Burndive

by Karin Lowachee

  “Ryan,” his father said, behind him, coming closer.

  “What.” He got the screen open.

  A hand touched his shoulder. “Here.”

  He turned around.

  His father pulled out a pair of tags from his pocket, looped on a chain. “These are for you.”

  They didn’t have his face on them but they had the contact pads. Ryan took them and put them in his pocket. “Sid’s tag signal, what is it?”

  His father didn’t break a neutral expression. “VT002. Mine is AZOl.”

  “Right.”

  “I’d like us to have lunch. If you want. I’ll try to keep my head shrinking to a minimum.”

  “So after my physical I’m just going to hang around here.”

  He wasn’t sure which was worse, the frustration, anger— or hesitance he now saw in his father’s eyes.

  “You can comm your mother. Maybe check out the library. Or the school. Now that we’re in dock I think they have classes every other shift, on the training deck. The info would be in the ship’s intranet. I’m not telling you what to study but at least have a look around. Pick whatever you want. We’re linked with Austro University.”

  He glanced up, conscious of how close—too close—the captain stood. “You don’t have to pitch it to me, I get the idea.”

  “Ryan, just try. That’s all I’m saying. And please stop eating, the doctor will want a blood test.”

  “Yeah.” He picked at the crust on his toast.

  “You can ask anybody for directions or call up a map from your slate—I loaded the info. Try not to hang around jetdeck or anywhere that’s under major construction. I’ll see you for lunch? Twelve-hundred?”

  “Where?”

  “I’ll comm you.”

  Yeah. Now he could be tracked through the tags.

  He wasn’t expecting it so he couldn’t dodge when his father swiftly put a hand in his hair and half tousled it, half caressed it. By the time he opened his mouth to protest or raised a hand to shove away the touch, the captain was gone.

  The ship was silent. In dock, in a room encased on every side and locked in by a hatch, the only sound was the chewing noises in his head and his fork against the plate, scooping up scrambled eggs. Physical be damned; he was hungry. He studied the stainless steel and his deformed reflection in the tines, sitting on the bed with the plate in his lap.

  Even now, even here, his thoughts slid back amid silence, to Earth.

  The embassy.

  The Dojo.

  The embassy.

  Blood and bodies layered in his mind like distorted harmonies.

  He got up, went back out to the kitchen and dumped his plate in the washer, drained his glass of juice and grabbed the first liquor bottle on his father’s shelf. Just poured a shot and downed that, enough to make his throat burn and his eyes water, forcing his thoughts to the immediate physical buzz.

  He wandered around until he found the play unit embedded in one wall near the couch set, then went back to the bedroom to dig into the drawer where his father had packed away his non-clothing gear. He took some slip music back to the player, fed the chipsheet into the slot and upped the volume until sound bounced from the walls and he could hear it even in the bathroom.

  Loud music in a mesh of beat, riffs, and ambient thrums.

  He took a long shower, waving the cycle three times. Sanity in the mundane. He sang with the music and upped the body dryer until he felt chafed and warm enough to fall back into bed, clothed loosely, under the sheets and almost out. He had a half hour before Musey was due.

  But the music cut off.

  So much for oblivion. Silence always brought him back.

  Then the comm beeped.

  Maybe a cancellation. Maybe, in his dreams, it was his father saying, Take the rest of your life off.

  He stretched and poked the incoming light on the bedside table, got it the first time. “Yeah?”

  Sid said, “Good morning.”

  Not his father and no such dream. He rolled over to his stomach and leaned up on his elbows. “No mornings on a ship, Sid. Especially not good ones.”

  “What, did you wet your bed again?”

  He snarled. “Aren’t you supposed to be in training?”

  “I’m going, I just thought I’d see if you were alive since you never commed back last night.”

  Night. Sid’s dirtside talk, which had infected his own vocabulary after months on planet. You could take the boy off the planet, but couldn’t take the planet off…

  “Didn’t my father tell you that symp didn’t kill me?”

  Silence.

  Maybe a little guilt—on his part. Come to think of it. So he added, “Sid, um, thanks for getting in his face. You didn’t have to do that.”

  “You could’ve told me that earlier.” The joke covered it, but he heard the de nada beneath.

  “I feel so illicit talking to you. Hey, think we can start an affair? What’re you wearing now?”

  “I’m tapping off, you sick little pus.”

  “Have you talked to Mom?”

  A beat. “No… I don’t think that would be appropriate. Besides, the link IDs on outgoing comms are archived. I don’t think your father would… anyway… no, I haven’t. Have you?”

  “I’ll comm her after my visit to the torture chamber.” He couldn’t believe he was saying this: “Do you want me to tell her anything?”

  “Ryan, you don’t have to.”

  “I’m asking, Sid.”

  “Just tell her I…” He cleared his throat. “That I miss her. Thanks.”

  “Okay.”

  “Now get off the bed and do something constructive today.”

  “I love it when you order me around.”

  The connection broke.

  He smiled. Then he pulled out his tags from his shirt, separated one and inspected it. Four rows of doubled-up numbers and letters and a thin input display. He tapped in VT002 with the edge of his fingernail.

  “Sidney,” came the voice, all Marine-like.

  Ryan said, “I was just testing it out. My father gave me tags.”

  “What’s your number?”

  “Oh, this will make our affair so much fun.”

  An exaggerated sigh. “Ryan, I have to go.”

  He looked down at the tag and squinted at the small display. “It’s VT001. Hey, a pattern.”

  “I think it stands for Visitor Temporary.”

  “That’s good to know.”

  “Just because it says so doesn’t mean it’s true. I’ll see you later, maybe for lunch? It doesn’t look like they’ll be breathing down my neck… the SJI already told me she only wants me for the evaluations and shipboard training. I guess talking to the captain did help.”

  He wondered if his father had issued that order after breakfast. “SJI?”

  “Senior Jet Instructor.”

  “That sounds worse than Sympathizer Musey. Or maybe not.”

  “Lunch, Ryan?”

  “The captain already shanghaied me for lunch. Dinner?”

  “All right.”

  “Oh, yeah, did you get a chance to comm your Maureens on Austro? About Tyler?”

  Sid smiled; Ryan heard it in his voice. “Yeah. Check the SendTertain a little later, hopefully there’ll be some breaking news.”

  “You’re my hero.”

  “Good-bye.” Then, “Don’t get into trouble.”

  “On this ship? Nah.” He broke the connection before Sid could, just to irritate him, and barely slid himself off the bed before the hatch beeped. For a second he thought it was the comm again, then remembered Musey.

  The symp was fifteen minutes early. Of course.

  Ryan took his time getting to the hatch.

  Musey stood outside in his black shirt and pants, looking almost like a jet, and Ryan wondered if that was on purpose.

  “Let’s go,” Musey said, turning his shoulder.

  “I have to put on my shoes.”

  The symp lo
oked back at him with a barely tolerant frown. Ryan left the hatch open and went to the bedroom. When he came out with his shoes, hopping one on, Musey was still in the corridor.

  Poke the symp and he might tip right over.

  Ryan got himself in order and stepped out, pulling in the hatch. He didn’t miss Musey’s eyes going up and down on his less-than-ironed attire.

  “I’m not crew, remember?” he said as he followed the symp toward the lev.

  “What?” Musey said.

  “The way I choose to dress. I don’t have to be one of Macedon’s clones.”

  “I didn’t say anything.”

  “I saw you look.”

  For some reason that seemed to unsettle the symp. He stared straight ahead and palmed the lev call a few times as if that would hurry it. “I really don’t care how you dress, but I guess it’s a priority with you.”

  It sounded like a topic Musey didn’t want to talk about, so Ryan pursued it. “Nothing wrong with taking pride in your appearance. Where do you buy your clothes from?”

  “What?”

  “Your clothes. You know, these things we wear on our bodies.” He tugged Musey’s sleeve.

  Musey moved his arm. “I don’t know. Some store. On order. On station.”

  The symp spoke as if the words were in another language.

  “Are you really from Austro? Because I don’t know a single Austroan that doesn’t like to spend cred.”

  “I’m not.”

  Musey folded his arms and looked at the lev doors as if willing them to open. Ryan watched the side of his face, where the bruises showed.

  “Then why do you have an Austroan accent?”

  “I learned it.”

  “Why?”

  Musey breathed out and turned to him. His eyes were a cold blue, the pupils tiny pricks of black under the bright corridor light. “I’m taking you to medbay. That’s all you need to know about me.”

  “What’s the big damn secret? I already know you were a spy. It can’t get any worse than that. So did you learn an Austroan accent for, like… spy work?”

  Musey didn’t answer.

  Ryan took that as a yes. “What’s your real accent like? Where were you born?”

  “Why are you so curious?”

  It was beginning to be fun, provoking this symp. “My father wants us to be boyfriends.”

  Musey stared at him. The look was worth any grief Ryan might get later. The lev doors opened with a clatter and a man and a woman stepped out, but Musey didn’t move and they had to edge around him. Ryan laughed and went in.

  “I’m joking. You heard of jokes, right?” The longer Musey stood there, the louder Ryan laughed.

  The symp walked in and told the lev, “Maindeck.”

  “You thought I was serious?”

  No answer.

  “Damn, you’re funny. No wonder people love you on this ship. How do you stand it?”

  Still no answer.

  “Did I really offend you? A symp?”

  Musey faced him, slowly. “And how many ‘symps’ have you met to warrant that tone?”

  He almost didn’t speak. But Musey wouldn’t hurt him. He relied on that clear fact. “One, counting you. But so? What you people do is all over the Send.”

  Musey had no reluctance to talk now. “Like the fact you pushed that woman into the cross fire? That’s all over the Send too.”

  “Nice to see you keep up with my life.”

  The lev doors groaned open and Musey went on ahead. “What you do affects the captain.”

  He followed. “What I do?”

  Three people passing in the corridor looked at him. He’d been kind of loud. Nobody said anything and their faces ranged from vaguely interested to mildly annoyed. They transferred those looks to the symp.

  Musey said, “Yes. What you do and say within earshot of others.”

  “I’m not the one pissing off govies.” He tried to pay attention to where he was going, but after turning a second corner he just gave up.

  “Govies are easy to piss off,” Musey said. “Just puncture their pride.”

  “Were you the one who got my father and the Warboy together?”

  Musey stopped outside of wide double doors, transparent and probably impact resistant, judging from the faint scuff marks on the thick surface.

  “You’re here,” the symp said, and didn’t even pretend that he didn’t want to answer that question. “Don’t skip out or Doc Mercurio might comm the captain, and since we’re in meetings for a couple hours he won’t appreciate being called out.” Then he just walked off.

  Ryan watched him go. He didn’t look back. Alone now in the air-cool corridor, arms tucked against his chest, Ryan tried not to feel abandoned. It was silly. He didn’t care for the symp’s company, much less his approval, and it wasn’t like the captain had ordered his son into some experimental procedure. It was just a standard physical and he wasn’t going to be a baby about it

  Even though none of the faces in the medbay, as he peered through the doors, were familiar. Nor was the room itself inviting at all. It was sterile white, littered with examination tables that had probably seen more than one violent trauma, and used-looking, dragontine equipment with various pointy extensions that he didn’t care to identify. Some units were folded up near the ceiling, others positioned in close proximity to the tables. Everything in the trauma bay was more imposing than any doctor’s office he’d ever been in on Austro.

  The clientele of his family physician could afford private consultations and velvet treatment above and beyond what was covered by the station health care system. Here the purposeful, gray-clad medical staff that moved from one room to the next, cleaning or carting medical instruments, seemed like the type of people who made you sit in chairs for two hours before hustling you through your near-death experience.

  Ryan turned around to walk off—he had eaten this shift when he shouldn’t have, after all, and surely they couldn’t conduct a proper examination because of that—and bumped straight into that jet, Dorr.

  “Baby Azzz.” Dorr grinned. “You ain’t boltin’, are you?”

  Behind Dorr were two other men, both beat up. One was Sanchez.

  Ryan wondered if Dorr had done that.

  “Go on in,” Dorr said.

  So he was caught. He wished Sid were here, if only to ward off Dorr’s innuendo, because he wasn’t sure he wanted to put up with it after going a verbal round with Musey. If Dorr pushed him he might retaliate and end up bruised like Sanchez and the other jet limping behind him.

  Ryan turned around and went through the doors, which slid aside as soon as he touched them. No threshold to watch for at least, but he couldn’t stop there. Dorr put a hand on his back and propelled him forward.

  “Yo, Aki! I brought you a present.”

  A dark-haired girl emerged from behind a curtained space at the corner of the room, holding an injet.

  Ryan let his arms drop. He hoped this gam wasn’t going to do his physical. The thought alone made him embarrassed.

  “A present, Erret?” she said, approaching with a rather distracting smile.

  “Baby Az. Cap’s kid. Meet our mainstay, Aki Wong-Merton, Medic Extraordinaire.”

  Aki laughed. “You need more drugs or something, Corporal? I told you, I don’t prescribe for chronic psychochondriacs.” She spoke to Dorr but her eyes went to Ryan.

  He smiled. She was cute, large-eyed and golden-skinned, and he wasn’t stupid.

  She returned the look, but didn’t seem fooled. “Didn’t Dorr tell you? I don’t deal with the sassy ones.”

  “I haven’t said a word.”

  “No,” she said, still grinning, “but your thoughts are loud. Why don’t you go sit on exam four, over there? I’ll comm Mercurio while I deal with Dorr’s daisies.”

  “Daisies,” Sanchez said. “This bastard Madison got in the way of my fist, is all.”

  “Boys,” Aki said.

  Dorr said, “Plug it, mano, befor
e my foot gets in the way of your face.”

  Ryan counted four tables from the door and went to it before a fight broke out near him and he got caught in the cross fire. He didn’t care if this was the right spot or not and nobody else seemed to either. Aki pointed Dorr and the other soljets—Madison and Sanchez—to exam one and two and ordered them to sit. Madison was taller than Dorr, lankier but muscled, and sounded too laid-back to be much of a threat except to simple tasks. But his knuckles on both hands were branded by black prison tat lettering (if some of Tyler’s vids were accurate about that culture), and he wore the same emblem patches on his rolled-up uniform sleeves as Dorr. So they must have been in the same jet unit

  Sanchez, on the other hand, wasn’t. Although he seemed to be a higher rank judging from the number of stripes on his collar (barely noticeable as both were black), their arguing grew loud in a matter of seconds, with Dorr the loudest. Aki had a difficult time treating the scrapes, and some of Sanchez’s ribs seemed to be bruised judging from his reactions.

  It didn’t stop him from yelling back.

  “You know, Dorr, I’d like to see how behind the peace treaty you’d be if you weren’t warming the captain’s bed while he’s rolling in another with the strits.”

  Both Dorr and Madison reached for Sanchez, shoving Aki out of the way.

  Ryan slid down from the table, fast, not quite believing what he just heard or what he was seeing. Aki got between Dorr and Sanchez—brave or stupid—but she avoided a fist from Sanchez’s direction and retaliated with a quick jab. Right to Sanchez’s ribs.

  That stopped him. He yelped and doubled. She spun to Dorr and shoved him into Madison until they were both up against the examination table.

  “One more swipe out of either of you and I’ll confine you to quarters. All of you. No gym, no training, no lounge. Reason of mental instability. You think I’m joking?”

  “What do we need to train for anyway?” Sanchez wheezed. “We’re bending over backward for the Warboy!”

  “You better train if you wanna walk jetdeck,” Dorr said.

  “Potty train your mouth while you’re at it,” Madison added.

  Ryan said, “What’s your problem with the captain?”

  They all looked across at him.

  “Stay out of it, kid,” Dorr said. Not a shred of humor in his voice.