Major Pitak came in while she was still arguing with herself. “That Camajo fellow from Wraith must be still half-tranked,” she said, dropping a half-dozen cubes onto her desk. “I couldn’t get out of him which simulations were in . . . sent him on down to E-12; they can use him for a runner if nothing else. Can’t cause much trouble that way.”
Esmay lost her argument with prudence. “Major, I was wondering about a security breach . . .”
“Security breach! What are you talking about?”
“Camajo. I’m not sure, but . . . something wasn’t right.”
“He’d been out for a week; that scrambles anyone’s brain. How could he be a security breach?”
“He just didn’t react the way he should,” Esmay said. “The way he looked at me—it wasn’t a tranked-out sort of expression.”
Pitak looked at her, alert. “You’ve been through one mutiny; if it hasn’t made you paranoid, maybe you would notice something wrong. So you think he might be a traitor, like Hearne and Garrivay?”
“No, sir. I was thinking . . . what if someone infiltrated Wraith. Through the hull breach maybe. Couldn’t Bloodhorde troops have gotten in there, before Wraith jumped out?”
“You mean like boarding a watership in a pirate story? Nobody does that, Suiza, not in real life in deep space. Even pirates send people over in pods. Besides, how would they survive through jump?”
“Well . . . there were survivors in the forward compartments.”
“But those were Wraith crew, in Wraith uniforms, with their names on the crew list. I was there myself, Suiza. I didn’t see anything that looked like Bloodhorde commandos, just wounded who’d been knocked out by sleepygas to conserve oxygen.”
“You’re sure.”
Pitak looked at her with a combination of exhaustion and irritation. “Unless you’re suggesting that the Bloodhorde cleverly dressed their soldiers in our uniforms—uniforms that just happened to have the right ID patterns in the cloth, and the right nametags on the pockets—and wounded them, drenched them in their own blood, then left them there to jump in a damaged ship—?”
“I suppose they really were wounded?”
Pitak snorted. “I’m no medic—how would I know? They were unconscious and covered with blood, wearing our uniform. What more do you want?”
It was a silly question, but Esmay didn’t bother to point that out. The itchy feeling between her shoulders wouldn’t go away. “Camajo wasn’t wounded . . . I think I’ll check with sickbay, if you don’t mind.”
“Snarks in a bucket, Suiza, why don’t you keep your mind on your work—or am I not giving you enough? Let Medical worry about the wounded, unless you want to transfer over there—”
“No, sir.” Esmay heard in her own voice the stubborn conviction that she was right.
Pitak glared at her. “You’re worried about something.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Spit it out then.”
“Sir, I . . . I have a bad feeling—” Pitak snorted and rolled her eyes like a skittish mare; Esmay persisted. “The thing is, sir, if they could get close enough to hand-plant a mine, they could have put some troops aboard.”
“Without anyone noticing? That’s—”
“Sir, Wraith was isolated at the time of the attack; individuals in EVA gear—or even in small pods—wouldn’t have shown up on scans by Justice and Sting; Wraith’s own scan was badly damaged. The tactical analysis suggested that the Bloodhorde might want to capture a DSR, not just destroy one. I know we don’t usually consider the Bloodhorde as having this sort of planning ability, but consider: if they can get a commando team aboard the DSR, they could cause enough disruption to make it easier for a follow-up ship or wave of ships to board and capture it.”
“I can see where that might be a plan, Suiza, but I repeat: those wounded wore our uniform. Our uniform, with the Fleet recognition code in the weave . . . you think they stole a bale of our cloth and made up uniforms, then stole Wraith’s personnel list—”
“No, sir.” Esmay’s mind raced, trying to catch up to her intuition. “Suppose . . . suppose they boarded, forward of the breach, counting on the confusion. Communications to the forward compartments failed, with the damage . . . so whatever they did up there wouldn’t be known aft. They could have overpowered any uninjured crew, killed them, put on their uniforms, spaced their own uniforms and the dead—”
“It still sounds like something out of an adventure cube, Suiza, not like real life.” Pitak chewed her lip. “Then, on the other hand, the Bloodhorde go for the dramatic. You would argue then that the blood belonged to the real RSS personnel, now dead—and that inside those bloody uniforms, the enemy were unwounded?”
“Yes, sir, unless jump transit did them some harm. Those compartments weren’t any too sound, you said.”
“No . . .” Pitak glowered at her. “I must say, Suiza, your passion for completeness can be a real pain sometimes. We had enough to do already.” She reached for the comm switch. “But I’ll check.”
For the time it took for Pitak to work her way through the obstacles the medical section put in the way of the merely curious, Esmay tried to settle to her own assignment. The lines and figures blurred on the page . . . she kept seeing in her mind what she had not seen with her own eyes, the dark compartments of Wraith’s bow section, cluttered with debris and unconscious men and women. Men and women with Camajo’s—or whatever his name really was—eyes, the alert eyes of those on a mission. She ran her stylus along a column of figures, trying to force her mind to some useful task.
A change in the tone of Pitak’s voice brought her upright, fully alert.
“Oh?” Elaborately casual, that. “Interesting—I helped evacuate some of them, you know, and they were covered with blood—yes. I see. Just the effect of the sleepygas? Are they still in sickbay then?” Her voice sharpened. “When?” Her eyes met Esmay’s. “I see.”
Esmay waited, as Pitak closed the circuit.
“If you retain this habit of being right, Suiza, you’re going to be hated.” Esmay said nothing. “They weren’t wounded, any of them. Twenty-five males . . . seemed a little dazed and confused when they woke up, and three hours ago they were sent off to various workstations around the ship. Camajo, as we both know, was sent here, to H&A. If they were Bloodhorde . . . that many Bloodhorde loose in our ship could do us real damage . . .”
“Yes, sir.”
“And I don’t even know where they are. A petty-chief named Barrahide, from Personnel, came and got them. Not somebody from Wraith, because all Wraith personnel who aren’t in sickbay are busy helping our people with damage assessment.” As she talked, Pitak was scrolling through the communications tree. “Ah. Here we are. Extension . . . 7762.” Another call, but this time Pitak talked as she waited for someone to pick up on the other end. “That’s if they’re Bloodhorde. They might not be. We need someone from Wraith . . . or rather, the captain does. But I’ll see what Barrahide can tell me.”