Vega rolls her eyes and groans. “Not this again.” She offers me the tea, but I don’t take it. She takes a sip for herself and shudders at the bitter taste. “Let’s make a deal. I won’t ask you about your defection if you stop trying to convince me IA’s corrupt.”
“I have a better idea.” I shove the rest of the food at her. “Let’s not talk at all.”
The journey to Phobos is long and boring. We don’t have the fuel resources to jump to hyperspeed or the intel to land on the forbidden planet, so Saint Rita uses the time to stock up and make the last of the repairs. We perform a series of miniature raids on smaller ships. After a week, I’m well enough to lead the raids myself. I throw myself into the work, eating painkillers like candy. I bring Vega along on all the raids, but I don’t talk to her. We’ve barely said a word to each other since our last conversation. When the captain praises my work for yet another raid, it’s a huge relief to know Vega hasn’t entirely screwed up my relationship with Saint Rita.
Though we’re making preparations, The Impossible’s course seems aimless. We’re heading in the direction of Phobos, but we can’t formulate a plan to land until we have IA’s intel. According to the rumor mill, the captain hasn’t come up with any back-up plans to access the information we need. Our Intelligence hackers have been working on Vega’s broken tablet without any success. The whole ship is in limbo. We don’t have a heading or a mission.
“It’s fucking weird,” Tariq mutters at lunch one day as Saint Rita strolls into the chow hall, fills her tray, and strolls out again without an announcement or a word to anyone. “The captain’s usually so involved with the crew. Why can’t she decide what she wants to do? I’m sick of waiting around.”
“If you’re smart, you’ll wait her out,” I tell him. I spear a couple of canned green beans. “She’s got something up her sleeve. She’s waiting until she’s ready to tell us what it is.”
“How would you know?” Vega asks. Once again, she sits beside me, but I pretend she’s not there. “You haven’t been called to her quarters in weeks.”
I completely ignore her, but Soleil sniggers on Tariq’s opposite side.
“Falling from grace, O?” she asks. “Even your girlfriend’s turning against you.”
“What girlfriend?” I reply.
“Ah, the old silent treatment,” Tariq says. He claps Vega on the shoulder. “We’ve all been there, Major. One time, O didn’t talk to me for three weeks, six days, five hours, and two minutes. All because I won her hand in a game of pirate’s dice.”
“You cheated,” I remind him. “And that crystal was expensive.”
“I did not cheat!”
“Whatever,” Soleil says. “I’m with Tariq. This mission is getting boring. If we don’t approach Phobos soon, I’m gonna take it up with the captain myself.”
I let out a snort. “Sell tickets, please. I’d pay to see that.”
“It’s your fault we’re in this mess,” Soleil continues. “If you weren’t so incompetent at handling your charge” —she throws a nasty look at Vega— “we would’ve been on and off Phobos before IA could notice. Not to mention the lost intel.”
“We didn’t lose it,” I snap. “We can’t decode it. Why don’t you blame Mauve or Roy for that one?”
Roy pauses with his tray of food behind me. He’s a tall, spindly guy with a widow’s peak and sharpened canines. “Blame me for what?”
“Nothing, Roy,” I say hurriedly.
“She says it’s your fault we can’t land on Phobos,” Soleil supplies. “She doesn’t think you have the skills to decrypt the information from IA.”
Roy calmly sets his tray next to mine and sits between me and Vega. There isn’t much room for him, so his face ends up uncomfortably close to mine. “You know what, O? There have been a lot of rumors going around the ship that you’re ready to throw anyone under the bus to save your own ass. It’s time you took ownership of your own faults. Hell, it’s time you helped the rest of the crew out for once in your life.”
“What do you want, Roy?” I say through clenched teeth. “Credits?”
“Nah, money isn’t my thing,” he says. “I want information, and so does everyone else. Tell you what. If you get the captain to tell us what her course is, I won’t blacken your other eye.”
I pointedly check out his skinny build from head to toe. “You don’t have the strength, pretty boy.”
Rage burns in his dark eyes, but he keeps it contained. “I’m not the only one dissatisfied on this ship,” he says in a lethal whisper. “A lot of the crew is sick of your act. Soleil can attest to that.”
Over his shoulder, Soleil smirks in affirmation. “It’s true. I’ve heard some things in the bunks, O. Everyone’s tired of Saint Rita playing favorites with you.”
“She beat the shit out of me two weeks ago,” I hiss. “How does that speak to favoritism?”
“You’re still First Mate, aren’t you?” Roy points. “Leading raids, taking all the best food for yourself, hanging out in your private bunk.”
“There are plenty of available rooms next to the weapons bay, Roy,” I say. “Feel free to take one for yourself.”
“You’re not grasping my point,” Roy replies. “Find out what Saint Rita’s planning or she won’t have a favorite First Mate to dote on.”
He pinches the tip of my ear hard enough to make me wince. I almost smack his hand away and punch him in the gut, but that’s asking for trouble. He picks up his tray and takes his leave. Soleil follows him, but not before gracing me with a rude hand gesture.
Tariq makes a face. “I hate to say it, O, but maybe you should do what he wants. I’ve heard some stuff too.”
“Like what?”
“Like what they said,” he replies. “The crew isn’t happy with life on The Impossible right now, and they’re blaming it on you. It can’t hurt to ask the captain what’s next, right?”
“Not you, maybe.”
He grimaces apologetically as he cleans up his tray. “Sorry, O. If you want my advice, you should get to the captain before the crew gets to you. Mutiny isn’t pretty.”
I hunch over my tray, alone at the table except for Vega.
“What are you going to do?” she asks.
“Shut up. You don’t exist.”
Precarious as my position is on the ship, I decide to bite the bullet and visit Saint Rita in her quarters. I lock Vega in my bunk and climb up to the top deck. Outside the captain’s rooms, the hallway smells like dirty laundry and leftover food. Right as I’m about to call in to her quarters, Dustin comes storming out.
“Yes, ma’am,” he says, performing an IA salute to a fuming Saint Rita. On The Impossible, an IA salute is the height of insult, and I can’t believe Dustin’s just done it to the captain. “Anything you need, Captain. Excuse me, Ophelia.”
Dustin brushes past me, nearly knocking me over with his girth. His eyes catch the reflection of the overhead lights, and I see the water waiting to roll down his cheeks.
“Captain?” I say. “Can I come in?”
Saint Rita beckons me inside. She’s wearing a short satin robe and nothing else. I’ve never seen her in anything but body armor, and I don’t know where to put my eyes.
“What is it, Ophelia?” she demands.
“I’ve never seen Dustin cry,” I say. “Is everything okay between the two of you?”
“Dustin confused our professional and personal relationships for the same thing,” Saint Rita answers. She picks a strand of Dustin’s hair off her robe and flicks it away from her like a piece of trash. “He’s pressing me for information on Phobos. I suppose that’s why you’re here as well?”
“Well, I guess I—”
Saint Rita heaves a dramatic sigh and flops onto the sofa. Her robe falls, and a clear path all the way up her thigh to her hip opens. There’s an open bottle of moonshine on the table and no glassware in sight. I stare at the ceiling. This is not the captain I’m used to.
“Ophelia, when y
ou reach a position of power like mine, you have to understand how lonely it is at the top.” Saint Rita reaches for the bottle of moonshine and turns it upside down. A single drop falls onto the tip of her finger. She licks it off. “Empty. Sad. Anyway, my point is you can’t trust anyone or rely on anyone. As soon as you do, they’ll take everything from you and you’re back to square one.”
“You’re not at square one, Captain.”
“I’m aware,” she snaps, sharp as a knife. She softens again, like melting butter. “I’m merely commiserating. Do me a favor, Ophelia? Bring me a snack cake.”
“You never eat snack cakes.”
“Are you disobeying a direct order from your captain?” She clicks her tongue. “My, my. Your behavior certainly is deteriorating aboard this ship.”
With a straight face, I dip into a little bow. “Snack cakes. Coming right up, Captain.”
Dustin waits in the hallway outside Saint Rita’s quarters. He accosts me as soon as I exit.
“Is she okay?” he asks, falling into step beside me. “What did she say?”
“She wants snack cakes.”
“I’ll get them.”
He almost jogs off, but I hold him back. “Dustin, maybe you should go back to your own bunk and cool off. The captain’s in a weird headspace right now.”
“But—”
“As First Mate, you’re obligated to obey my orders,” I remind him. “Unless you’d like Saint Rita to blow your head off with her blaster, because that’s where her frustration levels are at the moment.”
Dustin runs both hands through his thick hair, pulling it from the roots. “You’re right. I’m going. Take care of her, O.”
“I will.”
When he’s gone, I jog to the chow hall for Saint Rita’s snack cakes. Mercifully, it’s empty. Everyone’s sparring in the dojo or hanging out on other parts of the ship. I grab a few packets and head back up to the captain’s quarters. The door is open, so I walk in on my own. The captain is no longer lounging on her couch, but her voice floats from her private bedroom.
“Your inexperienced idiots nearly sacked my ship,” she hisses. The other end of the conversation is silent. She must be on a private call on her Monitor. “And your Intelligence operator is completely useless. You gave us a dud.”
A pause for reply.
“I don’t care,” Saint Rita replies. “We had a deal. I get Phobos, and you get your spawn back. If you don’t hold up your end of the bargain, I’m taking The Impossible back to Proioxis and blowing IA off the planet.”
8
“Vega!”
She’s already asleep, curled up in a little ball. When I yank her blankets off, she makes a feeble swipe in my direction to ward me off. I grab her wrist and haul her into a sitting position.
“Are you speaking to me now?” she grumbles, wiping sleep from her eyes. “Because if this is what being friends with you is like, I liked it better when you hated me.”
“I overheard the captain on a private call,” I say. “She was talking to someone on Proioxis. Someone in Intelligence. Vega, IA planted you on The Impossible.”
She leans back on her palms, eyes half-closed. “That’s crazy, Fee. IA would never forfeit one of their own operators to gain intel.”
“It’s true,” I press. “That’s why we attacked the Intelligence building on Proioxis. It was all pre-arranged. Saint Rita knew we were going to take you hostage.”
Vega gazes over my shoulder, lost in thought. “Now that I think about it, the Defense officers around me kept getting taken out too easily, making rookie mistakes. It was like they were letting the pirates get past them. All of a sudden, I was out there on the dock surrounded by your crew. I thought I was going to die there before you showed up.”
“It wasn’t me who saved you,” I say. “It was the captain. She doesn’t come off the ship unless something strikes her interest, but she made sure we brought you aboard that day.”
“Why would IA do something like that?” she asks. “Why would they willingly give up information to a band of pirates?”
“I told you,” I say. “IA is corrupt and full of moles.”
She shoves away from me. “How do I know you’re not lying to get me on your side?”
“You think this is easy for me?” I reply. “For the past seven years, I’ve been working my way up the ladder to Saint Rita’s side. I liked living on The Impossible until the captain decided pillaging and plundering wasn’t enough anymore. Hell, if you’d never come along, I’d probably have taken over for the captain in a few years.”
“You’d have wanted to?”
“Living free of governmental restraints isn’t as bad as you think,” I say. “In the past, we did what we needed to do to get by. None of this provoking IA bullshit. I’d have used The Impossible to help people, to rescue the ones IA’s been torturing all this time.”
Vega swallows a lump in her throat. “People like me, you mean?”
“IA never tortured you,” I remind her. “You work for them voluntarily. You’re dedicated to their cause. You never had to be rescued.”
“I do though.”
I search her anxious expression, but she doesn’t give me anything else. “What are you talking about?”
“Can I trust you?”
She shouldn’t. I don’t trust her. Ever since the day we picked her up on Proioxis, it’s been a constant back-and-forth with Vega. She works for the enemy, and she was planted on the ship for the sole purpose of retrieving something for IA. Even if Saint Rita made a deal with IA, my loyalty is to the captain and The Impossible, not Vega. Still, I say:
“Yeah, you can trust me.”
Vega climbs out of bed and begins pacing her usual path whenever she’s nervous or mad. I’m surprised she hasn’t worn a dent into the floor yet. “When you were ten years old, how did IA recruit you?”
“They sent a letter to my parents,” I recall, remembering the day that letter arrived in the mail. My parents were overjoyed, but I felt like I’d been sentenced to prison. “Your child, Ophelia Holmes, exhibits signs of extraordinary talent and has been pre-selected to attend the Intergalactic Armament Academy on Harmonia. A place in this year’s Defense class has been reserved for her. Pending further tests and review, she may begin classes with the rest of her peers—yada, yada, yada.”
“Defense wanted you right away?” she asked. “I thought you said they couldn’t decide where to place you.”
“My parents couldn’t decide,” I reply. “But IA saw how much trouble I caused in primary school. I started a lot of fights. My dad was over the moon when they asked me to join Defense. It was the first time I’d seen him express emotion in years. My mom, on the other hand, told me Defense was too dangerous. Cadets ended up dead or insane after the first few years of training. She said I could ask to be transferred to Intelligence. My parents had a massive argument over it.”
“What did you want?” Vega asks.
“I wanted to be left alone,” I say. “I wanted to be one of the kids IA ignored. I wanted to be average. If I hadn’t been recruited, I probably would’ve joined the Box for real.”
“The fighting ring,” she says. “I remember when you were sneaking out of the Academy to watch those fights.”
“I wasn’t just watching,” I reply. “I participated. I had a coach and everything. When the ring organizers found out I was Defense, they kicked me out. They claimed I had an unfair advantage. Anyway, I thought this conversation was about you. Did you get a letter too?”
Vega’s expression darkens. “No.”
“Damn, I’ll bet you got an official visit,” I say. “Two officers right at your door. They only do that for kids they think are going to fill top positions in IA. No wonder all the instructors were obsessed with you.”
“Yeah, they came for me,” Vega said. “But it didn’t happen quite like that.”
I prop myself up on the pillow to watch as she wrings her hands. “I don’t get it.”
; “My mom raised me on her own,” she says.
“Yeah, after your dad died. I know.”
“You also know we lived in poverty,” Vega says. “My father worked in an opalite factory for so long, that shit took over his lungs, and he didn’t get paid enough to support his family. When he died, my mother took over his position there. There was no one to watch me, so she left me at school. We were already in debt from my father’s hospital bills when my mom got sick too. We recognized the signs. Opalite poisoning. Treatable—”
“But irreversible,” I finish. “They must’ve been working with some pure shit. We mostly get garbage up here. Enough to make a stink, but it doesn’t sit in your lungs like the good stuff does. Is your mom okay?”
“No,” she says. “I’m getting there. One afternoon, I was waiting for my mom to pick me up from school. She never showed up, but IA did. I told you I was sedated during the trip to Harmonia. That’s half-true. They drugged me when they kidnapped me.”
“You’re lying.”
“I’m not,” she insists. “They forced me into the Academy because I showed an aptitude for Intelligence work at a young age. They treated and maintained my mother’s illness in exchange for my enrollment. I was at the top of my class for a reason. If I had flunked out, my mother would’ve died.”
My head spins. I always knew IA was less than reputable, but I never entertained the idea that we were all child soldiers. In my case, they made it sound like it was such an honor to be recruited, but Vega never had a choice. Did any of us?
“My mother’s illness progressed over the years,” Vega continues. “She couldn’t work at the opalite factory anymore. She could barely breathe. We ran out of money. About a week before graduation, IA made me a deal. If I committed myself to the Intelligence department and followed the exact career course they laid out for me, IA would provide my mother with adequate housing, treatment for her illness, and anything else she needed now or in the future.”
“And you couldn’t say no.”
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