“Good,” Esmay said, before she thought. Pitak looked at her oddly.
“Most of us aren’t happy about that,” Pitak said. “We admit the necessity but . . . you like it?”
“Better than captivity,” Esmay said. The tremors were gone; the fear receded.
“Well. You never cease to amaze, Suiza. Since your brain seems to be working well enough, I’ll answer some questions you’ll no doubt ask in five minutes if I don’t. We aren’t jumping out of this system, because we can’t. I don’t know why. It might be that the intruders sabotaged the FTL drive . . . it might be that the fast-sequence jumps we did coming in shook something loose. Drives and Maneuver is on it. I need you to do a search, since you’re good at that: if we assume that the fast-sequence jumps caused some structural damage or shift, what would it be?”
“Yes, sir.”
“If you come up with anything, buzz me. We’ve got those Wraith structural supports coming over the line, and I need to be there for the installation.” She started out the door, and then turned back. “Oh yes: the new procedures are that no one goes anywhere alone, and that includes the head. We know that at least one of the intruders now has a current ID badge—no doubt they’d like more. The captain may decide to firewall the ship, but right now there’s not enough security personnel to man the access points. We’re supposed to be alert for any strangers, anyone we’re not used to seeing around, though on a ship this size that’s not much use. I certainly wouldn’t know half the instructors over in T-1 by sight, let alone the students.” She sighed. “This is going to be a real bitch to implement. Rekeying thousands of IDs every day, and rechecking all personnel they’re given to. All of us wearing tagtales, all of us going around in bunches.”
“Are we all going to move into open bays for sleeping?”
“I hope not.” Pitak scrubbed at her head. “I can’t sleep like that anymore; I’m old enough to be wakened by snorers. But it may come to that, though it means leaving a lot of compartments vacant—which can only help the intruders. Anyway, the captain’s asked the flags for more personnel for security—and I understand there were words exchanged about that between our admiral and Livadhi. But we’ve got to get Wraith back in action. If, as we suspect, there’s a Bloodhorde battle group coming here to pick us off, we’ll need every bit of help we can get.”
“Is that possible—I mean, you said it would take—”
“Longer than we have. I know. Hull repairs alone should run sixty to seventy days . . . then there’s refitting the internal systems, installing the weapons, testing. But there’s nothing else to do. Maybe they’ll be late—maybe they’ll get lost. Maybe our fleet will come back. Or maybe they’ll get the self-destruct fixed and we won’t have to worry about anything . . . at least those of us who don’t believe in an afterlife. Do you? Is that why you think it’s a good idea?”
“Not . . . exactly.” She didn’t believe in the afterlife her great-grandmother had taught her about, where the dead were placed on the level they’d earned like pots of flowers on a stand. But she found it hard to imagine nothingness, an absolute end.
“Mmm.” Pitak looked as if she’d like to say something more, but someone called her from the passage and she left without another word. Esmay looked at her screen a moment, and then at the bulkhead. Barin a hostage . . . Barin dead? She could not imagine either of those . . . not Barin, so brimful of energy, so much a Serrano. It was not her assignment. Pitak had warned her. But . . . of all the people on this ship, she was the one who had actually fought on shipboard.
There must be others. Security personnel had experience; that’s what they trained for. She wasn’t trained. She had no weapons.
She was thinking the wrong things. She wasn’t thinking at all. Memory splashed her mind with the images of battle in Despite . . . she could imagine that behind the partition between her cubicle and the rest of the offices, someone lurked with a weapon.
Ridiculous. Yet she could not just sit there; she itched to be . . . somewhere, doing . . . something. She scolded herself for letting a brief experience of command turn her head. With a shipful of admirals on down, they weren’t going to let a lieutenant in Hull and Architecture do anything but look up statistics in computer files.
Barin had dozed off, but woke when he heard an approaching noise. Help, maybe? Instead it was another of the intruders, with two men and a woman in civilian clothes. Barin knew, in a general way, who they were: civilian technical advisors, experts, contractors hired to do something in weapons systems. He’d never actually met any of them, though he’d seen them in the corridors and lift tubes occasionally. Ordinary middle-aged civilians, he’d thought. Of no interest to him, since they weren’t working in his area. Now they stared at him as if he were a monster too. He supposed he looked pretty bad, with his swollen nose and bruised face, but they didn’t have to look as if they thought it was all his fault.
“You lied to us,” one of the Bloodhorde said. “You were paid to fix this, and you didn’t. When we looked, the lights were green.”
“But we did fix it,” said the taller man earnestly. “We fixed it so that it wouldn’t work, but the captain would think it did work. That’s why all the telltales are green. He could run his system test, and it would come up—”
“They’re not green now,” his captor said.
“What happened?” The man leaned past his captor to look, and turned an interesting shade of pale green. “You—did you tear those wires out?”
“To make sure it wouldn’t work, yes. Because you lied to us.”
“But I didn’t lie. Now he knows it doesn’t work—and he could have a backup—”
“You were supposed to disable all self-destruct devices.” That with a series of shoves that ended when the man bumped into the bulkhead. “You were paid to do that!” Another, harder shove; the man staggered. “So if you left one, then you have broken your word to us, and . . . we take that very seriously.”
“But—we don’t know—we did what you said—” The man looked as if he couldn’t quite believe the situation; he kept glancing at Barin and away again.
“Fix it again so that it looks to the captain as if it’s working,” the Bloodhorde leader said.
“But the captain will know it’s been tampered with—fixing it now won’t convince him. Someone would have to tell him . . . I could go tell him I could fix it, they know we’re experts in weapons systems, and then I could—” The man didn’t have time to flinch away before he was dying, the blade deep in his throat and a hard hand squeezing his mouth, stifling his last bubbling scream. Blood spurted, then flowed, then stopped, filling the compartment with the smell of blood so strong it almost covered the stench of death itself.
The woman screamed, a short cry cut off in terror as one of the others slapped her. The killer let the dead man fall, and then wiped his bloody hand across his own mouth, then the woman’s. “They don’t call us the Bloodhorde for nothing,” he said, grinning. With the same knife—and it seemed even worse to Barin that he didn’t wipe it clean between the killing and the mutilation—he sliced off the dead man’s left ear, bit it hard once, and then tucked it away in his uniform. “Now,” he said to the second civilian. “You will fix this so it looks as if it’s working.”
The second man, shorter and darker-haired than the other, hurried to comply. When he had done, the telltales showed green again.
“That’s got it,” he said.
“Is this right?” the killer asked the woman.
“Yes . . . yes it is right,” she said.