The last moments of the Polk.

Wilson started scanning the information with his BrainPal as quickly as he could begin opening the data.

In less than a minute, he confirmed what they already strongly suspected: that the Polkhad been attacked and destroyed in the battle.

A minute after that, he learned that one escape pod had been launched from the Polkbut that it appeared to have been destroyed less than ten seconds before the black box itself had been launched, cutting out its own data feed. Wilson guessed that the occupant of the escape pod would have been the mission ambassador or someone on her staff.

Three minutes after that, he learned something else.

“Oh shit,” Wilson said, out loud.

“I just heard an ‘Oh shit,’” Schmidt said, from the instrument panel.

“Hart, you need to get Abumwe and Coloma on the line, right now,” Wilson said.

“The ambassador’s in her preparatory briefings right now,” Schmidt said. “She’s not going to want to be interrupted.”

“She’s going to be a lot more upset with you if you don’t interrupt her,” Wilson said. “Trust me on this.”

*   *   *

“The Polkwas attacked by what?” Abumwe said. She and Coloma were tied into a conference video, Coloma from her ready room and Abumwe from a spare conference room Schmidt had almost had to drag her into.

“By at least fifteen Melierax Series Seven ship-to-ship missiles,” Wilson said, talking into the pilot instrument panel and the small camera there. “It could have been more, because data started getting sketchy after enough systems failed. But it was at least fifteen.”

“Why does it matter what type of missiles destroyed the Polk?” Abumwe asked, irritated.

Wilson glanced over to the image of Captain Coloma, who looked ashen. She got it, at least. “Because, Ambassador, Melierax Series Seven ship-to-ship missiles are made by the Colonial Union,” Wilson said. “The Polkwas attacked with our own missiles.”

“That’s not possible,” Abumwe said, after a moment.

“The data says otherwise,” Wilson said, choosing not to go on a rant about the stupidity of the phrase “that’s not possible,” because it would likely be counterproductive at this point.

“The data could be incorrect,” Abumwe said.

“With respect, Ambassador, the CDF has gotten very good at figuring out what things are being shot at them,” Wilson said. “If the Polkconfirmed the missiles as being Melierax type, it’s because it was able to identify them across several confirming points, including shape, size, scan profile, thrust signature and so on. The likelihood of them not being Melierax Series Seven is small.”

“What do we know about the ship?” Coloma said. “The one that fired on the Polk.”

“Not a lot,” Wilson said. “It didn’t identify itself, and other than a basic scan the Polkdidn’t spend any time on it. It was roughly the same size as the Polkitself, we can see that from its survey signature. Other than that, there’s not much to go on.”

“Did the Polkfire back on the ship?” Coloma asked.

“It got off at least four missiles,” Wilson said. “Also Melierax Series Seven. There’s no data on whether they hit their target.”

“I don’t understand,” Abumwe said. “Why would we attack and destroy one of our own ships?”

“We don’t know if it was one of our own ships,” Coloma said. “Just that it was our own missiles.”

“That’s right,” Wilson said, and raised his finger to rebut.

“It’s possible that we sold the missiles to another race,” Coloma said. “Who then attacked us.”

“It’s possible, but there are two things to consider here,” Wilson said. “The first is that most of our weapon trades are for higher-end technology. Any one race who can make a spaceship can make a missile. The Melierax Series are bread-and-butter missiles. Every other race has missiles just like it. The second is that these are ostensibly secret negotiations. In order to hit us, someone had to know we were here.” Coloma opened her mouth. “And to anticipate the next question, we haven’t sold any Melierax missiles to the Utche,” Wilson said. Coloma closed her mouth and stared stonily.

“So we have a mystery ship targeting the Colonial Union with our own missiles,” Abumwe said.

“Yes,” Wilson said.

“Then where are they now?” Abumwe said. “Why aren’t weunder attack?”

“They didn’t know wewere coming,” Wilson said. “We were diverted to this mission at the last minute. It would usually take the Colonial Union several days at least to have a new mission in place. By which time these particular negotiations would have failed, because we weren’t there for them.”

“Someone destroyed an entire ship just to foul up diplomatic negotiations?” Coloma said. “This is your theory?”

“It’s a guess,” Wilson said. “I don’t pretend that I know enough about this situation to be correct. But I think regardless we have to make the Colonial Union aware of what happened here as soon as possible. Captain, I’ve already transferred the data to the Clarke’s computers. I strongly suggest we send a skip drone with it and my preliminary analysis back to Phoenix immediately.”

“Agreed,” Abumwe said.

“I’ll have it done as soon as I’m off this call,” Coloma said. “Now, Lieutenant, I want you and the shuttle back on the Clarkeimmediately. With all due respect to Ambassador Abumwe, I’m not entirely convinced there’s not still a threat out there. Get back here. We’ll be under way as soon as you are.”

“What?” Abumwe said. “We still have a mission. I still have a mission. We’re here to negotiate with the Utche.”

“Ambassador, the Clarkeis a diplomatic vessel,” Coloma said. “We have no offensive weapons and only a bare minimum of defensive capability. We’ve confirmed the Polkwas attacked. It’s possible whoever attacked the Polkis 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 Polkhad 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 Clarkeshortly, 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.