Path of the Fury by David Weber
“Very good,” Ben Belkassem approved. “How did you find him, then?”
“I wish I could take the credit,” McIlheny said wryly, “but I was exhausted when I set up the data search, and I didn’t define my parameters very well. In fact, I requested a search of all records, and I was more than somewhat irritated when I saw how much computer time I’d ‘wasted’ on it—until the search spit out his name.”
“Never look serendipity in the mouth, Colonel.” The inspector grinned. “I don’t—and I’m afraid I don’t give it credit for my successes, either.”
“But a Fleet officer,” Keita muttered. “I don’t like the smell of this.”
“Nor do I,” McIlheny said more seriously. “It’s possible he did it himself, and I’ve starcommed the Holderman Fleet District for full particulars on him, including anything he might have been into before his ‘death.’ I’m also running a Fleet-wide personnel search to see if any other bogus ‘deaths’ occurred in the same shuttle accident. I hope I don’t find any, because if Singh didn’t arrange it, someone else did, and that suggests we may be looking at deliberate recruiting from inside our own military.”
“And that whoever did the recruiting may still be in place,” Ben Belkassem murmured.
Alicia looked up as a shortish woman stepped through her hospital door. The newcomer moved with the springy stride of a heavy-worlder in a single gravity, and Alicia’s eyes widened.
“Tannis?” she blurted, jerking upright in bed. “By God, it is you!”
“Really?” Major Tannis Gateau, Imperial Cadre Medical Branch, turned her name tag up to scrutinize it, then nodded. “So it is.” She crossed to the bed. “How you doing, Sarge?”
“I’ll ‘Sarge’ you!” Alicia grinned. Then her smile faded as she saw the shadow behind Major Gateau’s eyes. “I expect,” she said more slowly, “that you’re about to tell me how I’m doing.”
“That’s what medics do, Sarge,” Gateau replied. She crossed her arms and rocked on the balls of her feet, surveying Captain DeVries (retired) very much as Corporal Gateau had once surveyed Platoon Sergeant DeVries. But there was a difference now, Alicia thought, noting the major’s pips on Gateau’s green uniform. Oh, yes, there was a difference.
“So how am I?” she asked after a moment.
“Not too bad, considering.” Gateau cocked her head judiciously. “Matter of fact, Okanami and his people did a good job on the repairs, from your records. I may not even open you back up to take a personal look.”
“You always were a hungry-knifed little snot.”
“The human eye,” Gateau declaimed, “is still the best diagnostic tool. You’ve got several million credits’ worth of the Emperor’s molycircs tucked away in there—only makes sense to be sure they’re all connected more or less to the right places, don’t you think?”
“Yeah, sure,” Alicia said as lightly as she could. “And mentally?”
“That,” Gateau acknowledged, “is a bit more ticklish. What’s this I hear about you talking to ghosts, Sarge?”
Leave it to Tannis to dive straight in. Alicia rubbed the upper tractor collar on her thigh. They should be taking that off soon, she thought inconsequentially, and lowered her eyes to it as she considered her answer.
“Well,” Alicia said finally, looking back up at Tannis, “I guess maybe I was a bit shaky when I woke up. Blame me?”
“You didn’t sound shaky, Sarge. In fact, you sounded a hell of a lot calmer than you should’ve. I know you. You’re a cold-blooded bitch in combat, but you come apart after the fire fight.”
Yeah, Alicia reflected, you do know me, don’t you, Tannis?
“So you think I’ve gone buggy?” she said aloud.
“’Buggy,’”Gateau observed, “is hardly a proper technical diagnosis suited to the mystique of my profession, and you know I’m a mechanic, not a psychobabbler. On the other hand, I’d have to say it sounds . . . unusual.”
Alicia shrugged. “What can I tell you? All I can say is that I feel rational—but I suppose I would, if I’ve really lost it.
“Um.” Gateau uncrossed her arms and clasped her hands behind her. “That doesn’t necessarily follow—I think it’s one of those self-assuring theories cooked up by people worried about their own stability—but I’d be inclined to write it off as post-combat shock with anyone else. And if we didn’t have you on chip still doing it in your sleep.”
“Not a lot. In fact, you tend to shut back up right in mid-word. Frankly, I’d prefer for you to run down instead of breaking off that way.”
“Oh, come on, Tannis! Lots of people talk in their sleep.”
“Not,” Gateau said at her driest, “to figures out of Greek mythology. I didn’t even know you’d studied the subject.”
“I haven’t. It’s just— Oh, hell, forget it.” Gateau raised an eyebrow, and Alicia snorted. “And get that all-knowing gleam out of your eye. You know how people pick up bits and pieces of null-value data.”
“True.” Gateau hooked a chair closer to the bed and sat. “The problem, Sarge, is that most people who talk in their sleep haven’t dropped right off Fleet scanners for a week—and they don’t have weird EEGs, either.”
“Weird EEG?” It was time for Alicia’s eyebrows to rise, and her surprise was not at all feigned.
“Yep. ‘Weird’ is Captain Okanami’s term, but I’m afraid it fits. He and his team didn’t know what they had on their table till they twanged your escape package, but they had a good, clear EEG on you throughout. Spiked just like it’s supposed to when you flattened that poor Commander Thompson—“ Gateau paused. “They tell you about that?”
“I asked, actually. I knew they’d hit something, and most of the medicos were too busy staying out of reach to get anything done. I’ve even apologized to him.”
“I’m sure he appreciated it.” Gateau’s eyes gleamed. “Nice clean hit, Sarge, just a tad low.” She grinned, then shrugged. “Anyway, there was the spike and all those other squiggles I recognize as lovable old you. But there was another whole pattern—almost like an overlay— wrapped around them.”
“Ah?”
“Ah. Almost looked like there were two of you. Mighty peculiar stuff, Sarge. You taking in boarders?”
“Not funny, Tannis,” Alicia said, looking away, and Gateau inhaled.
“You’re right. Sorry. But it was odd, Alley, and when you tie it in with all the other odd questions you’ve presented us with, it’s enough to make the brass nervous. Especially when you start talking as if there were someone else living in your head.” Gateau shook her head, eyes unwontedly worried. “They don’t want a schizoid drop commando running around, Sarge.”
“Not running around loose, you mean.”
“I suppose I do, but you can’t really blame them, can you?” She held Alicia’s gaze levelly, and it was Alicia’s turn to sigh.
“Guess not. Is that the real reason they’ve kept me isolated?”
“In part. Of course, you really do need continued treatment. The incisions are all done, but they had to put a hunk of laminate into your femur, and about four centimeters of what they managed to save lo
“I realize that. And I also know I could’ve been ambulatory in this thing—“ she tapped the upper tractor collar “—weeks ago. Okanami’s ‘have to wait and see; we’re not used to drop commandos’ line is getting a bit worn. If he weren’t such a sweet old bastard, I’d have started raising hell then.”
“Is that why you’ve been so tractable? I was afraid you must really be messed up.”
“Yeah.” Alicia ran her hands through her amber hair. “Okay, Tannis, let’s get right down to it. Am I considered a dangerous lunatic?”
“I wouldn’t go so far as to say ‘dangerous,’ Sarge, but there are . . . concerns. I’m taking over from Captain Okanami as of sixteen hundred today, and we’ll be running the whole battery of standard diagnostics, probably with a bit of psych monitoring cranked in. I’ll be able to tell you more then.”
Alicia smiled a crooked smile. “You’re not fooling me, you know.”
“Fooling?” Gateau widened her eyes innocently.
“Whatever your tests show, they’re going to figure I’m over the edge. Post-combat trauma and all that. Poor girl’s probably been suppressing her grief, too, hasn’t she? Hell, Tannis, it’s a lot harder to prove someone’s not loopy, and we both know it.”
“Well, yes,” Gateau agreed after a moment. “You always liked it straight, so I’ll level with you. Uncle Arthur came out with me, and he’s going to want to debrief you in person, but then you and I are Soissons-bound. Sector General’s got lots more equipment, so that’s where the real tests come in. On the other hand, I have Uncle Arthur’s personal guarantee that I’ll be your physician of record, and you know I won’t let them crap on you.”
“And if I don’t want to go?”
“Sorry, Sarge. You’ve been reactivated.”
“Oh, those bastards!” Alicia murmured, but there was a trace of amused respect in her voice.
“They can be lovable, can’t they?”
“How long do you expect your tests to take after we hit Soissons?”
“As long as they take. You want a guess?” Alicia nodded, and Gateau shrugged. “Don’t make any plans for a month or two, minimum.”
“That long?” Alicia couldn’t quite hide her dismay.
“Maybe longer. Look, Sarge, they want more than just a psych evaluation. They want answers, and you already told Okanami you don’t know what happened or why you’re alive. Okay, that means they’re going to have to dig for them. I’m sorry, but that’s the way it is.”
“And while they’re looking, the scent’s going to freeze solid.”
“Scent?” Gateau sat up straighter. “You in vigilante mode, Sarge?”
“Why not?” Alicia met her eyes. “Who’s got a better right?”
Gateau looked away for a moment. “No one, I guess. But that’s going to be a factor in their thinking, too, you know. They won’t want you running around to do something outstandingly stupid.”
“I know.” Alicia made herself smile. “Well, if I’m stuck, I’m stuck. And if I am, I’m glad I’ve got at least one friend in the enemy camp.”
“That’s the spirit.” Gateau rose with a grin of her own. “I’ve got an appointment with Uncle Arthur in ten minutes—gotta go give him my own evaluation of your condition—but I’ll check back when it’s over. I may even have more news on your upcoming, um, itinerary.”
“Thanks, Tannis.” Alicia leaned back against her pillows and smiled after her friend, but the smile faded as the door closed. She sighed and looked pensively down at her hands.
There was a positively gleeful note to the mental whisper, and Alicia DeVries grinned. Then she lowered her bed into a comfortable sleeping posture and smiled dreamily up at the ceiling.
“Well, Tisiphone,” she said aloud, “it doesn’t sound like they’re going to be too reasonable. The Cadre can be that way, sometimes. In fact, this reminds me of the time Sergeant Malinkov’s pharmacope got buggered on Bannerman and pumped him full of endorphins. He got this glorious natural high, you see, and there was this jammed traffic control signal downtown. Now, Pasha was always a helpful soul, and he had his plasgun with him, so—“
She tucked her hands behind her head and babbled cheerfully on to Tisiphone’s invisible presence . . . and the recorders.
Chapter Five
The Lizards were showing off again, damn them.
Commodore James Howell gritted his teeth as the Rishathan freighter coasted towards him at five hundred kilometers per second. Rishatha were physically unable to use synth units—much less cyber synth links—and they resented it. Which was why they insisted on over-compensating by showing humanity their panache . . . and also explained why he always met his Rishatha contacts well outside the Powell limit of any system body. Their drives could come closer than humanity’s to a planet without destabilizing (or worse), but not by all that much, and losing one’s drive during a maneuver like this one could lead to unpleasant consequences all round.
Five hundred KPS wasn’t all that fast, even for intra-system speeds, but the big freighter was barely fifteen thousand kilometers clear, already visible on the visual display, however assiduously Howell might refuse to look at it, and proximity alarms began to buzz. He made himself sit quite still despite their snarls, then sighed with hidden relief as the Rishathan captain flipped her ship end-for-end, pointing her stern at his flagship. The flare of the freighter’s Fasset drive (for which, of course, the Rishatha had their own unpronounceable name) was clear to his gravitic detectors,
Attitude and maneuvering thrusters flared as the Fasset drive died, nudging the freighter alongside Howell’s dreadnought, and he grinned in familiar, ironic amusement. Mankind—the Rish-kind, unfortunately—could out-speed light, generate pet black holes, and transmit messages scores of light-years in the blink of an eye, yet they still required thrusters the semi-mythical Armstrong would have recognized (in principle, at least) a thousand years before for that last, delicate step. Ridiculous— except that people still used the wheel, too.
He shook off the thought as the freighter’s tractors latched onto his command and it nuzzled up against cargo bay ten, extending a personnel tube to his number four lock. He glanced around his bridge at the comfortable, nondescript civilian coveralls of his crew and thought wistfully of the uniform he had discarded with his past. The Lizards weren’t much into clothing for protection’s sake, but they understood its decorative uses, and their taste was, quite literally, inhuman. It would have been nice to be able to reply in kind to the no doubt upcoming assault on his optic nerves.
His synth link whispered to him, announcing the imminent arrival of a single visitor, and he skinned off the headset and slipped it out of sight under his console. The rest of his command crew were doing the same. The Rish would know they’d done it to avoid flaunting the human ability to form direct links with their equipment, but there were civilities to be observed. Besides, hiding it all away was actually an even more effective way of calling attention to it—and one to which his visitor could take exception only with enormous loss of face. He hoped Resdyrn still commanded the freighter. She always took the con personally for the final approach, and he loved the way her fangs showed when he one-upped her one-upmanship without saying a word.