get to be a captain?”
Kyle wanted to laugh with him. The image of this slight young woman in full regalia shouting at lines of hardened spacers was incongruous. But the facts were more incongruous.
How had Prudence known how to defeat the mines?
She returned his suspicion. “I can’t take the credit. I’m sure you would have figured it out on your own.” Suave, even dismissive. She had saved his life, and he couldn’t even thank her for it, because she thought he was playing a game. That he was pretending to have asked for help, to make a radio record that looked like he hadn’t already known what to expect.
But that was absurd. The League would never broadcast its own incompetence as a cover-up. How could she be so sophisticated but not understand that basic fact? Unless she was playing deep, making cover stories for herself. If she kept accusing him of conspiracy, it meant she wasn’t the conspirator.
He closed his eyes in weariness. Too much double-dealing, too many possibilities and secrets. Over the years it had worn at him, grinding him down, stripping away everything that was not deception or counterdeception. Here, in the presence of aliens and beauty, in the shadow of violence and strength, it was too much.
He envied Jorgun. For the giant, everything was as it seemed. Too stupid to be suspicious, he could trust—and be trusted. No wonder Prudence had picked him. The perfect tool for the perfect operative.
“Are you all right?” She managed to make her voice sound like real concern.
“I’m tired.” In so many ways. “Let’s see if there’s a body.”
The three of them cautiously advanced on the shattered cockpit. Well, the two of them. Jorgun strode up to it eagerly, while Prudence and Kyle followed.
“Don’t touch anything,” he warned the giant again.
Jorgun peered inside, and shook his head. “I don’t think this is a Dog-Man ship.”
Kyle pushed up against Jorgun, trying to gently shove him out of the way. He might as well have pushed on a tree. Instead, he settled for slipping in front, and leaned his helmet forward to stare into the alien vessel.
Again, Jorgun asked the simple and the obvious. “Where does the pilot sit?”
There wasn’t a chair. The cockpit was a welter of unfamiliar dials and levers all along the edges, but there was no central chair.
“Maybe he doesn’t sit.” Prudence reached with her hand, inside.
“Don’t touch anything,” Kyle repeated automatically. Like she was a child. Or a green recruit.
She didn’t bother to retort to his pettiness. “Put your hand in there, Commander.”
Chastised, he did so. Their arms together, hands almost touching.
“What do you not feel?” she asked.
Dumbly, he shook his head. What he wanted to feel was her hand in his, her warmth and smoothness. But through the insulation of the suit, he couldn’t feel anything at all.
“That’s right. No grav field.” She seemed to think that was significant. Maybe to a spacer, it was.
But Kyle saw something that was significant to a cop.
A blue stain, on the cockpit floor. On the glass. More on the control panel resting on the snow.
“Who flies without passive grav-plating? Even in a tactical craft.” Prudence was shaking her head in disbelief.
“Who has blue blood?” Kyle asked her, pointing to the stains.
She stared down at the little patches of color, silenced.
Jorgun had been thinking his own thoughts. Now he leaned over both of them, reached deep into the cockpit, grabbed part of the floor, and pushed.
It spun, floating freely, a wheel within a wheel. An outer track remained stable, and in the contrast, the pattern leaped out at them.
Eight resting places. Eight kickplates. Eight legs.
Kyle glared at the big man, his suspicion flaring out of control. How could simpleness have seen what they had missed?
Prudence explained, her eyes sparking with secondhand pride. “That’s what he does, Commander. He sees patterns. That’s why he’s on my crew.
Kyle wanted to laugh with him. The image of this slight young woman in full regalia shouting at lines of hardened spacers was incongruous. But the facts were more incongruous.
How had Prudence known how to defeat the mines?
She returned his suspicion. “I can’t take the credit. I’m sure you would have figured it out on your own.” Suave, even dismissive. She had saved his life, and he couldn’t even thank her for it, because she thought he was playing a game. That he was pretending to have asked for help, to make a radio record that looked like he hadn’t already known what to expect.
But that was absurd. The League would never broadcast its own incompetence as a cover-up. How could she be so sophisticated but not understand that basic fact? Unless she was playing deep, making cover stories for herself. If she kept accusing him of conspiracy, it meant she wasn’t the conspirator.
He closed his eyes in weariness. Too much double-dealing, too many possibilities and secrets. Over the years it had worn at him, grinding him down, stripping away everything that was not deception or counterdeception. Here, in the presence of aliens and beauty, in the shadow of violence and strength, it was too much.
He envied Jorgun. For the giant, everything was as it seemed. Too stupid to be suspicious, he could trust—and be trusted. No wonder Prudence had picked him. The perfect tool for the perfect operative.
“Are you all right?” She managed to make her voice sound like real concern.
“I’m tired.” In so many ways. “Let’s see if there’s a body.”
The three of them cautiously advanced on the shattered cockpit. Well, the two of them. Jorgun strode up to it eagerly, while Prudence and Kyle followed.
“Don’t touch anything,” he warned the giant again.
Jorgun peered inside, and shook his head. “I don’t think this is a Dog-Man ship.”
Kyle pushed up against Jorgun, trying to gently shove him out of the way. He might as well have pushed on a tree. Instead, he settled for slipping in front, and leaned his helmet forward to stare into the alien vessel.
Again, Jorgun asked the simple and the obvious. “Where does the pilot sit?”
There wasn’t a chair. The cockpit was a welter of unfamiliar dials and levers all along the edges, but there was no central chair.
“Maybe he doesn’t sit.” Prudence reached with her hand, inside.
“Don’t touch anything,” Kyle repeated automatically. Like she was a child. Or a green recruit.
She didn’t bother to retort to his pettiness. “Put your hand in there, Commander.”
Chastised, he did so. Their arms together, hands almost touching.
“What do you not feel?” she asked.
Dumbly, he shook his head. What he wanted to feel was her hand in his, her warmth and smoothness. But through the insulation of the suit, he couldn’t feel anything at all.
“That’s right. No grav field.” She seemed to think that was significant. Maybe to a spacer, it was.
But Kyle saw something that was significant to a cop.
A blue stain, on the cockpit floor. On the glass. More on the control panel resting on the snow.
“Who flies without passive grav-plating? Even in a tactical craft.” Prudence was shaking her head in disbelief.
“Who has blue blood?” Kyle asked her, pointing to the stains.
She stared down at the little patches of color, silenced.
Jorgun had been thinking his own thoughts. Now he leaned over both of them, reached deep into the cockpit, grabbed part of the floor, and pushed.
It spun, floating freely, a wheel within a wheel. An outer track remained stable, and in the contrast, the pattern leaped out at them.
Eight resting places. Eight kickplates. Eight legs.
Kyle glared at the big man, his suspicion flaring out of control. How could simpleness have seen what they had missed?
Prudence explained, her eyes sparking with secondhand pride. “That’s what he does, Commander. He sees patterns. That’s why he’s on my crew.
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