Hit by PSI. Greg could not let that go unchallenged. “That can’t be right, sir. Someone miscommunicated something, or Captain MacBride is playing a joke that got out of hand. PSI’s not going to hit one of our ships. Above and beyond the fact that they’re on our side, we outgun them, sir, and not by a little bit. It’d be suicide for them to engage one of ours.” A cold fear struck him. “Are they claiming casualties, sir?”
“They’re not claiming anything,” Herrod told him. “They’re not talking to us.”
So it wasn’t a joke. Christ. Relations with PSI had always been light on dialogue, but it had been more than eighty years since any kind of live fire had occurred between Central and the nomadic group. Central maintained bureaucratic structures to facilitate aid and distribution to the colonies spread sparsely throughout the galaxy’s six mapped sectors; PSI preferred a more ad hoc style of providing assistance. Despite the humanitarian goals PSI shared with Central, their solutions were too different to facilitate camaraderie, but most Corps soldiers would never think of seeing a PSI ship as a threat. Something had set them off, and Herrod didn’t seem to know what it was. “What is Captain MacBride claiming?” Greg asked.
“MacBride reports that the PSI ship Penumbra approached them adjacent to the hot zone, and fired on them unprovoked.”
“For what? Their cargo?” If Central thought PSI had been after Demeter’s cargo, they would have made sure Greg was properly warned instead of simply loaning him twenty-five members of Demeter’s crew to handle the shipment.
Herrod was shaking his head. “MacBride said they took their shot and then retreated. No demands for cargo, no comms at all.”
“But that doesn’t make any sense.”
“No,” Herrod agreed, “it doesn’t. Which brings me back to my original issue. We need you to be scouting for PSI activity in the area.”
Greg was already querying Galileo’s sensors. “We’re showing all four PSI ships outside of this vicinity,” he said. “Closest is Castelanna, but even she’s six hours out, and she’s not moving. They’re all stationary. Galileo, what’s the local time?”
“Local time is Dead Hour plus thirty-eight,” the ship said smoothly.
“What the hell’s Dead Hour?” Herrod asked irritably.
“Artificial power outage,” Greg explained. “The colony’s power grid isn’t reinforced to withstand the EMP from the pulsar, so they take the waypoints down for about an hour every night while they get hit. It doesn’t always save their equipment, but it keeps the pulse from traveling along their connections.”
Herrod shook his head. “They’ve got more money there than half the First Sector,” he grumbled. “Why the hell don’t they update their grid?”
“Tourism,” Greg replied, although he shared with Herrod an impatience at the planet’s odd decision. “When we come out of the pulse, sir, I’ll get my people on recon.” He hesitated. “You want me to pull them home, sir?”
Six months away from the First Sector, away from most of their families. Six weeks since they had had any time that was their own. They had barely nine hours before they were due back. He could recall them, and they would come, and they would do their best for him; but they had so little left. Most of them didn’t even really understand how close to the edge they were running.
Herrod appeared to be weighing the option. “Your discretion, Captain,” he said at last. “As long as PSI’s ships aren’t moving, we’ll stay off high alert. But I want you away from there in the morning, do you hear me? Find out what PSI is doing in the sector. Get them to talk to you if you can—but put it together. I want to know why they fired on Demeter, and I want to know if they’re going to do it again. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I want a report in twelve hours. Directly to me, Captain.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And fix your communication problem,” Herrod finished. “I don’t want to hear again how a starship captain isn’t getting his orders.”
Damn, damn, damn. “Yes, sir,” he said. “It won’t happen again, sir.”
“You’re damn right it won’t. Herrod out.”
The vid vanished. “Galileo, let me know when Novanadyr comes out of the Dead Hour. And get me Commander Valentis.”
Galileo usually acknowledged his orders, but this time the ship simply opened the connection to Will Valentis without saying anything. He thought perhaps it knew he was angry.
Will could have taken the entire night for shore leave, but he had returned early. Greg had wondered about that. Six months ago he might have asked, might have encouraged his first officer to take more time to relax. Now he was just glad the man was back on board … and within reach, in case Greg found he had to strangle him. When the connection completed, Greg did not wait for Will to speak. “My office,” he said. “Now.” And he cut the line.
Will reported promptly. Will always reported promptly. Seven years they had served together, and Greg could not think of a single time his second-in-command had been late. He could not think of a time that Will had neglected to pass on relevant information, either, but he knew why it had happened now.
And he was entirely out of patience.
Will stood at attention, and Greg let him stand, stiff and rigid and staring straight ahead. “I just got off the line with Admiral Herrod,” he told Will. “You have something you need to tell me?”
“No, sir.”
Not an oversight, then. “The admiral seems to think I was supposed to know about a general alert in this sector,” he said, “because Demeter was hit by PSI. You know anything about that, Commander?”
Will blinked, and his eyes shifted briefly. “Sir, I—” He stopped and regrouped. “I’m sorry, Captain. I should have briefed you.”
Which was a reminder that it was Will who had been briefed on the situation, and not Greg. Will was enjoying his temporary power trip far too much. Greg let lie, for the moment, the fact that such vital information had not come directly to him. “You want to tell me why you didn’t?”
Will hesitated again. “Sir, you know there are things I can’t explain.”
And that was the crux of it. Six months earlier, when they had been on Earth, Will—perennially ambitious and stagnating as Greg’s first officer—had been tapped by Shadow Ops for a secret investigation. Greg had been notified of the fact of Will’s assignment to Central’s intelligence branch, but not the details. As a result, he had been required to give Will extensive leeway on comms and internal reporting, and in return Will provided him with a heavily redacted copy of his monthly report to S-O.
Greg had not been gracious about this. He should have been happy for his old friend, a man who had never been destined for command. In fact, intelligence seemed better suited to his talents, and might actually provide him with his long-sought avenue for advancement. But the secrecy had bothered Greg, despite having no concrete reason to mistrust Shadow Ops. Perhaps worse, Will enjoyed far too much leaving him out of the loop.
It was Bob Hastings, the ship’s senior medical officer and Greg’s oldest friend, who had made Greg stop and think. “He’s seven years older than you, Greg, and he’s spent all this time in your shadow,” Bob had pointed out. “Let him be good at this. Let him have something that isn’t a subset of