Breach of Containment. Elizabeth Bonesteel

purple, and he keyed in Chryse’s ident. Greg’s off-grid would show up as Galileo on the other end, unless Chryse had more detailed data from the last PSI ship that had received communications from this unit. That ship—Orunmila—was in the Third Sector, and it occurred to him that, among all of the questions he might have asked Taras, he should have asked how much of PSI’s intelligence about the Corps they shared with each other. It might have saved him a considerable amount of time.

      Long ago, when he was young and innocent, he had been irritable that PSI seemed so suspicious of Central. At this point in his career, he knew better.

      An off-grid comm often languished for a long time, sometimes hours, before it was acknowledged, but Greg’s signal was picked up almost immediately. “Galileo, this is Captain Bayandi of the starship Chryse. To whom am I speaking?”

      And didn’t that set Greg back on his heels.

      Captain Bayandi.

       Captain Bayandi.

      Nobody spoke with Captain Bayandi. It occurred to Greg there was probably no way even to verify the man’s identity. Every meager interaction Central had ever had with Chryse had been through subordinates. The voice was baritone, cautious, but with overtones of genuine warmth. Welcoming, Greg thought, which fit nothing he knew of Chryse at all.

      Regrouping, he introduced himself. “This is Captain Greg Foster of the CCSS Galileo. I hope I’m not disturbing you, Captain.”

      “Not at all, Captain Foster.” No hesitation. “What can I do for you?”

      Tell me who you are, Greg thought. Tell me what your ship is. Tell me about your crew. Tell me why you never talk to us. Tell me why you never talk to your own people. “I’m contacting you at the request of Captain Taras,” he said.

      “Is she all right? Is Meridia in danger?”

      Instant concern, and convincing worry. In so many ways, this was not the conversation Greg had thought he would be having. “Meridia is in fine shape, Captain,” Greg assured him. “And I spoke with Captain Taras a little while ago. She is in good health and spirits. But she’s concerned about your ship, and asked if I could speak with you.”

      “I don’t understand. We spoke with Captain Taras yesterday. Commander Ilyana should be arriving at Meridia in just a few hours.”

      Greg would have expected annoyance; Bayandi only sounded confused.

      “I don’t want to speak for her,” Greg said carefully. “But I have the impression that she’s still worried about your comms outage a few months ago, and the reason for Commander Ilyana’s trip.”

      Bayandi was silent for a moment. “I see,” he said at last, and he sounded resigned. “I should have given Captain Taras more detail. I apologize for the need for your involvement, Captain Foster.”

      Taras was right; it felt very much like a family squabble. “Don’t be concerned about that, Captain,” he said. “May I ask—is there something we can help you with? Yakutsk notwithstanding, I have some maintenance people I can spare if they would be useful.”

      “That is very kind of you, Captain,” Bayandi said, impeccably sincere. “There is nothing for you to help us with. Ilyana should be able to answer Taras’s questions when she arrives, and we’ll join you at Yakutsk twelve hours afterward. Do you know, yet, if there is anything specific you will need?”

      “No, Captain, but thank you.” Greg frowned. Pleasantries, Taras had said, and it had annoyed her. He was understanding how she felt, but he had no standing to demand answers or details. A PSI ship the Corps had rarely contacted was unlikely to willingly disclose damage information. And if Bayandi had personal reasons for shutting out Captain Taras—that was not a relationship Greg could mediate.

      On the other hand … Bayandi had offered advice, and that alone might be telling.

      “Captain Bayandi, if you have a moment, I’d be interested in hearing your thoughts on the tactical situation on Yakutsk.”

      If the PSI captain was surprised by the question, he betrayed nothing. “They’ve been fighting among themselves for a long time,” he said. “The terraformer project—its inception as much as its failure—has widened long-standing schisms. There is a great deal of anger there, and unkindness. It seems fixed in their culture. But it is not all of them. There are individuals …” Bayandi trailed off. “I think we must be very careful, Captain Foster,” he said at last. “I think we cannot underestimate the need of a subset of the population to feel a sense of control and organization. Yakutsk’s strategic importance is a double-edged sword. It brings them pride, but there are many people there who have killed for power, and will kill again. They are not the people who will help us, and I think attempting a dialogue with them is, at best … procrastination, shall we say?”

      “You think we need to start building civilian allies, rather than dealing with the government.”

      “The government on Yakutsk may have changed again before you arrive there. Negotiating with the government will accomplish nothing.”

      It was a different direction than Greg had been considering. It was also far less well defined, but he felt, for the first time, a glimmer of hope. “Thank you, Captain,” he said honestly. “I’ll discuss your thoughts with my colleagues.”

      “And I will contact Captain Taras immediately,” Bayandi promised. “I am sorry that we have worried her. You may rest assured, I will resolve the issue. Thank you, Captain Foster.” He ended with something curious: “I hope we will talk again.”

      Greg folded up the off-grid thoughtfully. Even if he had anticipated speaking with Bayandi … the man was not at all what Greg would have expected. Despite his age—reported by some as being north of ninety—he had been lucid and attentive, no waver or uncertainty in his voice. Had Greg not known Bayandi’s history, he would have seemed a typical PSI commander.

      Greg was missing something. But PSI being PSI, he was unlikely to ever learn what it was, even from Taras.

      The door chime went off, and Galileo flashed his visitor’s name before his eyes: Commander Lockwood. He shook off his thoughts on PSI. Those worries could wait until they had stabilized the situation on Yakutsk.

      “Good evening, Commander,” he said, when she walked in. “What can I do for you?”

      Jessica Lockwood stood, not precisely at attention, but with the same compact ease she did nearly everything. She was a small woman—very nearly too short for the Corps, and he had taken care never to confirm her recorded height—impeccably beautiful, and always assembled with flawless military precision. She had a head full of curly red hair that she managed to tame back into a symmetrical bun, and shrewd green eyes. Most people noticed only her round-cheeked beauty when they met her, and missed the deep intelligence in those eyes—and the set of stubbornness in her lips. She had been his second-in-command for two years now. He had argued with and raged at her as he had to no one else ever in his life, and he loved her unreservedly, as much as he loved his own sister. He did not think he could have found himself a better first officer anywhere in the Corps.

      “I’ve got some news on Yakutsk, sir,” she said. She did not look him in the eye.

      Greg knew what that meant.

      Before he had promoted her to commander—indeed, long before she had enlisted in the Corps—Jessica had been a dangerously skilled recreational hacker. Having taken an oath to obey Corps regulations, she was generally loath to use her skills in a way that might have been interpreted as illegal. But ever since they had begun secretly investigating Ellis Systems, he had told her to get her intelligence any way she could. He had not been explicit, and she had not been forthcoming; but he knew a great deal of what they had discovered was unlikely to have been obtained by official means. Including, apparently, whatever she needed to tell him now.

      “Off