“I’ve got the Commandant’s aide’s ID packet,” Jen said. “Anything else I should collect?”
“Did he have an external com device? It’ll be loaded with Slotter Key access codes.”
Jen opened a locker beside the aide’s seat. “This is all he was carrying.” She pulled out the case Ky had seen back at the station.
“Hang on to that,” Ky said. “Have any background in planetary survival, Jen?”
“No, Admiral. I was born and raised on the Cascadia Station. Only visits downside.”
Ky led the way into the aft compartment. Master Sergeant Marek—a tall, brown, fit-looking man with some gray in his short-cropped brown hair and a deep heavy scar from the left side of his forehead up over his head—had the personnel in the rear compartment divided into teams. She could tell he had no implant; the scar suggested why, a serious head injury.
“Admiral,” he said when he saw her. “What about those up front?”
“The pilot, the Commandant, and the Commandant’s aide are all dead—poisoned—their suits were rigged to kill them. The copilot might make it, but I doubt it.”
His face tightened. “Yours, too?”
“I haven’t looked yet at mine; my aide examined the one designated for her and it was also rigged. Everyone accounted for back here?”
“Yes, Admiral. One fatality, Corporal Gassar. Needle in the neck.” He grimaced. “That means you and your aide are the only officers aboard… unless the copilot lives.” She could read the look he gave her as if his thoughts were displayed on a screen. Was this high-ranking officer from a different military going to be a problem? Or could the admiral who’d led an outnumbered force to victory be an asset?
“Come with me a moment,” Ky said. She led him into the middle compartment, where the Commandant’s aide was still strapped into a seat, his dead face a gray mask. “Yes, Commander Bentik and I are the only live officers aboard. And yes, we’re not in your chain of command. Nonetheless, it is my duty both as an officer, and as a native of Slotter Key, to offer my services. We both know the relevant citations in the Code.” Ky kept her eyes on his and her voice steady. “Do we have a problem, Master Sergeant?”
He scowled at her for a moment. “It depends, Admiral. Do you have any idea what to do in this situation?”
“Some. It has distinct advantages over a space emergency,” Ky said. “We have air to breathe, food, and an abundance of water. Our mission is survival until we get back to a safe base. This module hasn’t sunk yet; we have modern life rafts and supplies. We’re rich, in survival terms. So our first task is to get into the rafts before this module goes down, then stay alive in the rafts until we reach land. I understand you’ve had training in the module.”
“Yes—I know how to deploy the rafts, and what supplies are in them. But the training was a long way from here, in warmer waters.”
“But you can do it.” It was not a question; she saw from his expression that he took it as she meant it, that his resistance to her taking command was weakening.
“Yes, Admiral. I’m certain I can get a raft deployed. We’ll be crowded in it; they’re rated for twenty, but—”
“We’ll need two rafts deployed,” Ky said. “We don’t know if we can reach Miksland, or how long it will be until we’re found and rescued—we need the supplies in both. At least.”
“So you’re—you’re really taking command?”
She had not expected such indecisiveness from him, but it was a circumstance he’d never faced. “Yes. I ask you again: is that going to be a problem, Master Sergeant?”
His expression firmed, this time to a tight grin. “No, Admiral. I accept your command, on behalf of the Slotter Key personnel aboard. And your orders?”
“That you prepare to evacuate this thing. How long will the passenger module float?”
“As long as one of the cushions doesn’t deflate,” Marek said. “The range was up to ten hours in calm water.” He shook his head. “All this rocking around puts more stress on the cushions—the manual said even one deflation could make it unstable enough to tip over. We should launch the life rafts as soon as we can.”
“It doesn’t feel”—Ky grabbed for a seatback again—“like the parachutes are very efficient sea anchors.”
“No, Admiral, they’re not; they were supposed to detach. These seas are too big. And we’re too big and sit too high. Wind’s shoving us around.”
“How do we transit from the module to the rafts? As you said, we’re sitting high.”
“There’s a slide installed into the hatch itself; deploy that first, attach the raft’s tether to the hull, then inflate the raft and let it slide down to the water. Then personnel can go down. Anything else we take can slide down to the rafts and be pulled in.” Once focused on the task, he seemed more confident.
“Vispersen told me there are four life rafts; every one will have supplies—”
“Four, yes. Far more than we need. I was about to pull one and check it. With the shuttle sabotage, maybe the rafts were sabotaged as well.”
Ky had been trying not to think about that possibility. She kept her voice level. “Go ahead. We should bring all the rafts, one spare to each inflated one.”
His brow wrinkled. “Why the others?”
“Sabotage, again. We don’t know if there’s another saboteur among us. This is a big cold ocean and I’d rather increase our chances of staying afloat, not treading water.”
He nodded. “That makes sense. I’ll get a raft down and do the exterior inspection, then pop a hatch. If we can open just one, it’ll be better.”
“Carry on, then. I’m going to collect some forensic data forward,” Ky said. “I’ll leave you to assign personnel to each raft. If you need me, tell Commander Bentik.”
“Yes, Admiral.”
When she went back forward, Tech Lundin had the copilot on the rescue basket, but shook her head when she saw Ky. “We’ve lost him, sir. I got IVs in, intubated him, but there’s a mark on his neck—like the needle only went in partway. It wasn’t the injuries—the poison killed him. I’m sorry.”
“You tried your best,” Ky said, looking down at Major Sunyavarta, father of a nine-year-old daughter who wanted to be like Ky—at least this year. “We shouldn’t leave him to the fish. We’ll bring his body home to his family—all of them, in fact, if we can.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll suit him back up, shall I?”
“Good. I’m going into the cockpit to see if there’s any other evidence investigators might want later,” Ky said. “When I’ve done that, you can retrieve the pilot’s body, too. Anyone know something else that might be useful in establishing the cause of the problem?”
“Sir, if you can pull the flight recorder—”
“I have that already,” Ky said, patting the pocket it was in. “Anything else?”
“If we’re taking the bodies, why not leave his ID on him?”
“I want the IDs separately. If we’re not found fairly soon, we may have to bury them at sea.”
In the cockpit, she noticed a notepad clipped to one side of the pilot’s control panel and shoved that in the same pocket as the flight recorder. In the same locker where the flight recorder had been, she found a stack of plastic envelopes and used her stylus to take a little of the foam from the pilot’s lips and smear it inside one of them. She folded that and put it in another pocket, then wiped the stylus on her survival suit’s leg. She looked again at the control panels. Surely the passenger module would have a transponder, some form of communication. But all the lights were off. She flicked switches; nothing happened. The module’s communication was as dead as her skullphone.