by C. Gockel
Alisa was relieved when she spotted the Nomad, the suns throwing rays onto its bronze and silver hull. The craft looked old in the harsh desert light, but reputable. It had never belonged in that junkyard with those derelicts, and even though she couldn’t help resent it, and even fear it, for how it had betrayed her mother, she admitted that the ship still deserved to be out here in the light of day.
The hatch stood open and the ramp down, inviting people in. People who could pay. Alisa hurried toward it, hoping numerous well-heeled passengers had signed aboard while she had been shopping for supplies. She supposed it would be foolish—or overly optimistic, as Mica would say—to hope that their cyborg guest had disembarked, changing his mind about riding into space with them.
As she neared the ship, a commotion broke out in front of one of the merchant tents set up along the open-air docks. A gun fired, and people scattered.
“Thief!” a woman cried and lunged out of the tent holding a blazer rifle in both hands, a faded yellow dress flapping around her legs as she ran.
People sprinted away from her. Alisa pulled out her own gun and jumped behind the hoverboard for cover while looking for the thief. A young man was racing down the promenade, zigzagging and gripping his injured arm. Alisa hesitated to shoot since she couldn’t tell if he had truly stolen anything and since she didn’t have a stun gun. The proprietor did not hesitate. She fired, heedless of the nearby people. Her aim was better than Alisa would have expected, and a bolt of energy slammed into the man’s back. He tumbled to the cracked cement walkway. The woman stalked toward him, her head held high, ignoring the people giving her alarmed looks. When she reached the man, she patted him down, pulled a gold chain out of his pocket, and stalked back to her tent.
Alisa kept expecting the sounds of sirens or at least for a couple of automated police patrollers to show up, both to see if the thief had survived and to take the woman into custody. Killing someone for stealing had never been legal.
Slowly, as the crowds returned to the promenade and as nobody came to do something about the thief, who was probably dead by now, it dawned on Alisa that imperial law wasn’t being enforced anymore. After all, the empire had fallen. She knew from watching the news holos while she had been recovering that there was a three-planet government that the Alliance had set up on the most industrious and resource-rich planets, but they were a long ways from here. Alisa had no idea what passed for the law out here now or even if the Alliance had influence here. Someone must have stepped in to fill the void of the missing imperial government, but she didn’t know who.
“That’ll teach you to be unconscious for two months,” she muttered.
Alisa was lucky to have survived that final battle and to be walking again, but she couldn’t help but feel a little bitter over the mediocre medical care the hospital here had been able to provide. Had she gone down on a more sophisticated world, with all of the modern medical tech, she might have been out in a week or two.
She tugged the hoverboard into motion again. She was alive now and had her health back. That was what mattered. That and the fact that she was going home to be with her daughter again. Focusing on that made it easier to avoid thinking about the fact that Jonah was gone and that there was no longer a home waiting for her back on Perun. She hadn’t figured out yet what she would do after she had Jelena back.
When Alisa led the hoverboard up the Nomad’s ramp, she found Mica on her hands and knees in a corner of the spacious cargo hold, a welding mask pulled over her face. She gripped a soldering gun in gloved hands, navigating a seam along an interior bulkhead.
“Does that mean we’re not as ready for space as I was hoping?” Alisa asked, looking around as she brought the supplies inside.
She did not see the crowd of passengers she had hoped would be waiting, but perhaps they had already been shown to their cabins? She did see a row of burly men lined up against the bulkhead next to the stairs that led to the upper decks. The big open cargo hold took up the bottom two-thirds of the ship, with only the engine room sharing space with it down on this level. Living quarters and navigation lay up top. There was nothing as fancy as an elevator on this old ship.
Some of the men leaned against the bulkhead while others sat on duffel bags or hover cases. Several of them were eyeing Mica’s butt as she worked, though the appraising gazes turned toward Alisa as she walked in.
“Just doing some finishing touches,” Mica said, kneeling back and pushing up the mask. “Your applicants for the security gig have showed up.” A sour twist to her lips suggested she might have been aware of the butt inspections.
“Thanks.” Alisa lowered her voice, walking over to talk privately to Mica before speaking with them. “Have any prospective passengers interested in rides off-world come along?”
“Plenty have come along.” Mica pulled her mask back down. “None that have had coin.”
“Ah.” A queasy feeling crept into Alisa’s stomach. How could she hire security guards when she didn’t have any money and wasn’t guaranteed to have any coming in? As it was, she wouldn’t be able to pay back the storeowner if she didn’t get at least one passenger. She had put an offer out, saying she was available for carrying freight, but she couldn’t imagine what freight someone might have to export from Dustor. The desert planet wasn’t known for its industry. Or anything else. Other than its utter lack of mentions in tourism brochures.
While mulling over her bleak options, Alisa parked the hoverboard for later unloading and walked toward the men. None of them looked like the sort who would appreciate it if she told them she had published the notice in error and that she didn’t have a position open after all.
Movement near the hatch drew her eye, and she paused.
A man in a gray robe was walking up the ramp. He peered inside, tapped a black-and-gray beaded earstar, checked something on a holo that popped up before his eyes, and finally looked back into the hold.
“Are you seeking passage to Perun?” Alisa asked, holding up a finger toward the job applicants. On the chance this man had money and wanted a ride, she wasn’t going to risk letting him wander off to another ship. Most of the craft docked here hadn’t looked spaceworthy—there was a dirigible a few docks down—but she had seen one other freighter, possibly also accepting passengers.
“I am,” the man said, taking a few more steps to the top of the ramp.
“What’s she want to go to Perun for?” one of the applicants muttered. “Empire’s still got its clutches sunk in there.”
“I don’t care, so long as she’s hiring,” another said.
“She’s not the captain, is she? I’m not working for a skirt.”
“A skirt? That looks like a uniform to me.”
Alisa ignored them and headed toward their potential passenger, though she took note of the men who didn’t sound enthused about working for her.
“I’m Captain Marchenko,” she said, touching her palm to her chest, then lifting it toward the newcomer.
“Dr. Alejandro Dominguez,” he said, returning the gesture. He was a handsome man with bronze skin, his hair more gray than black, and she judged him in his early fifties. He carried a satchel and duffel over his shoulder, not bothering with a personal hoverboard.
“A doctor?” Alisa looked down at his long gray robe, a simple rope belt tying it shut. She wouldn’t object to a doctor on board, not in the least, but she had taken him for a monk with that attire. He even wore a silver pendant with the three suns clustered on it.
“I was a surgeon for many years, though I mostly do research now and seek to better understand the path the gods have set us upon.” He lowered his bag so he could press his hands together in front of his chest and bow.
One of the applicants, the one who had been complaining about skirts, muttered something about religion and lectures.
Alisa was curious how a monk doing research had ended up on this dustball, as there weren’t any monasteries or libraries, as far as she knew. Maybe he’d been
marooned at the end of the war, the same as she. She wouldn’t ask. She wasn’t going to risk offending a paying passenger.
“It’s two hundred tindarks for the ride,” she said. “Sound reasonable?”
That might be on the high side, but she had little concept of what was fair these days. Her mother had only rarely taken on passengers, and that had been years ago. Since then, Alisa had ridden for free on military transports when she hadn’t flown in her own craft. But she figured she should start high, since people liked to haggle.
“A little steep,” Alejandro said, “but you are the first ship that’s been heading to Perun in the two months that I’ve been seeking passage.” His expression turned wry.
Between that comment and the one the job applicant had made, Alisa was starting to wonder if everyone else knew more about what was going on back on her home planet than she did.
“It’s brave of you to take the trip,” Alejandro remarked, glancing at her jacket. “You won’t be welcome there now.”
“So I expect.” Alisa shrugged. She wasn’t about to explain her situation to a stranger. “You look respectable, but I’m going to have to ask for payment in physical currency and up front. I hope you can understand. Food and a private cabin are included,” she rushed to add, hoping to soften her demands. Besides, it would be easy to offer a private cabin, since she had so few passengers.
“Ah, of course. Give me a moment.” He lifted the flap of his satchel and poked around inside. Given the number of scrolls, books, and pouches stuffed inside, it might take him a while to locate his purse.
Feeling relieved that he hadn’t objected, Alisa returned to the applicants. She could afford to hire one now and to pay back the storeowner. Things were looking up.
Despite their earlier mutterings, they all straightened as she approached, adopting a modicum of professionalism. They were all male, all brawny, and all even scruffier and more disreputable-looking than the cyborg. Maybe her plan to hire one of them to keep him in check was a silly one.
“Who’s got his own combat armor?” Alisa asked.
She had asked for it in the ad, even though she hadn’t known if she would be lucky enough to get it, since a full suit cost thousands of tindarks. Even army veterans rarely had a suit of their own since theirs had been issued by—and returned to—the military. Usually, only well-off mercenaries and security guards working for big companies had the gear. Still, she spotted a couple of men with cases, and that stirred her hopes. A man in a quality suit of combat armor might just beat a cyborg in a fight. She hoped a fight with the cyborg wouldn’t be necessary, but if it was, she wanted someone who could handle him, or at least delay him while Alisa shot him.
Two hands went up. The shoulders of the other seven men slumped.
“Sorry, fellows,” Alisa told them. “It’s going to be a requirement for the position.”
If nobody had shown up with combat armor, it might not have been, but she had to take one of these two men, given the choice. Not only because of her cyborg issue, but because the ship’s spacesuits had long since been stolen, so if they needed any repairs done mid-route, it would be useful to have someone who could tramp around out on the hull. Any combat armor worth its price ought to have magnetic boots and be rated for space. One never knew what kind of trouble would latch onto a ship out there.
The two men lowered their hands as the seven rejected applicants walked past the doctor and headed down the ramp. Mica had come over to talk to Alejandro. Hopefully, she would collect his payment and see him to a cabin.
Alisa turned her attention back to her remaining two applicants. One was a pale-skinned fellow with a smug smirk. He had a handsome face and looked like he knew he had a handsome face. Alisa was fairly certain he had been the one making comments about working for women.
The other applicant was a stocky, brown-skinned man with a wild tuft of blond hair that she assumed was dyed or otherwise modded. “Tommy Beck, ma’am,” he said, slapping a hand to his chest, then holding it out in greeting. “Served four years in the fleet, got out, did some private gigs, then fought for the Alliance for all four years of the war.” He glanced down at the collar of her jacket, taking in her rank. “It’ll be good to work for a real officer, not someone who bought a ship and figures that qualifies him for something.”
The other man snorted. “You don’t have the job yet, Beck. But I see they taught you how to kiss ass real well during that war.”
“You don’t have a problem working for a woman?” Alisa asked the pretty boy before Beck could retort—or do something with the fingers he had just curled into a fist. She was already fairly certain she would reject this clod on principle, but she ought to ask to see their résumés, if they had brought them, and perhaps for a demonstration of their skills.
“Draper,” the man said, his gaze dipping to her chest. Instead of looking at the rank on her collar, he was more interested in studying her breasts. “Done all kinds of work for women,” he said. “I’m sure I can keep you pleased.”
The attention made her wish she still had her wedding ring, but she had always taken it off when she handled the flight stick of her Striker. It must have fallen out of her pocket during the crash, because it hadn’t been there when she had awoken in the hospital and poked into her uniform. Either that or someone there had looted her unconscious form—considering that all of her valuables had been missing, that did seem to be a possibility. Alisa remembered how distraught she had been, worrying that Jonah would be disappointed at the loss of the ring. That had been before the letter had come.
“I don’t think a man whore is what she’s looking for,” Beck said. “At least that wasn’t listed in the job description.”
“Suck my asteroids, Beck.”
Draper stepped forward, raising his arm toward Alisa. To put around her shoulders, she realized with displeasure. She stepped back, but he still got close enough to drop his hand onto her shoulder. She could have scurried away and avoided him completely, but didn’t think it would be seemly for the captain to be seen fleeing the prospective employees.
“Happy to advise you on security matters, Captain,” Draper said, squeezing her shoulder and using his grip like an anchor to ooze closer. “Lots of pirates and gangsters out there these days. It’s not safe anymore to fly between here and Perun. Mafia’s got ahold of one of the Perun moons, you know.” He squeezed her shoulder again.
Alisa dropped her hands to her hips, her fingers an inch from her Etcher. She leveled a flat look at him, trying for the stern authority of an experienced commander even if she’d never led anything more than a squadron of pilots, men and women who had been too busy worrying about peppering the defenses of imperial cruisers and dreadnoughts to challenge her authority. Draper wore a weapons belt, too, and even though he acted like a sleaze, was probably a quick draw. He had muscles, not just a pretty face.
“Why don’t you take your hand off her, Draper?” Beck said, stepping forward.
“Why don’t you contemplate your tiny prick, Beck?” Draper oozed even closer to Alisa, sliding his hand down her back. “How about a tour of the ship, Captain?”
That hand was on its way south to her ass. Alisa’s reflexes overrode her desire to appear cool and nonchalant. She tried to move to the side, her fingers touching the butt of her gun. He moved more quickly than she expected, clasping her wrist before she got the weapon all the way out of her holster.
“No need for impoliteness, Captain. I’m just being friendly. I expect you’ll need a friend out there.” His other hand continued downward to squeeze her ass.
She stomped down on his foot, glad he wasn’t wearing his combat boots now because he winced satisfyingly and released his grip on her butt. He still had her wrist, though, and that wasn’t acceptable.
Something crashed into Draper before she could decide on her next move. Beck.
He rammed Draper with his shoulder, and both men flew away from her, tumbling to the ground. Draper cursed, but that wa
s all he had time for. A punch slammed into his solar plexus. He snarled and returned the attack.
Alisa skittered out of the way as they thrashed about, heads clunking against the metal decking, flesh smacking against flesh. She kept her hand on her Etcher, though she didn’t break up the fight. First off, she didn’t know how she could—they wouldn’t even hear her if she shouted at them to stop, and she had no intention of shooting them. Second, for good or ill, she was getting a preview of their unarmed combat skills.
She looked over at Mica and the doctor, hoping their new passenger wouldn’t be alarmed by the display. His eyebrows were arched, but he didn’t seem worried. Mica didn’t look surprised by the wrestling match. She had probably heard a few more unsophisticated comments from the applicants while she had been waiting for Alisa to return.
“Part of the interview process,” Alisa called over to the doctor. “We’re taking on crew.”
“Of course,” he murmured.
She remembered his religious pendant and hoped the sight of men pummeling each other wouldn’t disgruntle him, at least not until after he had paid. She had never considered herself overly religious—even if she’d caught herself praying right before that crash—and didn’t know all of the rules of the monastic lifestyle, but she was fairly certain violence wasn’t encouraged. Three of the ten edicts handed down from the founders had to do with living peaceably with one’s neighbors.
The men rolled in her direction, cursing and snarling, and Alisa had to move out of the way again. Droplets of blood flew, spattering her deck and making her rethink her decision to let them settle this themselves. Maybe throwing some water on them or hitting one of the ship’s alarms would break them up.
Draper came out on top, straddling Beck’s torso and gripping his neck with both hands. Blood smeared Beck’s face, but he tried to fight back, twisting and bucking, doing his best to thrust Draper away from him. He gripped the other man’s arms, shoving at the hands wrapped around his neck. But Draper had him pinned effectively, and Beck’s face was turning red.