The Cold Between. Elizabeth Bonesteel

in his face before he made a sound. Her eyes widened with dread.

      “Who is it?”

      Of course she would know what had happened. There was a particular flavor to it, the death of one of their own. “I’m sorry, Elena,” he said. “It’s Danny. He’s been killed.”

      He watched her face change, stage by stage: astonishment, doubt, denial, anger. Her eyes flashed, sharp and flinty. “Are you sure?”

      “They have his ident. I’ll send Doctor Hastings down to verify, but there’s really no question.”

      Her fingers convulsed against the ship. She turned away and then froze, as if she was trapped in a small space. “What happened? He drinks too much, all the time, was that it? Did he—”

      Damn all colonies straight to hell. “He was murdered, Elena. I’m sorry.”

      For a moment she did not react at all, and he thought he would have to repeat it. But then she said, “What?”

      He looked away, reflexively running a hand over his short-cropped hair. “He was knifed. His comm was taken. For what it’s worth they’ve arrested a suspect—someone they’ve been watching for a while.” He left it at that; she did not need to know the rest. The rest he would take up with Will after the news of Lancaster was public and he did not have to rein in his emotions anymore.

      “So you’re telling me he was mugged. That Danny was killed over money.” She pushed herself away from the shuttle, turning her back to him, her arms wrapped around herself. Her spine was stiff, but he could see how fast she was breathing. Rage and grief; he had been through it with her before, when Jake had been killed. When they had still been friends. “How long will they let us stay?” she asked, her voice low.

      They meant Central. Elena knew the rules. “I haven’t spoken with them yet.” Mindful of Herrod’s order to depart that morning, he was waiting for more intel from the Novanadyr police department before he informed the admiral of his intent to remain. He thought he knew how Herrod would respond, but despite his hard line with Will, he was not beyond a little insubordination himself. They could do their part monitoring for PSI movement while they were in orbit, and if Herrod didn’t like it, he could haul his aging ass off of Earth and relieve Greg in person.

      She shook her head. “We’ve already been out six months. What’s a few more days?”

      He did not answer. She knew as well as he did what long tours did to soldiers, how events like one little night of shore leave became the difference between efficiency and anarchy. Greg believed he had the best crew in the fleet, but he knew a few more days might break them. A few more days might break her, too.

      “Why did we come here, Greg?” she asked, in that same quiet voice.

      It had been weeks, he realized with some surprise, since she had used his first name. Since their argument. “You know why,” he answered, confused. “Demeter needed repairs, and we took on her delivery. We—”

      “I know what we did, Greg. I want to know why.” She turned to face him, and her rage hit him like a slap. “What was so critical about their cargo? Their timeline? Some two-bit trawler hauling for some overfed liquor merchants adds three weeks to our schedule, and you don’t even blink?”

      “Elena—”

      “No, let me guess,” she snapped. “You can’t tell me. Some need-to-know bullshit. Well Danny is dead, Greg, because of your need-to-know bullshit. Over money, for God’s sake, that paltry ten thousand that was all he ever managed to save, no matter how many times he won at cards, no matter how much—”

      She stopped, and he saw the reality of it begin to sink in, and he wanted to throw away his rank and his detachment and his pointless self-involvement and put his arms around her, pooling her grief with his own. He had long since abdicated any right to offer her comfort, and for a moment his composure threatened to disintegrate in the face of a wave of self-loathing. Dammit, he should have had someone else tell her. He had forgotten, after all these months of avoiding her, how easily she could dismantle him.

      He watched her expression close, her breathing steady, her posture straighten. Little by little she hid herself from him again, tucking away all her rage and bitterness.

      “Thank you for telling me, Captain,” she said calmly.

      This was worse, he thought: this deliberate separation, this rejection of anything he might offer her. “Elena, if you need anything—”

      “Don’t.” The word was a choked whisper.

      He nodded. “I’ll be informing the rest of the crew in a few minutes. Just so you know.”

      She looked away from him, and he turned back to the door, grasping at the shards of his anger. He needed it back. His rage helped him to forget how entirely pointless his presence was, how useless he was to her, to his crew, to the dead man.

      There would be justice, and it would make no difference.

      He shook off self-pity and left the hangar to tell his crew their comrade was dead.

      He spoke to them in the only area large enough to hold the entire crew: the massive VIP conference room, years ago repurposed as the ship’s pub. He kept it brief and factual, talking about justice and love and losing one of their own, and he saw in some faces, at least, that it helped. They believed in him, and they believed he would find justice for Danny. After all, he was the man who made things happen, who circumvented regs and logic and the goddamned laws of physics when it suited him. His reputation, as exaggerated as it was, worked in his favor. When he finished they were shocked and grieved, but reassured that he would get to the bottom of it all.

      When Greg turned to Will at the close of his speech, his first officer looked pallid and shaken, unable to hide his shock. Will had played some poker with Danny—Danny excelled at losing money, and was popular at the gambling table—but Greg had not thought they were so close.

      It was a rare crack in Will’s armor, and Greg thought he could use it.

      “With me,” he said stiffly, and walked out, trusting Will would follow him. There were too many people still milling about to risk having this discussion in public.

      Will trailed into Greg’s office after him and sat in his usual chair without asking. Greg leaned against the edge of the desk, arms crossed. Will met Greg’s eyes, already defensive.

      “I hate coincidence, Will,” Greg told him.

      “I don’t know what you mean.”

      “I’ll spell it out, then,” he said, still calm. “One of my men gets killed in the middle of a cargo mission you requested, right around the time I get my ass handed to me because you decide Shadow Ops has somehow given you the authority to keep me out of the loop on a general alert. Which coincidentally involves some fairy story MacBride is telling about being attacked by PSI. And here’s the most interesting thing about that. Do you know who Novanadyr is holding for Lancaster’s murder? Some PSI expat who just settled there. Who somehow manages to kill a trained fighter with an old-fashioned, low-tech blade.” Greg leaned forward, looming over Will’s chair. “Lancaster was nearly decapitated, did you know that? I didn’t tell the crew, but I’ve got that picture in my head. A thirty-five-year-old man, with a sister and four nieces, bleeding out in seven seconds on an alien planet.”

      He had not raised his voice, but Will had flinched. “So let me reiterate, Commander Valentis: I hate coincidence. Explain to me why I shouldn’t shut down your investigation right now and tear up the concrete on that rock down there until I find out what happened.”

      “You don’t have the authority,” Will said, his voice dry.

      So much for sympathy. “We are ten days away from the closest Central hub, Commander,” he returned. “Five months away from Earth, if we take a straight shot. I can do whatever the fuck I want out here,