by Ginger Booth
Oh, hell.
This was entirely her fault. Of course she shouldn’t have installed files onto her systems before she even got to know their hosts. Of course she and Clay should have checked the data for malware, not expected poor Benjy to know how. She’d flown them straight into a trap, parked where indicated, and handed over her damned ship. And she’d been warned, dammit!
The room started to spin. She hung her head between her knees hyperventilating. She tried to concentrate on just that, breathing, as her hands grew clammy. The walls threatened to close in on her, and she gasped for air.
For herself, if she were raped, well, she deserved it. At least she’d survived it before, and she expected Cortez had as well. Her mind careened away from imagining them savaging Kassidy and sweet young Jules, Benjy and shy Seitz.
Trapped, trapped…! She punched her knuckles into the steel bed frame below her mattress.
Clay let himself in, and barred the door. He sat beside her and placed a hand between her shoulder blades.
She punched steel one more time. He firmly plucked her hand up and rubbed blood off a knuckle. “Stop that. Cry.”
“Screw you,” Sass grumbled to her knees.
“OK, if you’re ready to think this through. What does he want?”
“He wants your gorgeous kitchen,” Sass snapped. “We never should have printed him that bit of prime rib. I hope it gripes his stomach all night.”
She immediately wished she hadn’t said that, as her bit of seafood salad started to swim in her stomach. She dove for the head to vomit.
“You’re going to make this my fault?” Clay replied coldly, when she finished retching.
“No,” Sass conceded. She splashed some water on her face and rinsed bile out of her mouth. She stumbled back to a seat beside him, feeling refreshed enough to sit up straight. But then the sobs caught up with her. She slammed her fist into the steel pole this time, then hugged her knees to her chest to cry. Clay left her to it, stroking her back slowly.
She let herself cry full-out for a few minutes, tearing into herself for everything she’d screwed up and then some. Stupid. Idiot. Incompetent. Never learn. Never listen! But it was the fear of others suffering for her mistake that brought her to tears.
Her crying worked itself through enough to start mopping her face. “See? Why captains have ready rooms,” she quipped brokenly.
“Look at you, getting all nautical,” Clay returned.
She snuffed a laugh, and wiped it off. “Ex-cop.”
“Ex-cops,” Clay agreed. “Not space marines.”
“Definitely not.” She shuddered. “Did you think of something while you were being all grown up?”
“I’m reeling inside,” he assured her. “Probably bawl like a baby later. Right now we have a hostage situation. I think you played the first round well.”
Sass blinked, and took a long shuddering sigh. She had to admit, that was a damned useful re-framing of their situation. “Play for time. Play for calm. Let’s all get comfortable. I’m your friend, really. What is it you want. What do you really, really want.”
Unfortunately, she was fairly sure that most of them really, really did want to get laid. And Pierre Lavelle was practically drooling over her kitchen and vegetable garden. He really, really wanted the Thrive.
“I think you were right,” Clay mused. “Space pirate is not economically feasible. Let’s assume he has Hell’s Bells in thrall. Or they’ve teamed up.”
“Symbiotic,” Sass supplied. “Yeah, he only has two orbitals to prey on. Maybe Sagamore. He can’t surprise MO more than once. He’s no match for their guns. SO is probably the same. Until he found another idiotic sucker.”
“Stop that,” Clay ordered. “Been there, done that. Moving on. Ingersoll warned you exactly once that Gossamer was ‘space pirates.’ Then the objection vanished. Sure, here’s all the help you want to go there. Why?”
Sass sniffed a nose finally running dry, and considered the question. “Star drives. They need star drives. We needed star drives and gun training data.” She paused and began to nod. “Lavelle doesn’t want to steal my ship. He wants a life for his people. Trade. Maybe a base and families.”
“That’s what I’m thinking,” Clay agreed. “Another concern, though. It’s possible he still really wants revolt on Sagamore. Win the rebellion he fought to get himself exiled.”
“No.” Sass shook her head vehemently. “Maybe he thinks he does. But that wasn’t what he wanted even back then.”
Clay chuckled. “She speaks from experience.”
“She does,” Sass agreed. “He wants a better life. Without guilt. He’s got to win it for his people as well as himself. That may include the hellbellies. They do good work, extract valuable materials. They should be paid properly, given a fair deal.”
“Worth a shot,” Clay conceded. “Too bad we don’t have any of that to offer him.”
“Mahina has plenty of regolith,” Sass claimed. “Hell, we could probably give them a nice phosphate mine. Sagamores are tunnel dwellers. They’d feel right at home. Or Schuyler for the booze and prostitutes. They must mine something out here that we’d like on Mahina.”
“Guy Fairweather asked me to remind you,” Clay hazarded, “that you are not an envoy for Mahina.”
“Didn’t say I was,” Sass assured him. “When you negotiate a hostage situation, do you seriously intend to give them that escape flier and a million credits?”
Clay snorted amusement. “No.”
“No. These rego fools aren’t getting a damn thing from me if I can help it. Of course, I probably can’t.”
“There’s that.”
“One woman. Me. Not passed around. One on one with Lavelle.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah. Meant to sleep with him anyway. I’m not suggesting you do the same, Clay.”
“No. Though I’ll look into it. Just one thought. I want you to imagine what it’s like to be 20 years old and testosterone poisoned for 60 years.”
Sass clamped a hand over her mouth to stifle a squeak of laughter. “Point.”
“Because from here, it looks like you hold it against me that I slept with the enemy. Which is exactly what you propose.”
“Fair,” she conceded, her mirth dying. “You really think we have a shot?”
“If you give up, you can’t succeed. Read it on a fortune cookie once. So we decide. We will find a way. A step at a time. Got a next step?”
She drew a deep breath. “I’ll see to the crew.”
31
The phrase ‘smart as a Mahina engineer’ appears quite early. Perhaps Mahina allocated unusual resources into identifying and nurturing engineering talent from all walks of life.
“Ah, you’re back!” Sass greeted Abel and Seitz from the catwalk, as they slipped in from the shuttle airlock. Sass hadn’t heard a vessel dock on. “We’ve been boarded. Under new management. Head for the showers and stay in your cabins, please.” She smiled at them gamely.
One of the Gossamer goons stood opposite her across the galley door, in a pressure suit of Sagamore styling. He lifted his weapon for illustration purposes.
Abel took that in, then stared at her. “Any chance of lunch?”
Sass absolutely adored that stolid reaction from her business partner. He must drive his wife nuts.
“We are now on Sagamore time,” she advised. “I’ll rustle up a midnight snack. In fact…” She fished out her comms. “Wilder, report to the galley for prep duty. Um, no uniform, please.”
The men obeyed. She lingered in place until Abel passed her. “She’s with Kassidy,” she murmured. “Meet you on the bridge in a few.”
Abel nodded, which gave her a whiff of the inside of his pressure suit. He needed that shower.
She breezed into the kitchen. “Don’t get up! Just making food for our workmen.” She paused at the protein printer. The sensible thing to do would be to print some ham and cheese. But they had that leftover beef roast in the freezer.
The real beef that so horrified their MA crewmates and griped their stomachs for days.
She and Abel loved it.
She popped the beef in the microwave, and printed only a few servings of sliced ham. Soy protein stock naturally tended to a mushroom grey not unlike the regolith and foamcrete – the signature color of Mahina. She overrode the pink-for-ham programming and set the printer to dye it a mottled camouflage green.
Martin demanded, “If you’re making food, make it for all of us, woman!”
“Can do,” she said cheerily, as Wilder drifted in, looking buffed in once-white tank top and cut-off sweatpants, his workout clothes. “Wilder, I need chopped onion, sliced tomato, lettuce.” She pulled out mayo and the last of the horseradish sauce from her birthday, and pushed them across the work island toward him. She tossed the now-lukewarm rump of roast into the processor for a big mound of thin slices. “Mm, that smells great.”
Using Wilder’s supply of vegetables, she made two sandwiches of green ham with a touch of horseradish. “For you and Seitz,” she said. Louder, for Martin’s benefit, she explained, “The MO staff follow a strict religious diet. They won’t eat the good stuff.” She dipped a slice of roast beef into the horseradish, popped it into her mouth, and made a show of savoring it.
Wilder provided an utterly sincere show of his revulsion.
Sass nodded. “Religious fruitcakes,” she added to Martin. Working in tandem, she and Wilder slapped sandwiches together for their occupiers, plus a couple for Abel and Ben.
She left Wilder to serve and clean up. First she headed aft to berthing. Hearing the shower running, she ducked her head into Copeland’s cabin first.
Where she felt her reception like a chill wind. Eli stood leaning against Benjy’s bunk, perusing his tablet. Copeland lay belly-down on his top bunk, studying as well. They both turned stony faces to her, devoid of expression.
“I’m in a rush –” Sass began.
“Don’t let us keep you,” Eli drawled, returning his eyes to his screen.
“I want you two to stay safe in here –” she attempted.
“I’m leaving in a few minutes,” Copeland overrode her. “Repairs.”
“Copeland, let me explain –”
Eli cut her off. “The rumor mill is swift and efficient. You surrendered us and our ship to space pirates. We are captives, several hundred thousand kilometers from home. Or is it millions?”
“Home,” Copeland echoed. “Where my kid is.”
“You’re up to something,” Sass deduced.
“Not to worry, captain,” Eli assured her.
“But I’d like to know,” Sass attempted. “Pretty please?”
“Repairs,” Copeland responded with finality.
Sass considered them a few moments. They ignored her. “Do let me know,” she ordered, and backed out of the cabin.
That went well. She blew out and steeled herself for the MO berthing room.
Seitz, fresh out of the shower, eagerly grabbed his sandwich. Cortez and Griffith hopped off their bunks and stood to attention.
“What’s our play, sar?” Griffith demanded eagerly.
“Watch and wait,” Sass admitted. “Sleep. Cooperate. Cortez, join Kassidy and Jules in Kassidy’s cabin. Guard them.”
Cortez angled her head and scowled at her in complete contempt. “You want me to hide with the girls? Fuck that, sar.”
“Teach them to defend themselves,” Sass attempted.
“Is that an order? Sar.”
“Don’t sound like no order to me,” Griffith opined.
“Captain?” Seitz spoke up timidly. “If we need to leave hostages behind? I volunteer. I mean, I’d rather stay with you. But hell, I never want to go back to MO.”
“They look healthy,” Griffith concurred. “Not radiation sick.”
“And since you’re not fighting, you don’t need us,” Cortez reasoned. “Sar.”
Slowly Sass replied, “Alohan wanted to get rid of you, didn’t she?”
“Probably.” Seitz.
“Yes.” Griffith.
“Damned straight.” Cortez added, “She hates Wilder the worst. He refused to have sex with her.”
Sass nodded slowly. “Hope it won’t come to leaving anyone behind.”
“Unless you plan to keep us, sar,” Seitz said, “we’d just as soon stay.”
“MO’s a death trap,” Griffith concurred.
“Cortez, you wouldn’t –?” Sass attempted.
“Babysit the chicks yourself. I’m a soldier. If I’m staying, I pick who I shack up with. Don’t lump me in with the rape bait.”
“Glad we had this chat,” Sass replied. “Good to know. I take it you will cooperate with our jailers? Of course you will.” She pinched the bridge of her nose. “Perhaps a game of EVA in the hold. Work up a sweat so you can get some sleep.”
“I’m down with that,” Griffith agreed. “Show off our moves to the new management.”
Copeland stepped out of his cabin still fastening his tool belt. He picked up his toolbox and affixed a hostile scowl. The key here was to not look like he gave a damn. Fortunately spending his rough youth in Schuyler provided him plenty of practice with this charade.
Eli slipped out beside him. Copeland set off for the far end of the catwalk. Eli thumped his arm before splitting off into his own double-cabin laboratory, several electronic odds and ends clutched to his chest.
The guard outside the galley challenged Copeland. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“Forward.” Copeland didn’t slow, or veer around the guard. His shoulder shoved the guy on the way past.
“Hey, you! Stop!”
“Busy.” He reached the forward bulkhead, home of the new ventilation system. Matter-of-factly, he clambered onto the railing, flipped his gravity, and stepped off to walk the wall.
“Hey, Martin, this guy…”
Copeland tuned out the byplay. He fished out his least favorite screwdriver, and used it to unscrew and pry out the bottom side of a large wall panel. Then he strolled up-wall to unscrew the fasteners above.
“Hey, you! On the wall!” The dude Martin was on his case now.
“Copeland,” he said shortly. He hammered his screwdriver into the panel crack at top, and pried the 2.5 meter square of sheet metal to crash to the deck in front of him with an impressive clang.
“Yeah, Copeland? I’m about to shoot your head off. Stop what you’re doing!”
Heart pounding, Copeland nevertheless turned and glowered at the guy standing perpendicular to himself on the catwalk. “Me ship engineer. Radiation levels rising. ESD emitters in here. Me fix ’em. Got it?”
Martin clicked off the safety. “You step away from those tools, wise ass!”
Copeland threw his hands up – up relative to himself, anyway. “Look, man, I took like half a fatal dose of radiation getting to your godforsaken hell-hole. I take more, I die. You want to die too? No? Then let me do my job!”
By then, the captain caught up with the goon and took over the conversation. Copeland almost felt guilty. He’d been none too friendly to her in his cabin a few minutes ago. But she picked up her cue without a hitch, and talked Martin down. She explained the crucial role played by the ESD emitters. The conspicuously shiny ventilation panels added credibility.
Copeland blew out in relief, and stepped into the wall.
“– He still needs to be supervised,” Martin bitched.
That one Copeland paused to respond to. “You can’t fit in here with that pressure suit. And no one carries a gun inside my hull. No one.”
“He’s got a real attitude problem,” Martin harangued Sass.
Fine by Copeland. Sass deserved all the blowback he could send her way. Emitter. Right next to the receiver. Found it. Just try running my ship remotely, bastards. Fat chance if we’re not listening.
Because Martin was right, after all. Copeland really should be locked up and not allowed to touch anything. He shorted the ESD emitter node – there
wasn’t a nice cutoff switch handy, and he really did hate that screwdriver. Three out of four receiver nodes were located in the bow. A forward system failure was just the ticket.
The wife gave him that screwdriver for his birthday. Like he needed her to pick tools for him? She figures they’re like socks or something? He wondered if the divorce paperwork was finalized yet. The metal was soft, but at least the damned thing had a rubber handle for his electrical shorting convenience.
He slammed his wrench on a nicely percussive ventilation duct and paused to swear a blue streak for verisimilitude. That was cathartic. Pity he wasn’t free to wale on his punching bag this afternoon. Night. Whatever.
“Is it bad, Copeland?” Sass inquired solicitously.
“Whole bow ESD fried. I’ll be stuck in this bulkhead all night.”
“Can I help? No radiation shielding.”
He stuck his head out of the wall to frown at her. Huh. She’s actually concerned. He shrugged. “I’m good, cap.” He shook his wrench at her. “I’ll be checking the aft nodes after this! I’m goddamn tired of this radiation crap!”
He slipped back into hiding and chuckled silently. He spliced in his new cutoff switch, nestled next to the communications receiver. One down, three to go. Good design, that – four radio receivers. He approved of the redundancy. Even if it wasn’t so convenient today.
32
Some postulate that Mahina’s strength in engineering was born of their reliance on individual gravity generators, leading people to naturally think in 3D. Most colonies grav plated their housing, not their people.
Kassidy trotted to the catwalk railing with Jules, and gave the younger girl a shove down the slide, whooping. The expressions on her crew mates below? Priceless.
Abel ordered ‘the girls’ to hide in their cabin and skip the EVA game. Screw that. After a few minutes for tears, she and Jules agreed: no hiding, except in plain sight.
Jules’ outfit came out great. She looked the ideal village idiot, playing directly to any stereotypes about Mahina settlers. They used rubber bands in children’s crayon colors and teased her hair into puffs jutting out in a dozen fountain ponytails. They cut her usual leggings just above the knee to showcase the clumsy teen’s usual bloom of shin bruises. A sun dress too gaudy for Kassidy replaced her usual sober colored jumper. Jules stopped at the bend in the slide, clapping and hooting like a toddler.