by Delia Roan
Cook’s next words were drowned out by the blare of sirens. Clez clapped her hands over her ears, dropping a cannister, which hissed as the seal snapped on impact. Cook cursed, but he stared at the speakers wailing in ceiling above them.
“What’s happening?” Mara had to yell to be heard over the noise.
“Emergency,” Cook said.
The sirens shut off, and an automated voice intoned a recorded message, “This is a mandatory evacuation of your section due to critical systems failure. Please proceed to a safe location.” The sirens started up again, and Cook bustled away, shouting orders to the gardeners. He grabbed the nearest partition and began dragging it toward the isolation room.
The gardens became a blur of activity. A few workers rushed to help Cook, but most of the crew began streaming toward the doors, dropping their baskets in their hurry. Several doors began to slam shut, and panicked shouting rose above the wail of sirens. The workers streamed toward the remaining doors.
“Screw this,” shouted Clez. She bolted for the door through which she had entered, leaving behind her delivery.
Mara took three steps before she caught herself. She bit her lip and looked back at Cook and the workers, valiantly trying to rescue their plants.
While Mara lacked scientific knowledge, she knew a critical systems failure meant the garden would be uninhabitable. The plants would die, as would anyone left in the room once all the doors shut.
I should run.
But if she ran, who would help Cook? Who would save the plants? The plants Haven counted on. Picking fruit, sweeping up leaves and scooping fertilizer weren’t glamorous jobs, but while she worked in the garden, she provided for herself and for Haven. If she didn’t work on the sanitation crew, she wouldn’t eat, but if she didn’t work on the garden crew, nobody would eat.
Mara made her choice.
She bolted for the nearest partition and began dragging it away. Her arms ached, and her heels dug into the ground as she moved the partition inch by inch. Bene Laupe, the gangly alien she followed down a corridor once, loped up and seized the other side of her partition. Together, they hauled it to the isolation room.
“Will this help?” she asked Bene Laupe.
“I do not know,” he replied. “But a snood in a rainstorm is better than no roof.”
There was no time for her to fathom whether or not the idiom translated properly. When they stepped back outside into the garden, heat assaulted them, making sweat prickle on Mara’s forehead. They hauled away the next partition. Across the garden, a door slammed shut without warning, making Mara jump.
“They’re shutting it down section by section,” said Cook, bustling past. “That’s the last one the two of you are moving. Time to evacuate.”
“Yes, Cook,” said Bene Laupe.
“What about you?” Mara called, but Cook hobbled away.
Beside them, the team pushing a row of toron pods abandoned their partition, choosing to race away. Mara watched them go as she heaved, and they ducked past the red fungicide cannisters to leave the gardens.
They were halfway to the isolation room when the siren shut off. In the eerie silence, Mara turned to Bene Laupe with a confused expression. The alien shook his head. “This is not good.”
“Run! Run!”
The scream erupted from the far side of the room. Gardeners burst out from behind the partitions, racing toward the delivery doors. Behind them, the flowers began to wither, and droop. Leaves fell from the vines. Bene Laupe backed away, his eyes huge.
“Wait!” Mara called, but he turned and fled.
There’s brave, and there’s stupid, Mara declared. Don’t be stupid.
She followed Bene Laupe. The distance to the door seemed to grow longer as the rising heat behind them choked the air from Mara’s lungs. Her muscles grew fatigued, but she pressed on.
Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted a familiar figure slumped against a jukkad tree. Cook. She veered and screamed for Bene Laupe. When he saw their crew leader, he followed Mara.
To Mara’s relief, Cook breathed. They hauled the elderly alien to his feet and half dragged, half carried him the rest of the way to the door. Mara’s head grew thick, and her thoughts foggy.
As they rounded the delivery cart, Mara blinked. Is the heat making me hallucinate?
Clez stood beside the cart, holding a cannister of fungicide. When she spied Mara, she extended her hand. “Help me, human!”
Mara shrugged Cook’s weight onto Bene Laupe’s shoulder. “Get him out of here and find him medical attention.”
When she reached Clez, she grabbed the handle of the dolly. “Do we have to get these out of here?”
Clez nodded, and her fingers fidgeted with the cannister. She stared at the last stragglers fleeing the garden, then turned back to Mara. “You the last one?”
Mara’s muscles felt rubbery, but she tugged at the dolly. “I hope so.”
“Good.”
Clez swung the cannister, aiming for Mara’s forehead. Mara reacted in time, ducking her head, and the cannister struck her across the shoulder. Her foot twisted, and she tumbled back onto her back. Clez threw the cannister at her and ran for the door.
For a moment, Mara lay stunned on the floor. The heat grew more intense, and she rolled to her hands and knees, coughing. Her tongue felt like parchment as she crawled for the door. Through sweat-blurred eyes, she saw the door descending, cutting off her only route to safety.
“Wait,” she croaked out.
The last few feet stretched out, but Mara scrambled forward, and rolled, ducking under the door as it clanged shut. Cool air washed over her, as she lay gasping on the floor.
“Quick,” said Bene Laupe, crouching over her. “Get water!”
Cool hands pressed against her face and shoulders, and she was lifted to a sitting position against a wall. She hissed as a hand bumped her injured shoulder. That’s gonna bruise. A damp cloth on her forehead felt like bliss.
Bene Laupe offered her a drink of water and watched as she drank. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah.” Even with the water, her throat felt raw. “Cook?”
“He is breathing for now, but he is old.” The alien’s mouth was set in a grim line. “We are taking him to the medics. Do you wish to come along?”
Mara shook her head, and handed back the canteen. “I think I’ll sit for a bit.”
The alien returned the bottle. “If you feel unwell, come to the medical bay.”
“I will,” Mara replied. Despite her throbbing head, she gave Bene Laupe a warm smile. “Thank you.”
As the corridor emptied, Mara found herself alone. She took stock of her body, which trembled from adrenalin. Later, she would crash, but right now, her nerves buzzed.
Did that really happen? Did Clez seriously try to kill me? A chill crossed her body at the memory of Clez’s hatred. She did. She tried to kill me.
The silence suddenly became suffocating. The last place she wanted to be was somewhere without witnesses. Mara stood, and keeping her hand pressed to the wall, she staggered her way back to more occupied areas of Haven.
Deep down inside, she knew her fears were real.
Clez would try again.
And next time, Mara might not be able to walk away.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
SYREK
Everything that could go wrong, did go wrong. Haven was a disaster, and all he could think about was Mara.
Forget her. Focus.
Syrek leaned his weight against the wrench. By fractions, the valve in front of him ground to a close, cutting off the steam pluming into Syrek’s face. He wiped his face on a rag and unscrewed the wrench. The heat in Haven’s bowels was almost unbearable, even for him, but he kept working. Not many on board the ship, other than Hatcher’s brood, could withstand long-term exposure to such temperatures.
Good thing I’m Ennoi.
He grunted and slicked a glob of sealant on
to the seam of the pipe. Instead of congealing immediately, the sealant remained glossy and wet. Syrek shook his head. We’ll have to get coolant guns down here to get that to set.
“Hatcher!” Syrek bellowed down the stairwell to where the Head of Mechanical handled a clattering piston pump. “I thought you said shutting sections down would buy us some time!”
One of Hatcher’s children raced down the corridor. “Ma! The left seals are holding, but Digger says we need more caulking.”
Hatcher peered at him, tossing a rusty spring between two of her many hands. “Go find Grinder. He’ll help.”
The boy ran off, and Hatcher turned to Syrek. “It helped for a while. But the ship’s old, boss. Stuff gives without warning.”
Syrek hopped down to her level, his scaled feet clanging on the metal. “Guess we will have to see how much damage this round caused.”
“Glad you showed up when you did.”
After the habitat wall had ceased functioning, Syrek had made his way down to Mechanical to see if Hatcher could fix the machinery. Instead, he had found the engineer putting out fires. Literally. She had pressed him into work, ordering him around while they tried to stem a coolant leakage.
He rubbed his hand across his face, leaving smears of grease across his skin. He reeked, and he longed for a proper bath, where he could submerge himself in cleansing oils, not this thick muck.
The boy raced back. “Ma! I got a message for the boss!”
Syrek crouched down until he was eye level with the child. “Sweeper, is it?”
The boy beamed. “Yessir!”
“What’s the message?”
“Boss Ancain says you must come see him immediately.” Sweeper closed one eye. “He said it was a matter of utmost expeditiousness.” The boy fumbled over the word, but grinned when he got all the syllables out.
“All right,” Syrek said, straightening. “Tell him I’m coming.”
Hatcher nodded her thanks and returned her attention to the task at hand. He rode the elevator back to the main levels of Haven, and headed for the bridge to find Ancain. When he stepped aboard the bridge, every eye in the room turned to him.
The tension in the air told Syrek more than he wanted to know. “What happened?”
Ancain’s face was drawn as he stepped to meet Syrek. “We’ve lost vital ship systems. Horticulture is down.”
Syrek slammed his fist into the wall, hard enough to leave a dent in the metal. The divot mocked him. Another blemish on his beloved Haven. “How down is down?”
“Even if we find a way to vent the gardens using coolant we don’t have, we have lost all the vegetation. It would take weeks, if not months to return to full production.”
His mind raced as he weighed the possibilities. They needed food. They would have to tally the rations in the pantry, as well as see about trading for extra supplies.
Still lost in thought, he started as Ancain placed a hand on his shoulder. “One other matter, Syrek. We lost one of our own.”
For a second, his throat closed up. Mara. She worked the gardens now. Had the unthinkable happened? Yet if it had, why did he still stand? She was his Avowed. When her heart stopped, so too should his. He swallowed back the dryness in his mouth. “Who?” he said. “Who was it?”
“Cook.”
Syrek closed his eyes, as relief washed over him, followed shortly by guilt. “He was a good man. Hard worker.” Thank the Moon it was not Mara. “Does he have family on board?”
“Only the horticulturists. They are pretty broken up about his passing. Perhaps you could attend the remembrance? It is taking place in half a tick.”
He shook his head. “I cannot. Too much requires my attention at the moment. Please pass on my condolences.”
Did he imagine the flicker of disappointment on Ancain’s face? Their argument the other day had strained their relationship, but Ancain was too well-trained to show it. He wore his mask of servitude, and it pissed Syrek off more than outright hostility.
“Of course, Syrek. I’ll see to the details.” With a bow, Ancain excused himself.
While he had respected Cook’s work ethic, Syrek had never felt any strong connection to the elderly alien. Over the years, they had probably only exchanged half a dozen words: “Would you like the boiled occhath ragout or the koedeer roast?”
Why did Ancain’s sliver of disappointment irritate him?
The people on Haven were not his buddies. They were not his companions. No, most of them were employees. He could barely remember half their names, let alone personal details. To be honest, if he considered Ancain as close a friend as Ancain considered Syrek, he would have known about Luall before their conversation. That was the sort of joy one shared with a friend. One informed an employer about intentions to leave for greener pastures.
Attachments only lead to pain.
He’d learned that on his mother’s knee, and the lesson had been enforced under his father’s boot. Death was a constant companion to the son of the Ennoi Butcher, but Syrek had never grown comfortable with the aftermath. Even when his parents died, he wrapped himself in numbness. Anger, he understood that, but grief? Grief arose from the people who loved the deceased.
It is safer not to love.
No, not safer, he corrected himself, but smarter.
Don’t give love, don’t get hurt.
Somehow his thoughts had turned as dark as the corridor he walked down. He rounded the corner and froze at the sight before him. Various aliens lined in two parallel rows walked down the brightly lit corridor, swaying in rhythm. Between the four at the head of the line swung a burlap hammock, with Cook’s body resting in the fabric.
His bad luck held. He had stumbled onto the funeral procession. He pressed himself into the shadows, hoping to avoid detection.
A few along the line sang a mournful tune, while others waved pieces of fabric bearing colorful fruit motifs. From the stains on their overalls, and the slightly earthy scent in the air, Syrek knew these were mostly the gardeners.
He crossed his hands in front of him, as was the Ennoi way, and watched in silence.
“Too bad the gardens are closed,” he heard a voice mutter.
“He should be covered in flowers,” replied a second.
“We do that on Earth, too.”
Syrek’s head whipped around, and he spotted Mara’s brown curls in the crowd. She wore a fruit-embroidered headscarf to mark the occasion. The sight of her nearly undid his resolve to remain hidden. He wanted to stride out, pull her into his arms and kiss away the sadness on her face.
The scales across his chest and shoulders rippled as he remembered the softness of her underneath him in his bed. The way her fingers dug into his shoulder. The sweet way she moaned his name. He wanted to call out, to make her turn, just so he could get the full impact of her beauty. To see if the raw emotion in her eyes remained, or if he had destroyed it with his words.
It was a foolish whim, and he ignored it.
Smarter, he reminded himself.
Slowly, step by step, the swaying lines of mourners drifted out of sight. Syrek stood in the empty hallway, his hands crossed, his head bowed, and tried to plan his next steps. His goal of heading down to Hatcher seemed futile.
Mara’s sorrow seemed to underline the bitter truth: Haven was dying.
If he did not act quickly, Haven would be lost.
Cook’s body would be joined by several others. A shortage of food, plus spontaneous critical failures meant Haven might not last long. Syrek leaned his forehead against the wall and let his shoulders slump.
Crew could come and go, but there was only one Haven.
My path is clear.
His conscience prickled, but he pushed away from the wall and strode back to his rooms. He closed the door behind him, and, without sparing a glance at the display of dead plants, he seated himself at his desk. He placed his comm unit on the table.
Sacrifices always have
to be made. He dialed the Ykine. It is the nature of being a leader.
Dignitary Ukali answered instantly. His mandibles clicked as he stared at Syrek. “I was not expecting your call,” Ukali chittered. “I hope our plans to negotiate have not gone awry.”
Syrek filled his smile with confidence he did not feel. “On the contrary, I have a better offer for you.”
Ukali tilted his head. His faceted eyes gleamed. “I am intrigued. What is better than a hundred PETL Cells?”
Syrek leaned forward. “The Sykorians lost precious cargo to us. Very precious.”
“Go on.”
“It turns out that the cells are hooked up to cryo-beds.”
“Sleepers?” Ukali’s antenna waved. “We are not interested in sleepers.”
“What about slaves?”
Ukali froze. “Slaves are illegal,” he said, after a moment’s thought. “I do hope you are not suggesting we Ykine deal in slaves.”
“Of course not, Dignitary Ukali. What we do have are sleepers the Sykorians were… transporting. I imagine that once you let them know what you have, they will pay any amount for its return.”
Ukali tilted his head. “You are suggesting we sell back the cargo we stole from the Sykorians in the first place?”
Syrek raised his hands. “No, no. You never stole anything. You would be returning lost property. Think about how grateful they would be. Purchasing a hundred PETL Cells is pricey. This way, you can recoup your losses.”
“How much are you asking for?”
The amount Syrek named had Ukali clattering his carapace in agitation.
Come on, you oversized bug. Take the offer.
It was a gamble. He asked a lot of the Ykine, but they were getting plenty back. With the pay they gave him, he could save Haven. He could rebuild the cooling systems, regrow the gardens, open the sanitation department again. He could hire new crew, and not just bring on workers as freeholders. By blazes, he could pay off the current freeholders. Keep his majority share. Run this place the way it was meant to be run: with an iron fist.
Like his father’s fist.
I’m nothing like my father. This is my home. Not a weapon.
First, though, he needed the Ykine to agree to his terms. For several anxious moments, Syrek waited. Aware of Ukali’s scrutiny, he leaned back his his chair, keeping his body open and relaxed. The biggest rule of bargaining was never walk to the table desperate.
