“You could stand to shut the hell up,” said Harlow. He wheezed, hands on his knees. “Not much farther.”
“Where are we going?” said Nate, starting after Grace.
“Topside,” said Harlow. “We’ve got an escape route all planned. Hey!” he called after Grace.
She stopped, turning in the gloom, dust swirling around her. “Yeah?”
“Don’t run off,” he said. “Might be soldiers.”
“I’d know,” she said, eyes reflecting the light from Nate’s ship suit.
“Also,” said Harlow, “we’re not going that way anymore.” He jerked a thumb at a side door, lights out on the controls, a sign bolted to it saying DANGER CONSTRUCTION ZONE.
“Uh,” said Nate. “Sounds super safe.”
“Relax,” said Harlow. “It’s a piece of shim sham.” He pressed the controls on the door.
Nothing happened.
“That was unexpected,” said Harlow. “Let me see your blaster.” He held a hand out to Nate. Nate pulled the blaster out, spun it, and offered the weapon to Harlow grip-first. Harlow took a step back, pointed the weapon at the controls, and fired. Bright blue-white light flashed as plasma spat into the control box. There was a moment of silence, then the door rumbled, a blast shield dropping in front of it, slicing the sign clean off.
“Let me guess,” said Nate. “Also unexpected.” He retrieved his blaster. “Where to?”
“Uh,” said Harlow.
There was a flash of fire from back the way they’d come, the corridor lighting up with the ambers and ochres of destruction. Nate watched the blast die down, the wind of it pushing at him — they’re getting closer — and turned back to Harlow. “I vote we keep going the way Grace was going.”
“I’m good with that,” said Harlow, nodding. “I’m great with that. Just, uh, a little slower. Because.” He patted his stomach.
Grace was already moving, feet whispering over the rubble and dust falling from the ceiling. They ran after her. Nate turned to Harlow as they jogged. “What was behind that door?”
“Safety,” said Harlow. “Supplies. An air car.”
“What’s this way?” said Nate.
“Another way out,” said Harlow. “Probably a hundred Republic soldiers. If we’re lucky, none. Hard to tell if they know about this way in.”
“We’re not that lucky,” said Nate. “We’ve left our luck at the spaceport.”
“My ship?” said Harlow.
Nate grinned at him. “Not anymore, Harlow.”
“I guess not,” said Harlow. “She would never fly true for me anyway. Not ever.”
“She only flies for pirates,” said Nate.
Ahead, the gloom gave way to an elevator, all lights out. Beside it, a doorway led to the stairs. “I got this,” said Nate. He pulled out his blaster.
Grace gave him a look, then turned the handle. The door opened. “Not locked,” she said.
“Oh, I mean, of course. I meant, naturally, that I would go first, on account of a blaster being a better weapon for stairs,” said Nate.
“Naturally,” she said, eyeing him suspiciously. She held a hand out, palm up — after you. “Be my guest.”
Nate wiped sweat from his face. “Why, thank you, Grace Gushiken.”
“My pleasure, Nathan Chevell.” Grace gave a tiny bow, a smile hinting at her lips.
“Get the fuck moving, both of you,” said Harlow.
Another explosion rocked the floor, the sound closer than before. The walls around them shook with it. Nate got moving.
• • •
The way back up to the world felt like a long climb, although in reality it was only ten or so flights. Nate hated stairs; he’d hated them before he had a metal leg, and he hated them more now. The techs had said his leg was fine, just like a real one, except for the obvious things like it being made of metal, and not working right. Had some machine learning in it — but not AI, they added with a little too much effort for it to sound like the truth — which meant as near as Nate could tell it had a mind of its own. Nate didn’t like tech that thought it was smarter than him.
They made the top without seeing anyone or anything. The ‘top’ was a landing of sorts, cluttered with old cleaning supplies. A floor polishing robot’s casing was in front of the door, innards lying next to it. An old-style mop was beside it, because why the hell not, everything else was crazy today. There were buckets. There were bags of coffee. There were big plastic containers of water. All of it was between them and the door; the stairs came up behind it all. A small skylight let the overcast light from outside into the room, highlighting a haze of dust in the air.
“What the hell is all this?” said Nate, gesturing with his blaster.
“Cover,” said Harlow. “Someone opens the door, all they see is a bunch of supplies.”
“I get it,” said Nate. “It’s a great idea except for one tiny detail. So small, I hesitate to mention it.”
“What’s that?” said Harlow, eyes narrowing in suspicion.
“We’ve got to move all this shit to get out,” said Nate.
“Look out—” started Grace, as the door leading outside opened. A soldier stood there — Nate took in the black helmet, visor, compact gun, and raised his blaster. He squeezed off three shots for good measure; not one of them hit as near as he could tell, plasma splashing against walls, pieces of polishing robot, and the last shot scoring the side of a water barrel, steam exploding into the small space.
The three of them ducked down, huddling against the walls, behind shelves, whatever they could find. The soldier outside poked his gun back inside, squeezing the trigger and holding it down. Plasma roared around Nate, and he huddled down, hands over his head, a steady fusillade of broken materials, pieces of robot, and burnt coffee coating him.
Silence.
Nate wiped his eyes, pointed his blaster, and waited. He didn’t have to wait long; the soldier — might be a different one, they all dressed the same — poked a head back in, so Nate shot him. The soldier spun out of the way, helmet shattering, uniform on fire as the plasma bolt hit home. Nate gave a glance at Grace, still huddling beside a metal shelving unit. “How many?” he said.
“One more,” she said. “He’s confused.”
“Why’s he confused?” said Harlow.
“What am I, a mind reader?” said Grace.
“Uh,” said Harlow.
“Don’t,” said Nate, putting a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “It’s complicated.”
“You want to find out why he’s confused you ask him,” said Grace.
“I’m good,” said Harlow. “Hey. There’s an upside.” He pointed to the detritus in front of them. “We don’t need to move anything out of the way.”
Nate stood up, checking himself — yep, everything still in place, still working, nothing on fire. The cabinet he’d been hiding behind was slag, the metal still glowing from plasma fire. He walked nice and slow, boots crunching over broken items, metal leg whining as he went. The floor polisher had started up, sparks coming off it, and its voice — smooth, cultured, like a British butler — said, “Please advise maintenance crews I am in need of repair.”
Nate considered the polisher, then looked at his metal hand. “You get used to it, trust me.” He reached the wall beside the doorway outside, pushed it open a span or two, and yelled, “Hey out there!” He pointed at the skylight, then at Grace. She nodded to him, tapped Harlow on the shoulders. She whispered something to him that could have been give me a boost, and Harlow nodded, lacing his fingers. He helped Grace up, and she levered the skylight open.
There was a moment of silence, then a woman’s voice answered. “Come out with your hands held high!”
“Not gonna happen!” said Nate. He wiped his mouth, spitting out pieces of wood or something like it. “We want to get the hell out of here. Came in to do a deal, and what the hell, you know? People shooting, explosions, the works.”
“What kind of deal?” said the woma
n’s voice.
Nate looked at the floor around him. “Columbian dark,” he said. “Four thousand kilograms, short haul to Triton. They’re out, usual supply lines down, you know how it is.” There was a pause, the voice saying nothing, so Nate continued. “Like, can you imagine what it’s like being stationed out by Neptune? Dark, cold, and the holos are all weeks out of date. Triton Station’s a shithole, the geosynch is iffy at the best of times. They keep firing the damn boosters but that number four is shoddy. Can’t get an Engineer worth a damn to stay out there—”
“I get it,” said the voice. “How are we going to resolve this?”
“You’ve been to Triton?” said Harlow. Grace had slipped out onto the roof like an eel, the whisper of her ship suit a memory of her passing.
“Once or twice,” said Nate. “It really is a shithole.” He pitched his voice again. “I tell you what. Why don’t you back up some. We’ll come on out. Just be on our way.”
“You shot my partner,” said the voice.
“Your partner was an asshole,” said Nate. “I mean, he drew down on us first.”
“I can’t just let you—” said the voice, then cut off with a squawk. Nate grinned at Harlow, pushed open the door, and stepped out into a light rain. He frowned at that, but refused to let it get him down. Grace was behind the Republic soldier, sword held to the other woman’s neck. Grace had already disarmed her, holding the blaster high and clear.
“That’s quite something,” said Harlow. He looked at Grace with an appreciative gaze.
“Not your ship, not your crew either,” said Nate, feeling something that couldn’t have been jealousy stir inside him. Because you didn’t get involved with your crew, and Grace was her own woman, plus Harlow didn’t shop in that aisle. And she could do better, all three of them could see that, so he pushed down that series of emotions. “What I mean is—”
“Which car is it?” said Grace. There were three; one was a Republic air car, so not that one, but there were two others. Both nondescript, paint chipped in places, one black, one white.
“Both,” said Harlow. “Which would you prefer?”
“Always bet on black,” said Nate. He walked over to the Republic soldier. “Off with the helmet.”
The helmet tipped sideways, considering him, then she unclipped the seals, shucking it. Sweaty hair, angry eyes. “What now?” she said.
Nate sighed. “Look, what we’ll do is take that car,” he said, and as she followed his eyes, he clocked her over the head with the back of his blaster. He caught her as she slumped, propping her against the Republic vehicle.
“That’s not a permanently solved problem,” said Grace. But she didn’t look unhappy about it.
“No,” said Nate, “but it’s solved enough. I call shotgun.” He stepped towards the black car, Harlow already in and behind the controls, Grace at his heels. He keyed his comm. “This is the captain.”
Nada. Just a hiss. He tried again. “This is Captain Nathan Chevell of the free trader Tyche. Calling all my lazy, layabout, wayward crew—”
“This is El,” said El’s voice. “We’ve got a situation.”
“What kind of situation?” said Nate, slipping into the air car.
“A Reiko situation.”
“Sweet and merciful Christ,” said Nate. “I thought she was on Triton?”
“Was,” agreed El. “She’s now here.” Some coordinates clicked across his comm.
“On my way,” said Nate.
“Cap,” said Kohl, cutting in to the comm channel. “Cap, it’s me. It’s Kohl. I mean, October. Sir.”
‘Sir,’ huh. Kohl never calls me sir. “I know who you are, Kohl. What’s up?”
“It’s the Tyche,” said Kohl. “She’s got a huge hole in her side. Which, unless I miss my guess, will stop us getting outside an atmosphere. I didn’t study much, you know me, not one for books—”
“I didn’t hire you for your brains, nor looks either,” said Nate, thinking, man, he’s weird today. How the hell big is that hole?
“Right. So. We’re going to. Uh.” Kohl trailed off.
“We’ll need Hope,” said El. “Isn’t that right, Kohl?”
“Uh. That’s not how I would have put it,” said Kohl, sounding as reluctant as a man about to dive into a pit of alligators.
“How would you have put it?” she asked. “Just curious.”
“Well, we do need an Engineer,” said Kohl. “We’re on Earth. We could hire one.”
Grace laughed from behind Nate. She leaned forward. “C’mon, Kohl. You know we need our Hope.”
There was a pause, the hiss of static coming across the comm brighter than words. “Gracie?”
“Asshole,” she agreed.
“I tell you what,” said Kohl. “Why don’t we all just, I don’t know. Relax. Think it through.”
Think? Kohl? “Kohl,” said Nate, “what’s going on?”
“Nothin’, Cap,” said Kohl. “I’m just nervous on account of the huge hole in our hull. I’ll meet you at Hope’s location, yeah? You and Gracie.”
Nate sighed. Kohl was being Kohl, except he wasn’t, which wasn’t too unusual. He might have been high on something, the man had a tendency to unwind at an extreme volume when he was dockside. “Copy that, Kohl. See y’all there.”
“Copy,” said El.
“On it,” said Kohl. The comm hissed and clicked, the connection dropping.
“When you say, ‘on my way,’” said Harlow, “you mean, by way of the people we’ve got to meet. The bar. The drinking, Nate. And then the rescuing of people of immense power and influence. People who can read and change minds.”
“I mean by way of my crew,” said Nate.
“I think what’s going on here is a little more important,” said Harlow.
Nate turned and looked his old friend in the eyes. “Harlow,” he said. “You know me better than that.”
“You’ve got a plan,” said Harlow.
“He’s got friends,” said Grace, leaning back, looking out the window. “Harlow? We’ve all got friends. Our friends are just … higher up the list right now.”
“Also,” said Nate, before Harlow could speak, “we’ll need the Tyche. For the Tyche, we need my Engineer, and my Helm. To get them both, I need my deckhand.”
“Huh,” said Harlow, looking at Nate, then his gaze sliding out the window of the air car. “I should get my own ride.”
An explosion ruptured the skyline, a massive vermillion ball of flame stretching into the sky. Debris, at this distance looking like ants, were tossed into the air. The shock of it shook the air car even at this distance. Nate looked at it for a minute, then said, “What do you think that was?”
Harlow looked sour. Sour, and pale, and a little lost. “That looked like my other ride options. That was about where our super-secret underground spaceport was. Those fuckers.” This last had iron in it, like he was trying to talk his spine straight.
Grace leaned forward, her hand on Harlow’s shoulder, her head next to his ear. She spoke low, but Nate had no trouble hearing what she said. “Harlow. You have friends here. And these friends will help you save the rest of your friends. The captain and I, well. We’ll get them.” She looked at Nate, a stray strand of pitch black hair covering her eyes. “Right, Nate?”
“That’s right,” said Nate, offering a grin. “Harlow, I’m a pirate. And running a blockade of Republic troops to rescue a bunch of political hostages? It’s not gold doubloons, but it’s honest pirating if ever I saw it.”
Grace was still looking at him. “You’re no pirate, Nate.”
“Privateer, then,” he offered.
“You’ll be something so much more before we’re done,” she said. “You’ll have to be.”
He didn’t know what she meant, but he nodded to Harlow. Harlow sighed, grumbling something, and started the air car. The vehicle shuddered, in need of a decent Engineer itself, but clambered towards the sky. It wasn’t the Tyche. It wasn’t freedom. But it remind
ed him of what that might feel like.
CHAPTER TWELVE
WHEN HOPE WOKE up, it was with the lazy stretch of a fed lioness. She gave a growl, low in her throat, reached out a hand for Rei-Rei, and came up with nothing but empty blankets. Her eyes opened, taking in the room.
Tired, dirty even, but that didn’t matter. Hope lived in oil and grease. The rooms she frequented had stacks of radioactive fissionables used to fuel giant machines towards the stars; a little grime wasn’t a thing that registered at anything more than a superficial level. The walls: uneven gray plaster and paint, a little drywall showing through. Some of the worst looked to be covered up by some picture panels, three of them studded around the room. One panel was broken, lines of signal compression and mismatched color crossing an image of Reiko and Hope, arms around each other. They were laughing in that photo, but that was all that showed — the corruption of the image had eaten everything else. Hope frowned at it, thinking, I should fix that, and then thinking, I don’t remember that picture being taken. It might have been Triton, because Triton was where everything had started and ended with them.
Hope closed her eyes, giving herself a mental shake. Not worth thinking about right now. Plenty of time for worrying about the unfixable later. She opened her eyes again, this time looking at the ceiling. A single ship’s lamp was attached to the roof, alongside the regular light strip that — presumably — didn’t work anymore. Another thing to fix? She smiled, thinking about how she could right this place for Reiko. Make it all functional again, and how that would let them talk about the things that mattered. A small favor here or there, leading to the undoing of Hope’s great crime.
Was it too much to pray for? Hope hadn’t ever prayed before. She didn’t know how. Hope didn’t know who you prayed to, or whether they’d answer, or how much it would cost.
She pushed aside the thin blanket — worn, tattered, but it had covered them both as they’d remembered each other’s bodies. Reiko’s had been a little gaunter, a little less the ripe form Hope had remembered. Hope wished she’d thought to bring food, or liquor, but Reiko’s kisses told her it didn’t matter. Reiko’s hand on her arm, her breast, her stomach had made her shiver and yearn. Reiko’s kisses had silenced her, quietened her doubt.
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