by J. S. Morin
Far be it from Roddy to question a navy veteran’s courage, but with a working pair of mag boots, it made a lot more sense for Amy to be the one scouring the sieve-like portions of the ship. It hadn’t looked like anything so organized at the time, but the Sokol had been blasted open to vacuum across so many different air-tight bulkheads that it couldn’t have been a coincidence. Someone wanted the oxygen out of this ship, and had painstakingly ensured there was nowhere for the crew to hide in a pocket of breathable air. Whoever had set the distress beacon hadn’t survived long thereafter.
“Got nothing in the storage lockers,” Roddy reported, closing one of the twisted panels that provided a vague sense that the locker was secured. “Heading for the cargo hold.”
“Watch yourself down there,” Amy chided him. She said nothing about joining him.
They’d discussed the likely locations of the primordial goo as they looked over the Mermaid’s scans of the vessel. Nothing had been working well enough to pinpoint the location, but there was a weak life reading aboard. Despite agreeing that the cargo hold was the most likely place to find it, that was also the most heavily damaged portion of the ship. It was enough to make Roddy wonder if someone had been trying to blow up their payday.
Roddy pushed off and zigzagged along the corridors in three dimensions, aware of an ever-so-slight rotation of the ship itself. He hated the sensation of weightlessness and the oft mind-bending physics puzzles it presented. He’d take a fully functional gravity stone over any other bit of arcana he knew of—even his translator charm.
“Shit! The Eyndar!”
Roddy glanced at the chrono in his EV helmet. “What? We’ve still got twenty-two minutes left. Get on the comm and tell them…” Roddy trailed off. Despite having her Telejack with a direct computer link to the Mermaid, Amy’s wasn’t the voice the Eyndar knew. But as realization sunk in, he knew that patching him through a relay wasn’t going to solve this problem. This trap had already been sprung.
Amy’s shriek was almost enough to make Roddy tear off his EV helm before remembering he was using it in real vacuum for once. The corridor around Roddy lurched, and he ricocheted off an unexpected wall in front of him.
“They got her!” Amy shouted, still too loud for comfort over the comm. “They fired on the Mermaid! I’ve lost signal.”
That was an optimistic assessment, considering they’d left with the shields powered down. More likely, there was nothing left over there that could even carry a signal. “Find cover. Get to the main computer core. If these scavengers are after a payday, they might not destroy the expensive bits.”
In his maudlin moments, Roddy had contemplated a number of unpleasant fates that might await him. In his chosen line of work, one of them was bound to get him sooner or later. Prison. Spacing. Blaster bolt. He’d gone through a macabre shopping list of outlaw finales. He couldn’t recall ever wondering whether he’d end up a prisoner of the Eyndar.
The Sokol shook. Violent, silent lurches sent Roddy’s surroundings twisting as if he was in a specimen jar, being shaken. An open section of space loomed before him, and Roddy just grasped a blaster-melted edge before being separated from the vessel. It was an older scar, not one inflicted by the Eyndar ship, or it would have seared through his gloves.
The ship jerked again, and Roddy was slammed flat against the outer hull, robbing him of his breath.
“Human thieves. Enjoy your prize.”
Roddy caught a flash from the corner of his eye and turned in time to see the engine flare of the Eyndar vessel departing.
“They’re leaving us to die,” Roddy reported.
“Those lousy bastards. Didn’t even have the decency to finish the job?”
Despite the rotation of the ship interfering with his balance, Roddy pulled himself along the hull and into the Sokol once more. While being inside wasn’t any better for his mounting nausea, being surrounded by composite steel again came as a relief. He hung onto a door handle so the ship dragged him along with its aimless tumble. “Listen, kid. If getting dusted’s your idea of mercy, maybe we shouldn’t go out on these twosies missions anymore. In this line of work, you start with surviving and work from there. Meet me in the engine room.”
Roddy had considered many ways he might die, and if becoming an Enydar captive wasn’t on that list, well, neither was being choir-practice sober and working his ass off until he ran out of oxygen.
# # #
The ship was cleared. With the Mobius up and running, all the repair crews had been reassigned to the Hatchet Job, and Esper had taken the Schultz kids down to the cargo hold to run around. It was just Carl and Samurai sitting across the kitchen table from one another—the captains of the two vessels.
“They buying in over there?” Carl asked. His voice was gravelly after four days of little sleep.
Samurai gave a curt nod. “For now. I believe that July felt she was in line for the promotion.”
Carl snorted and tipped his chair back. “Last thing I need is more troublemakers in command. I’d have given the job to Grixlit over her. Anyway, you want any backup over there? Reebo’s good, but if you want more company, I can send Juggler your way, too.”
“That won’t be necessary.” Samurai looked all around, taking in the patchwork repairs to the Mobius. “Now that your ship is spaceworthy, will you go after the Mermaid?”
“Nah. Last update, they were closing in on the Sokol. Chances are they’ll be on their way back with our payday before we even reach them. For once, we’ve got the chance to take our time and do things right. I want all my ducks lined up before hitting Ithaca. I don’t like the idea of walking home into an ambush.”
“Do you anticipate trouble with Don Rucker?”
Carl ran a hand through his hair. He’d told Samurai everything—within reason. He knew about the Rucker presence on Ithaca and Mort’s orders to keep a lid on things. As interim captain of the Hatchet Job, Carl felt he owed him that much. “Dunno. Used to be his favorite son-in-law. I kept track of his wayward little girl and kept her out of trouble. Now that I let the zebras out of the zoo, I might not be on his Christmas list anymore.” Carl patted the blaster at his side. “And Don gives great Christmas gifts. Anything I can manage to smooth things over, I’m gonna do. Sticking him with Mort for a few days won’t help matters, but I couldn’t have him running roughshod over my people either.”
“Understood.”
Carl drummed his fingers on the table. “You want a beer before you head back to your ship?”
“Thank you. No.” A moment passed as Carl continued to drum his fingers. Samurai showed a twitch of a smile. “Blackjack, I won’t make you ask. You sit there worrying about insulting me, but you have to know that I will hold my tongue. I switched the energy packs back before we disposed of Hatchet’s body. As far as anyone will ever know, you saved your life by a hair’s breadth of quick reflexes.”
“Esper talked to him—to Hatchet—in his final moments. He told her he was sure he pulled the trigger.”
“All the more reason for me to keep this quiet. Warrior reflexes aside, Hatchet wanted you dead. Had you not fired, merely exposing the ruse would have discredited him. Since he’s dead, the truth makes a poorer story.”
Warrior’s instincts? Hanging around Mriy and Tanny, Carl had gotten used to considering himself a noncombatant. If he hadn’t been goading Hatchet into drawing his blaster, Carl would never have been ready on the draw himself. He’d laid cheese in the trap and shoved the mouse at it nose-first. There was no denying whose fault it was that the mouse was dead. All he’d meant to do was pull his blaster a split-second too late. Hatchet would have tried to fire. He’d have failed.
That was what bothered Carl. If he’d trusted Samurai to the very core of his being, Carl would have let Hatchet pull that trigger. The fact that Hatchet had, and no one had noticed, was beside the point. Carl couldn’t stick to the plan because when his life was on the line, he trusted his trigger finger over Samurai.
C
arl pounded the table with the palm of his hand. “You know what? You’re right. Let’s get that ship of yours ship-shape, rendezvous with the Mermaid, and get home to show you guys the new digs. I think you’ll like the place.”
He and Samurai shook hands, and his former squadronmate headed back to the Hatchet Job.
It would be a welcome change, getting back to Ithaca. There were problems there he knew how to solve.
# # #
Chuck Ramsey shook the pilot’s hand as Doss climbed aboard the Galveston. It was Carl’s all-purpose shit-work ship, as far as he could tell. It was huge, largely empty, and barely fit in the hangar of the Odysseus. If not for the fact that it had a nice deep-drop star-drive, there wasn’t much to say in its favor. But that didn’t stop Chuck from smiling. No one would have seen him any differently if he was sending off the Queen Elizabeth XXI.
At the top step of the boarding stairs, Doss turned. “You sure Ramsey’s gonna be smooth with this?”
Chuck didn’t let the smile falter despite his continued annoyance at Brad’s underlings all calling him Ramsey when Chuck was standing right there in front of them. “Listen, the last thing my son needs is more worries. Intel is the lifeblood of this industry, and a single astral relay is begging for a day when your eyes in the ocean go dark. Tech’s never been Brad’s strong suit, so this stuff just gets on his nerves. He’ll be happier not having to deal with it at all. A working omni and comms on demand are way more important in his book.”
“It’s just… he left Mort in charge, and Mort said not to do anything.”
“What Mort doesn’t know about tech is still less than he wishes he didn’t know about tech. One of the things you’re going to have to learn is selective initiative. Some things just need to get done, and this isn’t the navy. You’ll catch more hell for something that goes wrong on your watch than for disobeying the order that would have let it.”
There was a thoughtful frown on Doss’s face. Chuck had given the poor slob too much to think about before breaking atmo on a simple install job.
With a wink, Chuck waved Doss on his way. “And I’ll hammer things out with Mort. I’ve got years of practice.”
# # #
Mriy reclined against the side of a blade of grass. She’d decided that the giant stalks weren’t proper trees at all. The shady side offered relief from the midday sun as she ate. The insect cradled in her hands was not the tastiest of creatures she and Kubu had discovered in Ithaca’s jungle, but it was the one that had stumbled into her path at mealtime. The gooey, pale muscle tissue may have been bland, but there was enough of it to fill her belly.
A shushing of vines and shrubs signaled Kubu’s return. Any break of Mriy’s was too long for the canid. Though they brought back their meals at the same time, Kubu had gone out twice more to hunt.
“Look what I found,” Kubu said proudly. He bounded over to her, muzzle wet with blood, before heading back to commence a noisy meal.
She took a whiff before craning her neck to see above the shorter grasses. It was one of the boar-like creatures that the Odysseus survivors coveted. Had they not regained access to the vast cornucopia of the galaxy’s providence, they would have been appalled to see one wasted on such an undiscriminating palate as Kubu’s.
Mriy nodded. “Good work.” She swallowed a mouthful of insect muscle, stomach suddenly finding that it had room for so much more. Without a thought, she stood and walked around the far side of Kubu’s kill. Were he an animal, approaching from his blind side as he ate would have been dangerous. Her eyes glazed as she watched him eat.
Pausing mid-bite, Kubu looked up and met her eye. He swallowed noisily. “This is big. You want some? I share.”
For a moment, Mriy hesitated. She’d hunted her own food, shabby though it was by comparison. She didn’t require charity. But Kubu was a friend, and they were out hunting together. The sharing of a kill was an act of friendship, after all. Refusing when she was still hungry would have been a bitter gesture—even if Kubu wouldn’t understand it as such.
“Thank you.”
Mriy had little of the boar, but more than enough to fill her belly. Kubu ate the rest, tusks, bristles, and all. What wonders that canid’s anatomy must hold. There ought to have been hydraulic noises as his meals were compressed to fit within that sleek form, or great gouts of steam and smoke pouring forth as some hellish metabolism consumed them. The occasional belch seemed insufficient.
After their meal, they resumed their jungle trek. It was, for Mriy, more a stroll than a search. Following in Kubu’s trail was easy enough, and he always doubled back to match whatever pace she chose. She was happy enough not finding the marines. She was happy enough keeping away from the syndicate headquarters and its scores of humans who bore her presence with unease. The climate might have been starkly different, but it felt like hunting a game preserve on Meyang but with all the animals new and challenging.
She didn’t mind when Kubu took them through a grove once used by some predator to discard its carrion, or when he spent two hours doubling back on a trail for no reason she could discern. If Kubu’s wayward tracking kept them in the jungle longer, all the better. Perhaps Mriy ought to have been teaching him as she would her own child. After all, Kubu had no mother or pack—in this regard, even Tanny’s honorary title was insufficient. But since Mriy was happy enough hunting and exploring, scaring off anyone they might find was better than teaching Kubu how to be stealthy.
Kubu stopped suddenly, which was notable since he rarely seemed to stop without food in his mouth. Then Mriy felt the shift in the wind. A flood of human scents filled her nostrils with familiar sweat and skin oils. Amid a myriad of strangers, there was Tanny.
“Mommy!” Kubu shouted, and he was off like a striking snake.
It was too late to stop him. They’d blundered so close to the humans that they couldn’t have helped but hear him. Or had they blundered? Kubu’s ears and nose were keener than her own. Had he been on the trail this whole time while Mriy had been oblivious? She hadn’t given the canid enough credit. It was time to hope she had underestimated his common sense as well as he rushed into the jaws of their enemy.
# # #
The engines of the Sokol were in bad shape. The odds of it ever supplying enough juice to power even a single maneuvering thruster were slim to none. Fortunately, the emergency batteries were largely intact and still held sufficient power for Roddy to move onto his real project once they were connected to the ship’s main line: the comms.
The one bit of good news for Roddy was that he’d spent much of the past two days with comm circuitry on his mind, and the Sokol was a simpler rig than the Mermaid had been. The control circuits were intact. It was just the antenna relays that needed his attention. If not for one minor detail, the work would have been child’s play.
“Can you knock off the humming?” Amy asked.
When Roddy neither responded nor ceased, he found his workspace suddenly out of reach. “Hey, put me back there. This isn’t a game.” With his mag boots out of commission and the Sokol spinning, it would have taken most of his effort just to stay beside the access panels he needed. Amy had fully functioning mag boots, strong enough arms to hold him in position, and apparently no taste in music.
“Last thing I need is Blackjack’s music stuck in my head.”
Not even calling him Carl couldn’t be a good sign. “Well, I am taking care of business here, and I’m sure as hell working overtime. Oh, yeah. And if you don’t let me finish up, you’re not going to have a head for that little earworm to nest in.”
Roddy was shoved unceremoniously back into the access panel. “Fine, just hurry up. And at least switch to something by the Beatles or Elvis.”
Thoughts of continued repair work momentarily short-circuited. “Run that by me again? Connoisseur Carl used to listen to Elvis? Oh, when we get back I’m never letting him hear the end of that one.”
“No, I like his stuff. A few of us Half-Devils did some poking around
the omni’s archival stuff to see if we could get a little say in our training-time musical accompaniment. Some worked better than others.”
With a noisy sigh into the mic of his open comm, Roddy switched over to humming the tune of “Imagine.” He replaced lyrics in his head as he went since there was a whole lotta shit he was trying hard to imagine was true right then. Imagine engine power; it’s easy if you try. No hell we’ve been blown to; won’t suffocate and die. Imagine all the people… living through the day.
“I can’t even keep track of the verses. They all sound the same.”
“Crosses we gotta bear, kid.” Roddy was almost finished. He resumed humming where he left off.
A few minutes later, the diagnostic panel blinked to life.
“You did it!”
“Just gotta patch this thing through to my EV helm, and…”
“You mean my helm. I’m making this call.”
“Call? You think I’ve got encryption set up? You think I have directional control of our signal? This is a mayday blasting out in every direction. Hell, I don’t even have a way to tell which way the Mobius is from here. We shout into the darkness, wait a while, and if we don’t hear anything, we do it again. And by we, I mean me.” He didn’t want to think what would happen if the Eyndar were the ones to respond to their mayday.
“Quit arguing, and patch it through to mine. I’m the senior officer out here. It was my ship that got dusted.”
“Aaaand while I kept you arguing I just got it connected to mine, but I linked you in on the receiving end. No hard feelings. Ahem… Mayday. Mayday. This is the Earth-registered vessel Mermaid. We are survivors of our ship’s destruction. We are holed up inside the wreck of the Sokol of Hades Breath. Requesting emergency evac.”
Come on, Carl. Pick up the damn comm. Roddy would have settled for anyone with a working ship and a charitable demeanor, but there was always hope for the easy solution of getting their own comrades to rescue them. He watched the seconds tick by on the heads-up display inside his helm. How long should he wait before sending another message? How long until he had given someone a fair chance to hear, process, and reply? Ten seconds seemed short. Ninety seemed fair, but maybe he was being paranoid. When five minutes had passed, he couldn’t wait any longer.
