“Exist. I’m willing to take that risk. Ashby might not be. Is that something you’re ready for? I’m not going to make you lose your job and your home over me. That’s your choice, not mine.”
He laid his hand against her core. “I know. I love this ship. I love my job. I love this crew.” He ran his palm down the smooth, flawless curve. “And I don’t want to leave. But I won’t be on the Wayfarer forever anyway. Someday, when the time’s right, I’ll go do other things. If that time gets chosen for me, well… okay.”
“You’re sure?”
He sat thinking, watching her light shine between his fingers. He thought of the familiar insides of the walls of the ship, the way Ashby trusted him to tweak them just right. He thought of the groove in his mattress that fit no one but him. He thought of drinking mek in the Fishbowl, Sissix laughing, Dr. Chef humming. He thought of Kizzy, who he knew he’d be sitting with in some sketchy spacer bar sixty years down the road, both of them old and obnoxious. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “Yeah, I’m sure.”
For a moment, Lovey said nothing. “Even if it came to that, they wouldn’t hate you. These people are always going to be your friends.”
“Yours, too.”
“I don’t know about that.”
“I do.” He fell quiet. “So. We’re doing this?”
“Sounds like it to me.” There was a smile in her voice, a smile he longed to see.
“Okay.” He nodded, and laughed. “Wow. Okay. I’ll contact this guy tomorrow.”
He slept in the AI pit that night, his head nestled against a cold interface panel. He could feel the dull metal pressing little hatchmarks into his skin. He fell asleep imagining soft arms across his chest, warm breath against his cheek.
Day 249, GC Standard 306
CRICKET
It was an odd name for a moon. Calling it a colony was an exaggeration. Ashby could count ten buildings nearby, plus a few solitary settlements peppering the hills and cliffs beyond. The roads were little more than flat grooves in the dirt. There were flight lights and pedestrian paths, but they looked like an afterthought. The sky was the color of sulfur, the ground the color of rust. Fine silt already settled thickly in the grooves of their breathing masks and the frames of their goggles. There were no other sapients in sight.
Ashby held up a hand to block the glare of the white sun. “Sissix?”
“Mmm?” Her voice, like his own, was muffled behind a mask.
“Why are we here?”
“Is this a philosophical question, or—”
He shot her a look. “Why are we here, on this platform, right now?”
The platform in question was a thick sheet of industrial metal, orange around the seams, held up by support beams of dubious reliability. Kizzy and Jenks sat on the edge on the platform, ranting about some action sim while Kizzy twisted bits of discarded metal into animal shapes. Rosemary was in a nearby kiosk, arguing with a malfunctioning AI about docking costs. A faded sign hung from the kiosk roof: WELCOME TO CRICKET. Beneath this sign was a lengthy warning regarding the tendency of unlicensed sub-dermal implants to set off weapon detectors.
Sissix adjusted her goggles. “As I remember it, Kizzy said, ‘You know what we need?’, and you said, ‘What?’, and she said, ‘Guns,’ and you said, ‘No guns,’ and she said, ‘A shield grid, then,’ and added that she had some friends who could fix us up, and that they weren’t too out of the way—”
“That much I recall,” said Ashby. “I suppose my real question is, why did I agree to this?”
“You were concussed and mildly sedated.”
“Ah. That explains it.”
“I have to say, Ashby, having a few weapons on board for this job isn’t a bad idea. Especially in light of recent events.”
“Don’t you start, too. Us getting boarded was a freak occurrence at best. I’ve been flying all my life, and that’s never happened to me before. I’m not filling my home with weapons just because we’re feeling shaken up.”
“Ashby, we’re heading into what was very recently a warzone. You think there won’t be other desperate, dangerous people out there?”
He touched his jaw. The bruises from the Akarak’s rifle were still fading. He revisited those horrible moments in the cargo bay, remembered how it felt to have strangers rip their way into his home. He recreated the incident, imagining a gun in his hand. Would he have fired? He couldn’t say. But imagining the addition of a weapon in that scenario made him feel safer. He no longer felt helplessness. He felt powerful. And that was what scared him. “I’m not compromising my principles over this. That’s that.”
“Fucking Exodans,” Sissix said, but she said it with a smile.
Ashby snorted a laugh. “Kizzy said the exact same thing. She’s making out like we need an entire planetbusting arsenal strapped to our hull.”
“She was scared, Ashby. We all were. We all are.” Sissix held his hand and nuzzled his shoulder with her cheek.
Rosemary slammed the kiosk door behind her. “Stupid hackjob AI.” She glowered as she tried to brush a stubborn clot of dust off her goggles. “For as much as it cost to dock here, they could at least provide decent customer service.”
“How much did it cost?” asked Ashby.
“Seventy five hundred credits,” said Rosemary. “Plus administrative fees. Not that I actually see any administrators around.”
Ashby whistled. “Damn,” he said. “These friends of Kizzy’s better be worth it.”
Rosemary fidgeted. “Ashby, it’s a little sketchy here. I don’t mind doctoring formwork a bit, but—”
“Don’t worry,” said Ashby. “I’m not bringing any illegal equipment onto my ship, especially not when we’re so close to Quelin space. I’m sure Kizzy’s friends are trustworthy folks.”
“How long have you known Kizzy?” Sissix said. Ashby followed her gaze toward an open-top skiff humming its way to the platform. The driver stood up on his seat as he approached, even though the vehicle was still moving. He was a solidly built Human man, younger than Ashby, wearing nothing from the waist up but an air mask, several carved pendants, and a small rocket launcher on a shoulder strap. Shaggy burnt copper locks fell down past his shoulders, cloak-like. He had a beard to match, clipped short along his jaw line, cascading into a braided curtain below his chin. His skin was darkly tanned, but the peach undertones indicated an isolated ancestry on an old fringe colony, far removed from Exodan intermingling. His chiseled muscles were covered with implanted techports and intricate tattoos, and his left forearm had been replaced by a multi-tool appendage, which looked homemade. As the skiff got close, Ashby could see thick scars braided around the seam between the tech arm and the man’s skin. He had a feeling the surgery had been a home affair as well.
“Ah, great,” Ashby sighed under his breath. A shield grid was a good idea. A tweak-happy hackjob mod was something else entirely. How had he agreed to this?
“Kizzy!” the skiff driver boomed, his voice jubilant. He spread his arms wide, reaching toward the sky.
“Bear!” Kizzy squealed, tossing her half-folded metal rabbit aside. It sailed past a placard instructing dock users on the proper disposal of litter. She ran down the platform steps two at a time. “Bear, Bear, Bear, BEAR!” She launched herself over the side of the skiff and into his arms, knocking both of them back into the seat. Jenks sauntered after her, grinning. He and Bear clasped hands warmly as Kizzy hugged Bear’s head, cheering “hooray!”
Rosemary turned to Ashby. “His name’s Bear?” she asked in Ensk.
“Seems that way,” Ashby said.