Bay rolled his eyes. "Brook, the marshcrab who runs this place has been giving me the hairy eyeball. I'll bet you a silver scryl he put out a call to exterminators. The last thing you have to worry about is ants."
She huffed. "Exterminators don't get between your gears."
They stood in the hangar of Paradise Lost. Well, Bay was standing. The HSS Brooklyn rested on the oily floor. Brooklyn was small. But she was home. And she was Bay's best friend. Bay placed his hand on her hull, trying to soothe her.
Hundreds of other starships and shuttles docked around them. Some, like Brooklyn, were made of metal. Others were constructed of crystal or stone. Several shuttles were filled with water, for many aliens in the galaxy still relied on gills. Service bots rushed back and forth, creaky little things, offering to wash, wax, or repair the vessels. Slot machines stood along one wall, and several wrinkly aliens sat there, shoving scryls into the contraptions. A hot dog vendor stood by a gas pump, and a marshcrab stood inside an office behind a glass pane.
Compared to the rest of Paradise Lost, a hive of brothels and drug dens, the hangar was subdued. Brooklyn was fixed, and it was time to leave. Bay would not miss this space station. He had found a few days of forgetfulness here, a haze of vemales and whatever grog he could afford. He had gotten into a handful of bar brawls, bruising his knuckles and cheek, physical pain to shove back the memories.
And I met her. Rowan. The girl in the ducts.
Bay could not forget her large brown eyes. Her short ash-filled hair. The bruise on her cheek. The fear he saw in her, but also the light that shone through.
His heart twisted.
She's David Emery's daughter. And I called him a traitor to her face. Is it any wonder she ran?
"Bay! Bay, are you listening to me?" Brooklyn tilted herself toward him, banging him with her hull. "I asked you to check me for rust! You can catch rust from robots, you know."
Bay shook his head, banishing the thought of Rowan. There was not much he could do for her. There was not much Bay could do for any human who still lived in hiding. He had flown with the Inheritors once, vowing to fight for humanity. He had been only a child. That life was far behind him.
He patted Brooklyn's prow. "Brook, I need to update your software. You're a bit racist."
The starship rumbled and puffed out smoke. "Dude, robots are not a race. They're just machines."
"So are you!" Bay said.
She snorted. "I'm a starship."
"Actually, you're just a shuttle craft I put a warp engine on."
"That means I'm a starship now! And I deserve proper mechanics."
Bay rolled his eyes. "How does your new wing feel?"
She moved its flaps up and down. "Good," she muttered.
"I'm glad, because it cost every last scryl I had. Ready to fly outta here?"
"Ra yes," Brooklyn said. "This space station reeks of bad oil and rusty robo—"
"Brook!"
"Fine! No more being rocist. Let's amscray."
Bay entered Brooklyn and sat at the helm. The inside was still grubby. There was mud on the floor, dust on the controls, crumbs on the seats, and grog stains in the cup holder. Perhaps Bay should have paid the robots for detailing, but if Brooklyn had freaked out over a wing, he couldn't imagine how she'd react with robots running around inside her, vacuuming and dusting.
He brushed dust off the control panel. My sweet, paranoid starship.
He grabbed the joystick, turned Brooklyn around, and they faced the shimmering force field that led out into open space. Past the glare of neon lights, Bay could make out a few stars. There was danger out there. There were Peacekeepers, mercenaries, exterminators, and scorpions. There was loneliness. There was guilt. There was memory.
He was out of money. He had enough food for only a couple of weeks. He would have to move on. To keep searching. To someday find a virgin world, peaceful and green, far from everyone.
Bay lowered his head.
A pipe dream, he knew. For years, he had searched. There were many habitable worlds in the galaxy—all already colonized. All owned by aliens who hated humans more than Brooklyn hated robots.
We have only one world. Earth.
A lump filled Bay's throat. No. That struggle was over. His war for Earth had ended. If he could find no new world, then he would continue this life. He would bounce from casino to casino, find escape in the bottom of mugs and the beds of whores. So what if Earth was gone? He didn't need Earth! He didn't need the Inheritors, or his father, or anyone.
Not since she had died.
I miss you so much, Seohyun.
Brooklyn spoke softly. "Bay? Maybe . . . maybe this time you can take me home. To my mother. To your father."
Bay shook his head. "No. The ISS Jerusalem is a warship, serving the Heirs of Earth, not your mother. You are no longer a shuttle forced to dock in its hangar. You're a free ship. And I'm no longer my father's son."
But his throat was tight, his voice hoarse.
"Bay." Brooklyn's voice was gentle. "We shouldn't be alone. Nobody should be alone."
"We're not alone!" He laughed mirthlessly. "The galaxy is our home. Ours to explore. We're free, Brook. We're free."
"I guess," she whispered, and her control panel dimmed.
He looked over his shoulder into Brooklyn's hold. He saw a bed, unmade. The fold-out desk where he drew and painted. A handful of drawings on the bulkheads, depicting noble space warriors, seductive alien princesses, and roaring dragons flying over alien planets. Empty bottles of grog. Dirty clothes. Ashtrays. Misery.
Bay shut down the engine.
He opened a drawer, pulled out his pistol, and shoved it into his belt. He opened the hatch.
"Bay?" Brooklyn said. "Bay, where are you going? I thought we were flying out."
"We are," he said. "Soon. I forgot something."
He hopped out the ship and began walking across the hangar.
"Bay, wait, don't leave me with these robots!" Brooklyn called after him. "Bay! What about the exterminators?"
"I'll be quick!" he called over his shoulder. "Just play some video games until I'm back."
"But you only gave me Angry Birds and Q*bert, and I finished them both!"
Bay ignored her. He ran back into the space station, this glittering hive of sin.
He ran past aliens at slot machines, past sex shops and adult movie theaters, past gladiator pits where bones snapped and teeth flew. He ignored the marshcrab security guards who cried for him to stop. He barged back into Drunken Truckers, the pub where he had met her. The stick insect bartender was polishing a mug. Giant alien seashells sat at the bar, licking piles of salt. Ignoring them, Bay knelt under a table, pulled open the HVAC vent, and placed his head and arms into the duct.
"Rowan!" he cried.
His voice echoed down the duct.
No answer came—aside from a gruff voice behind him.
"Hey, pest, no crawling into the walls."
It was the bartender. Bay ignored him and crawled deeper. Soon his entire body was inside the duct.
Damn these ducts were narrow! How the hell did Rowan manage to move so swiftly? Granted, she was smaller than him, and she had two working hands, but Bay still shuddered to imagine spending a life here in the ductwork.
He crawled until he reached a bend, wriggled around the corner, and saw another duct stretch ahead. He crawled onward.
"Rowan!" he cried again. "Rowan, it's me! Bay. Can you hear me? I'm sorry, all right?"
His voice echoed. A gust of hot wind from a furnace ruffled his hair, and he coughed. He kept crawling, reached another bend, and faced a fork. He chose one path, crawled deeper, reached another fork, and chose a path at random. Surely this labyrinth spread through the entire space station. Could he get lost in here, crawl through the ducts for days until he died of thirst?