“Disappointed?”
“He expected to find proof of the Protocol, but the in-system web went out with the planets and all their geosynchronous systems. I have plenty of news of the first bombardment of Ada Prime, but the final stroke eradicated anyone who would have left a report. Aside from myself.”
“Why do you think he’s digging around in your specs?”
“I suspect he’s attempting to discern if we can truly make it to Atrux. I believe he has, again, been disappointed.”
She winced. “Not an optimist, then.”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Any idea what his post was with Icarion?”
“His ident chip scans as a communications specialist, but there are irregularities.”
“Like?”
“What was a communications specialist doing in an evac pod in a debris field that should only have been made up of empty pods being transported? The ship was autopiloted. It didn’t even have atmosphere.”
“Huh.” She drifted into the ’lock, sealed the exterior door, and waited for the pressure to stabilize. When the green light winked at her, she popped her helmet and swung the door open onto the command deck, pulling herself straight through low-g and to the ladder up to hab 1. After four hours debris hunting, she was in serious need of a shower. At least she didn’t have to worry about water on Bero.
“Sanda?”
“Yup?”
“He’s hailing you.”
She froze midstep and almost tripped as her makeshift prosthetic rolled awkwardly to the side. “CamCast?”
“Yes. I can activate the smartscreen in the hall outside the medibay door for you.”
“That’ll do.” She shoved a hand through her hair in a vain attempt to tame it from its time under her helmet, remembered she’d hacked most of it off, and laughed. She looked absolutely mad—living alone on a spaceship, scrambling around in debris fields for likely parts, and only half remembering to care for human needs. But that was her reality now. His, too, if he came around.
Sanda popped a panel in the wall and stored her helmet, then ambled toward the smartscreen. She stared at it a long while, watching her own reflection in the shiny black glass. Now or never.
She jabbed the screen with one finger, and Bero brought the feed live.
Tomas stood just before the pad she’d once used to squawk a distress call. He wore the jumpsuit she’d left for him and had put more work into his appearance than she had. He’d trimmed his dark hair in uneven chunks and scraped his chin free of stubble. Not a bad-looking man, aside from the usual malnutrition that accompanied spending too much time in an evac pod. A pensive look pinched his features, as if he wasn’t sure if this was a good idea or not.
He looked her over in the same way she had measured him, and nodded to himself.
“Sergeant Greeve, I have been looking into your ship’s claims.”
“And?”
“I—” He cleared his throat, a rough sound. “I believe them.”
She smiled. The lie showed in the tension around his eyes. “No, you don’t.”
A sigh deflated him, slumped his shoulders, and made him shake his head. “You’re right. Sorry—it’s just. It’s all so terrible. They wouldn’t.”
“They would. They did.” She bit her lip to stifle a building rant.
“I see that you believe it. Easier, maybe, when it’s the other side.” He glanced at his hands, turning them over as if seeing them for the first time. “Can you show me?”
She frowned. “Show you what?”
“Proof. Something, anything.”
“Bero’s records—”
“Could be corrupted.”
Bero said, indignant, “They are not.”
He grimaced, and she took a little perverse pleasure in that. So the Icarion wasn’t quite so comfortable with a personality-matrix AI after all.
“I’ve been throwing distress signals in every likely direction since the day I woke up. You’re a comms man, Cepko. It’s been—” She hesitated, rummaging around in her memories. Tomas had been on board three days, but the time before that had blurred together for her. Easier to lose track of time when you didn’t have any appointments to keep. “How long, Bero?”
“Twenty-four days,” he said.
“Yes. Twenty-four days since I woke up to a dead star system, and we’ve gone from the rubble field of the Battle of Dralee to Kalcus’s outer orbit. Just how likely is it that no one would hear us, that no one would respond? If we’re wrong, then where are your Icarion buddies? I’m from Ada Prime. My brother is—was—training to be a Keeper, and I’ve been kicking around on their state-of-the-art ship without so much as a trespass warning. They’re gone, Tomas. They’re all gone.”
A muscle flexed in his jaw. “Physical proof, I mean. The signals could be corrupted—”
She held up a hand to forestall him, then clenched it into a fist. Damn stubborn man. “I don’t have the time, nor the patience, to convince you. No—wait—we’re not under thrust yet. Hold on.”
“What—?”
But she’d already limped a few meters back down the hall and punched open the helmet closet. She grabbed the one she thought of as hers and tucked another under her arm, then hurried back to the screen, false leg jarring the soft skin of her thigh. She spent too long trolling around in low-g, letting the environment convince her she had never been injured. If she were going to get used to this thing, she needed to spend more time with weight on it. Building calluses, strengthening muscles in new ways. But that could wait.
She needed Tomas on her side. And there was only one way to guarantee that.
“You do EVAs before?” she asked, holding up the second helmet. His eyebrows shot up.
“Often. In comms, that’s sometimes the only way to make a repair.”
“Super. With you in a sec.” She wiped his confused face away and brought up the quarantine protocol screen.
“Sanda, is this really a good idea?” Bero asked.
“Only one I got.”
Bero bit whatever his equivalent of a tongue was. Good enough for her. She was having trouble convincing just one of the new men that’d stumbled into her life. She didn’t want to have to convince Bero of the merits of her actions, too. Especially because she wasn’t entirely convinced of them herself.
She punched in the code she’d set to release the quarantine. Yellow warning lights blinked out. The medibay door dilated.
Tomas Cepko shuffled to the open portal, hesitant, his hands held easy at his sides. Despite the calm of his stance, he flicked his gaze up and down the hallway as if expecting a bunch of Icarions to pop out and yell “surprise.” Too bad for him, this was no prank. She really, really wished that it was.
“Kill me,” she said, “and Bero will vent all the O2 on the ship and lock all doors. Understood?”
His jaw dropped open. He blinked owlishly at her for a second before he closed his mouth. She thought she caught a hint of a smile, but he soon erased it. “I don’t want to hurt you, Sergeant. There’s no need for threats.”
“Pardon me if I don’t yet trust your word.”
She chucked him the spare helmet and he caught it in one hand, turning it over to check the seals.
“I take it you know how to use that thing?”
“Yeah, counter-screw it in then plug it into a lifepack. Icarion standard-issue.”
“Ada Prime, too. See, we got something in common already.”
He smiled for real, and it gave him two monumentally dorky dimples right below his cheeks. Like a baby’s bare ass. She laughed.
“What?”
“Nothing. Look, I know you’ve been digging around in Bero’s schematics, so I know I don’t have to tell you the way. Lifepacks are in the closet by the ladder to command. Stay in front of me at all times.”
“Yes, Sergeant.” He snapped her a salute, and she rolled her eyes. He may be a pain in the ass, but it was nice to have someone available to check the seals on her
helmet and pack, as was protocol. Bero’s assurances were good enough for her, but a sensor could always fail.
She followed him down, watching his head swivel this way and that as he took in the command deck. Bero had slapped up a vid feed of what was in front of them on the huge smartscreen, a view of the curve of Kalcus and beyond, star-speckled black. It was beautiful, but it wasn’t what she’d had in mind. Tomas needed proof. Physical proof.
She figured he couldn’t argue much after he’d seen it with his own eyes. Being honest with herself, she hadn’t really believed it until that moment, either.
The ’lock whispered shut behind them and Bero went through the process without a word. They were talking less and less lately, had fallen into a steady, synchronized silence even before she’d found Tomas. Now that the comms specialist had made an appearance, that silence didn’t feel quite so comfortable anymore. There was a sharpness in it, a sullen anger. She couldn’t shake the feeling the spaceship was pouting.
“We’re dark side of Kalcus, so don’t sweat the sun. Once we’re out, take a moment to orient yourself. We can’t see Icarion from here, not this time of year, but you’ll see Ada.” Her voice caught. “What’s left of her.”
He nodded, his expression growing serious. Now that he was so close to receiving his evidence, she wondered if he regretted demanding it. More than likely denial had been a much more comfortable state of mind.
Too bad for him. She didn’t have patience for dead weight. Even if said dead weight had a rather nice jawline.
LEDs flickered green and she spun the handle, swinging the ’lock door open to space. They’d tethered in already, and she let him go first, airjetting out about nine meters. Sanda hovered in the empty hatchway, watching him. Watching his subtle touch with the jets, his slow and careful orientation as he picked out stars he recognized and laid them over the same internal map all spacefaring persons kept close to heart. Didn’t take him long to find what he was looking for.
After he’d floated for a while, gazing at that white smear of light and debris that had once been her home, she jetted out, came to float alongside him. He glanced over. Moisture tangled in his eyelashes. He blinked, but the tears just drifted around the helmet. Zero-g was a bitch for crying.
“Come on,” she said. “Let’s get back inside. Bero can approximate a decent cup of tea. Sound good?”
“I feel like something stronger, truth be told.”
She grinned and patted him on the shoulder, though he’d feel little more than a muffled pressure through the suit. “Yeah. Bero’s got that, too. I think we’ll get along all right after all.”
They jetted back toward the ’lock, and Sanda cut the comms link so he could sniff back tears in privacy.
CHAPTER 20
PRIME STANDARD YEAR 3541
TWO WEEKS TO BE A LITTLE PRINCE
Butler bots meandered through the crowd in Biran’s living room, their telescopic arms offering bowls of snacks—fried algae chips, root vegetable curls, salty-sweet nutri-cakes—to Biran’s graduating class. Small in number as they were, they crowded his living room and spilled over into the kitchen, their voices altogether too loud and too indistinct for Biran to find pleasant.
But this was how one began, he told himself. You made friends. You made allies. You made yourself liked, and then you suggested changes. And there was no better night than tonight, when the convoy was slated to meet the Icarion dignitary ship.
He’d made sure to only invite his cohort over, the new Keepers who were still finding their feet. They were more likely to listen to him, he hoped, and if any resentment was brewing over his rise to Speaker, he wanted to show them he was still one of them. Even if he had kept himself aloof from them during their training. He hoped they’d assume he’d been too busy with his studies to socialize.
“How are you?” Anaia floated up to him out of the mass of sharp-cut suits and Prime jumpsuits. She wore a knee-length dress with a uniform blazer thrown over the top, her chunky black boots trimmed with cyan belts to match the Prime colors. She’d gotten her hands on a black-market neon eyeliner, and whenever she blinked her hooded lids, they showed off a little glow of lime green.
“In need of another drink,” he teased, pointing the rim of his empty glass at her own dwindling cup. “As are you. Pineapple?”
“Lychee.”
He swung around to the beverage dispenser and poured out pineapple-flavored sake for himself, and lychee for her, the machine grumbling only slightly as he switched the flavors over. He’d have to get maintenance to take a look at that. His kitchen was supposed to be state-of-the-art, and the tropical theme pack he had installed for the party was causing it to drag and complain. Not that his guests seemed to care. As newly minted Keepers, they all had the same kitchens, anyway.
She took a slow sip, leaving a print of emerald-green lipstick on the edge of the glass, and raised a brow at him. “This is good. But you didn’t answer my question.”
Biran’s cheeks went instantly hot. Time to lay off the booze. “What do you mean?”
“How are you, really? I haven’t seen you since that night, and now you’re throwing parties.”
There was an edge of accusation in her voice, a slight moue on her lips. He took a drink to give himself a second to gather his thoughts, but she wasn’t fooled. She lowered her glass pointedly.
“The Protectorate’s kept me busy,” he stumbled out, a lame excuse by any standard.
“Move it, posh-boy.” Kan Slatter put a hand on Biran’s shoulder and shoved him aside. “You’re blocking the best thing going at this party.” He shoved his cup against the dispenser and dialed in for passion fruit. The machine grumbled. He rolled his eyes as it dribbled out the booze. “Piece of crap you got here, Greeve.”
“We’ve all got the same piece of crap,” Anaia cut in, a little too defensive. She’d never gotten along with Slatter.
Slatter brought his hand to his chest and mock gasped. “You’re telling me our benevolent chosen one has the same slapdash accoutrements as we mere peasants? Stars and void, we should protest! He should at least have access to the good booze, what with all that extra responsibility the poor man has to shoulder.”
“What in the hell is that supposed to mean?” Biran snapped, aware that the voices in his living room had hushed to listen to the fight, but not caring. Slatter was just drunk enough to push his buttons—and Biran was just drunk enough to push back. In the back of his mind, he heard Graham’s voice floating up out of the ether—first rule of being a diplomat, don’t get drunker than those you’re trying to woo—but he pushed the voice away.
“I don’t mean to offend you, Speaker Greeve. I am but a humble Keeper. Please don’t broadcast my transgressions to all of Prime.”
Snickers from the living room. Biran’s cheeks went so hot he thought he’d combust. He tried to say something, anything, but he just opened his mouth and pushed soundless air out.
“That’s enough, Slatter,” Anaia said. She grabbed him by his sleeve and twisted, half turning to drag him from the kitchen. “Biran’s been through a lot.”
“Shit. If my sister dying would get me a promotion, I’d whack her myself. She’s fucking annoying, anyway—”
Biran punched him in the face.
Slatter’s nose gave way before Biran’s knuckles did, the cartilage crunching light as a stomped bug under Biran’s fist. An arc of blood splattered the malfunctioning drink dispenser. Biran’s fist collapsed against the hard wall of Kan’s face, his knuckles cracking loud enough to compete with the snap of Kan’s nose while his pointer finger snapped, his thumb jamming.
Kan shouted, dropping his glass as he reached up to cover his face. Anaia grabbed Biran by the scruff of his jacket and yanked him away before he could wind up for another punch. He hadn’t even realized he’d been preparing to swing again.
“You’re going to fucking pay for this.” Kan spat a wad of blood on Biran’s floor and grabbed a tea towel hanging from the stove to shov
e against his nose.
The house AI interrupted, cheery as always, “Injuries detected. Is medical assistance required? If an answer is not received in thirty seconds—”
“Yes!” Kan crowed. “Call a goddamned medivan!”
“Affirmative,” the house said.
“A medivan for a bloody nose?” Anaia scoffed.
“It’s broken, bitch. And I want a paper trail on this.” He jabbed a finger at Biran. “You have fucked up.”
“Will you shut the hell up?” a man snapped from the living room.
Biran, Anaia, and Kan turned to the rest of the gathering, realizing they’d been ignoring the drama playing out in the kitchen. All faces were glued to the internal projection screen on Biran’s wall. Callie Mera was on the screen, her red lips chewing over every word she said. Absolute dread raced up Biran’s spine.
“Turn it up,” he demanded.
“Fuck that.” Kan kicked the cabinets. “You all are witnesses to this attack, pay attention—”
“Shut up, Kan,” Lili said, startling everyone. Biran didn’t think he’d ever heard her raise her voice before, let alone in anger. She turned the volume up.
“Reports are coming in now that the diplomatic convoy sent to meet with Icarion dignitaries has lost contact with Ada Prime Control.
“The historic rendezvous, set to happen just ten minutes from now, has been a beacon of hope to our people in these uncertain times. Arranged by Speaker Greeve, whose sister was the sergeant in command of the gunship flotilla that was ambushed near Dralee just a few short weeks ago, the convoy—hold on.”
Callie Mera pressed her finger to her ear, listening to another voice, far away. Biran held his breath. Callie’s lips pushed out, not quite a pout, more of a flex, as if she were preparing to say something difficult and needed to ease her mouth into it. His stomach dropped.
“I’m receiving reports that the convoy, an olive branch of peace extended toward Icarion, has been attacked. Footage from nearby satellites—”
The screen cut to black, shaking for a moment despite the stabilizers in the drone. Callie’s voice kept on coming, rolling smooth as silk across the unsteady display, filling in background information until they fed her some new line, some fragment of what was happening.
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