by Trent Evans
That got him no closer to understanding the what though. The why.
And one more what-if was left to be considered.
The diabolical nature of the thought, the dark, abyssal cold that sank into his bones at the possibility of what it might imply, had him shuddering.
It might be that whatever had happened at the other stations — was going to happen on Charon 90 too.
Perhaps she had told him the one thing she knew would throw him completely off-balance, the single ruse that would render him nearly dumbfounded with confusion, and doubt — and self-loathing.
What if this was part of the experiment too, yet another aspect of his guinea pig status? To what end though?
Could he put it past the company to do something that would put him in any real danger? He wasn’t sure he wanted to answer that one. Was he much more than a number? A mere data point?
He knew the truth of that, just as every other station grunt did.
Their jobs, their existence — and their survival — was all a matter of percentages, a calculated, but relatively tolerable risk.
He swiveled his head the tiniest bit against the glass, eying the airlock.
The pattern was there, the likelihood — the meaningful likelihood — was there too. Did he take a chance, go on instinct? Or did he follow the cold, hard, brutal path laid before him by logic. Occam’s razor was a useful principle that had gotten him out of more than one jam before.
But did he have the fortitude — and the ruthlessness — to apply it here? For if he did, he knew the truth of what he must do next.
What was more likely? That she was telling the truth, or that she was lying?
Did it really come down to anything else, once one boiled it all down?
If it was the former, he still didn’t know what was happening with the adjacent stations — and now he had his wife to protect from whatever it was that was coming for them.
If it was the latter though? Then the real danger might have been here all along. Right there under his nose.
Or inside your head.
He stared at the airlock again, finally whispering the words.
“I’ve only got one choice.”
Chapter 13
If he tries to hurt you, or dispose of you — that’s the only time you are to break character. You understand this, yes?
I had found Cartlan’s admonishment almost laughable; there was no way my Martin was capable of hurting me. He was the gentlest man I had ever met.
Which, ironically, was part of the reason I had agreed to the entire crazy scheme.
He had done much more than hurt me though, since I had arrived. What was most shocking though, aside from the revelation about this hidden side of my sweet husband, was what it revealed about me.
Reality — the true experience of suffering under the lash — was at once dismaying and exhilarating. Inhabiting the role of the android… it freed me in a way I had not anticipated. I had found it was easier to simply let go, to allow another to carry me along — even if that journey involved my pain, even my degradation. What did that say about me?
It says you’re a normal woman, with a woman’s needs and desires.
And he wasn’t anything like the staid gentleman I had assumed was the beginning and end of my husband.
For a long while, I had sat at the table, staring out the wide view ports, awed at the panoramic view of the mining installation on the asteroid below. His words still rang in my head.
How do I know that?
What if, after everything that had happened, my husband really didn’t believe it was me? There was no longer any character to break from. I could be in serious trouble.
“You’re being ridiculous,” I muttered, standing and taking my tray to the sink. The blanket fell from my shoulders, the friction of the fibers leaving a momentary ticklish heat across my skin as it slid down the curves of my buttocks, pooling around my lower legs.
As I washed my hands the sound of the entry hatch swinging open froze me in place. It closed quietly.
Too quietly.
Sudden paralyzing fright gripped me, its strength so overwhelming that I could only stand at that sink, every sense suddenly attuned to whatever was happening behind me.
I felt him draw close, a subtle change in air pressure. His scent was just discernible, a not unappealing mixture of male sweat, soap, and gear oil one I would have liked to have smelled more at home.
And under far different circumstances.
Daring not to move so much as a muscle, I waited, though for what I couldn’t possibly guess.
Then the touch, a gentle hand at the nape of my neck. But rather than a crushing grip, he simply caressed me a moment, almost absently.
“We have more to… discuss.”
“I-I know.”
There was something in his voice. It was… pain.
Martin, oh god, Martin! I’m so sorry for this mess!
“Turn around,” he said, his tone even, almost… formal.
Willing myself not to tremble, I spun smoothly, slowly, until I peered up at him, studying his distinguished, handsome face. I had seen it a thousand times, yet even now, it still made the butterflies flutter in my belly when he locked eyes with me.
Those same butterflies weren’t just fascination, or affection. Now, there was fear there too.
“I’ve decided on… what needs to be done.”
Tightness gripped my chest then, and I watched the movement of his lips, time seeming to slow to an excruciating crawl.
Oh no. Oh dear God… he doesn’t believe me.
I took an instinctive step back, dashing my bare heel against the steel cabinet below the sink, the cold edge of the basin digging into my ass.
One of Martin’s thick brows arched, his lips quirking.
Then the klaxon sounded — and it was one I had never heard before on the station.
The computer’s voice intoned, the timbre smooth, almost calming, even as the words sent a strange chill down my spine. “Sir, inbound vessel.”
Martin’s gaze grew dark for a moment, fear gripping me anew. Then he looked up.
“A vessel? Scan?”
“Negative, sir. Scans ineffective. Vessel is utilizing active electronic countermeasures.”
“What about the size? How big is it?” Martin glanced at me, a look that said: “I haven’t forgotten about you.”
“Length is one hundred seventy-five meters. Approximately ninety meters abeam, sir.”
“Jesus. Definitely no shuttle.” He turned away, striding for the hatch, clasping the latch as he barked at the computer.
“What’s the ETA?” He said it as he swung the hatch open. But rather than step through, he beckoned me with a tip of his head.
“Estimated docking time is thirty-one minutes, sir.”
He winced. “Fucking fast.”
The approaching vessel was practically on top of them. How did it transit the system gate… and yet the Eye not pick it up and notify him?
“What’s going on?” I reached for him reflexively, then pulled my hand back.
Saying nothing for a heartbeat, he pursed his lips then finally met my gaze. “Come with me. Right now.”
“What? Why?” I hated the way my words sounded, unable to mask my growing dread. “Martin—”
“We don’t have much time.” Tension crept into his voice, and he offered his hand. “Just listen and do exactly as I say.”
I took his hand then, but I yanked him to a stop inside the threshold of the hatchway, the klaxon continuing to blare in the background.
“Tell me what’s happening.”
The look in Martin’s eyes was as grim as the gallows. “If I knew, I’d tell you. Now, come on!”
* * *
In any other situation, she would have looked mouthwateringly gorgeous. Her long hair was a mess, her brilliant eyes wide, tear-bright. Her lips were succulent, a deep red. Her heavy breasts swayed as he fitted her into the harness, the strap
s hugging her about the chest and hips — and doing absolutely nothing to hide the naked curves of the increasingly frantic woman he intended to send away.
There was no other option.
“Martin — please, what are you doing?”
He fastened the black straps of the respiration unit around the back of her neck, allowing the heavy weight of it to rest against the swell of her breasts for the moment.
“You have to go. Get out of here.” He pressed the entryway button and the sealed hatch opened, a low hiss sounding as the atmospheres equalized. He nodded toward the lifeboat. “In there. Now.”
The vessel was little more than a sealed and pressurized grav couch, a burst pack for escape velocity, and a tiny ion engine to run the life support and locator transmitters. He flicked the transmitter switch to the PASSIVE position.
He had never actually been in one, but several years ago, another station, Geryon IV, had suffered a catastrophic loss of hull pressurization. The crew member — he thought it might have been Blake Groening — had spent almost two days in a lifeboat, waiting for the repair freighter.
The company had added two weeks pay for Blake’s trouble. Almost an insult.
Taking hold of the respiration unit, he forced her to look at him. “This is important, so listen and do exactly as I tell you. This is going to feel, weird — a little claustrophobic. But just breathe. It’ll feel like you can’t, but there is oxygen feeding through it.”
“Martin! I’m not leaving.”
“Yes, you are. We don’t have time for this.”
Or maybe you have all the time in the world.
Yes, it was possible he was imagining the inbound vessel. Unlikely, yes, but at that moment, he had to assume everything was on the table.
Either there was a vessel inbound — almost certainly military — or there wasn’t. Either way, he was going to get Diandra — or whoever this really was — off of Charon 90.
It’s her. Or is it? Maybe the vessel isn’t really inbound. Are you making excuses to send her away, or are the excuses there to keep you from thinking about the fact you could be cracking up?
He had to go with this actually happening. The thought was chilling, but perhaps it might be exactly how sanity finally slipped away from a man, a boat coming unmoored in the silence of the night, every second taking it further and further from the shore until it was swallowed up by the darkness.
It was so rational, so… lucid.
“You need to go home.” He was calm, methodical as he strapped her up. “It’s not safe here… with me. I have to try to figure this out.”
“Wait, I don’t want—”
Then he forced the unit over her mouth, her words suddenly muffled, far away. Her eyes grew still wider, and she clawed at the unit for a moment before he gently drew her arms down, locking his gaze with hers to keep her from panicking.
“Breathe. Breathe. That’s right.”
Her pretty lashes fluttered several times, and finally she calmed just a bit, the tension in her arms relenting ever so slightly. Once again he was struck at her striking beauty, the respiration unit covering the lower half of her face evoking the black leather of the shield gag he hadn’t yet had a chance to use on her.
He knew she would have looked unbearably gorgeous with that gag in, tears streaming down her smooth cheeks.
Martin, this isn’t the time.
Was that part of cracking up too? Did crazy thoughts make crazy men?
“These lifeboats don’t have the life support we’re used to. You’re going to be in stasis sleep.”
More frantic whines and grunts from behind the mask.
“No, no — calm down. You’ll just go to sleep. You’ll be perfectly safe.”
He punched in the gate coordinates. Once transited, the gate monitor would be sure to call in a rescue immediately.
It wasn’t exactly every day one found a lifeboat drifting out of a system gate.
The challenge was going to be making it to the gate.
“Okay, we need to get you strapped in. No, the couch is nice and comfortable. You’ll be safe in there. You’re going to have to trust me.” He held her by the shoulders as he called out to the Eye. “ETA on inbound?”
“Twenty-three minutes, thirty-seven seconds, sir.”
“Now, one last thing.” He held her face with both hands. “Are you listening to me?”
She nodded tentatively, her nostrils flaring, the slim black stems of the oxygen emitters probing into each one.
“Good. The lifeboat’s beacon is set to transmit passively. That means it’s going to stay quiet until the lifeboat is actively scanned. When it detects that scan, it will wake up and start the beacon. It will slowly wake you up too. When it does, you need to stay calm. You’ll probably be a little confused, and you won’t be able to move around much in there. It might be a while until you’re picked up.”
She stiffened in his arms at that.
“But you will be picked up. I guarantee it.”
Amazingly, she squeezed his arm. Her fingers only trembled a little.
“Now, I need you to listen to me, and get into that lifeboat.”
Relief flooded through him as she allowed him to strap her into the grav couch. He smoothed her hair away from her eyes when it was done, and stroked her cheek. He wasn’t sure why he did it, but it wasn’t only for her comfort. He… needed this too.
A tear threatened to spill from one of her eyes, and it tore at his heart to see it.
Manipulation? Or real tears? Can androids cry?
He didn’t care what the answer was anymore as he pressed a long, soft kiss to her forehead, savoring the feel of her flesh against his. He tried to commit it to memory, in case it was the last time he ever saw her.
Don’t think it, Martin. Don’t say it.
“We will see each other again.”
She reached for him, clutching his hand with a superhuman strength. Shockingly, his throat had a painful lump, his own tears threatening, as he brought her hand to his lips. Kissing once, then again, longer this time, he folded her hands across her belly, already wishing he could touch her one last time as the clear hatch closed down over her. Anguish twisted at his insides, and he had to steady himself lest he lose his nerve. No matter what, he would not let her last vision of him be one where he was crying.
He smiled, placing a hand against the glass. “Be safe.”
Though he wanted to say so much more, he didn’t. How could he say what he felt, knowing she still might not be the woman he loved — and missed — deeply.
But what if she really was — and all the things he needed to tell her were left unsaid? Forever.
He choked up, but he couldn’t turn away from the glass.
Nearly weeping over a machine? Maybe you are going crazy after all.
The last thing he saw before the blast shield descended over the lifeboat’s glass, was her slender hand, reaching for him…
Chapter 14
He debated whether or not to open the weapons locker. It wasn’t as if he had any hope of repelling a hostile boarding. And the inbound ship — easily the size of a Coalition cruiser — was sure to be hostile.
While there was normally no reason to fear a visit from a Coalition vessel, the circumstances were very far from normal indeed.
“Eye, I want you to give me notification of ETA every five minutes.”
“Of course, sir. Current ETA is 12 minutes, 55 seconds.”
It was strange, the calmness one felt when facing death. It wasn’t so much a peace, more a resignation, an acceptance of that which cannot be changed or avoided. A dark fatalism had always lurked at the corners of his consciousness, but never before had he felt its presence more than those last few minutes he was sure would be the last of his time in this world.
That fatalism, it had been haunting the edges of his consciousness more, of late, though he had no real idea why. Now, he knew. Perhaps it was intuition, perhaps something more — but a part of him see
med to have known this moment was coming.
There has always been that feeling of something not quite being right, that sense that there was a lacuna that once discovered, would bring it all into focus.
It felt like hopelessness, and on the surface maybe it was. But as he watched that lifeboat’s telemetry on the projected screen the Eye had helpfully projected for him, it was more than that.
It was what was meant to be, finally coming to pass.
Unable to resist, he succumbed to the tension, opening the weapons locker. Loading the gun, his muscles were stiff, yet cooperative, his movements stilted, yet precise. At that moment, perhaps he wasn’t so different from the android he may or may not have sent away on the only lifeboat Charon 90 possessed.
There was no hope of stopping a boarding, even if he instructed the Eye to impede it — which he wasn’t inclined to do, regardless. Charon 90 wasn’t a military base built to be a defensible fortress; the station would be boarded, if someone wanted to badly enough.
Though fear threatened to choke him into paralysis, he was almost curious. Who would go to the lengths they’d gone to, traveling to literally the edge of civilization, to come to Charon 90?
The same assholes who wiped Shiva off the network, that’s who.
It was a plausible theory, though he had exactly zero to prove it.
He suspected that in the next few minutes he was about to have all the proof he was ever going to need.
No, resistance was insane. Cooperation was the only chance he had.
“ETA, five minutes, sir.”
It was about to become a very dangerous neighborhood.
The vision of her hand, reaching for him, it was burned into his consciousness. He hoped against hope that it wouldn’t prove to be the last image he had of her in this life.
You’re kidding yourself. You know that, right?
If the vessel inbound was indeed hostile — and everything including instinct told him it couldn’t be anything but — he was doomed. His only hope, and a fool’s hope it was, could only be in cooperation, or the vanishingly small chance the cruiser-sized mystery ship was simply suffering an electronic countermeasures malfunction.