The Application of Hope Read online

  And she hoped that message got through: the front line's senior captain was so far away from his duties that he couldn't come to a support request in a timely fashion.

  "We're heading toward the Ivoire's position as per Captain Cooper's request. We'll be there in less than twelve hours. But we all have some questions about the mission."

  Finally the screen across from her winked on, revealing the faces of several members of Command Operations. She had met two, including General Zeller, who had been the first to question her abilities to captain, more than twenty years ago. The other three faces looked familiar, of course, and even if she hadn't known them by reputation, the listing of names and credentials below their images would have helped her understand who she was talking to.

  The faces seemed to float against a black background. Long ago, Command Operations had established its communications imagery to show only the pertinent information and nothing more. In conversation with a captain, only the faces had been deemed pertinent.

  "Your mission or Captain Cooper's?" asked General Nawoki, the other person that Sabin had met personally. She barely knew General Nawoki, although she admired Nawoki's military record. Nawoki was one of the few officers who had defended her ship—with no loss of life—in a four-day prolonged battle after her anacapa had broken down. At one point, overrun by the enemy, she managed to stave off boarding and ship capture by reengineering half the lifepods into weapons.

  "I'm interested in both missions," Sabin said. "According to what little we saw of the attack, Captain Cooper did not fire on the ships. Speculation from our Sector Research team is that these ships are Quurzod, and we know that the Ivoire was on a pre-diplomatic mission to the Quurzod. I need to know—the entire front line needs to know—if we're not to fire on those ships, or if the diplomatic mission is off."

  The members of Command Operations did not look at each other—that she could tell, anyway. She had no idea how the cameras were set up in Command Operations. She didn't even have a high enough rank to enter the level on the Alta that housed Command Operations, let alone ever go into the room.

  "Anything else?" Nawoki asked.

  "When we arrive," Sabin said, "who runs the mission? The front line commander or Captain Cooper?"

  "Why do you care now?" Zeller asked.

  Sabin glanced at him. His face had more lines than it had when she was in school, but his eyes remained the same. Steel gray, flat, and cold. She had tried not to hate him back then. Given the resentment she felt now as she looked at him, she wondered if she had been successful.

  "It will make a difference as to how we plan our response. A cursory study of the ships on front line tells me that none of us have the kind of diplomatic experience that the crew of the Ivoire have, and if this is still a diplomatic mission, then—"

  "We will get back to you," Nawoki said, and the images vanished from the screen. The contact had been severed.

  Sabin stood and let herself out of the room, leaving the panel open in case Command Operations responded immediately. She didn't want anything to record the expression that she had barely been able to keep off her face inside during the meeting.

  She knew why Zeller had asked her why she cared now. The bastard thought she was panicking. Even after fifteen years of exemplary command, he thought some ship slipping into foldspace made her panic.

  Then she let out a long breath. Maybe she was misjudging him. Maybe the problem was something else entirely, a diplomatic problem that no one in Command Operations could discuss in front of her.

  She stretched, trying to relax her muscles, and willed herself to focus on the moment.

  The past did not matter, whether it was her past relationship with General Zeller or the disappearance of her father.

  What mattered was this mission, and how she would handle it. How her crew would handle it. How the front line would handle it.

  And whether or not they would imperil a diplomatic mission.

  And if anyone in Command Operations asked her about her reasons for asking questions, she would not be defensive. She would answer honestly. She would tell them she wanted to do what was best for the Fleet.

  Because she did.

  5

  Her first encounter with George Zeller had come more than two decades before, when he was still a major. He reluctantly ran the counselors in the evaluation section of the academy's officer training program and, she later learned, he had taken no interest in the psychological evaluations or their necessity until she enrolled.

  Correction: until she enrolled and did well.

  Then, apparently, Major George Zeller made it his business to prove that she wasn't fit to command anything larger than an engineering staff on a third-class Fleet vessel.

  He had been younger then, not just in age or experience, but in manner. He had red hair and green eyes that flashed when he was angry, which to her, seemed like all of the time.

  He was the one who mentioned her father's disappearance to the academy staff, he was the one who believed that disappearance would cause problems, and he was the one who insisted on psychological training so rigorous that Sabin had to go without sleep for days to complete the testing and her schoolwork. When she complained to the head of her department, he moved the testing to dates between the school terms, enabling her to at least get some rest.

  She always tested well, but Zeller kept accusing her of gaming the system. She finally reported him to his superior, one Colonel Gaines, who would eventually disappear himself in an anacapa accident two years later. She never quite got over the irony of that; Zeller never got over the fact that she went over his head.

  He might have overcome it, had she failed in Officer Training, but she had graduated first in her class, with high honors, the only person in twenty years to get a perfect score on all of the final term tests—including the physical ones.

  She never quite figured out what Zeller had against her; other students had lost parents to accidents, disappearances, and explosions, and Zeller had never taken an interest in them.

  Just her.

  It wasn't until years later, after she had become a captain, that she found a reference to Zeller in her father's file. The record itself was mostly redacted. What did exist was deliberately vague.

  After that discovery, she told herself that Zeller's reactions to her came from survivor's guilt, but she never really wanted to test that theory. So she avoided him whenever possible.

  In fact, she had avoided him for more than a decade.

  Until now.

  6

  A soft, almost inaudible cheep let Sabin know that the screen had activated. She slipped back into her chair, letting the panel close behind her.

  Only one face floated in the blackness—that of General Nawoki. She looked tired, but Sabin didn't know if that was her natural state.

  "We are getting conflicting reports from Ukhanda," Nawoki said. "The Xenth claim that the Quurzod killed all but three of the team members the Ivoire sent to the Quurzod. The Quurzod claim that the Ivoire's team violated Quurzod law and declared war. Word from some of the other cultures on Ukhanda is that the Quurzod are quick to take offense and even quicker to use violence to punish the offenders. Unfortunately, the Ivoire herself has not sent us their report on the incident, so we have no way to assess the truth of the interaction. In other words, hold back until the Ivoire returns from foldspace, and let Captain Cooper lead the response."

  It sounded like a mess and reinforced to Sabin, yet again, that she wanted nothing to do with actual diplomatic missions.

  "Captain Cooper said he would keep the Ivoire in foldspace for twenty hours. We'll arrive eight hours before he returns. Should we stay out of the area until we have word of the Ivoire?"

  Nawoki's lips thinned. She glanced over her shoulder at someone or something that Sabin could not see. Either Nawoki disagreed with the command she was about to give, or she was giving that command over the disagreements of others.

  Sabin had n
o way to know which was true, only that Nawoki seemed as uncomfortable about the situation as Sabin felt.

  "If those small ships remain, then stay out of the area," Nawoki said.

  "And if they show up after we enter the same area?"

  "Try to ascertain whose ships they are. See if they will negotiate or explain their position."

  Sabin's breath caught, and she had to struggle to hold back her initial reaction. She had hoped that Command Operations had known who those ships belonged to.

  "Do we have any theories as to where those ships originated?" she asked.

  "The Xenth say they are Quurzod ships, but our other sources on Ukhanda cannot confirm," Nawoki said.

  "And forgive me, sir, but why aren't we trusting the Xenth?"

  "Because we are getting conflicting signals from them. They claim they want peace with the Quurzod, but they are building their own military. Our Sector Research Team is also locating some evidence that the breaches of previous agreements might have come at the instigation of the Xenth rather than through the general warlike nature of the Quurzod."

  Coop's voice echoed in Sabin's mind: Do you ever question it? Our mission. Or at least part of our mission. What makes us so smart?

  "Were we planning to broker on the side of the Xenth?" Sabin asked, feeling like Phan—naïve and a bit out of her depth, and hoping that the General wouldn't notice or would take pity and answer her.

  "We believed we could bring peace to Ukhanda," Nawoki said primly.

  What makes us so smart? The memory of Coop's voice floated through Sabin's mind. She had to concentrate to keep his doubts from infecting her.

  "We believed, sir?" she asked.

  "Something went wrong, Captain," Nawoki said. "And after we recover the Ivoire, we will figure out what that something was."

  7

  The rest of the trip to the Ukhandan part of the sector was uneventful. Captain Seamus Cho of the Bellator finally took over his role as commander of the front line. He had, apparently, been holding a bachelor party for a crewmember and hadn't heard the summons in all the ruckus.

  In Sabin's opinion, Cho did not seem concerned enough about the Ivoire or the situation near Ukhanda. But he was operating under the same orders as Sabin's, and so she knew he would at least wait, the way she would have, for the Ivoire to reappear.

  Coop would be sensible, and he would know what to do.

  As the front line approached an hour sooner than planned, the small ships remained, patrolling the area as if they expected the Ivoire to return.

  Most ships with strong sensors left a fighting region shortly after a Fleet ship disappeared. The sensors would show that the Fleet ship had left somehow and was not cloaked. Even ships that had poor sensors would get the message after eleven hours.

  Either these small ships knew how the Fleet used their anacapa drives or the commanders of those ships were extremely stubborn, holding that small region of space as proof that they had conquered it.

  Cho ordered the entire front line to remain just outside of standard sensor range—close enough to join any fight should the Ivoire return suddenly, but far enough away for a battle to be a struggle for any ships with planetside bases.

  Finally, after eighteen hours, the small ships gathered into a V-shaped pattern and headed back toward Ukhanda. The entire front line tracked them, but did not see the ships go back to a base on the planet. Instead, they went past Ukhanda toward a small satellite that looked like it was part of an uninhabited sister planet.

  Cho should have sent a ship to investigate, but he didn't. He believed their mission was to rescue the Ivoire, not to pursue the Ivoire's attackers.

  Sabin couldn't argue with him. She might have made the same call herself, had she had command of the front line. It seemed as if Cho was as leery of getting involved in any diplomatic incident as she had been.

  Finally, thirty minutes from the twenty-hour mark, he ordered the front line to prepare to defend the Ivoire. The front line would move slowly forward, not enough to attract attention from Ukhanda, but enough to get them in better range of the Ivoire.

  They had covered half the distance to the Ivoire's last location when twenty hours came.

  And went.

  No one panicked. The anacapa drive could be finicky, and all the captains had miscommunicated or misestimated their time in foldspace at one point or another.

  Twenty-one hours passed.

  Then twenty-two.

  And finally, the front line got nervous.

  Cho gave the standard search orders. A standard three-dimensional search pattern should have used twenty-four ships, but the front line didn't have that many. Besides, a few had to remain in position, in case the Ivoire returned later.

  Cho assigned sixteen ships to the grid search, and left three ships in a waiting position. The fourth ship would go to an area not too far from the Ivoire's return site—close enough to be a bit dangerous, but far enough to prevent most collisions from happening.

  That ship would be the most vulnerable: if the Ivoire returned to slightly different coordinates and the other ship's failsafes did not work, the ships might collide. But it was a standard risk at this point in delayed anacapa response.

  Cho contacted Sabin before making the assignment. He used a private channel so that the other ships couldn't hear their conversation, even though the bridge crew could.

  He turned up on her screen, tall and stately in his uniform. He had zoomed out the image so that she could see his entire bridge crew, who looked as busy and focused as hers.

  "I want to assign you to the on-site investigation spot," he said. "You have the most experience. However, General Zeller told me that you might not want the task. I don't believe in taking one person's word for another's possible reaction, especially when the other person is available. You're the best person for the job, Tory. Do you want it?"

  "Of course I do," she said, keeping her voice calm. The momentary flash of annoyance at Zeller's name and remark had already faded. Zeller was a problem for another day. "Do you want me to do a grid search or an area search?"

  "See if you can find traces of the Ivoire," Cho said. "Barring that, see if you can figure out exactly what they did."

  Something in his phrasing seemed strange to her.

  "Don't you think they used their anacapa drive?" she asked.

  "I do, but I've never seen one take so long to engage, and I've never seen a ship light up like that," he said. "I'm worried that they disappeared, not because of the anacapa but because those little ships used a weapon we don't understand."

  Sabin felt chilled. She hadn't even thought of that possibility. In that case, Coop—and his entire crew—were already dead.

  But she shouldn't guess. Guessing was the enemy in any search for information.

  "If those ships used such a powerful weapon," she said, "why would they have remained in the area?"

  "I don't know," Cho said. "I don't think they would have. But I can't rule out anything at the moment. We need to search."

  She agreed. "I'll do my best to figure out what happened here," she said. "I'll let you know when we have news."

  She had almost said if we have news, and had caught herself just in time. Normally, she wasn't a pessimist, but something was odd here, something she could feel but couldn't see.

  She wasn't usually a gut commander. She liked facts and hard information. But she also knew that sometimes hard information took too much time to acquire and gut became important.

  She hoped this wasn't one of those times.

  8

  On the day her father disappeared, they pulled Tory Sabin out of class on the Brazza and took her to the observation deck. She always remembered it as "they" because try as she might, she couldn't remember who took her from class, how she got to the observation deck, how many people spoke to her along the way, or what anyone expected of her.

  She was all of thirteen, precocious and opinionated, one month into her new school—a boardi
ng school, which was unusual at her age. Boarding school for most students started when they qualified for the final four years of mandatory education. She tested way ahead of her peers, and so got assigned to a special school for children her age who were on a fast-track.

  Her father was proud of her. No one had bothered to tell her mother.

  But someone had told her mother that Sabin (whom everyone called Tory back then) was alone on the Brazza, waiting for news of her father, because her mother swooped in as if she would rescue everyone.

  Her mother always wore impractical flowing garments, the kind of thing that confirmed she wasn't, nor would she ever be, part of the Fleet's military structure. She was an artist who worked in fabric. Her art changed each time she visited a new culture or planet, so her work became quite collectible among a certain group in the Fleet. She couldn't replicate patterns or materials once she ran out of whatever she had purchased in her (actually, the Fleet's) travels, so her pieces became—of necessity—limited editions.

  Tory hadn't seen her mother in more than six months, even though the ship her mother lived on, the Krásný, never left the Fleet on any kind of mission. Most of the Fleet's civilians ended up on the Krásný, partly because the military presence was smaller on that ship. The ship specialized in environments and environmental systems, and that included the interior design that kept the people on board all of the ships entertained, stimulated, and sane.

  Her mother sat beside Tory on a bench in the center of the room, enveloping her in lavender perfume. The bench was built so that the occupant had a three-hundred and-sixty-degree view of the space outside. Plus the domed ceiling was clear so that she could see everything above her.

  Tory wanted to slide away. Her mother's perfume was overwhelming, but more than that, her mother's golden gown was made of some kind of shiny but rough fabric, and just being near it made Tory itch.

  "They don't understand the anacapa, you know," her mother said conversationally, as if they'd been talking all along. No hello, no hug, no how-have-you-been, or even a comforting he'll-be-all-right. Nothing. Straight into the old arguments, with Tory standing in for her father. "It's dangerous to use them, and your father promised, back when we married, that he never would—"