Breach of Containment. Elizabeth Bonesteel

      Ted pulled on safety gloves and removed the artifact again, clamping it securely against the tabletop. He could have used a hand spanner, but instead he mounted a mechanical one, setting it over one of the artifact’s narrow sides. “This will dig a micron at a time,” he told her. “As soon as it hits a variation in any reading at all, it’ll stop.”

      And it was this exercise that gained them a result. The mechanical spanner stopped at 350 microns. “Anomaly detected,” it said, and projected what it had found. Jessica recognized it instantly.

      Dim, incomplete, and fading: it was the magnetic shadow of a comm signal.

      This was Jessica’s field. “I need an amplifier,” she told Ted, “and something that’ll extrapolate for me.”

      “Extrapolation is awfully inexact.”

      “Less inexact than just hacking it in half,” she pointed out, and he left to find the tools.

      She spent the better part of an hour on the shadow, focusing on the smallest fragments she could find, telling Galileo what she did and did not want the ship to consider important. Galileo might have made entirely different choices, if Jessica had left it to the automated systems. None of this was precise, and it irked her cryptographic mind to be analyzing a potential weapon with what were basically guesses.

      In the end, what she had was a muddled mess, but if she listened to it in just the right way, she could believe it was fragments of someone speaking. “Or dogs barking,” she said aloud, disgusted with herself. “Or maybe bats. Shit, Ted, this is meaningless.”

      “Probably,” he agreed. “But see what you get from the extrapolator.”

      They had to give the tool parameters. Yes, they thought it was human speech. Yes, they thought it was a known language. Yes, they thought it was recent. Yes, they thought it was a comm signal. She sat back and listened to the iterations. The extrapolator was focusing on the rhythm of it, the rise and fall of the tone; they had said speech, and the extrapolator was finding words.

      “This is a chicken-egg thing, Ted,” she protested. “Nothing we hear will—”

      Cytheria, the extrapolator said.

      So much for doubts. She turned to Ted. “Did you hear that?”

      He nodded. “Let it iterate a few more times.”

      But having heard it, she couldn’t unhear it. Cytheria. And then, a few iterations later, a second word emerged, further down the stream: Chryse.

      “What the hell?” Ted said, frowning.

      But Jessica hit her comm to look for Greg. “Captain?”

      He answered immediately. “What’s the matter, Commander?”

      “Nothing. Everything’s—well. We’ve maybe got something on this … thing of Elena’s, sir. Do you still have the comm of the distress call you received on Yakutsk?”

      “Of course. Hang on.” There was a pause, and the message played over her comm: This is an automated distress call. This is Cytheria, off of the PSI starship Chryse. We are in need of retrieval. Repeating. We are in need of retrieval.

      “Galileo,” Jessica asked, “what are the odds that’s the message we’re trying to reconstitute?”

      “Rhythmic and tonal match eighty-five percent certainty,” the ship said.

      “Greg,” she said into her comm, “you should probably come down here.”

       CHAPTER 12

       Cytheria

      Elena left Galileo wrapped in the familiarity of a shuttle she had flown a hundred times. The hum of the engine, the responsiveness of the controls, the curve of the front window with the tactical display overlaying her view of the stars—it was at once soothing and heartbreaking. Nightingale didn’t sound like Galileo, but Elena knew the shuttle’s music nearly as well, and she wanted nothing more than to stay where she was, eyes closed, and listening to the engines, possibly for the rest of her life.

      Galileo’s melodies had not changed. Elena hadn’t even noticed until she realized what she was missing: that low-level awareness of an unfamiliar rhythm. During the six-week run from Earth, she had not had time to internalize Budapest’s sounds. Yuri was always patient with her questions—as an experienced mechanic himself, he knew how important it was to be tuned in to the ship—but she had always felt vaguely out of sync. She had stepped onto Galileo, and something inside of her had stilled, as if she had stopped worrying a wound.

      And for that, if nothing else, she was grateful to Arin. Worrying about him had allowed her to avoid the fact that she was just going to have to leave again.

      She would have to speak with Jessica, too. During their conversations over the last year, Jessica had volunteered information on Greg, knowing Elena would never ask; but Elena had realized almost as soon as she had seen him that Jessica had left out some important things.

      Elena knew Greg had been seeing Andriya Vassily, captain of the Third Sector starship CCSS Cassia, and that Jessica didn’t entirely approve, worried that Greg had fallen back into the patterns of his failed long-distance marriage. Of course, he also had other lovers, including a journalist for the streamers whom Jessica openly disliked. Elena had seen the woman’s reporting, and she could understand why Greg might like her: she came across as quick and good-humored, and she was stunningly, vid-ready beautiful. Jessica had ranted, but Elena had found herself oddly pleased. After the marriage he had escaped, he deserved beautiful women. He deserved legions of them fighting over him. Sometimes, when she thought of him, she imagined just that.

      But she had seen it in his eyes as he sat in the infirmary offering her absolution: he was lonely. He had always been lonely, as long as she had known him, but that was supposed to have changed. Over the last eighteen months, Elena had been jealous of his blossoming friendship with Jessica, the professional and personal relationship she was closed out of. She had been happy for them both, and bitterly sorry for herself. But apparently, despite their easy camaraderie, their relationship had changed nothing for Greg at all: he was still by himself in all the ways that mattered.

      As long as she had known him, he had lived behind a wall. He would tell her, if she asked, that it was necessary, that he was the captain, that distance was critical. But she had seen it in him from the start, from the first time she met him, when she was an ensign looking for a transfer and he was the captain she wanted to impress. All these years she thought he had done it on purpose, kept himself away from everyone. She wondered, sitting in Galileo’s shuttle, if the truth was he had no idea how to let anybody in.

      She had a moment of self-awareness at the thought, and nearly smiled. Always easier to psychoanalyze other people than to understand yourself, right?

      “Nightingale, what’s our travel time?” she asked.

      “Two hours, forty-seven minutes,” the shuttle responded.

      “Wake me up in two hours and seventeen minutes,” she said. Unfastening her harness, she stood up from the pilot’s seat and wandered into the back of the little ship. She stripped off her filthy env suit and tucked it into a corner, then turned on the shuttle’s utilitarian sink and sponged off, dipping her head under the faucet to wash the dome dust out of her hair. When she finished she pulled on one of the regulation Corps env suits folded neatly in a storage drawer. She had no comb, but she ran her fingers through her long hair, working out the tangles, and weaved it into her usual loose braid.