“Speaker Greeve?” He raised his voice in question, but the AI had to have already alerted him.
“I am.”
“Welcome aboard the Taso, Speaker. Your room is 293-B, just down the hall and to the left, then right. Would you like me to take you there? You are the last of our expected arrivals, and we will depart shortly. I can also take your bags.”
Biran hefted his thin duffel against his shoulder, having forgotten about it. “No, thank you. Which way to the bridge?”
He tapped a few things on his wristpad. “You’ll find I have linked the ship’s AI to your wristpad. You need only press the ship icon in the lower left corner, and tell it where you’d like to go. Visual maps are available, or vibrations—one for a right turn, two for a left.”
“Thanks.”
“Have a wonderful day, Speaker!”
Biran pretended to fiddle with his wristpad as he turned away, not wanting to be rude, but wanting more than anything to escape the awkward small talk that’d come next. He wondered if the man knew they were a rogue ship, running away from exodus. The call hadn’t gone out to the general populace yet. Would Lavaux warn his staff that he risked trapping them behind the destruction of the gate?
He stopped midstep. He ran that same risk. Being left behind, while his fathers escaped to a future he’d never see. There’d be thousands of years of travel between them. But Lavaux wanted to find that weapon. And if he succeeded, then Okonkwo might abort the isolation. And, as Lavaux had said, there was a strong possibility they would postpone the exodus if half the Keepers were missing. He had to take the chance.
The door to the bridge swished open. Biran stepped into a semicircular room, acceleration chairs oriented toward a forward display split between route charting and a view of Keep Station’s dock and surrounding space. Crew members were hard at work, going through the run-up checklist to take off. Lavaux, sitting in the captain’s seat with its carapace of undeployed evac pod around it, had his head bent to one side, focusing on a stream of data flowing past his monitor.
Biran stowed his bag in a cargo net, Velcroed the top to secure it, and approached an acceleration couch against the back wall of the bridge. Three people were already strapped in, leaving three empty spaces. Biran almost sat himself on the far end—he wanted to be alone with his thoughts—when he recognized the faces of the others.
“Keepers Garcia, Vladsen, and Singh,” he said as he approached, plastering on an easy, well-isn’t-it-funny-to-run-into-you smile. Lavaux hadn’t been kidding when he’d said he’d gotten other high-ranking Keepers on board. This was most of the Protectorate. “I hadn’t expected to see you here.”
All three heads whipped around to regard him, but it was Singh who found her voice, heavy with parental mock concern. “Speaker Greeve. I’m afraid you’re going to miss your shuttle to Atrux.”
“Piss on each other later,” Lavaux said without so much as turning his gaze their way. “And strap in. The window is closing. We leave now.”
“Biran!” a familiar voice called from across the bridge. “Over here.”
He turned, and his stomach dropped straight through to his feet. Anaia sat on the acceleration couch across from the elder Keepers, her slim, strong body strapped in to the cushioning foam. Ignoring the derisive snort from Singh, Biran hurried over to Anaia’s side, jaw clenched as he stifled an urge to shout at her.
“What are you doing here?” He tried to keep his voice to a whisper but ended up hissing out the words.
“What?” She looked up at him with a fake innocent expression. “You think you’re the only one of our cohort who thinks the exodus is bullshit? I want to find this weapon, Biran. I don’t want our people running scared.”
“You were safe.” Nausea made him feel too light. “You were scheduled to ship out to Atrux.”
“So were you,” she said with a voice like steel. “Now sit before Lavaux shouts at us.”
Biran strapped himself in, trying to breathe easily as the harness adjusted to his height and weight, cinching him in tight as a boa constrictor. He tried to tell himself that his decision was already made, that everything after he stepped onto that gangway was just academic, but he couldn’t shake the feeling he could change his mind. That if he was fast enough, if he was brave enough, he could rip off the harness and spring through to the dock, dragging Anaia with him. Could get on that shuttle in the morning and meet his parents again in Atrux.
The Taso’s crew began the slow chant of warm-up back and forth to one another, checking and rechecking diagnostics as the great engines purred to life. He couldn’t hear them, but a subtle vibration massaged his backside. All the creaks and groans of a ship preparing for takeoff pinged through the deck. Each complaint of metal made Biran’s skin prickle, but the crew didn’t seem concerned. As long as no one on deck was panicking, everything was normal. Just another flight.
The big screen flickered, and the director’s weary face stared down at them. Biran simultaneously tried to make himself small while forcing himself to look confidant. Like he belonged there.
“Keeper Lavaux,” the director droned—his voice thin, exasperated. He knew where this conversation was going, and that he had to go through the motions first. Biran wondered if he welcomed the distraction from what was to come. “The docks are on lockdown, as I’m sure you know. While the Taso is your ship and not under my jurisdiction—as I told you earlier—the space it is currently residing in is under my control. Kill your engines and stay put while the guardcore come to escort you all off board.”
“Director, with respect,” Lavaux said, reaching down to flick a button on his console. “I’ve found this station rather cramped as of late. I’m going for a stroll.”
“Keeper Lavaux.” The director’s expression darkened. “Be advised that acting in direct opposition of an order from myself is considered treason. Ada is under martial law. You, and those on board your vessel, will be subject to arraignment if you persist in this fool endeavor.” He leaned forward, as if talking to an intimate friend. “You leave tomorrow, Lavaux. You were not scheduled to stay behind. Don’t do this. Don’t force Okonkwo’s hand again.”
“I force what I like,” he snapped. “And you—and Okonkwo—are acting irrationally.”
“You don’t have the authority to do this.”
Lavaux’s smile raised hairs across the back of Biran’s neck. “I have all the authority I need.”
“Your wife is on station. The guardcore have already collected her, and if she knew anything about this—”
“Rainier can take care of herself, as you well know. Don’t worry, old friend. I’ll see you both soon.”
“Lavaux—”
He pressed something, and the director’s image disappeared. A cold fist gripped Biran’s belly. That was it. That was the point of no return. On the couch, Anaia grabbed his hand and squeezed. He squeezed back.
“Sir,” a woman working the forward control panels said, “guardcore scuttles are incoming.”
“Get us out of here as quickly as possible, Pilli. Try not to engage, but hit them with our wake if you have to.”
“Understood, sir.”
Biran closed his eyes as the ship pulled away from the dock, the full force of the engines spooling up sending the vibrations straight through to the roof of his mouth.
A soft drone, something more warm and harmonic than the rhythm of the ship, pierced Biran’s silent litany that this was the right thing to do. Under her breath, Anaia prayed for all their souls.
CHAPTER 33
PRIME STANDARD YEAR 3771
DAY THIRTY-EIGHT MIGHT PROVIDE
A week later, Bero entered the weak orbital pull of the Farion station an hour ahead of schedule. On her HUD, the entry plan Sanda had worked up with Tomas ran through simulation. They would not separate, just in case the station was so degraded that injury was possible. Doubled, always, twin green dots that represented them moved through a rough outline of the station.
As soon as they’d gotten within scanning range, Bero analyzed the station’s layout and adjusted their maps to match. Turned out Tomas’s guesses were dead-on. She wasn’t sure if that inclined her to trust him more, or less.
The blips stopped, having completed their digital circuit. She ran the simulation again.
“We will be within range in twenty minutes,” Bero said.
“Seen enough?” Tomas asked. They floated on the command deck, feet looped into the ceiling grips to keep them from drifting away. His crummy haircut looked even more ridiculous in zero-g. His lifepack hulked above his shoulders, his helmet tucked under one arm. He’d gone through the plan on his own, running the simulation over and over again on the smartscreens in his cabin. His lips were quirked, a little hint of amusement she found both attractive and irritating.
“No. Not until this is over. We have no idea what we’re walking into out there.”
He shrugged. “An abandoned spy station. Nothing too spectacular. Sure, it’s been a while, but Icarion builds their tech to last.” He gave Bero an admiring pat on the ceiling.
“That was their plan, but you haven’t seen the patchwork fixes I’ve had to do for Bero. No offense, buddy.”
“The integrity of my systems is a known state. A simple statement of fact cannot offend me.”
Sanda shared a look with Tomas, and said, “Being offended by facts is a long human tradition.”
“I’ll pass on that one,” Bero said.
Tomas cracked a grin and laughed. “Does he know he’s being sarcastic?”
“Do you know I can hear you?”
Sanda snorted and set to rechecking her gear while the ship and Tomas ribbed each other mercilessly. Wasn’t much different from her time on a gunship. Their easy banter had a greater soothing effect on her nerves than hours of meditation ever had. The gibes felt warm. Like home. A weird home, maybe, but home all the same.
“We are within range,” Bero announced.
The chuckles fell silent. Without a word, Sanda and Tomas checked each other’s suits over for failure points, then seated their helmets and allowed Bero to run systems diagnostics. Everything was green, and they were still forty minutes ahead of schedule. She hadn’t been in such a hopeful position since the day she woke in Bero’s medibay.
“How’s the leg?” His voice was scratchy through their comm link. Tomas reached to pat her calf as she pulled herself toward the airlock and missed as she floated by, accidentally patting her natural, fleshy, hip. The touch was a shock, but not an unpleasant one. She heard a soft beep as he adjusted something, then repeated himself in smoother tones. Apparently they were just going to ignore that slip. Better for the mission. Probably.
“The leg is stable, so far. Fills out the suit better. It’s nice not to worry about snagging the ’Flex on metal fittings.”
“I can’t believe you were taking that risk.”
“I had a lot on my mind.”
He fell silent as they opened the ’lock and pulled themselves inside. Tethers attached, systems still green, she waited impatiently for Bero to depressurize the ’lock, gaze fixed hard on the percent bar filling steadily toward all clear. A strange mix of excitement and dread roiled in her belly.
Tomas’s knowledge of the station was probably their best shot at survival—if it housed anything they could use. Chances were good, but the threat of disappointment loomed in her shadow, nipped at her heels. She’d promised Bero her protection, and Tomas’s easy charm reeled her into him. Could she really space someone she was coming to think of as a friend?
She’d made harder calls on gunships. It was the emptiness of space that was getting to her, clouding her mind with false intimacy between the two humans left within light-years. Bero’s safety, and her own, came first. Tomas may have kind eyes and a nice chin, but he was a spy. All his easy camaraderie could very well be calculated.
Dios, but this isolation had turned her into a madwoman. Tomas was a dubious sort, she had no doubt of that, but he wasn’t evil. Some aspects of a personality were just too hard to fake. She squared her shoulders. She had a mission to lead. They’d be okay. She’d make sure of that.
The bar filled green and the ’lock door opened, the subtle pull of Bero’s ship against the absolute stillness of space pricking at her limbs. With a swimmer’s ease she checked her tether, checked Tomas’s, then hit the airjets and kicked off.
Farion-X2 loomed before them, bright against the low-albedo backdrop of the moon for which it had been named. She tore her gaze away from the great mass of Kalcus hulking to her left and focused on the airlock door sprouting from one spoke of the wheel-shaped station’s center. It turned, lazily counting down the years until it finally lost momentum. Space wasn’t so empty—Bero’s propulsion system was proof enough of that—but the bits of matter that filled it were very far apart. It’d be centuries before the station lost all of its spin, since the Icarions hadn’t felt compelled to stop it before abandoning it. Maybe they’d planned on spinning it back up again.
Maybe there were bodies in there, waiting centuries for discovery.
“Looks like we’ll have some gravity,” Tomas said.
“Wish we didn’t. Evac pods are heavy.”
He grunted agreement, and in the corner of her HUD a skeleton render of Bero’s robotic arm stretched into the black, settling itself into their best-guessed position for the cargo bay. By the time the arm was situated, they reached the airlock. Sanda grabbed an exterior handhold, removed her tether, and hooked it onto the handle. Tomas mirrored her on the other side of the door.
A keypad gleamed at them. Radiation had bleached the paint, but carved grooves in the metal revealed the numbers.
“Bero,” Sanda said, “can you—”
“No need,” Tomas interrupted. He dialed, too quick for her to follow, and a pale green light flashed. “Nazca, remember?”
She couldn’t see his expression through the glazing on his faceplate, but she didn’t need to. That smirk was palpable.
“Cute. After you, spymaster.”
He drifted in ahead of her. She checked over the ’lock while the door shut behind them and old systems whirred into place. Sanda tensed, flicking her gaze constantly over the pressure readouts Bero fed to her HUD. Everything looked good. Nice and stable. But any misfire could blow them to bits. She flinched when the interior ’lock door swung open and scolded herself. Too much imagination for her own good.
Tomas went first, as they’d planned, so that if they happened across anything living, he could put his cover as an Icarion comms man to the test. They encountered no one. Just an empty deck, smartscreens dark, equipment stored away so that the whole place looked bare. The air recyclers must still work, because not a speck of dust had gathered. She wondered how long that would last, and just how clogged those air filters were. This was why Bero needed her. Without human hands, things break down. Dust gathers. And dust could mean death to any spaceship.
“Air looks breathable, pressure is good,” Tomas said.
Sanda flicked her gaze over her wristpad and nodded. “Agreed. Might as well conserve the lifepacks.”
“Don’t,” Bero’s voice held steel in it. She stopped halfway to reaching up to her helmet.
“Why not?” she asked. Tomas shrugged and pulled himself toward the first likely spoke.
“My scans might be incorrect. And atmosphere can change from one room to the next. You said yourself these lifepacks will last for days of use.”
It’s dangerous out there. The words echoed behind Bero’s authoritative statement. He might be right, but she could sense threads of paranoia lurking in his words.
“Sounds wise,” Tomas said over comm. “What do you think, Sanda?”
She pulled herself up the ladder after him, feeling a subtle Coriolis effect shift the water in her belly. She swallowed faint nausea. Half-spun ships were worse than no grav at all. “Agreed. There’s no reason to take an unnecessary risk. Let’s sweep this place and get out.”
>
The first chamber was comprised of sleeping cabins. They’d planned on just passing by, but with an extra forty minutes to spare Sanda couldn’t resist. She flipped every single mattress.
“What are you doing?” Tomas paused and crossed his arms.
“You’ll see. I’ve learned something about these Icarions while on Bero. Ah-hah!”
With a triumphant flourish, she peeled a duct-taped bottle of Caneridge rum from the bottom of the mattress. “Told you. I’ve found two of these suckers in Bero. It’s gotta be an Icarion fleet affectation, but I’m not complaining.”
“Nice to see where your priorities are,” he said, but couldn’t hide his amusement over the comm.
“Thank me later.”
She shoved the bottle in her equipment pack and bounded out after him. The next hab was given over to the residents’ daily work, and Tomas made a quick survey of their equipment before coming up swearing. “None of this works anymore. Pulled all the power cores before they left.”
“Probably feared them expanding, or corroding, and ruining the systems. Don’t sweat it, it’s not like we have anyone to talk to.”
He stiffened so hard she thought she could see the tension ripple across his shoulders. “Maybe now, but we’re going to want a way to initiate contact once we get in range of Atrux.”
“Bero can handle that.”
“That’s not something we can rely on,” he said in a soft, grinding tone. Despite his annoyance, he bundled some of the equipment into his pack. They approached the cargo bay in the next spoke.
Tomas punched his number into the door, and it dilated. After a careful prod of the smartpad, yellow-white lights burst into life all throughout the largest of the station’s habs. Sanda caught her breath.
“Pay dirt,” Tomas said.
Anchored to mag pallets all across the empty floor of the hab were stacks and stacks of supplies. Screens affixed to each cube lay dark, and she licked her lips in anticipation of reading the manifests those screens held. Food. Weapons. Repair equipment. FitFlex and other clothing. Maybe, if they were very lucky, evac pods.
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