Tess blushed.
Immediately Garrett regretted it. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t tease you.”
“You’re jealous of us, aren’t you?”
Garrett slumped against the dome’s wall. “I guess I am. I want you to be happy, but since Alexis — since the hurricane, I’ve been kind of alone. I feel upstaged by Robo-Casanova. Please, for the love of God, don’t repeat that.”
Tess smirked, but turned serious again. “I might not be able to help it. When you’re subvocalizing a commentary on everything you see, everything you think, things slip out. I sound crazy with all the jingles, obscenities and other nonsense that goes through my head.”
Garrett’s jaw hung slightly open. “I’ve never heard someone else say that.”
“You too? It’s not just me and Val?”
Garrett gave a wan smile and tapped his head. “It’s a jungle in here. What do you mean about Val?”
“Zephyr used to do a simpler version of our chatter with his maker, sometimes. They were close.”
“Close.”
“Yeah. Imagine how he feels at being simultaneously kicked out and kept at home to be redesigned by his creator.”
Garrett thought back to the lobotomized Mana AI that had come with the new body. Deleting that one hadn’t felt like killing. “He’s not plotting revenge or anything, is he?”
“He’s not like that. I’d know.”
“You’d tell me if there were some problem with him, wouldn’t you? I’m not comfortable with knowing that he’s listening everywhere.”
“That? That’s why we’re down here? I thought…” She wouldn’t look at him.
“What?”
Tess mumbled, “Captain Fox, I thought you might kiss me.”
Garrett sat there for a moment. “Do you want me to?” She nodded, and hesitantly he pulled her close. Their lips met for only a few moments before both of them were too embarrassed to go on. He was wrapped around her with her hair tickling his cheek, and he said, “Someday, maybe.”
She nodded, not needing to speak. There was a closeness here that made him want to have her all to himself — but that was wrong. He didn’t want a relationship except by everyone’s free choice. Maybe in a few years, when they were both a little more mature and had some idea of what they were doing.
Garrett asked, “What will you do when you go back?” The fall school semester was ending, and Tess had promised to be home by Christmas. That didn’t leave much time.
“I guess I can put up with the spring term, and then” — she moved to look him in the eyes — “I want to come back here! I don’t need college!”
“What? When did you decide that?”
“Now. I’ve found something worthwhile to do, where I can be respected for being useful instead of some BS about having self-esteem for no reason. I can do stuff here. And you’re going to stay, right?”
Garrett started to feel gloomy, as he’d felt on the day of his departure. The lights of Las Vegas, the Constellation at anchor — he’d never see them again. But that was stupid, a baseless fear.
“Right?” said Tess.
Garrett was still a young man. He could declare Castor a success, sell out his share, and go do something else. He felt like he was on autopilot, continuing because he had no plan to do otherwise.
“Tess, what does this place mean to you?”
“I don’t know.”
“’I don’t know’ is for the walking dead. I need a better answer.”
“It’s unique,” she said. “It’s a place where we can play at being pioneers. Explorers. I sound silly, I know.”
“You don’t. I like it.”
The weekend didn’t mean much on Castor, except that the Pilgrims were especially tiresome on Sunday. It was Monday night when the radio crackled. “Hispaniola to Castor Station.”
Garrett heard Martin’s tired voice and answered. “Castor Station. Hey, Martin. You’re riding back with the dive shop’s boat?”
“Yeah. Got another party of visitors. Have you seen any fast boats in the area? There’s something odd nearby. Our position is—” He gave coordinates.
“Any trouble?” Garrett scribbled down the numbers. “We haven’t seen anything but the odd sailboat today.”
Martin didn’t answer.
Garrett said, “Come in, Hispaniola. Don’t screw around.”
Static.
Garrett cursed.
15. Martin
He shivered when the radio fuzzed out. He exchanged a glance with Carlos the dive shop owner, who sat clutching the boat’s wheel.
“What do we do?” asked Carlos. The unknown boat was approaching, though its red and black hull was barely visible.
“Full speed ahead to Castor.” Martin tried to sound confident.
Their dinky dive boat, a rigid inflatable, surged through dark water with the engine thrashing. It felt fast. The divers sat in the back, fingering rented scuba gear. One said, “It’s probably a coincidence, with the radio.”
“I wouldn’t bet my life on that,” said Martin. “People, have you got dive knives?” The divers shook their heads, and of course Martin had left his back on the station.
Carlos said, “I’ve got one.” He nodded towards a locker, unwilling to pry his hands off the wheel.
Martin pulled out a diamond knife that glittered beautifully. There was something primally satisfying about holding a heavy, sharp thing, as inadequate as it would be in this context.
Carlos looked at the oncoming vessel. “We’re not going to make it.” Castor was barely visible.
Martin tried to hail Castor again, then decided to let the other boat know they saw it. “Hispaniola to unidentified craft approaching us,” he said on a range of channels. “We’d feel a lot better if we knew who you are.”
No one answered, and Martin couldn’t get anything on the radio but static. The boat drew closer with a hum of water jets, until what looked like a machine gun became visible with a man behind it.
The hailing, when it came, was raw sound instead of radio, rippling at them in a focused beam. “This is the United States Coast Guard. Stop immediately and put your hands on your heads!”
Carlos’s hands were already in the air. Martin looked at the other boat in disbelief, then reached for the neglected controls, shut them down, and put the knife away. The other boat was in charge.
It had four men visible. There was a USCG flag, but the men seemed dressed for a fight. “What’s this about?” said Martin, hands on his head as three attackers boarded.
“Let’s see some ID. You have passports? Registration?”
Martin relaxed a little; they were probably legit if they cared about the paperwork. Good old bureaucracy.
“Who’s the captain?” the Guardsmen said.
Carlos was too scared to answer. Martin said, “He’s taking us to Castor Station, of which I’m the leading officer here.” He slowly handed over his passport.
“You, then,” said the leader. “Do you have any weapons on board, sir?”
“A knife, over there.”
The leader took it. “Any drugs?”
“Drugs! I certainly don’t. Any of you?” Martin looked at the frightened faces, wanting to throttle anyone who did. No one answered. The leader nodded to his men, who began searching the luggage, one with a chemsniffer. The other saw a bulging seat cushion and slashed it, finding only stuffing. Thank God, thought Martin.
“Hey!” said Carlos, leaping from his seat to protest, though being held at gunpoint had left him mute. “What are you doing? Where’s your warrant!”