by Rob Boffard
“And you are?”
“Yes.”
Hannah can’t believe how angry she is. All at once, it’s not Anita in front of her, but Callie. Callie, and that unspoken judgement that Hannah is somehow less than her. That she has a plan, and Hannah doesn’t, and never will.
“I’m going to go back in there,” Anita says, “and I’m going to fix this. I’m not going to take orders from someone who—”
“Maybe it’s time we just let them in,” says Everett.
They both look at him. When he raises his face to them, Hannah can’t believe the sorrow and disgust she sees there.
“What do you mean?” she whispers.
“Let them do what they want. Torture him. Whatever. I don’t think they’d touch us. The captain … it was a heat of the moment thing …”
“They killed her,” Hannah says.
“They—”
“Killed her. Stuck a goddamn …” She has to pause as a hot, searing breath tears through her chest. She’s crying openly now, completely unable to stop it.
“Yeah.” Everett is nodding. “They did. But if it’s Corey, or whoever this guy is, then I choose Corey.”
Even Anita seems to be considering it. Hannah’s about to protest, about to tell them that they’re insane, when she stops. It is a way out. Shouldn’t they at least consider … no. No. The captain died to make sure nobody was mistreated on her ship – not even the enemy. If Hannah lets it happen, she’ll have died for nothing.
She turns, resting her forehead against the grimy, sticky wall. Every choice is bad, every single one, and she has absolutely no idea what to do next.
Chapter 37
The Red Panda’s pilot seat is the most uncomfortable chair Jack has ever sat in.
He thought the seats on the main deck were a pain in the ass. At least they had rounded edges, and decent legroom. Volkova’s chair, wedged into the centre of the horseshoe-shaped control panel, is like some sort of weird torture device. It’s canted back at a ridiculous angle, one he cannot change no matter how hard he pulls at it. The cushion barely qualifies for its name, worn through in a dozen places, the metal of the chair’s frame poking through it.
He doesn’t remember how long Volkova’s legs were, or how tall she was (a vision of her body under his jacket surfaces, and he has to close his eyes and shake it off). What he does know is that there isn’t nearly enough room for his legs under the control panel. His knees are jammed up against it, the stick poking up between them.
The control panel and the screens above it hold a bewildering display of information. What must it be like on a bigger vessel? Like on the cockpit of that Colony ship?
He straightens up, wincing as cold metal presses the back of his thigh through the thin fabric of his pants, and takes hold of the stick.
The Red Panda doesn’t respond. He pulls the stick up, down, jerks it left and right, but the pitch of the engines doesn’t change, the ship refusing to move. The view outside the cockpit is exactly the same as it was when he came in here: the smashed gate, the torn remains of the Colony ship, the distant, vast field of cold stars. The ghost-light from the Neb. The Red Panda’s drifted a little in the past few hours, but that’s all.
OK, no biggie. All it means is that the ship is locked in autopilot. He just has to turn it off.
He considers the screens – two enormous central ones, positioned next to each other, and four smaller ones on each side. Three of the screens are blank, and the rest feature a combination of colourful graphs, star maps and what look like the audio meters Jack once saw in a music studio.
The only one he can understand displays a schematic of the Red Panda, viewed from the side. Cockpit, main deck, galley – the bar, he supposes. Engine room. Nothing he doesn’t know already. The escape pod section is blinking a dull red.
“Systems resetting,” a voice says, nearly making him fall out of his seat in surprise. The ship’s voice is an Australian woman this time, her words crisp and clear. “System reset com-com-com-com-com-com-warning: kernel panic. System resetting. Please stand by.”
Jack waits for a long minute. Eventually, he says, “Hello?”
The Red Panda is silent.
Whatever he’s going to do, he obviously can’t depend on the ship to help him. Fine. Start small. He leans forward and taps the cockpit section of the schematic.
With a click, the lights around him switch off, leaving nothing but the glow of the screens. Jack jabs at the schematic, turning the lights back on, and realises he’s left a small smear of blood on the glass. It tapers like a teardrop, turned black by the backlight. Volkova’s blood. Jack shivers, wiping his hand on his pants. The ringing in his ears is back.
There: a menu option above the schematic, the words INTERNAL LIGHTING with a small up-and-down arrow next to them. Got you. He makes sure his finger is clean, then touches the words. A list of options drops down: TEMPERATURE, PA SYSTEM LEVELS, OXYGEN MIXTURE. Nothing remotely connected to actually flying the ship.
Jack closes the menu, sits back, looks at the other screens. He reaches towards one, a graph showing what looks like reactor temperature, then stops. His hand hovers in the air, then flops back down to his lap.
“Fuck,” he says. “Fuck shit fuck.”
This is all wrong. He has no idea what he’s doing. He’s much better on the main deck, where he can do … something. He can figure that out later. He starts to lift himself out of the pilot’s seat, his left knee stuck under the control panel, he has to pull at it to get it free, he –
“You in there, mate?”
Brendan’s voice comes from the passage. Jack shoves himself back down into the chair, so fast that he bangs his right kneecap on the edge of the panel. He grips the stick with both hands, telling himself to stay calm, wondering why he’s telling himself to stay calm.
Behind him, Brendan ducks into the cockpit. “Not a peep from down below. They may need a little bit of time to think it over. How’s it all going? You find anything?”
Jack blinks up at him. Brendan’s face is calm, his mouth crooked in a pleasant smile. His voice is completely neutral – like everything is under control, and this is just a minor hiccup. He sounds exactly like he did in the bar, early on in this insane shit-show of a trip, when he and Seema were telling him about their kid.
A frown is spreading across Brendan’s face. Jack makes himself speak. “Yeah, no, not yet. Just trying to get to grips with the system.” He chuckles, without really knowing why. He keeps seeing Seema plunge her knife into Volkova’s neck, and keeps hearing Brendan’s words: Might I remind you that the contract was nearly complete?
“I was thinking,” Brendan says, leaning in close. “Maybe we can force them out of there.”
“Force th—”
“The folks in the engine room. What about if we lowered the oxygen? Nothing crazy, just make it a little uncomfortable for them.”
“Way ahead of you,” Jack says, the lie spilling out with remarkable ease. “I already looked. But you can’t lower it beyond a certain level. There’s a failsafe, I think. Something like that. The system just gives me an error message.”
There’s a second where he thinks Brendan doesn’t believe him; that he’s going to demand proof, or pull Jack out of the chair. Before he can process the thought, Brendan grimaces. “Makes sense. Maybe there’s a way round it.”
Jack nods. He’s gripping his shirt again, has to make himself stop.
“We should look for somewhere to go, too,” Brendan says. “Seema reckons there must be other places round here? Places they weren’t telling us about. Another gate, maybe.”
He leans over Jack, reaching out for the star map, spinning it with a finger, tapping on a green blob. The action makes it bigger, and an info box pops up alongside it. BISHOP’S STATION, it reads, listing a whole whack of data: frequency ranges, trading status, last known dock capacity.
“That,” Brendan says. “Can we get there?”
“Um …” Jack tries to
focus. “It’s … thing is, it’s a way away.”
“OK?”
“Like a hundred light years.”
Brendan puffs his cheeks. “All right, man, keep looking. Seems and I are still working on the trapdoor. We’ll get it open, don’t worry. Then we can talk to whoever this bastard is.”
He smacks Jack on the shoulder again. “The key is to never give up. No matter how bad things get, you just gotta soldier on.” He turns to go, ducking his head as he reaches the exit.
“What’s the contract?” Jack says.
Brendan turns back, a pained look on his face. “Ha. Yes. Did kind of let the cat out the bag, didn’t I?”
“You and Seema aren’t … you aren’t married?”
Brendan smiles, and it’s warm enough to almost stop Jack’s heart. “Course we’re married. We’re working professionals, who happened to enjoy each other’s company enough to tie the knot.”
He makes his way over, sitting on the edge of the control panel. He’s too big for the space, and has to bend at the waist as he looks deep into Jack’s eyes. His metal arm gleams in the cockpit lights. “Admittedly, most people in our line of work don’t actually marry, but it’s not unheard of. You work that closely with someone for long enough, and you usually find you’ve got at least a few things in common. I know Seema can be a bit intense, but she’s a sweetheart once you get to know her.”
“… Line of work?”
“Yep.” Brendan scratches the back of his neck, the smile still on his face. “In this case, our work brought us into contact with a certain fellow on Sigma, name of Barrington Wallace.”
Jack blinks. Barrington Wallace. He’s heard that name before. Where has he –
“The bartender,” he says, more to himself than to Brendan. In his mind, he can hear Volkova’s voice – the very first time she came over the Red Panda’s speakers, before all this shit kicked off.
After your tour starts, our staff member Barrington will be happy to serve you a range of bev … oh, sorry, I just looked at the staff roster and he didn’t come in for work today.
“Mr Wallace owed a lot of money to quite a few people, back when he wasn’t Mr Wallace. I can never remember his original name – Simon something. Anyway, fancied himself a bit of a businessman, back on Mars. Lots of bars, restaurants, multiple locations. Even franchised to Proxima, I believe. Extended himself quite a bit, and, of course, the banks will only let you borrow so much before they start to ask some fair questions about when they’re likely to get a return on investment.
“Our Mr Wallace couldn’t afford to let the operation fail, so he borrowed from people he probably would have been better off avoiding. Got himself in pretty deep there, too. Seema and I were contracted to ask some fair questions of our own. The people who hired us … well, let’s just say their response to insolvency isn’t just a bankruptcy chit.”
Jack’s stomach feels leaden. “You killed him.”
“Ha!” Brendan barks the word, loud enough to make Jack jump in his seat. A metal strut jabs into his side. “I didn’t do a damn thing. It’s like I said – I’m just the researcher. I find out where and when, do all the legwork, handle the necessaries and the logistics and the wherewithals. Everything I’m good at. Seema …” He grins with pride. “Well, like I told you. She’s an artist.”
Their cute nicknames pop into Jack’s mind. Pooka. Cushla. Did they call each other that on the job? While they were …
Seema’s hand, slashing upwards almost too fast to track. The spray of blood, the knife buried in Volkova’s neck.
Brendan lifts his metal arm. “You wouldn’t think it, would you? Our line of work, big fella with the cyborg arm probably does the deed, doesn’t he?”
He leans in, as if confiding in Jack. “Truth be told, damn thing’s useless in a fight. Too slow. Seema’s the one with the skills. Don’t get me wrong, I can handle myself in a scrap. But I really did lose it in a bike crash on Mars, although it was more a chase than a race. Anyway, as it turned out I’m much better at more, shall we say, deliberate persuasion. Like we planned to do with our man down below.”
He drops the arm. “Anyway, we didn’t exactly plan to get on the same boat that Mr Wallace was due to tend bar on. Truth be told, we’d’ve headed back to the gate the second Mr Wallace left this mortal coil, if we’d had any choice in the matter. But there wasn’t a shuttle ’til later, and it was either do something with our time or just sit in the bar, getting plastered. Couldn’t do that, much as I wanted to. The job ain’t over ’til the completion fee hits our account, and I wasn’t gonna let us slip. Not on this one.”
It’s all Jack can do to follow the story. He has the strangest feeling: that if he reached out to touch Brendan, his hand would just pass right through. Like all of this is happening in his head.
“So,” Brendan continues. “We saw there was a tour going round the station, and thought we’d take in the sights. Keep our mind off things. Nobody was going to find Mr Wallace for a while, not after we were finished with him. Course, when I heard his name over the speakers, my damn heart nearly stopped.”
He puts a giant metal hand on the back of Jack’s seat. “I was hoping we could just keep this under wraps until it was all over. After all, it’s not like there’s much evidence left of what happened to our poor Mr Wallace, now, is there?”
Jack finds himself nodding. Brendan’s fingers tighten, creaking against the seat. Jack stares at them, wondering if Brendan is planning to grip his shoulder. He hopes he doesn’t. If it happens, if those long fingers touch him, he might go insane.
“I’m guessing you don’t actually have a kid, right?” he says, trying to make it sound like a joke. Like he’s down with everything Brendan has told him.
A very dark look crosses the other man’s face. “What is it with you? Just because we didn’t mention our exact line of work, you think we were lying about everything else? You think working contractors like us can’t have families? Yes: we are married, and, yes, we have a son. That’s God’s honest truth. I told you about our boy, didn’t I?” He frowns. “Although we did say he was staying with Seema’s folks. That wasn’t true, sorry, chap. I wouldn’t leave our boy with his grandmother if the universe depended on it.”
He leans forward, making sure to look Jack right in the eyes.
“Here’s the thing, though,” he says. “And I want you to understand this perfectly. Our last job didn’t go so well. Seema’s damn good at what she does, but she’s still human. We were at a job on Centauri-7 – simple one, quick in and out. Got discovered while we were working, by a security guard who changed his round for whatever reason. Had to take a piss or something. I don’t know. Before I could smooth the situation over, Seema … well, as you’ve probably realised, sometimes she does things without thinking.
“Anyway, after Centauri, there were questions. A trail back to us. Our bosses had to work pretty hard to cover it up, and they weren’t best pleased.”
He grips the chair a little tighter. “They’re … looking after Marcus. Pretty well, if the pictures they sent haven’t been faked. We only get him back if this next job goes smooth, and then our contract is complete, and the three of us can hightail it to Titan. Get out of the game for good. God knows, we’ve got enough socked away to not work for a while. But we get arrested, or if there’s any heat whatsoever, it’s over.”
His voice drops even further. “We are going to get out of here, we are going to complete our contract, and we are going to get our boy back. That’s the only thing that matters. Do you understand me?”
Jack tries to breathe, finds that he can’t. Brendan’s eyes shine with a kind of desperate madness, beyond that of a father separated from his son. It’s the madness of someone who knows that his options are dwindling, and will do absolutely anything to keep them open. How did Jack not see it before? Was he really that blind?
He finds himself nodding, and Brendan claps him on the shoulder, mercifully using his real hand. “Good man. I ap
preciate it. The Roses can be pretty rigid when it comes to their contracts. Just ask Mr Barrington Wallace.”
Then he’s gone, stepping back out into the passage.
Jack stares after him. His mind has been wiped clean.
Roses.
As in, the Roses Cartel.
As in, the people who put three bullets into Hector Alarcón’s spine, who crippled him, plunged him into a depression so deep that he never climbed out. The people who destroyed the only person Jack had ever really loved.
Brendan and Seema work for them.
Chapter 38
“What year is it?” says Corey.
Mal, who is just lowering himself to the ground next to his little brother, looks over, alarmed. “Cor, you don’t know what year it is?”
“I’m asking him.” Corey points to the soldier. His hand only trembles a little.
The pain is still there, but the meds they gave him have pushed it back, a little. Corey can’t help think of a big cat, a tiger or a mountain lion, maybe one of the hybrids they saw in the Austin GeneZoo that one time. For a while, the cat had him, its teeth ripping and tearing. Now, it’s in the long grass, hidden but still very much there, stalking, waiting for its moment.
He’s not all the way better – he’s not going to be solving maths problems, or anything – but at least he can think again, and understand what’s happening. Sort of. Even if he doesn’t dare look at the bloody, shattered mess of his leg.
The prisoner’s eyes narrow a little at Corey’s question. He says nothing.
“I said, what year is it?”
“He knows what year it is.” Mal activates his holocam, the display springing to life. “Come on. Let’s just watch some movies or something.”
Corey ignores him. “I get you don’t want to tell us about yourself. But what year do you think it is, right now?”
The man’s voice is hard-edged. “Why?”