Kohl turned in time to take in a woman — from across the gantry, where Gracie’s cabin was — pointing a carbine at him. Kohl ducked to the side of his door as plasma, bright and loud, sparked past him, hitting the bunk and a part of the wall. Kohl didn’t stick his head out to see, he instead poked the carbine out from around the door and squeezed the trigger. His carbine clicked, mapped the target — he could see the backscatter of red against the doorway — and with a whine, fired. There was the sound of someone emptying a bucket of water, then silence. Kohl risked a look around the doorway, saw the remains of the woman across the gantry steaming in the chill air of the Tyche.
Gracie’s room, huh? He stepped out of his own cabin, the need for stealth well past. He made to walk towards the opposite end of the crew deck as a man poked a head out over the railing leading to the ready room. Blaster or carbine, blaster or carbine. It was the choices that defined the nature of a man. Use the carbine, and be showered with red? Or use the blaster, and risk another man’s weapon being poorly maintained? Still, the blaster needed to be tested at some point, and now was as good a time as any. Kohl whipped the blaster up and fired. He was rewarded — it worked! — with a bright blue flash and the bark of plasma. The man lost his head and the top part of his torso in the blast, the remains of the body falling to sizzle on the deck plates.
“Brodie?” said a man’s voice from above, in the ready room.
“Brodie’s dead, I think,” said Kohl. He looked at the smoking corpse. “Was he a guy about medium build with a falcon tattoo on his forearm?”
“Who the fuck are you?” said the voice.
“Guy who shot Brodie,” said Kohl.
“I’ll kill you!” screamed the voice.
“Come get some,” said Kohl. He flexed his shoulders, readied the carbine, and waited. He expected a blind rush, some anger for a lost comrade, but what he got was a grenade. It tumbled down the ladder, clanked on the deck of the Tyche, and rolled with a metallic rumble in a small circle. Kohl watched it for a second, then threw himself over the side of the crew deck down into the hold below. The grenade went off when he was still in the air, the shockwave grabbing him, shaking him like a dog with a fresh kill, and tossed him against the inside hull of the Tyche.
He lay on the ground for a few heartbeats, feeling stunned. Get up, October Kohl. There’s killing that needs doing. Kohl could hear feet on metal, the sound of someone descending from the flight deck to the cargo bay. And here he was, laying on the carbine, which was uncomfortable as hell what with his fingers still wrapped around the handle. The weapon was click-click-clicking, trying to find a target, because his finger was mashed against the firing stud. Kohl groaned, got himself to one elbow, and the carbine spat red light across the hold. It mapped the face leaning out from the crew deck, then turned that face into water vapor and fire.
“Huh,” said Kohl. The carbine was working out better than expected. Hell knew why people still used blasters, this thing did all the hard work for you. A little slower on the firing, maybe, but you didn’t need to be accurate worth a damn.
Kohl coughed as he stood, feeling a little singed, but otherwise fine. He climbed the ladder back up to the crew deck, the rungs still warm from the grenade. There could still be people on the Tyche, people with murder in their hearts, and Kohl still felt in a killing mood. Odds were low, though, because the blast of the grenade should have flushed ’em out. Better to be safe rather than sorry. He stomped around the crew deck, checking out all the cabins, saving Gracie’s for last. The cabins all looked similar to his — tossed in a hurry, a quick check for valuables. Gracie’s was a different story. Everything — every last thing, from her bedding and pillow, through to her small chest of items — was open, cut, torn, broken, or otherwise ruined. The personal console here was in pieces, and the pieces were in pieces. They were looking for Gracie, and they were looking hard.
You know what, Kohl? No one else should do this to your crew. No one ’cept you. He sighed, making the trip to Engineering. No one home, Hope having fled, or some such thing. Kohl could worry about what the hell was happening with Hope after he’d found Gracie. Because, you know, two hundred thousand coins. He made his way back to Grace’s cabin, hoping to find a clue about where she might be. Nothing obvious, so time to get the Tyche to look for her instead.
“Even the big man,” said Gracie.
Kohl paused, one foot out the door from her cabin. He turned, slow and casual, because if someone was behind you with a weapon of appropriate size, the last thing you wanted to do was spook that motherfucker. Kohl kept the carbine ready, but low, like it wasn’t a thing worth worrying about. He’d learned a while ago that keeping a gun out of an eyeline did wonders for calming people the fuck down.
No one there.
“Even the big man,” repeated Gracie. It was her voice, alright. Loud, and proud, but coming from underneath her bedding. Kohl took a step forward, tossing caution aside like a used rag, and pulled the pillow away. It was synthetic, smelled a little like her. Blankets, the rustle of the plastic the only noise, no poison vipers lying in there. He kept going after he hit the mattress, a thin sheet of foam that couldn’t be called comfortable except by the tired. Kohl found his mattress provided all the protection for his bulk as a piece of paper, and he’d been on at Nate about replacing ’em, and Nate had said sure, after we fix the drives or whatever else Hope had been whining about at that particular moment.
“Even the big man,” said Gracie. There. Kohl’s fingers found the recorder, an expensive unit by the looks of it. He’d bet a sizable portion of his inbound two hundred thousand — two hundred thousand! — coins it was not off-the-shelf equipment. It had no logos, no brands visible to the naked eye, just a sleek little holoprojector and a couple buttons. The unit was cracked, though, a harsh crease in the plastic stretching across the input console, long enough for him to trace his thumb over while holding it, but not big enough to show any sensitive electronics inside.
If Hope were here, she’d be able to fix it. She wasn’t, though, so that left percussive maintenance. Kohl shook it once or twice, listened to pieces on the inside rattle about as he held it up to his ear, and sighed. He glanced at the doorway to the cabin — could get the power on first, could get that message to whoever the hell is still on comm — and then sighed again. He gave the device a cautionary rap against the bunk railing, and when that produced nothing of interest, he hit it harder with his hand, once, twice, and then—
“Hi, Mom,” said Gracie, as she shimmered into space in the small space of the cabin. “Hi Mom,” she said again, the recording looping, so Kohl hit it again, the holo flickering in the air before settling into the clean lines of Grace Gushiken, her ship suit rumpled and worn, like she’d done a hard day’s work. Kohl couldn’t be sure, but it looked like it was dirty. It might well have been when they’d done that last piece of nastiness on Absalom Delta. Right after they’d had words in the hold, except they didn’t use words so much as fists and teeth and her damn sword.
Recorded Grace didn’t care about any of that, just keeping on speaking. “I know you worry, and I know Father will see this too, so I can’t tell you anything fun. But, I’ve … people, Mom. I’ve met some people. They’re not like other people.” Her face turned away from the recorder, perhaps looking to make sure she wasn’t being observed while she was recording. Face back to the camera, tired lines around her eyes, Recorded Grace leaned forward. “There is a woman who flies this ship and who cares about it like it’s her daughter. And I see in her heart, and it’s not the ship, but the people on it. Can you believe it? She is not flying it for a,” and here the holo stuttered, looped, and started again. “There is a woman—”
Kohl slammed the holo-recorder against the side of the bunk, because there was no need to wear out his hand.
Recorded Grace shimmered, part of the holoprojector cutting out, but there was still enough to see her eyes. “…Ship’s Engineer. I think we’re friends, but I’m not sure
. She is young, like I was, until I wasn’t. You know what I mean. I think she is Hope.” Kohl didn’t know what the hell that meant, but hitting the device wouldn’t make more sense, so he left it alone. “The captain is,” and the eyes projected in front of Kohl became unfocused, looking away. “He is the captain, but he is something more. Something else. I like him. No, that’s not it. I trust—”
Kohl gave the device a slap for good measure, because it was getting boring. It chattered angrily at him, Grace’s form shifting in a haze of static, then it stabilized. “They accept me, Mom. All of them. Even though I lied to get on this ship. I told them that I was just like them, but I’m broken. You know that part. But the thug? Kohl. Everyone calls him by his last name, like they’re afraid of waking something from the other side by using his first name. They all accept me, even the big man,” said Recorded Grace. “Because there’s something in him that’s just like me. Boxed up and beaten by someone else, until the thing that’s left is ugly. But he’s beautiful, because he could have killed me, but the ship would have died, so he didn’t. He didn’t want to do something that would have hurt his friends.” She looked down. “I’ve got to go, Mom. They’ll miss me if I take too long. Would you believe it? They will miss me. Me. No one’s missed me before. Not even, I think, you.” Recorded Grace looked over her shoulder again, then leaned forward — no doubt turning off the recording — and the holo shimmered away.
“I don’t have friends,” said October Kohl to the empty room. “I got me a contract.”
The walls around him said nothing, because Recorded Grace was gone. And there wasn’t anyone else here, because they’d all gone some other damn place. And he would find one of them, for two hundred thousand credits.
Two.
Hundred.
Thousand.
“Fuck!” screamed Kohl, throwing the recorder against the wall. It exploded into at least fifty pieces, data slivers and holo lenses and encryption silicon all falling to the deck with a clatter that sounded like machinery crying. “Fuck, fuck, fucking fuck.” He turned towards the door, paused, and swiveled back to the remains of the recorder. He pointed a finger at them. “Why’d you have to say that? Huh? I ain’t got no friends!” He pounded his chest. “It’s just me, Gracie. October Kohl. Nobody else. And I’ll get my two hundred grand.”
The recorder sat, in pieces, on the ground. After a moment, something inside it arced, and there was a smell of burning ozone. “Even,” said Recorded Grace. “Even.”
“Oh, you cunt,” said Kohl. “You cunt!” He slammed a fist against the wall of the cabin, and then did it again, and then one more time, so hard that he heard a crack, but it didn’t hurt. It didn’t hurt, because there was something in his chest that hurt more, but he couldn’t work it out.
Maybe if he got the damn reactor back online, things would seem clearer. Maybe if he did his fucking job, things would make more sense.
Only problem so far? October Kohl wasn’t sure what his job was anymore.
He massaged his hand, then turned away from Grace Gushiken’s cabin, her recorded memories, and her judgment. Time to find Hope’s room. Not her cabin, because she didn’t spend time there. No, Kohl needed to get up to Engineering and fire up the Tyche. He needed to find the crew.
But it would have hurt his friends, he heard, and snarled. “Two hundred thousand, Gracie!”
• • •
Turning on the reactor was easy. Like drinking cold beer on a hot day. Kohl pressed a button, and the reactor lights went from amber — not a good color — to green — a far better color. There was a hum, a low vibration, and then the reactor was live. Power flooded back into the Tyche, her heart beating again, systems coming online. The hush of air through the cyclers as life support breathed once more. The bass of the Endless Drive doing automated checks.
“If you’re listening to this,” said Hope, “I’ve locked the drives. Because you’re not me, and you’re not El, and you ain’t the cap, which means you’re not supposed to be here.”
Kohl whirled, carbine out, because fuck not startling people anymore. Again, no one there. Just a blinking light on Hope’s console. He stomped over, clicked the console, and waited.
Nothing.
“Fuck you,” he said. Because he didn’t need to go anywhere. Just needed the comm back online. He ran a hand over his face, then stomped out of Engineering. Flight deck. Just get to the flight deck, press a few buttons, and everything will be fine.
• • •
“Yeah, so,” said Kohl, feeling uncomfortable. He was in the captain’s chair, because sitting in El’s didn’t seem right. Sitting in Nate’s didn’t seem right either, but it was the better choice, because at least the cap was closer to his size, and he wouldn’t feel like he was being extruded like meat substitute into a shape he was never meant to hold. He leaned towards the comm. “It’s Kohl.”
There was a hiss, and then the comm did nothing else.
“I say again,” said Kohl.
“Don’t,” said El, voice coming loud and clear over the comm.
“Thank God,” said Kohl. “I was beginning to think that, well.”
“Think what?” There was a pause while they both thought about the nature of that question, then El said, “Look, it doesn’t matter. You’re on the Tyche?”
“Yeah,” said Kohl. “Hope’s done something to it. Locked the drives or something.”
“Of course she did,” said El. “Because only the cap and I can fly her, and if you tried it would all end in a huge, and I mean colossal, fireball.”
“That’s fair,” said Kohl. “How do I get to you? Everything’s fucked.”
“It is,” agreed El. “I’m on my way to Hope. The situation there is fluid.”
“Define ‘fluid,’” said Kohl.
“Completely fucked,” said El. “I’m pretty sure her wife will betray her again, which will be bad.”
“Yeah,” said Kohl. “We’ll need another Engineer.” He stared at the comm for a second or two, then tapped it. “Hello?”
“I’m here, Kohl,” said El. “I’m just … I guess I shouldn’t be surprised at that. Give me a second, I’m thinking.” Kohl leaned back in the cap’s acceleration couch, waiting. “Okay. Here’s what we’ll do. We’ll meet at Reiko’s apartment—”
“Who the fuck is Reiko?” said Kohl.
“Hope’s wife,” said El. “You knew that.”
“I did?”
“And when we’re there, we’ll get Hope, because we all need a little more of that, and then we’ll find the cap.”
“And Gracie,” said Kohl.
“Of course,” said El. “Those two are never far apart.”
He is the captain, but he is something more. “Sure,” said Kohl. “I get you.”
“And when we find the cap,” said El, “he’ll know what to do.”
“Wait,” said Kohl. “I was with you for most of that, right until you said the cap would know what to do.”
“Yeah,” said El.
“He never knows what to do,” said Kohl. “That’s why he pays me.”
“But damn,” said El, “he looks so good while he’s flailing about, don’t he?”
“He does,” agreed Kohl, wondering why no one ever said things like that about him.
“Kohl, I’m not going to ask you to shut down the Tyche’s reactor, because you can’t make coffee right even with instructions. Can you get to these coordinates?” The comm spat out GPS numbers, which looked easy enough to find on a map.
“Yeah.”
“Okay, get yourself there. Bring a gun.”
“Always have a gun,” said Kohl.
“Oh, hey. You’re on the flight deck?”
“Yeah,” he said.
“You in my chair?” she said, suspicion in her voice.
“Nope,” said Kohl. “Wouldn’t fit.”
“Thank God,” said El. “I need you to bring up the Tyche’s watchdog protocol. Do you know how to do that?”
&nbs
p; Kohl looked at the console in front of him. “There are buttons,” he offered. “Look, why do I want to do this anyway? Sounds hard and unnecessary.”
“It’ll let the Tyche do her job,” said El. “It’ll let the Tyche find us, wherever we are. And Kohl? We’re a rudderless ship on a stormy sea right now. We need all the finding we can get.”
Kohl thought about it. He would turn the … watchdog thing on anyway. He hadn’t known it had a name. They will miss me. Recorded Grace, telling the truth like it cost nothing to do so. And he thought about his two. Hundred. Thousand. Coins, an easy pot of gold at the end of a rainbow. A rainbow that the Tyche could lay out for him in something called a watchdog protocol. He clicked the comm. “Okay,” he said.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“HARLOW,” SAID NATE, “if this is how you’re punishing me for some imagined past sin, you’re doing a great job!” He sucked in more air, his metal leg clipping along beside the meat one, catching a little at his stride as he ran.
“Don’t,” gasped Harlow, “talk. Run.” The man was gasping, his bartender’s physique not lending itself to the situation at all well.
Grace loped along at Nate’s side — always there, always — making it look easy, one hand holding her sword so it wouldn’t bounce against her back, eyes forward. An explosion rocked the tunnel, a chunk of rock falling before them from the ceiling like the hand of God, and Grace didn’t even slow, just put a hand on the top and flowed over like water in a river.
Nate hit the same chunk of rock and scrambled up, metal hand scraping against the stone, leaving chalky marks where the fingers scoured the stone. His feet scrabbled, nothing about it feeling easy, and then her hand was on his arm, pulling him over. “Got you,” she said.
“Hey,” he said. “I should be helping you.”
She gave him a look, half a smile visible in the gloom. “You are,” she said, and then she was running ahead again.
Nate turned, offered a hand to Harlow, and pulled his friend over the rock. “You could stand to lose a few kilos,” he said.
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