Local Star

by Aimee Ogden

  The algae cells had died because the air intake was blocked by dried blood.

  “Triz!” The banging of her heart echoed back from the wrenchworks. She blinked. Quelian was pounding the hose nozzle against the Skimmer’s fuselage. He stopped only when she fixed him with a hollow stare. “Have you heard a single word I’ve said?”

  “I’ve heard plenty.” She unwound herself from the cockpit and slid over the side of the fighter to the floor. She didn’t land as neatly as Quelian, catching herself with one hand on the fuselage before she could fall. “I’m sorry I’m not her. If that’s what you’re wishing. If I were the one locked up in a Justice cell, she’d be doing everything she could to get me out. She wouldn’t hole up here in the works wishing things were different. So I guess I’m going to do what she would.” Turning her back on Kalo’s Skimmer and on Quelian too, she let herself stride back toward the lift.

  “Don’t you walk away from this wrenchworks!” Quelian shouted. “Veling is a recycling engineer, not the shitting owner of this place. I am, and she doesn’t get to give you a bereavement day to roll around moaning.”

  “Then I quit.” Triz mashed the lift call button with her knuckles and kept her back to Quelian as she waited. Better not to see his face just now. Maybe the other quadparents would try to walk her words back later; maybe they wouldn’t be able to. At this moment Triz didn’t really care one way or another. “I’ll be back for my stuff later. Right now, I’m going to go save your daughter.”

  Anger or shock leached the strength from Quelian’s words. They ripped ragged out of him and fluttered helplessly, begging for Triz’s attention. “If you walk out of here now, you won’t get the wrenchworks when I kick on. I’ve got more than enough time to train up another wrench and if you don’t think there’s a dozen pups on this Hab who would jump at the chance—”

  “Then I’ll take my luck waiting around to see who PubWel and the Distribution Council choose to hand the works over to.” Triz shrugged, a tight little jerk of the shoulders that cranked up her tension rather than releasing it. “If not, I’ll hitch a ride to some other Hab.” The thought of launching herself out there—out into that bottomless darkness—of long empty days unmoored from any Hab, sent a tremor down her spine.

  “I like my odds,” she finished.

  Something heavy crashed behind her, metal yelping against metal. “Over my dead body!”

  “Maybe.” Triz tried to shrug and failed. “Or maybe the Council will redistribute early if I give them a reason to think the wrenchworks would do better under new ownership.” Finally, the lift doors opened. Triz turned as she entered.

  Quelian’s eyes watered in his flushed face; she’d really pissed him off this time. Triz drank that down and found it tasted good, despite the skim of guilt floating on top.

  “Remember,” Triz said. “You’re the one who walked away first. Not from the wrenchworks. From everything that really matters.”

  The doors closed between them, and Triz waited until she was two levels up before she slammed both fists against the hard metal of the lift door.

  Chapter Five

  That night Triz used her fob to pull up a list to her tiny port screen: officers who’d served with, under, or near Casne aboard the Dailos. A few names she knew, most she didn’t. She prowled the edges of the Arcade, looking for the precise shade of gray fatigues that distinguished a Fleetie from any other random Hab resident. The first woman whose sweaty sleeve she caught outside the heliodrome track turned her away with only a few terse words. “Fleet business. Anything you’re entitled to know, you can find out in Justice.” Triz had a few terse words for her, too: the kind that had two other Fleet officers closing ranks on either side.

  The next officer Triz managed to flag down had just emerged from an hour in the Cosset. Triz wasn’t used to visiting the row of pleasure-houses on the Arcade; she tried not to stare past him into the Cosset for a better look. When he stepped to the side of the busy main Arcade footwalk to speak with her, the flowery smells of tea and honey wine clung to him, as did the stronger, more intense scent of sex. The wine made him more pliable to her questioning than the last officer, and he didn’t seem to notice when Triz breathed unsubtly through her mouth.

  “I mean, I didn’t see anything. I remember the Arcology blowing, but that’s hard to miss unless you’re already in a tailspin. When you’re behind the yoke, it’s best to keep an eye on what’s right ahead of you. And behind. What the whales were up to, no idea. Maybe one of the other pilots got a better peek.” He hesitated. “It doesn’t sound like the captain? But I’m not a Tactics geek, so I don’t know how well I can talk about it.”

  Triz thanked him for his time and let him stagger off to other more relaxing pursuits.

  She paused for a moment outside the massive window at the edge of the Arcade to watch a small squadron of Swarmers—four Skimmers flanking an oversized Arcwing—running drills just outside the Hab. Hard to imagine what it was like being out there in the darkness all the time. She didn’t even like the rare type of wrenchwork that took her outside the Hab in a vac suit to walk the wounded skin of a cargo freighter or passenger transport. Her mouth puckered with the bitter tang of resentment: not that she’d be doing any of that kind of thing any time soon, or possibly ever again.

  The closest Skimmer feinted sharply toward the Hab and made her flinch and jump back from the window. What was that pilot doing? But the Skimmer stopped short of the plastiglass and she felt the gentle tink of a light touch against the Hab wall. Such a tiny sound; an unpleasant reminder of just how fragile Light Attack Swarmers really were.

  “Hey, don’t worry, Lanniq’s just running drills,” a voice said, startling her. It was Saabe. E’d found her before she could press off in search of another Fleet uniform to grill. “Emergency Hab penetration, that kind of thing. Don’t worry, during drills they don’t plant real charges so this part of the Arcade shouldn’t be sucking vacuum momentarily.” Eir grin of greeting faded. “I hear you’ve been on the prowl for information.”

  Triz glared at em but tagged along at eir elbow as e started walking along the Arcade’s outer path. “You think Justice and the Watch care more about getting this investigation right than I do? Especially when that’s my—” The words wife or gonmate jammed in her throat on sharp, false edges. “When it’s Casne involved? They’ve got a million high-ranking Ceebees to put on trial. They’ll broadcast those trials across the Confederated Worlds, and I’m supposed to be sure they’re doing their due diligence on one interior hearing? Especially one they’d prefer didn’t make a big quake through the newschannels?”

  Saabe sighed. “I’m not arguing with you. Admiralty’s had their eye on Casne for a while now—not like that,” e hastily explained at Triz’s scowl. “Commendations, fast promotions. I’m afraid they’ll come down hard on her. Make it clear they don’t play favorites.”

  Triz didn’t like the sound of that. “Do you have any idea who could be behind this, though? Or how? Any way the Ceebees could’ve reprogrammed a firing pattern? Taken control of the firing array without Cas noticing? Faked the data?”

  Another sigh. “I don’t know, Triz, honestly. Have you talked to Lanniq? His wife is Counterintelligence, so he might know some of her tricks. Then again, I’ve barely seen him onhab since the, uh.” Eir face scrunched. “You know. Arrest thing. He’s been picking up extra cockpit time.” E and Triz both looked out at the Skimmer outside, which had rejoined its formation. “We all deal in our own way. No one expected something like that to happen—to any of us, let alone Casne. And pilots always feel more comfortable behind the yoke. You know what that jockey mentality’s like, right?”

  “Mentality implies there’s some cognitive activity going on.” Triz squinted at the fighters as a tight formation made the outsized Arcwing look more like just another little Swarmer. “From my firsthand experience with cockpit jocks, that’s not necessarily the case.”

  Saabe snorted. “I know the idea probably doe
sn’t appeal right now, but you could try talking to Kalo. I doubt he knows any more of the geeks in Tactics than I do. But he knows Casne. It’s worth a shot, isn’t it?”

  “Maybe,” said Triz, so they could part ways more amicably than if she’d dropped a flat no.

  Triz’s feet ached. This was a new sensation for her: She was used to cricked necks and sore shoulders from crawling in and around Light Craft all day or hunching over a smaller repair project spread out on a table. When she was younger, much younger, she’d cover half a dozen levels in the Rydoine Hab recycling engines in a single day on her collection routes. But now, just three days of pounding the pathways in the Arcade made her groan. Was she that much fitter then? Or had younger Triz had much more to worry about than sore arches?

  In retrospect, taking a break felt like poking a purple bruise to make sure it still hurt. But here she was, in the music-chamber shelter on the Terraria level, body still and head churning. She, Casne, and Nantha liked to come here and relax when they used to be together. Well: Casne and Triz did. Nantha tolerated sitting still for only an hour or two. It was strange to be here without either of them. Before Triz could reconsider, though, an attendant appeared and stooped to set a glass of amber liquid on the low table where Triz had eked out a spot. The birdflute ensemble had seemed like a good bet when she came in here, quiet and peaceful, but maybe she ought to move to the lithogrunge room to drown out the noise in her head. Her fingers closed around the cool glass, and she offered the fob of her other hand for the attendant to scan. “Thanks.”

  “Of course.” Eir collector chirped to complete the transaction. “Just fob-signal when you need a refill.”

  “Actually . . .” A new voice brought Triz’s shoulders up to her ears. “I’ll have what she’s having, if you don’t mind.” Kalo dropped to the chaise opposite Triz and flung all four limbs out to maximize his sprawl.

  The attendant retreated, either to fulfill this request or to be outside the blast radius of the frustration currently trying to vibrate its way out of Triz.

  “What are you doing?” Triz snapped. “We don’t have the kind of thing where we sit around drinking and swapping war stories together.” They hadn’t even done that when they were together together—in fact, as she recalled, it was Kalo’s chatter about a harrowing engagement with the Ceebees in clusterward space that had precipitated one of their last fights.

  “Which is a shame, really, because I have got some pretty amazing war stories. But since you’re at a bit of a deficit there, it works out.”

  Triz leaned forward, resting her elbows on either side of her glass. The flutist was straining his way through the birdflute’s highest range, and every single crisp bright tone drove icepicks into her already-brittle temper. “Already had my share of war stories today. Heard a hell of a one from your Swarmer, actually.”

  His crooked smile faded, and his gaze slanted down, toward her hands where they pressed against the cold lacquer of the table. “Are you all right? You look like you got dragged through a minefield behind an X-99.”

  “I’m sure I’ll feel better once the view improves.” She wanted to put a fist right in the middle of those gappy teeth of his. “Is there something you need, besides attention?”

  “Well, yeah.” He paused while the attendant set another glass of ‘shine on the table between them. “I know you’ve been trying to track down a sniff of why in the seven hells Casne Veling is behind a Justice wall right now. And I’m a little offended you didn’t ask me first.”

  Triz considered the glass in front of her. She picked it up and turned it around between her fingers. “I figured if you had anything interesting to say, you’d have said it to half the Hab by now. Did you see something at Hedgehome?” Anger spiked, and her drink sloshed in its glass. “Are you sitting on evidence that could help Casne and—and trying to make me work for it?”

  “Gods of Issam. You seriously think I’d hold back something that would get her out of there?” Kalo took a swig and grimaced. “Never let it be said you don’t give it your all. Too bad it’s only when it comes to seeing the worst in people.”

  Triz tossed back the entire glass of ‘shine. It burned on its way down, and the burn cooled the fury inside of her. Everyone here sat around wasting time while Casne waited for Justice to turn its back on her. And here was Triz, too, entertaining a space-addled cockpit jock instead of doing the something-real that eluded her. Something that would help Casne. Maybe he’d even been the one to set Casne up, as some sort of ultra-petty revenge for the crash-and-burn of a matchup she’d made between him and Triz. Revenge against either of them, or both, and now he’d come to enjoy a long salty pour of her misery.

  Triz couldn’t quite square that image with the person she’d—occasionally—enjoyed spending time with. The person who’d brought her confectionary stars from the Webward Pearls, who’d sent her long-distance dinners from halfway across the galaxy when she came down with the strain of mendicant’s flu that came through the Hab a few months back. Still, she couldn’t rule anything out, even if that made her the ultra-petty one. “What. Do. You. Want.”

  “To help Casne. I want her out of there too. I mean, do you think she went and grabbed the first pilot she could find to throw at you? She and I came up together.” That must have meant something in Fleet-talk, because it meant nothing to Triz. “Even if she’d rather crunch numbers than swing a yoke. This is pulling Justice’s attention from the Ceebee trials so realistically, Casne’s case isn’t going to get the attention it deserves. Fleet Hero or not, when a pile of 22CR Starbusters gets unloaded on an occupied Arcology . . . ” His throat jerked; Triz looked away. “I’ll be your errand boy as long as it means something, the right thing, gets done.”

  “I tried doing the right thing.” Triz beckoned the attendant and pointed at her empty cup. E nodded and took out a larger pitcher to hold up to the ‘shine tap. Well. Triz wasn’t going to argue with that. “It didn’t get me anywhere.” And I don’t know what to do now, she didn’t add, in case he had an opinion about that.

  “Okay, so . . . maybe the right thing is what Casne would do. Or Nantha. And since neither of them is here, and we have to pick up the slack, we have to make do with the Triz thing or the Kalo thing.”

  “I don’t think hitting things with a wrench is going to help. And the Kalo thing is just talking. How’s that working out for you so far?”

  The attendant set the pitcher neatly on the table; Kalo offered his fob and paid before Triz could. She washed away a muttered thanks with a fresh pour of ‘shine. She’d spent a lot already tonight, and she had no job to replenish that credit now. She’d worry about that next. PubWel would see her housed and fed in the meantime anyway.

  “You want talk?” Kalo tipped his glass at her. “Fine, let’s talk. You know and I know that Casne would never take a shortcut to win a fight.” His gaze lengthened, staring through Triz. “I once watched her fight a Ceebee in a dive on Gnosseo without a scrap of tech to help her, just to prove she didn’t need it. I’ve seen her sacrifice her own tactical array to take fire from Do-Ffash pirates so a divvy Hab didn’t get hit.”

  Triz knew about the Fleet’s activities clearing pirates out of the Armward Bands thanks to Nantha; she hadn’t heard about Gnosseo and had trouble picturing Casne engaged in a fistfight. “She did that?”

  “She did. It was amazing. Just . . . don’t tell Nantha about that one.”

  “Tell Miss By-the-Books about a dive bar fistfight? Yeah, I don’t think so. She’d probably write a disciplinary note for her own file just for knowing about it.” When he grinned, Triz felt a matching expression tug at her own mouth. She crushed that tentative smile under the easy weight of pessimism. “Anyway, yes, we know what we know, that’s great. But I don’t think any Justice will factor any of that in.”

  “No, but—don’t stop there. So if we know Casne didn’t do it, who’d want to smear her?” Kalo slammed his glass down on the tabletop. It tipped onto its side, the round glea
ming eye fixed her accusingly. “Lanniq might know some likely suspects, but I haven’t seen hide or hair of him in days. He basically lives on the drilling circuit these days. I’m surprised he’s not chewing down the Admiral’s door himself to get answers. It’s not like him to run away from a fight.”

  “Well . . .” Triz frowned. The two glasses of ‘shine blunted the edge of her thoughts. She had to try a few times to pierce Kalo’s question about who could be out to get Casne. It felt good, though, like the alcohol could smother the fire of frustration inside her instead of starting a larger conflagration. “The Ceebees, obviously. They’d be mad at her. She was key to their loss at Golros.” But not because of civilian casualties.

  Kalo shrugged dismissively. “Yeah, but they’re mad at a lot of us. Like, some five thousand Fleet officers and crew. If they were going to fob a war crime off on one of us, why not Savelian, who actually supervised the whole thing?” A curl lifted his lip. “Plus, they have other stuff to be worried about besides revenge, like, I don’t know, losing at least half their fleet and their last major planetside strongholds?”

  Triz refilled both glasses, then rounded on Kalo. “Why did you ask me what I think if you’re going to laugh at whatever I say? Stupid guttergirl with delusions of intelligence.”

  “I’m not laughing! And I’ve never thought you were stupid, Triz. You know that. I hope you know.” His eyebrows came together as she set the pitcher down lopsided and nearly spilled it. “I’m just saying, the Ceebees aren’t the big bad monster underneath every bed.”

  “Okay.” Her voice rasped when she set her glass down. Like her, it was more than half drained. “You know so much more than the stupid little wrench. Not the Ceebees. Then who?”