not by much. Not enough time to learn real politics, no matter how young he had started.
In contrast, Villipova, the governor of Smolensk, was a grim-faced woman of fifty-four, used to occasional violence, but reasonably skilled at dealing with corporations and trade. Greg had dealt with her under less stressful circumstances, and had found her unfailingly practical, if not prone to overtures of friendliness. During their negotiations she had seemed tired and irritable, and had struggled with letting Oarig speak his mind. She clearly thought the Baikul governor was foolishly inflexible, and much of Greg’s challenge had been getting her to listen long enough to understand the areas where Oarig was open to compromise.
When he had briefed Commander Broadmoor on the tactical situation, he had told her to expect both domes to be coordinating attacks on each other. “This attack may just be the start,” he’d said. “Keep the troop shuttles on deck, and your people ready to go. And if you detect anything more radioactive than a thorium mine—you alert me instantly, understood?”
Greg had no doubt Oarig would revel in Central sending infantry to Smolensk, but he doubted the governor would sit silent when Baikul received the same treatment. Greg’s orders to Emily Broadmoor had been clear: she was to deploy the others if—and only if—she thought a show of firepower was the only way to prevent the colony from blowing itself up.
They were still ten minutes out from the dome when Commander Broadmoor commed him. “Sir,” she told him, “we’re showing some activity on the surface. Pulse rifles, and what looks like a wreck.”
Here we go, he thought. “Any distress calls?”
“Hang on …” She was silent for a moment, then: “There’s a beacon, sir. It’s a cargo ship off of Budapest.”
Greg hit Sparrow’s comm. “Savosky?”
“This is Yuri Gorelik. Captain Foster, is that you?”
Savosky had not yet returned, then. “We’re getting a beacon from one of your shuttles down here. Looks like they got caught in some surface fighting. Are you in touch with them?”
“No, Captain, we’re not.” Gorelik sounded concerned. “Captain Savosky is on his way back right now. Shaw was supposed to be making the cargo drop.”
“On her own?” The question came out before Greg realized what he was asking. Of course Elena would have managed a way to do it on her own.
But that wasn’t what was worrying Gorelik. “She was supposed to be alone,” he said. “But it seems we’re missing our other mechanic. Arin Goldjani. Captain Foster—” There was a pause. “He’s nineteen. Not experienced. He was meant to stay here for this mission. We think he stowed away.”
He was also, Greg knew, Yuri and Bear’s adopted son. “Are you getting anything from them at all?”
“Just the beacon, as you are.”
Shit. “The colonists must have a local jammer,” he said. The alternative—that the crew could not respond—was unthinkable. “Your cargo ships don’t carry weapons, do they?”
“No, Captain.” Gorelik’s voice was grim. “They do not.”
Greg was changing course even as he commed Jessica. “Commander, get in touch with Oarig and tell him if he’s got anything to do with shooting at fucking civilian freight ships trying to bring his own people fucking food, this is no longer going to be a neutral negotiation.”
Jessica got the point quickly. “Is it Elena?”
“Of course it’s Elena. And apparently some green kid who followed her down.”
Jessica swore concisely. “On it, sir.”
Admiral Herrod appeared at his elbow. “Problem, Captain?”
“We need to divert, sir,” Greg said. “Someone shot down a cargo carrier. They’ve put up a distress beacon, but Budapest can’t contact them.”
He waited for Herrod to lodge a protest, or at the very least grant permission; but it seemed Herrod had grown accustomed to his retirement. “What’s our strategy?”
“Our strategy,” Greg said, loudly enough for the others to hear, “is to clear the comm signal, get to the civilian vessel, and avoid deadly force as much as we can. Which means we threaten the hell out of them and get them to stand down long enough for us to get our people out. Darrow, Bristol?”
“Sir,” they said simultaneously.
“You perceive a credible threat that you can’t disarm, you defend, understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
He kept Sparrow on a clean vector and watched for the shuttle’s telemetry: it seemed to have some power, and he held out hope Elena was all right. After several minutes, the wreck appeared on the horizon, and as they grew closer, he saw enough to feel relief. The shuttle, intact but flat on its back, was surrounded by massive cargo bins: the food the colony so sorely needed. Without weapons—why the fuck do freighters drop in war zones without weapons?—she had defended her ship with the only leverage she had: the cargo they were trying to steal.
“Sparrow, what’s in the area?”
“Four hundred and sixty-two people,” Sparrow said calmly.
“Moving?”
“Yes.”
“In the same direction?”
“No.”
“Put them up on tactical.”
They were clumped in two groups, relatively even in number, and they were moving toward each other. Typical Yakutsk: domes so interested in choking each other off that they missed all of their common ground. He would have left them to their futile devices, but Elena’s downed shuttle was right in between them.
He swore again, and tried comms. “This is Sparrow calling the shuttle off of Budapest.” Pick the fuck up.
“The other shuttle is not receiving comms,” Sparrow told him.
“Can they send?”
“No.”
“Are we close enough to break a comms jam?”
“No.”
“How long until we reach her?”
“One minute seventeen seconds.”
Eternity. Shit. “Are any of those people targeting the shuttle?”
“Insufficient information to determine target.”
“Is the shuttle in the line of fire?”
“Yes.”
“How likely are they to light up?”
“Direct impact at a range of less than
