The transcript, when he saw it for himself, made it clear Pordre did not know whether anyone had survived or not, and that he was annoyed with Slotter Key’s official response. “I have been in contact with their Rector of Defense, also named Vatta, and she has assured me of her full support, but confirmed my suspicions of sabotage in the shuttle failure. We are parked in a more distant orbit; from here we can do nothing but wait for permission to land one of our own shuttles. I intend to remain in Slotter Key space until search and rescue operations have finished.”
Pettygrew handed the transcript on to Argelos and waited until it reached the far end of the table. When Driskill had read it, he spoke. “Hopkins, you will not speak of this to anyone else. Were you the one who decoded it?”
“Yes, sir. The comtech called for an admiral’s aide with the relevant security key; I was already in the area.”
“Good. Do you know where the others are?”
“Outside this door, sir, I expect.”
“This information will be shared in due time, but we need to communicate with Captain Pordre and with Slotter Key’s government to make more sense of it. Go tell the other aides to hold themselves in readiness—if any are not in the club, call them in. Do not reveal any of this message. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir. I won’t, sir.”
“You may go.”
When the door shut behind him, Hetherson said, “I told her not to go back there. We needed her here. This is where she should be.”
Pettygrew fought down a surge of temper. Hetherson was a former senior admiral of Moray’s space navy and still considered himself senior to them all, purely by time in grade, though he had not been part of the fleet that fought at Nexus.
“She went, and now she’s been in a shuttle crash,” Pettygrew said, more harshly than he intended. “Until we know if she’s dead or alive, it’s our job to hold SDF together, in readiness for whatever comes, until she’s back.”
“Or she’s dead and one of us takes over.” Burrage looked at each of them in turn.
Trust Burrage to bring that up. The succession through the admirals had been a touchy issue ever since the end of the war. Each senior admiral had come from one of the contributing systems except Mackensee’s, since the mercenaries did not want to commit ships and personnel permanently to SDF. They had, however, recommended a couple of other systems from which SDF had acquired supplies, systems willing to host SDF bases, though they had not actually been in the war against Turek. Ky had agreed, citing the strategic benefit of having more allies in more places. But the original member systems wanted to be sure their admirals took precedence, and within those, Moray and the Moscoe Confederation pushed hardest to be named first in succession should anything happen to Ky Vatta.
Ky herself had chosen Pettygrew, when Argelos refused, on the basis of his lack of military background. And though most of the other admirals agreed he had been with her longest and knew her best, their system governments were less cooperative.
“Right now,” he said, before anyone else could start more argument, “we need to ensure that SDF continues to function at high efficiency. In Admiral Vatta’s absence, she named me the senior admiral. Admiral Padhjan, you know more about Slotter Key than the rest of us. You will be our liaison with Captain Pordre and with the Slotter Key government. Admiral Driskill, make discreet contact with InterStellar Communications and find out what they’re planning to do about this. I can’t imagine their CEO will be twiddling his thumbs.” Someone coughed; someone else twitched. They all knew Rafe Dunbarger and Ky Vatta had some kind of relationship. Pettygrew finished giving out assignments. He could almost feel the currents of curiosity, sorrow, ambition, resentment, flowing back and forth around the room, but he didn’t comment on that. “It’s 2300 now. It’ll take time to get more information, and I would imagine Slotter Key news agencies will be saying something soon. We’ll meet in Briefing One at 0830. Call me if you need me; we all need some sleep.”
By the time he reached his quarters, the brandy fumes had left him to a familiar cold, hollow feeling, now colder and more hollow than before. He did not want to believe she was dead. She had survived her ship being blown apart around her; surely she would survive a shuttle crash. But how many near misses could someone survive?
And most of all, what if she was dead and he had to take over the SDF and hold it together until the next major attack? Could he do it? He was older; he had assumed he’d die first, that his appointment as her successor was a courtesy, a recognition of their long cooperation. But if he did not, who would? Hetherson, who had never actually been in combat, who was a senior admiral because he had run the shipbuilding program on Moray? Hot-tempered Driskill, a competent combat commander under Ky, but only in one battle, the defense of Nexus II, often at odds with both civilians and military? Padhjan, older, military-trained, perhaps the obvious choice? But he knew that Moray, Cascadia, Nexus, and Bissonet would not consent to another ruling admiral from Slotter Key, not right away. And he knew that with no obvious enemy like Turek, governments were beginning to question whether SDF needed to be so big and expensive… if it was still needed at all.
And what should he do about Ky’s flagship, still in Slotter Key nearspace? Recall Pordre? Leave him there? He left his quarters and headed for the headquarters communications center. “Get me Captain Pordre on Vanguard Two,” he said.
CHAPTER FOUR
“Passengers may open faceplates and breathe cabin air.” That impersonal recorded voice, after Jen’s hysterical scream, made the landing seem unreal for a moment. Ky opened her faceplate; Jen clambered up from the deck, both hands clutching the table, lurching with every pitch and roll of the shuttle. Her gaze was unfocused and her mouth still open.
“Commander Bentik!” That got Jen’s gaze back to Ky. “Sit down there, behind Sergeant Vispersen.” Ky pointed to the seat behind the steward, who now had his faceplate open. Jen made it to the seat and pulled herself into it. “Right arm-pocket, sick-pill, under your tongue, now.” Jen followed these instructions. Ky looked across at the Commandant, who had left his faceplate closed. Perhaps he also felt seasick and was accessing an implant drug.
The module pitched steeply again, slid down the back of one wave, wallowed in the trough, and then rolled to port riding up the next. Ky’s stomach roiled in spite of the dose her implant had given her. But she was alive, with air to breathe, and the ship wasn’t immediately disintegrating. Better than a hull breach in space. She turned to Vispersen.
“Do the parachutes release on landing, or are they dragging us around?”
“I don’t know, Admiral. I’ve never been—done it—only read about it—” His face glistened with perspiration and his lips were pale.
She needed him alert and thinking. “Seasick meds,” Ky said. “You have them?”
“Yes, Admiral. Let me get you—”
“For you; I’m fine. You need ’em.”
Lips tight, he opened a pouch on his sleeve and pulled out a packet, but could not open it. Ky unfastened her safety webbing and carefully—dealing with the pitch and roll of the module—made it across the aisle to open the packet and put one of the chewables in his mouth. He nodded his thanks. In seconds, his face was a better color and he unfastened his safety harness. She looked at Jen, who looked less green.