Read Online The Human Division #1: The B-Team by John Scalzi - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: John Scalzi
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It’s possible whoever attacked the Polk is still out there. We’re sending this data to Phoenix. They will alert the Utche of the situation, which means they will almost certainly call off their ship. There is no negotiation to be had.”
“You don’t know that,” Abumwe said. “It might take them hours to process the information. We are less than three hours from when the Utche are meant to arrive. Even if we were to leave, we will still be in system when they arrive, which means the first thing they would see is us running away.”
“It’s not running away, ” Coloma said, sharply. “And this is not your decision to make, Ambassador. I am captain of the ship.”
“A diplomatic ship,” Abumwe said. “On which I am the chief diplomat.”
“Ambassador, Captain,” Wilson said, “do I need to be here for this part of the conversation?”
Wilson saw the two simultaneously reach toward their screens. Both of their images shut off.
“That would be ‘no,’” Wilson said, to himself.
VIII.
Something was nagging at Wilson as he punched in the return route to the Clarke . The Polk had been hit at least fifteen times by ship-to-ship missiles, but before any of them had hit, there had been an earlier explosion that had shaken the ship. But the data had not recorded any event leading up to the explosion; the ship had skipped, made an initial scan of the immediate area and then everything was perfectly normal until the initial explosion. Once it happened everything went to hell, quickly. But beforehand, nothing. There had been nothing to indicate anything out of the ordinary.
The shuttle’s navigational router accepted the path back and started to move. Wilson strapped himself into his seat and relaxed. He would be back on the Clarke shortly, by which time he assumed that either Coloma or Abumwe would have emerged victorious from their power struggle. Wilson had no personal preference in who won; he could see the merit in both arguments, and both of them appeared to dislike him equally, so neither had an advantage there.
I did what I was supposed to do, Wilson thought, and glanced over to the black box on the passenger seat, looking like a dark, matte, light-absorbing hole in the chair.
Something clicked in his head.
“Holy shit,” Wilson said, and slapped the shuttle into immobility.
“You said ‘shit’ again,” Wilson heard Schmidt say. “And now you’re not moving.”
“I just had a very interesting thought,” Wilson said.
“You can’t have this thought while you are bringing the shuttle back?” Schmidt said. “Captain Coloma was very specific about returning it.”
“Hart, I’m going to talk to you in a bit,” Wilson said.
“What are you going to do?” Schmidt asked.
“You probably don’t want to know,” Wilson said. “It’s best you don’t know. I want to make sure you have plausible deniability.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Schmidt said.
“Exactly,” Wilson said, and cut his connection to his friend.
A few minutes later, Wilson floated weightless inside the airless cabin of the shuttle, face masked, holding the guide handle next to the shuttle door. He slapped the door release button.
And saw nothing outside.
Which is not as it should have been; Wilson’s BrainPal should have picked up and enhanced starlight within visible wavelengths. He was getting nothing.
Wilson reached out with the hand not gripping the guide handle. Nothing. He repositioned himself, bringing his body mostly outside of the door, and reached again. This time there was something there.
Something big and black and invisible.
Hello, Wilson thought. What the hell are you?
The big, black, invisible thing did not respond.
Wilson pinged his BrainPal for two things. The first was to see how long it had been since his face mask had gone on; it was roughly two minutes. He’d have just about five minutes before his body started screaming at him for air. The second was to
“You don’t know that,” Abumwe said. “It might take them hours to process the information. We are less than three hours from when the Utche are meant to arrive. Even if we were to leave, we will still be in system when they arrive, which means the first thing they would see is us running away.”
“It’s not running away, ” Coloma said, sharply. “And this is not your decision to make, Ambassador. I am captain of the ship.”
“A diplomatic ship,” Abumwe said. “On which I am the chief diplomat.”
“Ambassador, Captain,” Wilson said, “do I need to be here for this part of the conversation?”
Wilson saw the two simultaneously reach toward their screens. Both of their images shut off.
“That would be ‘no,’” Wilson said, to himself.
VIII.
Something was nagging at Wilson as he punched in the return route to the Clarke . The Polk had been hit at least fifteen times by ship-to-ship missiles, but before any of them had hit, there had been an earlier explosion that had shaken the ship. But the data had not recorded any event leading up to the explosion; the ship had skipped, made an initial scan of the immediate area and then everything was perfectly normal until the initial explosion. Once it happened everything went to hell, quickly. But beforehand, nothing. There had been nothing to indicate anything out of the ordinary.
The shuttle’s navigational router accepted the path back and started to move. Wilson strapped himself into his seat and relaxed. He would be back on the Clarke shortly, by which time he assumed that either Coloma or Abumwe would have emerged victorious from their power struggle. Wilson had no personal preference in who won; he could see the merit in both arguments, and both of them appeared to dislike him equally, so neither had an advantage there.
I did what I was supposed to do, Wilson thought, and glanced over to the black box on the passenger seat, looking like a dark, matte, light-absorbing hole in the chair.
Something clicked in his head.
“Holy shit,” Wilson said, and slapped the shuttle into immobility.
“You said ‘shit’ again,” Wilson heard Schmidt say. “And now you’re not moving.”
“I just had a very interesting thought,” Wilson said.
“You can’t have this thought while you are bringing the shuttle back?” Schmidt said. “Captain Coloma was very specific about returning it.”
“Hart, I’m going to talk to you in a bit,” Wilson said.
“What are you going to do?” Schmidt asked.
“You probably don’t want to know,” Wilson said. “It’s best you don’t know. I want to make sure you have plausible deniability.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Schmidt said.
“Exactly,” Wilson said, and cut his connection to his friend.
A few minutes later, Wilson floated weightless inside the airless cabin of the shuttle, face masked, holding the guide handle next to the shuttle door. He slapped the door release button.
And saw nothing outside.
Which is not as it should have been; Wilson’s BrainPal should have picked up and enhanced starlight within visible wavelengths. He was getting nothing.
Wilson reached out with the hand not gripping the guide handle. Nothing. He repositioned himself, bringing his body mostly outside of the door, and reached again. This time there was something there.
Something big and black and invisible.
Hello, Wilson thought. What the hell are you?
The big, black, invisible thing did not respond.
Wilson pinged his BrainPal for two things. The first was to see how long it had been since his face mask had gone on; it was roughly two minutes. He’d have just about five minutes before his body started screaming at him for air. The second was to
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