by K. Eason
Oh. Oh sainted ancestors, Rory. The knowledge that they had left Rory on Sissten flooded back, washing away any lingering survivalist satisfaction. Thorsdottir slapped the harness release and lurched to her feet before fully considering whether being alive equaled being able to walk. It did not. She propelled herself into the bulkhead beside the hatch, and, commandeering her almost entirely swaddled fingers to action, coaxed the hatch into opening. It required an authorization, since the ship was moving at high v, which in turn required time to input, time in which Thorsdottir could realize that her balance was not ideal, and that, in fact, she might end up sitting on the deck before the hatch completed its cycle.
Then, before she had quite tapped out the last of the lengthy alphanumeric string required, the hatch opened like a startled mouth. Like Thorsdottir’s mouth, in fact, as she reflexively recoiled, overtaxed her already tenuous grasp on balance, and sat down hard on the deck.
Jaed stood in the hatch, staring down at her with a matching, o-mouthed expression.
“What are you doing?” he blurted, even as Thorsdottir rolled onto a hip and, using her sleeved arm for leverage, lurched back to her feet.
Jaed arrested her forward momentum—more of a controlled stagger than the fiercely determined march Thorsdottir had intended—by spreading himself across the hatch opening. “What are you doing?” he asked again, more softly this time.
She could see past his shoulder: the cockpit hatch was open, and through that aperture Zhang and that tenju (Crow? Crow, yes, that was it) crammed shoulder to shoulder in front of the main screen.
“How is she?” Zhang called back. She did not turn her head.
Jaed did, which afforded Thorsdottir the opportunity to try to displace him. She could not shoulder him aside, exactly, given the hatch’s size and placement, but she thought to propel him backwards at least, until the extra room around the aetherlock would permit her to brush by.
Except Jaed did not move when she pushed on him, and Thorsdottir realized belatedly that no, he still wore his hardsuit (there were suspicious stains on the gauntlets, reddish, which did not bear close examination) and thus was much heavier, and well beyond her capacity to dislodge even if she were entirely hale. Which she was not.
Jaed grimaced. “She’s fine.” His tone sounded more judgmental than overjoyed. “She’s trying to get up.”
Now Zhang did look, or at least she turned her head partway; she was too conscientious a pilot to take both eyes off the screens during operations. “Thorsdottir!”
That exclamation was equal parts relief (you’re all right!) and admonition (why are you standing up?) and more surprised than Thorsdottir found comforting.
“She shouldn’t be up.” Crow lifted his voice and flung it over his shoulder “You shouldn’t be up! Go sit down.” Then he let out a stream of syllables whose force and invective suggested profanity.
Vagabond shifted vectors abruptly. The inertials surged, then stabilized. Thorsdottir pitched into Jaed, catching herself (one-armed) on his chestplate. It was a poor landing and a tenuous grip, and when Vagabond lurched again, she listed sideways. Jaed prevented any further collapse or collision and caught her in the curve of one arm and pulled her against him, where her weight and his were more centrally balanced over the maglocked advantage of his boots.
From here, at least, Thorsdottir could see all the way into the cockpit, and more importantly, see the main screen’s display. Vagabond was moving too fast for the human eye to actually resolve much except blurriness, and the distances involved were well beyond organic capacity. Without the primary turing, there was insufficient power to render an image on the screen, which was damned inconvenient for a non-pilot observer (which was also why e-vids always pretended that pilots navigated in void-battle by sight and unaided human reflex). Thorsdottir ordinarily maintained a deep scorn for such romanticism, but right now, she wished it were true. Still, what she could see past Jaed’s shoulder showed her a crosshatched display of brightly colored trajectories that meant the big ships were exchanging fire from relatively close range. There were stationary blips on the screen, too: the Protectorate ship and the royalist’s dreadnought and, to Thorsdottir’s surprise, two more ship-blips, hovering outside the battle’s perimeter.
Thorsdottir tried to dislodge herself from Jaed’s grasp and, failing the first attempt, gave up further endeavors as a waste of effort. She cranked her face around instead to stare into his. The range was uncomfortably close, particularly in an olfactory sense. There had been a surfeit of sweat lately, and a shortage of baths. Jaed’s hair stuck to his forehead in sweat-matted sheaves; she supposed hers was doing the same.
No matter. “What’s going on?”
“Slagging alwar,” snapped Crow, whose hearing was evidently quite keen, and whose sense of conversational manners was not. “That’s an Empire ship out there, and one of ours. What they’re doing here right now, who the slag knows.”
Thorsdottir glared at Jaed in a mute demand for clarification. His features creased in the facial equivalent of a shrug. “We’re barely flying at this point. Primary turing’s still down. Zhang’s making do with a zombie system.” No semi-sentient turing to help her, which meant calculations manually entered and a plain human brain for judgment on where to point the ship.
Zhang put the ship into a roll which did not incite disaster only because one, Jaed’s boots were maglocked to the deck and two, he had a firm grip on Thorsdottir and three, the grav-hexes did their job.
Thorsdottir closed her eyes. Her bandaged arm was starting to ache a little, probably from the jostling. Her heart bounced between her ribs and the hard shell of Jaed’s suit.
“Are they shooting at us?”
“Not on purpose. I think they’re convinced we’re debris. We’ve had to dodge fire from both sides, though. Listen, I really need to get back up there.”
“What about Rory?”
“I don’t know.” Jaed looked miserable. “You really need to get back to the cabin.”
Thorsdottir knew that’s what they made him do, when it was her and Zhang and Rory up front. Jaed rode alone in the cabin, uncomplaining. She told herself she, too, could manage that task, particularly now, particularly when she was of no use in the cockpit.
The words crammed in her throat. She shook her head at Jaed, protest and plea together.
“There’s no room in the cockpit,” he said. “You know that. But listen: I’ll leave the hatches open, all right? So you can hear?”
It was kinder than she would’ve been, had their positions been reversed. Thorsdottir nodded. She could not quite manage a thank you. She could, after a couple of hard swallows, manage, “I can get back by myself.”
It was on the force of that promise that Jaed released her, though she noted he did not yield up his place in the hatch opening. She tried a step backward, then two. Her balance held. Zhang made no abrupt maneuvers. She chose the jumpseat closest to the hatch, not the one from which she’d come, and was glad to collapse into it.
Jaed did not offer assistance. He watched, his expression a twist of pity and guilt that inexplicably made Thorsdottir want to shout at him. She held up her swaddled arm instead, as she maneuvered herself into the jumpseat and one-armed the harness into place.
“What happened? There was something with Rose . . . ?”
“Rose offered to help you,” Jaed said. “I guess they did. You survived.” His gaze dropped and bounced around on the deck.
Thorsdottir swallowed the rocks in her throat. “I didn’t think Rose could talk, you know. The clipping. I thought there wasn’t enough left to talk to.”
“Nanomecha are really tiny. There might be millions of them in something the size of that clipping. Maybe billions. And they were propagating the whole time we had them.” His face collapsed. “Doesn’t matter. You’re okay.”
Then why do you look so unhappy? Thorsdot
tir almost asked, but as she started to shape the syllables, Zhang’s voice came floating back from the cockpit.
“Jaed! We need you.”
“Got to go.” Jaed wrung out a smile and hung it on his lips, where it dangled unsteadily, vulnerable to each blink as he retreated into the cockpit. He held her gaze like something precious and fragile until he had to turn around and go in and take his (Rory’s) station.
He kept his promise, too. The hatches stayed open.
* * *
—
“Look at that.” Hworgesh pointed at the central hologram.
Grytt strangled a retort that she had been looking, because there was nothing else to do on this bridge, except divide attention between the main display and the door behind which Rupert had disappeared. Oh, yes, and also to check the chrono, which, despite looking nothing like a clock, being columnar instead of circular (and what was wrong with plain digits? Bah.) still marked off the passage of time at a regular intervals. Thirteen of those little marks had gone dim while she’d been sitting out here.
But Hworgesh did have a point. There were tiny orangeish flecks streaming out of the dreadnought, which did not look like missiles or torpedoes or fast-moving rocks. “Are those breaching pods?”
“Yep. Must be something on that ship the Tadeshi want real bad, if they want to risk a pitched battle.” Hworgesh slid Grytt a knowing, conspiratorial smile. “You don’t want to fight the veeks on their own decks. They’re all slagging arithmancers.”
Grytt sat up a little straighter. That seemed . . . bad. She, like any other Kreshti marine, had encountered battle-hexes. They were awful. The only ameliorating factor was how rare arithmancers were, on a battlefield, and that they died as easily (more easily, sometimes) than a regular trooper. “All of them? Really?”
Hworgesh seemed amused. “Seems like. Even the regular soldiers usually know a trick or two. Or it’s their arithmancers who know how to shoot. More than we’ve got, anyway. We,” he added, anticipating her question, “meaning the rest of us. Human, tenju, alwar, k’bal.”
Grytt had not heard a collective we that encompassed more than a particular political affiliation. Impressive. “You all fight the vakari? What, together?”
“Together?” Hworgesh looked as if Grytt had suggested he might turn into a cabbage. “No. I mean, the veeks fight with everyone except the mirri, and that’s just because the mirri planets are all poison to oxy-breathers. They’re mostly going after the k’bal right now. They haven’t gone after the Empire in about two hundred years, but they pick off a seedworld here and there along the border.” He shook his head. “Where is this Confederation of yours, that you don’t know this yet?”
“I’ve been raising sheep planetside,” said Grytt. “And not paying attention. What about tenju, ah, seedworlds?”
Hworgesh scowled. “We never had many. The ones we did have, the Empire annexed and colonized a long time ago. The veeks did us a favor, first time they hit the Harek ships. Got the alwar fixed on something besides us. ’Course the veeks hit us not long after that.”
“The Expansion?”
“I guess. Or one of their gods woke up grumpy. They’ve got nine. Anyway, listen. Some of them raid the borders. Pick off caravans. Those are the ones we deal with. And yeah, I’ve fought ’em. On deck and on dirt. It’s good practice. We all know they’re coming, once they’re done with the k’bal.”
“But you don’t have a formal alliance with anyone?”
Hworgesh’s gaze slid away. His shoulders sagged a little. “No. Between you and me, we need one. Chances we’ll get one—eh. But not easily.” He thrust a chin at the alwar, clustered around their instruments. The XO had taken the captain’s place; she was taller, hatchet-faced rather than lovely, and staring at Grytt and Hworgesh with evident disapproval, which Hworgesh reciprocated. His lip curled away from his tusks.
“Slagging alwar. Convinced they don’t need anyone else.”
Fascinating. Alarming. Grytt glanced at the still-sealed door behind which Rupert, the captain, and the adept were conducting their no doubt important, definitely private conversation, and wondered how far across the bridge she’d get, if she decided to interrupt, before security tried to stop her. Not worth an incident, was it. Rupert would come out soon enough, and she could tell him what Hworgesh had said. Or Hworgesh could repeat it.
“Hey. Look.” Hworgesh pointed, this time at a small, red-ringed blip that had detached itself from the vakari vessel. It wasn’t a Tadeshi breaching pod. Those pods were merely glowing blips of Tadeshi malice, too tiny on the hologram to rate rings and readouts. This little blip had a ring which, as Grytt dialed in her focus, began filling itself with numbers. It hung for a moment, as if it were orienting itself, before it began wobbling away from the vakari vessel. It might have been a bit of debris, drifting on the currents of an explosion, except for its presence on the scans.
“That’s a Tadeshi shuttle,” Grytt said. She and Rupert had escaped from Urse on a very similar ship.
So had Rory.
“Something’s wrong with its turing,” said Hworgesh. “Or its pilot. It’s not broadcasting any ID.”
Grytt stood up and aimed herself at the room where the adept, the captain, and Rupert had gone.
Behind her, Hworgesh sputtered. “The hell are you doing?”
Starting a diplomatic incident, Grytt thought. But out loud, she said, “Need to talk to the Vizier,” as much to answer Hworgesh as to inform the alwar security, which were responding to her unexpected movement with admirable efficiency. At least they had not yet drawn any weapons. But they were between her and her goal, and Grytt guessed that if she tried to get past them, the potential unfortunate diplomatic event would become an actual one. She diverted instead toward what looked like the communication console, and a smallish alw huddled over it.
“That ship,” Grytt said, with no regard for diplomacy or titles or even an excuse me. “That little ship. The shuttle. We need to hail it. Urgently. Um. Please.”
The communications tech did an admirable job of pretending the cyborg leaning over her was not, in fact, leaning over her. She said something quiet and urgent into the comms. Calling the captain, probably. The XO was already en route, coming around the console with surprising speed.
“Domina.” Her voice was a brittle combination of courtesy and outrage. “Please return to your seat at once.”
Grytt cast an eye where Rupert had gone, and yes, there, the door behind which he’d vanished had opened, and a parade of Captain-Adept-Vizier emerged, in that order. All eyes on her, yes, exactly where she hated to be.
Grytt looked at Rupert. The rest of them didn’t matter.
“Rory’s ship just launched off that vakari vessel.” She didn’t point out which one, on the display. Rupert was smart. It’d take a look—there, his eyes moved, and there, yes, he’d seen it.
Rupert didn’t ask if she was certain, or how she knew. He turned to the captain. “Captain Kahess. We need to hail that ship.”
Kahess did not seem surprised. “Your princess?”
Evidently, thought Grytt, a great deal more information had been exchanged in that conference room besides first names.
“It seems probable,” said Rupert, with a serenity that did not fool Grytt in the least.
The captain shook her head as if it were filled with bees. Then she snapped an order that resulted in the communications tech pivoting away from her station and looking up Grytt and Rupert with a mixture of curiosity and a wide vein of annoyance.
“I am prepared to open a channel,” said that alw. “What’s your message?”
Grytt traded a look with Rupert. Then she leaned over the console and glared at the machinery as if she could see through it and force contact by will alone. “Say, Rory, it’s us. Messer Rupert and Grytt. Start with that.”
* * *
—
“We’re being hailed,” he said, because that seemed like the appropriate announcement. There was more information forthcoming, a stream of identifiers on his small, crabbed scope that he did not recognize. Rory would have, he thought bitterly, and almost as quickly, no, she wouldn’t, when the voice on the other end actually spoke.
“Vagabond, this is the Harek Imperial vessel Favored Daughter. Please acknowledge. Uh.” The voice sounded somewhat embarrassed. “It’s us. Messer Rupert and Grytt.”
The language was GalSpek; the accent and the voice was unfamiliar. It was definitely not Messer Rupert or Grytt.
“Vagabond acknowledges, Favored Daughter,” he said in his best formal voice. “This is Jaed Moss. Who, ah, who am I talking to? Because you’re not who you say.”
Silence, from the other end of the comms. Behind Jaed, in the cockpit, Crow said, “Favored Daughter is an Empire ship. They’re as close to good alwar as you can get.”
“What do they want?” Zhang demanded, and then, after a beat, aggrieved, “What are alwar?”
Jaed turned away from both of them, as if to refuse to look at talking people would somehow also render them inaudible. He side-eyed Thorsdottir, whose stare hung on him like hope. The earpiece continued its quiet. He wondered if he’d lost contact, and what he should do to re-establish it, or even if he should try.
Then the channel reopened, and a familiar voice said in his ear, “Jaed? Is that you? Is everyone all right?”
Jaed felt his jaw fall open, and the color drain out of his skin before it came flooding back in a hot rush, and the prickle of tears in his eyes. That was Messer Rupert.
Thorsdottir, who had all her attention pinned on his face, sat up straight.
