by M. ORENDA
His expression changes, all shadows and deep creases and bared teeth, the face of absolute viciousness. “Always were a skinny little ingrate. I should kill you now, let your crew find you here with your throat slit and your panties down around your ankles.”
She glares, fighting that furious kind of panic grabs on deep down, so deep that she’d rather hit, destroy, than say one more word because she can’t say anything that would make sense. “Get off my ship.”
It’s not clever, and the words tremble, her fists clenched tight, ready to tear at him, fight him with everything she’s got, including the knife in her boot. In zero G, fighting is a matter of using momentum, of getting into places that can be pushed away from, and being armed with something that doesn’t require a lot of muscle, being prepared to make the most of contact.
He stares back, like he wants to make good, even with the cameras in the hold recording his every move, load lighting bright as day, the two of them floating amid boxed merchandise secured to cargo rails.
The intercom spits, a hiss of noise, then the female voice of the Sparrow’s flight engineer. “Who is that bugger? Petra, I’ve got you on camera. Port security’s got some questions for us, and um… there’s a problem.”
Max blinks, as if waking up. He looks around for the cameras, forcing a controlled expression, then back at her. “See you on Mars, Petra. I do still have friends in Red Filter, people who know the score. Sooner or later, you’re gonna wish we’d made a deal. You’re gonna learn some respect.”
Again, she wants to snap back at him, but nothing comes. All she can do is sit there, jaw clenched, heart full of murder, as he pulls himself up through the hatch and disappears, the shadow of a former life slipping out of reach, leaving her cold, tired, and drained.
She hisses under her breath, pushing off one corner of a plastic crate and drifting to the wall, pressing the intercom button. “Is that guy leaving?”
“Left, wild thing,” Clara’s voice turns motherly, a seasoned smuggler in her late fifties, eccentric in the way of both pirates and redheads in general, and probably the best flight engineer to ever traverse the big sky on the low.
“Close the hatches. I don’t want him coming back.”
“Did he call you names, or is my lip reading off again?”
“It was a short conversation.”
“On which side?”
“What’s the trouble on the flight deck?”
There’s a pause. “You have to see it for yourself.”
Translation… disaster.
Petra nods, thinking that it can’t get much worse, all the while knowing that it can. “Be up, rikki tic.”
She pushes against the boxes, sailing backward to grab onto the metal rungs that run along the wall. One, and two, and she’s floating through the cargo area and into the starboard access tube, slipping up through cabins glowing with light—not because they need to be, but because it makes humans happy—and into the rec compartment, with its curving glass shield.
Usually, the view here is of an endless field of stars, but in Earth orbit it’s different, partially blocked by laddered dock arms and harbor tramways, the mother planet so close it seems to fill all of big sky. On the day side, it’s a swirl of blue and brown, a haze of spiraling storms and shining ocean. On the night side, it’s a shadow world with glittering spider webs of light.
No cameras here, no crew…She pauses inside the hatchway, reaching into her pocket for the envelope of calm-me-downs that are always there, a doctor’s prescription for when the adrenaline button won’t get unstuck, and her heart feels like it’s going to burst, and it’s pull the plug or suffer the consequences.
See you on Mars, Petra.
Two on the tongue. Roll the spit and a big swallow. She pulls herself close to the wall, rubbing her forehead against the padding, a nonsense gesture that feels good for no fucking reason at all.
“Okay,” she whispers. “Okay.”
Showtime. Problem on the flight deck.
She sniffs absently and pushes back from the wall, rotating slowly into the tube and following the ladder rungs up, ignoring the intersection between passenger boarding and the grow lab, which is a vanity take-up-space installation, a sunless farming unit, plants growing in spinner cylinders with red and blue spectrum light, enough fresh food to keep the crew happy for the six week roundtrip at accelerator speeds.
Through two hatches and into the dim light, the glass and panel world of flight, a half-circle of computer screens, holo screens, two chairs and a hammock. There’s a shield of glass, because humans like windows, but the precise views are on the console, no buttons, no switches, just bright displays offering every menu option, from idiot to genius.
Clara’s in the pilot’s seat, and a man is with her.
And he’s no station dweller, no ashen inspector, or frail tube tech, but a different kind altogether. Big shoulders, big on muscle, and tattoos, sporting a light beard, and two pale scars running from cheekbone to jaw. His hair is silver, and shaved tight to the scalp. He’s wearing Rhys Corp urban fatigues, combat boots, a tactical belt and a sidearm built for Earth G.
“Assaulter,” she says, before she knows she’s saying anything.
“Yes ma’am.”
And there it goes with the ma’am. She shakes her head, still in all kinds of shock, despite the calm-me-downs. “I’ve never actually seen one.”
“Then it was a good guess.”
“Yeah.” Another brilliant come back.
Assaulters get big because they’re Earthbound, living in full G, chosen from a pool of athletically gifted and fed like prize horses, given all the best food, the best water, kept in filter and trained past the point where even other Earthbound folk would politely die off, last gasp, straight and simple.
Everyone knows this, but still, it takes a moment to sink in. They’re so rare in big sky, never even on a cruiser unless they’re summoned to Mars for a specific reason, to Fort Liberty to accept special appointments, or to get paraded around with the high and mighty during election campaigns, put on display like terrible monsters to inspire awe in a comparatively weak population.
He’s watching her, thinking Assaulter thoughts.
“What are you doing on my ship?” She’s mystified. It’s not a raid for contraband, not an Assaulter, and not one guy, on the flight deck, looking as if he’s been caught off guard today too, like everything got ruined for him somehow.
“I’m looking for transport to Fort Liberty.”
“You’re what?”
“Unusual request, I know,” he admits. “But the NRM will be happy to compensate you for the trouble.”
“Compensate… really? When there’s a fat NRM cruiser floating at Dock Ten, set to depart for Fort Liberty fucking forthwith? Last I checked, those cruisers got plenty of stately cabins for corporate heroes, so if you’re here, and not there, then you’ve already caused someone a lot of trouble.”
He grants her a tired smile. “You’re direct, aren’t you?”
“You’re looking to fly on the low.”
“Yes.”
“And you expect me to believe that NRM is doing the funding?”
“With an auth key.”
Oh, shit. She glances at Clara, watching the older woman’s brows peak in surprise. A man with a NRM auth key—which wouldn’t still be active if his use of it weren’t fully ordained—is above all regulation and has the authority to do just about anything he wants, with no danger of ever answering for it.
An Assaulter with such powers can surely commandeer a vessel, with no offer of payment, and there’s no recourse, no claiming of damages, especially when you’re a smuggler and an irritant to those who run the courts and guard the shining gates of Red Filter.
An image comes, a mental picture of her and Clara duct taped to the flight deck bulkhead for three weeks, watching helpless as a team of Assaulters turn a first rate ship into soup sandwich, a mess that’s gonna take years to clean up.
&nbs
p; She draws a frustrated breath, knowing that it’s time for the bending of reeds that got caught in the wind. “Well, this is gonna be an expensive trip.”
He nods, not particularly concerned.
“And it’s just you?”
“Actually my team, four of us.”
“Course, four what got no rations even. Gonna cost you.”
“You’ll get it,” he says, still cool.
“I charge without mercy for trouble and risk. The cost of the ship, plus life support and services, plus the value of my cargo. I’ll get you to Fort Liberty on the low, no comms, no references, we authorize payment just before red orbit, so none tracks the transaction across big sky. Then I take the money, then you leave.”
“Done.”
She stares at him. “Don’t negotiate much, do you?”
“Not my money.”
Petra can’t think of anything to say to that, but it’s impossible to hold the answer against him. There’s too much to admire in the way he’s said it, just laid it out with no apology, not a scrap of hesitation or worry. No blind NRM allegiance. No mantras. No pretenses. Not a company robot, or a devoted servant, but a flesh and blood man who’s not going to let anything prevent him from accomplishing… whatever he’s set to accomplish.
Beyond the glass shielding, the surface of Earth rolls under the docks, electrical storms flashing within thick whorls of clouds, the glare of sunlight haloed along the planet’s curvature.
She drops her gaze, pursing her lips. When she looks back at the Assaulter, she finds him the same, watching her with those blue eyes, his tattooed arms crossed over his chest. “Okay,” she says. “And I’m the Captain, no question.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You got a name?”
“Voss,” he says. “Lieutenant Colonel Voss.”
“Not too pretty. Where’s your team at?”
“Still two minutes out.”
“Meaning what?”
“They’ll rendezvous at your ship’s airlock in two minutes.”
“I see,” she says. “Still busy, are they?”
He doesn’t answer that, but he doesn’t have to.
“Ordering extra rations will get noticed,” he reminds her.
“Your lucky day, Colonel. No need to order from station. We do, in fact, carry a fat and healthy reserve for the case of emergencies, or starving Assaulter teams who need hiding. And what’s more, we usually stop at Midstation, half way between here and Mars, for a routine resupply.”
He nods, though he’s clearly made uneasy by the thought of stopping.
“You been across big sky before?” she asks.
“Yes.”
“Ah, so you’re not just any Assaulter then.”
He doesn’t answer that either, which seems to be his way, and fair enough, for those not wanting to be known.
She casts a sidelong glance at Clara. “List them as crew and submit our manifests. Request departure authorization, all normal, schedule to keep and all that… tell ‘em ten minutes and don’t put up with any tower bitching. When we do something stupid, we do it fast.”
“Aye, aye,” Clara makes a mockery of the words, but she’s pulling up the final checklists, getting it done.
“Colonel,” Petra says, distracted now, her gaze set on the screens. “Your people take crew cabin two. It’ll be cramped, that’s certain, but there are enough hammocks in there, some lockers, an itty bitty toilet and a spray tube. I’ll leave the explaining of those systems and their operation to you, since it’s not your first time in big sky, and I’ve got no patience for it either way.”
“Yes ma’am.”
“Also, you are a now an AFC, an Accelerated Flight Comm team, hired directly by me, to fix the comm software which frequently restarts itself and leaves us deaf and dumb, and everyone knows it, and that is all you will say to anyone on this ship besides myself, and my pilot. Do you understand?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he says.
“Then it’s time to go.” She punches her code into the console and reopens the access hatch. “Opening airlock one to Copernicus. You have five minutes to get your people stowed and not a second more… ”
And, of course, he’s already moving, pushing away from the wall and reaching for the rungs lining the access tube. He’s focused on the task, but too big to simply glide by, and so he brushes against her, the solid feel of him suddenly warm, pressed up close. It’s accidental, impersonal, unavoidable, and just enough to make her turn her head, watch over her shoulder as he disappears down that access way.
In zero G, there’s no feeling the weight of another body when it’s just near, no sense of physical closeness or separation. Everyone floats without sensation. Everyone lives without touch, save the slip of fingertips on cold screens, on plastic, on metal, the itch of uniforms or the embrace of hammock netting for sleep.
The touch of a man is something she’s forgot how to miss, and Mr. Assaulter isn’t just some half -man either, he’s full man, guns, knives, tattoos, a beard and a big ass watch. Not one woman in big sky could put that thought down easy, and she’s no exception, even if she is a damn fool.
“That a sparkle in your eye?” Clara asks without looking up, like she’s just aware of everything, no need to see it.
Petra shakes her head. “Anger management, more like. Such Rhys Corp interference what we don’t need, being forced to take unnecessary risk when we’re brimming hatch to hatch with rare cargo, and risk what for we don’t even know… just so we can stare at his ass for weeks.”
“Yeah,” Clara says, chuckling under her breath. “Isn’t that just the worst?”
Petra scowls, turning her attention to the security screens and watching as three additional Assaulters gather inside the airlock… only they’re not dressed like Assaulters. They’re dressed in harbor tech uniforms, grey on grey, with pockets and zippers, and vests that glow inside dark tubes.
Tricky, aren’t you?
One of them is pulling a long bag, careful to keep it floating level, not bouncing off walls and corners. It’s big enough to be anything, though no hard shapes poke out from the fabric, no edges appear in its weightless drift. It simply floats where it’s guided, slipping with the Assaulters through the tubes and into cabin two, along with some bags, some equipment wrapped in tarps, everything lashed up with cords, hidden from prying eyes.
The cabin hatch slides shut, nothing more to see.
It’s full trouble, and she knows it, but it’s also too late to go back on decisions already made, what with big sky waiting.
“Lock us down,” she hears herself say. “Get us out of here.”
“Getting,” Clara says, disengaging the docking clamps. The pilot screens brighten, a dozen of them activated at the same time. Jets hiss portside. The Sparrow floats out from the dock amid the flash of amber caution lights.
Clara’s done it more times that she can count, so she’s whistling one of her cheery piloting tunes, her fingers quick on the screens, her eyes darting over engine readings, proximity displays, tower comms. The tune never wavers.
The Sparrow drifts starboard and lights up the burners, its image now appearing in the luminous blue ocean of the holo grid, its flight path stretching all the way to Midstation.
The display tracks everything down to the cubic inch, complete with running time markers, accelerator calculations, fuel estimates and the beacons of other ships, all travel between Earth and Mars presented in real time.
The dock slides away, the open arms of Copernicus falling into shadow.
The flight deck screens aren’t sentimental. There’s no view of the mother planet diminishing behind the burn of engines, no last glimpse of its shining skies, or its vast oceans, none of which Petra has ever seen at closer than a distance of six hundred miles. Earth might be the mother of humanity in general, but it’s not her mother, and it’s got no sway in her heart or memory.
She’s a creature of Mars, sure enough. Not of grand filter, but of the t
ype that’s not supposed to exist and does anyway, the daughter of a willow house geisha and whatever corporate executive paid for the pleasure of her that day, an infant cast off at birth and raised by those who clean the messes and change the sheets, long ago and far away.
She’s got nothing in her heart for that either. Way it is. The mother she’s never known appears every day in the mirror, in high cheek bones and curving eyes, in a slender frame and honeyed skin, all of it prized by the willow houses. She’s got the look of the most beautiful, but not the wit, not the grace, not the serene temperament, or the will to possess any of those things. Without them, she’s the kind that fights, the kind that survives, even when she’s battered, even when she’s almost dead… which is a point proved often enough.
There’s a break in the whistling.
“We’re clear,” Clara says. “Do what you’re gonna.”
“I’m fine here.”
“Yeah, but I don’t want you on my deck. You’re brooding.”
“I’m not.”
“You worked four straight shifts during loading and now you’re brooding.”
“I’m Captaining.”
Clara rolls her eyes. “Tell it to me simple. What for we got all the good stuff? Premium vodka. Smoked delicacies. Chocolate. None of it for selling, but just for us two, and you’re stuck in float, not partaking of your share… when the work’s done and now’s the time.”
“Gonna save it for mid-flight blues.”
“You will not.” Clara levels a dark look. “Mid-flight blues is what we got the Midstation for. C’mon, now you’re just pissing me off.”
Petra supposes that’s true. Still, the rec cabin’s got no appeal for a woman in a broody mood. The vodka, however…
“Let me know if something changes.”
“You really have lost your mind, haven’t you? We’re on flight path in big sky, Petra. This is it. Accelerators fire at their interval times and we coast along and count days. Same as all the times before.”
Petra nods, her attention drawn to the tiny speck that is the Sparrow on the holo grid, a glowing dot headed straight into a long stretch of dark space.