The Outback Stars

CHAPTER


EIGHT





M

yell woke earlier than usual from nightmares. First he’d been in the slots, lost in the dark maze while something sin-ister and cold ruthlessly tracked him down. Then he’d been back on Baiame, running from his older brother’s wrath across an immense field of rotting crops. Black vines reached for his ankles and tried to drag him down to the dirt. “Come take your beating!” Daris yelled, his voice booming across the steel-gray sky. Legs numb, chest labor-ing, Myell fell to his knees. Just before Daris’s unseen fist rammed into the small of his back (he couldn’t see it but he knew it was com-ing, with the odd prescience of dreams) a voice commanded, “Stop!” The same naked Aboriginal he’d seen on the tram appeared on a nearby hill. The circles and swirls on his body were silver in the odd light, and his spear pulsed with unnatural power. He was a shaman, Myell realized. A medicine man fallen out of Aboriginal history.



“Begone!” The shaman stabbed his spear at a point over Myell’s shoulder. The spear turned into a multicolored snake that arched through the air with a hiss like falling rain. “You are not welcome in this world!”



Lightning; thunder; the heavy smell of ozone. Myell blinked his eyes and found himself curled up in his rack. Koo stared at him from the perch of a rock he’d placed in her terrarium. He could feel his heart thudding in his chest like a thing gone wild.



“Shit,” he said, and Koo skittered off her rock to burrow under some grass.



Timrin was away on watch. After a few minutes Myell snapped on the light and got dressed. He went up to the E-Deck gym and did a half hour on a treadmill, but not even a brisk run could drive away lingering feelings of doom. The terror he’d felt in the slots was just the result of an overactive imagination. Daris was a demon he’d long put to rest, or so he’d hoped. And what was his subconscious doing, mucking around with that weird shaman? Myell had no Aboriginal ancestors that he knew of, and certainly didn’t need any defending him in his dreams.




He returned to Supply berthing downladder into the lounge, which was littered with leftovers and empty beer cans. Erickson was asleep on one of the sofas, no doubt kicked out of his cabin so Chang could have a girlfriend over. Joe Olsson was waiting for the lift. It would have been easier to pass him by, and smarter, too, but Myell stopped anyway.



“Olsson,” he said.



“What do you want?”



“You still seeing Shevi Dyatt?”



“What’s it to you?”



“Wanted to make sure she’s not unhappy about it.”



Olsson stabbed the lift button. “F*ck off, Myell.”



“No need to get hostile,” he said, and wished he had a way of recording the conversation in case Olsson got physical.



Olsson’s lips thinned. “She say something to you?”



“No. And I’m not getting involved. Just be careful.”



“Yeah, like you were with Wendy Ford.” The lift doors opened and Olsson stepped inside. “Find that dingo you lost on the Rocks? No, and you’re not going to. Keep asking questions, and you’ll lose a lot more.”



As Myell watched the doors close he imagined the stupefied expres-sion on his own face. He had toyed with the idea that Chiba’s dogs had taken Castalia, but why would they? Just to mess with him?

Dumb-founded, he returned to his cabin, showered, and donned his neatest uniform. He still had an hour before Lieutenant Scott’s inspection be-gan and was heading for the mess decks when Security pinged him.



“Report to Lieutenant Commander Senga’s office,” he was told.



He went, his throat tight. The Security offices were open twenty-four/seven, but the day shift had yet to come on duty. A regular tech di-rected him past empty desks to Senga’s office, which was grammed in black tile and smelled like burned coffee. Sergeant Rosegarten was standing with Senga, an unhappy expression on her face. Senga, who’d been Wendy Ford’s staunchest supporter, gave Myell a cold look.



“Sit down, Sergeant,” Senga said. “Tell me what you really did with that dingo you reported missing.”



Myell sat. As evenly as possible he said, “I left it on the Rocks and it disappeared, sir.”



“On its own,” Senga said, and there was no missing the sarcasm. “It just flew away.”



Rosegarten’s frown deepened.



“No, sir,” Myell said. “It was fitted with a restraining bolt.”



Senga hammered away at his story. Why did he take the DNGO to the Rocks if the Repair Shop was closed? Why didn’t he leave it there when the alarms sounded? How hard had he tried to retrieve it? The insinuation that he’d stolen it was clear, but Myell refused to be baited. He tried not to look at the clock, but the minutes ticked away toward division quarters.



“You know what I think?” Senga said. “I think you’ll say anything to cover your ass.”



He wasn’t about to repeat what Olsson had said in the lounge, and he certainly wasn’t going to show them the bruises that Chiba had left from the manhandling. Senga would probably blame him for fighting and get him thrown into the brig again.



“I don’t have any reason to lie to you, sir. But I do have to be at di-vision quarters in ten minutes.”



Senga smiled for the first time. “Well, Lieutenant Scott will under-stand. She’s the one who called me, after all. She wanted to know why you weren’t charged for raping AT Ford. She’s worried more equipment might go missing.”



Myell had expected Jodenny Scott to hear about the mess, but had held on to some faint hope that she might give him a chance to have his say. “If you suspect me of something, I demand written notifica-tion of my legal rights and want a lawyer present.”



“You demand?” Senga leaned forward, fists curled.



“Sir,” Rosegarten said, “may I speak with you outside?”



“How about you go outside and Sergeant Myell and I talk about his ‘

demands’?”



“Sir,” she insisted, an edge in her voice that even Myell couldn’t miss. Senga and Rosegarten left. Myell watched the clock. Oh-six-forty-five came and went. He couldn’t do anything about it, not un-less he bolted from the room without permission. Finally Rosegarten returned alone.



“I apologize for the lieutenant commander,” she said, her expres-sion stoic. “You’re free to go.”



Myell left. The trams were running slow, and it was several min-utes before he was crossing the access ring to T6. He hesitated at the command module, wondering if it was better to miss quarters alto-gether than show up late, but duty compelled him to ride the lift down. The division was still assembled in ranks and Lieutenant Scott was inspecting Ishikawa with Chief Nitta beside her. Nitta smirked at Myell’s tardiness. Jodenny gave him the briefest glance and said, “Into line, Sergeant.”



He did as told and fixed his gaze on the back of Chang’s head. The hold was very quiet, with only an occasional shuffle of feet and Lieu-tenant Scott’s low murmurs of approval or disapproval. “You need a better haircut,” she told Lange. “Nice boots, AM Dicensu,” she said a moment later. When she reached Myell she gave him a thorough scrutiny from top to bottom. He didn’t dare break attention to meet her eyes, but knew they were full of disappointment. “Satisfactory,” she told Nitta, and with a soft beep the judgment was entered into Nitta’s gib. “Two demerits for being late.”

Then, louder, she said, “Underway Stores, dismissed.”



The assembly broke up quickly. Jodenny and Nitta left without a word, but Myell didn’t imagine he’d escape so easily and he didn’t. “Where the hell were you?” Strayborn asked.



The tone of it grated on him. “I got delayed,” Myell said, and headed for his workbench.



Strayborn followed. “What kind of delay?”



“Don’t worry about it. I can handle—” Myell broke off when he saw the empty places where he had left Circe and Isis. “Jesus. They did take more.”



“What, the dingoes? I had Ish bring them to Repair Services.”



Myell’s temper rose. “I told you I could fix them!”



Strayborn put a hand out as if he were a pedestrian crossing guard.

“Stop right there. I don’t know what’s gotten into you, but calm the hell down.”



“I could have fixed them,” was all Myell trusted himself to say. Isis he didn’t mind so much, though it would have taken only a few more minutes to get her working. But Circe was over on a stranger’s bench, probably in pieces, at the mercy of Chiba’s men and with the mystery of those erroneous records wired into her data core.



“What’s the drama?” Strayborn said. “The inventory’s done and the dingoes will be back in a few days. If you tell me why you were late, maybe I can get the lieutenant to drop your demerits.”



“Forget it,” Myell said. “Just let me work, all right?”



“But, Terry—”



“Go away, Gordon,” Myell said, and Strayborn did.



* * * *



J

odenny went straight from the morning inspection to a division of-ficer meeting on the Supply Flats. Fifteen minutes early, she sat in the drab conference room and rehearsed good things to say about Underway Stores. The inspection had at least gone well, except for Myell’s tardiness. She would confront him later about that. No ser-geant of hers was going to stroll in late without a damn good reason.




“Didn’t they tell you?” Lieutenant Commander Vu from Food Ser-vices entered the room. She looked like an Asian elf—petite, slim, with cropped hair and delicate features. “The most junior DIVO al-ways brings breakfast. Commander Matsuda was big into muffins, but Commander Al-Banna’s a doughnut man through and through. He’ll be furious if there aren’t any.”



Jodenny replied, “Well, it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve pissed him off.”



Vu laughed and extended her hand. “I’m Margaret. Congratula-tions on your new position. Or condolences. Depends on how you look at it.”



A male lieutenant commander with jet-black hair entered. “What, nothing to eat?”



Vu said, “Jodenny, this is Sam Zarkesh. Complain to him when your decks aren’t clean.”



“Decks on this ship are always clean,” Zarkesh replied loftily.



Wildstein arrived next. “The SUPPO’s in a foul mood. Let’s make this short and sweet.”



“Short and sweet, aye,” Vu said.



Al-Banna walked in, his uniform impeccable and shoes spotless. He growled, “What, no doughnuts?”



“My fault, sir,” Jodenny offered.



“Damn right.” Al-Banna sat down, leaned backward, and drummed his fingers on the table. “Where’s Tony? Can’t anyone get to a god-damned meeting around here on time?”



“We’re here, sir,” Wildstein said, turning her attention to her gib.



“Thanks, Grace.” Al-Banna didn’t sound appreciative. “Zee, you first.”



Zarkesh leaned back in his chair. “The Flight wardroom’s com-plaining that their air-conditioning keeps going on and off. I’ve sent mechbots through their vents and checked the programming, but I think they’re mitzi. We’ll keep working on it. I’ve got sixteen dingoes in the shop, most of them fixable. One went missing from Underway Stores during the GQ.”



Jodenny sat up straighten “Yes, sir. A Class III.”



“How did you lose it?” Al-Banna asked.



“One of the sergeants was on his way to the Repair Shop when the alarm went off, sir. He couldn’t take it with him so he left it on the Rocks.”



“Which sergeant?”



“Myell.”



Jodenny didn’t miss the frown that passed over Vu’s face, or the way Wildstein glanced up, ever so briefly, from her gib. Immediately she said, “I don’t believe he’s responsible, sir.”



Al-Banna’s expression didn’t change. “Security will figure it out. Anything else, Zee?”



“No, sir,” Zarkesh said.



“Anything from Underway Stores?” Al-Banna asked.



“The monthly inventory came in at ninety-two percent, sir.”



Wildstein didn’t look impressed. “Maybe you could spend some time on the backlog. I’ve got requisitions that are over a month old sitting in your division.”



“Yes, ma’am. I’ll get that backlog down.” Jodenny turned to Zarkesh.

“And I can tell you exactly what’s wrong with the a/c in the Flight wardroom.”



Zarkesh’s eyebrows quirked upward. “Can you, now?”



“There’s an auxiliary data storage closet above it that only gets used if Core takes a cold drive offline and needs someplace for tem-porary backup. When the closet gets turned on, the a/c in the ward-room gets diverted.”



In an admiring voice, Vu said, “Clever, isn’t she? I say we keep her.”



The hatch opened. Lieutenant Commander Rokutan, the division officer for Flight Support, came in with three gibs in hand. Tall and freckled, with brown hair and a handsome face, he was strangely fa-miliar to Jodenny. After a moment, she remembered seeing his pic-tures hanging in the sports gallery back at the academy. He was a College Cup Champion soccer player, twice over.



“Sorry I’m late.” As Rokutan sat down, one of his gibs fell to the deck. He nearly slammed his head on the table as he bent to pick it up. Jodenny fetched it for him and passed it over. He smiled crookedly, and she felt herself warm a little.



Al-Banna ignored Rokutan. “Margaret, what’s going on in your department?”



Vu reported on the state of the galley, upcoming special meals, the service division’s profit for the month, and a rash of petty thefts from the ship’s laundry. When his turn came, Rokutan said that the Flight Department was still doing training operations. Wildstein reminded everyone that AT

evals were due on Friday.



Al-Banna grimaced. “Let’s not be too generous about how great they are. Who got stuck with Greiger’s job on the Cultural Diversity Committee?”



“I did, sir,” Jodenny said.



“Be sure you attend all the meetings. Smile and make sure you say the right things.”



She couldn’t help herself. “Don’t you approve of the cultural diver-sity, sir?”



He gave her a dour look. “I think we have too much cultural diver-sity, Lieutenant. What Team Space needs is more unity and less cele-bration of every single difference between us.”



“A nice enemy to fight would be helpful, too,” Zarkesh added. “A hundred years in space and still not a single alien to shoot at.”



Al-Banna harrumphed. “What about the Hail and Farewell?”



Vu said, “I’m helping getting it organized. Jodenny and six others are getting hailed, and five are getting farewelled. The captain wants it on the Flight Deck.”



“How special.” Wildstein gave Jodenny a pointed glance.



Rokutan spoke up. “I’ve got a question. What are we doing about getting people qualified? All of my assistants are pulling watches, but I never see Hultz, Sanchez, or Ysten on the schedule.”



“We need a training officer,” Vu said. “Every department’s sup-posed to have someone who reports to Commander Calinder.”



Silence for a moment. Jodenny kept her head down. She’d risked enough with the cultural diversity question. The last thing she needed was to be put in charge of shepherding whiny ensigns through their qualifications.



“I’ll do it,” Wildstein said, with a martyr’s sigh.



“No, Lieutenant Scott will do it,” Al-Banna said. “Meeting’s over. Go get some work done.”



Jodenny considered a protest—Training Officer would be her eighth or ninth collateral duty—but Al-Banna was already leaving with Wildstein on his heels. The rest of them stood and gathered their gibs. Zarkesh asked,

“Where did you come up with that bit about the data closet?”



“I worked in Maintenance for a year,” she replied. “It took us weeks to figure out the wardroom problem.”



“If that’s it, I’ll buy you dinner.”



Vu squeezed Jodenny’s arm. “Not before I take her to lunch. Women in this department have to stick together.”



Rokutan introduced himself with a warm, firm handshake.

“Congratulations. I did Underway Stores on my last ship. Come over to Flight sometime, and I’ll show you around.”



Jodenny felt suddenly shy. “I will.”



Back in Underway Stores, Nitta and Caldicot were slogging through the AT evals. Jodenny scanned their preliminary list and asked, “Where’s Ishikawa’s?”



“She’s only been onboard for three months,” Caldicot said.




“We still have to grade her,” Jodenny said.



“No, ma’am,” Nitta said. “There was an all-fleet message that changed the eval requirements. You must have missed it.”



Jodenny shut her mouth. The Yangtze tragedy hadn’t stopped the flow of rules, regulations, and assorted electronic paperwork in Team Space—it had merely caused it to hiccup for a few minutes. “Send me a copy of the message for my records,” she said. “Good work on get-ting these evals done. Mrs. Mullaly?”



“Yes, Lieutenant?” The American aide appeared at the hatch wear-ing a bright blue sweater. Her wardrobe, Jodenny had decided, con-sisted entirely of slacks and blue sweaters.



“I picked up another collateral duty. Can you set up a folder for Training Officer and pull the watch qualifications on all the officers and chiefs in the Supply Department?”



Mrs. Mullaly looked blank for a moment. “You mean like Fire Watch, Security Watch, those things?”



“Yes, but those are junior watches,” Jodenny said. “Chiefs and offi-cers pull different ones—Assistant Officer of the Watch, Officer of the Watch, Assistant Command Duty Officer, or Command Duty Of-ficer. We usually stand them on the bridge, but sometimes in Drive or Flight.”



“I don’t understand why everyone has so many extra duties,” Mrs. Mullaly said.



Nitta said, “Too much work and not enough people.”



Fifteen minutes later VanAmsal and Strayborn showed up for the meeting Jodenny had told Caldicot to arrange. VanAmsal reminded Jodenny of Dyanne in some ways—same height, same neatly coiled braids—but unlike Dyanne, humorless and stern.



“Is this going to take long, Lieutenant?” VanAmsal jerked her head to the window that overlooked LD-G. “I hate to leave them on their own for too long.”



“It takes as long as it takes,” Jodenny said.



Nitta asked, “Should we meet in your office or mine?”



“Mine, just as soon as Sergeant Myell arrives.”



Nitta blinked. “Why Myell?”



“He’s a sergeant in this division, isn’t he?” Jodenny turned to Caldicot.

“Didn’t you notify him?”



Caldicot shot Nitta a quick glance. “I didn’t know you meant Myell, too.”



“He’s not in charge of anything,” VanAmsal said.



Strayborn said, “I’ll ping him, Lieutenant.”



Ten minutes later Myell showed up, obviously bewildered at being included. When the five of them sat in Jodenny’s office, Strayborn sat beside Myell but VanAmsal turned so that she couldn’t see him. Nitta didn’t look at any of them as Jodenny ran through the list of concerns she’d prepared: the late COSALs, the requisition backlog, the outdated MSSL, RIP drops, poor FIFO methods, inaccurate Q-Cost logs.



“I realize the division is undermanned,” she said. “After the Alcheringa drop, we’re going to have to look at some organizational changes. Maybe I can get us more people, or we can move shift posi-tions around.”



Strayborn leaned forward. “It’s not how many people we have, it’s how good they are. Some aren’t pulling their weight. Kevwitch is in the brig more often than he’s out of it. Lund spends all of his time in Sick Berth. Dyatt’s good but she can’t work on the dock—”



“She does fine in the command module,” VanAmsal said.



“Soon you’re going to lose her to maternity leave,” Strayborn con-tinued, undeterred. “Gallivan’s leaving without a replacement. We’re supposed to have twenty-five people, we’re at twenty-two right now, and that’ll leave us with twenty. Nineteen if I get picked up for ECP—”



“If you get it,” VanAmsal said.



Staffing was always a problem, and Jodenny had expected it to top their list of complaints. She watched as VanAmsal and Strayborn bickered back and forth. Nitta wore a distracted expression, as if he was trying to remember something he’d forgotten to do. Myell in-tently studied his gib.



“I’ll talk to Commander Al-Banna about getting more people,”

Jodenny said. “In the meantime, we deal with what we’ve got.”



VanAmsal said, “Caldicot could be reassigned. You don’t need two administrative assistants, do you, Lieutenant?”



She heard the challenge in VanAmsal’s tone. “I don’t know. It’s a possibility. Maybe AM Dyatt could come up here to work, or you could take over T6 if Sergeant Strayborn gets promoted.”



Myell blinked. VanAmsal’s face tightened and she said, “I like where I work.”



“Everyone should start thinking about possible changes,” Jodenny said. “Now, what else is a problem besides staffing?”



VanAmsal complained about erroneous requisitions and difficulties getting Core to reboot malfunctioning DNGOs. Strayborn added the problem of too many ship’s departments demanding priority place-ment on their orders. Nitta bitched about last-minute paperwork that Data kept dumping into the queues, which VanAmsal agreed was a problem. Strayborn opined that too many low-bid contractors were delivering shoddy goods that wore out faster than usual and required unexpected replacements.



“What about you, Sergeant Myell?” Jodenny asked. “Do you agree with all that?”



Myell folded the cover on his gib and fixed his gaze on a spot be-hind Jodenny’s head. “Departments keep requesting priority routing because our backlog is so bad they think routine ones will get over-looked. We can’t stop some admiral’s aide somewhere from putting out a data call—all we can do is answer as quickly and accurately as possible. Contractors are something else we have no control over. And Core’s so overburdened that it’s no wonder it takes an hour to reboot one dingo.”



The temperature in the room dropped several degrees, but Jodenny kept her eyes on Myell. “So what do you recommend?”



He shrugged, as if it wasn’t really his problem after all.



Jodenny tried to hide her disappointment. “Let’s focus on what we can control and fix it. Make sure your people are in the correct uni-form of the day. Counsel them if they’re late, rude to customers, or slacking off. Make sure they’re studying for their exams or working toward qualifications. Don’t bitch in front of them, don’t let them bitch in front of you, and make sure they know you care about them, this division, and this ship. What we say in here stays in here; you’re the leaders of Underway Stores, and you need to be one hundred and ten percent professional.”



The dirty look VanAmsal shot Myell as they stood to go was any-thing but professional and Strayborn was noticeably silent. Jodenny didn’t worry too much about their hurt feelings but did say, “Sergeant Myell. Hold on a minute.”



When they were alone she said, “I expect you to set a good ex-ample. Your tardiness to quarters this morning shouldn’t be repeated.”



“Yes, ma’am.”



“Did you oversleep?”



“No,” he said. “It won’t happen again.”



Jodenny waited for him to say more, but it was clear he wasn’t go-ing to elaborate. “Very well. Carry on.”



Holland spoke up, reminding her that she still had to work on her check-in list. Jodenny went up to Safety, where a department rep signed off her gib with the instruction to read all the procedures in Core and contact her with any questions. The Morale Department was closed for a luncheon. Jodenny took the opportunity to grab a bite to eat at a snack bar. From there she went to Security, where sad-faced Sergeant Poison stared at her MacBride Cross and advised her about staying out of restricted areas such as Operations and Tower 14.




“What’s in T14?” Jodenny asked.



“It’s a penal colony. Four hundred convicts on their way to Warramala.”



He was still staring at her MacBride Cross.



“Is something wrong, Sergeant?”



“No, ma’am. My sister—well, she died.”



In the explosion. Or maybe later, from burns or injuries. Jodenny said,

“I’m sorry.”



“Maybe you knew her? Pamela Poison. She worked in Drive.”



Jodenny hadn’t known her. She fled Poison’s grief and was stand-ing at the lift when another Security sergeant approached her. “Lieu-tenant? I’m Sergeant Rosegarten. I wanted to explain about this morning.”



“What about this morning?” Jodenny asked.



Rosegarten grimaced. “I told Lieutenant Commander Senga that there was nothing more to the case. Things disappear on this ship all the time. But he has this thing, ever since Fortune. He wanted to ask the questions himself. So it was our fault Myell was late.”



It took Jodenny a moment to figure out exactly what Rosegarten meant, and another few minutes to get the whole story. She almost stormed over to Senga’s office to confront him, but decided to let her temper cool first. Besides which, she couldn’t figure out who she was more angry with—Senga for pulling such a stunt, or Myell for not telling her. Muttering, Jodenny went down to the E-Deck gym, which was equipped with a swimming pool, sauna, steam rooms, cardiovascular and weight equipment, and three studios for yoga, aerobics, and martial arts.



The energetic civilian at the front desk said, “Most of the officers prefer to use the officers’ gym, ma’am. It’s about half the size, and there’s no pool. But then you don’t have to mingle with anybody but other officers.”



“I’ll be fine down here,” Jodenny said.



She had saved the worst for last. The instant she stepped inside Sick Berth, the faint smell of antiseptic swept her back to unhappy memories of Alice Naval Hospital. A medical tech with cold hands took her vital statistics and escorted her to a cubicle to wait for Lieu-tenant Moody, the physician on duty. Jodenny couldn’t sit still on the exam table, so instead she studied the wallgib that listed the depart-ment ping numbers. Sick Berth serviced Team Space military per-sonnel. Civvie employees, passengers, and family members used the hospital over in T1. She was amusing herself by memorizing names when a lieutenant with gray hair entered.



“I’m Mitchell Moody. Nice to meet you.”



“New to the service?” Jodenny asked. Team Space often recruited civvie doctors to fill the ranks of its medical corps.



He chuckled. “You can tell in two seconds?”



“Your insignia is upside down.”



Moody patted the item. “One day I’ll get this all right. How’s your leg doing?”



“Only hurts when I laugh.”



“Why don’t you scoot up there on that table?” Moody ran a scan-ner over her thigh. “Still giving you twinges?”



“Not really.”



“Your chart says you weren’t sleeping well at Alice. How’s that now?”



“Better.”



“Any other complaints or concerns?”



“No.”



Moody shut off the scanner and asked, “Do you always become monosyllabic when the topic is your well-being?”



“‘Better’ has two syllables in it,” Jodenny said. Moody raised his eyebrows. She added, “I don’t like to talk about my injuries. They’re all healed now.”



“Do you know we have several other Yangtze survivors onboard? I’m starting a support group that meets twice a week. Sometimes it helps to talk to other people who went through the same thing.”



“We all went through something different.” Some people had es-caped in their lifepods without incident. Others had been trapped for days until collapsed decks could be pulled apart. Jodenny preferred not to dwell on her own experiences extinguishing fires, freeing trapped victims, and ushering the wounded to safety despite her own injuries. Much of it was a jumble anyway. She had only done what she was supposed to do, what any officer should have done. And af-terward, what she had done in the hospital—well, that wasn’t going to ever happen again.



“Keep the invitation in mind,” Moody said. “That’s all I ask.”



On her way out of Sick Berth, Jodenny was met by a civvie with a Science Corps patch on his arm. He was young and earnest, with Asian features and long dark hair held back in a ponytail.



“Lieutenant Scott?” he asked. “I’m Dr. Ng. I’ve been trying to reach you. Space Sciences Department. I wanted to sit down with you for ten or fifteen minutes.”



“About what?”



“The Yangtze. I could buy you lunch or dinner—”



“Dr. Ng, I can’t help you.”



Jodenny moved away. How does it feel, having survived the death of your friends and crewmates? the reporters on Kookaburra had asked. What’s it like to face death in the line of duty? She considered herself lucky that base security had kept the media away, and that their imail inquiries had dwindled to a trickle.



Ng followed her, saying, “I have a theory about the accident—”



It was hard to keep her voice even. “It wasn’t an accident, Doctor. It was the deliberate destruction of Team Space personnel and property by the Colonial Freedom Project.” And of that, what could she say? She’d never given much credence to separatists. Any colony that thought it could do without Team Space was crazy. The explosion proved that the separatists were not just crazy, but also more danger-ous than anyone ever expected. She hoped that the people responsible were apprehended and sent to prison for the rest of their miserable lives. “I have nothing more to say about it.”



She started up a crew ladder. To his credit, Ng didn’t follow. On the next deck Jodenny stopped to rest her burning face against the bulk-head. When she could breathe easier she boarded a tram and headed straight for T6’s gloomy silence.



Myell met her at the bottom of the lift and asked, “Can I help you, ma’am?”



“No, Sergeant.” With horror Jodenny realized that she wanted to bury her head against his neck and let his comforting arms hold her tight. She told herself it was a natural response to stress and not spe-cific to Myell himself. “I just came to check out something.”



Jodenny climbed up to level one and sat on the cold deck with her back against a storage bin. The slots had always been Jem’s favorite retreat when he needed to get away from it all.



“Lieutenant?” Myell’s voice drifted up the ladder.



“What is it, Sergeant?”



“I locked down the level for you.”



She had forgotten. Easy way to get killed, that. Some DNGO on a mission from Core might careen around the corner and flatten her like a pancake. “Thank you, Sergeant.”



His footsteps receded. Maybe he would forget she was there. She could hide forever in the lower slots, foraging for food out of the gal-ley supplies, sleeping on mattresses destined for crew quarters. She would recruit the DNGOs to serve her and create her own private au-tocracy in the dark fortress of T6.



Or she could wait awhile until she felt strong enough to face them all—Al-Banna, Wildstein, Dr. Ng, Osherman, ghosts, the Wondjina.




A kingdom of DNGOs sounded better.



* * * *



M

yell wondered what Jodenny could possibly be doing up there. He tried to concentrate on Leto, a Class II with a broken video relay. He popped in a new one and tested the unit, but the display still came up fuzzy. For a half hour he fiddled with it, listening for any stray sounds from level one. His only interruption was a call from Chang.



“Did you get it?” Myell asked.



“Working on it. You sure you want top-of-the-line?”



“Absolutely.” If he was going to get a pocket server with built-in audio and video sensors, he might as well splurge.



Chang promised to do his best. He was the division’s go-to guy, able to procure any number of legal and illegal items on the ship. Not Sweet or other illegal drugs, but computer equipment was his spe-cialty. After Chang hung up, VanAmsal pinged from Loading Dock G.



“You left a message?” VanAmsal asked.



“Is Dyatt with you?”



“No. She’s on watch. Why?”



“I heard she was having problems with Olsson.”



VanAmsal glared across the link. “You stay out of my division, Myell.”



“I will if you take care of your people,” he said.



If she could have reached through the screen she would have prob-ably strangled him. “Got the lieutenant wrapped around your finger and now you think you’re running things, is that it?”



“She’s not wrapped anywhere,” Myell said. “I don’t want to see Dyatt get hurt.”



“Like Ford?” VanAmsal asked, and cut out before he could answer.



Myell had expected her to be annoyed after the meeting in Jodenny’s office, but the strength of her bitterness caught him off guard. He hadn’t asked to be invited and it had been a surprise when Jodenny took his opinions seriously. In retrospect he sup-posed he should have told her about Lieutenant Commander Senga, but what had Senga said? Jodenny had raised suspicion first. It was her fault, then, that he’d been late to quarters and set a bad example.



Despite his disappointment and resentment over that, he couldn’t bear the silence anymore. Myell went over to the ladder and asked, “Miz Scott?”



Her boots appeared on the top rung. Myell moved aside so she could climb down.



“Everything looks good,” she said, as if she’d been conducting an impromptu inspection. Her eyes were slightly red but her voice was calm.

“What are you working on?”



“Repairs. Nothing too urgent.”



Jodenny started walking toward his bench. “The SUPPO asked about the missing dingo. What do you think happened to it?”



He worked hard not to sound defensive. “I don’t know.”



“Is that what you told Security?”



She wasn’t looking at him. Myell folded his arms. “You talked to them.”



“I talked to Sergeant Rosegarten. When I see Mr. Senga, I’m going to tell him that under no circumstances is he ever to question mem-bers of my division without letting me know.”



Myell was confused. “No. I mean, you told Lieutenant Comman-der Senga that you suspected me. That’s why he called me in.”



“Sergeant, if I had suspected you of anything, you would have heard it from me.”



Abashed, he said, “Yes, ma’am. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about it this morning.”



“Why didn’t you?”



He shrugged.



Jodenny peered down at the DNGO on his bench. “What’s the story on this one?”



Myell was grateful that she’d changed the subject. “This is Leto. She has a broken relay.”



“Did you name all the dingoes?”



“Not me. There was a chief who was working here when I first came into the division. Chief Mustav. He did it.” Myell showed her the inscription underneath Leto’s registration tag. “The repair techs hate them and keep scrubbing them out.”



She ran her fingers over Leto’s hull. “I used to help fix these.”



Myell offered her a wrench. “Be my guest.”



For the first time since he’d known her, she smiled. Myell liked her smile. It made her eyes less haunted and brought color to her cheeks.



“Maybe later,” she said.



“Anytime. It’s usually just me and the dingoes down here—your secret will be safe.”



So would her other secret. If she wanted to come down and cry in the slots, that was nothing that had to be shared with the rest of the ship. Because of the separation in their ranks he would never be able to comfort her, but he could protect her in at least that small way.



Jodenny gave him a speculative look. “When do you take the chief’s exam?”



“I’m not.” Myell took the wrench back and plugged the broken re-lay into a testing unit. “I wasn’t recommended for promotion on my last evaluation.”



“You’ll get a new eval in a few months.”



“I’m getting out at the end of this contract.”



“If you make chief, you might change your mind.”



Damn her for making him say it. “There was an accusation.”



She didn’t blink. “Was it true?”



“No.”



Jodenny stared at him for a long moment. He guessed she would take Ford’s side. She had no choice, really. When a young woman cried rape she always got the benefit of the doubt, and whoever had his pants down at the time was guilty as charged. But then Jodenny said, “I believe you,” and something that had been frozen inside him began to thaw.



“Thank you,” Myell said. And there, he felt it again; sadness that they would never be able to get to know each other the way a man and a woman could, regret that rank would always keep them separated. He would have to work hard to keep his feelings locked away, but he was accustomed to that. A starship was no place to share one’s heart.



“Take the chief’s exam,” Jodenny said. “You never know what’s going to happen.”



“Yes, ma’am,” he said, but just to see her smile again.



* * * *