Ryan kept his eyes tightly shut. If he woke up his mother would want to talk to him and it might get loud. So he lay still and quiet and slept some more, for the last time that shift, in the absolute silence of a small room tucked inside a large, motionless ship.
Ryan vaguely heard someone from the intercom announce dock break, a voice from on high, but he didn’t feel anything, doubly cushioned by alcohol and grav-nodes. He wasn’t going to feel anything when the ship eased its way from dock and out of the station vicinity, he knew that much. So he floated, thirsty and tired, half in memory and half in denial that he was actually lying on his father’s bed, strapped down like a child. Then later, when his bladder was beginning to send up alarms, the same woman announced the imminent leap. The drives screamed, violent. It reverberated through his veins.
Suck.
Push.
Inhale.
It suctioned his insides to his skin and he blacked out.
He woke up to find himself free, with a mighty pain in his gut and the urge to wet the bed. He scrambled to his feet, banged a shoulder against the tower drawer, and tilted to the bathroom, half-blind from headrush, past his father, not even sliding the door shut.
Ah, sweet relief.
No sooner was he done with one end that he dropped to his knees and threw up. The sound of it hitting the insides of the toilet made him retch the more until his lungs, heart, and stomach throbbed with pain. His throat burned, it was all over his mouth, down his shirt. He gripped the stainless-steel rim, fingers cold, eyes shut tightly. Tears streamed and he thought of blue skies and green fields.
Blue.
Skies.
Green.
Fields.
He coughed, his nose running by now. You pathetic sack of shit, get up.
But he didn’t want to move.
He’d done this to himself. He was just doing it all to himself.
The sick was all over his shirt like the blood had been.
He didn’t hear his father approach, just felt the hand land lightly on his shoulder.
He jerked away, yanked free some tissue paper from the wall attachment, and wiped his mouth, struggling to his feet with barely enough room to maneuver because his father didn’t back out. The toilet flushed with a roar as soon as he let it go and moved away. “You want to watch?”
“What made you drink before a leap, Ryan?”
He waved on the water in the sink. It tasted metallic but he swished and spat anyway, and splashed his face.
His father offered a towel.
Ryan snatched it. “What do you want?” The fast movement forced him to lean on the sink. His eyesight dimmed, then cleared, and for a second he caught his father’s eyes in the mirror.
He looked away when the captain said, “We’re at the Persian Gate. Shower and get dressed.”
The door slid shut.
It took several deep breaths and more cold water on his face to settle his insides. It was temporary. He tried to clean up the mess and halfway through he had to spill again. Every orifice seemed to revolt on him for what felt like hours. Half crying, half retching from the sight of his own vomit, finally he was sucked dry. Empty. Shivering. He wanted to die, the ultimate cop-out in the midst of physical misery. The bathroom tiles were smooth ice under his feet. He would lie down on it if it wouldn’t make him sicker, or make him remember waking up in another bathroom with a different kind of pain.
Everything seemed far away, even his hands as he mopped and scrubbed. He found antiseptic spray in the cabinet and used that until he started to sneeze from the sharp scent.
Then he stripped off his clothes, dumping them on the floor. He’d find an incinerator later.
In the narrow shower stall he peered at the water selection pads, leaned one hand on the small tiles and waved at the sensors with his other hand to get the right temperature and strength of spray. It was an older system and took more movement to get the proper combination. The sudden blast of cold water on his body scared the cobwebs from his mind and a few profane words from his mouth. With his teeth chattering he balanced it out and straightened up under the little waterfall, wiping his hair back, then grinding the heels of his hands into his eyes.
He could stay in here forever. He wouldn’t have to go out and talk to his father or deal with this ship or anything.
He leaned in the tiny space for long minutes, nearly falling asleep standing up and with his eyes open. Colors seemed a little off, washed out, and his chest burned. But it was a lot better than just an hour before.
Eventually he came out feeling half human, at least, and hungry. Amazing that food entered his mind.
He was going to have to face his father. Part of his brain was still in that bathroom, even back on station. It felt like someone else’s hands dressed him. Underwear, pants, hooded sweater. One leg then the other. One arm and then the next. It made him feel ten years old.
He put one cold hand in his pocket and pulled the screen aside with the other.
Sid was in the outer room talking to the captain.
Plates of noodles and dumplings sat on the kitchen counter, keeping warm on zap burners. His stomach growled, loudly, announcing him before he got out a word.
“It’s alive,” the captain said, standing by the counter, shooting him a glance. “Here, eat something.”
“Hey,” Sid said, straightening from where he leaned against the sink. “You look awful.”
What had they been talking about? Sid showed no scars so he supposed it was civil. Of course the captain didn’t let on whether he knew about Sid and Mom Lau, he just picked up his plate and went to his couch and sat, where glasses of drinks stood waiting. Water.
Ryan followed Sid to the cushioned seats, with his food, eating the little dumplings on the way. His tongue got scalded but he didn’t care. His gut eased, surprisingly. And he didn’t trip.
“Don’t do that again,” the captain said. “We’ve got another leap to ride and it’ll be rougher if you don’t recover now.”
He didn’t trust himself to talk just yet. If he started he might not stop, might even start yelling that he hated it here already. And that would make a scene and Sid would kick him, so better to be quiet.
The captain hadn’t taken the bottle from him until it was nearly empty, until he knew Ryan was drunk enough that he could wrestle it away. The man must have known what was going to happen and made Ryan endure it.
Meanwhile Sid and the captain both looked like they’d had a nice stroll through a sunny park. No half-lidded eyes, no shaking hands. It was worse because Sid was a dirtsider. That put Ryan to shame.
“What’d you do?” Sid said, not seeming particularly surprised, whatever the answer.
Ryan turned his shoulder to him. He cleared his throat, soothed it with water. “So how long are we at the Gate?”
“An hour or so,” the captain said. “Corporal Sidney’s had a tour of the ship so he can show you around.”
Be the shadow, the captain meant. After the vodka fiasco he was going to get escorted everywhere.
“Sir.” Sid grinned a bit self-consciously. “One commando tour certainly won’t save me from getting lost.”
“I have faith in your ability to keep your bearings.”
“We can drop breadcrumbs,” Ryan said.
His father ignored that. “Until we get back to Chaos Station and you can begin your training, it might benefit both of you to explore together. My people have assignments and no time to baby-sit. I trust you won’t be planting bombs on our drive towers.”
Ryan wanted to pretend he hadn’t heard all of that. But Sid said, “Training, sir?”
“Yes.” The captain sipped his water, said almost offhandedly, “All the crew are required to go through jet recruit training, so you know the protocols in the event of an attack. Since you obviously have experience in some areas it might seem redundant, but you’ve never served on a ship and there are procedures specific to a ship environment.”
Sid nod
ded like he understood.
Ryan said, “I don’t have to do that. Do I?”
“Yes,” the captain said. “You do.”
“I don’t want to.” He’d seen enough vids of military training. He knew that he didn’t want some tall-brawn to verbally abuse him while kicking him in the arse.
“Ryan, you of all people would need this training. You have no military experience whatsoever.”
He set the plate on the table. It made a clatter. His hands were sweating, more aftereffect from the leap, he had no idea. “There’s a reason for that. I’m not a soldier. I don’t want to be a soldier.”
“You’re on my ship and that’s the rule. What good would it be if something happened and someone put a rifle in your hands and you didn’t know what to do with it?”
“So when you invite dignitaries on board you make them do jet training?”
“No, because their stay is temporary.”
“Mine’s temporary.”
Sid said, “Ryan.”
“No,” the captain said, eating with perfection, as if they sat around a formal dining table. “Your stay is more than temporary.”
“I’m not living here, sir.”
“We had this discussion on Austro.”
“We didn’t have this discussion. You just ordered us about like a bunch of slaves!”
“Indeed?”
Something in his father’s tone made him stop, lose thought.
“Ryan, this isn’t the worst place you can be, it’s just a place that won’t put up with your attitude or your demands. I know you understand why you’re here. The only reason you’re chafing about it is because you won’t be able to run Corporal Sidney in circles or sneak off from your mother and sail.”
He had a knife in his hand. He thought about it, a flight of fancy. “You don’t understand a thing.”
“Indeed? Enlighten me.”
Sid was watching him with a face that said, Shut up now.
He stared into his father’s eyes, a jumble of words in his head. Accusations. Assertions. But they died where they were, at the tip of his tongue.
“Yes?” the captain said, with a straight dark gaze.
Ryan blinked, looked down at his glass, and picked it up. Wishing it were vodka and all of this be damned.
“Never mind,” he said. “Just—never mind.”
The meal didn’t last long after the argument so Sid took him down to jetdeck. Sid’s quarters were there and Ryan asked to see them, screw restrictions. He wanted to be away from his father. Sid didn’t argue with him and hadn’t opened his mouth much in the captain’s quarters either.
Jetdeck seemed exactly like the command deck and maindeck to Ryan’s eyes, except noisier, somehow darker with the profusion of black uniforms and baser languages. The people here were all jets, as far as he could tell, and they all made rude sounds at Sid as they passed. The jets called him Marine Boy and Sweet Thing, and one jet said, “Show me how to gloss those shiny boots.” Word had spread, evidently. Sid ignored them. Left without a response, the jets focused on Ryan. Just staring, which was creepy enough.
Their progress halted as black uniforms clogged the corridor outside of what looked like a lounge. Ryan caught a glimpse in the room of round tables and couches and a gaggle of more uniforms playing sim games, talking and eating snacks. He and Sid edged past the doorway, not very far before they were stopped by three male jets who slid from the group and quickly maneuvered them into the center of a uniformed triangle. The other jets gave these ones room in the corridor. That couldn’t be good. Ryan felt Sid’s hand touch the middle of his back, signal to keep his mouth shut.
“Excuse us,” Sid said to the lead jet.
The man had long black hair tied back at the top, making his broad forehead and angular eyes look vaguely foxlike. He bared straight white teeth at them in a friendly smile, though his eyes didn’t change from their flat appraisal.
“A Marine,” he said, looking over Ryan’s head. “I swear, Bucher, first it’s a symp, then a little pirate, and now this ferry fleetman. Our ship is really sinking lately.”
Jets didn’t like Marines, or at the very least they saw them as poorer cousins. One of the jets behind them answered, “Maybe we need to vent some of this refuse.”
If Sid couldn’t say a word without getting hit, Ryan knew at least they wouldn’t touch him. Not their captain’s son. Right?
He glanced at the lead jet’s namepatch. “Maybe you need to get out of our way, Sanchez.”
“Marines,” Sanchez continued, ignoring him, “do nothing but sit their asses on stations playing dominoes while citizens get attacked by strits. Ain’t that right, ferry fleet-man?”
This sounded more like a grudge than a teasing superiority. Ryan said, “What’s your bone? And why’s it stuck up your arse?”
“Ryan,” Sid said behind him.
“Yeah,” Sanchez said. “Keep Cap’s litter out of this.”
That went one step too far. He’d had it with this ship. He kicked at the jet’s knee, fists raised to balance and on their way to a few punches.
But Sanchez moved surprisingly fast and grabbed the front of his sweater.
An arm came down between them—Sid’s. His body-guard had dodged to Sanchez’s flank and elbowed the jet into the bulkhead, freeing Ryan to the middle of the corridor.
Sanchez’s two buddies burned their way between him and Sid with hot words and fiery fists. A hand clamped on his face and pushed him against the bulkhead. He saw a blur of Sid’s back struggling between Sanchez and one of the jets before the third jet hauled him around, warding off his wild blows with calm, dismissive slaps. He just grabbed a fistful of uniform sleeve before something seized the back of his sweater and yanked him nearly off his feet and out of the way.
It wasn’t any of the three enemy jets. He spun in time to see a blond figure breeze by him and attack Sanchez’s ally with brutal speed. The jet went down to his knees with a yelp of pain, holding his ribs. That stopped the other two as if someone had pressed the pause button, with Sid locked between them disheveled and white with anger.
The blond one—a jet, judging by his black attire and the Corps patch on his arm—stood with his back to Ryan. He said in a low conversational tone, “Sanchez, mano, you must be mad-crazy to let your puppies lay their paws on the captain’s son.”
Ryan felt someone encircle his upper arm with long fingers, turned and saw the blue-eyed female jet who had escorted him from the residence. The blond one was her companion from his father’s escort, and they were both now in uniforms.
All of the other jets in the corridor had cleared a space five meters on either side of the scuffle, and none of them spoke.
Sanchez said, “Junior’s all right. It’s his leash getting in my way.”
“Let him go,” the blond jet said, no longer conversational.
“Or what?” Sanchez’s lip curled. “Cap put this fleetman down here, what’d he expect?”
“Maybe to test you, not him,” the blond said, and stepped closer.
Sanchez released Sid abruptly and the blond jet paused. Sid turned to Sanchez, but Ryan said, “Sid.”
Sanchez’s buddy—Bucher, his patch said—had a hand resting somewhere at his backwaist and the air in the corridor suddenly seemed to drop a few degrees and become thin.
Sid walked by Bucher, then the blond jet, toward him. Ryan recognized the look on his face; he’d seen it in the polly precinct. He didn’t realize he was holding his breath until Sid came up to his side and he released it at the same time the female jet let go of his arm. Sid was a much more welcome presence at this proximity.
“What’re you going to do, Dorr,” Sanchez said to the blond jet. “Tell on me?”
Dorr reached inside one of his cargo pockets, in no apparent hurry. In a couple seconds he held a burning cigret between his fingers. “I don’t gotta waste words where you’re concerned, mano. My gun’ll speak for me.”
Sanchez’s smirk didn’t quite
reach the corners of his mouth. It died as his eyes shifted on Dorr.
“Good-bye,” Dorr said.
Whatever threat the slighter, paler jet posed to Sanchez must have been enough, or maybe even considerable; Sanchez gathered his flock around him and brushed past their group without another comment. The other silent, gathered jets in the corridor made way for him, then started to disperse as Dorr turned around, grazing his eyes upon them all.
Quite suddenly he smiled at Ryan, blowing out a fast stream of pale smoke. His deep dimples were incongruous to the hard steel of his eyes. “Baby Az, you look like crap. Didja have a rough leap?”
Dorr saved them from a beating so felt free to take liberties with his name?
Sid said, “We appreciate the help, but Ryan and I didn’t come aboard to get harassed by some gym class bullies. If those three get in my way again, I will kill them.”
“That’s fine, Maroon,” Dorr said, with a shrug. “Sanchez can afford to be brought down a few pegs.”
“What’s his problem?” Ryan said.
The woman jet went around to stand beside Dorr and casually lifted his cigret from his fingers and took a puff before handing it back. Her name patch said Hartman and Ryan wasn’t sure, but her rank insignia might’ve indicated an officer. “Sanchez’s always been a little stiff. It got worse since the war got suspended.”
“He’s got a thing against strits and symps,” Dorr added. “And pirates. And boys in blue like you, Maroon. And maybe even pets and old people, who knows. He just all around angry.”
They seemed to find it more amusing than threatening. Sid said, “Why isn’t he kicked off this ship by now?”
“Well he might be soon,” Hartman said, glancing once at Ryan.
“I won’t cry if he was,” he answered.
“I can report on him,” Dorr said, “if I felt like it. But it’s better to leave jetdeck to jetdeck. Cap’s got enough to worry about. Besides, I’d rather Sanchez and his cronies where I can see ’em, or at least spy on ’em. Where’re you two off to, anyway? I heard Baby Az ain’t supposed to be down here.”
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