“Neat.”
They frowned at her. Apparently that wasn’t the level of excitement they were used to.
“Would you please stand?” the woman asked.
Hesitantly, Sanda pushed to her feet. The prosthetic gave slightly under the press of her thigh, then firmed up to take her weight. She shifted, pronating the attached metal foot, testing the ankle joint. The foot seemed stable enough. The arch even had a slight spring to it, as hers had. She grinned a little, feeling proud of herself for coming up with something so like this fancy piece of equipment. Probably there weren’t many options for fabricating a foot, but still. Human locomotion had never been her forte.
“Walk three paces, please,” the woman said.
Sanda strode confidently, as if she’d had the leg all her life, and though it wobbled on the first two steps, her gait felt solid by the third.
The man bobbed his head excitedly. “Excellent, excellent. You wear it very well! So many are hesitant.”
“I’m a soldier. I can’t deal with a leg that gives out under the slightest increase of pressure.”
“This should suit you fine.” The woman pulled up her wristpad and flicked something at Sanda. She opened her accept panel and downloaded the program, running through it to get a feel for it. Calibration, power levels, cartridge levels, oxidization detection. She’d flown spaceships less fancy than this.
“Looks intuitive,” she said.
“User interface is my specialty!” the man beamed at her. She smiled right back.
“I think I’ll keep the leg on my jumpsuit open,” Sanda said, “to show off your handiwork. Any way to seal the suit to it in case I need to switch atmos?”
“Of course,” the woman hustled forward and took the bottom hem of the FitFlex suit, molding it to the top of the leg’s coupling. It blended seamlessly. “Pressure proof for up to two hours. Possibly longer, but we haven’t tested it beyond that window.”
“No problem with that. I like to stay in human-safe space.”
“Good, good,” the medis muttered, fussing with something on their wristpads while Sanda paced around the room, feeling the flex of her new leg and getting generally weirded out as it automatically adjusted to her stride. She’d known they’d have shiny prosthetics for her to try out, but she hadn’t dreamed they’d come up with something this smooth. Then again, she hadn’t known they considered her a hero. Wouldn’t do to see their poster child for brave Ada waddling around in subpar gear.
The door dilated once more, this time revealing a couple of soldiers with a chagrined-looking Tomas hanging out between them. Sanda raised her eyebrows at the group. “I appreciate the company, but things are getting a little crowded in here.”
“Major Greeve,” the one with an extra stripe on his shoulder said, “we’re to escort you to your rooms on the station. If you’re finished here…?”
Sanda cleared her throat. The two medis jumped out of their diagnostic reverie. “Oh, yes, of course, of course,” the woman said. “You should be just fine. Please send us a priority CamCast if you have any trouble at all. Our idents are in the UI for the leg.”
“Thanks, docs,” she said, drawing an unamused snort from the man. The medis shimmied out into the hall past their soldiery counterparts and disappeared. No doubt on their way to analyze whatever data they’d scraped off her brief engagement with the leg.
Sanda hadn’t had the chance to hold a blaster since they’d brought her aboard Taso, but she knew how to hold herself like a sergeant. She pulled herself up, made a show of leaning her weight on the new leg to show that it wasn’t holding her back, and cocked an eyebrow at Mister Extra-Stripe.
“What’s with the fancy escort? I’ve been to Keep Station before. I can find my way.”
He cleared his throat. “Just following orders, Major. You’re”—he shared an excited look with his counterpart—“kind of a big deal, if you don’t mind my saying so. It’s an honor for us to see you safely to your rooms.”
Well shit. Lavaux found a couple of fans to lead the way so that Sanda would have a hard time ditching them. Didn’t mean she couldn’t use her newfound celebrity to gain an upper hand.
“Honored,” she said, and shook both their hands in quick succession. “Mind if you take me by the dock where they’re holding The Light of Berossus on the way? I haven’t gotten to see that bucket from the outside. I bet he’s a pretty impressive sight.”
Extra-Stripe scratched the back of his neck. “Keeper Lavaux said to take you straight there, ma’am.”
“A couple extra seconds won’t hurt a thing, soldier. I’ve been assured we’ve got plenty of time before this big to-do, and I doubt I’ll have much of a shot at seeing him afterward. Come on, son, where’s your sense of adventure? I’m sure you want to see him, too.”
The other soldier elbowed his superior, who shrugged. “If you say it’s all right, Major, I won’t argue.”
“That’s the spirit!” She leaned closer and whispered, “And you’ll have a great story to tell the guys tonight at the mess, am I right?”
Grins were her only answer. Grins, and an eye-roll from Tomas, but she could live with that. Actually, she kind of liked the way he was looking at her now. Like he didn’t quite know her. Like she might be dangerous.
Maybe she was. Hell, she didn’t even know her own mind lately.
CHAPTER 68
PRIME STANDARD YEAR 3543
FIRST STEPS HOME
Bero had been trussed up like a festival pig in the hangar’s biggest bay. He was caught in a tangle of magnetic clamps, more than would ever be necessary for a ship his size, as if they feared he’d somehow slip away. It put Sanda in mind of a cocooned cricket in a web, and the way they had all his doors popped wide and hooked up to ramps wasn’t exactly helping the image. Her saliva thickened, her cheeks heated. She swallowed back a little bile.
“There she is,” Extra-Stripe said, gesturing like he was revealing some majestic landscape. “Best Icarion has to offer, in our hands thanks to you!”
She grinned at him, because he expected it, but even forcing herself to be cheerful in the face of Bero splayed wide like that made her stomach ache. Never mind that soldier boy kept on insisting on calling the ship her, as if Bero were just any old spacefaring vessel. He had his own name. Had claimed his own pronouns. But then Lavaux and the rest of the Protectorate silenced his voice, so only Sanda was left to complain at the mistreatment.
She wondered how long it had felt to him. He had internal clocks, but could he trust them without the external stimuli he’d grown used to?
Bero’s cargo hold faced them, the doors dropped open like a slack mouth. Armed soldiers lined the approach to the ship, a steady stream of techs flashing credentials on their wristpads to get in. They were coming out with handcarts full of supplies—all the stuff she and Tomas had laid in, and more. Tablets, memory banks. They were absolutely gutting Bero, taking out any scrap of technology that might hold information on it. Her stomach twisted. It would take them a while to sort through the mass, but the lab would be their priority target. Especially after they realized the nature of the research done there.
The Hermes sat where she’d left it, cockpit propped open and stuck on a mag pallet that may or may not have been turned off. Nasty piece of work, the shuttle that transferred the virus that infected Bero’s systems. She squinted, catching a glint in the backseat. Grippy’s little radar eyes gleamed out at her. He ducked his body back down below her eyeline.
The techs wouldn’t bother riffling through that for a while; it was a known entity. But then, they wouldn’t know Grippy wasn’t meant to be hanging out in the Hermes’s backseat. Sanda pressed her lips together to keep from smiling. At least Grippy was safe for the time being.
“What are you doing here, Major?” Lavaux strode toward her, his wristpad glowing with a half dozen displays flicking in and out.
“Taking in the view, sir.”
Lavaux narrowed his eyes at the little party, and t
heir escorts went ramrod straight under his scrutiny. “Time is short, gentlemen. Please see our guests to their arranged quarters immediately.”
Biran jogged up, interrupting the soldiers mid terrified salute. His cheeks were flushed, but he didn’t seem out of breath. “That won’t be necessary. Please escort my sister and her friend to my home. I’ve given them security access, they will stay with me.”
“I’ve already arranged for them to have their own rooms, Keeper Greeve. I’m sure they’d appreciate the privacy, and you not being so crowded.”
“I just got my sister back. Being a little cramped is hardly harsh payment for the comfort of her presence. Our fathers will meet us there later this evening. I arranged for everything they might need to be transferred to my guest rooms. I do have two.” He shot Lavaux a look, but he shrugged, his gaze already dragged back down to his wristpad.
“Suit yourself. I have work to see to. Just be ready on time.”
He left before Biran could muster a response, which was probably for the best. Biran took her hand, squeezed it, and passed her something hard and metal. “The house will open to your ident, S. Use whatever you need. I’ll be back to take you to the gala later this evening.”
“Our dads are really coming?”
He grinned. “What did you think I was doing all morning? They’re being transferred up from the habitat dome to the station now. Cutting it close, time-wise, but I’ve found the Protectorate willing to spare no expense when it comes to our hero’s comfort.”
He winked at her. She forced out a laugh. “In that case, lead the way, gentlemen.”
“Yes, ma’am,” the soldiers said in unison. As they turned toward the pass-through that would take them out of the docks into Keep Station, she couldn’t help but notice Biran shake Tomas’s hand, too.
CHAPTER 69
PRIME STANDARD YEAR 3543
A DAY TO SAY GOODBYE
Slatter rode in the front passenger seat of the guardcore cart that came to get him. Biran watched Sanda go, an emptiness swelling in his chest as her military guard whisked her away. He wondered how long it would be until they made it to his house, how long until she really looked at what he had given her. Until Cepko showed her what he’d given him, and they put the pieces together.
How long, he wondered, until she said goodbye to him in her own heart, and made her plans—plans he’d already set in motion—to escape. He’d never been a spiritual man, but part of him wished he could feel that moment. Some sort of quantum entanglement of brain waves between brother and sister—a mutual farewell, an ache acknowledged and answered.
But until she was safely away, he had his part to play. And that meant smiling at the shit-eating grin on Slatter’s face.
“Speaker Greeve,” Slatter said as he swung out of the cart. “You’ve been, perhaps, taking the Speaker part of your title too literally. You know there’s a whole Protectorate, of which you’re answerable to, who are supposed to approve your speeches before you give them, right?”
Biran gave him a sly smile. “I do know, Slatter, as I am a member of that Protectorate, while you are not.”
His brittle smile cracked. It was a low blow, but Biran didn’t have a lot of victories left. He needed to claim his points while he could, even if they were petty. Before Slatter could answer, Biran let himself into the cart and sat next to the driver—the seat still warm from Slatter’s haughty backside, and braced a hand in the window frame.
He acknowledged the guardcore driver with a glance and had to bite his tongue as they nodded at him in return. It was the woman from the night of the bombardment. He didn’t know how he was sure, but something in her body language haunted him, even under all that armor. Had she volunteered to pick him up with Slatter? If she had, then maybe he had a few more allies in the Cannery than he thought.
Slatter crammed himself onto the narrow back bench, his legs too long to fit comfortably, and thumped the outside of the cart. “Let’s go. The Protectorate wants to get a few things straight with you before you take the stage again for your little family reunion.”
Biran found he wanted to hit Slatter again. It wasn’t the same burst of violence that led him to breaking the man’s nose. It was a numb, detached feeling, as if he were analyzing the scene from a distance and had decided that the only way to get Slatter to rein himself in would be another punch to the face. The same way they hit dogs on the nose with newspapers in the old movies.
But Slatter wanted a rise. He wanted Biran to do, or say, something that would get him into deeper waters than he already was. Biran had already done so, of course. Giving Sanda a means of escape was the final nail in his coffin. But he wouldn’t give Slatter the pleasure of that knowledge, not if he could help it. Instead, he said nothing, letting Slatter stew in the silence, and watched the features of the station pass by.
He’d miss them.
Slatter’s credentials would not let him pass through the security gates required to reach the rooms the Protectorate used, and so Biran entered those halls alone. His boots thundered against the empty hallway floors. The Keepers of the Cannery had split, crystallized into factions, and then shattered apart. The Keepers too young to be privy to backdoor negotiations. The Keepers too old to miss the politicking of Sanda’s welcoming party. And the Keepers here, the real players. The Protectorate members and the movers thereof. Thin in number, powerful in consequence. A family knit of distrust and petty thrusts. Divided.
And divided, they would fall.
Singh, Director Olver, Garcia, Vladsen, Hitton. All spread out around the conference table he’d become so acquainted with. All looked up upon his entrance. All had the same weary expression. For all they played the game, it wore them out. Ground them down.
“Colleagues,” Biran said by way of greeting, drawing a wry smile out of the director. He took a seat with his back to the door and crossed an ankle over his knee as if he were at ease and not attending some sort of trial. “Where is Lavaux?”
“Busy,” the director said.
“Really?” Biran looked pointedly to Hitton, Vladsen, and Garcia. “I would have thought this little family meeting incomplete without him.”
“The matter of the Taso will be dealt with separately,” the director said. “General Anford is meeting with her people now to devise a solution for our more cantankerous members.”
Hitton snorted. She, apparently, did not like that those who took off on the Taso were being let off easily to save face. The official line, as Biran had heard in snips and dribbles, was that Lavaux’s mission had been authorized by the director and Okonkwo herself—thereby allowing the Keepers of Ada to maintain a cohesive facade, and take claim in the capture of Bero. It meant, too, that those who had abandoned the exodus protocol to chase The Light could not be punished. Not publicly, anyway.
Biran held no illusions he would be afforded the same protections. It’d be easy enough to make a public case he’d misappropriated Keeper resources in the quest to recover his sister. It wouldn’t even be wrong.
He wished they’d hurry up with the punishment, though. The thought of Lavaux out there with his sister made his skin itch.
“Your situation, however, is different,” the director said—or had been saying. Biran’s mind had wandered, working ahead, trying to figure out what Lavaux might be up to and how he could thwart him.
“Is it?” he asked, unable to make himself sound even the slightest bit interested in his fate.
“Biran, this is important,” Vladsen said, though he had a little smile that looked like a barely contained laugh. “Do try to pay attention.”
Puppet, Biran thought, but he inclined his head and forced himself to stop drumming his fingers impatiently against the tabletop. He glimpsed his reflection in the wall opposite and froze. His languid slouch in the chair, his casual splay of arms, his bored expression. He looked very much as Lavaux had on the day Biran entered this chamber for the first time.
This is what it looked like when one
was weighed down by petty bullshit while there were real—dangerous—games in play.
“What are you going to do to me?” he asked, cutting through whatever the director had been explaining regarding his misadventures. He knew his crimes. He didn’t need a list.
“Have you no remorse?” the director asked.
“For doing what was necessary to save my sister and bring that weapon—that ship—to heel? No. Not the slightest.”
“Then I will be brief. You will be allowed to welcome Major Greeve as the hero she is, in your capacity as her brother and as Speaker for the Keepers. After which, you will have your title as Speaker stripped and you will be removed from the Protectorate. Prime Director Okonkwo has listed you as spiked here, to Ada. You are a Keeper of Ada and Ada alone. Here you will remain until either you or this system die. There will be no transfer, no opportunity for advancement. You are a Keeper by the nature of the chip in your skull only. And if you misstep again, Greeve, you will have even that privilege removed. Am I perfectly clear?”
He waited for the pain to hit. Waited for the sinking, the absolute dread of knowing beyond a shadow of a doubt that his career was sunk—he’d failed. He’d never be the leader Graham had urged him to be. Never be able to leave this system, to reach beyond the stars. The feeling never came.
“Is that all?”
“That is everything.”
“Good.” He stood. “If you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.”
He left before they could stop him, letting the door shut hard on a few unintelligible exclamations. What they had to say no longer mattered. He knew his fate, knew that the second they realized he’d been the instrument of Sanda’s escape from Ada they’d change their tune. He’d no longer be chastised. No longer spiked to Ada for the rest of his career. No. He’d be a dead man, his chip yanked out of his skull and to hell with what that would do to his brain.
Velocity Weapon Page 44
