“You started this war of the sexes,” Leonid said. “You had to know we’d win it.”
—————
Sirius eventually gave up hoping someone would show some sense and, as he always had to, took saving them upon himself. “Great plan—if you happen to be a boy, Captain,” he said. “There’s just one problem—it won’t work. You don’t have time for the girls to teach you.”
“Shut up, Halfway Boy,” Toren growled, and Sirius raised an eyebrow.
“Quiet, Toren,” Leonid said. He smirked at Sirius, shaking his head—perhaps at the ridiculousness of Toren now pretending he’d never been a Halfway Boy himself. “Sirius, don’t get ahead of yourself. Toren is right. Technically, you never finished your orientation—”
“Ha,” Sirius laughed. “I flew years before you ever served a shift—”
“Not on this ship, on my ship,” Leonid said—but before Sirius could object, he raised his hand, the smirk softening into a wry smile. “On a five-person flyer, not an NCE-class starship. You’re a great pilot, but do you really think you’ve learned everything you need to know?”
Sirius glared, and Leonid just cocked his head, smiling at him. Weird.
“You’re missing the point, pretty boy,” Sirius said.
“No, you are, Halfway Boy,” Leonid said, friendly smile fading into angry, defensive impatience. “You’ve not been initiated. Till then, you’re not full crew, much less a full boy. You picked the right side, but you’ve got a long way to go to prove your loyalty—”
“I didn’t do what I did for the boys, or to join them, or to prove my loyalty—though I did prove a point,” Sirius said. “I did what I did for all of us on Independence.”
“Do?” Toren said, and Sirius glared at his clearly former friend. “What did you do?”
“Did you really think Andromeda folded because Leonid withheld a few extra rations?” Sirius said. He smirked. “Do you think the girls gave up the Engine Module because they were scared of you, Tori? No. I did that. I made the girls fold. Me—”
Toren seized him by his softsuit and lifted him clear off the deck. “What did you do?”
“He . . . pulled the master fuse on the life support plant,” Andromeda said.
“Oh, spraying sewage,” Leonid said.
“We had to shut it down,” Dijo said, flinching as Toren turned on her. Sirius stayed limp, dangling from Toren’s fist: he’d seen the start of Toren’s growth spurt but had no idea how strong little Tori would become. “It will take weeks to bring it back online—”
“God,” Leonid said. “We’ll run out of oxygen in days.”
“Carbon dioxide could kill us in hours,” Dijo said
“And you mention this now?” Toren said, and she again flinched back from him.
“This is what we tried to tell you when we surrendered,” she said, not meeting his glare. “Even if the oxygen farm was up to the load, it just can’t scrub the air fast enough. Most of us are going to have to suit up or retreat to shelters just to survive the day—”
“So you don’t have time for the girls to teach you,” Sirius said, not flinching at all as Toren lifted him off the deck again. Now both Andromeda and Leonid were looking at him. “You have to make port, now—and you’re going to have to work together.”
“Why, why did you do that?” Leonid said.
“The gliderdrive is about to fail,” Sirius said firmly. “It was worse off than life support. And with the nearest habitable world light years off, failure of the glider means certain death. We were passing an interstellar Beacon. So I pulled the fuse. Now we have to make port.”
“Not at that Beacon!” Leonid said. “It belongs to the Dresanians!”
“I don’t care,” said Sirius. “It’s a registered Beacon tagged with a landing cradle—”
“Owned by the aliens,” Leonid said, “who chased us off the Earth!”
“I. Don’t. Care,” Sirius repeated. “It’s a dock and air and life—”
Leonid snarled, angular features mirroring his helm. “You son of a—”
“Like I told Andromeda,” Sirius said, “you can thank me later.”
—————
Sirius smiled as Toren frog-marched Andromeda back into the long, narrow cargo control chamber. Not because Toren was strong-arming her—but because both of them glanced at Sirius, then looked away, embarrassed. So, even before Toren spoke, Sirius knew he’d been right.
“The gliderdrive is a day from cascading failure,” Toren confirmed, giving Andromeda a halfhearted shove against an instrument panel. “We went over it together, end to end. The drive’s totally overloaded. The next element that burns out starts a cascade, thanks to this witch—”
And he slapped her, knocking her headdress askew. Leonid’s nostrils flared, but he kept staring into the flickering viewtank with Dijo and Sirius. “So, let’s repair it,” he said, moving the viewport. “What about that nearby station? Lore marks it inhabited, with a port—”
“That only looks close,” Sirius said. He tapped the display; Andromeda had steered them deep into the Plume, a mammoth column of gas and stars that actually dented hyperspace. “We’re way down the gravity well. We try to climb that gradient, the gliderdrive will fry.”
Independence normally stuck to the edge of intergalactic space, where stars were scarce but their gliderdrive could live up to its name, sliding effortlessly over hyperspace as smooth as glass. But this deep in the stellar nursery that was the Plume, they had to maneuver carefully, charting a course gentle enough to not blow out their ancient, overworked hyperdrive.
“I can’t believe you ran the glider this long without servicing it,” Leonid said.
“After that last pirate scare,” Andromeda said, “I hadn’t found any place I felt safe.”
“Fair enough,” Leonid said. “Still, can’t we shut the gliderdrive down, give it a rest?”
“Shutting the glider down won’t help,” Andromeda said, straightening. “Too many drive elements are burned out. All we’d be doing is sitting there, waiting to start it up again—and we’d risk a cascading failure from a cold start. We need to break her down, do a full refit.”
“And you wanted to do that in the dead of space?” Toren growled, seizing her and lifting her off the deck. Seeing Toren do that to someone else drove home how big he was: had to be pushing two meters ten. “Also risking failure from a cold start, leaving us dead in space?”
“We . . . we had hoped to put in at drydock,” Andromeda said, licking her lips, letting herself hang limply in his grip. Her blue facepaint and black eyeliner were smeared, and Sirius wondered if Toren had hit her in private. “At . . . at the Matriworld, if we could find it—”
“So you nearly killed us all,” Toren said, “chasing a myth.”
“Which if you’d succeeded at,” Leonid said, “would have put all the boys in chains.”
“You deserved it,” Andromeda began—then squealed and flinched as Toren shook her.
“It doesn’t matter,” Sirius said. “We’ve got to completely rebuild the gliderdrive—”
“We can’t do that. We’d have to take the whole Engine Module apart—and break containment in the cargo hold!” Toren said, releasing Andromeda and turning on Sirius. “For which we need the air cycler you denied us, Halfway Boy—”
“Halfway Boy?” Sirius said. “You’re one to talk.”
Toren clenched his fist, and the other boys murmured. “Those days are behind me.”
“Sure they are,” Sirius said. “But it doesn’t matter. Outside the hull is dead space. Light years of it. Trillions of kilometers. Without the glider, on our best day, Independence’s delta vee is a thousand kilometers a second. Even if we made straight for the Beacon—”
“It could take us centuries to get there—which
means we’ve got to dock or land as soon as possible, before the gliderdrive fails completely,” Leonid said. He scowled, then straightened. “Which means we make for the closest Beacon . . . which you found. Thank you again, Sirius.”
“Thank you for listening,” Sirius said.
“Don’t thank me yet. The Beacon is in Dresanian territory—and the Dresanians are the ones who chased humanity off the Earth.” Leonid turned to the others. “Andromeda, make sure our shields are at full strength. Toren, make sure all the boys are armed.”
“That won’t be enough,” Toren said. “They’re Dresanians—where are you going?”
“To the armory. These peashooters won’t do us any good,” Leonid said, tapping the veligen on his hip. “We’ve only got one working blaster left, but I’m going to break it out anyway. Though I doubt even it would do any good against a Dresanian force field—”
“Leonid!” Sirius said. “Do you think it’s a good idea to go in packing?”
“You don’t know what the Dresanians are like!” Leonid said. “They’re tough as nails, practically immortal and they have all the toys! Even their philosophers are warriors, and their warriors are also philosophers! You have no idea what you’ve forced us into—”
“Given how ragged Andromeda ran us,” Sirius said, “it’s not like I had another choice.”
Leonid grimaced, while Andromeda sagged like Sirius had punched her in the gut.
“Fair enough. None of us do,” Leonid said grimly, turning to go. “Set course for the Beacon at Halfway Point, Sirius. As for you, Andromeda . . . just keep the glider running. Toren, keep it together until I get back. You’ll all see what Dresanians are like soon enough.”
—————
Nine thousand light years away, wildsilk sheets slipped lazily around Serendipity’s hooves as she stirred on her elegant burgundy-cushioned divan. Golden light poured between tasseled violet curtains she’d drawn back to wake her at dawn. The young centauress blinked, yawned—then smelled caffé and satsumas, and rolled until all four hooves hit the floor.
Serendipity Keltanya Kirkpatrick Saint George stared in mock horror at the breakfast tray on her desk. A handwritten note revealed her grandmother had once again beaten her—up before dawn, with time to make breakfast for Serendipity, before going on her own morning run.
“Na’hai-ee, Serendipity,” said Tianyu, her minifox. The little robot had been curled up on the mahogany arm of the divan, watching her sleep as always, but now he stretched and fluffed his magnificent red and white tail. “Looks like your grandmother made you breakfast.”
“Dashpat,” Serendipity said, rubbing her forehead. “Oh—and na’hai-ee, Tianyu.”
“Uh-oh. What’s wrong?” Tianyu asked, jumping down. “You love breakfast.”
“I do. But I drew the curtains to wake before her,” Serendipity said, spreading her horsey legs, stretching her arms back over her horse barrel, left, then right, working out the kink she got at the join of her backs when she slept. “Hold a moment. I sleep locked. How did she get in?”
“Definitely is curious,” Tianyu said, hopping up on the floating table and slinking past the hovering ball of caffé in its spiral holder. He sniffed the steaming eggs, the bowl of fruit, the triangles of toastwheat and glowcheese. “But she definitively laid out a spread.”
Serendipity snorted. Of course. She was trying to keep Serendipity in shape for her stupid tournament. But she hadn’t just saddled her with everything a young centauress athlete needed: she’d topped it off with bananaberry parfait with algurt and granula, Serendipity’s favorite.
Serendipity sighed and stretched forth her hand. Her golden bracelet glittered, a satsuma levitated into her hand, and she began peeling it. One couldn’t be a Saint George without learning to live in the shade of all those . . . those impossibly accomplished relatives.
Forget her father’s side. Her mother? Renowned artist. Her uncle? Renowned reporter. Grandfather Kirkpatrick? Starship engineer. Great-grandmother? Intergalactic financier. At the trunk of the tree, her great-to-the-nth grandmother: the First Centaur, and genetic engineer.
All still alive, all still kicking, all still doing all those impossible things that made everyone want impossible things out of her. But the worst of all was her grandmother. Warrior. Author. Three-time winner of the Sagan Award for her work as a First Contact Engineer.
It would be hard for her grandmother to be more eminent: First Contact Engineering was difficult and dangerous work that had ultimately killed her. Now, back in a brand-new body, on well-deserved (and mandated) leave, she’d convinced herself she was Serendipity’s best friend.
Serendipity nibbled a satsuma wedge, staring at a wood-framed holograph on her desk. Taken by Sistine, her mother, it looked like two young centauresses playing in Dover Woods: one a fiery redhead with quills and freckles—Serendipity—supporting, half atop her, a younger girl with metallic purple hair. But the “younger” girl was really her grandmother, and it was her leaning into the frame, almost pushing Serendipity out of it, that made the picture just perfect.
“Oh dear. I know that look,” Tianyu said. He jumped as a dark shape passed the window. Moments later it dissolved into a moire of rainbow light and a delayed bass chiming—most likely, a bladeship popping into hyperspace. “Don’t tell me you’re still thinking of leaving.”
“Not thinking,” Serendipity said, stepping to the window, watching the sun glinting off starships swarming the skies of her homeworld, T’syar’lyeh. Every person on every one of those ships was going somewhere—except her. “I’ve set my mind to it. I have to get out of here.”
“But T’syar’lyeh is our home,” Tianyu said, curling up on the desk. “I like it here.”
“I don’t need to be coddled until I’m curdled,” Serendipity said. “I need someplace exciting, where there’s still room to do something new.” She picked up her farstaff and twirled it, pointing it up through the roof at the invisible stars. “Someplace exotic: a far port, a distant colony, a long-haul spacecraft crewed by dashing space pirates. Anywhere—”
“Far from your grandmother?” Tianyu said.
“Anywhere,” Serendipity said, lowering the staff, “out of the shade of the gods.”
—————
“You don’t need to run away,” Tianyu said, prowling back and forth on Serendipity’s floating desk while she curled through a challenging tai chi routine her metaconscience thought she could finish before her grandmother got back. “Your grandmother loves you, you know.”
“What are you, my metaconscience?” Serendipity said, hand arcing up. Then that same advisor program gave her a little poke, and she glanced over to see her minifox’s ears drooping. “Sorry, Tianyu. It’s just . . . since she got that new body, she’s done nothing but hover.”
Tianyu gave a little sniff. “Do you blame her? She just came back from the dead.”
“I . . . no, I don’t,” Serendipity said. Then she sighed, finished, and straightened. She ruffled Tianyu’s neck in apology. “I’m sorry, Tianyu. I do get an earful from my metaconscience program about it. I know it’s been hard on her; it’s just . . . I’m in need of a little space.”
“I think you’re being ridiculous,” Tianyu said. “She’d be happy to help you—”
“Her ‘helping’ is half the problem,” Serendipity said. “I’ve got to find my own way.”
Serendipity wasn’t sure when it had turned into a competition, but a competition it was. Anything she could do, her grandmother could do better. Serendipity loved to read; her grandmother was a writer. Serendipity was a foodie; her grandmother was a chef.
Science? She had a stack of degrees a mile high. Karate? She won her first tournament at the age Serendipity had started practicing. History? When Serendipity had started studying ancient Greek sculpture, she had traveled back in time to b
ring her a carving from Pompeii.
Even after Serendipity fell in love with travel, her grandmother still outclassed her. Serendipity had visited twenty-four worlds; her grandmother, thousands. For one brief moment, Serendipity had dreamed of becoming a professional traveler, at besting her at that one thing.
Then she found her grandmother had visited Andromeda before Serendipity was even born . . . and had sent digital copies of herself to two million worlds, using force-projectors attached to autonomous vehicles to collect data for her PhD thesis.
This was ridiculous. Serendipity had to find something to do that her grandmother hadn’t done. And she couldn’t do that on T’syar’lyeh: no matter what Serendipity chose, it was only a matter of time before her grandmother found out, decided to “help,” and effortlessly outclassed her. Serendipity had to find a place that was her own, where she could make her own mark.
Even if it meant traveling halfway across the galaxy.
—————
“Right enough,” Tianyu said, curling up on the mahogany of her desk. “Show me.”
Serendipity tossed the last of the satsuma peels into the mulchmoss of her brainsai and flicked her hand over the little tree to bring it to life. While tiny green teeth chewed up the peel, the branches of the tree glowed to life, projecting a map of the intergalactic Alliance.
“And here I thought all that time you spent researching colonies for your senior thesis was just an elaborate excuse for planning a vacation,” Tianyu said, puffing a breath of air that ruffled the leaves of the brainsai and made the velvet expanse in the air shimmer.
“This whole summer was a vacation,” Serendipity said. “Now it’s time to go to work.”
“You, thinking of work?” Tianyu said. Then he glanced at her and sat up. “Seriously, Serendipity? Your metaconscience must be broken. You shouldn’t be thinking of work with only a primary degree. You’ve a scholarship waiting for you at the University of Geneva—”
“Go to U of G? Just like grandmother? Definitely not.” Serendipity let out a snort. “And spend forever in school just for the privilege of following in her footsteps? Definitively not. I’ve no plans to spend my life retelling lives lived by others.”
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