Aftermath - Ann Aguirre [17]
“How many survivors down there?” Hit asks.
“Less than thirty percent,” he answers. “It took us too long to destroy their flagship.”
That would be the enormous ship we saw as we came back, leading the Morgut vanguard. Right now, I should feel elated and grateful, but the losses are just too profound; this doesn’t feel like victory. I can only summon a weary numbness. I try to tell myself that it worked out for the best, but I’m not a military officer at heart. No amount of innocent blood spilled feels acceptable.
“Thank you for coming for us.”
“I would leave it to no one else,” Vel says.
March is still fighting, I have no doubt, still chasing the stragglers and obliterating the last of the scout ships. He won’t sleep until they’re all erased from this part of the galaxy; that’s his particular curse. He can’t be the first to lay his weapons down, and he doesn’t know how to walk away from a fight.
Hit sits back and closes her eyes, head tilted against the back of her seat. Her whole body relaxes visibly. Since she knows Dina is all right, and Vel has answered most of our questions, she seems content to let me do the talking.
“How long before we reach the ship?”
“Half an hour.”
I have the unmistakable feeling there’s something he’s not telling me, and my foreboding mounts. “Okay, out with it.”
“Admirable though your intentions were, the cost to your standing was . . . considerable.” He pauses, as if he doesn’t want to continue.
This so isn’t like Vel that I’m starting to worry; I didn’t think about the consequences beforehand because, honestly, I didn’t imagine I’d be around to face them. Then, afterward, I realized I had to come back to warn everyone—that my farewell message to March wasn’t specific enough to explain the danger.
So here I am. It sucks when your blaze of glory turns into a small sputter.
Hit cracks an eye open, her muscles coiled with the lovely danger she can bring with the flick of a fingernail. Literally. “If we hadn’t gone, they’d be counting their casualties in planets instead of ships.”
“I am aware,” he says to Hit, then addresses me. “But your reputation precedes you, Sirantha.”
“I don’t like the sound of that.” A sigh escapes me.
“Since you made this decision on your own, it has been determined you must account for these lost lives.”
The hub seems too small, not enough air, and the foreign design only amplifies my sense of alienation. I’d known when I chose to act on my own that it might come to this. I swallow, my throat tight. Seems like I’m right back where I started, only this time it’s my fault. I did it. I made the choice, and soldiers died. There are no excuses that can whitewash the truth, though there is merit in what Hit said. Sometimes, though, they need someone to shoulder the blame. For obvious reasons, the families who lost sons and daughters want to know why—this is the worst disaster to occur in grimspace in more than a hundred turns. It’s supposed to be a safe way to travel now; we’re a century beyond the terrible mishaps that marked our interstellar learning curve.
I take a deep breath to steady myself against the sudden fear I’ll die, not in grimspace, but in a prison cell, and this time, there can be no daring rescue, no righteous flight against the oppressive authorities. “So I’ll be taken into custody when we reach the Dauntless. What are the charges?”
“Dereliction of duty, desertion, mass murder, and high treason.”
That hits me like a brick in the head. My vision goes spotty, and I lean forward in the harness, battling nausea. Hit touches me lightly on the shoulder, but she doesn’t try to reassure me. I’m in deep trouble, and there may not be any dodging this shot. Furthermore, I’m not sure I deserve to be exonerated. It occurs to me that this could be construed as capture on Vel’s part—the second time he’s hunted and caught me—and not a