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Authors: John Jackson Miller
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looked back down the
ladder. For the first time since Bridget had met her, the Q/A seemed less than
self-assured. “Shoot.”
“You were at Overland, weren’t
you?” Trovatelli followed her through the hatchway.
“How — I mean, how—”
“How did I start Earth’s first
interstellar war?” Bridget didn’t even flinch. Every new recruit to the team
asked once they realized she was that Bridget Yang. Unless they were so clueless about the universe they lived in
that they didn’t know to ask…in which case she didn’t want them on her team
anyway. “A lot of things went wrong in a row.”
“I know. I
did a research assignment on it in school.”
Great , Bridget thought. I’m core curriculum now.
“So I know what happened,” the Q/A said. “I just don’t know how you
didn’t…well, see it sooner. I mean, you seem to try to get to know all your
recruits.”
“Cause and effect,” she said,
knowing exactly what Trovatelli was referring to. “You’re
an engineer. You should understand that.” She looked in a side door and pointed
Trovatelli toward it. “That should be your spot, if
the schematics are right. I’ll check in later.”
Bridget walked ahead in silence,
alone. Cause and effect, my ass, she
thought. One big cause
and all the rest, effect.
That had been her life since Overland.
The location in Nebraska was little more than a crossroads on the Platte River:
a maintenance stop for the maglev line heading east. But everyone had heard
about it after the events of 2130. Eight years ago — but yesterday, as far as
Bridget was concerned. She lived through it all again every time someone
brought it up. . .
In deep space the hot-tempered Gebrans had at last agreed to an exchange of trade
representatives. However, being Gebran, the aliens
had insisted on making their own way to Earth and landing in a remote area. But
no place on Earth was truly remote anymore, and Bridget’s special marine
detachment had been just as capable of meeting the shuttle in the wheat fields
as in the capital.
Hers had been an honor guard. But
it was still a guard, and it had failed in that duty. Or rather, she had failed
to spot until too late that two of her junior escorts had belonged to the
radical Walled Garden movement, the last holdouts against Earth joining the
interstellar community. Most of the members of the Gebran
delegation had died in the assassination attempt, and while Bridget’s quick thinking
had saved the ambassador, news of the event had touched off the war that
threatened to undo the Signatory Pact.
Once humans began dying in
battle, many people began grasping for someone to blame. Some faulted Bridget,
who had initially been decorated for her role, for not having recognized
Gardeners in her midst. This despite the fact that there wasn’t anything she could have done — the investigators had
concluded early on that the turncoats had covered their pasts well.
Reflexively, she had taken responsibility anyway — although doing so before the
media had, in retrospect, been a mistake. The flak that followed had cost her
rank and commission, and ultimately she left the service after the muddle of a war ended.
She’d come to Quaestor
for a job rather than redemption. Praetor, Lazarius, Osman, and the other trading firms had turned her down
outright. Only a farseeing Quaestor expedition
leader, realizing how much experience a small amount of money bought, had
offered her a contract. Bridget had stayed ever since, running a crack surge
team even as the fortunes of the expedition it was protecting faltered. Her
past had convinced her that part of soldiering was making time to get to know
all her new recruits and seeing what made them tick. There’d be no more
Gardeners on her details.
And loyalty had demanded that she
stick with the expedition now, even after bad years and Spore attacks. She’d
even coped with the deteriorating quality of her new recruits, welcoming help
by veterans like O’Herlihy
ladder. For the first time since Bridget had met her, the Q/A seemed less than
self-assured. “Shoot.”
“You were at Overland, weren’t
you?” Trovatelli followed her through the hatchway.
“How — I mean, how—”
“How did I start Earth’s first
interstellar war?” Bridget didn’t even flinch. Every new recruit to the team
asked once they realized she was that Bridget Yang. Unless they were so clueless about the universe they lived in
that they didn’t know to ask…in which case she didn’t want them on her team
anyway. “A lot of things went wrong in a row.”
“I know. I
did a research assignment on it in school.”
Great , Bridget thought. I’m core curriculum now.
“So I know what happened,” the Q/A said. “I just don’t know how you
didn’t…well, see it sooner. I mean, you seem to try to get to know all your
recruits.”
“Cause and effect,” she said,
knowing exactly what Trovatelli was referring to. “You’re
an engineer. You should understand that.” She looked in a side door and pointed
Trovatelli toward it. “That should be your spot, if
the schematics are right. I’ll check in later.”
Bridget walked ahead in silence,
alone. Cause and effect, my ass, she
thought. One big cause
and all the rest, effect.
That had been her life since Overland.
The location in Nebraska was little more than a crossroads on the Platte River:
a maintenance stop for the maglev line heading east. But everyone had heard
about it after the events of 2130. Eight years ago — but yesterday, as far as
Bridget was concerned. She lived through it all again every time someone
brought it up. . .
In deep space the hot-tempered Gebrans had at last agreed to an exchange of trade
representatives. However, being Gebran, the aliens
had insisted on making their own way to Earth and landing in a remote area. But
no place on Earth was truly remote anymore, and Bridget’s special marine
detachment had been just as capable of meeting the shuttle in the wheat fields
as in the capital.
Hers had been an honor guard. But
it was still a guard, and it had failed in that duty. Or rather, she had failed
to spot until too late that two of her junior escorts had belonged to the
radical Walled Garden movement, the last holdouts against Earth joining the
interstellar community. Most of the members of the Gebran
delegation had died in the assassination attempt, and while Bridget’s quick thinking
had saved the ambassador, news of the event had touched off the war that
threatened to undo the Signatory Pact.
Once humans began dying in
battle, many people began grasping for someone to blame. Some faulted Bridget,
who had initially been decorated for her role, for not having recognized
Gardeners in her midst. This despite the fact that there wasn’t anything she could have done — the investigators had
concluded early on that the turncoats had covered their pasts well.
Reflexively, she had taken responsibility anyway — although doing so before the
media had, in retrospect, been a mistake. The flak that followed had cost her
rank and commission, and ultimately she left the service after the muddle of a war ended.
She’d come to Quaestor
for a job rather than redemption. Praetor, Lazarius, Osman, and the other trading firms had turned her down
outright. Only a farseeing Quaestor expedition
leader, realizing how much experience a small amount of money bought, had
offered her a contract. Bridget had stayed ever since, running a crack surge
team even as the fortunes of the expedition it was protecting faltered. Her
past had convinced her that part of soldiering was making time to get to know
all her new recruits and seeing what made them tick. There’d be no more
Gardeners on her details.
And loyalty had demanded that she
stick with the expedition now, even after bad years and Spore attacks. She’d
even coped with the deteriorating quality of her new recruits, welcoming help
by veterans like O’Herlihy
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