“I’ve crossed paths with her once or twice,” O’Shea says. And I note the lack of ire in his voice. Maybe even something like respect. “Don’t know her name, but she makes the quiet type sound like an afterbooster in atmo.”
“Well, surely she listens,” I say. I watch the flashes. My Morse is rusty, but the context helps; I get the marshal business bit of her spiel.
“Well, looks like she wants to board. Seeing as I’ve only got the three lock collars, and my lifeboat ain’t moving, you two should clear out. I’ll beam all the scans and logs I have to the lot of you, and to anyone else who shows up.”
Vlad shrugs. He seems to be okay with this. O’Shea grimaces at me. As we pass back through the ship, O’Shea pulls me aside. He’s holding a few bills of Federation money out to me. “Give me a thirty-minute head start,” he whispers.
I turn to study him. He adds: “For getting here first. And saving you a trip to your radio.”
I take the money and pocket it. O’Shea smiles. The boy in the cell is watching us through his long black bangs, but he returns his gaze to the floor when I glare at him. We follow Vlad back to the beacon, where the two colleagues exchange thin frowns and disappear into their respective ships. Using the keypads by the doors, I close the airlocks on both of them.
After the two bounty hunters decouple and pull away, I watch through the porthole as the black hull of the third craft comes into view. There’s no seeing inside it, as its canopy and all its portholes are tinted. The ship quickly fills my porthole, and the pilot docks with a very capable nine on the bump-o-meter. I wait for the light to go green, key open the airlock, and find a ninja standing on the other side.
A bit of a derail here to say what a huge fan I was of Urban Ninja Detroit growing up. All I ever wanted to be was an urban ninja. My parents got me a costume for Halloween when I was seven or eight, and I kept wearing that getup until the split-toe shoes would barely squeeze onto my feet and the pants rode up above my calves. Because of me, everything in my neighborhood was peppered with holes from throwing stars and blowdarts. Hell, I probably joined the military instead of going to college because of the overdeveloped sense of honor that damn TV show gave me. I’ll also say here that I like to pretend Urban Ninja L.A. never existed. Urban Ninja Chicago wasn’t so bad. But I digress.
“Lemme guess,” I say to the ninja. “Looking for a certain fugitive?”
The bounty hunter, who is dressed from head to toe in all black, with cowl and goggles and everything, nods. I see that most of the black attire is a mix and match of official Navy reg gear. I recognize much of it, and even know the decade some of it was in service and the field of action in which it was assigned. Someone hit up the surplus store and found a sale.
“Haven’t seen her,” I say.
The bounty hunter pulls out a small tablet and keys something in, I assume to show me the text or to make the tablet speak out loud. I’m sensing that this person can’t speak, rather than that she chooses not to.
“You want the scans,” I say.
She nods and wipes the screen with the side of her hand. Starts writing something else.
“And radio logs.”
Another nod. And I think I can tell from the movement of shadows across her cowled cheeks that she’s smiling.
“No problem,” I say. “I’ve got a quarantine situation here from NASA, so you’ve got to stay on your ship. I’ll beam you the data. You need anything else?”
For some reason, I’ve always felt the urge to go out of my way for those who ask for the least, rather than those who ask the loudest. But she shakes her head.
“Okay. If you’ll pull away, I’ll go up and get you and your two buddies what you need.” I say this, even though I kinda don’t want her to go. But I’m embarrassed about how I look and how the beacon looks. My life is all about miserable timing.
Instead of turning back to her ship, the bounty hunter hesitates, like there’s something else.
I hazard a guess: “You want a head start, don’t you?”
She nods.
I think of all those mornings sitting in front of my TV watching masterless warriors scale glass towers and fight back the hordes of shoguns sent by the evil Tao-Lin Corporation. I have a soft spot for ladies in all black. Probably the real reason I joined the navy.
“You’ve got it,” I say, my free hand dropping to my waistband, where the bills from O’Shea peek out next to a folded bounty flyer. “Good luck on your hunt.”
I don’t really mean this last. In fact, I feel rather conflicted as the bounty hunter disappears and I work my slow way up the first ladder. It feels like the grav panels have gone on the fritz again, twisting me this way and that. Sometimes you want the good guys to get their man. Sometimes you can’t tell who the good guys are.
Up the second ladder, into my living quarters, I silence the proximity alarm again. Then I head up the last ladder into the command pod, and my mind goes back to how bad things seem to come in threes. Three bounty hunters, arriving within moments of each other. Can I count them as three individual bad things and assume my day improves? I decide to.
A voice interrupts my thoughts.
“Those assholes gone?” someone says.
I emerge up the ladder and turn to see a woman sitting in my command chair. She’s got a blaster in her hand and a frown splashed across her face.
It’s the girl from the bounty flyer.
I never thought I’d see her again.
• 3 •
“Jesus, Scarlett, what the hell are you doing here?”
“Are they gone?”
“Yes, they’re gone. They’re out there looking for you. What’re you doing here?”
I take a step toward her, and the blaster stiffens in her hand. She looks me up and down and smirks at my attire. The wounds across my body don’t seem to faze her. She’s seen me in worse condition than this. And in fewer clothes.
“What am I doing here?” she asks. “Don’t be dense. I came to find you.”
“Why? How? And you do realize you brought the badass brigade with you, right?” I nod my head toward the portholes. Scarlett doesn’t glance away from me. Instead, she shrugs.
“I needed a ride,” she says.
That’s when it hits me how she got here. She must’ve stowed away on one of their ships, then probably tipped them off that she was here. I reckon she had to’ve been on one of the first two ships, and got out when we were in Vlad’s cockpit. I’d wager O’Shea brought her here. Vlad’s ship was too neat for hiding.
“Nice blaster,” I say, gesturing with my free hand. “I thought we were friends.”
I should mention here that I really don’t like guns pointed at my head. Not unless I’m the one doing the pointing.
“So you’re working for NASA,” Scarlett says, as if this answers my question. “Why?”
I let out a sigh. Scarlett never could stand any government agency. Doesn’t matter what they do, they aren’t to be trusted.
“I needed a job,” I say.
“Tell me why you’re working for NASA,” Scarlett insists.
“Money,” I say. “Pension. Job. Dinero.”
She raises the blaster. Her voice as well. “Why are you working for NASA?”
I scratch one of the bandages on my arm. They say the itch is a sign of healing. I’ve been healing for a long damn time.
“I needed to be alone,” I whisper.
The blaster wavers. I try to remember the last time I saw Scarlett. In a trench on Gturn, I think. Or one of its moons. A lot of those trenches looked the same.