"I was told to report here," the man said. "To Major . . . Major Pitak." His eyes roved the compartment as if scanning it for hidden weapons; his glance at Esmay had been dismissive. Her skin prickled. He reminded her of something—someone—her mind, suddenly alert, scrabbled frantically in memory to figure out what. She looked back at the screen before she answered.
"She's in with Commander Seveche. Are you from
Wraith
?" She couldn't imagine anyone from
Koskiusko
giving her quite that look. It wasn't the "you're not really Fleet are you?" look, or the "you're that kid who commanded
Despite
, aren't you?" look, or any of the others she'd have recognized.
"Yes . . . sir." The pause snagged her attention away from the screen graphics again. "We were . . . in the forward compartment . . . the sleepygas . . ."
"You're lucky to be alive," Esmay said, instantly forgiving the man's odd behavior. If he'd been through all that, he could still be affected by the drug. "We've got
Wraith
in now; work's already started. You can wait here for Major Pitak, or at Commander Seveche's office."
"Where's Commander Seveche's office?" the man asked. The shipchip in his pocket bleeped, and he peered cross-eyed at a space between him and Esmay. She knew what that meant—the shipchip was projecting a route.
"Just follow your shipchip," she said. He turned, without the proper acknowledgement; Esmay started to say something, but . . . he had been gassed, and might be still a bit hazy. Something wasn't quite right . . .
"Petty-light . . ." she said. He stopped in mid-stride, then turned jerkily. Something not right at all. His eyes were not the eyes of someone dazed by drugs . . . his eyes had a bright gleam half-hidden behind lowered lids.
"Yes . . . Lieutenant?"
She could not define what was wrong . . . it was not anything so positive as disrespect, which she had experienced often enough. Respect and disrespect occurred in a relationship, a connection. Here she felt no connection at all, as if Petty-light Camajo were not Fleet at all, but a civilian.
"When you do see Major Pitak, tell her that the simulations for fabrication have arrived from SpecMat."
"The simulations have arrived . . . yes . . . m . . . sir." Camajo turned, moving more decisively than someone fogged on sleepygas, and was gone before Esmay could say more. She scowled at the screen.
Yes . . . m . . . sir?
What had he been about to say?
She felt uneasy. Had
Wraith
had traitors on its crew? Was that why it had suffered such damage? Why was Camajo alive, uninjured, after such a hull breach between him and the rest of the ship?
This was ridiculous. She had not noticed anything amiss in
Despite
, had not recognized that any of the traitors were traitors. She had not been uneasy this way then. Perhaps that experience had made her paranoid, willing to interpret every discrepancy as ominous. Camajo had been lucky, that was all, and now he was disoriented, on a strange ship with none of his familiar companions.
That didn't work out. The casualties on
Despite
, traitor or loyal, had none of them stumbled over the familiar Fleet greetings and honorifics. With blood in his mouth, as he died, Chief Major Barscott had answered "Yes, sir . . ." to Esmay. How many of the survivors in those forward compartments had been lucky? How lucky? And was it luck?
Camajo's eyes . . . his gaze . . . reminded her of her father's soldiers. Groundpounders' eyes . . . commandos' eyes . . . roving, assessing, looking for the weaknesses in a position, thinking how to take over . . . Take over what?
Scolding herself, Esmay flicked to the next screen, but her mind wandered anyway. In the civil wars—she called it that now, though to her family it was still the Califer Uprising—both sides had tried infiltrating the others' defensive positions with troops wearing stolen uniforms, using stolen ID. It had worked a few times, even though both knew it was possible. She'd never heard of such a thing happening in Fleet. Ships weren't infiltrated by individuals . . . they were attacked by ships. Very rarely in Fleet history were attempts at hostile boarding mentioned; battle zones were too dangerous for EVA maneuvers. Pirates sometimes boarded individual commercial vessels . . . but that wasn't the military. It would take . . . it would take a single badly damaged Fleet ship, one that could not detect the movement of individuals in EVA gear . . . a hull breach that let them in . . . a way to get the right uniforms . . . no. She was being silly.
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."
"Someone might take a look at the communications lines from the forward compartments to the rear in
Wraith
. . . was it explosive damage or were they cut?"
"Good idea, Suiza. You call my chief and tell him to check—Oh, Chief Barrahide? Listen, about those
Wraith
crew you took out of sickbay . . ."
Barin tried not to think about Esmay Suiza; he had enough to do, if only he could concentrate on it. Besides, she was two ranks above him; he was a mere boy to her. He told himself that, but he didn't believe it. She respected him; after that first disastrous argument, she had treated him as an equal. He felt himself scowling. This wasn't about respect, exactly. It was about . . . he squirmed, trying to push the thought aside. Planet-born, and higher-ranked . . . he had
no
good reason to be thinking of her that way, and he was. Her soft brown hair made Serrano black look harsh . . . her height made Serrano compactness look stubby. The back of her neck . . . even her elbows . . . he didn't want to feel this, and he did.
Serranos, his mother had said, fall hard when they fall. He had taken that as he took most of the things he was told about his inheritance, with far more than one grain of salt. His mother was not a Serrano; her occasional sarcasms might be envy. His adolescent crushes had been obvious even to him as temporary flares of hormonal activity. He had expected to find someone, if he ever did, in the respectable ranks of Fleet's traditional families. A Livadhi, perhaps. A Damarin—there was one of his year, a sleek green-eyed beauty with the supple Damarin back. If they had been assigned to the same ship . . . but they hadn't been.