Cold Welcome

^{CHAPTER FOUR}

“Passengers may open faceplates and breathe cabin air.” That impersonal recorded voice, after Jen’s hysterical scream, made the landing seem unreal for a moment. Ky opened her faceplate; Jen clambered up from the deck, both hands clutching the table, lurching with every pitch and roll of the shuttle. Her gaze was unfocused and her mouth still open.

“Commander Bentik!” That got Jen’s gaze back to Ky. “Sit down there, behind Sergeant Vispersen.” Ky pointed to the seat behind the steward, who now had his faceplate open. Jen made it to the seat and pulled herself into it. “Right arm-pocket, sick-pill, under your tongue, now.” Jen followed these instructions. Ky looked across at the Commandant, who had left his faceplate closed. Perhaps he also felt seasick and was accessing an implant drug.

The module pitched steeply again, slid down the back of one wave, wallowed in the trough, and then rolled to port riding up the next. Ky’s stomach roiled in spite of the dose her implant had given her. But she was alive, with air to breathe, and the ship wasn’t immediately disintegrating. Better than a hull breach in space. She turned to Vispersen.

“Do the parachutes release on landing, or are they dragging us around?”

“I don’t know, Admiral. I’ve never been—done it—only read about it—” His face glistened with perspiration and his lips were pale.

She needed him alert and thinking. “Seasick meds,” Ky said. “You have them?”

“Yes, Admiral. Let me get you—”

“For you; I’m fine. You need ’em.”

Lips tight, he opened a pouch on his sleeve and pulled out a packet, but could not open it. Ky unfastened her safety webbing and carefully—dealing with the pitch and roll of the module—made it across the aisle to open the packet and put one of the chewables in his mouth. He nodded his thanks. In seconds, his face was a better color and he unfastened his safety harness. She looked at Jen, who looked less green.

“Commander, are you better now?”

“Yes, but you didn’t listen to me! He’s dead!”

“I heard you. How do you know?”

“He didn’t answer me when I spoke; I reached over and shook him and he—his head—it just flopped. I thought he needed air; I opened his faceplate and he’s—he’s dead.” Her voice rose.

“Commander Bentik, stay where you are.” Dread added to the cold lump in her belly. What if the Commandant— She turned to look at him again.

“The Commandant?” Vispersen unhooked his safety restraints.

“Hasn’t said anything.” Ky lurched back across the aisle. “Commandant? Sir? Are you all right?”

The Commandant didn’t reply, didn’t move. She could not see his color through the faceplate; Vispersen slid it back. The Commandant’s face was gray, his expression fixed. His lips were bluish, with a little white foam at the corners of his mouth.

“No!” the steward said. “Did he—it must have been a heart attack—” He felt for a pulse and found none. “He’s so cold—”

“He’s dead, then?” Ky felt a chill too deep for her suit to compensate. The Commandant and his aide? What about the flight crew? The rest of the passengers? What would have happened to Jen and her if they’d worn the Spaceforce survival suits? And who, now, was in command?

“It’s just like his aide.” Jen was up out of her seat again, crowding in next to the steward to look. “That foam at his lips.”

Ky agreed on dead. She’d seen it before. “Let me check his pulse. Get his helmet off and his survival suit open.” The steward gave her a startled look, then unlocked the neck ring, pulled off the helmet, and peeled open the upper third of the suit.

Ky stared at the Commandant’s neck, where a steel needle was embedded; when she leaned to look, another needle had penetrated the other side of his neck. “Poison,” she said. “It’s murder.” She glanced at the steward. He looked stunned, confused. She turned to Jen. “Did you see a needle like this in his aide’s neck?”

“N-no. I didn’t open his suit, just the faceplate. What if—what if the suit they wanted me to wear had poisoned me?”

“You’d have been dead,” Ky said. “And so would I. But we don’t know that those suits were rigged to kill.” She was sure they had been; she was sure whoever had done this had intended to kill at least all the officers aboard. She pulled a stylus from her sleeve pocket and poked into the neck of the suit. “Quick-acting, didn’t let him thrash—didn’t activate just from putting the suit on, because we were talking after that. When he closed the faceplate maybe…” She looked inside the helmet and prodded the inside, near the faceplate.

“Admiral, we need to exit the module—” Vispersen touched her arm. He still had that stunned expression, the words coming out of his mouth in a monotone, as if read from an instruction card. Perhaps they were—one he had seen many times.

“We need to find out who else is alive,” Ky said. “The flight crew; the other passengers.” Jen, with a bruise rising visibly on her forehead, would be best sitting down for now. “Commander, sit back down over there. Sergeant—Vispersen, isn’t it? Check the aft compartment and get a count of survivors and any injuries. I’ll check the flight crew.”

Ky made her way forward and opened the hatch to the cockpit. Both pilots were immobile and unresponsive in their protective gear. One was dead—no vital signs readout on his helmet nor, when she opened the faceplate and unlocked the helmet, any pulse in his neck. Like the Commandant, his face was gray, his lips blue with a line of foam. The copilot’s face was the now-familiar gray, but she could hear his staccato grunts. Not dead yet.

She looked back and saw the steward, whose expression now was more alert, and, she thought, appropriate. Except that he wasn’t where she’d told him to go.

“Same as the Commandant. Poison,” she said.

He nodded. “The suit was sabotaged?”

“Yes. Go check the aft compartment, Sergeant.” She put more bite in her voice. He stared at her.

“What are you going to do?”

“Retrieve the flight recorder and the crew’s IDs. Gather evidence. Go on now. We need to get the life rafts ready to deploy and I’ll need a medtech up here if there’s one aboard.”

Vispersen headed back down the aisle; Ky turned her attention to the copilot again. She unlocked his helmet, opened the neck ring, and saw that only one needle had penetrated his neck. Would he live?

She lacked the training to do anything; she hoped they had a medtech aboard who could. Meanwhile, that flight recorder… there, a compartment with the familiar orange stripes. She opened the latch and unhooked the connections, then pulled the flight recorder out of its hole, slightly reassured by the blinking light on its top surface. It might have been sabotaged as well, but unless it contained no data at all, it should have something useful. It just fit into the external chest pocket of her protective suit. She put the pilot’s ID tags and the shuttle’s command wand into one of the leg pockets.

She heard voices from the other end of the module; when she looked, Vispersen was making his way forward, followed by several others in orange survival suits. The suits had no name tags or rank insignia, but they introduced themselves briefly: Sergeant Cosper, Corporal Inyatta, Corporal Riyahn, Tech Lundin.

“Master Sergeant Marek has taken charge in the rear compartment,” Sergeant Cosper said. “He’s the only one of us who’s ever been through a passenger module landing. It was just in training, though.”

“Much better than nothing,” Ky said. “Pilot’s dead. The copilot’s been badly injured—I think poisoned like the other, but he’s still breathing, and I think his leg’s broken. Anyone here trained in trauma?”

“Me, sir. Uh, Admiral.” Tech Lundin was a strongly built woman with a steady gaze out of gray eyes. “I’m certified fourth-level trauma life support.”

“Excellent,” Ky said. “You’re in charge, then.”

“Yes, sir… Admiral.”

“Just sir,” Ky said. “Be sure to collect the copilot’s tags; I have the pilot’s, and the flight recorder.”

Lundin pointed to a bulkhead compartment. “Should be a basket in there, Corporal, and an IV setup in number four. I’ll need both. Sergeant, if you’ll follow me.” She moved forward past Ky.

Ky looked at Vispersen. “I’ll go back and talk to Staff Sergeant Marek.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Is there survival equipment in this compartment that we’ll need?”

“Yes, sir.” He pointed to the overhead. “Life raft there—three more in the rear compartment. Contents of some of these lockers—”

“If Tech Lundin doesn’t need these two, start getting supplies together.”

“Deploy the raft, sir?”

“Not yet—just get supplies we’ll need from bulkhead compartments; put them on the seats. I’ll talk to Marek first.”

She made her way down the aisle; when she came abreast of Jen, who looked both scared and offended, she hoped a touch of humor would help. “This is not the homecoming I planned.”

“I thought not,” Jen said. “It is certainly not what I expected. This doesn’t happen back—”

Ky held up her hand. Jen said no more. “We must focus on the here and now. I need your report—did you check the aft compartment before you came forward?”

“I told you about the Commandant’s aide being dead. And Senior Lieutenant Ghomerti, in the compartment with us. I didn’t go back—I came to find you,” Jen said, her voice uneven. “All poisoned. If we’d worn those suits—”

“But we didn’t,” Ky said. “And we’re not the only survivors.” Her thoughts raced; most of them would not help Jen stay calm. Whoever sabotaged the suits had chosen the most critical targets first. With the pilots dead or incapacitated, the shuttle would crash at sea, maybe without separating the passenger module, and the others would die in the crash.

“I’ve got the Commandant’s aide’s ID packet,” Jen said. “Anything else I should collect?”

“Did he have an external com device? It’ll be loaded with Slotter Key access codes.”

Jen opened a locker beside the aide’s seat. “This is all he was carrying.” She pulled out the case Ky had seen back at the station.

“Hang on to that,” Ky said. “Have any background in planetary survival, Jen?”

“No, Admiral. I was born and raised on the Cascadia Station. Only visits downside.”

Ky led the way into the aft compartment. Master Sergeant Marek—a tall, brown, fit-looking man with some gray in his short-cropped brown hair and a deep heavy scar from the left side of his forehead up over his head—had the personnel in the rear compartment divided into teams. She could tell he had no implant; the scar suggested why, a serious head injury.

“Admiral,” he said when he saw her. “What about those up front?”

“The pilot, the Commandant, and the Commandant’s aide are all dead—poisoned—their suits were rigged to kill them. The copilot might make it, but I doubt it.”

His face tightened. “Yours, too?”

“I haven’t looked yet at mine; my aide examined the one designated for her and it was also rigged. Everyone accounted for back here?”

“Yes, Admiral. One fatality, Corporal Gassar. Needle in the neck.” He grimaced. “That means you and your aide are the only officers aboard… unless the copilot lives.” She could read the look he gave her as if his thoughts were displayed on a screen. Was this high-ranking officer from a different military going to be a problem? Or could the admiral who’d led an outnumbered force to victory be an asset?

“Come with me a moment,” Ky said. She led him into the middle compartment, where the Commandant’s aide was still strapped into a seat, his dead face a gray mask. “Yes, Commander Bentik and I are the only live officers aboard. And yes, we’re not in your chain of command. Nonetheless, it is my duty both as an officer, and as a native of Slotter Key, to offer my services. We both know the relevant citations in the Code.” Ky kept her eyes on his and her voice steady. “Do we have a problem, Master Sergeant?”

He scowled at her for a moment. “It depends, Admiral. Do you have any idea what to do in this situation?”

“Some. It has distinct advantages over a space emergency,” Ky said. “We have air to breathe, food, and an abundance of water. Our mission is survival until we get back to a safe base. This module hasn’t sunk yet; we have modern life rafts and supplies. We’re rich, in survival terms. So our first task is to get into the rafts before this module goes down, then stay alive in the rafts until we reach land. I understand you’ve had training in the module.”

“Yes—I know how to deploy the rafts, and what supplies are in them. But the training was a long way from here, in warmer waters.”

“But you can do it.” It was not a question; she saw from his expression that he took it as she meant it, that his resistance to her taking command was weakening.

“Yes, Admiral. I’m certain I can get a raft deployed. We’ll be crowded in it; they’re rated for twenty, but—”

“We’ll need two rafts deployed,” Ky said. “We don’t know if we can reach Miksland, or how long it will be until we’re found and rescued—we need the supplies in both. At least.”

“So you’re—you’re really taking command?”

She had not expected such indecisiveness from him, but it was a circumstance he’d never faced. “Yes. I ask you again: is that going to be a problem, Master Sergeant?”

His expression firmed, this time to a tight grin. “No, Admiral. I accept your command, on behalf of the Slotter Key personnel aboard. And your orders?”

“That you prepare to evacuate this thing. How long will the passenger module float?”

“As long as one of the cushions doesn’t deflate,” Marek said. “The range was up to ten hours in calm water.” He shook his head. “All this rocking around puts more stress on the cushions—the manual said even one deflation could make it unstable enough to tip over. We should launch the life rafts as soon as we can.”

“It doesn’t feel”—Ky grabbed for a seatback again—“like the parachutes are very efficient sea anchors.”

“No, Admiral, they’re not; they were supposed to detach. These seas are too big. And we’re too big and sit too high. Wind’s shoving us around.”

“How do we transit from the module to the rafts? As you said, we’re sitting high.”

“There’s a slide installed into the hatch itself; deploy that first, attach the raft’s tether to the hull, then inflate the raft and let it slide down to the water. Then personnel can go down. Anything else we take can slide down to the rafts and be pulled in.” Once focused on the task, he seemed more confident.

“Vispersen told me there are four life rafts; every one will have supplies—”

“Four, yes. Far more than we need. I was about to pull one and check it. With the shuttle sabotage, maybe the rafts were sabotaged as well.”

Ky had been trying not to think about that possibility. She kept her voice level. “Go ahead. We should bring all the rafts, one spare to each inflated one.”

His brow wrinkled. “Why the others?”

“Sabotage, again. We don’t know if there’s another saboteur among us. This is a big cold ocean and I’d rather increase our chances of staying afloat, not treading water.”

He nodded. “That makes sense. I’ll get a raft down and do the exterior inspection, then pop a hatch. If we can open just one, it’ll be better.”

“Carry on, then. I’m going to collect some forensic data forward,” Ky said. “I’ll leave you to assign personnel to each raft. If you need me, tell Commander Bentik.”

“Yes, Admiral.”

When she went back forward, Tech Lundin had the copilot on the rescue basket, but shook her head when she saw Ky. “We’ve lost him, sir. I got IVs in, intubated him, but there’s a mark on his neck—like the needle only went in partway. It wasn’t the injuries—the poison killed him. I’m sorry.”

“You tried your best,” Ky said, looking down at Major Sunyavarta, father of a nine-year-old daughter who wanted to be like Ky—at least this year. “We shouldn’t leave him to the fish. We’ll bring his body home to his family—all of them, in fact, if we can.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll suit him back up, shall I?”

“Good. I’m going into the cockpit to see if there’s any other evidence investigators might want later,” Ky said. “When I’ve done that, you can retrieve the pilot’s body, too. Anyone know something else that might be useful in establishing the cause of the problem?”

“Sir, if you can pull the flight recorder—”

“I have that already,” Ky said, patting the pocket it was in. “Anything else?”

“If we’re taking the bodies, why not leave his ID on him?”

“I want the IDs separately. If we’re not found fairly soon, we may have to bury them at sea.”

In the cockpit, she noticed a notepad clipped to one side of the pilot’s control panel and shoved that in the same pocket as the flight recorder. In the same locker where the flight recorder had been, she found a stack of plastic envelopes and used her stylus to take a little of the foam from the pilot’s lips and smear it inside one of them. She folded that and put it in another pocket, then wiped the stylus on her survival suit’s leg. She looked again at the control panels. Surely the passenger module would have a transponder, some form of communication. But all the lights were off. She flicked switches; nothing happened. The module’s communication was as dead as her skullphone.

When she came back into the cabin this time, Tech Lundin had the copilot once more concealed in his survival suit, helmet fastened on. “Here’s his ID, Admiral,” she said, handing it over.

“He mentioned his daughter when we were introduced. I will do my best to see that they learn what happened to him,” Ky said. A nine-year-old child had just lost her father. Ky had been—she thought back—twenty-three when her father was killed. She had been too shocked, too horrified, by the needles in the Commandant’s neck to feel the anger she felt now. Six men—good, competent, productive men—dead by treachery. No time for that now; she had these men and women to care for.

“Pack up any medical supplies you find,” she said. “We may need them. We’re going to be evacuating this module, getting into life rafts, as soon as possible.”

Only then did she remember that she had not collected the Commandant’s identification packet. She did that and started back down the aisle. Tech Lundin called to her.

“We can put the pilot on the same basket as the copilot, sir, and drag it, but we can’t fit any more in it.”

She could see that, and she could see the outline of the forward emergency hatch. Lifting dead bodies up and over that, to slide down and then be hauled into the rafts like so much dead—like the dead men they were—would be very difficult.

“Staff Sergeant Marek will be opening a hatch and letting the slide down, then a raft,” she said. “There should be time to move them one by one. If we’re found quickly—” And if not, they could not keep corpses in the same rafts with the living. In a separate raft? No. And the other injured man, whom she hadn’t checked on yet. “Tech Lundin, there are other injured back here. Let others move these.”

“Yes, sir.” Lundin moved quickly past her with the case of supplies.

Vispersen, she saw, was sitting down again, looking uncertain. “Staff Sergeant Vispersen,” she said. “Need something to do?”

“But I—but you’re—”

“Take another seasick pill if you need to. There’s plenty to do before we move to the life rafts.” She realized after a moment that he was either confused or scared. “Get that life raft down,” she said, pointing to the bulge in the overhead. “Move it to the aft compartment.” He got up, then, and moved to unlatch the raft hard-case.

Ky followed Lundin into the aft cabin. Marek had made his assignments; the other personnel were in two groups, with Commander Bentik off to one side. Her first impression was that all the survivors looked like good troops—not surprising, considering the selection, but they were all alert, attentive, and at least outwardly calm. Three life raft hard-cases had been propped on seats. Marek nodded to her.

“Ready to open the escape hatch, Admiral.”

“Go ahead.”

When the hatch opened, a wash of cold, wet air came in, along with the sucking and splashing of water against the inflated cushions. Despite the cold, it smelled like home to Ky. She was surprised to recognize the smell here, in a place she’d never been.

The weighted evacuation slide rolled out, inflating as it went, smacking the water hard as the module rolled toward it. Spray flew up; a little came into the shuttle; it stung like ice. Marek had already made a line fast to the raft bundle and now shoved it out the door, yanking a second, short line as he did so then letting go. With a whoosh, the raft inflated and the canopy popped up, its entrance hatch open.

“Go Team One!” Marek said. Ten orange-suited figures hurried through the hatch, one after another, skidding down the slide. They had just reached the bottom when Ky felt the module shift again as the wave passed beneath it, lifting the slide now, and the raft at the end of it. “Grab on!” Marek yelled. “Stay with the raft!”

Six were able to hang on to the raft; four rolled away, back down the slide, but managed to grab on to loops set on the inside of the slide tubes. They made it into the raft when the next wave lifted the module higher again. Marek sent a raft package after them, and they hauled it in as well. “Team One’s supposed to be checking all the equipment in the inflated raft to see what’s missing and what doesn’t work.”

“Good,” Ky said. “We’ve got six dead bodies to get aboard the second raft. The copilot died. Who checked the crash gear at the station?” Ky said.

“Bai Gassar,” Marek said. “Our dead steward. So at least we can be certain he didn’t have anything to do with the sabotage.”

“He had some kind of fit just before we landed,” someone else said. “I saw him kind of twitching in his seat, so I checked him out first when we got up.”

“Did you open his suit?”

“No, Admiral. He was dead.” Ky’s implant reminded her that this was Corporal Riyahn. “Master Sergeant opened it.”

“And found a needle.” Ky nodded.

“Is that what killed the Commandant?” Riyahn’s eyes widened.

“We think so. And the pilot and copilot.”

“Does that mean Bai was the one who sabotaged the suits?” Riyahn’s voice rose; two others looked at him.

“Unlikely.” Unless it had been suicide, but if the saboteurs had committed suicide then the pilot and copilot might have been in on the plot as well. She could not believe that, not after Sunyavarta’s mention of his daughter. “No way to be sure yet, and we can worry about that later. For now, we need to get everyone off this thing and into a raft.” She turned to Tech Lundin, who was applying a splint to Corporal Barash’s arm.

“How many injured?”

“This is the worst, sir. The rest are contusions, some abrasions. They’ll heal on their own. And the arm may not be broken; I’m splinting it as a precaution against further injury.”

“Good work,” Ky said. She started to say more but was interrupted.

“Do you want Corporal Gassar’s ID packet, sir?” That, her implant informed her, was Sergeant Chok.

“Thank you, Sergeant,” Ky said. “Stick it in a pocket and keep it safe; I have the others.”

“Yes, sir.”

“The correct address is Yes, Admiral,” Jen said, her voice harsh with disapproval.

Chok looked confused. “Sorry, sir—Admiral—I mean, Commander—”

“No problem, Corporal,” Ky said. “Commander Bentik is more familiar with the protocol of the Cascadian forces.”

“And in the Space Defense Force,” Jen said, her voice still edged with disapproval.

Now they were all watching her and her aide, even Marek. This was exactly the way Jen had caused tension on that visit to Moray, criticizing Moray military usages as not being Cascadian. Ky kept her voice even.

“In an emergency such as this, sir is perfectly appropriate,” Ky said to Chok. Then, to Jen, “But, Commander, I appreciate your care for the courtesies when under such stress.” She meant it as a softening compliment, but from Jen’s expression she felt it as an insult. Jen would have to deal with it; she had no time to placate her aide.

She looked at Marek. “Time to launch the second raft?”

“Not yet, Admiral,” Marek said. “We need a report from the team in the raft on what’s missing—see if it can be replaced anywhere in this module. Then we need to arrange everything that will go into it for quick unloading. The remains, for instance, can’t be lifted into the raft with the rescue basket; it could snag the life raft fabric. They’ll have to come in by hand.” Or not, his tone said.

“I’m sure someone will be looking for us,” Ky said. “My crew tracked us into the cloud cover. If they find us in time, these bodies can be brought home to their families.” And perhaps yield clues to the saboteurs’ identities.

“And if not?” he asked, under his breath.

“Then a sea road for their souls,” Ky said, words she was surprised to remember. “We’ll speak the words and sing them home.”

He nodded. “That we will, Admiral. And it’s cold, that’s one good thing.”

“Master Sergeant!” That was a yell from the raft. “There’s no com equipment aboard! No navigation beacons, nothing! No optics, either.”

“Not anything? Sure you’re looking in the right pocket?”

“Yessir! Just where you said, and we looked in the others, too.”

“Where would that have been stowed?” Ky asked.

“Sidewall, number seven pocket,” Marek said. “Should be a transponder, a two-way com for surface, a satellite phone, a GPS.” He looked around. “If they were taken out at the station—there wasn’t much time to unpack and repack—some of that stuff could be in other lockers here.” Without waiting for Ky to say anything, he turned to the others. “Lanca, Hazarika, check every starboard compartment for any com or nav gear, anything electronic—it’s not in that raft, probably not in any of them. Droshinski, Riyahn, same for portside. The rest of you—when I launch the second raft, you’ll go into that one. I’ll send down the spare raft; get it lashed down on the opposite side from the entrance, to weight that side. Then we’ll send down the medic, the wounded, and the deaders.”

“Master Sergeant, either my aide or I should be in that raft—” Ky pointed out the hatch. “I think she should go next.” A little separation would do neither of them any harm.

“We’ll want Tech Lundin in with the injured.” Marek’s brow furrowed. “With respect, Admiral, I think it would be best if you went on in the first raft, and Commander Bentik went in the next. I’ll be last out, so I can loose the mooring lines—if we cut ’em from the rafts, we lose that rope and we might want it.”

Ky nodded. “I agree with the assignment, but I’d prefer to stay until we’ve got the wounded out.”

“I understand, Admiral, but with respect, I want you aboard that raft to ensure that when I’m in the water hanging on to that line, someone’ll pull me in and not cut it.”

“You think we have a saboteur here—?”

“Don’t you?” He gave her a long look.

“It’s a possibility and no time to sort it out here. Right.” She liked the obvious competence of this man, so similar to other good senior NCOs she’d known. She signaled and Jen came closer. “I’m going down now, to board this raft. You’ll be the officer in charge of the next.”

“I don’t know what to do! You can’t leave me with these—” Jen’s voice rose. Ky took her arm and moved her aside.

“Jen, you’re the only other officer aboard. We need an officer in each raft so if one goes down there’s still an officer in the group. I know this isn’t what you were trained for, but you do know procedures.”

Jen took a deep breath, pressing her lips together. “They’re strangers,” she said finally. “I don’t know any of them.”

“I don’t know them, either. But I do know you, and you can do this,” Ky said. “They’re just people; you’re good at managing people.”

“What—what do I need to do, then? I don’t—I don’t know what orders to give.”

“You’ll have Sergeant Chok—” Ky consulted her implant. “He’s from Hylan Reef; he’ll have more knowledge of seamanship than you, and I imagine—” She turned to look. “Sergeant Chok—”

“Yes, sir.” He came over, easily balancing on the lurching module, a stocky man Ky guessed to be about her own age. Dark hair, brown eyes, skin a shade or so lighter than hers.

“Do you have small-boat or raft experience?”

“Yes, sir; my family has a fish farm. We use inflatables quite a bit.”

“Commander Bentik will be in the raft with you. Her background is different.”

Chok smiled and nodded to Jen. “Commander, these rafts are very sturdy. Bigger than the ones I learned in, but I have had training with this type. Anything I can do, be sure I will do to keep the raft and you safe.”

“Very well, Sergeant,” Jen said. Stiff, but no longer sounding panicky.

“We’ll want the two rafts connected by a line,” Ky said. “Getting separated would worse than halve our chances of survival.”

“Where can we go?” Jen asked.

“Right now, where the wind and water take us. That land to the north, Miksland, is uninhabited and inhospitable but if we can’t get into a northward current that will carry us past it, we’ll have to make for it and stop there—at least for a while.”

Jen shivered. Ky couldn’t afford more time trying to help her aide. She had everyone to think of. She said nothing, and after a moment Jen said, “Yes, Admiral. I hope—I hope you believe I will do my best.”

“Of course you will,” Ky said, despite the conviction that Jen’s best in the matter of organizing receptions and office staff was not going to be meaningful in this crisis. She watched as Jen moved carefully away from her and over to Marek. His nod to Jen was cordial, but he was watching Ky.

“Ready?” he asked. “I’ll give you Go when we’re at the best part of the wave. Grab on hard when you get to the raft.”

Ky moved to the hatch. The weather had not improved; wind blew harder, and the distant land had disappeared in rain and windblown spume.

“Go!” Marek said. Ky threw herself onto the slide, startled at the feel of the water shifting and heaving underneath as she slid down. The wet wind felt icy cold; her face stiffened under it. But she smacked safely into the raft, grabbing the ropes just below the entrance, and struggled to get her feet on the rope ladder. Hands from above grabbed her p-suit, pulling her up and finally over the inflated side into the raft. She rolled over, pushed herself back to the side, and looked around. The canopy was up, the struts firm, holding even when spray landed on it. The raft floor was already wet, from the water people had brought in with them, and someone had thrown up; she could smell it from here.

Across from her, one of the spare rafts in its container was lashed firmly to that side, holding it down, but the people in this raft were clustered too near the entrance along with the extra supplies. They stared at her, some pale, clearly nauseated. Her implant provided names, ratings, and a home location, but no more. “Spread out,” she said. They’d been told that, while still in the module, several times. “Take some of these supplies with you. Weigh down the perimeter.” After a moment, they did so.

She remembered her own first time in a life raft, on a day out sailing with her father. It had been warm, the sun pouring down making the raft fabric hot enough to burn. Still, she’d thought it was fun, that first time, something new, an adventure. Nothing like this; she lurched to the side as a wave heaved them up, higher than the shuttle hatch, and their tether dragged them back down.

Out the canopy opening she got her first good look at the passenger module. It was three-quarters the length of the whole shuttle and half as tall, riding on six long bright-orange, sausage-like inflated tubes, each larger than one of the rafts. She couldn’t tell if all were equally inflated, because the module leaned one way and another as the waves passed underneath. She could see Marek in the hatch, Jen beside him, and others moving around.

Even with one raft already in the water, it seemed to take a very long time before the next raft launched. Ky watched what she could see through the hatch for a short time, then turned back to those in her own raft. Her implant provided the names: Staff Sergeant Kurin, Sergeants Cosper and McLenard, Corporals Lakhani, Yamini, and Inyatta. Tech Betange, who was going on compassionate leave, Gurton and Kamat, both Specialists, and Ennisay, Private. Frightened faces looked back at her, uncertain.

They needed something to do. So did she; what was next? Always have a rescue ring ready to throw, and a spare handy. Another of her father’s rules. Kurin and Cosper were each in easy reach of a rescue ring. “Staff Sergeant Kurin, pass me that ring to your left. And Sergeant Cosper, pass me that one to your left,” she said. She tucked the first one into the rim pocket directly behind the canopy opening, and made its line fast to the grabon just left of the ladder outside, ignoring the cold water splashing her face as the raft bobbed and tugged on its line.

Next task? Have a line made fast, ready to throw to another vessel. Where was a line? Fatter than the rim pocket, a storage compartment bulged out. She felt for an opening, then pulled it free. Inside were several coiled lines, labeled with lengths from ten to thirty meters. She chose a ten-meter and lashed one end to the grabon to the right of the ladder. She could use that to connect the two rafts together.

Next? Attach a sea anchor to one rescue ring, in case of drift; it gives the person in the water more time to get to it.

“We need a spare sea anchor,” she said, and explained what she wanted to do.

Kurin nodded at once. “Yes, sir. Everyone look in the storage spaces nearest you. It may look like a canvas bucket—” She looked back at Ky.

“We can use a canvas bucket if there’s not a spare,” Ky said. Sergeant Cosper was already rummaging in the storage bag next to him, and urging those nearest him to hurry.

Corporal Lakhani found one first and said, “Here’s a sea anchor, sir.” He handed it to Gurton, sitting next to him, and the others handed it around to Ky. It already had a line attached to the handle and a thinner line to the bottom; she gave thanks for the raft’s supplier. She lashed the sea anchor’s line to a third rescue ring.

“Admiral!” Marek yelled from the hatch.

She turned around and peered out from the canopy entrance.

“Ready to launch number two,” he said. “Letting out your tether to make room for it.”

Ky raised her hand. He loosened their mooring line, bracing himself, as the raft drifted downwind, opening a gap of water between the module’s flotation and itself. Then he made it fast again. Another raft’s container moved into position in the hatch, tipped over the edge, and started down; Marek yanked the line attached to it, and it popped free, inflating almost instantly, floating when it hit the water. The canopy came up a moment later.

“Now!” he yelled, and one by one those waiting in line at the hatch slid down, bumped into it, grabbed hold, and clambered aboard. Next came the spare raft container, wrestled aboard with difficulty, then the wounded Corporal Barash with her splinted arm, then the bodies, and finally Jen. That raft steadied in the water as weight came into it and the passengers spread around its perimeter.

“Admiral!” Marek called again. “We need a line from one raft to the other.” He was letting the line to the other raft out slowly; the wind pushed that raft closer to Ky’s. Ky threw the line she had prepared downwind into the canopy opening of the other raft, where Sergeant Chok caught it and hauled it in. The two rafts swung together.

“Make it fast,” Ky said into the other raft. She kept an eye on Marek, in the hatch. “Don’t let it slip—we need to stay together.” Chok signaled when he’d done so. Then she signaled Marek.

He let loose the second raft’s tether and slowly reeled in the first raft’s line until both rafts reached the bottom of the slide. Ky wrapped the end of the mooring line around her hand. Marek had unclipped the single mooring line from the bracket just inside the module hatch, wrapping it around a cleat for a little help in reeling in the raft. Now, as the raft bumped into the bottom of the slide, he made a loop in the end of that line, then lifted it to put it over his head.

Just as he did, one of the forward flotation sausages burst with a loud bang and whoosh. The module lurched, leaning toward them. Then a second one blew, on the other side. The module nose slammed into a wave, sending a large splash downwind, toward the slide and raft. Marek stumbled, fell out the hatch onto the slide, and tumbled down it. Through a faceful of water Ky saw the loop of rope flying through the air, blown by the wind away from Marek.

Instantly, the rafts drifted away from the slide, rotating in the swirl of water from the splash. Ky had just time to see Marek hit the water meters short of the raft, when the raft rotated so she could not see him. “Hold on to my legs!” she said and leaned out, trying to keep an eye on him. Someone grabbed her ankles; the raft swung back and she could just see him, now swimming determinedly toward the raft, but the two rafts, their canopies acting like sails, moved faster than he could. Behind him, the passenger module dipped lower and lower, lifting its aft flotation bags out of the water.

Only one thing to do—connect line to line, hoping to leave enough trailing behind for Marek to grab. As it was, the mooring line did him no good; she’d have to make it longer, and make it move slower than the rafts with the slack in it. Ky reeled in the mooring line as fast as she could, coiling as it came, then took the end of the spare rescue ring’s line and threw a fisherman’s knot to join them, tugging it into place, mentally thanking her father for all those boring knot drills he’d insisted on.

She tossed the rescue ring into the face of the next wave. The bucket of the sea anchor she’d attached to it earlier filled instantly, pulling the ring under briefly, but she saw it rise to the surface again as the line uncoiled between it and the raft. The wave lifted the raft; Ky spotted Marek and yelled into the wind, though she knew he might not hear.

“Ring. Swim to it!”

He lifted his head, got a faceful of water, then came up and looked again as a wave lifted him. Ky pointed. He swam on, now aiming more for the ring. The raft moved faster, but hadn’t yet used up the extra line. Wind and waves were pushing Marek the right direction, if only he could get to the ring before the rafts pulled it away. Coil after coil of line slid out. Ky leaned out farther, as the wind turned the linked rafts again, to keep an eye on him.

He was gaining on the ring, still losing on the rafts—would he make it in time? Not without still more line. She could leave the other rescue ring still attached to the grabon, but she would have to risk untying the mooring line so she could tie that line to the ring. Her hands were stiffening with cold; she took extra care, wrapping the mooring line elbow-to-hand several times before untying it from the raft, and struggling to make the right connection to the ring. Risky. Her father would not have approved, but she had no choice. She used her teeth to pull the line snug; her hands were too cold. And tossed the second ring out the canopy. She rubbed her hands hard and ducked her head back inside for a moment, blinking the stinging ocean water out of her eyes.

“Don’t let go,” she said to those still holding her ankles. “There’s more to do.”

“Would this help, Admiral?” Kurin asked, holding up a carabiner.

“Yes, thanks,” Ky said. She took it, hooked it into one of the attachments on her suit, then clipped into the nearest grabon. If she fell, she’d get wet but be dragged along with the raft. The wind blew cold spray in her face, but she could see well enough to spot Marek only a meter from the first ring, though the spare line she’d thrown was almost extended and his swimming less coordinated.

Then he caught the ring, got an arm through it. A wave came down on him; she held her breath until she saw him come up through it, still clinging to the ring, now with both arms through. He started trying to swim, kicking his legs, but sluggishly. Ky took a firm grip on the line and slid back into the raft. The canopy entrance was reinforced but she laid a coil of rope on it before she started hauling in, as steadily as she could, given the waves and wind. The line dripped as it came into the life raft. She glanced back; the puddle of seawater and vomit in the middle was growing.

“Staff Sergeant, there should be a hand-pump in one of the sidewall pockets; we need to get that water out of here.”

“Yes, sir,” Kurin said. “All of you—check the pockets nearest you. When you find it, pass it around to me. Admiral, is it safe for me to come assist in pulling him nearer?”

“Yes, Staff. Good idea. Done this before?”

“No, sir.”

“We want a steady, even pull, no jerks that might break his grip on the ring.” Ky looked outside again. The line was still attached to the first ring—she couldn’t quite see—no, there was the second ring, with Marek’s orange p-suit sticking out of it. His arms moved, but not very effectively. If his suit had leaked, he’d be wet and chilling rapidly. Even if it hadn’t, he looked exhausted. She nodded to Kurin, who took hold and adjusted to Ky’s movement. That was easier. Meter after meter of wet line added to the water inside the raft, though she could hear the whish-grunt, whish-grunt of the pump, and water spurted out the slender hose beside her. She looked to see who was working it. Sergeant Cosper. “Good work, Sergeant,” she said over her shoulder.

She and Kurin had a rhythm now. Ten meters, twenty, thirty. In came the nearest rescue ring. Ten meters more and twenty and thirty and more of the mooring line. The knot she had thrown came under her hand; she could see Marek’s orange suit clearly now, even in the blowing spray and cold rain. His face looked grayish in the dimming light; had he been poisoned, too? He hadn’t looked sick at all in the shuttle. They kept pulling, hand over hand, and finally he was bobbing in the water only a meter away, his lips purple-gray. Toxin? Or cold? No way to tell until they got him into the raft.

Ky pulled him right up to the raft. “Master Sergeant, how are you?”

“C-cold.” His voice was barely audible over the noise of the sea and the rafts. “C-ca-can’t—swim—any—”

He wouldn’t be able to get himself into the raft, either, she could tell. She looked back into it, chose the two tallest of its occupants, and pointed to them. “Cosper and McLenard: need you to help pull Master Sergeant Marek inside. He’s too cold to climb the ladder. The rest of you, space yourselves around the far side of the raft to keep it weighted evenly.”

Ky’s hands, even in gloves, were so stiff with cold that she could do nothing but hold on to the line. When the two men came up beside her, she explained what they would have to do: lift Marek’s full weight out of the water and into the raft.

“We’re in the way, Admiral,” Kurin said. “Let me help you get your suit free.”

“Thanks. I should have thought of that.”

When she was free, she and Kurin moved away from the entrance. At first Ky couldn’t unclench her hands from the line she held, and watched Cosper and McLenard struggling with Marek and the raft’s erratic movements. Finally they pulled Marek in, along with enough water to more than refill the puddle in the raft’s center. “Close it up,” she said; one of the men yanked on the zipper string of the canopy hatch and it closed; the relief from wind-blown spray made it seem warm. Ky struggled with her hands, blowing on them, and finally pried them off the line. She looked at Marek—his suit had a long gash on the sleeve nearest her, and another on the leg. He must have caught it on something as he fell out of the module hatch. Water ran out of his suit.

“Keep that pump going,” Kurin said. “We need to get this place as dry as possible.” Ky saw her point to one of the others—Corporal Lakhani, her implant informed her.

Marek lay, eyes closed, his head up on Sergeant Cosper’s knees as the sergeant wrestled the rescue ring off him. Across the raft Corporal Lakhani vomited again, and immediately two more gasped and did the same. Ky ignored the stench, struggling to make her stiff fingers work. “We need to get Marek out of that.” Staff Sergeant Kurin took over, unfastening the clasps down Marek’s chest. Underneath, his uniform was soaked; Ky laid a hand on his chest; his heart thudded against her hand.

“We should strip him down and dry him,” Cosper said. He pulled the tab on Marek’s uniform, and laid his fingers against Marek’s neck as if he knew what he was doing. “Got a pulse. Regular enough.”

“Sir, we found these blankets—” Specialist Gurton handed Ky two, blue on one side, green on the other. “Directions say the blue side goes on a wet person.”

“Good,” Ky said. “Thank you; that should help.” Kurin and Cosper stripped off Marek’s wet clothes and wrapped him in the blankets.

Now that all the survivors were aboard one of the rafts, Ky leaned back against the sidewall and tried to think what to do next, but her mind moved as sluggishly as her cold fingers. It had happened so fast: they had been dry, warm, in comfortable seats, expecting to land. And now they were being thrown around by mountainous waves, in cold that sapped strength and energy. In the dim light, the faces of most of the others looked dazed, confused, frightened.

Although sheltered from the direct blast of the wind, spray, and rain, she felt every movement of the raft under her as it rose and fell with the waves passing under it, jerking a little side-to-side as its tether to the other raft, and its own sea anchors, shifted the two rafts’ positions. The wind howled; rain hammered the canopy, and occasionally the raft smacked loudly onto a wave.

Through the canopy windows, smeared with water, she saw blurred glimpses of waves and sky, sky and waves. What can you do right now to make things better? Her father’s voice, in memory. What was the order her father had taught her in case of capsizing at sea? Raft—they’d accomplished that. Seal the canopy—they’d done that. Stop, take stock, think. She was doing that. Except she hadn’t gotten past stop.

Take stock: she knew they had no communications devices or transponders, but what did they have, besides the life rings, lines, and blankets they’d found so far? You can’t use it if you don’t know you’ve got it, her father had said. Which in his boat had meant every child knowing everything in the life raft and where it was stored.

Ky raised her voice over the noise of the storm. “We need to inventory our supplies,” she said. Cosper, Kurin, and Yamini looked up at once. “We found the pump and the survival blankets, and I know you didn’t find any nav gear or comunits—what else do we have?”

“There’s the standard survival manual,” Kurin said. “It’s right—here.” She pulled it from its pocket. “It’s got a list of supplies; there’s a stylus for checking them off.”

“Good,” Ky said. “Does it have a diagram with locations, too?”

“Yes, sir. Starting dextral from its own pocket. R-1 to R-4 contain ration packs, then R-5 to R-10 contain drinking water.” Kurin turned, opened the next pocket, and reported. “One unbroken pack, twenty individual rations, correct.” The next two pockets also held rations. In a few minutes, as Kurin directed the others which pockets to examine, they had located all their supplies: food enough for twenty for thirty days, potable water for five days, a hand-pumped desalinator to convert seawater to potable water, eight more survival blankets, fishing lines and hooks, eight plastic paddles, and more items than Ky remembered from her father’s equipment.

“We’re in good shape, then, Staff Sergeant.”

“Aside from not having any way to tell where we are or contact those who should be looking for us,” Sergeant Cosper said. “Someone should be court-martialed for that.”

“I’m sure they will be,” Ky said, “assuming we can survive to complain, and the guilty party can be found. In the meantime, we’re alive, the rafts are floating, and we have air, water, and food.”

“It’s not enough!” Corporal Lakhani said. “What if they never find us? Or not before the food runs out? We could starve—or freeze—”

“That’s enough, Corporal,” Kurin said. “The admiral’s right: for now, we’re in good shape, considering what happened. Keep pumping until the water’s gone.”

“Do all of you know one another already?” Ky asked.

“No, sir,” Kurin said. “Corporal Inyatta and I served together on Myseni Reef, so I know her by sight, but we weren’t in the same assignments.” Others were shaking their heads as well.

“Time for more than handshakes and names, then,” Ky said. “You know my name; I spent most of my childhood on Corleigh. Did some sailing with my father and brothers, including a few overnights, and practiced in a life raft a lot smaller than this one.” She glanced at Marek, who seemed to be dozing; his color was better, but she didn’t disturb him. “What about you, Staff Sergeant?”

“Jana Kurin, from Seelindi, the second largest island in the Mandan Reef chain. My family has a big farm; we grow rice and vegetables, about fifty hectares in fruit trees. We export produce out of Mandan Home over to the mainland. But like all the island kids, I learned to sail, paddle a cane raft, fish. My other uncle is a fisher, and so are my cousins.” Kurin sounded calm and confident now, and Ky was sure she’d be an asset.

“I’m from Arland,” Sergeant Cosper said. “Hautvidor, very modern city, where everyone has a good work ethic. The mountains make us healthy, that and a healthy lifestyle. Everyone spends time outdoors, year-round. If we want to survive, we must all commit to a rigorous exercise program, starting today. I have training as a physical fitness instructor, as well as a secondary tag as first responder.”

Arland, Ky knew, had been one of the original nation-states, and a major factor in the war Grace Vatta fought. Cosper was tall, clearly very fit, and as clearly proud of it. Though he had been polite so far, his glances at her made it clear he thought of her as a small woman in need of toughening up.

One by one, the others offered bits of personal history—background that might be useful in this situation, or lack of it; what their military specialties had been. Sergeant McLenard, one of the stewards in the aft cabin, had spent the past seven years assigned to shuttle duty. Married, with three children, he had no deep-space or combat experience. Corporal Lakhani quit pumping long enough to say his father ran a hardware store in a small town three hundred kilometers from Port Major. Corporal Yamini confirmed Ky’s guess that he was related somehow to Commander Yamini (“He’s my second cousin”) who had served with Ky in the recent war.

All of them seemed alert now, listening to one another—better than the initial blankness. Master Sergeant Marek pulled himself up to sitting before all the others had finished.

“I’m from the west coast of Arland, Sogrun,” he said. “Twenty-five years in, communications specialist. Just in from duty on one of the big satellites.”

“Glad you’re feeling better, Master Sergeant,” Ky said.

“I’m fine now. Don’t worry—I’m not that old.”

She hadn’t meant to imply he had been hypothermic because he was old. “Your suit had rips in both arm and leg. We can’t fully repair it, but we did find rolls of repair tape that should hold for a while.”

“Thank you, Admiral,” he said. “I think—” He was interrupted by someone yelling from outside.