"Why not? They could hardly have missed that explosion."
"The raider had our communications protocols down pat, official and unofficial. They even had the right reply to Cat's personal challenge. Stands to reason they'll be just as efficient and effective at covering our tracks. They could fake our traffic, or give DaVinci a plausible explanation for our silence. For all Mission Control might know, that blast might have been us. Wolfe's people got a little over-edgy, they shot first, ignited our fuel and armaments. Rest in Peace, Wanderer."
"A disaster beacon would tell 'em different."
Nicole shook her head, "That's right. And who d'you think would be most likely to hear the Mayday? Those raiders may assume they nailed us—maybe we got lucky and the explosion played as much havoc with their scanning systems as ours—but they won't take it for granted. Not their style at all."
"Shit!" Hana cried, and then shifted into passionately furious Japanese.
"What?"
"I'm an idiot. A senile fool! Ws may not have lost every computer."
"What!"
"Nicole, the Rovers! Outside of engineering, the shuttle bay is the most heavily shielded area aboard " Wanderer, because it's designed to open to space. And when you add to that the shielding on the Rovers themselves—!" She kicked herself up and away from her perch, angling towards the DropShaft access, but Nicole stopped her.
"Check it out tomorrow. Same goes for you, Marshal, and your starsight EVA."
"Tomorrow!" Hana protested.
"Tomorrow," Nicole said, with flat finality. "Right now, everyone relax, take it easy, eat some food, get some rest. We need it, more than any of us are willing to admit. Twenty-four hours won't make that much difference to our eventual survival, but rushing off half-cocked and half-zonked could ace us all."
Despite her own orders, Nicole couldn't sleep. She prowled what was left of her first command, swimming through the air from compartment to compartment, inspecting the Command and Service Modules from the sealed DropShaft forward to the flight deck. The temperature had risen perceptibly, though it was still chilly, and she soon shucked her pressure suit in favor of sneaks and two layers of sweats and her Edwards jacket. Floating in the shaft, she admired Harm's and Ciari's jury-rigged hatch, and thought about Chagay's experiments—all his effort, his meticulous work—lost in the Lab ring beyond. They didn't even have his notes; the electronic records were lost with the computer and the hard copies denied them by the radiation levels on C-2.
Finally, her roaming mood took her back to C-l. The great wheel was empty. Everyone had decided to crash on the Flight Deck. The darkness was broken by the dull red glow of the emergency lights. She moved without conscious thought, hardly aware of what she was doing until she found herself pulling her guitar off its bulkhead clamps.
She floated there a moment, idly running her hands across the smooth, curved wood. It was an acoustic model, handmade, and far older than she was. It had been her father's and when Conal Shea had seen his very young daughter eyeing it, even sneaking a touch whenever the girl thought no one was looking, he'd given it to Nicole. It was one of the few possessions she'd brought with her from Earth, despite the outrageous cost.
Nicole strummed a single chord, and winced.
"Baby, you are out of tune," she muttered, thinking: no wonder! I haven't touched it in over a fortnight. Poor dear's probably furious with me. She pulled her tuner out of the bedside tabouret and got to work.
Awhile later, finally satisfied, she ran through some fast finger exercises as a warm-up. Her hands were stiff. It felt like she was playing with a set of HardSuit gloves on. But even clumsy as she thought she was, she felt better.
She pulled her legs into a lotus cross, smiling as she noticed she was hovering a meter or so above the deck, and wondered what to play. Her hands began her favorite Lila piece but as soon as she recognized the sing, she stopped herself, remembering how pleased Paul had looked when he'd given her the bootleg tapes. There were more tears and her body hunched in on itself with pain. Then, she plucked at the strings, a Bach Chaconne that was the first thing her father had taught her to play.
"Very nice," a voice said behind her when she finished. It was Ciari.
"Not really," she replied, though she was glad he liked it. "I'm dreadfully out of practice." She strummed some random chords, adjusted the tuning.
"Would you rather be alone, Nicole? I didn't mean to disturb you."
"That's okay, Ben. I could use the company."
"We all could, I think."
He slipped into the cubicle beside her and slid a flute out of its traveling case. "What'll we play?" he asked.
After a couple of rough starts, they settled on folk songs. The ones both knew were no problem; when they ran into a song that only one was familiar with, the other improvised a harmony, or followed along the melody. Nicole had acquired an awesome knowledge of traditional songs from an Irish uncle who was a professional balladeer; that night, in her corner of the darkened Carousel, she ran through the entire repertoire.
They were midway through a spirited reel when the wail of a harmonica suddenly joined them. They stopped, surprised. It was Andrei, grinning sheepishly as they looked in his direction.
"We heard you playing," he said. "It sounded like fun."
"The more the merrier," Nicole smiled, "but it looks to me as though we're a body short. Where's Hana?"
"Scrounging," she called from the DropShaft as she heaved something into the Carousel. In the dim, broken light, as they emerged from Nicole's cubicle for a look, no one could make out what it was. Hana palmed a control plate, and the lights came on.
"You sure the system can cope, Hana?" Nicole asked, her voice and manner serious.
"If it can't, boss, we might as well learn now. Don't fret, Nicole; it's only an extra couple of centawatts. Nothing'11 go wrong, you have my guarantee. Hell," she went on as she twisted over to open the sealed case she'd been hauling, "I'd stack that wiring rig of mine against most dockyard jobs any day."
"We'll take your word for it," Nicole said, angry inside at the way reality had intruded into the gentle, almost fairy-tale mood their music had created. "What have you got there, anyway?"
"See for yourself." Hana backed off slightly as the others all crowded over; inside were seven bottles.
"OJ," she said. "Fresh-squeezed, flash-frozen, perfectly preserved—I've been thawing it. Major Garcia had me pick it up at DaVinci just before we left, something special to celebrate the successful completion of our mission to Pluto. Since it appears unlikely that we'll even reach Pluto this trip, I figured it wouldn't do any harm to drink the stuff now."
"A New Wave, nonalcoholic Irish wake," Nicole said softly, pulling a bottle from the case. "Pity we can't get drunk."
"It's the thought that counts, boss," Hana said.
Nicole held the bottle up in a toast, then tapped Hana with it. "Since you've come this far, hon, you might as well go for broke and pull some of the emergency foodpaks. We'll use 'em for munchies."
The taste was tarter than Nicole liked but she wasn't really bothered as she took a hefty swallow and passed it to Ciari. As he drank, she began another song, Andrei doing his best to follow along with his harmonica; but his broken arm caused too much trouble and he and Hana ended up providing enthusiastic, albeit increasingly off-key, vocals instead. Ciari introduced them to Belter and OutSystem songs, and Andrei countered with Russian ones, mixed up with some classic Mississippi Delta blues riffs he'd learned in childhood from records brought back from American tours by parental friends in the Soviet State Opera. Ciari's voice was lower, naturally rich, while Andrei filled the Ring with a pure, resonant tenor. They played and sang and talked and ate and drank until the bottles were empty, the munchies gone, their songs finished, their throats sore and voices hoarse. No one had any idea how much time had passed; no one really cared.
Hana was the first to cry. Nicole was singing an old ballad, passed down from generation to generation in
her family for so long that no one knew when it had first been written, or who had done so. She sang alone; the others just sat and listened. And when she was done there was no applause, though they'd cheered riotously and whooped it up in a fine old fashion after every other tune, merely an awkward, awful, empty silence. Nicole saw Hana cover her eyes and turn a little away. Before she could make a move of her own—she wanted to cross to Hana, embrace her, comfort her for the loss they all felt—Nicole felt Ciari's hand on hers, a touch so gentle she barely felt it, yet strong enough to hold her back.
He moved her guitar out of the way as he flowed into her arms; she shook with the force of sudden sobs. He cradled her against his body as best he could, gently stroking the back of her neck. She made no sound as she wept, her very silence making the impact of her emotions that much more intense. There was an ache deep within her chest, a hollowed-out sensation that grew with every breath until it consumed her. She felt Ciari cup her head, heard his voice—understanding the tone, if not the words—knew he was trying to comfort her as all the emotions she'd held bottled up inside cut loose at once. She remembered the first time she met Paul—in the Academy's sprawling central plaza, surrounded by a thousand other terrified, terrorized cadets, ears verbally assaulted by shrieking, berserker upperclassmen, senses overwhelmed by so many things they'd had no chance to learn but were expected to know—and the good times, bad times that followed. A summer bivouac in the Rockies, where she'd stunned her classmates with her knowledge of ribald ballads, while Paul kept them all in hysterics by creating scores of inspired, hilariously funny limericks. A trip to Denver, to the ballet, with Paul looking handsome as could be in dress uniform, the young ladies falling over themselves to be near him, the young men ignoring her completely.
Now, he was gone. And Cat. And the Bear.
Why couldn't someone cut out her heart, so it wouldn't hurt so much?
She sniffed noisily and looked Wearily around to ask if there was anything left to drink?
Hana shook various bottles, found one that wasn't quite empty. Nicole took it, held it high in a toast, and said, "Here's to you, Paolo. Wherever you are, partner, may you fly in peace and happiness, forever!" She took a fast, deep slug of juice and passed the bottle to Ciari. His toast was to Cat, and Andrei's to Chagay. Hana, though, paused before she spoke, and looked at them all in turn, lastly, for the longest time, at Nicole.
"To us," she said, "because we yet live." Then, the bottle was dry.
She reached out and Nicole was the first to respond to her mute appeal, moving in close, arms going around each other in a tender, loving embrace. Nicole felt Ciari by one side, Andrei by the other, and they held each other tighter. There were more tears, but these were as much of joy and love as grief. As she looked from face to face, Nicole felt closer to these three people than to anyone else she'd ever known.
One by one, they fell asleep. But her mind refused to take the hint. She closed her eyes, slowed her breathing, thought of nothing—even turned to her private ever-reliable mantra, but it failed her.
With a sigh of betrayal, she opened her eyes. Bodies had shifted in sleep, shunting her to the outside of the group, and only the slightest of twists was necessary to float herself free. A flick of the wrist sent her upward, to the DropShaft access. A good pull with both arms rocketed her onto the flight deck. Some basic status lights had reactivated when power was restored but for the most part, the consoles were dark. Nothing worked. Nicole hovered by Cat's chair, absently stroking a palm across its back, before climbing into her own, bracing herself in place with her feet on the panel. The stars hung in place beyond the window, like a backdrop on a stage set, hardly moving—though, by its own standards, Wanderer was hurtling through the sky.
"It's no sin to survive," Ciari said suddenly beside her. "D'you know why?" He asked in the same surprisingly gentle voice, when she didn't respond. "Because, sooner or later, you won't. Nobody does."
"I hate it."
"Death?"
"We're surrounded by so much... majesty. Wonder. Beauty. Things that can't—maybe shouldn't—be explained. Miracle upon miracles. Why do we lose sight of that? Why do we deliberately close our eyes?"
"If I had the answer...?"
"I thought you were a philosopher, Ciari."
He kissed her, a quick, tender touch of the lips. Then, he moved back a little to look at her. As he did, Nicole made a sound deep in her throat that was halfway between a growl and a moan, clutching at his jumpsuit, catching her breath sharply as his hand slipped between her legs. She looked back and forth between his eyes, but their expression was hidden by shadow and their own dark color. She wondered what was in hers. It was strange, and frightening—she wasn't sure she liked him, would ever like him, yet she hungered for him, to be a part of him, make him part of her. It was unlike anything she'd ever felt, reminding her of the horror stories she devoured as a kid, wherein heroes and heroines found themselves entranced by some demon or vampires's fatal glamour.
The second kiss was as tender, her tongue touching his lips, answered in kind. A hand went behind his head to hold him as close as she could. She wanted him to feel her strength, to understand she was an equal partner, not a conquest. She felt him stroke across her hips, up her sides, over her breasts. His hair was so much longer than hers and finer; she pulled off the clip that held it in place and laughed to see it fan out from his head like a halo. There was no excess to his body, the skin was stretched taut over muscle and bone. The curves were sharp and marred by ridges of scar tissue. He'd seen hard times, and hadn't emerged unscathed. And she wondered if that went deeper than the skin. Who has he known, she asked herself, as he kissed the hollow of her throat and she his brow and eyes, and his hands moved beneath her shirt, who has he hurt? And who's hurt him? Will I be one? Probably—but which? And as she thought the question, she realized she didn't care. The moment mattered—the need, the gamble for joy, the trust that this was an act of friendship—whatever came tomorrow, she'd survive.
She didn't remember losing her clothes until the chill air raised goosebumps over her entire body. Or was it his hands and mouth on her breasts? There was ice inside, a delicious agony, and then he was inside her as well and all she could manage that initial moment was a long, shuddering moan. He flexed, nearly slipping free, and she locked her ankles together behind his back to hold him. Belatedly, she realized he had fastened her harness. Otherwise, their wild movements would have sent them tumbling about the cabin. She laughed, which broke his rhythm. He was flushed—she could feel his heat when she kissed him—and panting as he asked what was so funny. And then he laughed, when she told him. He thrust in long, slow strokes and she responded with her own inner muscles, flashing her teeth in delight to her him groan. He moved faster and deeper, and she helped him. Time and again, she thought him ready to climax, and told him it was all right, but nothing happened except that his hands moved to new locations, stroked new sensations from her, making her move with more urgency, stretching long and tight in the chair, against the man and the bonds that imprisoned her, fighting as much to be free as to be held. A great and terrible wave was building within her, more intense than she had ever experienced, ever imagined. She wasn't sure she wanted it, she was losing control, but he held her as the wave crested and her head arched back, ever tendon taut, unable to give voice to this burst of ecstasy, as blinding and ravaging in its own way as the explosion that had wrecked Wanderer
She found herself crying as she relaxed. There was no strength in her body and she was pleased to see he was exhausted as well, gleaming with sweat. She draped her arms around his neck and gave him a slow, passionate kiss. She began to laugh, with wicked, irrepressible joy. He snapped the buckle on her harness and they rolled up and away from her chair, holding themselves together.
"Review Board would definitely have my ass for this," Nicole said with a grin.
"They'll have to stand in line." Ciari grinned back, and she swatted him on his own, gasping with surp
rise and delight as that made him shift position; spent though he was, he still felt hard within her. "Tell me, Red," he asked, "was it worth the anticipation?"
"Men," she muttered in mock disgust. "Is that what's important, how well you scored?"
"Of course. To enter in my log."
"Bastard."
"Takes one to know one."
"God," Nicole shook her head, "what Hana and Andrei must think."
"They're asleep in the Carousel, unless you want to wake them and announce the fact."
"Don't play with me, Ben. And don't mock me."
"Don't ask for it."
He shifted in her arms, as if to move away, but she wouldn't let him, tightening her grasp. For a few seconds, he looked anywhere but at her and even in the dim light of the status telltales, she could see small bursts of tension around his jaw.
"Surprised yourself, did you?" she asked him. "Now who's thrown caution to the wind?" He sighed, glanced sideways at her, and she let him go, shivering with pleasure at the purely physical sensations of his withdrawal.
"There are enough complications in a solo spacer's life, Nicole, without adding a relationship to them."
"So you told me. But every life ends, is that it? Nothing to look forward to, nothing now to risk."
"We have a chance."
"The difference between us, Ciari, is that I believe it." She took him in her arms and they held each other close, desire vying with fatigue in both of them and winning without a contest. She lay her head on his shoulder and said, "We'll survive, Ben," so softly she was certain he wouldn't hear, but he did. "I don't know how, but we will. We will!"
Chapter Eight
For the next week, much of their work was basic housekeeping and spacecraft maintenance, as they fleshed out the rough, preliminary survey carried out in those first, desperate hours. Most of their primary organic stores had been lost when debris had ruptured the hull, either destroyed outright or contaminated by radiation, but they had sufficient emergency rations to last them for the foreseeable future. Hana's improvised wiring set-up proved to be as good as she said it was and, over the days that followed, more and more systems were brought back on-line.
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