by Rose Francis
“I wanted to make sure I was thorough.” She wiped her brow.
“Efficient,” he said. “Fuck thorough. Worry about your quota, not about picking the bones clean. We're scavengers, and the whole damn world is a corpse.”
He left, and she followed him out of the room. They had already started in on her side. Ilsa was waiting outside the first room on the far end of the hall. Tyson went into the next room. Christine nodded to her once. Then Ilsa followed him inside.
Christine took the next room down. A ceiling leak had destroyed the electronics in the room, back when there had still been enough electricity to spark and start a small fire. What the water damage hadn't destroyed, the fire had.
She shrugged and was about to leave when she stumbled, catching herself on the doorway. Between working on the tank earlier and the lock at midday, she was exhausted. She tried to force her vision into one picture instead of two. She knew she needed to produce, so she forced herself away from the wall.
The next room was locked. Tyson came into the hall at that moment. “Get it open,” he said. “Pry it, if you've got to.”
She wasn't sure she could, but before she could ask for his help, he disappeared into the next room. She jammed on the door, but it seemed solid enough. She put her pry at the edge of the doorway, and leaned into it. The doorframe creaked. She recognized it as the sound of wood about to break. She put all of her weight into it, and worried that the sound of wood giving was coming from her staff until the doorframe shattered at the top hinge. She levered on it hard and the door fell, tearing the lower hinge out by the screws as it did. Tyson poked his head out of the other doorway, saw her handiwork, and nodded approvingly before disappearing inside again.
She stepped over the fallen door. The falling door had kicked up a cloud of dust that paled in comparison to the heavier cloud outside. She waved at the air to clear it enough to see inside.
She recognized the shape of metal cabinets. She didn't dare think it, because it was too beautiful, but she ran to the first cabinet and opened a metal door. The cabinet was filled with server blades, processors, drives, memory. It was an entire server farm. “Mana from heaven,” she whispered.
She ran into the hall. “Come on,” she yelped quickly. “Found a gold mine.”
Tyson and Ilsa moved quick, though it still felt like they were all swimming in molasses to Christine.
Tyson stopped flat-footed, and then a grin spread across his lips. “It's a good find,” he said.
They worked for the better part of forty-five minutes. It was tougher going than any of them figured. The bolts securing the blades in place were mostly rusted, and in places components had melted, making them impossible to shear away from the cabinet without tearing boards to pieces.
Then the whistle blew. “Shit,” Tyson said. “How much of Monkey's stash was there?” he asked.
“Sixteen cannisters, seven filters.”
“It's not enough,” he said, and threw his metal pry into an empty cabinet. “Damnit.”
“Can't we stay?” Ilsa asked. “Work a little longer?”
“The ship's waiting on us. They can't break the clouds until we're aboard, and we're using our air supply until then—costing the captain money.”
Tyson added everything together and sighed. “At least we've got enough for room.”
“Room?” Ilsa asked.
“We earn room and board. We got enough to cover the rent. It means we're square with the captain. It's not... great. But nobody gets beaten. It just means we don't get to eat.”
Christine's stomach growled. She had worked harder today than she probably ever had. At the thought of not eating, she wanted to cry.
Tyson picked up his staff. “Look at the bright side,” he said. “tomorrow, we got quota locked down. Probably a bonus that day, maybe even the next, just in this room. Come on.”
They walked the rest of the way back in silence. When they got within a hundred yards of the ship, Tyson took Christine's duffle so she could run ahead and get the rest of the salvage out of her room. They piled their salvage together in front of them.
Coronetto paced back and forth, nodding to most members of the crew. When he reached their pile he stopped. “It's not enough.”
“It's room,” Tyson said defiantly.
“Not board.”
“No,” he said. “We found good salvage—just not early enough to scavenge all of it.”
“Salvage talks,” Coronetto said, and both men stared hate at each other for ten full seconds before the captain looked away. “Besides, you're good enough I'll only have to take away your rations for the night. You weren't hungry enough for the job, today; hopefully you will be by tomorrow. But if you're right, you can catch up on the meal comfortably tomorrow with just a little portion of your bonus.”
“If I can even still work it then,” he groused, looking at the other members of the crew.
“It's your stake—and I'll put one through any man tries to take it. But you're talking to the wrong man. I can't make deals for me tomorrow, just like you can't bargain with tomorrow's earnings today. Now stop grousing. The last thing you want is for me to decide I like you better when I'm beating you.”
* * *
The captain followed Christine and Ilsa below deck. When they turned towards their cabin, he grabbed Ilsa's arm. “Just because you aren't eating, doesn't mean the rest of the crew isn't.” He pulled her towards the kitchen and walked her the rest of the way.
Potts was already inside, boiling water for a pasta. He gave her a very apologetic look. “I'm sorry,” he said. “I know this torture better than about anyone. But since yesterday, the captain started closely monitoring the stores. He'll know if I thin out everybody else's food or use enough supplies to cook you a serving.”
“It's okay. Not worth risking more trouble over,” she said, though at that moment her stomach gurgled.
“I get it,” he said. “You're hungry for two. But tomorrow's another day. And punitive though the SOB is, he knows better than to start workers on an empty stomach. He almost lost his ship that way...you starve a man and he's never going to come back with enough salvage to keep the engines running.”
He instructed her on a cheese and tomato-based sauce to go with the noodles, though most of the ingredients were simply powdered supplements and substitutes. She was surprised that it actually smelled good as she scooped it out onto the piled noodles on plates.
Without thinking about it, she lingered over the sauce bowl and took in a long whiff. The cook noticed. “It's cruel,” he said, “making you fix food he ain't even gonna let you taste. Although... you can lick the bowls and utensils clean. It ain't much...”
A mania borne of hunger seized her, and Ilsa dove face-first into the bowl. The sauce tasted even better than it smelled, which seemed a true marvel, since the conglomeration of ingredients she wouldn't have fed to one of the Aureum's dogs.
“Ahem,” she heard, and would have ignored it, had it not come from the side she knew Potts wasn't on. She knew she wasn't supposed to be eating and pulled her head out of the dish. A smattering of sauce on her nose.
Potts smacked her in the eye with the back of his hand. “Captain said you weren't to eat,” he said dramatically. “It's taken care of,” he said to Doates.
Doates didn't react at all. “Captain asked me to have you make one more portion for dinner, and for the girl to bring his and the extra to the captain's chamber.”
Doates took his own plate and sauntered down the hall.
“Are you all right?” Potts asked. He sighed heavily and shook his head. “I'm sorry,” he said. “But a swollen eye's better than whatever Coronetto would have given you—fucked up as it sounds, I was trying to protect you.”
“I know,” she said. She believed him, but couldn't bring herself to thank him for it.
“But you go on ahead and take my portion. I can cook up another. Better not to keep the captain waiting.”
She took both pl
ates with her to the captain's chambers.
He was back behind his desk, though he was looking out his window. “Sit, please,” he said, without turning to face her.
She sat down. “I'm sure you've figured it out, but the second plate is yours. I'm afraid you'll have to eat it here. I'm making an allowance, this one time, for you. But it wouldn't do for you to share it with your 'sister,' or with Tyson.” He turned, and frowned when he saw her swelling eye.
“Potts?” he asked.
“He didn't mean anything by it,” she said softly.
“I suspect he was showing you a kindness, and panicked when caught out. Mine isn't a kindness. It's a practicality. You can't starve a pregnant woman. Today, we'll call it a warning. Tomorrow, if you can't make your quota, I'll be forced to tax my imagination in devising a punishment for you that isn't a risk to the child. Don't fail me,” he said. “I'll be extra annoyed at the additional exertion.”
She took a bite of the pasta, and had a thought as she swallowed it. “Earlier today, you mentioned another job. What did you have in mind?”
“Admittedly it's less of a job, than a trade.”
She frowned. “But I haven't anything to trade—unless you mean my person.”
He laughed. “I'm no flesh pirate, and... sorely lack the tackle for that brand of pirating. And as I've found, the lack of a woman makes a man more desperate—makes him work that extra bit harder. But there is something of your flesh that I desire.”
He stepped towards her, with his palm held out low. She tried to keep from crying out, but couldn't force herself to watch the hand close in on her. Then she felt it, clammy, against her stomach.
And then she understood. “My baby,” she whispered.
“I always wanted a son, or even a girl,” he said. “It's providence that you found me, and I you. You can hardly care for yourself and your 'sister.' But I could give it a life above the clouds, nearly as grand as a Poca, and a ship to inherit, when I'm Cycled. I would love the child as though it had sprung from my own loins.”
“Can I think it through?” she asked.
“Do,” he said. “And if you're attached, I could see my way to making you an honest woman, if you were of a mind to stay.”
“My sister?”
“Welcome so long as she can earn her keep.”
“Protected?” she asked, though she couldn't bring herself to look him in the eye.
“Now,” he said, and held up his hand. “I can't be seen to play favorites. She'd work, same as the rest. And she'd eat when she earned.”
“And the lashes?”
“When she doesn't. A ship is a society. It works when the rules apply, and falls apart when they don't. But I ain't a man of high morals, and on this ship, my say goes. I could see to it, perhaps, to have the pair of you for wives.” The suggestion made her wonder if Potts wasn't mistaken about the state of the captain's libido. He knew what she was thinking, too. “Just because a man can't scratch what itches him, don't mean he can't enjoy watching others scratch.”
“We're sisters.”
“Are you, now?” he asked, and poured himself a drink from a crystal decanter. “Ask yourself. Will I fault you more for a lie told to a stranger, when it felt your life dangled from a thread, or more for one willful, told to your captain, after knowing the consequence of it?”
She didn't answer.
He smiled, though there was nothing friendly in it. “A wise choice,” he said. “But it was a thought, a way to spare you both the hardship that makes you tremble so.” He stroked her cheek. “She's free to stay or go.”
“Am I?”
“Once you're done eating.” They ate together in silence. She got the impression he was trying to be pleasant, but without speaking.
When she was done, she took her plate and went to the kitchen. Another crew member was there washing dishes. She handed her plate to him and continued on towards the cabin.
On the way back to her room, Ilsa couldn't help but wonder if all of it, the man whose hands were removed, Potts' seeming indiscretions, his attack on her, even the whipping, was part of some grand charade to pry her child from her. She shuddered, both for the thought and at the idea the man had any designs on her.
“I saw the captain,” she said to Christine when the door shut behind her. “He means to have my child. And even for a eunuch, I don't take him as a man to take 'no' for a reply.”
Christine didn't have much by way of response, just led her to bed and curled around her.
Twenty
Potts designed their meal the next day to be more filling than usual. Ilsa appreciated the gesture, though she still wasn't in a place where she could thank him.
The captain didn't request her presence for breakfast, which was the first bit of social common sense he'd shown.
Tyson met them after breakfast with their masks and tanks. “Cycle your tanks and check the gauges. Lot of the tanks have been coming up duds. We'll get the scrubber serviced when we make port, but until then, it's your air—make sure it's breathable.”
Christine and Ilsa shared a nervous look, but Tyson was too busy fiddling with the gauge to notice. They walked together back to the office building. Tyson checked the server room, and made sure no one had disturbed it since they were there last.
“Shouldn't take more than three hours to get our quota out of this room. So we'll check the adjacent rooms first. Wouldn't want to miss an oyster for the pearls.”
Christine and Ilsa took the room beside the server room. There wasn't much there, save for the remains of an old coffee maker, which they promptly shoved into Christine's duffle. Then they went to Tyson's room.
A portion of the wall had crumbled away, and he was using his staff to enlarge the hole while standing on top of a desk. He had already loosened the piping joint. He handed Christine his staff and gave it one last yank. It was large enough that he struggled under its weight, and nearly fell off the desk. Christine put her shoulder into his rear, stabilizing him. He balanced one end of the pipe on the ground, and hopped off the desk.
“That will fetch a price,” he said, “if not a premium from the captain himself. And it's heavy enough you two should carry it back now. I'll start in on the server in the meantime.”
Ilsa took the end that was already in the air, and Christine lifted the other end off the floor. Shared between the two of them, the weight wasn't too bad.
They carried the pipe downstairs. Getting it out the front door was awkward. They were fifteen feet from the door when an eerie noise cut through Ilsa’s wheezing. She couldn’t place it—it wasn’t the chitter of a rodent, or the howl of a coyote, but had something of both in it.
Christine gave her a nervous look, and she tried to smile reassuringly. She hoped that her eyes crinkling through the mask’s lenses was enough to give away her intent.
On Christine’s other side, she saw something move in the shadows of the building. Its form was utterly alien to her—tall and graceful, unlike the rats she’d grown up near. She thought of the domesticated animals she had seen clan Aureum keep, but couldn’t place it as any of them. It was too tall, its legs too long, and its neck too sleek. She thought to all of the films she’d seen and tried to think of whether she’d seen anything like it. There were some details that felt familiar, like the long, perky ears, but others that weren’t, like the spindly legs that ended in sharp, hard hooves, or the bone ridges that defined its eyes, sheltering them from the stinging, vinegary rains.
The creature attempted an almost equine cry, but its long teeth clicked together as it did, as though its overlong teeth were never meant to be rooted in its jaws. Ilsa shuddered and grabbed Christine’s arm.
Tyson leaned out of the door. “Carnideer,” he said, trying to speak loudly without getting its attention. “They're nearly blind, so when they're trying to look at you, that's when you're safest. They hunt mostly by smell, so if it takes its eyes off you, drop everything and run. Try to get into its blind spot, where its sku
ll blinkers it. Or if you can, get into a building or tree.”
The deer reared up on its back legs and cried out, ripping at the air with forelegs ended in bone spears. The acidic water seemed to have eaten the flesh on its legs away. It charged. Christine dropped her end of the pipe and ran towards the office they came from. Ilsa was petrified. She watched the deer charge, but couldn't root herself from the spot.
Tyson reared back and threw his stave pry first. It struck the deer in the side and smashed its way through the beast's fragile ribs, into its intestines.
The deer had fallen, and clawed at the air as it bleated. More carnideer came in response to its call. The other deer surrounded it, then began kicking with their forelegs. Ilsa still couldn't look away.
Christine tugged at her arm, and Ilsa turned to the other woman. They ran together for the office.
Tyson led them up the stairs. They barricaded a door behind them with desks before looking out the window. The deer were eating their dead peer, until one caught another scent coming from the direction of the ship.
Then they ran as one, a wave of gnashing teeth and unnaturally sharp hooves.
“They hunt in herds,” Tyson said. “Dozens or hundreds of them. We have to get back to the ship.”
“Aren't we safer here?”
“We probably are.”
“They won't be,” Christine said.
“It probably doesn't matter,” he admitted. “But there's strength in numbers. We have to return. If we don't…” he started to reach for his back, and the open wounds that were weeping through his shirt.
“Or maybe this is our chance,” Christine said.
“Chance to get killed?” Tyson asked.
“No,” Ilsa said. “To escape.”
“I don't know I trust him,” Christine said, holding her staff between them. Tyson's staff was still outside, and he held up his hands defensively.
“I may not be your friend, but that doesn't make me your enemy.” Tyson met Ilsa’s eyes, squarely, and she nodded to Christine. Christine sighed. She didn't see any choice but to trust him.