by Rob Boffard
They push through into the cockpit, Anita and Everett setting him down gently. From his spot on the floor, Corey can’t see much, but what he can see is the attack ship. It’s close enough to make out the details now: the grey and orange paint, the rigid, spiky fins. Corey’s breath catches in his throat.
“What are they doing?” his dad says.
Hannah doesn’t look away from the Victory’s cargo bay, still shut tight. “I don’t know. They went inside, though.”
Anita and Malik lean over, obscuring Corey’s view in the tight cabin. “Shouldn’t it be open by now?” Anita says, trying to keep her voice even, failing miserably. “Did they make it inside?”
“I just said.”
“Then why—”
“I don’t know.”
A silence falls on the cockpit. Corey watches as Hannah lifts her fingers from the control stick, flexes them, returns them to position. It’s all down to her. Her, and Jack, and Roman. He’s done everything he can.
All they can do now is –
The pain obliterates him. It comes on in a huge, searing wave, worse than anything he’s felt before. He screams, clutching at his leg, wanting to hold it, not daring to.
Through the tears doubling his vision, he sees his mom and dad exchange a horrified, desperate look. Malik is gripping his shoulder. “It’ll be OK,” he’s saying, over and over, as if he’s trying to reassure himself instead of Corey.
“There’s gotta be something,” Everett says to his wife. To Corey, it sounds like he’s speaking from very far away.
His mom shakes her head, her face pale in the cockpit lights. “Nothing.”
“But what if we …”
Anita ignores him, dropping to her knees in front of Corey, putting a hand on his cheek. It’s slick with sweat, and he wants to tell her to take it away, but he can’t get the words out. The cat bites harder, and he screams again. In her seat, Hannah flinches.
“Did I ever tell you how your dad and I got together?” Anita says.
Corey’s face is dripping with sweat, but he manages to shake his head. “You said … you said you met in college.” Each word feels like it’s being wrenched out of him.
“That’s right, we did. But we never told you how.”
She’s trying to distract him. Corey wants to tell her not to bother. The only thing that’s going to work is if he puts his head down and fights the cat. Pushes it back. Somehow. He tries to speak, but he can’t get the words out. His shredded throat won’t cooperate.
“’Nita,” Everett looks acutely uncomfortable. “We said we wouldn’t …”
She ignores him, scooching in a little closer to Corey, putting out her other hand to grip Malik’s shoulder. “So while I was in college, in California, I had a boyfriend. Not your dad, obviously. He was a nanochem major, and we were pretty serious.”
“What was his name?” Malik says, glancing over at Corey. As if he too knows what his mom’s doing, and wants to help.
She grimaces. “Doesn’t matter. But he wasn’t a good guy. We were living together, and he …”
A long moment passes. Corey expects to feel relief that she’s stopped speaking. Instead, he finds himself desperate to keep listening. She was right – anything is better than focusing on what’s happening below his waist.
“He didn’t hit me.” Anita’s voice is flat. “But he was … well, I suppose you know what abusive means. He tried to control me.”
She looks between her sons. “We were walking down the street one day. It was in August. And I said something … I don’t remember what it was, but it set him off.” She licks her lips. “He starts yelling at me, right then and there. Calling me names.”
“Who was he?” Malik looks furious.
“Not important,” Everett says, his voice barely a murmur. He’s staring out of the cockpit glass at the other ship.
“And I’m crying.” Another lick of the lips. “Because I don’t know what to do. The street is crowded, and I knew I had to say something to make him stop, but I didn’t know what. And nobody is even looking at us. He’s just yelling these … horrible things, and …”
She sniffs – the kind of wet sniff people make when they’re about to cry, and trying very hard not to.
“And then out of nowhere, your dad arrives. He wasn’t actually in the college we were at – he couldn’t get the financing, and you know Grammie and Grampa couldn’t really afford it, so he was working as a …” She closes her eyes, as if trying to remember.
“Lens repair tech,” Everett mutters.
“Lens repair tech. Right. And he had a job nearby, and he saw what happened. He comes running up, trying to get between us. Just trying to calm my boyfriend down.”
She puts a hand around her husband, drawing him close, the words rushing out of her now.
“So my boyfriend hits him. And then he starts to kick him. And I’m screaming at him to stop, but he’s not, and nobody is even looking in our direction, and I was so scared …”
Then she smiles. She actually smiles.
“And your dad … he’s … he’s yelling ‘Leave her alone!’ He’s on the ground, getting beaten up, and he keeps telling the guy to leave me alone.”
She wipes her face, crying openly now. Around them, the cockpit is utterly silent. “Eventually, the cops did come and break it up. Your dad spent the night in hospital, getting pumped with every nano they could find.”
“And you got together after?” Malik asks.
“Not right away. We stayed friends for a few months before he asked me out, and then it was still a few years before we actually got married. I had to convince him to come with me to Austin.”
Finally, Corey’s throat allows him to speak. “Why … didn’t you tell us?”
In the quiet that follows, he’s acutely aware of the three of them around him, huddled close.
“Because …” Anita swallows, then sets her shoulders. She glances at her husband, as if to check he’s OK with this, then says, “Because we decided you didn’t need to hear about your dad getting hurt. Or your mom getting shouted at by …”
A great, hitching sob bursts out of her. Everett pulls her close, and she buries her head in his shoulder, her body shaking.
“But you were gonna get divorced,” Mal says, with something like wonder.
Everett sighs. “We talked about it. The past couple of years have been … tough.”
“But if you helped her,” Corey hears himself say, “then why—”
“Life takes weird turns sometimes, pal. Your mom and me, well, we had some things to work out. We’re pretty different people.”
“But even if it happened,” Anita lifts her head off her husband’s shoulder, her eyes red, “I’d still love your dad.” Her voice gets fierce. “I want you to know that. He helped me when nobody else would, and he gave me …”
It’s a few moments before she speaks again.
“He gave me you two,” she says. “He gave me my boys.”
She pulls both her sons into a fierce hug, Everett folding on top of them, as if he can protect them from what’s coming.
Anita’s voice is barely above a whisper. “I love you so, so much. All of you.”
“We love you too, Mom,” Malik says.
Corey doesn’t know if she’s right. And at that moment, with the cat’s fangs digging into his leg and the bigger ship looming above them and their time measured in what might be minutes, he finds he doesn’t care.
Not one little bit.
Chapter 63
For such an enormous ship, the Victory’s medical bay is tiny. It’s a windowless, rectangular room packed with equipment, taking up most of the floor space and climbing the walls to the ceiling. Jack sits on one of the room’s three beds, blinking in the harsh white light.
He doesn’t dare move. Not until Roman does. Mahmoud might just be a medical officer, but it doesn’t take a genius to figure out that she’d probably knock him on his ass in about half a second. In any case, even if he did get
away he wouldn’t have the first clue where to go.
What is he even doing here? He’s supposed to be making sure that Roman doesn’t betray them, and, eventually, helping him operate the jump gate. The second one he can probably do. Maybe. But if Roman does turn on them, how exactly is he, Jack, supposed to stop him? There’ll be no Lorinda with a shard of glass this time. No one to help.
Lorinda. Jack has to force himself not to shiver.
He looks over at Roman. They’ve still got their suits on, and Mahmoud is shining a light into the soldier’s eyes. “Looks good,” she says, clicking the penlight off. “You’re OK. You can take your suit off, by the way.”
She half turns to Jack, then stops. “Roman …”
“Yes?” Roman is working on his neck seal.
For the first time, Mahmoud looks unsure. “When you were on the Resolute … did you know an officer named Reyes? Silvia Reyes?”
Roman stops moving. His voice is almost inaudible. “I did.”
“Did she …” Mahmoud trails off.
Roman shakes his head, very slowly, side to side. A wave of emotion rushes across the medical officer’s face. She gets it under control, closing her eyes briefly, then turns to Jack.
“Jacobs,” she says, her voice barely shaking. “Let’s get you looked at. Any pains? Ringing in your ears?”
“No.” Jack feels numb. Mahmoud looks into the middle distance, blinking as she activates something on her lens. When is Roman going to move? They’re running out of time. The soldier is stepping out of his suit – he wears a black jumpsuit underneath it, with the same dagger patch on the breast.
“I’m going to give you a shot of Oraxalone,” Mahmoud says to Jack. “We don’t know what the rad protection was like on that civ suit of yours. You ever been dosed before?”
“No, I … I don’t think so.”
“You sure? If you have, I’ll need to adjust the amount. Anyway, doesn’t matter, I can look it up.” She blinks twice. “OK, Jacobs, found you, let’s get you out of that suit and—”
Mahmoud stops, frowning. She looks at Jack, blinks, blinks again. The frown changes, her eyes narrowing, and that’s when Jack realises what’s happening. She’s looking at a medical profile of the real Lachlan Jacobs.
One with his photo.
Before he can say anything, Roman moves. He wraps an arm around Mahmoud’s neck, forcing her down to her knees and bending her backwards at the same time. She chokes, snarling, her training taking over as she attempts to wedge her hands under his arm. Jack sits, stunned, watching it happen, knowing he should help but not having the first clue how.
In a move so fast that Jack almost misses it, Roman rocks back, then jabs three times at the base of Mahmoud’s neck with his free hand. Her body goes limp, twitching, and she claws at his arm for a split second before her hands slump to her side.
Roman holds her for a few seconds more. Then, slowly – almost tenderly – he lowers her to the deck. She’s still breathing, her chest rising and falling.
“Holy shit.” Jack can’t think of anything else to say.
“Get changed.” Roman looks like he wants to do to Jack what he did to Mahmoud, but now that she’s down he doesn’t hesitate. He grabs her sidearm – a thick, chunky pistol with a textured grip. Then he does the strangest thing. He pinches his lens out, throws it away, then digs his fingertips into Mahmoud’s rolled-back eye.
With practised ease, he slides her lens out, using it replace his discarded one. He sees Jack looking. “Keyed to her weapon,” he says. He glances down at Mahmoud’s unconscious body, a dark cloud crossing his face. Then he moves to the door. “Let’s go.”
Jack strips off his suit as quickly as he can – he has to work hard not to get caught on the tight seals. Then he follows, trying to ignore the shaking in his legs. He’s got to focus. It’s not just his life on the line here. He’s letting the little things slip, letting the details get away from him. He can’t do that, not now. Again, he sees Lorinda, pictures the bruise on her temple.
Jack got to go on board a Frontier military cruiser once, over fifteen years before. It was back when he was first starting out as a reporter, way before he ditched that shit-show for travel writing. The Frontier, eager for some decent PR in the midst of the war, let a group of journalists tour one of its ships.
He recognises the style here: the corridors are functional, narrow, all gleaming metal and recessed pipes. What’s missing are signs. On the cruiser he toured, there were directional markers everywhere, pointing to the mess hall, the engines, the bridge. There’s nothing like that here. It’s like the crew doesn’t need them.
Jack shivers again, jogging to keep up with Roman. Without him, he’ll be lost, and then dead.
The ship is deserted – or, at least, running with minimal crew. They walk in silence, Roman in the lead. His military jumpsuit has a slim-fit holster at the waist, and he tucks Mahmoud’s gun into it.
In the distance, Jack can hear a voice over the ship’s speaker system, the words made inaudible by the twisting corridors. The ship’s AI, maybe – probably one a little more sophisticated than the brick-dumb computer on the Panda. Maybe it’s even in control of those damn spheres.
“Why’d you wait?” Jack says.
Roman looks over his shoulder, annoyed. “Excuse me?”
“To … with the doctor.” He searches for her name. “Mahmoud. You could have taken her down the second you were out of your suit. She would have figured out something was up anyway, the second she saw I was in civilian gear. So why did you wait?”
Roman stops, hand moving unconsciously to his weapon, turning to face Jack. Against the bright lights in the corridor, he’s a silhouette, his face in shadow.
“Let’s get one thing straight,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. “I gave you my word that I’d help you. I’m going to honour that. But I didn’t say how, and I didn’t let you tag along so you could question my decisions. If you do so again, I’ll put a bullet in your leg and drag you to the bridge. It won’t stop you from helping me operate the jump gate.”
“OK, Jesus.” Jack raises his hands, trying to ignore his thudding heart. Then, before he can stop himself, he says, “Who the fuck pissed in your cereal?”
It’s an automatic response – something he’d say to Hector whenever his partner was in a foul mood. English wasn’t Hec’s first language, so he’d had to explain why someone might want to urinate in a bowl of soyflakes. It had become an in-joke between them – Hec had even started to say it to him, throwing it back in his face.
God, he wants to see Hector right now. He would give anything to have him here. Not that it helps: he just trash-talked a special forces operative, one who five seconds earlier had threatened to shoot him. This is going so well.
Roman doesn’t shoot him. Instead, he does something Jack isn’t expecting: he smirks.
“Not very good at this whole teamwork thing, are you?” he says.
Jack finds himself shaking his head. “Not really.” His voice is a croak.
“Well, you’d better figure it out. It’ll be a goddamn miracle if they don’t shoot us the second we hit the bridge. So if you don’t do exactly what I tell you, when I tell you, then we’re fucked. Got it?”
Without another word, he turns and resumes his march down the corridor. After a moment, Jack follows, trying very hard to stop himself shaking.
Two corridors later, Roman says, “I didn’t want her involved.”
“Huh?”
“You asked why I waited.” Roman doesn’t turn around. “I thought there might be a way to leave her out of it. She might have let us go without checking, and stayed in medical.”
This time, Jack doesn’t respond. And a few minutes later, they reach the bridge.
It’s a large room, with a wide, angled viewport along one wall, showing the Neb glimmering in the distance. The room is split up into three tiered levels, each with multiple workstations. For some reason, Jack expects the lighting t
o be dimmed; it’s even brighter than the corridors, with banks of halogen bars along the curved ceiling.
There are six crew inside, all of them wearing the same black jumpsuit as Roman. Two of them – a man and a woman, both of whom appear to be carved from granite – have the same dagger patch. They have their index fingers touching, their lenses linked, discussing what they’re seeing in low voices. The rest of the crew are busy at their workstations.
Jack and Roman enter through a side door on the middle tier. The first person to notice them is a bearded, slightly hunched man sitting at a workstation. His gives a tight nod when he sees Roman. His eyes land on Jack, and a frown crosses his face.
And it’s as if he’s sent up a signal flare. The activity on the bridge slows, the operators turning one by one to look at them.
It’s then that Jack sees the commander. Hayes.
He’s on the same level as they are: a big man, bald, perhaps early fifties, with broad shoulders and dark skin. His eyes, when he turns to look at them, are a dull grey.
“Roman?” he says. “You were told to wait in my quarters. Did the doc—”
He stops as he catches sight of Jack, takes in his clothing and the fact that he’s definitely not military. His face, already lined with wrinkles, gains a few more as his eyes narrow.
Before Jack can even process what’s happening, Roman takes three strides forward, pulling Mahmoud’s pistol from its holster as he does so, the move smooth and controlled. Then he puts it against the commander’s forehead.
In every movie Jack has ever seen, there’s a weird clicking sound any time someone raises a gun, like it’s automatically cocking itself. The feed’s film critic, a fat bastard named Hunnigan with bad body odour and a terrible taste in shoes, once told Jack that it was a throwback to the old days of film-making – one that most directors still hadn’t managed to get rid of, even though it’s been a long time since anyone had to cock a gun.
And yet, as every single soldier on the bridge pulls their own sidearm and aims it at Roman, he expects to hear it: those sinister, ratcheting clicks. Instead, it happens in virtual silence, with nothing but the rasp of metal on holster fabric.
