Against the Odds

Chapter Twenty-Six

Esmay Suiza had another of those swooping moments of doubt that had afflicted her off and on with Commodore Livadhi. Could he really be under secret orders, or was his claim as false as hers? Ships did sometimes cross the border on secret errands, both ways. The Benignity did have defectors; she’d met one. And Livadhi’s anger seemed so genuine, so straightforward: no tinge of guilt, just the natural annoyance of a commander whose subordinate has screwed up yet again.

Against that, she had only the tightbeam message from Oblo, and her own gut feeling that something was wrong, something false, about Livadhi that had not been wrong before. She was out on a very long, slender limb, far away from anyone who could advise her or help, and the ship coming in might be the enemy.

Her scan officer spoke up. “It’s a Fleet ship—a cruiser by the mass—there’s the beacon data. Indefatigable, Captain.”

Esmay felt a rush of relief. Heris Serrano was here; now everything would be all right. She had no idea how Heris would convince Commodore Livadhi not to bolt, if he was planning to bolt, but she was sure the worst was over.

“Lieutenant,” Livadhi said, “I’m ordering you to cover our jump. Don’t let that traitor follow us—”

“Traitor, sir? My scan tells me that’s Indefatigable, and Heris Serrano . . .”

“Lieutenant, there’s no time—I have to go now, before she compromises my mission—and you might want to consider how she knew to come here. . . .”

Because I told her stuck in Esmay’s throat.

“Vigilance is lit,” her weapons officer said. “She’s targeting us and Indy.”

Rascal’s screens wouldn’t take a direct hit from Vigilance, not this close. She could microjump to a safe distance, but then Livadhi could jump out before Serrano was close enough.

Petris, off watch, had just told himself for the fortieth time that he must get some sleep when his com buzzed with the three-one-three signal that meant Koutsoudas had detected Heris’s ship. He rolled out of his bunk, and buzzed Oblo and Meharry with the same signal. His clothes, his boots, a dash to the head. His face in the mirror looked strange, a mask of intense concentration. He buzzed Slater and Cornelian. His stomach churned; he gulped a swallow of water, and headed for Drives.

“She’s here?” Chief Potter asked.

“Yes. Start getting ’em ready. I don’t think he’ll be wandering the ship, but try to keep them out of the main corridors.”

Down to Troop Deck. Chief Sikes met him at the foot of the ladder. “She made it?”

“Yes. I don’t know more than that, but get ’em ready.” Troop Deck, he knew, was going to be the hardest to organize. More people, and more of them not in on the secret. If Livadhi did the right thing, and surrendered, they’d be all right, but chances were the fellow wouldn’t. He’d try to bargain; he’d try to blackmail Heris with her crew.

And it wouldn’t work. He knew the depths of her heart as well as his own: she would not let anyone deliver her ship and her crew—especially her crew—into enemy hands.

She would kill them herself first. They were safe from dishonor, with Heris Serrano after them, but death was a distinct possibility.

A lot depended on where she would aim, and from what distance. Being Heris, she would try to save what lives she could, but Livadhi must not be one of them. And the captain’s quarters and offices, like the bridge itself, were deep in the cruiser’s body. Heris would have to strike hard in the center, to disable Vigilance, or risk losing her and possibly her own ship when Livadhi ordered an attack.

Petris had conferred with the most combat-experienced personnel he dared trust, and they had devised a plan which might—just might—save most of the crew not directly impacted by a weapon. Unfortunately, it required the collusion of at least a hundred of the crew: Vigilance’s full array of shuttles (six troop carriers, the admiral’s shuttle, the captain’s shuttle, the supply shuttle) could hold 541, if they stuffed people in standing up, and hold six hours of life support for that many. But launching shuttles without the captain’s knowledge was—and was intended to be—well-nigh impossible.

How long did they have?

Down to Engineering. What was Livadhi thinking? What would he try first? What was Heris thinking? Would she strike first for the heart of the ship, or for the drives? How long would they talk, up there, before something happened?

On the bridge of Vigilance, the junior weapons tech had targeted Rascal, as ordered. His finger hovered over the launch buttons.

Arkady Ginese glanced at the weapons officer, who looked distinctly unhappy. “Don’t do that,” he said to his junior. “It’s too close. We need to change the options if she stays that close.” Then to the officer he said, “We have the solution, sir, but it’ll require changing out the fusing options. Permission to contact launch crew?”

“Granted,” the officer said. His glance shifted, toward the bridge entrance. “If—I mean, that will take several minutes, won’t it?”

“Yes, sir, it will.” Arkady had already signalled Meharry, a series of clicks that told her which launch crew to descend on. Now he spoke into his headset. “Launch four, our target is within delay radius, R.S.S. Rascal; change out the timing and fusing options for a close-in target—”

Back in his ear came the startled voice of the sergeant in charge of that crew. “What? We’re firing on a Fleet ship? That’s no mutineer; Rascal’s part of our escort—I’m not gonna—”

Meharry’s voice then, cutting in. “Arkady. What’s going on?”

“Livadhi’s told us to target Suiza and Serrano. Pass the word.”

“What about the bridge officers?”

“So far they’re sticking with him—but it’s iffy.”

“Idiots.” Meharry added the epithet she most preferred for stupid officers, and clicked off.

Arkady glanced again at his officer, then at the bridge officer, who looked equally uncomfortable. His lips moved—he must be talking to Livadhi; the man’s face seemed to settle into a mask of sadness. Then he turned and looked at Arkady. “Ginese—Commodore wants to see you in his office. You too, Vissisuan, Koutsoudas. And pipe a call for Meharry, Kenvinnard, Guar . . .” The list included all of Heris Serrano’s old crew. Arkady felt cold. Whatever Livadhi was up to, it could not be good. “He wants to ask you some questions about your former commander; he’s concerned about her motives . . .”

Not good at all. Arkady got up slowly, under the eye of his supervisor, and dared not look at Oblo or Koutsoudas. Surely Meharry and Petris and the others would have more sense than to come. Surely they would do something.

Issi Guar looked at Meharry as his name echoed over the speakers. “Does that sound like good news to you?”

“No. Don’t you go. I will. If the bastard’s looking for hostages, he doesn’t need all of us. Keep working on the plan. Get ’em into the shuttles as soon as you can . . . .”

She headed up the ladders, tapping her tagger so Petris could find her. They met a deck below Command. “He’s figured it out,” Petris said.

“’Fraid so. Or something. I told Issi not to come. D’you think we can take him?”

“Not if he’s got ship’s security in there with him, and I imagine he would. Or his own weapons, for that matter.” Petris took a breath. “Methlin—go back down and get on one of those shuttles.”

She snorted. “I’m not going to be the one to tell our captain that you’re dead. And my baby brother will think I’m a wuss.”

“I doubt that. And I’m not willing to tell your baby brother that I ran out and let you die.”

“This is ridiculous. While we hang around here, he’s getting Oblo and Arkady and ’Steban . . .”

“So let’s not waste time.” She started up the last ladder; Petris grabbed her by the shoulder, and narrowly ducked the blow she aimed at him.

“I can order you,” Petris said. Meharry whirled.

“Oh, right. Pull rank. I’m not leavin’ my friends in that bastard’s hands any more than you are. Now come on.”

When they got to Command Deck, they saw Oblo, Arkady, and Esteban sauntering down the passage from the bridge at a pace that could only be considered glacial.

“Now what?” Oblo muttered. “Do we tackle him, or—”

“You get out,” Petris said. “I’ll go in alone.”

“Heris will love that,” Oblo said.

“You,” Petris said, “go to the bridge and start trouble. We need to be sure that this ship does not fire on any other and doesn’t jump. While you’re causing trouble, Arkady will take down the weapons. If they aren’t lit, Heris is less likely to blow us all away.”

“If we can do that, why do you want us to evacuate the ship?” Meharry asked.

“The captain’s thumb,” Petris said, who had thought of it only on that last dash up the ladder. For a moment they all stared blankly.

Then, “He wouldn’t,” Meharry said.

“He would if he’s feeling trapped enough. Now get out—any minute he’ll be out in the passage looking for us.”

When they were out of sight, Petris marched smartly up to the hatch of the admiral’s command section and announced himself.

Not at all to his surprise, Admiral Livadhi held a very lethal weapon and nothing in his demeanor suggested any reluctance to use it. Moreover, the protective cover of his command console was open, and the large red button of the ship’s self-destruct was clearly visible. Around him, the duplicates of the bridge displays gave him access to the same information as bridge crew.

“If you hadn’t meddled,” Livadhi said, in a conversational tone, “you would have been all right. They’d have repatriated you; they promised me.”

“And you believed them.” Petris felt no fear for himself; as if a storytape were running in his head, he could see the tiny figures racing through the corridors, then stopping to argue . . . filling the shuttles in the shuttle bay . . . stuffing them . . . and would that even work?

“They’ve always kept their word to me,” Livadhi said. “I wouldn’t have done anything that would hurt you—you most of all, Heris’s old crew. You’re good people—”

“So let us go. Let the crew go.”

“I can’t do that—I can’t fly this ship alone.”

“She won’t let you take the ship,” Petris said. “She’ll blow it.”

“I hope not,” Livadhi said. “I trust not. I’m sure, though, you told the others not to come—”

“Right.”

“I could have security bring them in, assuming you haven’t suborned ship security, too. I suspect you’ve done something to interfere with my attacking Serrano and Suiza.”

“I believe so, yes.”

“Such a waste,” Livadhi said. “You realize I can kill everyone—”

Tell him that the crew were even now boarding shuttles to leave? No. Petris waited, as Livadhi—still holding the weapon on him—leaned back in his chair. “You don’t want to kill everyone, Admiral,” Petris said, trying to believe it.

“No—but I may have no choice.” He made a slight gesture with his free hand. “Sit down.”

Petris hesitated—sitting down took away any chance of a swift lunge—but every second he could keep Livadhi occupied might save another life. He sat gingerly on the edge of one of the chairs.

Livadhi smiled. “Tell me,” Livadhi said, “what was she like?”

“Excuse me?”

“Heris Serrano. You slept with her, I know. What was she like?”

Shock held Petris speechless a moment. “I’m not going to talk about that—”

“Why not? We both loved her; you perhaps love her still. She never favored me with the delights of her body, but you—you she raised from enlisted to a commission just for her pleasure—”

“Not just that,” Petris said, through clenched teeth.

“Oh, I think so.” Livadhi’s airy tone, in these circumstances, was obscene. “You’re not really command material, you know. Nothing like her. Or me, for that matter.”

“I never turned traitor,” Petris said. The doubts that so often assailed him when he thought of himself and Heris as a pair—that had interfered, though he tried not to see it, with their love—now rose again to confront him. She was command material, and he—he loved her, but he wasn’t her match.

“No, you didn’t turn traitor. That’s not the point and you know it.” Livadhi took a sip from his flask. “You’re a good loyal man, Petris Kenvinnard. Competent at your job—but not a commander. If you had been, I wouldn’t be here with control of this ship. Heris would have taken me out somehow; in your place, I’d have taken out a traitor admiral. But you dithered. You waited. You missed one opportunity after another.”

“I—” He had, he knew, done exactly that. He had waited for Heris to come, for her to make the decisions. But how had Livadhi known? He felt paralyzed by shame.

“And now, because of you, your beloved Heris is going to have to decide between blowing us all away, or letting me escape. You aren’t worthy of her, Petris. I was, but she wouldn’t have me. She chose you—I suppose she felt sorry for you.”

“That’s not true!” But was it? He thought back over the course of their love—their acknowledged love—from Sirialis to the present. Surely the depth of his love mattered more than whether he had her gift for command. Their passion—he squeezed his eyes shut a moment, remembering her touch, the feel of her, the scent—

“It is true,” Livadhi went on. “But I suppose she wouldn’t tell you. I’m sure she did her best not to notice . . .”

Rage blurred his vision. She had not—she had loved him, she’d proven it. If he was less than she in this one way, she had not cared. “You’re trying to make me angry,” he said in a hoarse voice he hardly recognized as his own. “You want me to do something stupid.”

“No,” Livadhi said. “I know you’re not stupid. But you must realize how it feels to me—how being refused in favor of you feels. How long were you hiding your relationship before she ran out on you?”

So much was wrong with that, so many false assumptions, that Petris could not answer them. “We had no relationship before she—before it was proper,” he said.

“I’m sure,” Livadhi said, amusement sharpening his voice. “Well, perhaps not. But she had her eye on you, I’m sure, from the first. And you, I suppose, worshipped the deck she walked on—” He made it sound disgusting; Petris struggled to control his anger.

“I admired her,” he said very precisely, “because she was an outstanding officer.”

“I would have said excellent, not outstanding, but a little exaggeration can be expected . . . from lovers . . .” Livadhi cocked his head to one side. “Yes. Definitely a case of hero worship masquerading as sexual passion.”

“It is possible to admire the one you love, Admiral, though I don’t suppose you’ve had that experience.”

“Oh, certainly. Had she returned my affections, I would have both loved and admired her. But she didn’t, you see. We got as far as the hair-rumpling and kissing stage, but then she declined any more of it. Which is why I asked you . . . did she strip as good as I’ve always thought she would? Was she as good in bed?”

“Better,” Petris said. He shouldn’t do it, he knew, but he couldn’t help it. Something older than military protocol and honor was acting now, and while he might be at this man’s mercy, he had one thing Livadhi would never have. “She was mine, and you cannot even imagine how good it was—”

Livadhi’s smile widened. “Excellent. Then I think you are indeed the best leverage I could have. She can let me go, or she can watch you die.” His free hand came up with another weapon, this one, Petris recognized, loaded with tranquilizer darts.

“What is going on over there?” Heris asked.

“Their targeting’s gone, their weapons—they’re standing down, Captain.” Her weapons officer sounded relieved, and no wonder.

“Is it a trick?” asked Seabolt.

“They do have Koutsoudas,” Heris said, “but he’s on our side—he’s been covering Rascal. He’s the only one I know who could possibly fox our scan of their arming status.”

“Tightbeam from Rascal,” said her comm officer.

“Put it on,” Heris said.

“Captain Suiza here . . . our scans show Vigilance is no longer targeting us, and their weapons are down.”

“We confirm,” Heris said. “Any communication from Vigilance?”

“No, sir. Wait—we have something—shuttle bay—”

“Got it,” Heris said, watching the change on her own scan screens. “Confirm shuttle bay opening.” This was crazy—was Livadhi going to launch an attack on Rascal by shuttle?

“Shuttle emerging, Indy,” Suiza’s voice said. “Our scan shows troop shuttle mass—wait—we’re getting a signal—”

“Tightbeam? General?” Heris waved at her own comm crew, who shook their heads.

“Tightbeam, sir; I’ll relay—”

Over the relayed beam came the voice of Esteban Koutsoudas. “Rascal—Captain Suiza—hold your fire. Evacuating the ship. Commodore Livadhi’s trying to defect—”

Evacuating the ship—! Heris could hardly breathe for a moment. They couldn’t get them all off—unless they could unload and go back. Would there be time?

“Permission to dock shuttle and offload troops?” Suiza asked her, breaking into the relayed message.

“Put out a tube,” Heris said. “Tell ’em to go straight out—not wait to swim all the way, if they have p-suits.”

A long moment, then Suiza came back on. “Confirm p-suits in this load. Tube’s out; ETA four point two minutes.”

Heris translated that into real distance; Rascal was practically nestled into the cruiser’s flank. “You cut that close, Captain Suiza—were you planning to clog an attempt to jump?”

“If I had to,” Suiza said. “And it gave me a clear shot.”

“Yes . . . I see that. Carry on. When you get those personnel aboard, you should probably let Koutsoudas onto scan. And if there’s anyone from my old crew, I’d like to speak to them.”

“Yes, sir. Second shuttle emerging—”

Seconds ticked by, her mind hardly needing the chronometer to sense the passage of each one, each meter gained as the shuttles moved toward Rascal. One after another . . . the entire complement, like beads on a string. That ship would be most vulnerable when she opened the hatch to let them in—but Suiza had not suggested moving back to a safer distance. Heris reminded herself to be pleased with Suiza later.

The first shuttle positioned itself close to the end of the transfer tube, and vented its internal pressure on the far side, pushing it gently against the tube. With the shuttle hatch open, the transfer tube with its rope handholds was easily accessible. One of the chiefs reached in and got the spare rope tethers, already secured to one of the tube framing members, and passed it up the length of the shuttle. Everyone took a grip, then those nearest the hatch stepped into freefall, and pulled themselves forward, toward Rascal, as the pilot eased the shuttle away again. The others, still inside, were shucked from the hatch by the rope they held.

Koutsoudas was third on the rope, and up the tube; with the first two, he cycled through the lock and into Rascal. After Vigilance it seemed cramped; he made his way to the bridge faster than he’d expected.

Suiza was watching for him. “Over here,” she said, without more than a flip of the hand in return for his salute and request to enter the bridge. “And Commander Serrano wants a report from one of her old crew. Who’s aboard?”

“I’m the only one on that shuttle. Issi Guar may be on the next. Arkady, Oblo and Meharry went to the bridge to shut down weapons.” He unfastened his p-suit, and pulled a small gray box out of its inner recesses. “Just a second, sir, while I get this going—”

The scan screen blanked, broke into a multicolored hash, and then reformed with far more clarity than before. “There,” Koutsoudas said. He glanced back at his new captain. “Captain, there’s a real situation over there. The bridge officers are Livadhi’s, but they’re not in on the treachery—they believe what he’s told them. Secret orders, he says, and Serrano’s the traitor or she couldn’t have trailed him.” He tapped one of the controls, and the screen shifted to show a closeup of Vigilance’s flank, the open shuttle bay. “They’re getting edgy, though, and I’d guess, since the weapons came off, that our people convinced ’em.”

“So—do you think they’ll arrest Commodore Livadhi?” Suiza asked.

“No, sir—he’s got the captain’s thumb.”

“The self-destruct?”

“Yes, sir. At least, we think he does. He’s in the flag office, dual screens an’ everything, including the switch.”

“But he doesn’t want to blow the ship,” Suiza said. “He wants to get to the Benignity.”

“Which he can’t do with you sitting tight like this, and Commander Serrano in a cruiser in easy striking distance. Especially not when he realizes how much of the crew we’re gettin’ off. We think he’ll threaten to blow it, try to get her to let him go.”

“She won’t,” Suiza said with utter certainty. Koutsoudas looked at her. She was a long way from the exhausted, frightened young officer who had saved them at Xavier. She had the same kind of look he associated with Serrano—with Livadhi before he went bad. She turned from him, and told her exec to take care of getting the new arrivals settled out of the way—no easy task on a patrol ship.

The next shuttle bellied up to the transfer tubing, and repeated the unloading maneuver. The first shuttle was easing back into the shuttle bay; the third and fourth were lined up to unload. Koutsoudas wondered how many personnel were waiting . . . how many had been convinced . . . well, there was a way to find out. He tapped into the communications line, and probed for Vigilance’s internal communications. Oblo had promised to turn it to full power.

There . . .

“—But this is mutiny!” came the voice of Captain Burleson.

“Yes, sir, and reckless abandonment, that’s right.” That was Oblo, no doubt about it. In the patient voice he sometimes used with the duller pivots, he went on. “And if we’re wrong, then the admiral will do nothing but sit there and talk to Commander Serrano, and when she’s convinced we’ll all go back and be reamed out. But it’s better than ending up a Benignity prisoner, don’t you think?”

“He wouldn’t—”

“Sir, he has. There’s evidence. Thing is, we are not going to get in a fight with loyal Fleet vessels, and we’re not going to sit here and let the admiral blow us away. You have a choice, sir, of coming along willingly, or me and Methlin’ll carry you.”

“He’s not going to come,” Suiza said. “He’s a captain—he’ll want to stay.”

“The rest of you—come on—” Oblo again, a little breathless. Koutsoudas figured Suiza was right, and they’d had to knock out the stubborn flag captain. “General alert—let’s try—”

Livadhi still smiled that poisonous smile as he completed the tightbeam to Indefatigable. “Commander Serrano . . . it’s too bad you came all this way for nothing.”

“I wouldn’t exactly call it nothing.” Heris’s voice steadied Petris, but Livadhi’s knowing leer still hurt. Petris could feel himself sliding into the tranquilizer’s warm dark pool; he wanted to speak, but he couldn’t figure out how. “When an admiral and his ship go missing, in time of war, people notice.”

“All you’re doing,” Livadhi said, “is ensuring that hundreds of innocent people die. They would have been safe, but for you. They could be safe still, if you do what I tell you.”

“And what is that?”

“Let me go. Pull back, you and Suiza, and let me go. I know what I’m doing.”

“I don’t think you do, Arash,” Heris said.

“They’re your people, Heris. People you love. People you hurt once—do you want to kill them now?”

“I’m not killing them, Arash—you’re the one who was planning to take them to their deaths.”

“They’d have been repatriated,” Livadhi said. “Jules promised me—”

“Jules?”

“Never mind. It doesn’t matter now. What matters is that your people are at your mercy, Heris. I have Petris right here with me—”

“And you’re going to kill him unless I let you go, and then he’ll be killed by the Benignity? That won’t work, Arash.”

Of course it won’t work, Petris thought. I could have told you that. Bless the woman; he wished he could tell her he loved her. He relaxed, then, and let the dark pool lap over him.

“You haven’t heard me out,” Livadhi said. “You always did interrupt. Listen.”

“Arash—don’t do this,” Heris said. She felt useless; she had tried before to persuade traitors not to be traitors, and it hadn’t worked then. “You won’t get anywhere; you’ll only be killed—”

“You can’t stop me,” he said. “At best, I’ll be under suspicion the rest of my life. Why should I do that?”

“Because—” Because they had been friends. He had given her Koutsoudas when she needed him; he had let her go, with the prince’s clones, when he could have blown her away. She didn’t try to say that; he knew it already.

“I don’t want that life, Heris. I don’t want to live that way, with all those meaningful glances.”

“So you’re going to run off to the enemy, when we need you?”

“You don’t need me. You don’t even love me—”

“Love you! Is that what this is about?”

“No. Well, not entirely. Now that I’m leaving . . . I’m sorry we never got together. You Serranos are . . . special people.” The smirk on his face was infuriating; Heris wanted to wipe it off with a shovel.

“We Serranos are stubborn, arrogant, and rude, Arash. You wouldn’t have liked sleeping with me, even if I’d been willing. Now be serious—you always were a good officer. Think. This isn’t fair to your crew.”

“Life isn’t fair, Serrano. You of all people should know that.”

“Why not just kill yourself, and let them go?”

“Why would I? Heris . . . look, I wasn’t close to Lepescu, and I never went on his stupid hunts. But I knew about them. And that got me sucked in—they had something on me, so I—”

“Arash . . . you blew up two Benignity ships coming to my rescue—you can’t seriously mean—”

“Heris, you’re such an innocent. Why do you think I was even there, within range to hear you? If you hadn’t tried to fight, and that idiot in the Benignity hadn’t decided to take you out completely, you’d never have known I was there. You had something the Benignity wanted badly, and the plan was that you’d be boarded, the item removed, and then you’d be towed into a fairly lonesome sector to make your way back if you could.”

“You were after . . . the prince? You wanted the prince?”

“Yes, of course. And the clones. The Benignity thought that would give leverage . . . I didn’t want you hurt, or that old lady, actually. Her poisoning wasn’t a Benignity plan; that’s why they killed the poisoner.”

“But Arash . . .” It was useless. If he thought he’d have a good life with the Benignity . . . She squeezed her eyes shut. She had been so happy to find out that Petris was on Livadhi’s ship—she had trusted Livadhi to care for his crew as she cared for them. And now . . . he was taking them to certain death, one way or the other.

She tried again. “Why not take a shuttle? I’ll let you go; you’ll be safe—they’ll can me, but that’s happened before. And your crew”—my crew—“will be safe. You can trust me not to fire on you.”

“No,” Livadhi said. “I need the cruiser and its crew. That’s my ticket home.”

She could hardly believe, even now, how coldblooded he was. “Come on,” she said. “You’re an admiral; they’d be glad to have you if you arrived in your underwear.”

“No, Heris, they would not.” He seemed to be picking his words as if they were berries among thorns. “It is their opinion that I have not, heretofore, justified their investment in me. That is almost their exact phraseology. I must bring the cruiser and its crew—they don’t want the crew, but they want to be sure the cruiser isn’t booby-trapped.”

Away from the audio pickups, someone murmured, “Captain—” and when she glanced aside, held up a board with the number so far evacuated on it. She looked back at Livadhi.

“How about the crew, Livadhi? Did you think how they’re going to react, now they know you’ve sold them over to the Benignity? Can you really keep control of them until you get there? Do you think they’ll let the ship go without a fight?”

“Thanks to you and Suiza, probably not. Blast it, Serrano, it’s all your fault anyway.” Back to that, where he would stick until the end, she realized.

“Is Petris in your cabin with you?” she asked.

“Oh, yes. I couldn’t trust him elsewhere,” Livadhi said. “Do you want to see him?” And before she could answer, he’d turned the video pickup around. Petris sat slumped in a chair on the other side of the desk. He had a vacant, vague expression, so utterly wrong for that reckless face that Heris could not repress a gasp of dismay.

“A touch of pharmaceutical quietude,” Livadhi said; he turned the pickup back to himself and his grin was feral. “He’s too dangerous, and besides, I’d had my fun twitting him. He’s besotted with you, you know. Though he’s not up to your weight.”

Her mouth had gone dry; she could not speak. Over half the crew had been taken off, and stuffed like salt fish into Rascal’s compartments and passages. The shuttles were even now loading again—this load would have to make the longer traverse to Indefatigable, unless they were left dangling on the ropes trailed from Rascal’s transfer tube. She knew that if she microjumped closer, Livadhi would press that red button under his thumb. He might anyway.

Petris was dead already. She could see no way of getting him out—Livadhi could push that button before anyone could get into the compartment, even if there had been someone to do it. She raged inwardly at whoever was in Environmental—couldn’t they have thought to pump in some narcotic gas? But the flag offices probably had their own separate ventilation system, complete with secured oxygen tanks, for just such possibilities.

All she could do was keep Livadhi talking, as the slow shuttles went and came, ferrying off one meagre load at a time. Maybe—maybe—Petris would be the only innocent to die.

But even as she thought this, Livadhi’s gaze turned from her to one of the screens beside him, that she could not see. His eyes widened; he paled. “They’re running away! Evacuating! NO! I will not let you win, Serrano.”

And his thumb went down.

“I regret to inform you—” The old formula made it possible to say, but not easier. “Commodore Livadhi just blew up Vigilance. Rascal was much closer than we are; they may have damage. We hope there will be survivors; we are now going to mount a search and rescue effort.”

“I ask you all to remain calm, and carry out your duties; when we have word on survivors, you will be informed. For the duration of the rescue, launch bays and medical are cut out of the internal communications net: if you have a medical problem, contact your unit commander, who can contact the bridge.”

“Captain, we’ve got a line back to Rascal—”

“—only minor damage, Captain Serrano. But we can’t stuff any more in here. I do have a debris plot—”

“Thank you, Captain Suiza. Any sight of those shuttles?” Hardened combat shuttles should be able to survive, if not hit by anything too big. The officers’ shuttles, however . . .

“Yes, sir. One at least is whole, but appears to be tumbling out of control. Haven’t spotted the others—wait—Koutsoudas says he has ’em.”

“We’re coming in, but slowly—” Shields up, to avoid damage from debris, much more slowly than she wanted. Please, please let them be alive. More of them. Most of them. All of them, if it’s possible, please—

She waited a few minutes on the bridge to deal with any questions from the section commanders, but none came. So, with a last nod at her exec, she went to her office across the passage. There she copied and sealed the scan records, and began her own detailed report for Fleet, as she waited for the first reports on rescue attempts. Petris was dead. Livadhi had “fun” with him—she could imagine what Livadhi had said, how Petris must have felt. And she had come too late, with no miracles, without the chance to tell him what she felt.

The hours crawled by. She acknowledged the first report of success: the tumbling shuttle found, boarded, survivors—most badly injured—stabilized as well as possible. Another shuttle, its hatch open (had it been loading at the moment of destruction?), and all aboard dead. Another, all aboard alive, com mast destroyed, but the pilot had been able to guide it toward Rascal.

Her com beeped; she answered, trying to concentrate on item 16(f) in her report, and a voice said, “Captain, do you want lunch in your office, or over here?”

She started to refuse lunch, but experience said eat now or pay later. “Soup and bread,” she said, answering the unasked question. “In my office.”

“Five minutes, then, Skipper.”

The soup tasted flat, and the bread stale. She ate anyway, knowing it was important, alternating two spoonfuls of soup with a bite of bread. He was dead. He was dead forever. He hadn’t even been able to hear her, see her, in the moment before he died. All he’d heard had been Livadhi’s poisonous words; all he’d seen was Livadhi’s arrogant face.

Someone tapped on the door. “Come in,” Heris said, glad of anything to break the mood. The door opened, and Methlin Meharry stood there in a rumpled p-suit.

“I’m sorry, Captain,” she said. “I couldn’t get him out—”

“I know,” Heris said. Her eyes filled with tears; she blinked them back. “I know.”

“I should’ve killed that scum-sucking toad the moment I felt that twitch in my gut,” Meharry said. “It would’ve saved us a lot of trouble.”

“You did the best you could,” Heris said.

“Seemed like it at the time, but now—y’know, if it wasn’t for the mutiny—we all worried about starting trouble on the ship, in case we got into combat—”

“It’s not your fault,” Heris said.

“I know. But dammit, Captain—I know how you felt about him.”

“Yes, and I’m going to grieve and cry at the wake . . . but I was lucky to have his love, and that’s what I’ll remember. I’m not going to let a traitor rob me of that memory, and it’s not going to ruin my life.” She said it to comfort Meharry, but all at once she felt better herself. It wouldn’t last, she knew—the pain would come back, the loss—but that instant’s memory of his laughing face in the sunlight, years ago on Sirialis, brought only joy.