In the Dark Spaces

by Cally Black

  ‘I need an actual location. You must’ve seen surrounding stars going back to the hive after those raids,’ he says.

  I shake my head. ‘I was always behind someone.’

  ‘Then have you seen how they operate their ships? How they plot a course back to the hive?’

  Never mind I’ve seen them operate the flyers plenty of times, and it’s simple, simple as, there’s never been no course-plotting going on. ‘I don’t think they do,’ I say. ‘I think they feel their way.’

  ‘Feel their way? You’re making this up!’ Rochford says.

  ‘I’m not making up nothing,’ I snap. ‘I know things about the Garuwa you can’t even believe, things you’re gonna need to know to stay safe against them, and if you don’t get my cousin back to me, you’re never gonna know them.’

  ‘You said you’d tell me everything,’ Rochford says.

  ‘You said you’d get Tamiki on a ship to me!’

  ‘Tell me how to find them!’

  ‘If I knew how to find them, I’d be dead in that cell alongside that Garuwa! You think they would’ve let me live?’

  ‘Then what good are you?’

  Arse! What an arse of a universe this is! Everyone wanting to know how they can use you. Shit. But I’m stuck, aren’t I? Stuck playing the game, cos this is as close as I’ve ever been to getting my Gub back.

  ‘Major!’ the doctor interrupts, like maybe she’s thinking my silence is giving up. ‘Stop berating the child, and let her have a rest.’

  I suck in a deep breath and look that Rochford right in his dead blue eyes. ‘I speak the language. I can negotiate with them. That makes me, I reckon, the most important person on this ship.’ I let that sink in, watch his piggy, scowling face. ‘All his life, I been with Tamiki. All I been through was for him. Only thing I want is to get him back. You help me, I’ll help you,’ I say.

  Israel stands next to me like he knows this questioning session is over. Whether it’s over cos Rochford and me are gonna start punching each other, or cos Rochford’s gonna figure out he does need me, I don’t know.

  I’m watching Rochford, watching for his scarred face to agree. His scowl drops a little. He takes a breath. ‘I’ll ask you more questions later, but I’ll tell you one thing right now,’ he says. ‘There’s only one way this ends, and that’s with all those thieving, murdering Vultures dead.’

  Israel grabs my arms, cos my hands are fists and I’m swinging at that arse-shit Rochford. Israel drags me off back to the cells.

  HIDING HIMSELF FROM THE WORLD

  Israel brings food the next morning but I don’t move. I pull the blanket over my head.

  He’s back a while later. ‘Found a little something to cheer you up,’ he says, making me sit up. He comes into the cell and gets busy on his screen, flicking through pages. ‘There.’

  Starweaver News pops up on the screen. There’s a headline: Baby Survives Vulture … and an M word I don’t know, cos I don’t read so good. And there he is, in the video, my little Gub, in the same baggy jacket I left him in, on the hip of a grey-uniformed engineer, his little chubby hands over his face, hiding himself from the world.

  A flood of heat swells my chest, makes my lungs pull in a huge hunk of air. Like I never really breathed at all since I left him on the floor of the storeroom, not till I saw him again just now.

  I’ve waited so long, waited even when it was impossible for him to be alive, or for me to get back to him, hanging onto nothing but a dream of him. But there he is, real and in front of me, all over again.

  My Gub.

  And it’s like a piece of my heart, calm and warm, locks back into place, and I’m almost a whole person again.

  THE TRANSLATOR, THE MASTER AND THE MERCS

  In the news vid, the engineer pulls Gub’s hands down, which pulls on his cheeks, makes his dark eyes stretch, showing pink inside his lower eyelids. His eyes are scared as. His cheeks stained by stripes of salt. Poor Gub. Tears roll down my face. They’re saying they have no idea who he is, how he got there, how he survived the Vultures, how he lived for two weeks till they arrived to haul the freighter back. Two weeks! I swallow at the lump in my throat. The main thing is, he survived. I did enough to save him. I did it. And he must’ve done it too. He must’ve figured out how to chew into another pack of juice or milk, suck it out. He’s a smart baby. My nose is running now too. I wipe my eyes on my sleeve and sniff. My heart’s growing wings, soaring. After all those months of guarding my worry, my longing, suddenly I’m free to love little Gub again.

  ‘Those better be happy tears,’ Israel says.

  I nod. ‘He’s on his way here?’ I ask.

  ‘Yep, next freighter off Dios,’ he says. ‘Should be one leaving in a few days. Starweaver Hey There Delilah.’

  ‘Can I speak to him?’

  ‘First ship-to-ship relay, we’ll have a go. Follow me. Can’t have a kid living in the cells. Ain’t nobody in here but drunks, thieves and the occasional Vulture.’ He waves me out of the cell.

  ‘Where am I going?’ I ask, following him to the hallway.

  ‘They found you a job as a translator, and a cabin.’ He holds up his hand. ‘It’s only on Four because there’s too many people on Five and Six objecting to a kid who stabs her friends, so they want you with the mercs, but they’ve found you a nice cabin-mate who’s not a merc, so you’ll be fine.’

  A small woman, jet-black hair cut perfectly along her jaw, comes in and smiles at the jailor and me.

  ‘Hello, Israel. Hello, Tamara,’ she says, all careful.

  ‘This is Seoul Song,’ Israel says.

  I nod.

  ‘Song is master of prospects for Starweaver, and has been studying Vulture-speak.’

  ‘Master?’ I ask, cos that’s high up, higher up even than Mella.

  ‘I’m your new roomie,’ Song says and smiles. ‘Looking forward to your help with some messages we’ve been able to intercept. I’ve been struggling with them for quite a while.’

  Israel picks up my hand. Me, still staring so hard at Seoul Song, trying to figure out how she got to be in charge of seeking out new routes and minerals for a giant shipping company like Starweaver, that I’ve just let him snap some sort of security device around my wrist.

  ‘It’s tight,’ I complain.

  ‘Has to be,’ Israel says. ‘This one is indestructible, lets us find you whenever we want and also delivers a knock-out drug if you’re about to do something dangerous.’

  ‘Fun,’ I say, as we step into an elevator.

  ‘It also does this if you’re being sarcastic.’ Israel taps the tiny screen he wears on the inside of his forearm and my hand flies open. The ends of my fingers prickle.

  ‘Makasih,’ I mumble and rub my fingers.

  Israel laughs. ‘Was that more sarcasm?’

  ‘No, sir!’ I say.

  ‘It works well, then. Song has control too, so mind what she says.’

  Song waves her wrist and shrugs like maybe she’s sorry she has that function on her watch.

  The elevator opens to a smoky, body-odour-stinky corridor packed with mercs, Starweaver’s hired heavies. The kind that’ll bust up a mining rig if another company wants to move in. Steal your kids if you’re late on your debt. Beat you up if you ask your boss for more pay. Rich people’s law and order, ready to fight and die for anything if they get paid enough. How much are they getting paid to fight the Garuwa?

  They squat on boxes playing cards on box tables or clacking down tiles. Shouting, talking, smoking, laughing, leaning against graffiti-covered walls, shirts open or hanging from their waists cos of the mugginess caused by so many bodies. Normally the corridors of these freighters are cold and dry.

  ‘This freighter was retrofitted to be a Trojan Horse of troops and weaponry, so there’s a lot more staff, a lot more cabins. Mostly mercs here,’ Israel says as he leads us into the mess of people.

  ‘I don’t like mercs,’ I say, hanging back.

  ‘You don’t like Rochf
ord. Unfortunately, he’s your boss. You answer to him, he answers to the captain, the captain answers to the shipping company and the shipping company tries to stay one step ahead of the law.’ Israel glances back at me. ‘You get me?’

  I nod. I heard Chef Santos telling Lazella one time, ‘Everyone’s a pirate in dark space, but Starweaver are the pirate mega-corp.’

  ‘Hey, Vulture!’ a woman yells. She’s a head-shaved merc in just a bra and combat trousers, tattoos down her arms and across her throat. I blank my face. Never mind Garuwa aren’t vultures, I can’t let them see me scared.

  Song tugs my elbow, turns me away from the merc.

  A hush comes over the corridor. The other mercs get up and crowd around. Sweaty bodies bumping, heat and breathing. They sneer and shove me as I pass, chanting, ‘Vulture!’

  I make fists to keep my hands from shaking, try not to jump at every angry yell. But I’m not used to people.

  ‘Back off!’ Israel yells, and they do. They let us through, but the chants of ‘Vulture!’ follow me.

  ‘Here we are,’ Song says. A door slides open. It’s a tiny lounge room with a couple of bedrooms and a bathroom. The door snaps shut, shutting out the noise and mugginess, closing us into our own awkward quiet. Song waves at the room in the corner. ‘That will be your room. And here is the bathroom. My room.’ She points to the other rooms. ‘The doctor insisted you live with a family to normalise, but no officer families were willing to have you.’

  Sixers. This is how it is with them. Only Antonee wanted me in his family, and that’s never gonna be a thing now.

  This is the cabin me and Lazella always talked about getting when we could both cook. Way larger than any she ever had. I open kitchen cupboards to see what Song will say. There is snack food in one, cups in another, the third has a slide-out screen. No glass. No knives. Nothing sharp.

  ‘We eat in the mess hall,’ Song says. ‘So there’s not very much in the cupboards.’

  ‘I’ll leave you to it,’ Israel says to Song.

  I check out my room. It’s tiny and bare. I sit on the bed. It’s big enough for me and Gub when he gets here.

  ‘No change of clothes or anything?’ Song asks Israel.

  I go back to the lounge.

  Israel shakes his head. ‘Just the clothes on her back, and the chip on her shoulder.’

  Song opens the door for him. He waves as he leaves. She turns and stares at me. ‘You’re not what I was expecting.’

  ‘What were you expecting?’ I ask.

  One side of her mouth lifts like maybe she’s laughing at herself. ‘Someone older. Some battle-hardened misfit. Rochford said you were completely turned Vulture.’

  I shrug, give her my best battle-hardened misfit stare. ‘Rochford’s an arse.’

  She laughs. ‘Don’t worry about the mercs. They’ll come round when they get used to you.’ She looks around. ‘I was going to say settle in, but it’s not like you need to unpack. We’ll eat early, then go pick you out some stuff.’

  ‘Stuff?’ I ask.

  ‘Toothbrush, change of clothes, that kind of thing.’

  It’s been long as since I had stuff. Like I’ve spent so long trying to stay alive, and now I’m finally back on a human ship, I have to wind my brain down to talk about small things, like toothbrushes and stuff. It’s not going there right yet, so I’m left staring at Seoul Song’s perfect hair, so dark and shiny it slides like it’s one piece of fabric. Her fitted clothes and shiny nails tell me her ja’im is all about looking professional. Maybe that’s part of being a master. She’s not much taller than me, so she’s brave to let me, a battle-hardened misfit, share her cabin.

  STABS ME, RIGHT IN THE HEART

  ‘Out there, keep your head down. Let me fight the battles. Those mercs are just waiting to tear you up,’ Song says.

  ‘Fun,’ I say, never mind I’m thinking of ways to not go out there at all. I try out my battle-hardened misfit face again.

  The door slides open and mercs hoot and laugh. We step into the sweaty corridor. A chemical smell stings my nose. The hoots drop to snorts and we look back at the door as it snaps shut. A skinny Garuwa is painted on the door. At least, most of one. Its head is painted on the wall beside the door, connected to the neck so that every time the door opens, its head comes off. Below the head, there’s a penis that also gets cut off when the door opens.

  ‘Mmm,’ Song mutters. ‘Just what these walls need. Another penis.’

  ‘Garuwa don’t have penises,’ I say.

  Song looks at me. ‘Really?’ she asks.

  I shrug. ‘They’re all female.’

  ‘But they’re so stinking huge.’ Song shakes her head and leads me down the corridor, me thinking maybe we’re both too small as mercs shove us and call out, ‘Vulture!’ But she glares at them and the mercs step back.

  The whole way down the corridor is like walking back through time. It’s not the corridor; I never travelled by corridors. It’s the smell of cooking and grease getting stronger and stronger. I almost hear the soft whump, whump of the fan, the sharp chop of Lazella’s knife on the bench.

  ‘Good, we’re early,’ Song says when the mess hall doors open and the tables are mostly empty.

  The smell! Fried potatoes and chilli beans. Onions! Just like on the Layla. Song leads me towards a table near the front. Plates rattle in the kitchen and a woman with a long black ponytail walks past the counter. Lazella?

  I take off, hit the door to the kitchen so hard it slaps back against the wall.

  ‘Hey!’ Song yells behind me.

  I skid to a stop at the kitchen bench. The woman turns. Dark eyes, but no stars, no love. This woman’s nose is pointy, her face is thin. It’s not my Lazella. How could it be? But there’s the door to the storeroom where I hid Gub. In two steps I’m there, ripping it open, even as Song grabs my arm. I pull her into the storeroom with me. No baby on the floor. Cans and packets and boxes all packed tight onto the shelves.

  ‘Tamara?’ Song says and turns me to face her.

  I blink away tears. I’m on the Jolene, not the Layla. Why the hell do they all look the same?

  ‘Hey, kid,’ she says softly. ‘You’re gonna need to go back to your “drop-dead” look for the mess hall. Ja’im, ya know?’

  I take a deep breath, my head spinning. Image. First stuff, now image. This is not me. Never mind me spending most of my life on freighters, this place is as strange as learning to live with the Garuwa. How do I fit in?

  Song leads me to a table, and I sit as she gets us some water. A group of men come in and one jerks his head at me, whispers. They come over and circle a couple of times, checking me out, then sit at the table.

  One merc sits right next to me. I stare at my hands, keep them still, don’t let them show I’m about to lose it.

  Song comes back with the drinks and puts them on the table. ‘If you lot are sitting here, you better behave,’ she warns. Then she pokes the guy next to me. ‘Move over, you’re in my seat.’

  He does and I can breathe again.

  ‘So this is our Vulture?’ the guy asks. ‘I thought she’d be scarier.’

  ‘This is her,’ Song says.

  ‘The one that was on all those freighter raids where every single person was exterminated?’ he asks, looking me up and down.

  ‘Yep,’ Song says.

  ‘How does it feel to be an exterminator?’ he asks, and lifts one side of his top lip. He has black hair, straight, glossy, shaved up the sides but long on top and flipped over to one side. His dark eyes, dipping down at his nose, up at the outside, have long lashes.

  ‘Knock it off, Budapest!’ Song warns the guy.

  ‘Does she speak for herself?’ Budapest says.

  ‘One human got through those freighter raids alive,’ I say quietly.

  Budapest sits back. His mouth opens and closes.

  The guy beside him whistles and smacks the back of Budapest’s head and they give each other a couple of shoves. Everyone stops being so
tense. Budapest smooths his hair back off his face.

  ‘Good on you,’ Song whispers to me.

  We get back to Song’s cabin with less trouble and Budapest tagging along. I don’t want to deal with people anymore. ‘Makasih for taking me to the mess hall. I’m tired now.’

  ‘It’s too early for bed,’ Song says.

  ‘Maybe the Garuwa are on a different sleep cycle,’ I say.

  Song nods. ‘Tamara, lots of things are happening. Lots of changes. If you need to talk, I’m here. Okay?’

  I nod. ‘Makasih.’

  ‘The mercs will lighten up soon,’ she says.

  I shrug as I walk to my room. ‘It can’t be harder than fitting into a squad of Garuwa.’

  As the door closes, Budapest whispers to Song, ‘Yoisho. Every time that kid opens her mouth, she stabs me right in the heart.’

  I press my forehead against the cold wall, missing my warm living hive. At least I fit with her, even if I didn’t fit with all the Garuwa, and I fit with Tweetoo, right at the very end. A stone in my throat when I think of what I did to Tweetoo. It’s me should be saying yoisho.

  No way to know how trying to find Gub would turn out for Tweetoo. No way to guess that would happen. I wish she could hear that I found him.

  After a while I kick off my boots, crawl onto the bed and wrap my hand around Headless. Whisper ‘sleep sweet’ to little Gub, who’ll soon be on a ship heading my way. A path laid out through the long dark night of space, drawing back together what never shoulda been apart ever, anyway.

  TRANSLATOR

  I wake to noise from the kitchen. I pull on my boots and jacket, rub my nose and ears to get the warmth back in them and go out there. Song has put two bowls on the bench and is checking packets, turning them around, putting them back.

  She sees me and throws up her hands. ‘I thought we could have some food here and get straight into work, but I don’t know what you like.’

  ‘I’ll fix it,’ I say. ‘I make good snacks.’

  She smiles. ‘That’s right, your aunt was a chef.’