually—they had passed within the e-radius of a mass sufficient to cause jump downshift.

All Cecelia really knew about e-radii and masses was that the bigger the mass, the bigger the e-radius that must be avoided. Usually this was a problem only in insertion and exit, when someone wasn’t using mapped points. In a ship the size of hers, it shouldn’t be a problem unless she actually ran headlong into something. But she had used mapped points, and a standard green-scored route. Nobody else had run into trouble on this route, and once in jump the very indeterminacy of position was supposed to make it safe.

The mass that they had passed too near . . . wasn’t even moonlet-sized, let alone planet-sized. Cecelia tapped for interpretation, one of the options on the screen. The screen blanked. looking up data, it said. She glanced back at the other, which still read, waiting for calculations. The autolog screen changed first, offering a range of possibilities. All were ships.

Ships?

One (1) Very Large Container Freighter, fully loaded with high-mass cargo.

Two (2) Very Large Container Freighters, fully loaded with average cargo.

Three (3) . . . the list went on. Cecelia didn’t think two or three or four container ships would be traveling in close convoy, but farther down the list, item 8 gave her pause: “Flotilla or wave of military vessels with aggregate mass as above, traveling in close convoy . . .”

In other words, she had split or nearly split a group of military ships, whose combined mass was sufficient to pop her out of jump, and disable her FTL drive.

“Oh, great,” she muttered.

“What?” Miranda asked, from behind her.

“If the autolog is right, then the most probable cause of our sudden exist from FTL was that we ran into a cluster of military ships.”

Miranda whistled. “I wonder what we did to them.”

“Possibly nothing. Possibly we blew them away. But if we didn’t . . .”

“They might be after us. I wonder if they’re mutineers or loyalists.”

“Me, too,” Cecelia said. “Did you find that ice pack?”

“Yes—you’d dropped it in the sink. How’s your leg?”

“It hurts. But not too badly.” The EPLS bleeped, and she looked back at it. “Ah . . . here we are . . .” The figures it displayed made no immediate sense, but at least it had figures. Cecelia jotted them down, then called up a graphics display.

They were still in Familias Space, but that was about all the good news. They’d come out in a region of relatively sparse habitable worlds; the nearest mapped systems were two and three jump points away, respectively. Copper Mountain—she knew that, from the hoorah about Brun’s abduction. It was a Fleet base. It was also—the memory jolted her like ice cubes down the spine—it was also where the mutiny had started. Cecelia muttered a string of oaths, and Miranda came forward.

“Bad news?”

“Bad news. Copper Mountain’s the closest inhabited system. Want to bet the ships we almost hit were mutineers?”

Passive scan made it clear that they were a long way from anything useful . . . some 18 AU away, the nearest star glowed orange. Cecelia left the scan on, and after two minutes, it had coded six dots as possible ships based on their relative motion. Another minute, and the color shifted, confirming them as artificial and under power. They were accelerating away; the mass sensor reported an aggregate mass very close to what the autolog had postulated as the cause of dropout.

“That’s what we nearly hit, I gather,” Miranda said, leaning over Cecelia’s shoulder.

“Yeah . . . whatever and whoever it is.” The sinking feeling in her gut said they were mutineers . . . had to be.

“Are you going to try hailing them?”

“Without knowing? No. Let them think we’re a dead issue.” They might well be a dead issue anyway, if she couldn’t get one of the drives up and running.

“Fine with me,” Miranda said. “But we can listen, can’t we?”

“I don’t know if our communication’s working at all,” Cecelia said. The telltale had gone from red to yellow by itself, and she didn’t trust it. “I guess we can try, though.”

She turned the receivers on, and was rewarded by hisses and crackles. She ran through the settings. Then a distorted voice, quickly adjusted by the speech-recognition software.

“—could have been a ship?”

“Not likely. Got anything on scan?”

Cecelia tried to interpret the passive scan data and wished she’d paid more attention when Koutsoudas and Oblo were talking to Brun about scan technique. How far away were those ships, and whose were they?

“There it is.” Cecelia flinched as that distant voice changed tone. “It’s little; that’s why it didn’t blow itself and us to bits. Drives are dead . . . it’s ballistic . . . but there’s a chance the crew are alive.”

“Not our problem,” said the second voice. “They’re unlikely to report us . . . and without a working drive . . .”

So it was the mutineers. Cecelia looked at Miranda, who had gone white. She understood.

“We don’t know the drive’s dead—they might have turned it off. We can’t take the chance. Too much has been going wrong—”

“Doesn’t this system have a navigation beacon?” Miranda asked. “A Fleet ansible? Something?”

Cecelia looked it up. “It’s uninhabited. There’s a mapped jump point, but it’s considered inferior—there’s some big lump of metal barreling in an eccentric orbit which causes some kind of problem . . .” She put her finger on a footnote. “Wait . . . there’s an ansible . . . there’s been a research station here. Trouble is, I don’t know if it’s accessible to civilian signals . . . let’s see . . .”

“Will they notice if we hail it?”

“Probably.” Cecelia selected the listed frequency. “And we don’t have a functioning tightbeam, or any of the other goodies I wish we had. But they already know we’re here, and they’re going to come after us. If we can get a signal to that ansible, we can at least let Fleet know where some mutineers are.” Where they were, that is. They wouldn’t stay in this system. “And maybe, if they realize we’ve signalled, they’ll decide to run for it and leave us behind. We’ll already have done all the damage we can.”

“Somehow,” Miranda said, eyeing the scan on which the marked icons had changed color, with lengthening cones to indicate course change and acceleration, “somehow, I don’t think they’ll do that.”

“Probably not.” Cecelia entered the pulse combination for the ansible and crossed her fingers. Six full minutes for that signal to reach the ansible, six to return . . . and she had to wait for confirmation before sending any message. She knew all too well how much could happen in twelve minutes.

Two of the distant ships disappeared from scan, and two possible ship? icons appeared much closer. Microjump, of course. She retuned the frequency to the one they’d eavesdropped on before.

“—got the transponder,” she heard. Damn. She’d forgotten that going to emergency power did not cut off the ship’s automatic ID signal—in fact, it boosted the power to it, on the grounds that any ship in an emergency would want to be found. They must be lit up like a candelabra on the military ships’ scans.

“Pounce . . . owner Cecelia de Marktos. Isn’t that the broad who’s crazy about horses . . . the one who hired Heris Serrano as a captain?”

“Yesss . . .”

Cecelia did not like the sound of that meditative hiss.