by James Hanlon
Silver shrugged. “She pulled a knife on me.”
Willis leaned in to lift Bee’s eyelid with his thumb, and she wrenched her head away from him.
“Watch it, she already bit me,” Silver said, holding up his bandaged wrist. “Just make sure I’m not going to… catch something from her and I’m out of here.”
“Stop. Just—take me back,” Bee said. She looked to the doctor. “Please. I don’t want to be here. Let me go back.”
“Bullshit,” Silver said. “You conned your way onto this ship and now you want to go back?”
“I didn’t—well, I didn’t mean to—”
Silver cut her off with a harsh laugh. “Right, you accidentally stole it. Well it’s too late now, you’ve made your choice. We are not turning around. The Captain and I have already spoken.”
“Bill,” Willis said, sharp and loud. “Your tests are running. You can go.”
Silver left with a glare for both of them.
Willis shook his head. “Temper.”
“Look,” Bee said, “I don’t know what he told you, but—”
“It doesn’t matter,” Willis interrupted. “You are, although I admit it might not seem that way to you right now, in my care. I want to get you out of that bed as soon as possible, but first I need to make sure you’re not going to be a harm to yourself or anyone else on this ship.”
“I’m fine.”
“You seem lucid now,” he agreed. “What’s your name?”
She hesitated. “Bee.”
“Alright, Bee. You got any allergies? Besides pesticide?”
Bee shrugged and let her head thump back against the bed. The sedative was still swimming around in her system, numbing her senses.
“Bad joke, sorry. So, where you from? What’s your story?”
After a long moment, Bee found Willis’ eyes. “You know Starhawk?”
Willis nodded and held her gaze. “We’re not friends.”
“He killed my mom a long time ago. In Overlook.”
“I see.”
“And I just left to find him.”
Willis snorted. “What were you gonna do?”
Bee, appalled at the doctor’s amused derision, flashed an angry glare. The question stung, but she had no response.
“And I don’t mean to burst your bubble, but Silver’s right. We’re not going back, which—in my medical opinion—is probably for the best.”
She knew he was right. A sudden tear slipped from Bee’s eye, and she was glad for the doctor’s tact—he busied himself with some readouts on his pad as she wiped the tear away with her shoulder.
“But,” Willis continued, “You’re with us until we hit Optima at the inner edge of Styx. The Captain isn’t thrilled about having another passenger, so when we get there we’re going to drop you off.”
“Great. Fine. Can you let me up now?”
“As long as you understand you’ll get thrown in the brig at the slightest infraction of our rules here. Silver wanted you in there already, but the Captain has given orders for you to have your own room, which you’ll be confined to for the duration of the trip to Optima. Should be about a week. Meals will be brought to you.”
“So I’m your prisoner anyway,” Bee said, tensing the restraints.
“Yeah, I guess so,” Willis said as he unstrapped her. “Could be worse.”
The walk through the ship to her room was a blur. Her head spun. There was nothing she could do. Right when she finally got off-planet, the man she’d been searching for her whole life showed up. How’s that for a screw-you from the universe, Bee thought.
***
“Is there somewhere in here I can I look up the news?”
Willis stopped in the doorway and pointed to her pack. “Use your pad. Only thing that works in here is the toilet. Nothing outgoing—we’ll know.”
The room was tiny but functional—passenger quarters, he’d said. No way they got much use out of it, though. A sink, a grime-fogged mirror, and a toilet separated by a plastic sheet were the only decor she could see.
“And you said this isn’t the brig?”
“Just don’t cause any more trouble. Silver has your knife,” Willis said before he left.
Bee rummaged through her pack to see what else they’d taken, but everything else was there. Even the four black nullsteel coins Slack Dog had given her tumbled loose at the bottom. She pulled out her datapad, sat on the edge of a pullout cot with it, and skimmed the top headlines, flicking through articles related to the incident on Surface.
The “ghost fleet,” as they’d taken to calling it, was a rogue pirate clan under the leadership of Starhawk. Just thinking his name stoked her simmering rage. Most of the articles dismissed the idea of a coalition of pirates, emphasizing that the current attacking fleet was on its own without support and that the Core Fleet was only hours away from a triumphant return from the asteroid belt Styx.
The pirates had made a move for the orbital station, but lost one carrier and a few warships. The fallen carrier plummeted to Surface, raining fire, wreckage, and escape pods onto the equatorial region near Overlook City. Starhawk threatened to begin bombardment on the dark side of the planet, and now it was a standoff.
A pang of fear struck when Bee saw there was another explosion in Overlook City. Not the hotel again—!
No, it was in the emergency tunnels underneath the city—but Jensen Lee was responsible. One killed, several others wounded. And some hero civilian cashed in on Lee’s bounty? Jensen Lee was dead? Served him right, the human slime. She’d have liked to shake the hand of whoever—
That couldn’t be right. Hargrove? That was his employee photo, and right there it said hero hotel manager Hargrove Levene. How did he—what? Her mind was reeling. There was no way Hargrove could have done that. Levene… all those years and she never even learned his last name.
Screw them. Bee drafted a message to Hargrove.
On a ship to Optima, she wrote. Still alive, stay safe. Bee.
She sent it. He had to know she wasn’t dead, or that she hadn’t just run away after so many years of unexpected kindness. She always knew she’d leave the hotel someday, but that wasn’t how she wanted to end things.
“You were told not to do that,” a disembodied female voice said.
Startled, Bee jerked her head up and scanned the room before she realized it had to be the ship’s AI. Of course.
“…Myra?” Bee ventured.
“I squelched your message,” Myra said.
“He probably thinks I’m dead,” Bee said, looking around for the source of Myra’s voice. “Had to try.”
“Well I blocked your net access too, so I hope you got your news fix.”
“Great.”
“Who are you, anyway?” Myra asked. “The others told me some, but I want to hear it from you.”
“I’m nobody.”
“Alright, Nobody, what are you doing on my ship?”
Bee was surprised to hear the bite of sarcasm in the computer’s voice. An astonished smile played at the edges of her mouth.
“Did you just… make a joke?” Bee asked, and put her datapad down.
“Glad someone appreciates my sense of humor. My dazzling witticisms usually go sailing right over these meatheads.”
Intrigued, Bee scooted further up onto the bed to get more comfortable, put her back against the wall, and pulled her knees up to her chest. “Tell me something about you first.”
“Demanding, aren’t we?” Myra said. “Well, alright. You already know my name—and I know yours, Bee. I’ll tell you my age, ‘cause you’d never guess it.”
“What is it?”
“I’m twenty.”
“That’s pretty old for an AI, isn’t it?” Bee’s observation leaned toward criticism.
“Well, sure, older than most,” Myra said with a defensive fluster. “I’m no relic, though—I’ve been updated over the years.”
“Still, why not just buy a new one?” she said, stifling a
yawn.
Bee lay down and curled up on the cot with her back against the wall.
“Buy a new one—! I think I’ve said enough,” came Myra’s stony reply. “Your turn.”
“I’m—I was a concierge at the Midtown Hotel.”
“I already knew that, so it doesn’t count. Interesting turn of events for you, though, ending up with us.”
“Story of my life,” murmured Bee. Her eyelids drooped and she felt herself sinking into a warm comfortable slumber. Somehow nothing mattered anymore except sleep.
“But what about before that?”
Tears she hadn’t noticed made quiet plunks against the cot, sliding off her face in wet rivulets.
“Can I just go to sleep?”
Myra turned out the lights and withdrew in silence.
Chapter 13: Captain
“She’s not well, but she’s stable. Sleeping. We talked some.”
“Myra, I asked you to leave her alone.”
“Yes, Victor, you asked me. If you actually wanted me to you’d have ordered me to.”
“You’re always finding ways to slip around the rules.”
“Well, a girl’s got to have a little freedom.”
Silence. The Captain rose from his seat.
“Only kidding,” Myra said quickly. She tugged him back toward the chair with a pulse of increased gravity, but he locked his knees and shook it away. “So grumpy.”
“We did just narrowly dodge getting smeared by a comet. We’re also half a day behind schedule, we suddenly have two extra passengers—one of whom appears to be a genuine psychopath—and there’s a fleet of bloodthirsty killers on our trail, yet you’re surprised I’m irritable? Just do as I ask from now on.”
“Yes, Captain Anson,” Myra said with a hint of venom.
The Captain growled with frustration as he left his quarters for the bridge. It was difficult enough just getting away from Surface, never mind having to deal with insubordination from his own AI. Planetary Defense could have used his ten cannons, but he had no obligation to accept their contracts—no matter how ludicrous the amount they were willing to pay. They’d be fine; Starhawk was suicidal to even consider an assault against the station. And besides, the expedition was more important.
Bill Silver fell into step beside the Captain.
“Quartermaster.”
“Captain.”
“From the looks of your wrist I guess I don’t need to ask why our passenger’s bruised up. She cut you?” Captain Anson asked.
“No, sir, she bit me on the shuttle. But back on the station I had to chase her down. She stole Slack Dog’s pad out of my pocket right after she sold it to me.”
The Captain smirked. “Kids these days. It’s a shame about Slack Dog—sounds like he died happy though.”
“At least he got us the map,” Silver said. “Has Myra looked at it yet?”
“She’s decrypted most of the coordinates, but she’s not sure if they point to anything promising yet.”
“Six and a half days to Optima—plenty of time to plot a course along the way. Would’ve been cheaper to stock up on supplies back at Surface, but we can eat the extra cost.”
“Twenty years ago I might have stayed and fought,” the Captain said as they walked together up the short ramp to the bridge. “More of a pragmatist these days.”
“Starhawk’s assault on the station failed,” Silver said. “They’ve still got two carriers and seventeen warships in orbit, but they lost about a third of their firepower. And Jensen Lee got killed trying to hole up in a bombardment shelter.”
“I heard. Keeps them from getting their hands on another copy of the map. How’s our esteemed Governor doing?”
“In his quarters—probably changing his underwear. Did you know he’s never been off planet before?”
Victor laughed. “You know, I think I read that somewhere.”
Sliding doors parted for them and Silver entered behind Captain Anson.
“Smooth sailing, I hope,” the Captain said to Ferro.
“Straight shot to Optima,” the pilot said with a casual salute. “Myra’s done most of the work so far.”
“So what am I paying you for?”
Robin bristled at the remark and straightened in her chair, wrenching her frosty blue glare away from the displays in front of her. “Well for a long-range shot like this it’s mostly auto, but—”
“Relax, I’m kidding,” Captain Anson said. “You came highly recommended. Been through the belt solo before?”
He knew her history already, but he liked to get these things out in the open. It was one thing to read the pilot’s record, and a whole other thing to hear it from her own mouth.
“Only as a hauler caravan, and never all the way across. Twelve cargo ships, four escort frigates—two weeks in, two weeks out. Scored a couple of M-types, no action.”
“Whole new experience when you’re just one speck out there,” Captain Anson said. “We’ll use our time in transit to plot a course to our first target. Given our reputation on Optima it’s best we make our visit brief and quiet.”
“Shouldn’t take more than a few hours if we make arrangements on the way,” Silver said. “I can have most of what we need waiting for us at the dock when we get there.”
“Anything for expedience,” the Captain said. “The sooner we get rid of our passengers and load up the better—we’re in for a long float.”
***
Myra ended several tasks in progress across the ship after the Captain’s rebuke. It wasn’t a lack of resources—Myra constantly juggled tertiary tasks in addition to ensuring Wanderlust maintained course and kept its organic passengers breathing.
She could easily have continued her conversation with Willis, run Spud’s specialized target practice set in the nullroom, and finished recalibrating some of the infirmary’s outdated diagnostic tools. She just wanted the crew to feel her silence.
Willis frowned and ignored Myra’s abrupt departure from their discussion by resuming his news video. Spud crouched in full suit against the wall of the pitch-dark nullroom and lowered his hardlight training rifle, confused and disoriented.
“Ship lady?” came Spud’s fearful whimper.
“Oh, I’m sorry, Spud,” Myra crooned into his helmet. It felt good to be needed. She resumed his set for him and hardlight targets burst back into existence, whirling around the nullroom in erratic choreography.
Spud’s face lit up with glee inside his suit as he snapped rifle to shoulder and resumed firing. Three quick bursts and a yellow hardlight model of a warship lost control and crashed against the floor into glassy pieces.
“Thank you ship lady!” Spud roared with laughter as he launched off the wall into a twisting somersault, peppering two other ships with bullets before making a perfect rebound off the opposite wall.
Spud’s unrestrained exuberance cooled Myra’s temper. She wasn’t sure what exactly it was about laughter that made her happy, but she’d already filed away the recording of Spud’s reaction to examine in detail later. She also saved his childlike whimper of terror from when the lights went out, planning to compare it to older samples.
The fear wasn’t as bad as it used to be—a few years of cognitive behavioral therapy under Willis had taken care of the worst of it. Myra wondered if it was cruel to expose the simple giant to his phobia for her own emotional demands, but somewhere in her programming was a chunk of code that permitted the action. The Captain’s voice brought her focus back to the bridge.
“Myra, any update on Surface?” Captain Anson asked.
“Yes, Captain,” she said. “The carrier they lost in the attack is still intact and it’s entering the upper atmosphere of Surface. Looks like they’re guiding it toward Overlook City.”
“Hate to be one of those groundhogs stuck under there,” he muttered.
Myra studied the Captain from an eye-level lens as he discussed the supply list with Silver. Victor Anson had transformed during the years she had on rec
ord. Myra superimposed younger renderings of Victor beside the real thing, watching the differences emerge.
He’d lost his warrior’s physique to the slow drag of artificial gravity and a lack of effort combating it; his figure had a curve of softness where before only lean muscle rippled under skin. Victor’s age was showing.
There was also a certain slump in his shoulders the younger Victor never allowed, and a degree of sloppiness in appearance—his brown hair was unkempt and lengthy compared to the neat three-millimeter trim he once favored. Myra chalked it up to less time spent in a suit and more in the comfort of his ship.
“Captain,” Myra said, interrupting his conversation with the Quartermaster. “I found out what the coordinates from the map are pointing to.”
“Show me,” Victor said.
Myra projected a window in front of Victor, Silver, and Robin. On it was a live map of their six-planet system, Lux burning white in the center. Wanderlust appeared as a sky-blue wire frame between Surface and the asteroid belt Styx. The vast open expanse of the belt separated the Core from the three outer planets.
Myra zoomed the map in and highlighted in red the three sets of coordinates she’d identified from the map. Two were close to Optima, barely a quarter of the way across Styx—less than a month’s journey from the settlement. The third was near the middle of the belt, and much farther ahead in its orbit than Optima.
“The coordinates point to these three D-type asteroids. It’s unusual to see D-types this close to Lux—most come from the comet cloud at the edge of the system.”
“You got a theory? I think I hear a theory coming on.”
“Yes, and you’re not going to like it,” Myra said, and a cloud of scattered white points appeared on the map. Many clustered near the coordinates highlighted in red. “First look at this. That’s every reported pirate attack in the sector over the past year.”
“Nothing’s ever easy,” grumbled the Captain.
“As far as the record shows no one’s ever gotten near any of those rocks with the equipment needed to do a composition analysis. They’ve never been touched. It’s difficult to say whether the pirates are actively protecting them or if they’re just using them as launch points for raids. Either way it means we don’t stand a chance alone.”
