by Rob Boffard
“Because …” Corey thinks. Or tries to. The cat is prowling, waiting for an opening. It’s getting harder and harder to focus. “Because I think your ship might have got stuck in a time warp. During a jump. You’re one of those ships that disappeared, and now you’ve come back, and you still think the war is on. That’s why you blew up the station.”
“Stop being a chutiya,” Mal sends a nervous glance at the soldier.
“You’re a chutiya.”
“You’re the one who—”
“2172,” the man says. He speaks very quietly, never taking his eyes off Corey. “The war is over. It ended ten years ago.” There’s a very faint twitch at the corners of his mouth. “We didn’t get stuck in a time warp.”
In the silence that follows, Corey can hear Hannah and his parents arguing quietly in the other room, their hushed voices only just audible.
“Are you sure?” Corey says.
“Just leave it, Corey,” Malik mutters.
“’Cos he might just be playing along. Maybe, I don’t know, they figured it out later, and he’s just trying to mess with us.”
“It was 2172 when we started our mission,” the man says. “It’s 2172 now.”
“See?” Malik smacks him on the shoulder, then immediately pulls his hand back in horror. “Shit, sorry, I didn’t mean—”
“It’s OK.” It isn’t. The smack wasn’t hard, but it made the big cat growl. Corey bites his lower lip, grinding it between his teeth until it passes.
Malik pulls up his movie files, selects one. The video on the holo shows a slim, dark-haired girl, maybe sixteen, head down over a table in what looks like a cafeteria.
“Who’s that?” Corey says.
“It’s nothing.” Malik tries to close the file. He ends up pausing it, fumbling with the controls.
Corey frowns. “Is that Shanti Evans?”
“No.”
“Yeah, it was. You’re filming her?”
“No. Maybe. She’s my girlfriend, OK?”
“She is not.”
“How would you know?”
Corey is about to respond, but he doesn’t have the energy. He looks back over at the soldier, another thought occurring to him. “Prove you’re human.”
“Excuse me?”
“What are you talking about?” Mal whispers to him.
“He might be an alien pretending to be human. We don’t know if he’s telling the truth.”
“I’m gonna get Mom.” Mal starts to get to his feet. “I don’t think the meds are—”
“No.” Corey pulls his brother back down, frustrated. Isn’t this what you’re supposed to do? Eliminate the impossible? Isn’t that what they teach in science class? Then again, Mal was never very good at science. Maybe he doesn’t get it.
“I’m human.” The prisoner sounds faintly embarrassed, as if he can’t believe he’s having this conversation.
Corey wavers, then collapses against the wall. The cat is getting closer, and, anyway, how would you even prove something like that? They’d have to cut him or something, and that would technically be torture, which they said they wouldn’t do.
“You sure you’re square?” Malik says.
“Fine, Mal. Promise.”
“All right.” Malik sits back down. “But let’s just watch some movies. OK? Don’t even talk to him.”
“I think I can prove I’m not an alien,” the man says.
For a few seconds, neither Malik nor Corey respond.
“How?” Corey says.
The man shifts, as if trying to get more comfortable. “I’m in human form. If I’m alien, that means I have to be a shapeshifter of some kind. So I’d be able to shapeshift my way out these cuffs.”
Corey stares at him. After a few seconds, he says, “Huh.”
The man shrugs. “Or I’d just grow a few tentacles and grab hold of people. Take over their minds. Think I saw that in a show once.”
“Vicious,” Corey says automatically.
“That’s the one.”
“They get that in the Colonies, too?”
“Sure. Pretty good series.”
“Yeah, but they cancelled it.” Corey brightens. “I heard they’re doing like a big finale, though? Just to wrap up the story? I really wanna watch that.”
Another twitch at the corners of the man’s mouth. “Good to hear.”
Malik looks like he’s about to explode. “What are you doing?” he hisses, grabbing Corey hard by the shoulder. This time he ignores his brother’s grimace of pain. “We’re not supposed to talk to him.”
“Why not?” The prisoner sounds almost casual. “We’re just talking. Not like there’s a whole lot else to do.” He considers Corey. “I’m sorry about your leg, by the way. Not ideal.”
“He wouldn’t even be like this if it wasn’t for you,” Malik says, sullen.
Another shrug. “I was down here. Didn’t even see what happened up top.”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“Mal, just leave it alone.”
“No, Cor.” Malik is clutching his holocam so tight that Corey thinks he’s going to crush it. “He’s the reason we’re in this whole mess. It’s ’cos of him. Your leg’s busted up, and it’s his fault.”
The soldier turns his head towards Malik. It’s a very slow, very deliberate move. Every trace of amusement has left his face.
“I want you to listen very carefully,” he says. “He may not be old enough to understand—” he jerks his chin at Corey. “But you sure are. You don’t get to just blame me for this. Everybody always wants to blame the people who pull the trigger, when, in reality, there’s a whole chain of events leading up to that trigger pull, and a whole lot of people who are responsible.
“Yeah, maybe the soldier does the job, but he wouldn’t even be there if it wasn’t for everyone else ordering him to. I didn’t break your brother’s leg. I didn’t get your pilot killed. You want to blame me? Go ahead, if it makes you feel better. But you just remember that I’m not the only person on this ship.”
And that’s when Corey realises.
He can’t see the prisoner’s hands.
The man’s eyes meet his. Just for a second. Then, before he can react, the cuffed soldier wrenches his body forward, his arms straining in his suit. There’s the grating sound of metal on metal. He’s managed to pull the pipe from the wall – the one he was handcuffed to. The screws on one end hang loose, and, with a kind of horrifying clarity, Corey understands that he must have loosened them himself.
He distracted them, kept them talking so they wouldn’t notice him moving. He slowly scooted along, working on each screw while telling Corey how much he liked that stupid series. He’s almost at the point of pulling his cuffed hands free, working them around the curve of the pipe where it bends back on itself to attach to the wall.
“Mom!” Malik explodes to his feet. “Mom! Dad!”
Everett, Anita and Hannah come bolting out of the engine room. Everett reacts first: he hurls himself on top of the man, throwing himself like the football player he used to be. Malik is there, too, trying to hold down the man’s legs. The prisoner tries to throw them off, blue eyes cold and determined, mouth set. Corey stares in shocked, guilty horror.
“Help me here!” Everett yells over his shoulder. The prisoner’s knee takes him in the stomach, and he grunts. Hannah dives in, ignoring the fear, driving a forearm against the man’s throat, forcing him back against the wall. Her blood is pounding in her ears.
“Get the screws,” Corey hears her say. The prisoner’s eyes find his, and he has to make himself meet his gaze.
Slowly, they manage to force both pipe and prisoner back against the wall. Anita, breathing hard, starts to work on the screws. As Corey watches, the big cat prowling around him gently sinks a sharp tooth into his leg.
Chapter 39
Lorinda’s throat aches.
There’s no water in the tiny cubicle. There’s plenty of ice in the tank above her, but she can’t get to it �
� the access hatch is on the outside. She’s already tried clawing at the roof, but it’s solid plastic. May as well be steel, for all the good it does her.
She managed to tease out a little water from the rimy ice crusting the walls, but most of it’s gone now. And the bathroom is freezing, cold enough to make her bones hurt. Her nanomeds have long since worn off; she doesn’t think there’s any permanent damage, but it’s not going to matter if she doesn’t get out of here soon.
She gives the door another feeble kick with her good leg. It barely budges. You can’t lock the bathroom from the outside, so Seema put something in front of it. She doesn’t know what – the supply boxes from under the bar, maybe. She heard the bitch moving them earlier.
The bathroom light has a maddening flicker in it, an old-school filament that gives off an almost inaudible buzzing. Lorinda is curled up on the toilet seat, hands buried in her armpits, head scrunched down. Her breath laces the air in front of her mouth.
She’s spent most of her life in space, and she’s felt the chill of the vacuum plenty of times, but she’s never been this exhausted. The spacewalk, the fight with Seema, the cold: they’ve all combined to sap her strength. Despite her fury, she keeps nodding off. Each time she does, she jerks back to life a few moments later, mouth opening and closing like a fish.
For the thousandth time, her thoughts turn to what might be happening in the rest of the ship. She hopes for the others’ sake that they’ve managed to stay locked in astronautics. But sooner or later, Brendan and Seema and that smug asshole Jack will figure out a way to get inside. And then …
She passes out again. She’s under less than a minute, but she shivers the whole time, her shoulders bumping against the toilet’s plastic housing. When she wakes up, Craig is sitting in front of her.
He’s dressed the same way he was on the last day she saw him: denim workshirt, grimy chinos. He’s even wearing those ridiculous cowboy boots she got him as a joke present for his sixtieth, and which he took inordinate pride in. There’s no room for two people in the tiny cubicle – there’s barely room for one – but it doesn’t seem strange that he’s there. He’s sitting on the desk chair she found him in after the blood clot took him, his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped, staring at her expectantly.
“Am I dead?” She isn’t sure if she says the words or just thinks them. Surprisingly, she isn’t bothered by the prospect. She doesn’t want to die, doesn’t want to leave the folks on the Red Panda by themselves, but if it means she can see Craig again …
He grins, showing slightly crooked teeth. You? Nah.
Lorinda blinks, long and hard. When she opens her eyes, the bathroom cubicle is gone. Behind Craig, the Horsehead Nebula glimmers, shining around the edges of his body. She is dying. He always did try to put a positive spin on things; it’s why she loved him. One of the many reasons why.
“I miss you,” she says.
I know.
“I went out for a walk.”
I saw. Took out a whole ship. Kind of amazed you didn’t do it sooner.
She cracks a smile at that, saliva tracking down a wrinkle on her chin.
Why’d you sell up?
“What?”
After I died.
“I don’t …”
You could have kept going, you know. The rig-hounds respected you, lot more than they respected me. You probably would have had us making double what we were.
“… I didn’t want to do it without you. You know that.”
But you could have. His nose has started to bleed, a drop gently snaking its way down his upper lip. Silhouetted against the nebula, his face has gone dark. We worked hard to build the claim. And you gave it up. Sold out to Calomar and went walkin’.
Tears prick at her eyes. “That’s not fair.”
He doesn’t say anything to that, just keeps smiling that strange smile. Despite the silhouette against the stars, she can still make out the detail on his face. He reaches up, almost absent-mindedly, and wipes away the blood.
“What do you want me to do?” she says. But Craig is gone. So is the Neb. There’s nothing but the flickering light and the cramped cubicle.
“Come back,” she says, hating herself for it, hating him for wanting him this much. The Craig she knew would never have said those things, not ever, would never have begrudged her finally seeing the Neb like they always talked about. All the same, his words echo in her mind. Sold out. Went walkin’.
Doesn’t matter. She might not be dead yet but she’s getting there fast. When she sees him, she’s going to give him such hell.
Chapter 40
Roses.
The word goes round and round in Jack’s mind. Seema and Brendan might not have been involved in what happened in São Paulo – they weren’t there when Hec was shot. Or if they did, it would be one hell of a coincidence. And if they were, how would he even phrase the question? Hey, quick one, were you ever by any chance in Brazil? Ever try kill a cop? Put three bullets in his back, maybe?
He turns back to the screens, wiping sweat from his face. I did this. I gave them permission. I might not have swung the knife that killed the captain, but I sure didn’t stop it from happening.
“Shut up,” he says, his voice a trembling whisper. Brendan and Seema were already unstable. Trained killers. Sooner or later, they’d have done something, pulled some kind of stunt, whether he was there or not.
No matter how hard he tries, the thought won’t go away. Seema and Brendan might be killers, but they wouldn’t have overstepped that mark on their own – not when their son was in danger, not when they had to come out of this whole mess as innocent bystanders. No, Jack was the spark that lit up this particular inferno.
It’s not my fault. Wouldn’t have done that. If I’d known what they were … His mind lands on the one word he can always count on – the one that’s been a life raft for him his entire life. It wouldn’t have been ethical.
Ethical? Who the fuck is he kidding? They were going to torture someone. Volkova is dead. He’s allied himself with the people who tried to kill Hector. It’s absurd. It’s wrong. All of it.
He glances behind him, down the passage towards the main deck. He can’t see Brendan and Seema, but he can just hear them, talking in low voices.
Oh, this is insane. There’s nothing out here. Nothing at all. They are the last intact vessel for a hundred light years in any direction. Nobody’s coming for them. Nobody even knows where they are. And if he doesn’t die from starvation, it’ll probably be because one of the two trained killers on board decides he’s a liability. Even if they do – somehow – manage to salvage this clusterfuck, what’s to stop Brendan and Seema deciding that everyone on board is just a potential witness?
Despair grips him. What is he supposed to do? Take them out somehow? Use Brendan’s idea about lowering the oxygen levels? He lied about the failsafe, so it might be perfectly possible. Then again, how would he even make that happen?
His thighs are starting to ache from their position. He shifts in the pilot’s seat, planting his feet flat on the floor, wedging his legs under the control panel. As he does so, his foot bumps against a protrusion on the floor, a hinge, maybe, and he grunts in annoyance as he shifts again. So if he –
He freezes. Then he bends over as far as he can go, trying to see what’s under his feet.
Hinges.
Not just hinges: a hatch. There’s a hatch under the pilot’s seat.
So what? It’ll just lead to the vents, or to the ship’s electronics. Even if they did get in there, he wouldn’t be able to fit. The only one who might is the Livingstone kid, and he’s in astronautics with the rest of them.
He looks back up to the screens, his gaze landing on the ship schematic. He stares at it for a few seconds, his lower lip between his teeth.
On the schematic there aren’t any electronics or vent systems directly below the cockpit. There are plenty above it, in the bulbous overhang directly above his head, but the barrier between
the cockpit and the bar below is nothing but a single straight line. Jack zooms in – even he can figure that one out, spreading his thumb and index finger across the screen – but the line doesn’t change.
Lorinda. Seema told them she locked her in the bathroom. Jack barely registered it at the time, but he’s thinking about it now. She’s right below him. If he could get to her, free her, convince her that he wants to help … it doesn’t even the odds, but it tilts them a little more in his favour. Even if she’s too weak to fight, she could distract them or –
No. She’s two hundred years old, already exhausted from that insane spacewalk, and she’s spent the past forty-five minutes or so locked in a freezing cold space the size of the closet in his apartment. And as far as she’s concerned, he’s one of the people who put her there. She’ll never help.
But before he even realises it’s happening, Jack is worming his way out of the seat, yanking his legs from beneath the control panel. He squats next to the chair, fingers exploring the floor.
Yeah, there it is. Two hinges, running along one edge of the hatch. Most of it is underneath the pilot’s seat, and, looking more closely, Jack can see two recessed channels running out from the back of the chair.
So the thing does move. If he can slide the chair back, he should be able to get at the hatch.
It would be far easier to head to the bar via the stairs – there must be some story, an excuse for him to go down there? But then they’d know where he was. Worse: they might offer to come with him. No, the only way this works is if he has surprise on his side.
He can’t hear Brendan’s voice any more, or Seema’s. A panicked glance at the passage reveals nothing. They could be anywhere. If he’s going to do this, he has to do it now.
He explores the chair, something he did with only cursory attention earlier. As his fingers reach the back edge, furthest away from them, they run across something. A lever, a few inches long, covered in tough, ridged rubber and sitting less than half a foot above the floor.
“Gotcha,” he mutters, pulling the lever towards him. It gives a little, then springs back to its original position. He tries again, bracing his shoulder against the chair, pushing as hard as you can while he holds the lever back. Nothing.
