Free The Cold Between by Elizabeth Bonesteel

He thought he knew how Herrod would respond, but despite his hard line with Will, he was not beyond a little insubordination himself. They could do their part monitoring for PSI movement while they were in orbit, and if Herrod didn’t like it, he could haul his aging ass off of Earth and relieve Greg in person.
    She shook her head. “We’ve already been out six months. What’s a few more days?”
    He did not answer. She knew as well as he did what long tours did to soldiers, how events like one little night of shore leave became the difference between efficiency and anarchy. Greg believed he had the best crew in the fleet, but he knew a few more days might break them. A few more days might break her, too.
    â€œWhy did we come here, Greg?” she asked, in that same quiet voice.
    It had been weeks, he realized with some surprise, since she had used his first name. Since their argument. “You know why,” he answered, confused. “ Demeter needed repairs, and we took on her delivery. We—”
    â€œI know what we did, Greg. I want to know why. ” She turned to face him, and her rage hit him like a slap. “What was so critical about their cargo? Their timeline? Some two-bit trawler hauling for some overfed liquor merchants adds three weeks to our schedule, and you don’t even blink?”
    â€œElena—”
    â€œNo, let me guess,” she snapped. “You can’t tell me. Some need-to-know bullshit. Well Danny is dead, Greg, because of your need-to-know bullshit. Over money, for God’s sake, that paltry ten thousand that was all he ever managed to save, no matter how many times he won at cards, no matter how much—”
    She stopped, and he saw the reality of it begin to sink in, and he wanted to throw away his rank and his detachment and his pointless self-involvement and put his arms around her, pooling her grief with his own. He had long since abdicated any right to offer her comfort, and for a moment his composure threatened to disintegrate in the face of a wave of self-loathing. Dammit, he should have had someone else tell her. He had forgotten, after all these months of avoiding her, how easily she could dismantle him.
    He watched her expression close, her breathing steady, her posture straighten. Little by little she hid herself from him again, tucking away all her rage and bitterness.
    â€œThank you for telling me, Captain,” she said calmly.
    This was worse, he thought: this deliberate separation, thisrejection of anything he might offer her. “Elena, if you need anything—”
    â€œDon’t.” The word was a choked whisper.
    He nodded. “I’ll be informing the rest of the crew in a few minutes. Just so you know.”
    She looked away from him, and he turned back to the door, grasping at the shards of his anger. He needed it back. His rage helped him to forget how entirely pointless his presence was, how useless he was to her, to his crew, to the dead man.
    There would be justice, and it would make no difference.
    He shook off self-pity and left the hangar to tell his crew their comrade was dead.
    He spoke to them in the only area large enough to hold the entire crew: the massive VIP conference room, years ago repurposed as the ship’s pub. He kept it brief and factual, talking about justice and love and losing one of their own, and he saw in some faces, at least, that it helped. They believed in him, and they believed he would find justice for Danny. After all, he was the man who made things happen, who circumvented regs and logic and the goddamned laws of physics when it suited him. His reputation, as exaggerated as it was, worked in his favor. When he finished they were shocked and grieved, but reassured that he would get to the bottom of it all.
    When Greg turned to Will at the close of his speech, his first officer looked pallid and shaken, unable to hide his shock. Will had played some poker with