“Major Currald’s alive, and we think he’ll make it, though he’s pretty bad. He’ll be out for at least three days. Two more have had their stomachs pumped; those who just sipped it heaved it all up again, as you did. So far everyone’s buying the idea of the invaders having dumped poison in the nearest canister in the galleys - that would almost fit, because the coffee tins were sitting out, ready to brew. Apparently it wasn’t in all the coffee - or didn’t you drink that first batch sent to the bridge?”
“I didn’t, but some others did, with no effect. What else?”
“The concentration was wildly different in the different containers we found - as if someone had just scooped a measure or so, carelessly, into the big kettles, and not all of those. Altogether we’ve had eleven report in here, and reports of another nine or ten who didn’t feel bad enough to come in once they quit vomiting - I’m tracking those. More important: captain, if you experience any color change in your vision - if things start looking strange - report here at once. Some people have a late reaction to this; it has to do with the way some people’s livers break down the original poison. Some of the metabolites undergo secondary degradation and lose the hydroxy - “
Sassinak interrupted what was about to be an enthusiastic description of the biochemistry of the poison, with, “Right - if things change color, I’ll come down. Talk to you later.” She found herself smiling at the slightly miffed snort that came down the line before she clicked it off. Mayerd would get over it; she should have known the captain wouldn’t want a lecture on biochemical pathways.
So someone had tried to poison not only the more senior officers, but also the crew - or some of the crew. She wondered just how random the poisoning had been… had the kettles which hadn’t been poisoned been chosen to save friends? Poisoning still made little sense in terms of helping the slavers. Unless this person planned to kill everyone, and somehow rig a message to them… but only one of the Communications specialists would be likely to have the skills for that. Sassinak was careful not to turn and look suspiciously at the Comm cubicle. Morale was going to be bad enough.
Her intercom beeped, and she put the headset back on. “Sassinak here.”
It was the Med officer again. “Captain, it’s not only an alkaloid, it’s an alkaloid from a plant native to Diplo.”
She opened her mouth to say “So?” and then realized what that meant. “Diplo. Oh… dear.” A heavyworld system. As far as some were concerned, the most troublesome heavyworld political unit, outspoken to the point of rudeness about the duties of the lightweights to their stronger cousins. “Are you sure?”
“Very.” Mayerd sounded almost smug, and deserved to be. “Captain, this is one of the reference poisons in our databank - because it’s rare, and its structure can be used to deduce others, when we run them through the machines. It is precisely that one - and I know you don’t want to hear the name, because you didn’t even want to hear about the hydroxy-group cleavage - “ Sassinak winced at her sarcasm, but let it pass. “ - And I can confirm that it did not come from medical stores: someone brought it aboard as private duffel.” A longish pause, and then, “Someone from Diplo, I would think. Or with friends there.”
“Currald nearly died,” said Sass, remembering that the Med officer had had more than one sharp thing to say about heavyworlders and their medical demands on her resources.
“And might still. I’m not accusing Currald; I know that not every heavyworlder is a boneheaded fanatic. But it is a poison from a plant native to an aggressively heavyworlder planet, and that’s a fact you can’t ignore. Excuse me, they’re calling me.” And with the age-old arrogance of the surgeon, she clicked off her intercom and left Sassinak sitting there.
A heavyworlder poison. To the Med officer, that clearly meant a heavyworlder poisoner. But was that too easy? Sassinak thought of Currald’s hard, almost sullen face, the resigned tone in which he claimed responsibility for the open cargo lift. He’d expected to be blamed; he’d been ready for trouble. She knew her attitude had surprised him - and his congratulations on her own success in the battle had also been a bit surprised. A lightweight, a woman, and the captain - had put on armor, dived across a corridor, exchanged fire with the enemy? She wished he were conscious, able to talk… for of all the heavyworlders now on the ship, she trusted him most.
If not a heavyworlder, her thoughts ran on, then who? Who wanted to foment strife between the types of humans? Who would gain by it? A medical reference poison, she reminded herself… and the medical staff had their own unique opportunities for access to food supplies.
“Captain?” That was her new Exec, to her eye far too young and timid to be what she needed. She certainly couldn’t get any comfort from him. She nodded coolly, and he went on. “That other escort’s coming across.”
Sassinak looked at the main screen, now giving a computer enhanced version of the passive scans. This vessel’s motion was relatively slower; its course would take it through the thickest part of the expanding debris cloud.
“Its specs are pretty close to the other one,” he offered, eyeing her with a nervous expression that made her irritable. She did not, after all, have horns and a spiked tail.
“Any communications we can pick up?”
“No, captain. Not so far. It’s probably beaming them to that relay satellite - “ He paused as the Communications Watch Officer raised a hand and waved it. Sassinak nodded to her.
“Speaks atrocious Neo-Gaesh,” the Com officer said. “I can barely follow it.”
“Put it on my set,” said Sass. “It’s my native tongue - or was.” She had kept up practice in Neo-Gaesh, over the years, just in case. If they had even the simplest code, though, she’d be unlikely to follow it.
They didn’t. In plain, if accented, Neo-Gaesh, the individual on the escort vessel was reporting their observation of the debris. “ - And a steel waste disposal unit, definitely not ours. A… a cube reader, I think, and a cube file. Stenciled with Fleet insignia and some numbers.” Sassinak could not hear whatever reply had come, but in a few seconds the first speaker said, “Take too long. We’ve already picked up Fleet items you can check. I’ll tag it, though.” Another long pause, and then, “Couldn’t have been too big - one of their heavily armed scouts, the new ones. They’re supposed to be damned near invisible to everything, until they attack, and almost as heavily armed as a cruiser.” Another pause, then, “Yes: verified Fleet casualties, some in evac pods, and some in ship clothes, uniforms.” That had been hardest, convincing herself to sacrifice their dead with scant honor, their bodies as well as their lives given to the enemy, to make a convincing display of destruction.
When the escort passed from detection range, Sassinak relaxed. They’d done it, so far. The slavers didn’t know they were there, alive. Huron and his pitiful cargo were safely away. One lot of slavers were dead - and she didn’t regret the death of any of them.
But in the long night watch that followed, when she thought of the Fleet dead snagged by an enemy’s robot arm to be “verified” as a casualty, she regretted very much that Huron had gone with the trader, and she had no one to comfort her.
Chapter Twelve
Repairs, as always, ran overtime. Sassinak didn’t mind that much: they had time, right then, more than enough of it. Engineers, in her experience, were never satisfied to replace a malfunctioning part: they always wanted to redesign it. So mounting replacement pods involved rebuilding the pod mounts, and changing the conformation of them, all to reconcile the portside pod cluster with the other portside repairs. Hollister quoted centers of mass and acceleration, filling her screen with math that she normally found interesting… but at the moment it was a tangle of symbols that would not make sense. Neither did the greater problem of ship sabotage. If someone hadn’t blown their cover, they might have gotten away without that great gaping hole in the side of her ship, or the fouled pods. Or the deaths. This was not, by any means, the first time she’d been in combat, or seen death… but Abe had been right, all those years ago: it was different when it was her command that sent them, not a command transmitted from above.