The Cold Between. Elizabeth Bonesteel

fulfill Demeter’s cargo obligations, he had agreed, despite the fact that it was prolonging their mission another three weeks. MacBride was providing twenty-five members of his crew to do the actual work of delivery, and it would take Galileo to a planet well-known for its recreational value.

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

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

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

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

      “Sir, if I can explain—”

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

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

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

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

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

      “No, sir. Nothing else.”

      “Then you’re dismissed.”

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

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

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

      Or was PSI changing their tactics?

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

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

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

       CHAPTER 4

      Volhynia

      Elena walked along Novanadyr’s wide streets, the bright morning light casting long shadows. She could not remember the last time she had stayed up all night for anything beyond her job. Back when she was in college, she thought. Before she enlisted. Back when it was easy to ignore her worries and be carefree, at least for a few hours.

      The night would catch up with her, she knew. In this moment, however, she could not remember ever feeling so delightfully wide-awake.

      Traffic picked up as she neared the spaceport. A few quiet solar mass-transit trams slid past along the center of the street, and she caught sight of some private shuttles speeding politely over the low rooftops. She realized, as numerous pedestrians smiled at her and wished her good morning, that she was wearing a wide grin. Well, so be it: for once she could be part of the crowd who had enjoyed shore leave.

      They had made love as the sun rose, and then he had washed her hair, and found her an elastic she could use to tie it back. She caught him watching as she looped her hair into an efficient knot at the nape of her neck, and when she asked he had smiled. “I had never realized,” he told her, “how lovely a woman could be in a soldier’s uniform.”

      It was hyperbole, she knew; he had grown up around women in uniform, and she was certain many of them were far more beautiful than she was. But somehow, in the moment, she believed him.

      Despite the early hour the spaceport floor was crowded, numerous visiting shuttles lined up against the walls. Exodus One rested undisturbed where Elena had left her the night before. She began her preflight check, and caught herself humming; dancing was impractical when she was leaning down to look at the undercarriage, but every part of her felt full of music.

      “Why are you so goddamned cheerful?” a voice growled behind her.

      She turned and grinned at Ted. “Good morning, Lieutenant,” she greeted him. “How does the day find you?”

      Ted Shimada was, at most times, a good-looking man, lean-muscled and hearty, but this morning he looked haggard. “There’s a remote possibility I had too much to drink last night.” She laughed aloud, and he winced. “Fuck, Lanie. Seriously.” He squinted at her. “You are cheerful, aren’t you? Who’d you spend the night under?”

      “Some guy I met in a bar.”

      “You? Picked up some spaceport cruiser? I don’t believe it.”

      “He wasn’t a cruiser,” she told him. “He was PSI.”

      That shocked most of the hangover right out of him. “Seriously? You picked up a pirate?”

      “Well,” she said, a little alarmed