Ashby held up a hand to block the glare of the white sun. “Sissix?”
“Mmm?” Her voice, like his own, was muffled behind a mask.
“Why are we here?”
“Is this a philosophical question, or – ”
He shot her a look. “Why are we here, on this platform, right now?”
The platform in question was a thick sheet of industrial metal, orange around the seams, held up by support beams of dubious reliability. Kizzy and Jenks sat on the edge on the platform, ranting about some action sim while Kizzy twisted bits of discarded metal into animal shapes. Rosemary was in a nearby kiosk, arguing with a malfunctioning AI about docking costs. A faded sign hung from the kiosk roof: WELCOME TO CRICKET. Beneath this sign was a lengthy warning regarding the tendency of unlicensed sub-dermal implants to set off weapon detectors.
Sissix adjusted her goggles. “As I remember it, Kizzy said, ‘You know what we need?’, and you said, ‘What?’, and she said, ‘Guns,’ and you said, ‘No guns,’ and she said, ‘A shield grid, then,’ and added that she had some friends who could fix us up, and that they weren’t too out of the way – ”
“That much I recall,” said Ashby. “I suppose my real question is, why did I agree to this?”
“You were concussed and mildly sedated.”
“Ah. That explains it.”
“I have to say, Ashby, having a few weapons on board for this job isn’t a bad idea. Especially in light of recent events.”
“Don’t you start, too. Us getting boarded was a freak occurrence at best. I’ve been flying all my life, and that’s never happened to me before. I’m not filling my home with weapons just because we’re feeling shaken up.”
“Ashby, we’re heading into what was very recently a warzone. You think there won’t be other desperate, dangerous people out there?”
He touched his jaw. The bruises from the Akarak’s rifle were still fading. He revisited those horrible moments in the cargo bay, remembered how it felt to have strangers rip their way into his home. He recreated the incident, imagining a gun in his hand. Would he have fired? He couldn’t say. But imagining the addition of a weapon in that scenario made him feel safer. He no longer felt helplessness. He felt powerful. And that was what scared him. “I’m not compromising my principles over this. That’s that.”
“Fucking Exodans,” Sissix said, but she said it with a smile.
Ashby snorted a laugh. “Kizzy said the exact same thing. She’s making out like we need an entire planetbusting arsenal strapped to our hull.”
“She was scared, Ashby. We all were. We all are.” Sissix held his hand and nuzzled his shoulder with her cheek.
Rosemary slammed the kiosk door behind her. “Stupid hackjob AI.” She glowered as she tried to brush a stubborn clot of dust off her goggles. “For as much as it cost to dock here, they could at least provide decent customer service.”
“How much did it cost?” asked Ashby.
“Seventy five hundred credits,” said Rosemary. “Plus administrative fees. Not that I actually see any administrators around.”
Ashby whistled. “Damn,” he said. “These friends of Kizzy’s better be worth it.”
Rosemary fidgeted. “Ashby, it’s a little sketchy here. I don’t mind doctoring formwork a bit, but – ”
“Don’t worry,” said Ashby. “I’m not bringing any illegal equipment onto my ship, especially not when we’re so close to Quelin space. I’m sure Kizzy’s friends are trustworthy folks.”
“How long have you known Kizzy?” Sissix said. Ashby followed her gaze toward an open-top skiff humming its way to the platform. The driver stood up on his seat as he approached, even though the vehicle was still moving. He was a solidly built Human man, younger than Ashby, wearing nothing from the waist up but an air mask, several carved pendants, and a small rocket launcher on a shoulder strap. Shaggy burnt copper locks fell down past his shoulders, cloak-like. He had a beard to match, clipped short along his jaw line, cascading into a braided curtain below his chin. His skin was darkly tanned, but the peach undertones indicated an isolated ancestry on an old fringe colony, far removed from Exodan intermingling. His chiseled muscles were covered with implanted techports and intricate tattoos, and his left forearm had been replaced by a multi-tool appendage, which looked homemade. As the skiff got close, Ashby could see thick scars braided around the seam between the tech arm and the man’s skin. He had a feeling the surgery had been a home affair as well.
“Ah, great,” Ashby sighed under his breath. A shield grid was a good idea. A tweak-happy hackjob mod was something else entirely. How had he agreed to this?
“Kizzy!” the skiff driver boomed, his voice jubilant. He spread his arms wide, reaching toward the sky.
“Bear!” Kizzy squealed, tossing her half-folded metal rabbit aside. It sailed past a placard instructing dock users on the proper disposal of litter. She ran down the platform steps two at a time. “Bear, Bear, Bear, BEAR!” She launched herself over the side of the skiff and into his arms, knocking both of them back into the seat. Jenks sauntered after her, grinning. He and Bear clasped hands warmly as Kizzy hugged Bear’s head, cheering “hooray!”
Rosemary turned to Ashby. “His name’s Bear?” she asked in Ensk.
“Seems that way,” Ashby said.
“Does ‘bear’ mean something?” Sissix asked. The Ensk word stuck out awkwardly in Klip, especially with Sissix’s accent. “What’s a bear?”
Ashby started walking. He nodded down toward the hulking, hairy man crushing their mech tech in his massive arms. “That’s a bear.”
“Welcome to Cricket!” Bear called out, giving them a wave. He was friendly, at least.
Ashby extended his hand once he cleared the stairs. “Hi there. Ashby Santoso.”
“Ah, the captain!” Bear shook Ashby’s hand. Ashby tried not to stare at his other arm, the one with the wires and scars. “Kizzy speaks very highly of you.”
Kizzy blushed. “Shh,” she said. “He’ll think I asked you to butter him up.”
“You must be Sissix,” Bear said, reaching out to shake her claws. “It’s nice to meet you.” He stared at her, holding her hand a little too long. He gave his head a shake, as if waking himself up. “I’m really sorry,” he said, looking embarrassed. “I don’t get off-world much, and we don’t get a lot of other species out here.”
“That’s all right,” said Sissix, looking a little confused. She probably hadn’t even noticed that the handshake was too long.
“And…” Bear thought for a moment. “Rosie? Is that right?”
“Rosemary,” she said with a smile, shaking his hand.
“Rosemary. Got it. Hey, did I see you walk away from the AI just a little bit ago?”
“Yeah. Sure isn’t cheap to dock here.”
Bear shook his head. “I’ll get that credited back to you. This jokester named Mikey set that thing up just to make some quick creds from offworlders who don’t know better. It’s a total scam. I’ll tell him you guys are family. It’s close enough to the truth.”
“Aww,” said Kizzy, giving him a squeeze.
“Alright, everybody pile in,” Bear said. “I hope you don’t mind getting a bit cozy.” The skiff was not built for five passengers (especially one with a tail), but with a bit of wiggling and rearranging, they managed to cram themselves into the dirty, dented vehicle. “Kizzy, travel music, if you would.” Bear directed her to a makeshift sound system that consisted of a hacked scrib and three small speakers held down with industrial bolts. The size of the speakers was deceptive. Everybody jumped as the first violent strains of some charthump band emerged with a roar. The three techs gave one another a satisfied nod, and the skiff tore off.
Between the throbbing music and the air rushing past, there wasn’t much room in the skiff for conversation. Ashby watched the world go by from his cramped seat. He had thought upon arrival that perhaps a proper colony might be hiding somewhere behind one of the towering cliffs, but no, Cricke
t was an empty moon. Craggy expanses of dust and rock stretched on and on, punctuated by the occasional bunker-like homestead. Stubborn succulents peeked out here and there, but Ashby saw no signs of farming — nor water sources, for that matter. There had to be water somewhere. Agreeable gravity and a tolerable atmosphere wasn’t enough to warrant a colony, not unless you had the means to import water from off-world. From the little he had seen, he didn’t think the people of Cricket were quite that well-to-do.
Off in the distance, something scurried into a crack in the ground. The skiff was moving too quickly for Ashby to get a good look, but whatever it was had been big, about the size of a large dog. Perhaps Bear’s rocket launcher wasn’t just for show.
The skiff followed a curving road up one of the cliffs. The road was wide enough for the skiff, but barely. Ashby glanced over the edge, and immediately regretted it. Like many lifelong spacers, Ashby didn’t care much for heights on land. Looking down at a planet from orbit was no problem, because out there, falling meant floating. If you took a long fall inside a ship — say, down the engine shaft on a big homesteader — you’d have enough time to shout the word “falling!” This would prompt the local AI to turn off the adjacent artigrav net. Your descent would abruptly end, and you’d be free to drift over to the nearest railing. You’d piss off anyone in the vicinity who’d been drinking mek or working with small tech parts, but it was a fair price to pay for staying alive (the “falling” safety was also popularly exploited by kids, who found the sudden reversal in gravity within a crowded walkway or a classroom to be the height of hilarity). But planetside, there was no artigrav net. Even a drop of a dozen feet could mean death, if you landed wrong. Ashby didn’t care much for gravity that couldn’t be turned off.
As they rounded a corner, a homestead appeared, built on a flat outcrop. A tall sheet metal fence surrounded all but the overhang, protecting the building within. The skiff passed through an automated gate, and the homestead came fully into view. It had been constructed, in part, from a small cargo ship, grounded forever. A drab dwelling was conjoined at its side, like a bulbous sprout unfolding from an ugly seed. A receiver dish was stuck atop the roof, alongside a blinking light meant to shoo away flying vehicles. A safe distance from the homestead, two delivery drones rested on their launch pad. There was an industrial, fortress-like quality to the place, but there was something endearing about the all-too-Human workmanship.
“Home sweet home,” Bear said, parking beside a second skiff. “Let’s get inside. Oh, you can take your masks off out here. There’s a shield covering everything within the fence, and we fill the pocket inside with breathable air.” He slipped the mask from his face. “Ahh. That’s better.”
Ashby unfolded himself from the back seat. Sissix groaned. “My tail’s asleep,” she said, wincing as she flicked it from side to side.
They followed Bear to the front door of the homestead. Ashby noticed a huge trash bin beside the building, so full that the lid was bulging open. He squinted. Atop the mechanical junk was a piece of some sort of organic husk, brittle and translucent. It reminded him of the insect casings he’d seen in Dr. Chef’s kitchen trash. Only bigger. A lot bigger.
“Wow,” said Rosemary, looking up at the homestead walls. “Did you build this place yourself?” Ashby doubted that she’d ever seen a modder community firsthand. In some ways, he found it sweet that the galaxy was so new to her. Sweet, and a little sad. He was glad he hadn’t grown up that sheltered.
“Most of it, no,” Bear said. He pressed his mechanical palm into a panel on the wall. The entry door slid open with a thunk. “My brother and I — knock off your boots, please — bought this place about five years back. That’s what, uh…about three standards? Or something? Never can remember GC time. Anyway, it belonged to an old comp tech who decided — oh, you can hang your masks on the rack here — she decided to go live closer to her grandkids. Since there was already a workshop and lots of storage space here, wasn’t much we needed to add, just the launch pads and the receiver dish, a few comforts here and there — ”
“Hello!” Another man entered the room. His uncanny resemblance to Bear made it unlikely that he was anyone but the aforementioned brother. His skin was likewise covered in dermal ports and tattoos, but his hair was tied back, his beard neatly combed. He wore a tasteful buttoned shirt over his creased pants. An optical plate covered his right eye socket. The surface of the scanner embedded within it glistened, like the inside of a shell. He, too, was armed, but his weapons were more subtle: twin energy pistols, holstered in a vest. He carried a scrib as well, held close to his side as if he had just stood up from reading. There was a distinctly academic air to the man. Ashby could tell right away that he was one of the more bookish modders, the sort who reveled in knowing obscure data and the history of invention.
“Nib!” Kizzy cheered, running in for a hug. “Oh my stars, how are you?”
“I’m very well,” Nib said. He did not return the hug with as much gusto as Bear, but the smile on his face showed a degree of fondness equal to what his brother had displayed. “You’ve been away too long.”
“Seriously.”
“What, no hello for me?” Jenks grumbled.
Nib peered all around the upper edges of the walls in an exaggerated manner, then looked down to Jenks. “Oh, hey, Jenks! Didn’t see you down there!”
“I hear that a lot from dipshits who shoot their own eyes out,” Jenks said with a grin. Both men laughed. Ashby blinked. He’d never seen Jenks react to jokes about his height with anything but silent, unnerving disapproval. Nib had clearly earned a few points with Jenks in the past. But Ashby also noticed that the exchange had left Bear unamused. It seemed the scruffy man wasn’t fond of making fun of friends.
Introductions were made and hands were shook. They followed Nib out of the front hall and into a common room. Ashby smiled the minute he walked in. He had been in homes like this before — sturdy, ramshackle dwellings made from whatever a few hard-working pairs of colonist hands could scrounge up. Cheap faded tapestries covered the walls, barely hiding the industrial sheet. Mismatched chairs and sofas were stuffed into the room, all angled around a pixel projector (that, at least, looked new). Pixel plants sat in the windowsill and hung from the ceiling, their digital leaves curling hypnotically, as if they were breathing. Ashby’s grandmother had owned pixel plants like that, cheerful and homey. The air flowing through the ceiling vents was clean and cool, but there was a lingering scent of stale smash smoke — soot-like, woody. Behind one sofa was a workbench, covered with hand-labeled jars and boxes. Some room had been cleared on the bench for a pitcher of mek, a bottle of berry fizz, and several glasses. Alongside the refreshments lay a partially constructed mech arm.
“That’s the project that will never end,” Bear said, noticing Ashby’s gaze. He raised his own mech arm. “This one’s fast, but it can’t lift as much as I’d like. That one there’s a prototype. I’m trying to create the perfect blend of physical strength and fast reflexes.”
“Good luck,” laughed Kizzy. “You only get one or the other.”
Jenks leaned toward Rosemary to explain. “If biotech signals go too fast for your nerves to process, the rest of your body doesn’t know to brace itself for the weight. You’ll tear your muscles to shit that way.”
Bear frowned at the prototype. “But there’s got to be a way around it.”
“You pull it off, you’ll be the richest tech in the GC,” said Jenks.
“I don’t even care about that,” said Bear. “I just want to be able to throw a ketling bare-handed.”
Kizzy, Jenks, and Nib laughed. Ashby started to ask what a ketling was, but Nib spoke first. “May I offer anyone something to drink? Haven’t got much, I’m afraid, but friends of Kizzy’s deserve as much hospitality as we can give.”
“That’s very kind. I’ll take some fizz, thanks,” Ashby said. His nose was already warming to the aroma rising from the mek pitcher, but he didn’t want to get too relaxed
. He was here to buy equipment, after all. Laziness and credits rarely mixed well.
The front door thunked open as Nib distributed drinks. “Hey!” a female voice called from the hallway. She sounded young. “Are they here yet?”
“We are here!” called Kizzy. “Hello, sweet face!”
“Hi!” said the voice.
“Hi!” said Jenks.
“Wait until you see what I just bagged. Hol-ee shit — ”
“Ember,” said Nib in a voice that could only belong to an older sibling. “Whatever you’ve got, do not — ”
“I’m not bringing it inside, dumb ass. I hit its goo sac. Leaking green shit all over the place. Come on out, you’ve got to see this.”
Bear and Nib looked at each other. “Dammit, we talked about this,” Bear said, already on his way out the door.
Nib sighed and handed out drinks. “Our sister has a penchant for seeking out trouble. Especially if it involves ketlings.”
Rosemary beat Ashby to the question. “What’s a ketling?”
“Come on,” Nib said. “Bring your drinks, I’ll show you. And, ah, I hope you’ve got strong stomachs.”
They went outside, safe behind the shield’s breathable boundaries. The body of a creature lay in the dirt, motionless within puddles of its own fluids. Over it stood a rifle-wielding young woman — or was she a girl? Ashby couldn’t say. She couldn’t be any older than twenty. Unlike her brothers, she had no visible ports or implants. Her long curly hair was wild as Bear’s, and her face was pretty in a hard sort of way. Her arms were toned and muscular, her skin dark with sun. Ashby wasn’t sure that he’d ever been that fit.
The creature, on the other hand, was silent and terrifying. It reminded Ashby of a grasshopper, if grasshoppers had needle-like maws and angry ridges across their backs. Layers upon layers of sharp-edged wings lay in a broken heap. Its legs were contorted and broken, some of them curling inward at rigored angles. There were thin hairs around its mouth and beneath its belly, which somehow made Ashby shiver more than any of the rest of it. The pillow-like sac beneath its jaw wasn’t exactly leaking, as Ember had said. More like gushing in slow motion. Sticky, oily, sour-smelling green gunk pooled around the thing’s nightmarish head.
The Long Way to a Small, Angry Planet Page 19