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Interlude Three

Alnduul nodded Downing toward the entry to the shift barge. “I believe your men are already waiting for you.”

Trevor frowned. “How long have they been in there?”

“Almost an hour, I believe.”

“No riots, yet?”

Alnduul’s fingertips drifted downward. “No . . . ”

Thank God.

“ . . . but” the Dornaani concluded, “I believe the group is too small to generate that level of disturbance.”

How bloody reassuring. “Do you have any better estimate regarding failure rate of the coldcells?”

A Dornaani who was exiting the barge, and who appeared significantly older than Alnduul, answered. “Despite having to learn the stasis technologies of three different species, we have gathered sufficient data, I believe. I just completed the last noninvasive examinations of the Ktor coldcells and symbiopods. Unfortunately, the equipment aboard Olsloov is not optimal for such tests and measurements. We will commence analyses as soon as we have completed our next shift. However, we must expect that, within a few shifts, there will be some complete malfunctions. After that, they could become quite frequent.” He made to walk off.

Trevor called after him. “You said there were coldcells from a third species, sir?”

The wiry Dornaani turned; its eyelids nictated slowly at the word “sir.” “I did. You brought aboard a small number of Hkh’Rkh hibernacula, as well. Asylum seekers who fled Turkh’saar, as requested by their leader Yaargraukh and which was granted by your leader, Caine Riordan. The technology is primitive, but sound. I cannot tell how long it will function, but I see no signs of failure at this time.” With a sharp blink of his eyes, he turned to resume his departure.

“Thank you,” Downing called after him. “I apologize that we don’t know how to call you.”

“How could you? We have not met.”

Alnduul’s lamprey mouth was slightly twisted around its axis: amusement. “The oversight is mine. Thlunroolt, this is Mr. Richard Downing, formerly of—”

“Yes, I know who he is. And I daresay”—the grainy-skinned lids of the Dornaani’s large eyes puckered slightly—“I know what he is, as well.”

Downing refused to be flustered at encountering a Dornaani that was not only unwelcoming but irascible. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” he offered.

“A most optimistic greeting,” Thlunroolt burbled: the Dornaani equivalent of a distempered mutter. “I advise you to defer judgment until you know me better, Richard Downing.” Without wishing anyone enlightenment, he continued on his way into the ship.

“Well,” Trevor almost drawled, “isn’t he a ray of sunshine? Or is it ‘she’?”

“Thlunroolt is male, according to your figuration of reproductory roles. As far as his disposition, he is always thus with strangers.”

Downing thought he detected both irony and fondness in Alnduul’s explanation. “It sounds as though you have known him a long time.”

Alnduul’s inner eyelids nictated once, sharply. “He was my mentor when I became a Custodian. He was no different then.”

“Even toward you?”

“Especially toward me. Gentlemen, your personnel are growing restless.”

***

“So there’s no way for more than a few dozen of us to be awake at the same time?” one of the Lost Soldiers was asking. From the slow, careful articulation of the question, Downing knew it was Joe Capdepon, even though all he could see from the entrance were the backs of a score of heads.

Ike Franklin nodded. “Olsloov isn’t built to haul people or cargo. With everyone hot-bunking, you could maybe—maybe—cram in fifty or sixty. But space isn’t the real limitation. It doesn’t have the facilities, life-support capacity, or consumables to provide for more than a few dozen.”

Vincent Rodriguez waved at the cavernous bulkheads around them. “Well, what about housing people in this barge?”

“Lots of space, sure. But it doesn’t even have integral life support.”

“Well, we’re breathing, aren’t we, Lieutenant?”

“That’s because there are air tanks in the hull. But those are for providing a shirt-sleeve environment when people need to load or unload it. More importantly, it can be pumped back into those tanks . . . which is what they’ll be doing before we shift again.”

“Why?”

“Because they’re gonna turn this place into a big deep freeze,” engineer Phil Friel muttered resentfully.

His partner and fellow engineer, Tina Melah, snorted derisively. “And here I was thinking we were all gonna be camping out on the deck, singing songs and roasting marshmallows.”

Franklin crossed his arms. “Are all of you done, now?” Between the respect they had for the doctor who might have to patch them up and the grim stare he’d acquired over the course of too many jumps into enemy territory, the group fell silent. “Pumping the atmosphere out is necessary to get this barge to cool and match the background, which is really important since it’s about as stealthy as a neon circus tent. And if something does put a hole in it, the last thing anyone wants—particularly the folks in the cryocells behind me—is explosive decompression, which will do its damnedest to pull anything in this hold outside into space, straps and lashings notwithstanding.”

Downing saw Trevor trying to restrain himself from adding to the list of reasons for keeping the barge cold and airless. He moved restlessly as he mastered the impulse.

A head turned at the sound: Tina’s. Her eyes opened wide, and then her mouth. From which came the cry, “Commander on deck!”

“At ease!” Trevor added hastily.

Slouching torsos that had been halfway to ramrod straight finished by easing into parade rest, crossed arms tucked low behind tense backs.

Downing led the way to the front, where Franklin saluted before retiring gratefully to the nearest bulkhead. “At ease,” Richard said, finally in a position to witness the informal standoff taking place at the front of the gathered personnel.

On one side, the so-called Three Colonels from the twentieth century—Paulsen, Rodermund, and Zhigarev—were planted with arms crossed, their grizzled naval peer Carlisle Hansell standing nearby. On the other side were most of the two dozen Lost Soldiers and Cold Guard who had been reanimated. Between the two groups was a far more casual cluster: those who’d been part of Riordan’s original crew, as well as Sue Philips and “her” Three Wise Men: Larry Southard, Angus Smith, and Ryan Zimmerman.

Downing peripherally assessed the crew members: their stances were not exactly disrespectful, but it was clear that Richard hadn’t made many friends or instilled much trust among them. “Mr. Tsaami, as pilot during the rescue of the Lost Soldiers, I suspect you may have one of the least biased perspectives upon the difference of their opinions in this compartment.”

Senior pilot Karam Tsaami nodded. “I probably do, yeah.”

“And what is the primary object of contention?”

Karam’s sideways smile was more than a bit ironic. “Freedom of choice, Mr. Downing.”

“That answer is admirably brief but insufficient. Whose choice and about what?”

The unofficial chaplain of the rank-and-file Lost Soldiers, a backwoods Arkansas preacher who’d been a submariner in the Pacific, stepped forward and gestured at those behind him. “I don’t aim nor claim to speak for these men—and ladies—sir, but I probl’y do have the biggest mouth. My name is Seaman Ronald Purcett, sir, and I—”

“Yes, Mr. Purcett, I remember meeting you. I appreciate and applaud the spiritual support you have provided to those who seek it. Carry on.”

“Yessir. Them of us as have misgivings, sir . . . well, like Mr. Karam said, it’s about choice. The most basic choice that ever’ man should have: of what to do and where to be. Thar’s nowt but a few of us Lost Soldiers awake. But the Colonels here, they’re askin’ us to stand for all the rest of the fellers ’n gals when it comes to leavin’ what y’all call ‘Terran space.’

“Well, sir, that’s as big a leavin’ as can be: turnin’ our back on Earth and goin’ only God knows where.” His dingy white service cap was crumpled in his seamed hands. “It’s not a thing as can be decided fer anuther feller: to take him so far from home, even if all that’s left is the plots where his kin’re buried.”

Downing nodded, let the small, sad smile he felt inside rise up to his face. “I sympathize with you, Ronald. And with all of you who share his feelings. But the brutal truth of the matter is that we must keep those still in cold sleep right where they are, at least until we have sufficient resources to provide for them. To say nothing of the time to wake them safely.”

“I hear yer words, Mr. Downing, and I ’speck I unnerstand the problems well enough, but that don’t make it right or just, sir.”

Trevor walked toward the Lost Soldiers. “I agree with you, Purcett. This situation isn’t right and it isn’t just. And if we were the ones responsible for the situation, I’d probably be asking the same questions you are.

“But we didn’t make this situation, which is about as basic as it gets: the people searching for us will kill us if they find us. And the politicos who should be stopping them are blocked by other politicos who will tear the CTR apart if they don’t get their way.”

“Everything in the world has changed,” Vincent Rodriguez drawled, “except politicians.”

The answering laughter was grim but genuine.

Trevor acknowledged it with a smile of his own. “I’d argue if I could, but Chief Rodriguez has the right of it. Because just like in your day, the politicians make the decisions, but we’re the ones who carry them out. And pay the price for their mistakes.

“But this time, you won’t just be losing your lives because of their mistakes, but because of their moral cowardice. At least on this side of the border, you can choose whether or not you’re willing to accept that. Whether you’d rather go back to Terran space to stay and die, or leave and live out here.

“But the only—the only—way any of us are going to live is by traveling light and moving fast. Ike,” Trevor called, raising his voice, “where are you?”

Franklin put up a hand. He was squatting with his back propped against the bulkhead. “I’m over here, sir, sitting this round out.”

“I’m not asking you to take a side, Ike. But since we’re talking about time, I need your professional estimate: How long would it take to reanimate everyone in cryogenic sleep?”

Ike pushed off the wall and stood. “Hell, Captain, we could just hit the buttons, stand back, and hope for the best. But not everyone would survive, particularly the ones who are in compromised units.”

Trevor nodded. “And if we take a responsible approach?”

“Once you start the reanimation cycle, you need a doctor or physician’s assistant on call for a day, because if it goes bad, it can go real bad, real fast. Currently, we have six people with qualifications, but only four of them have been hands-on, and you need to keep one of them free to help if the sleeper goes into cardiac arrest.

“So we can reanimate three people a day, safely. We have over three hundred people still in cryounits. Bottom line: full reanimation requires well over three months. If everything goes right. Which it never does.” Ike sat against the wall again.

Trevor turned back to Purcett and the Lost Soldiers. “Three months. Just so everyone can wake up and choose whether they’d rather die in human space or travel beyond it in cold storage and live.” Trevor evidently saw the same puzzled frowns Downing did. “Yes, any that want to leave would have to go back in their cryocells.”

Purcett’s face became a mass of frustrated creases. “But, damn it all, Cap’n, why?”

Downing cleared his throat. “Seaman, back when you were serving aboard Swordfish, how many did you have in your crew?”

“Oh, ’round about fifty-five, Mr. Downing.”

“Sixty,” corrected Hansell, the sub’s craggy and taciturn CO. “Maximum complement is sixty-four. You might take on twenty more during short-duration rescue operations.”

Downing nodded his thanks, looked back at Purcett. “Alnduul’s ship resembles your old submarine in one way, Seaman: it hasn’t the space, sustenance, or life support for many extra people.” He folded his arms. “If all the Lost Soldiers remained awake, they would exceed the Olsloov’s capacity by two hundred percent. Consequently, we would have to put at least two thirds back into cryogenic stasis, a process almost as involved as reviving them. And even then, we’d soon be desperately short of food and water for the rest.”

Trevor leaned toward Purcett. “Except, long before then, we’ll have been found and slaughtered by the bastards hunting us.”

Purcett’s voice was pained. “But we hid out for almost four years and no one found us. Maybe we’ve got four more good years of stayin’ hid.”

Larry Southard shook his head. “That fuse has burned way down. Started burning lots faster when we came with Mr. Downing to find you.” He glanced at Trevor. “No criticism of Captain Corcoran—he did what he had to—but that put the nail in the coffin. To catch up with us, he chose speed over caution. If we were still back on Dustbelt, they’d have found us in another three months, four at the outside. So we had to go over the border.”

Trevor nodded at the gathered faces. “That’s why we need you to represent the other Lost Soldiers in the decisions to come. It isn’t fair. It isn’t right. But it’s the only option that doesn’t kill us all.”

Purcett had compressed his cap into an invisible ball, clenched within his meaty fist. “It’s a turrible thing, makin’ such choices fer others. I reckon it’s a worse thing to risk all our lives to wake ’em up. But durned if’n I know what I’ll say to thems what come outta those refrigerators and tell us we got it wrong, that they’d a’ rather stayed behind.”

Vincent Rodriguez shook his head, folded his muscular arms. “I’m sorry to say it, Preacher, but if they really feel that way, it’s easy for them to fix the mistake we made. They can just stroll out an air lock. Because that’s pretty much the same end they’d have come to by staying behind.”

“You need to understand something else,” Ike said loudly, standing. “Look at the cryocell grid. See all those yellow lights mixed in, now? Those indicate malfunctions. If we try to restore people from those cells, we could kill them. Problem is, we don’t know how to fix them. Those are all Ktor coldcells. About a dozen different types. Not even the Dornaani have seen them before. We’ve just started trying to figure them out, but it’s slow going.”

Downing suppressed a sigh of relief when Franklin did not go on to mention the failing symbiopods: with the exception of their controls, they were xenobiological and utterly mysterious.

Ike shrugged into his conclusion. “Opening any of those coldcells is like playing Russian roulette with an unknown number of loaded chambers. Do you think they’d be willing to take that risk? Would you? Particularly if a few more weeks or months of research could improve, or even eliminate, the odds of death?”

The Lost Soldiers were muttering among themselves again, but not grumbles of dissent; it was a dull murmur of grudging acceptance.

However, a new figure had stepped from the group: Missy Katano. “Director Downing.”

He managed to keep a frown off his face. Katano was a steady, level-headed team player. She’s not in league with Purcett now, is she? “Yes, Ms. Katano?”

She smiled. “No need to look at me that way, Mr. Downing. I’m not going to make any trouble.”

Richard tried very hard not to show his relief. “I’m sure you are not, Ms. Katano. But I am at a loss to understand why you’re concerned with the issues surrounding reanimation.”

She shrugged. “My concerns are only with selective reanimation. Which needs to happen if I am to carry out my orders as head of training.”

Richard frowned. “Do explain.”

“Yes, sir. One day, we’re going to be reviving significant numbers of people. But I won’t be able to bring them up to speed quickly unless we start preparing for that now. I’m not worried about the situational and social acclimation; I can handle that myself. But courses on new technology and operational procedures? Since we don’t have trainers, that will have to come from specialists who’ve not only learned how to provide advanced, hands-on training, but who’ll be able to train others to assist and eventually replace them. Which means that I need to start teaching our first echelon of new teachers. Right now.”

Bollocks: she’s dead right. Downing stole a glance at Trevor, who appeared surprised, attentive, and impressed.

“That is very prudent and capital thinking, Ms. Katano,” his nephew said warmly. “Do you have suggestions regarding those instructors?”

“Got the list right here, sir.”

Downing suppressed a smile. Of course you do.

At a nod from Trevor, Katano started rattling off the names. “Captain Hailey and Sergeant de los Reyes are probably the best when it comes to infantry weapons and operations, with Captain Hasseler as the final word on the most modern systems. Looks like we’re short of pilots, so I’d suggest we rouse Donna Gaudet. She’s the most patient shuttle jockey we’ve got and did a stint as an instructor in Jamaica. There are two crucial skill areas that are out of my depth, though, so I’ll let the experts talk.”

Larry Southard smiled at the cue. “Mr. Downing, I think Captain Philips and I would make a pretty good team teaching both humint and elint. I can also handle big-data analysis, and she’s wrangled folks learning tactical-level field craft.”

“That’s excellent, Mr. Southard, but we need both of you in operations. I don’t see how you can also provide intel training to dozens or even scores of our personnel.”

“Spot on our own thinking, sir,” Philips said brightly. “We only propose to educate a handful of particularly promising candidates: just enough to provide you with staff officers. It will necessarily be gradual, because it requires close instruction in small classes.”

Trevor muttered sideways at Downing. “She’s got a point, about those staff officers, you know.”

Richard nodded. “Point and match, Captain Philips. Who else?”

Vincent Rodriguez put up his hand. “Sir, I’ve spent the past few weeks working almost daily alongside Angus Smith and Ryan Zimmerman. Mostly as combined troubleshooters and repair techs. What we’ve realized is that without all our three skill sets—mechanical, electrical, and computer—pulling together, we wouldn’t have been able to repair half of the breakdowns we’ve tackled. And that’s in a period where there have been almost zero active operations. So we need to train up some folks to at least journeyman status. In case, ya know, we run into trouble.”

“What kind of trouble are you anticipating, Mr. Rodriguez?”

Before he could answer, Zimmerman interrupted; his tone was as flat as a door slam. “The kind where one or more of us get blown to atoms. Sir.”

Downing winced. “We are very shorthanded when it comes to personnel with special skills such as yours, so yes, you’ll train your own, er, alternates. Not to add to your labors, Ms. Katano, but I believe you may have overlooked one of our largest training needs.”

Katano frowned. “Sir?”

“English instruction for our Russian contingent.”

Zhigarev crossed his arms. “Da. About time.”

Downing sent a placating nod in his direction. “That will require waking Lieutenant Shvartsman, who”—he glanced at Larry and Susan—“will also be able to assist you two, I’ll wager. He’s quite skilled at reading photographic reconnaissance, I understand.” Downing glanced back at Missy. “Anything else, Ms. Katano?”

“Well, sir, I could use a hand with acclimation, sir. Particularly from a soldier’s perspective. They’re only going to trust one of their own. That means tapping someone who they’ll know from Turkh’saar.”

“Any ideas, Ms. Katano?”

“Chucky Martell is a private—’scuse me; now a corporal—from the Cold Guard, so he grew up in this time. And all the Lost Soldiers took to him like ducks to water.”

“Granted, Ms. Katano.” Downing turned toward the Three Colonels. “Gentlemen, I must prevail upon you to assist Ms. Katano in these endeavors, particularly the social dimensions of them.”

Rodermund frowned as if he’d bitten into a rotten lemon. “All due respect, Mr. Downing, I visited USO clubs; I didn’t run them.”

“If I understand that reference, Colonel Rodermund, I am not asking that you regularly socialize with the troops. I am asking that you be available to them and actively encourage their acclimation, to both this time and this mission. You are the authority figures that bridge their time to this one, so you are the best people to explain, and answer questions about, why we had to leave human space. Which means you’ll also need to help them understand why, in the eyes of some of the people back on Earth, we are renegades. Criminals, even.”

Paulsen smiled. “In other words, we have to break it to them that they are now members of the most truly foreign legion in the history of humanity.”

Downing paused, considering. “Colonel Paulsen, I could foresee that phrase becoming an unofficial unit motto.”

Paulsen offered one of his easygoing smiles. “Consider it done. Units stick together because of shared wisecracks and grousing almost as much as shared battles, Director Downing.”

Zhigarev nodded vigorously. “I agree. And no one gripes as well as Russians, you know! So, how do we start?”

Downing allowed his smile to be rueful. “By leaving this barge. It’s going to start getting quite chilly in here.”


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