The B-Team

  “Then you’re not going to like this,” Rigney said. “One of your A-teams has gone missing.”

  Egan frowned. “Which one?” she asked.

  “Ambassador Bair’s team,” Rigney said. “Along with, I should add, one of our frigates, the Polk.”

  Egan was silent for a moment, processing the news. “When did this happen?” she finally asked.

  “It’s been two days since there’s been a skip drone sent back from the Polk,” Rigney said.

  “And you’re only telling me this now?” Egan said.

  “I would have told you sooner, but you wanted me to see you scare the children,” Rigney said. “And two days without drone contact is our standard alarm raiser. Particularly with missions like this one, which are supposed to be secret. I came to find you as soon as we confirmed two days of dead air.”

  “What did your recovery mission find?” Egan asked.

  “No recovery mission,” Rigney said, and caught Egan’s look. “We had a hard enough time negotiating a military frigate for the mission. If the Utche show up and see several military ships in the area, none of them with diplomats on them, everything blows up.”

  “Recon drones, then,” Egan said.

  “Of course,” Rigney said. “Everything’s preliminary because the drones have just arrived, but they’re not finding anything.”

  “You sent the drones to the correct system,” Egan said.

  “Come on, Liz,” Rigney said.

  “Doesn’t hurt to ask,” Egan said.

  “We sent the drones to the right system,” Rigney said. “We sent the Polk to the right system. The Danavar system is where the Utche wanted to meet.”

  Egan nodded. “A system with nothing but gas giants and airless moons. No one will think to look for you there. Perfect for secret negotiations.”

  “Apparently not so secret after all,” Rigney said.

  “You’re presuming the Polk met with a bad end,” Egan said.

  “Our frigates don’t have a history of randomly vaporizing,” Rigney said. “But whatever or whoever did this isn’t in the Danavar system now. There’s nothing there but planets and moons and a big yellow star.”

  “Have we told the Utche about this?” Egan asked.

  “We haven’t told anyone about it,” Rigney said. “Outside of command, you’re the first person to know. We haven’t even told your boss that her team is missing. We figured we’d let you do that yourself.”

  “Thanks,” Egan said, wryly. “But surely the Utche have noticed there is no one negotiating a treaty with them.”

  “The Polk arrived three days early,” Rigney said.

  “Why?” Egan said.

  “Ostensibly to give Bair’s team time to prep away from the distractions of Phoenix Station,” Rigney said.

  “And in reality?” Egan asked.

  “In reality to make sure we were militarily prepared for an immediate withdrawal if necessary,” Rigney said.

  “Seems drastic,” Egan said.

  “You’ll recall the Utche have handed our ass to us in three out of the last five military engagements we’ve had with them,” Rigney said. “Just because they came to us for this alliance doesn’t mean we trust them entirely.”

  “And you don’t think the Utche might have figured out the CU’s trust issues,” Egan said.

  “We’re pretty sure they have,” Rigney said. “In part because we let them know we were arriving early. Your boss signed off on the cover story, but we don’t assume the Utche are stupid. It was a sign to us of how much they want the alliance that they were willing to give us a tactical advantage.”

  “You’ve entertained the possibility the Utche blasted the Polk out of the sky,” Egan said.

  “Obviously,” Rigney said. “But they’ve been as transparent with us as we’ve been with them, and where they’re not transparent, we have spies. This is something we would have known about. And nothing they’re doing indicates that they think anything is out of the ordinary. Their diplomatic mission is on a ship called the Kaligm, and it’s a day out from skip distance.”

  Egan said nothing to this but instead fired up the display, turning to it. Phoenix Station floated in the display, the limb of the planet Phoenix below it. At a distance from Phoenix Station, CDF and trade ships floated; their names appeared in labels hovering aside them in the display. The image pulled out and both Phoenix Station and Phoenix shrank to a single dot, taking with them thousands of starships arriving at or departing from the Colonial Union’s capital. The image pulled farther out and displayed, as dots, dozens of ships, each working its way toward a sufficiently flat spot of space-time to make a skip. Egan began pulling information from a few, crew manifests spilling onto the display.

  “Okay, I give up,” Rigney said, after several minutes of this. “Tell me what you’re doing.”

  “Ambassador Bair isn’t on our A-list,” Egan said, still scanning crew manifests. “She’s on our A Plus–list. If she was pipped to negotiate, then this mission is an actual priority, not just a top-secret diplomatic circle jerk.”

  “Okay,” Rigney said. “So?”

  “So, you don’t know Secretary Galeano like I do,” Egan said, naming the secretary of state. “If I walk into her office, tell her one of her best diplomats and her entire team is probably dead and their mission therefore a complete failure, without a backup plan already in place and ready to implement, things will be very grim indeed. I will be without a job, you will probably be without a job simply for being the messenger, and the secretary will go out of her way to make sure that the next posting for both of us will be someplace where our life expectancy will be measured with an egg timer.”

  “She sounds nice,” Rigney said.

  “She’s perfectly lovely,” Egan said. “Until you piss her off.” The display, which had been scrolling through ships and crew manifests, suddenly stopped on a single ship. “Here.”

  Rigney peered up at the image. “What is this?”

  “This is the B-team,” Egan said.

  “The Clarke?” Rigney said. “I don’t know this ship.”

  “It handles various low-level diplomatic missions,” Egan said. “Its chief diplomat is a woman named Abumwe.” The image of a dark and severe-looking woman hovered on the screen. “Her most significant negotiation was with the Korba a few months back. She impressed them by having a CDF officer stationed on the ship fight with one of their soldiers, and lost in a diplomatically meaningful way.”

  “That’s interesting,” Rigney said.

  “Yes, but not entirely her doing,” Egan said, and popped up the images of two men, one of whom was green. “The fight was set up by a deputy, Hart Schmidt. Lieutenant Harry Wilson was the one who fought.”

  “So why these people?” Rigney asked. “What makes them the right people to take over this mission?”

  “Two reasons,” Egan said. “One, Abumwe was part of an embassy to the Utche three years ago. Nothing came of it at the time, but she has experience dealing with them. That means she can get brought up to speed quickly. Two”—she pulled out the view to show the Clarke in space—“the Clarke is eighteen hours away from skip distance. Abumwe and her people can still get to the Danavar system ahead of the Utche and participate in the negotiations, or at the very least allow us to set up a new round of talks. There’s no other diplomatic mission that can make it on time.”

  “We send in the B-team because it’s marginally better than nothing,” Rigney said.

  “Abumwe and her people aren’t incompetent,” Egan said. “They just wouldn’t be your first choice. But right now we’re short on choices.”

  “Right,” Rigney said. “You’re really going to sell this to your boss, then.”

  “Unless you have a better idea,” Egan said.

  “Not really,” Rigney said, then furrowed his brow for a moment. “Although…”

  “Although what?” Egan said.

  “Bring up that CDF guy again,” Rigney said.
r />   Egan popped the image of Lieutenant Harry Wilson back onto the display. “What about him?” she said.

  “He still on the Clarke?” Rigney asked.

  “Yes,” Egan said. “He’s a technical advisor. Some of the Clarke’s recent missions have had military tech and weapons as part of the negotiations. They have him on hand to train people on the machines we’re offering. Why?”

  “I think I may have found a way to sweeten your B-team plan to Secretary Galeano,” Rigney said. “And to my bosses, too.”

  IV.

  Wilson noted the expression Schmidt had when he looked up and saw him standing by the door of Ambassador Abumwe’s conference room.

  “You don’t have to look that shocked,” Wilson said, dryly.

  “Sorry,” Schmidt said. He moved to let other members of the Clarke’s diplomatic contingent into the room.

  Wilson waved it away. “I’m not usually included this early in the discussion. It’s fine.”

  “Do you know what this is about?” Schmidt said.

  “Allow me to repeat: I’m not usually included this early in the discussion,” Wilson said.

  “Got it,” Schmidt said. “Well, shall we, then?” The two of them entered the room.

  The conference room was cramped, as was everything on the Clarke. The table, with eight seats, was already filled, with Ambassador Abumwe looking owlishly at Schmidt and Wilson as they entered. The two of them took positions against the wall opposite her.

  “Now that we’re all here,” she said, with a pointed glance at Wilson and Schmidt, “let’s get started. The Department of State, in its wisdom, has decided that our presence is no longer needed at Vinnedorg.”

  A groan went up from around the table. “Who are they giving our work to this time?” asked Rae Sarles.

  “No one,” Abumwe said. “Our superiors are apparently under the impression that these negotiations will somehow magically take care of themselves without a Colonial presence.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense,” said Hugh Fucci.

  “I appreciate you telling me that, Hugh,” Abumwe said. “I don’t believe I would have figured that out on my own.”

  “Sorry, Ambassador,” Fucci said, backtracking. “What I mean to say is that they’ve been having us working on these negotiations with the Vinnies for more than a year now. I don’t understand why they want to threaten our momentum by interrupting what we’re doing.”

  “Which is why we’re having our little meeting today,” Abumwe said, and then nodded to Hillary Drolet, her assistant, who pressed the screen of her PDA. “If you’ll access your queues, you’ll find the information on our new assignment.”

  Everyone at the table, and Schmidt, accessed their PDAs; Wilson accessed his BrainPal, found the document in his queue, and streamed the data in the bottom quarter of his field of vision.

  “The Utche?” asked Nelson Kwok, after a minute. “Have the CU ever actually negotiated with them before?”

  “I was part of a mission to them three years ago, before I took this posting,” Abumwe said. “At the time, nothing seemed to come of it. But apparently we’ve been quietly negotiating with them for the last year or so.”

  “Who’s been the lead?” Kwok asked.

  “Sara Bair,” Abumwe said.

  Wilson noted that everyone looked up at the ambassador when she said this. Whoever this Sara Bair was, she was clearly a star.

  “Why is she off the negotiations?” Sarles asked.

  “I couldn’t tell you,” Abumwe said. “But she and her people are, and now we’re on it.”

  “Too bad for her,” Fucci said, and Wilson saw there were smiles around the table. Getting this Bair’s sloppy seconds were preferable to the Clarke’s original mission, it seemed. Once again, Wilson wondered at what fate it was that brought him onto the Clarke to join its band of not-that-lovable losers. Wilson also couldn’t help but notice that the only person at the table not smiling at the prospect of taking up the Utche negotiations was Abumwe herself.

  “There’s a lot of information in this package,” Schmidt said. He was flicking his PDA screen and scrolling through the text. “How many days before we begin negotiating?”

  And it was then that Abumwe smiled, notably thin and humorless though it was. “Twenty hours.”

  There was dead silence.

  “You’re joking,” Fucci said. Abumwe gave him a look that clearly indicated she had reached the end of her patience with him for the day. Fucci wisely did not speak again.

  “Why the rush?” Wilson asked. He knew Abumwe didn’t like him; it wouldn’t hurt for him to ask the question everyone else wanted to know but was too scared to ask.

  “I couldn’t say,” Abumwe said evenly, looking at him briefly and then turning her attention to her staff. “And even if I could, the reason wouldn’t matter for what we have to do now. We have sixteen hours before our jump and then four hours after that before the Utche are scheduled to arrive. After that we’re on their schedule. They might want to meet immediately; they might want to meet in a day. We are going to go under the assumption they will want to begin negotiations immediately. That means you have the next twelve hours to get up to speed. After that, we’ll have planning sessions before and after the jump. I hope you’ve gotten enough sleep in the last two days, because you’re not getting any more for a while. Any questions?”

  There were none. “Good,” Abumwe said. “I don’t believe I have to tell any of you that if these negotiations go well, then it is good for us. For all of us. If they go poorly, then it will go badly for all of us as well. But it will go especially poorly for whichever ones of you were not completely up to speed and dragged the rest of your team down with you. I need you to be crystal clear on that.”

  They were.

  “Lieutenant Wilson, a word with you,” Abumwe said, as the room began to clear. “You too, Schmidt.” The room cleared except for the ambassador, Hillary Drolet, Schmidt and Wilson.

  “Why did you ask about why there was a rush?” Abumwe asked.

  Wilson made a conscious effort not to let the thought I’m being called on the carpet for that? show up on his face. “Because everyone wanted to know, but no one else wanted to ask, ma’am.”

  “Because they knew better,” Abumwe said.

  “Except possibly for Fucci, yes, ma’am,” Wilson said.

  “But you don’t,” Abumwe said.

  “No, I know better, too,” Wilson said. “But I still thought someone should ask.”

  “Hmmm,” Abumwe said. “Lieutenant, what did it say to you that we have twenty hours to prepare for this negotiation?”

  “Are you asking me to speculate, ma’am?” Wilson asked.

  “It’s rather obvious that’s what I’m asking,” Abumwe said. “You’re Colonial Defense Forces. You no doubt have a military perspective on this.”

  “It’s been years since I’ve been anywhere near actual combat, ma’am,” Wilson said. “I’ve been with CDF Research and Development for years, even before they lent me to you and the Clarke as your tech consultant.”

  “But you are still CDF, yes?” Abumwe said. “You still have the green skin and the computer in your head. I imagine if you dig deeply, you might still have the ability to look at things from a military point of view.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Wilson said.

  “Then give me your analysis,” Abumwe said.

  “Someone’s humped the bunk,” Wilson said.

  “Excuse me?” Abumwe said. Wilson noted Schmidt suddenly looked paler than usual.

  “Humped the bunk,” Wilson repeated. “Screwed the pooch. Gone FUBAR. Insert your own metaphor for things going sideways here. You don’t have to have military experience to see that; everyone in this room had that thought. Whatever this Sara Bair and her team were supposed to do, they blew it, and for whatever reason the Colonial Union needs to attempt a salvage, so you and your team are the last-minute, last-chance substitute.”

  “And why us?”
Abumwe said.

  “Because you are good at what you do,” Wilson said.

  Abumwe’s thin smile returned. “If I want smoke blown up my ass, Lieutenant, I could have your friend here,” she said, nodding toward Schmidt.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Wilson said. “In that case, I’d guess because we’re close to jump, which makes us easy to reroute, that you’ve had at least some experience with the Utche, and that if you fail, and you probably will because you’re the last-minute replacement, you’re low enough on the diplomatic totem pole that it can be chalked up to your incompetence.” Wilson looked over to Schmidt, who looked as if he were about to implode. “Stop that, Hart,” he said. “She asked.”

  “I did indeed,” Abumwe said. “And you are right, Lieutenant. But only half-right. The other reason that they picked us is because of you.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Wilson said, now thoroughly confused.

  “Sara Bair didn’t fail at her task, she disappeared,” Abumwe said. “Along with the whole of her diplomatic mission and a CDF frigate called the Polk. It and them, gone. No trace.”

  “That’s not good,” Wilson said.

  “You are once again stating the obvious,” Abumwe said.

  “How do I matter here, ma’am?” Wilson said.

  “They don’t think the Polk just vanished, they think it was destroyed,” Abumwe said. “And they need you to look for the black box.”

  “Black box?” Schmidt asked.

  “A data recorder,” Wilson said. “If the Polk was destroyed and the black box survived, then it could tell us what happened to the ship, and who killed it.”

  “And we couldn’t find it without you?” Schmidt asked.

  Wilson shook his head. “They’re small and they don’t send out a locator beacon unless they’re pinged with an encrypted signal, specific to that ship. It’s a military-grade cipher. You need a very tall security clearance for that. They don’t just hand those out to anyone, and not to anyone outside the CDF.” He turned his attention to Abumwe. “But they don’t just hand them out to random lieutenants, either.”