Crossways: A Psi-Tech Novel

by Jacey Bedford

  Any closer and he’d have hit the Folds inside the docking bay and turned the whole station inside out.

  *Ben!* “Fucking idiot!”

  She didn’t know whether that last was for Ben or for herself on the wrong side of the window behind reinforced blast doors with no more hope of being heard than a spiderfart. Once he hit the Folds, Ben was lost to any mental contact.

  Ben had opted for the hero’s way out. He’d saved the docking bay and possibly the whole sector of the station, but at what cost? The only course now was to repressurize the bay as quickly as possible and get the surviving security guards out of there.

  Tengue slapped the control panel to flood the bay with air at maximum speed. He hit the door release. The emergency protocols wouldn’t allow it to open until the levels were safe. It seemed like hours, but was probably only a couple of minutes before the door cracked and a rush of wind from the corridor as the pressure equalized gave Cara a push through the opening along with Tengue’s mercs and a squad of Garrick’s guards. Tengue’s mercs immediately began to check for survivors. Garrick’s squad checked exits and sealed off the hangar as a crime scene and administered emergency oxygen. Ronan dealt with survivors, moving between them quickly and efficiently. The bay had been fully open to space for less than two minutes. Any guards who had not been sucked out of the open air lock stood a good chance of surviving, especially if they’d managed to activate their breathing tubes. Even so, two of them were dead, one with his skull caved in and the other with a chest wound.

  “Wes! Oh, Wes.” Kitty dropped to her knees by the side of the one with the chest wound. Cara hadn’t immediately recognized him, though seeing Kitty’s reaction she remembered the young man. He’d been handsome, but he didn’t look so good now. His lips were swollen, his brown skin dull and gray, his eyes open. Kitty closed them gently.

  Shaking inside, Cara barely registered Kitty’s distress. She didn’t have any spare capacity for comfort. All she could do was stare at the empty space where the Solar Wind had been. She pushed down the snakes that were turning somersaults in her belly. Think logically.

  There had been no explosion before Ben entered foldspace. Once in foldspace the laws of physics changed in ways no one really understood. She remembered the missile punching through Solar Wind, in and out like a needle with no explosion or hull breach. The limpets were clamped on, however. What would happen when Solar Wind emerged into realspace again?

  She swallowed a sob.

  A small and deliberate throat clear caused her to stiffen. How long had she been standing there? She turned to find Gwala at her left elbow.

  “He’s good,” Gwala said. “He may even be the best I’ve ever flown with. If anyone can come back from that, it’s Benjamin.”

  If was such a tiny word with such a big meaning.

  Kitty sat by Wes’ corpse, shock keeping tears at bay. She might as well have been sitting alone for all that she registered medical staff working on the living, engineers checking the bay doors and interior pressure, maintenance staff going over the docked ships for damage. It was only when an antigrav gurney dropped into the space next to Wes that she realized she’d been muttering, “No,” repeatedly.

  “You can’t—” she began, but they obviously could. “Where are you taking him?”

  “Morgue at Dockside Medical, Miss,” said one of the orderlies. “Are you next of kin?”

  Kitty started to say no, but Ellen Heator came up behind her and put her hands on Kitty’s shoulders. “Yes she is—as good as.”

  Kitty swiveled and looked up. “Isn’t there anyone else?”

  “Captain Syke would stand in, but Wes has no family.”

  “They died in an accident,” Kitty said, “before he was dumped here as a child.”

  “That’s more than he ever told me, and I worked with him for four years. You go with them, complete the paperwork, say good-bye. It may seem like indecent haste, but we cremate our dead immediately unless there’s a forensic reason not to.”

  Kitty nodded numbly. That was standard on most space stations. She’d seen it happen before, but she’d never considered what it might be like to turn the body of a loved one, so recently vital, to ash. She reached out and touched Wes’ face, already cooling, already empty of the spark that made him Wes.

  “You know where I live. Come by tomorrow,” Ellen said. “Someone will have to clear out his stuff. We’ll do it together.”

  Kitty wanted to scream that he wasn’t even cold yet.

  The orderlies lifted Wes’ body onto the gurney where an open body bag waited. Kitty gulped back a sob as they sealed the bag, but Ellen helped her to her feet with a strong arm under her elbow and nudged her to follow Wes on his last journey.

  *Keely, report.*

  In her haze Kitty had not even noticed Remus’ implant handshaking with her own. She stiffened and by some miracle kept putting one foot in front of the other, helped by Ellen’s guiding hand.

  *Remus, not now, please.*

  *Report!*

  *There’s been a thing. They’re dead.*

  *Who? Make sense, Keely.*

  *People. Guards.* She wanted to say Wes Orton, but she held the name back. It was too precious to give to Remus. *An attack on Benjamin and the Solar Wind. He’s gone.*

  *Who’s gone where?*

  *Benjamin.* She swallowed. And Wes. *Limpets. Flew the Solar Wind off station and into the Folds. I don’t see how he could have survived. Casualties on-station.* She didn’t even know how many. Wes was all that mattered.

  *Clarify.*

  *Fuck off, Remus. Leave me alone. They’re dead! Have some respect!*

  She cut him off and blocked him out. He tried twice to reconnect, but with growing anger she refused to acknowledge him. He was stronger than her; he could force a connection, but thankfully he didn’t try again. She’d pay for it next time.

  She thought about the bill they threatened her mother with and fought down nausea. Wes was dead. What could be worse?

  But a little voice at the back of her mind said: Take care of the living.

  All Cara could do was to keep trying to contact Ben. The longer a ship was in foldspace the less chance it had of coming out again.

  She was dimly aware of Archie leading her out of the dock to a waiting tub. She was concentrating so hard on finding Ben that she missed her footing. If Archie hadn’t caught her she’d have ended up in a heap on the floor.

  Wenna grabbed her hand as they led her into Blue Seven. “Keep searching. Cas is on her way.”

  *And I’m here, too.* Gen was in her head immediately, adding her Telepathic whammy to Cara’s. Then Cas Ritson joined them, adding her considerable Psi-1 strength. One by one, as they realized what was happening, every other Telepath in the place, from strong Psi-2s down to weak Psi-5s, joined them in the search. Even Max, so recently outfitted with an implant, tagged along.

  *Can I help?* Jussaro asked.

  *Damn right, you can,* Cara replied, drawing his consciousness into the whole.

  Work stopped. Blue Seven fell silent as every psi-tech with any talent for Telepathy, however slight, formed a gestalt. Cara took the focus and concentrated on Ben outside in, inside out: warm brown skin; ready smile; the planes of his cheeks; the strength in his muscles. And inside: level-headed intelligence; desire to bring out the best in people; loyalty; the burden of dead souls he carried; damned annoying white knight syndrome that sometimes led him by the nose; his talent for Navigation and spatial awareness. All that was Ben and more she put into her search for him.

  How long had it been? Minutes? Hours?

  *Three hours and fifty-six minutes,* Ronan said, slipping into the mix. *Sorry I’m late. Work to do.*

  *Casualties?* Cara asked.

  *Five survivors, two dead and three missing presumed lost into space. There are Finders out now, looking for th
e bodies.*

  *Damn.*

  *Yeah.* Ronan settled down. *Any hint of Ben?*

  *Not yet.*

  *In foldspace?*

  *Seems likely. We keep trying.*

  At four hours and twenty-eight minutes one of the Psi-5s collapsed and Ronan pulled out of the gestalt to seek him out where he’d fallen.

  *Enough, Cara. Ben wouldn’t thank you for burning out half his Telepaths,* Ronan said.

  She was about to protest, but he was right. *Take a break, everyone.*

  As they all pulled out she wobbled and would have fallen, but she was wedged into a chair with arms. When had that happened? She didn’t even remember getting here. She looked around. Wenna’s office, of course. It was the heart of Blue Seven’s operations. Sooner or later everyone gravitated there. She was surprised to see it empty of everyone except Wenna, Gen, and Max when just a few moments ago her head had been filled with individual Telepaths, but of course, they didn’t need to be together physically to form a gestalt.

  She blinked, as if emerging into the light.

  “Drink.” Gen pushed a cup of water into her hand and she drained it on the spot.

  “Ben . . .” Cara’s voice cracked.

  “Four and a half hours.”

  Cara groaned. “Sixteen. The record is sixteen—that we know of.”

  “It is, and Ben’s good enough to beat it if anyone can, but . . .”

  Gen didn’t need to elaborate.

  Cara allowed herself three deep breaths and opened her mind to search for him.

  “Wait!” Gen cut in and yanked her attention back. “You’ll kill yourself like this.”

  “Sixteen hours,” Cara said. “I can give him sixteen hours before I rest. Give everyone else a break now and then divide them into three shifts to join me, one hour on, two hours off until we find him.”

  “You’re sure we’ll find him?”

  “I have to be.”

  At nine hours thirty Jussaro’s consciousness joined hers. *Get some rest, Carlinni, I’ll take over.*

  He brought in several other minds, refreshed by the short break.

  *I said I’d give him sixteen hours.*

  *Suit yourself.*

  At sixteen hours and five minutes she felt a slight sting on the side of her neck and lost her grip on the gestalt. “What the hell . . .”

  “You’ll be no good to Ben if you burn out,” Ronan said.

  “What did you do to me?” She massaged the sting with her fingertips.

  “Mild sedative laced with a reisercaine derivative. Don’t worry, the effects are temporary. You’ll be back to normal in a couple of hours. In the meantime, sleep.”

  “You bastard. How can I sleep when . . .”

  “When he’s out there somewhere.” Cara came to with the second half of the sentence on her lips. For a moment she didn’t realize she’d been out cold, then she realized she was stretched out on an airquilt on the floor of the cubicle that was Ben’s temporary office.

  “Ronan sends his apologies,” Gen said, seated on the floor next to her. “He’s only just left. Got a call from the med center. Serafin’s taking it pretty badly.”

  “Taking what pretty badly? Ben? There’s news?”

  “Nothing. I’m sorry.” Gen’s mouth was set in that particular way that said she was using all her willpower not to let her chin tremble.

  “How long was I out?”

  “Three hours.”

  “So it’s been—”

  “Nineteen hours and six minutes. No one’s ever come back from foldspace after that—”

  “Ben will.”

  “Cara . . .”

  “He will. You’ll see. You haven’t stopped looking, have you?”

  “Of course not. Three shifts, one hour on, two hours off until . . .”

  “Until we find him.”

  Gen didn’t reply.

  Cara slid straight back into the gestalt. *I’ve got the focus, now,* she told Cas. *Take a break.*

  *Follow your own orders,* Cas said. *One hour on, two off.*

  *Right,* Cara said, knowing perfectly well Cas could tell she was lying.

  *Ronan won’t hesitate to put you under again if you endanger yourself.*

  *He can try.*

  A memory surfaced. I killed him with my mind! Oh shit!

  She didn’t mean that. Please let her not have meant it!

  *Cara!*

  She could hear the alarm in Cas’ mental voice.

  *It’s all right. Truly. Ronan won’t need to do anything. I’ll do two hours on and one off.*

  *See that you do.*

  And she did. Two hours on and one off throughout the night, accompanied by uncomplaining Telepaths.

  “Cara. Cara!” Ronan’s voice brought her back to reality as she handed the gestalt over to Jussaro.

  She clamped her hand over the side of her neck.

  “Leave me alone.”

  He crouched in front of her chair, hands up to show they were empty. “It’s been thirty-two hours.”

  “I know.”

  “Twice as long as the longest time anyone’s ever stayed in foldspace.”

  “I know.”

  Ronan dropped his voice to a whisper. “He’s my friend, Cara. I love him like a brother, but it’s time to stand your Telepaths down. They’re exhausted. You’re exhausted.”

  “I know.” She didn’t realize she was crying until tears splashed from her chin onto her folded hands.

  Ronan rocked back on his heels and looked up to meet someone’s gaze over Cara’s shoulder. His head tilted in a nod of acknowledgment.

  “Come with me,” Gen said from behind her. “Time to get some proper sleep.”

  She shook her head, but didn’t resist when Gen’s grip raised her to her feet.

  “You want a shot?” Ronan asked.

  She shook her head and let Gen lead her to a room with four bunks in it: the standby room.

  “You need to talk?” Gen asked.

  She shook her head.

  Gen tweaked back the quilt. “Buddysuit.”

  Obediently Cara shrugged out of the suit, top first, and, stripped down to singlet and shorts, sat on the edge of the bed.

  “In.”

  On Gen’s command she rolled into the bed and Gen pulled up the covers.

  “You want me to stay?”

  Cara shook her head one more time and Gen left, leaving the light to power down.

  There was a gaping hole in Cara’s insides. How could she sleep?

  She closed her eyes and stared at the inside of her eyelids for what seemed like hours. Then she opened her eyes and stared at the inside of the dark room. Same picture.

  Ben: her first glimpse of him leaning against Gordano’s bar on Mirrimar-14, tall and so sure of himself.

  Ben: in his bed that first night. He’d been her ride out to freedom—a convenience fuck—she’d barely considered him. Her head had been too full of Ari van Blaiden. How could she have been so stupid?

  Ben: catching her when she fell.

  So stupid for so long . . . and then . . .

  There had been a time when it had been so right between them, just a very short time before Ari van Blaiden and Donida McLellan’s neural conditioning had turned her into something she wasn’t. Or perhaps turned her into something she was, but something she didn’t want to be.

  Ben had saved her. They’d saved each other.

  Why had she told him to take it slow?

  What was her problem?

  It wasn’t Ben.

  Except now it was. He’d left her—like everyone else she’d ever valued.

  Gone.

  She couldn’t even cry herself to sleep.

  Ben crawled up out of blackness in stages. At
first he was only aware of the world behind his closed eyelids. He was awake, but not awake. Gradually he felt a pain external to his head. His left wrist throbbed in time to his beating heart.

  That he had a beating heart surprised him.

  He shivered and coughed.

  Realspace.

  Where was he?

  That was a question he hadn’t had to ask in many years, not since a fifth-year med student admitted that his was the first implant she’d ever carried out, but not to worry, her supervisor was watching.

  “Oh, great,” his sixteen-year-old self had responded. “Do I get a refund if it doesn’t take?”

  Her supervisor had leaned across his field of vision. “Don’t worry, Mr. Benjamin, if it doesn’t take, you’ll be the last to know about it. Glad you signed the consents, now, huh?”

  So . . . where was he?

  On the floor for starters, his left arm crushed beneath him. He pushed his right hand flat to the deck plating—deck plating, that was a clue—and raised his upper body off the floor just far enough to move his left hand.

  Arrgh! Not quite a yelp, more of a groan. Broken. He rolled over and scrambled with his feet until he was sitting up, leaning against something solid, something cool against his right arm.

  No buddysuit top, hence no painkillers for the break. Ah damn.

  Flight deck. Solar Wind. The limpets. The Folds. What was all that about?

  (He didn’t let himself think of the void dragon.)

  Had it been a particularly lucid dream? He forced his eyes open and examined his wrist. Swollen. Bruised. His wrist certainly hadn’t been dreaming.

  A violent tickle in his lungs brought on a percussive cough. The first cough felt good, scratching the itch. The second still satisfied. The third scraped. The fourth and the fifth stung. The sixth, seventh, eighth rattled his skull, set his eyes watering, scraped his lungs raw. He coughed and coughed again, helpless. His chest spasmed and the coughs kept on coming, wave upon wave. He tried to suck air in and hold it to break the cycle, but he was hacking so hard he could barely snatch air. Coughing so hard that his chest locked.

  Then the coughing stopped, but he could neither breathe in nor out.