Abumwe gave a wry half smile. “I appreciate your candor,” she said.
“You are also good at what you do,” Egan said. “To be clear. But discretion is of particular value in this case.”
“I understand,” Abumwe said. “How do you want me to approach the task? I don’t have any direct contacts with the Conclave, but I know someone who might.”
“Your Lieutenant Wilson?” Egan said.
Abumwe nodded. “He knows John Perry personally,” she said, naming the former CDF major who took refuge with the Conclave after the events of Roanoke Colony and then took an alien trade fleet to Earth and informed that planet of their lopsided relationship with the Colonial Union. “It’s not a connection I’m keen on exploiting, but it’s one I can use if necessary.”
“It won’t be necessary,” Rigney said. “We have a direct line to one of General Gau’s inner circle. A councillor named Sorvalh.”
“How do we know her?” Abumwe asked.
“After the unpleasantness with Major Perry showing up over Earth with a Conclave trade fleet, General Gau decided it would be useful to have an official unofficial way for us to talk to his inner circle,” Egan said. “To avoid any unintentional unpleasantness.”
“If we tell her where to show up, she’ll be there,” Rigney said. “We just need to get you there.”
“And make sure that no one else knows you’re coming,” said Egan.
“We’re not attacking any of your ships,” Abumwe said, to Sorvalh.
“Curious,” Sorvalh said. “Because in the past several of your months, we have had twenty ships up and disappear.”
“Conclave military ships?” Abumwe asked.
“No,” Sorvalh said. “Mostly merchant ships and a few repurposed ships.”
“Go on,” Abumwe said.
“There’s not much more to say,” Sorvalh said. “All of them were lost in territory that borders Colonial Union space. All of them disappeared without evidence. Ships, gone. Crews, gone. Cargo, gone. Too few ships to constitute an action which merited a response. Too many to just chalk up to chance or fate.”
“And you’ve had none of these ships reappear,” Abumwe asked.
“There is one,” Sorvalh said. “It’s the Urse Damay.”
“You’re joking,” Wilson said.
“No, Lieutenant Wilson,” Sorvalh said, turning to him. “The Urse Damay was one of the first on the list to go, and one that gave us the greatest amount of worry. It’s a diplomatic ship, or was, and its disappearance was a possible act of war as far as we were concerned. But we didn’t pick up any chatter in our usual channels about it, and for something like this, we would.”
“Yet you still think we’re behind this,” Abumwe said.
“If we were certain, then you would have heard from us already, and not through a diplomatic back channel,” Sorvalh said. “We have our suspicions, but we also have no interest in starting a war with the Colonial Union over suspicions. Just as, obviously, you have no desire to start a war with us over your suspicions, either.”
“The Urse Damay being here should convince you that it’s not us who took it,” Coloma said. “It fired on us.”
“It fired on both of our ships,” Captain Fotew said. “And on ours first. We arrived here just before you did. It was here when we arrived.”
“If we had arrived first, we would have seen it as a Conclave diplomatic ship,” Coloma said. “It’s obvious that it was meant to lure the Clarke and then attack us.”
“That’s one way of looking at it,” Sorvalh said. “Another way is to have your tame, captured Conclave ship fake an attack on an unarmed diplomatic ship and use that as a propaganda tool. It’s not as if the Colonial Union is not above sacrificing a ship or a colony to whip up some righteous anger.”
Coloma stiffened at this; Abumwe reached over and took her arm to calm and caution her. “You’re not actually suggesting this is the case here.”
“I am not,” Sorvalh agreed. “I am pointing out that we both have more questions than answers at the moment. Our ship went missing. It’s shown up here. It’s attacked both of our ships. Who was the intended target is, at the moment, a trivial question because we both ended up as targets. The question we should be asking is, who is targeting us both? How did they know we would be here? And are they the same people who have caused your ships to disappear?”
Wilson turned back to Fotew. “You say that the Urse Damay is dead.”
“Incapacitated at the very least,” Fotew said. “And not a threat in any event.”
“Then I have a suggestion,” Wilson said.
“Please,” Sorvalh said.
“I think it might be time for a joint field trip,” Wilson said.
“Don’t do anything fancy,” Hart Schmidt said to Wilson. The two of them were in the Clarke shuttle bay. The Nurimal’s shuttle, with its pilot and two Conclave military, was waiting for Wilson to board. “Look around, see what you can find out, get out of there.”
“I want to know when it was you became my mother,” Wilson said.
“You keep doing crazy things,” Schmidt said. “And then you keep roping me into them with you.”
“Someone else can monitor me if you want,” Wilson said.
“Don’t be stupid, Harry,” Schmidt said. He checked Wilson’s combat suit a second time. “You’ve checked your oxygen supply.”
“It’s being constantly monitored by my BrainPal,” Wilson said. “Plus the combat suit is configured for a vacuum environment. Plus I can hold my breath for ten minutes at a time. Please, Hart. You’re my friend, but I’m going to have to kill you.”
“All right. Sorry,” Schmidt said. “I’ll be following you from the bridge. Keep your audio and visual circuits open. Coloma and Abumwe will be there, too, if you have any questions for them and vice versa.”
“Just who I want in my head,” Wilson said.
One of the Conclave soldiers, a Lalan, poked his head out of the shuttle and motioned to Wilson. “That’s my ride,” he said.
Schmidt peered at the soldier. “Watch out for these guys,” he said.
“They’re not going to kill me, Hart,” Wilson said. “That would look bad.”
“One day you’re going to be wrong about these things,” Schmidt said.
“When I am, hope that I’m very far away from you,” Wilson said. Schmidt grinned at this and headed back to the shuttle bay control room.
Wilson entered the shuttle. The pilot and one of the soldiers were Lalan, like Sorvalh and Captain Fotew. The other was a Fflict, a squat, hairy race. It motioned to Wilson to have a seat. He did and stowed his MP-35 beneath his feet.
“We have translation circuits built into our suits,” the Fflict said, in its own language, while a translation came through a speaker on its belt. “You can speak your language and we’ll get a translation through our audio feed.”
“Likewise,” Wilson said, and pointed to the speaker. “You can turn that off if you like. I’ll still be able to understand you just fine.”
“Good,” the Fflict said, and turned off the speaker. “I hate the way that thing makes me sound.” It held up a hand and contracted the appendages twice, in a greeting. “I’m Lieutenant Navill Werd.” It pointed toward the Lalans. “Pilot Urgrn Howel, Corporal Lesl Carn.”
“Lieutenant Harry Wilson,” Wilson said.
“Have you been in a vacuum environment before?” Werd asked.
“Once or twice,” Wilson said.
“Good,” Werd said. “Now, listen. This is a joint mission, but someone has to be in charge, and I’m going to propose that it’s me, on account that I’m already supposed to be in charge of these two, and it’s my shuttle besides. Any objection?”
Wilson grinned. “No, sir.”
“Wrong gender,” Werd said. “But your ‘ma’am’ doesn’t exactly work either, so you might as well keep calling me ‘sir.’ No need to make things complicated.”
“Yes, sir,” Wilson said.