“Why would you think that? And why would you care?” They didn’t answer immediately and he straightened his shoulders, on the verge of getting up, despite what protocol seemed to demand. “I don’t see what I have to do with your political dealings with my father or the Hub. If you’re curious about me, fine, but I don’t appreciate being gawked at. Or interrogated.”
He pointedly didn’t look at the Caste Master.
“Your father is serious about this peace,” the alien said through Musey, “to allow his son onto this ship.”
Ryan heard his own quiet intake of breath. None of them seemed to breathe, but they were alive. He was alive, in that hyperaware state of acute fear. He almost felt all the tiny, individual hairs on his arms, or the soft touch of alien air across the skin of his face and the backs of his hands.
“And are you?” he asked, as level as he could. “Are you serious about this peace?”
“You’re here,” the Warboy said. “Unharmed.”
The tea churned acidic in his stomach. He swallowed. But he held the stare, thinking of his father and the gamble that he’d made.
On his son’s life.
And the Warboy smiled.
The clustered cups in the center of the dark table made up the petals on a white porcelain flower. No more tea and no more conversation. Ryan stood with his hands behind his back, clenched together as he watched Musey say good-bye to the Warboy and the Caste Master.
It was a brief few words in that songlike language to the Caste Master, but the Warboy got an embrace.
He tried not to be shocked, seeing Musey engulfed by that assassin. No words were said between them, they barely looked at each other. But the embrace was solid and close, and Ryan didn’t miss the way the Warboy’s fingers briefly gripped Musey’s back before sliding away. There was something almost regretful in the gesture.
Musey let go and turned away, and walked right by Ryan with barely a glance. No cues except the direction of his stride and Ryan had no choice but to follow.
No lingering good-byes or thank yous for him. Were all symps this abrupt?
By the time they hit the station deck outside the Warboy’s ship, his breathing had fallen to a more natural rhythm.
“Thanks for that,” he said. “I won’t sleep for a week.”
“They weren’t going to hurt you,” Musey said, in a subdued tone.
“I didn’t know that.”
“Your father did.”
“I’m not my father. Or you. All I know about them is what I hear on the Send.”
Musey paused on Macedon’s ramp and looked at him. “Precisely.”
“Do you love him?”
That scored one on the symp. A high score. For an unguarded second Musey’s eyes seemed to be as transparent as shallow water. But they hardened with the swiftness of habit or practice, and he said simply, “Yes.”
Then he continued through the airlocks without a backward glance. “Tomorrow we begin your training. You can find your own way back to quarters.”
He did eventually get back to his father’s quarters. And sat on his rumpled bed staring at nothing before realizing that was what he was doing. He was surprised Musey had admitted what he had; he was surprised he wasn’t throwing up in the bathroom after walking on that alien ship.
He leaned over to the comm and punched in Sid’s code. Sid was in training but Ryan interrupted him anyway.
“I just came back from the Warboy’s ship,” Ryan said.
Sid said, “What the hell?”
“My father’s doing. Musey took me. I’m alive.” He thought about Silver, but it slid away like a tide. “I feel weird. It was weird.”
“Did they hurt you?”
“No. They just asked questions.”
When he shut his eyes he saw the Caste Master’s black stare.
“Ryan, I’ll quit this and come see you. Where are you, in the captain’s q?”
“No, don’t do that. You’ll get in trouble.”
“Hell with it.”
“Mom would kill me if she knew. She didn’t want me going near them.” So naturally his father put him on their ship.
“They didn’t touch you?”
“No, I’m fine.” Now he felt silly. Even though his gut still prickled as if a tiny army were marching in there. Would they want to see him again? Meedees would kill for the opportunity he’d had, and here he was spinning out about it. “Look, I’m just going to take a hot shower or something. Crash out.”
“I’ll be there.”
“To watch me shower?” He could joke. “Why, Mr. Sidney. I do declare.”
“Ryan.”
“I’m over it. It happened. They didn’t do anything and we’re in peace talks, right?”
“Don’t dive into your father’s booze.”
“I’m comming out now.”
“Just reassure me—you were polite, right? We aren’t at war again?”
He disconnected, and laughed, and felt better despite himself. Which Sid had always been able to do, even from a distance.
That late blueshift, after dinner with Sid, he sat cross-legged on the couch in his father’s quarters, in his sleep clothes, and practiced his guitar. He could lose himself in it. He was rusty but his fingers remembered the frets, and after a few minutes he picked up a quiet melody from memory, hummed with it since he was alone. He was halfway through the song when the captain came in.
His father saw him there immediately, and his weary expression eased out, a visible relief. “Don’t stop on my account,” he said, shutting the hatch. “I’ve never heard you play.”
Ryan shook his head. “I only play alone.”
“Why?”
He shrugged. “What does it matter?” Especially to you.
“Why wouldn’t it matter? I’m curious.”
His father went to the kitchen, sliding his comp onto the counter. He spun the cold rack slowly until he met a bottle of whiskey, then dislodged it. He took a small glass from the washer, poured a shallow bit, and sipped.
Ryan said, “Like you were curious to see if the Warboy would kill me when you sent me on his ship?”
If that registered anywhere in his father, the man didn’t show it. He just came to the chair across from Ryan and sat rather heavily, said, “You weren’t going to get killed.”
“If they wanted to get back at you, I was right there. Isn’t that everybody’s fear? I can’t believe you’d risk me like that. Why am I even on this ship? I could do fine on Austro under those conditions.” He set the guitar aside and unfolded from the couch.
“Ryan, they weren’t going to hurt you. Jos took you over there—”
“Jos is one of them.”
“Do you really think so? Now that you’ve spent time with him? Don’t fall back on the lazy answers. Or the preconditioned ones.”
He went to the kitchen and scrounged around for snacks. It gave his hands something to do and gave him some distance from his father. “He’s one of them. I’m not saying he doesn’t like it on your ship, but his heart is with the Warboy.”
“Then why do you think he’s chosen to stay on Mac?”
“As a spy, maybe?” Wasn’t it obvious?
“Do you think I’m that stupid? Now that I know where he grew up?”
“I think maybe you—” He found flavored crackers and took down the box from the cupboard.
“I what?”
He turned around, leaned on the counter and buried his hand in the box. “Why do you risk it. Why did you risk me? He could just have easily betrayed you. He’s done it before by working for the Warboy on this ship.”
“I know him. I’m beginning to know Captain S’tlian. Maybe more importantly, I’m willing to know them. And they’re willing to know me. That’s what it comes down to. You can’t trust somebody until you both start at that place.”
He stared across the small expanse in the quarters and into his father’s tired gaze. “Are we still talking about Musey?”
“I
thought we were talking about the peace negotiations, after a fashion.”
The captain was sly. Ryan ate a couple crackers. “Just being willing to know somebody isn’t the answer.”
“It’s where you start.”
“The person has to give something, then. Some show of trust.”
“Yes,” his father said. “So I let you go on that ship. I knew you weren’t going to be hurt because I trust Jos, and he trusts that I don’t let my crew kill him while he’s here.”
“Does he know you better than I do?”
The captain sipped his whiskey. “Better?”
“For him to trust you. He must know you. You must’ve told him stuff about you. Meanwhile I have to pry it from you like I’m a meedee or something.”
He wasn’t aiming for it, precisely, and maybe the captain really was exhausted to allow his expression to slide and reveal a sharp hurt. But like Musey’s habitual control, it was only a glimpse.
“What do you want to know?” his father asked, quietly.
Of course, now faced with it, he could think of nothing to ask. And after a moment the opportunity passed. His father took another sip of his drink and Ryan put away the crackers, and the silence bled between them like a slow reopened wound.
The captain had an early meeting again in the next gold-shift with Damiani and Grandpa Ashrafi. “She wants to meet S’tlian,” the captain said, “so she can ask him why he’s such a butcher of ‘loyal humans.’ Her words. Like that will ever happen while I sit at the table.” Musey took Ryan for breakfast in the mess hall. A silent escort. The hall was a wide gray room, furiously clean and noisily packed with crew at the beginning or end of their shifts. Clamped black tables and chairs and some benches lining the longer tables, scarred from use, dotted the floor in regular intervals, with the galley at the left and back of the hall. He sat across from Musey at an empty table as they both delved into a pretty decent serving of pancakes, potatoes, and peppered eggs. The non-meats, Musey said, were grown right here on ship in the bioengineering lab. The hall would be less crowded between regular meal hours, he said, but Macedon had round-the-clock food availability, unlike most ships. The cook wasn’t there in off-time, but pre-made meals were kept lidded and stored in cold cupboards and you could zap what you wanted, when you wanted it.
Food was a nice, neutral topic in a crowd.
“So my father’s rich,” Ryan said. “I didn’t think the military paid so well.”
“They don’t. He’s just smart and gets his cred by other means.” Musey watched his face. “Legally.”
“What about, like, what he confiscates from pirates and stuff?”
“He usually gives that to NGOs. Hubcentral looks the other way. Not that they could really do anything about it”
“NGOs.”
Musey said, “Non-governmental organizations—for humanitarian relief and aid. Especially the ones that take care of orphans.” Musey absently turned his cup around on the table. “Hubcentral has programs but… it’s kind of scattered in deep space and things don’t get addressed quickly.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“Well.” Musey didn’t seem surprised but he wasn’t going to harp on it. They were being civil.
Ryan looked at him when Musey was looking at his food and thought about what Evan had said. Falcone had picked Musey for a protégé before he landed a long-term gig with the strits, and then the captain. Musey was like this because he’d lived, so far, one hell of an unusual life.
Unusual to Ryan, at least. Maybe not so unusual for other deep-space kids. Musey was far from Austro, even though he kept the Austroan accent—for whatever reason. Maybe it was habit by now. Maybe this ship was habit for him, and that was why he stayed.
“Do you talk to my father a lot?” Ryan asked, watching the face for any hint of expression. Musey gave little, or maybe Ryan just didn’t know him well enough yet
“Lately, yeah. But I didn’t much before.”
“What do you talk about?”
“Ask him,” Musey said, shutting down that line of questioning. He stabbed his food.
Ryan moved on. “So what’re you now, if you’re not a jet—officially?”
“An LO.”
“Liaison officer.” Like Grandmother Lau.
Musey nodded and looked down at his plate again, moving the food around.
Ryan said, “Do you like it?”
He hesitated. “I don’t have to kill people.”
“What’s that like?”
Musey glanced up at him from under his brows.
Ryan said, “I’m sorry. I guess I’m just curious.”
“Yeah. You are.” He drained his glass.
Ryan looked around, saw some of the crew watching them. Partially hostile, partially curious.
“Evan said you were on a pirate ship when you were little.”
Musey took a deep breath. “Evan talks too much.”
“Are you and he like—” Ryan put two fingers together.
“No.” He shifted, looked over Ryan’s shoulder toward the door. “No.”
For whatever reason Musey didn’t seem able to even entertain the thought, but it wasn’t out of any kind of prejudice. Something about his expression said he’d find a discussion of girls just as uncomfortable. So Ryan changed the subject before Musey bolted on him. “Everyone’s afraid the striviirc-na will start encroaching on Hub space if we give them leave to travel our borders.”
Talking shop with Musey seemed a safe course.
“Yeah,” Musey said. “It’s stupid.”
“Why?”
“Because Niko’s fleet is the only thing that keeps Hub ships from their borders. Not to mention the pirates. They like us running around fighting each other too. If people like Damiani had their way, they’d own the stars all the way to Aaian-na. That’s the only way Hub humans wouldn’t see the strivs as a threat—if the strivs were beaten.”
“Hubcentral humans.”
“Yeah. But… even though some of the stations and colonies out here are on-line with your father, they’d just as well be on-line with a conquered alien world. Just as long as nobody fought anymore near their homes.”
“It’s a lot of old hatred. Resentment.” Ryan moved his eggs around. “And fear. You have to understand that. Doesn’t the—Nikolas—understand that?”
“Yeah, he does. Some sympathizers and strivs on their side aren’t for the treaty either. But he’s going to try. We have to try, at least Right?”
Ryan didn’t get to answer. A body shored up by his chair and a hand messed up his hair roughly. He dodged his head and glared up.
“Baby Az,” Erret Dorr said, smiling down at him, “look who I brung. It’s my new boyfriend, Maroon Siddy.”
Sid said, “In your dreams.”
“Too true.” Dorr laughed. “How’d you know?”
Hartman was there too, and Madison, still bruised, and even Aki Wong-Merton. They all seemed to know each other well, probably they were friends (amazing that Musey had friends on this ship), and Ryan found himself smiling at Aki as she took a seat beside Musey with her tray of food. She smiled back.
“Doc Mercurio misses you in medical. When are you going back?”
“When I’m forced,” Ryan said.
“Y’all are too glum,” Dorr said. “I saw this black cloud over yonder table and figured it must be Musey’s company. So I thought, Better bring over my bad self and my new boyfriend and lighten things up. You gonna finish them pancakes, Jos?”
“No,” Musey said, shoving over his tray. He looked put out by the crowd, but he seemed used to it.
“I’m not your boyfriend,” Sid said. “Give it up.” He sat beside Ryan and elbowed him in greeting. He didn’t seem damaged by his association with these jets. So maybe Dorr’s influence was considerable indeed. Or maybe Sid was actually teaching them a thing or two.
“Jets don’t give up,” Dorr answered. “That’s the diff between us ’n’ Maroons.”
&nbs
p; “That and your smell,” Sid shot back.
Their table got loud fast.
“He outnumbered and he still sassin’ us, Dette,” Dorr said to Hartman.
“Brave macaroon,” Hartman said, with a grin.
Sid winked at her. Aki was laughing, and Ryan thought it was amazing what a mouthy jet could do to a conversation.
“So what y’all bin talkin’ about that you look so unfunny?” Dorr asked.
“The war,” Ryan said. “Pirates.”
“Ah.” Dorr waved a syrupy fork. “Screw ’em.”
“I meant to ask you,” Ryan said, “what did that jet Sanchez mean about you being in my father’s bed?”
“Not what you think,” Madison said, inspecting his knuckles.
“I’m loyal,” Dorr said. “That’s what that mutinous punk meant. Don’t worry, I got my sights on him. You just stay out of his way.”
“Should’ve taken him out long ago,” Musey said.
“Every ship needs a few,” Dorr said. “Like dogs got fleas.”
“Mutinous, though?” Sid asked. “Isn’t that dangerous?”
“If he was real dangerous he wouldn’t be breathin’,” Dorr said.
“What do you consider real dangerous?”
Dorr smiled. “Me.” Then he shrugged. “Sanchez likes to spout. It lets us know what the less advanced crew might think and helps us keep tabs so if it ever gets outta hand we know who to boot. But his groupies ain’t as prolific as he makes it sound. Ships got hierarchies, mano. Politics. It ain’t only reserved for Hubcentral wanks.”
“Comforting,” Sid said, but his face said the opposite. “The captain’s going to deal with that, isn’t he?”
“Jetdeck takes care of jetdeck,” Hartman said. “But feel free to kick him, Maroon, if he crosses your path.”
“Yah,” Madison said. “Comm me and I’ll even help.”
“Ryan,” Musey interrupted, “why don’t we head to the shooting gallery?”
He understood why the captain hadn’t wanted him roaming jetdeck. It wasn’t because of jets like Dorr, who insinuated himself into your routine as if all the galaxy was a VIP invitation.
“Jos don’t like a crowd,” Dorr said. Teasing the symp.
“Not one with you in it,” Musey replied, standing. Dorr laughed and Musey tipped his chair back, a sudden movement that made the corporal grab the edge of the table in reflex.
Burndive Page 27