by Wen Spencer
Paige yelped and scuttled backwards, but caught herself at the door.
"Bailey?" Jones's voice was weirdly comforting.
"They've got some fucking animal down here," Paige said.
"Not an animal." The slurred Standard came from that mouth full of teeth.
"Oh, fuck." Paige whispered and edged closer for a better look.
It was a Red male, furred over in reaction to stress, wearing shreds of a Novaya Rus uniform, pinned into place by webs, and partially senseless with venom. It growled a deep rumbling warning. Who knew what the poison was doing to its mind?
"Get me out of here." The Red snarled. "I'm not an animal. I'm human. I'm human."
"Bailey?" Jones said as the room dropped into darkness.
"They've got a Novaya Rus Red stuck to the wall." Paige whispered.
There was a minute of silence from Jones, and then, "That's not our concern. Find the converter and get out. We can't be playing heroes. We're too thin here."
It was unthinkable to leave him there, living food for the civ. But Jones was right. She was deep in the hive with Jones as her only backup. And the Rosetta was floating helpless without the converter.
The beacon flared to brilliance, and the red glared at her from his prison of webbing.
"Get me the fuck out of here," he growled.
"I don't know if I can." She whispered.
"Just cut me the fuck down and give me a weapon."
Yes, it would seem that simple, but he was tacked down, which made him civ property. If she cut him down, the civ would see it as stealing, unless she did it while trading with them. A trade, however, was the length of time it took the civ to unload the boat, during which time, she could grab anything she wanted. When the boat was empty, the trade would be over. If she started the trade without having a converter in hand, she wouldn't have time to find one.
"Get me down!" The Red shouted as the beacon light turned off, as if he was afraid that she would leave in the cover of the dark.
"I can't," Paige said to let him know she hadn't left—yet.
"Then fucking kill me. I saw what they do to the things they catch. I'm not going through that."
It was a simple and elegant solution. He was so helpless she could put her knife to his throat and, with one clean cut, put him out of his misery. The beacon flared on and she looked into his dark eyes, full of intelligence and anger, and floundered in moral impasse. She wouldn't jeopardize her ship and her family for this stranger, but she couldn't just kill him.
"Just—just give me time. I need to find something, and then I'll come back."
"Fuck you will."
"Yes, I will. You've got to trust me."
The light died. In the dark, he gave a low, rumbling laugh, and muttered something too low in Russian for her to hear.
"I will be back." She promised even though she wasn't sure she would be able to return. "Just wait. I'll be back."
"No, don't leave me . . .please." Even as helpless as he was, he clearly didn't like to beg.
"If I don't find what I'm looking for, none of us will be leaving. I have to find this first."
The light flared on. He glared at her as if he was trying to see to her core. To see if she was telling him the truth. She held his gaze, wanting him to believe in her—it would be kinder to give him hope.
"Hurry then." There was no hope in his voice.
Obviously the combat armor had been his, stripped off by the civ. It was brand new with more bells and whistles than she was used to, but close enough to the Georgetown armor that she could puzzle it out. Luckily the spider mites hadn't tacked down the chest piece; making it free game where the Red wasn't. Judging by the way the spider mites scurried away from armor each time the distress beacon flared on, they viewed it as too dangerous to cement into place. It was intact enough for her to put it on; it was too heavy and awkward to carry otherwise. The helmet was missing, but the backup headset was still slotted into place. She took off her jury-rigged headset and snug the armor's headset into place.
"Did you find one yet?" Jones's voice over the new headset made her jump slightly.
"I'm working on it." True to her luck, the suit's commands were in Russian instead of Standard. Who expected a Red to read Russian? She stumbled through the menus, surprised to find that the system was much more customizable than any she'd worked with before. Usually there was only a small selection of pre-programmed items that the infiltration scanners recognized. Mission targets were downloaded from the command ship; thus the Reds could ignore everything but what they were suppose to find and destroy. It took a few minutes but she managed to program in the converter itself. With the scanners activated, she worked back through the hive.
Three rooms later, the eyepiece highlighted the lines of a converter installed in an excavator buried a foot under the crud. It went way past being tacked down. There was no way she could start digging without first starting a trade.
"Jones, I found one. I'm going to start the trade. You're going to have to let one of the civ on the launch."
"Fuck."
"Jones, I'm shit deep in the hive. If I start messing with the civ's stuff without a trade, they're going to tear me to shreds. The only way I'm getting this out is starting a trade—which means they have to be able to carry off what they want too."
Jones huffed but after a minute of silence said, "All right. I'm ready here."
Still, Paige wanted as much time as possible. She scrabbled at the muck until she cleared the access hatch to the excavator's engine. As she lifted the hatch, there was a rush of feet toward her. She turned and chittered at oncoming mass of civ. "Trade mine! Trade mine!"
The civs slowed, hissing at her. Did they understand her offer or were they just being cowards? Weapon of choice, other than their teeth, were clubs; the pack had sticks, pipes, and long animal bones. There was a joke about civ liking weapons that tenderized their enemies—somehow the joke suddenly didn't seem that funny.
"Trade mine!" She chattered desperately, all too aware that she was backed into a dead-end and that there was a quarter mile of twisting, narrow tunnel between her and Jones's laser rifle.
"Trade mine!" the nearest one finally chattered, and they washed away, heading toward her barter goods.
"Oh thank god." She breathed, and turned back to carefully disconnect the converter. "Got it. I'm getting the Red now. How much of the stuff has the civ moved off the launch?"
"They're having a bitch of a time getting these blanks off the boat."
"That was the idea. When the boat is empty, the trade is over."
"You've got to be fucking me."
"Jones, I find you entirely too intimidating to try that."
Jones gave a surprised bark of laughter. "Better move your ass, Bailey."
Cradling the converter, she could only manage an awkward crab walk in the low tunnels. She waddled as quickly as she could back to the Red. The light reflected off the Red's cat eyes.
"You came back." The Red sounded surprised.
"I told you I would." She ignored the fact that she nearly didn't. She reluctantly put the converter down and hacked him free. Immediately she snatched the converter back up. "Come on. I can't carry you. Keep up with me, or I'll leave you here."
"I'll keep up."
Out of the hive, she had to fight through the mass of civ carrying her trade goods to the salvage heaps.
"Bailey, you better be coming now. They're down to the last item."
"I'm out of the hive!"
She scrambled over the mounds and skittered down the last slope to the long boat. Jones was right. The civ were snatching up the last of the blanks rolling around on the launch's deck.
"Here!" She handed the converter down to Jones. "Don't let go, or they'll take it back!"
"You left the Red?"
Paige turned and looked back. The Red wasn't in sight. "Shit."
If they left him, the civ would overwhelm him and pin him again.
"G
et in the longboat," Jones said. "You don't have time to go back for him."
"Wait for me!" Paige scrambled back up the mound. This is so stupid. So stupid. He's a stranger!
Still she raced back to the hive. She found the Red in the last tunnel, the civ trying to drag him back. She kicked them away from him, chittering, "Trade mine! I eat you!"
"Come on!" She grabbed the Red by the scruff of the neck. "Come on! We're running out of time!"
She pulled the Red to his feet. With him leaning on her, she managed to get him to move faster, a controlled running stumble. They half-fell down the last slope.
"Bailey!" Jones was untying the mooring lines. "Move it!"
Paige tumbled into the launch, pulling the Red in after her. "Go!"
The ex-marine picked up the last civ on board and threw it onto the raft and shoved off. Paige sprang to the wheel and gunned the engine. The launch leapt forward and they were clear.
The Red sprawled on the bottom of the boat, heedless of the bilge water. His eyes were closed and his mouth was open, panting quickly and shallow. Now that the madness of the trade was over, and they were safe, Paige studied him. He looked first generation; he had that tall, board shouldered, heavily muscled build. His short glossy fur was crèche-bred black, which always made Paige wonder why they were called Reds. There was nothing about him that suggested he wasn't anything but crèche-raised, with all the nasty socialization that implied. What was she bringing onto her boat?
"What's your name?" When he didn't answer, she nudged him with her toe. "Hey? What's your handle?"
"Turkish Delight."
She must have misunderstood his slurred words. Creche-raised had names like 'Spot' and 'Fang.' Or maybe he hadn't understood her, and thought she had asked something else. He'd spoken Standard in the nest, but with a Russian heavy accent. "Turkish Delight?"
He opened his eyes to give her a look of complete disgust. His eyes were full black from being in the pit; in the glare of the full dazzle, they started to shift to a chocolate brown. He couldn't have been able to see, so the glare was meant to intimidate her.
Paige sighed. It was going to be one of those discussions. Whatever his name was, it was now of minor importance. What mattered now was who could outstare who. She wished she could back down—she was exhausted, bruised and covered with slime that was making her skin crawl—but if she did, next time would be harder. To stay in command, she had to get his name.
"What is your name?" She put an edge to her voice and prodded him with it.
His thick eyebrows and dark eyes were wonderfully expressive; they told her his thoughts even while he silently gazed at her. He was smart enough to quickly go from annoyed to a realization that they were clashing over command issues. As he pondered his options, his focus shifted from her to the endless sea beyond her. At that moment, such despair filled his face that she felt cruel to firmly push for an answer.
He wet his mouth and made the effort to speak more clearly. "My name is Turk."
"All right, Turk it is." She knew he had said Turkish Delight the first time, but she pretended to believe him. She kind of liked Turkish Delight, but maybe he found it embarrassing. What did it mean, she wondered, and how did he get stuck with it?
Turk tapped her on her foot, getting her attention. "What's your name?"
"Paige Bailey. I'm Captain Bailey. Our gunner is Kenya Jones." Paige pointed to Jones who didn't notice. The gunner's focus was wholly on the civ rift and possible pursuit. "Look, I know this is all going to be new to you, but you're only going to get one chance with me. You screw this up, and I'll throw you back into the water. And don't think I can't. Do you understand?"
"Yes." He nodded to show he completely understood.
"I don't care what you were before. You now listen to everyone on this boat. Everyone. No matter how small they are. Someone tells you to lie on your belly and show your throat, you do it. You hurt anyone, and I'll shoot you dead. You disobey anyone, and I'll put you off my boat."
"Yes, Captain." His eyes said he believed her but wasn't afraid. Nor was he hostile. He was waiting to see how well they treated him. It was a good sign that he could dig up patience when he was this battered.
"Welcome to my crew." Paige said since the Rosetta had just come into view. "My boat isn't much to look at, but it's home."
7: The Rosetta
Turk's rescuers had taken him back to a boat of steel and wood, approximately two hundred feet long. The only heavy weaponry was a laser cannon ripped out of a ground assault vehicle and mounted on the bow. Panels of solar arrays stretched out above the main deck like wings. Everywhere he looked, he could spot bits and pieces of salvaged spaceship, from the shell of a lifepod as the boat's bridge to emergency airlocks now acting as deck hatches. It was a Frankenstein arc-welded together; the ugly scars of its creation visible to the naked eye.
Off the stern, a steel grate folded down to make a platform to dock up against. Crew lined the railing, waiting to make fast the launch he was on. They gazed down at him with surprised silence. While their clothes were all sun-bleached white and blues, the outfits didn't seem to be uniforms. There was no rank insignia visible. None of them seemed very old, and there were children mixed in, crying out what the adults were clearly thinking "A Red! Paige found a Red!"
The Rosetta was a civilian ship. And judging on how similar they looked to each other, the crew was one extended family. No wonder Bailey had threatened to kill him on his first offense; she was putting her family at risk by taking him in.
"Hillary, Becky, go tell Manny that there will be another mouth to feed." One of the men ordered the children away from the railing. Away from danger. Away from Turk.
The children out of harm's way, the man caught the rope that Captain Bailey threw and made fast the launch.
The Captain handed across the part she'd carried out of the alien nest. "Orin, get this to Ran and get the ship ready to depart. We're going to have to decom."
Orin handed up the part to another man and gave orders that scattered the crew. He waited until they were gone to say, "Is it safe to bring him on board?"
"We'll give him a chance. He seems to be smart enough to realize the consequences of not behaving."
Orin eyed Turk with open doubt but said nothing more.
Uneasiness settled on Turk as he realized that he hadn't seen one Red among the crew. He'd never been completely alone among humans before. Even when he was a child, there had been the Volkov household's pride drifting at the edges of his awareness. Except for Mikhail, he'd never interacted with humans for extended periods. And how was it that they have didn't have Reds and yet knew about crèches?
"Come on." Captain Bailey held out her hand, offering to help Turk up. "We need to decontaminate."
Turk hated the fact that he needed her help to crawl out of the launch and onto the grate. Five feet and he was shaking with exhaustion. "I'm going to be the only Red?"
"More or less." She dipped a bucket into the ocean, hauled it up full and dumped the salt water over his head.
"Chyort!" He roared in Russian as the salt water burned in a thousand tiny hurts. "Why the hell did you do that?"
"I know this hurts like sin, but if the civ mold got onboard, it could turn the whole ship toxic within a week." She doused him again. It was like having cold fire poured over him. "We're rationing our fresh water. Besides, salt water kills the mold better. Here."
She handed him a bar of soap. Apparently trusting him to wash himself, she started to strip. She was wearing the chest piece from his combat armor. She'd turned off the emergency beacon in the alien nest, leaving him in darkness. Up to that minute, he'd thought it had been torture to hang on the wall while it blazed away, knowing if the Svoboda had landed safely, Mikhail would have sent a rescue team for him. In the dark, without that slim connection, he'd lost all hope. Even now, he teetered on the edge of an unfamiliar dark emotion that he didn't want to acknowledge.
"That's mine." Turk said as Capta
in Bailey stripped off the chest piece. It was all he had left of Mikhail.
"It was yours." Her boots, socks and pants followed. "In this world, finder's keepers."
Had she rescued him because he was a valuable lost piece of equipment? "That includes me?"
She studied him for a minute. "Yes."
There, he was comfortably annoyed now. "What do you plan to do with me?"
"Put you to work." Captain Bailey sat down and focused on scrubbing the filth from his armor. The hem of her shirt rode up. Her underwear was modest, white, wet, and clinging, accenting her body while pretending to cover it. It was amazing how distracting three square inches of fabric could be. He had to force himself to look away, and try to remember what they were talking about. Her plans for him.
