Once she began thinking like this, she could not stop. Detail after detail came to her, and each one seemed as damning as the last. Particularly whatever had been done to the power sockets in her quarters… no one overpowered a socket unless they intended harm to a device or a person. His specialty code was E&C; he had to know the importance of delivering the right voltage to different parts of various devices. He knew electronics; he knew implants used low-power connections and probably knew that implant cables were never used in high-voltage sockets. And he might well assume that she would top up the battery for her implant once she was near a source of electricity.
Who else might have the right skill sets? She ran through the roster. Several of the others had some knowledge of communications, or some experience with electronics, but how could they get in and out of her quarters without Marek’s knowledge and connivance? He, like she and Jen, could go anywhere; the others would be noticed if they were out of place.
Only Marek had the skills and the opportunity. He had set a lethal trap; her avoidance of it wouldn’t stop him. And he had fooled her before; for her own sake and that of the others, she must not be fooled again. So a confrontation would come, inevitably, and best that it come when she was ready for it.
She took out her pistol and looked at it. She had cleaned it as best she could when alone in the hut up above; she had not yet, in the few days they’d been here, used the armory. Her ammunition clips still held a choice of rounds; she stared at them, thinking hard. She had no qualms about killing in general—she had killed before, in close quarters as well as at a distance, in space combat. But she had always killed those she knew were enemies, those who openly attacked her first.
Her stomach roiled as if she were standing on the edge of a precipice. Killing in the moment of danger—facing a declared enemy—that was different. Now… she contemplated planning a killing, creating a situation in which she would have the advantage. And what if she was wrong? What if it was someone else? Even if right, how would she explain what she had done to the others? How could she expect them to accept it, with no proof at all? Yes, the outlets were delivering a high voltage, but as far as they knew, it might have been anyone, or it might have been high-voltage all along, for some special piece of equipment used by those who came seasonally.
And if she didn’t take the initiative, and he killed her? What then? Command was responsibility—she could not leave the others to whatever he decided to do with them. To what his bosses chose to do. She had to act to protect them as well as herself, to protect Slotter Key itself from whoever would intentionally crash a shuttle like that.
How would Marek analyze the threat she posed? Would he realize, from anything she’d said tonight, from her appearance in the kitchen, that she now suspected him? She must not walk into a trap; she must anticipate what he might do. The rewiring of outlets had been subtle, indirect, and if she had died, it very likely would not have been traced to him. Would his next attempt be something similar? A drug in her food or drink—or in everyone’s but his? Would he turn to direct violence? She wished she had his service record.
She looked down at her ammunition clips again and considered which was best to use, most effective, safest for anyone else who happened to be near. Chemstuns, frangibles, spudders, each with advantages and disadvantages. She made her choice.
With that choice, she felt relaxed enough to sleep. She padded over to her outer door in her socks and set the lock. He could break in, of course, but she set her implant’s security level to high. Any touch on either the door or the lock would wake her without revealing that to the person outside her door.
She lay down on the floor on the off side of her bed, her pistol under the pillow she took from the bed. When she woke again, two hours later, nothing had triggered her implant alarm, and she felt remarkably rested… and even more convinced she was right. It was nearly time for the morning buzzer. What would Marek have come up with? She fastened her uniform jacket, and—pistol comfortably nestled in its holster—opened the door. The next door, Jen’s, was ajar.
Her heart thudded. Had Marek killed Jen? But he knew she herself was the more dangerous one. Why would he attack Jen? She stood still, listening. Not a sound from the passage; then the sound of the morning buzzer. Time for the next shift to get up for the watch change. Creaking of beds, thumps of feet hitting the floor. Ky stepped out, closed her door behind her, locked it. Whatever Marek was doing, soon the others would be out and about. He would probably avoid a confrontation in front of others.
She walked down the passage toward the toilets and showers. She saw McLenard and Kamat come out of the barracks, headed for the mess. They were today’s kitchen helpers, she remembered. She heard Marek’s voice from up the passage to the ramp upstairs and the sound of boots—someone else coming down. Everything seemed normal, but what about Jen? How was she going to tell Jen and when?
Just then Jen emerged from the bathrooms, her uniform perfect as always. “Good morning, Admiral Vatta,” she said as usual. “I trust you slept well?”
“A touch of headache overnight, so I went in the kitchen and made tea,” Ky said. “Better now.”
“I need to speak to you privately,” Jen said, in a much quieter tone. “The staff office?”
“What is it?” Ky asked, not moving. She didn’t have time for another of Jen’s complaints about someone out of uniform or failing in Cascadian standards of courtesy.
“It’s a personnel problem. We really should be private.”
The staff office would not do, nor would her own quarters. Marek had been in both and might—probably did—have surveillance running. “Let’s take another look at the T,” Ky said. “Nobody goes down that way.”
She led the way. The T was, as nearly always, completely empty. Down at the end, the pressure door’s locks and wheel looked just the same as always, and Ky was uneasily aware that they were now at the end of a perfect firing range, next to the target. She looked back down the passage and stepped into the laundry.
“Now—what’s the problem?” Ky asked.
Jen pursed her lips in exactly the way Ky’s mother had years ago. “The problem is a personnel matter. Surely you are aware of the way your over-familiarity has eroded proper military discipline.”
“My over-familiarity? What are you talking about?” This was the last thing Ky had expected.
“You chat casually with enlisted personnel about non-task topics; you allow far too much free time; you even—and it pains me to have to say this to a fellow officer—you even spend idle time alone, with… with Master Sergeant Marek.”
Ky felt a flash of anger, but her implant flushed the hormones down to normal levels. “I had a headache last night and went to the kitchen to make tea. Master Sergeant Marek was on duty, and found me there. You can ask him.”
“You weren’t back in your quarters for over an hour! That’s more than tea!” Red patches stood out on Jen’s cheeks. She looked as tense as if she were about to spring at Ky.
Ky stared back, confused. What was this about? “What do you think I was doing besides drinking tea and then going to the toilet?”
“You’re always spending time with Master Sergeant Marek. What do you think I’m thinking? What everyone’s thinking?”
It was so ludicrous Ky nearly burst out laughing; the last of her anger vanished. “Sex?” she asked, trying to keep the laughter out of her voice. “With him?”