“Usual reasons,” said Grace. “I think you’re approaching this from the wrong angle.”
“Break it down for me,” said Nate. Arms crossed. Face closed.
“An edge world needs just one transmitter,” said Grace. “A working one. The Navy knows this, you know this. We all know this.”
“We all know this,” agreed Nate.
“Thing is, the Navy is … a big organization. Full of factions.” She held up a hand, because he looked like he would say something unhelpful like no it’s not or how do you know that. “They send crew pants in the wrong size, and then send a second pair in another, different, yet still wrong size. They order too much hash cake for the galley. Coffee comes in decaf, not espresso. You see where I’m going?”
“You’re saying they booked two crews to complete the same job. Clerical error.”
“Clerical error,” said Grace, “seems the most obvious reason.”
“Okay,” said Nate. “Clerical error doesn’t explain how you knew about it.”
“I talk to people,” said Grace.
“That’s not it,” said Nate. “No one talks that well to people.”
“No, I guess not,” said Grace. “How’s Hope, since we’re talking?”
“Don’t change the subject,” said Nate. “And if you’re going to, be … smooth.”
“Captain, I’ll change your definition of ’smooth.’” Grace let a little anger into her voice. Not a lot, but enough, just enough to salt the water, let a little flavor in. “This is about trust.”
“You’re right—”
“I haven’t finished,” she said. “Trust, it’s a two-way street. Where have I given you cause to think I can’t be trusted?”
“There’s—”
“That’s right,” she said, walking closer to him. Face to face. “Never. Here’s the thing. I’ve saved your ass twice now. Once, when a soldier was about to turn you into a smoking ruin, and the second when I dragged your crew’s ass out of a Republic fire. Look. I don’t know what Hope’s problems are, and I don’t care. When she trusts me, she’ll tell me. That’ll be enough. Not the point. The point? Two for two, Captain. And you haven’t even given me an advance. Two good reasons to trust me, and nothing coming back the other way. I’ve got to ask, why should I keep sticking my neck out for you?”
She didn’t say, that soldier wasn’t going to kill you, he was going to kill me. She didn’t say, if the Navy had looked too closely at me, I’d be dead. Those were both true, and truth wouldn’t help her here. What would help was this man getting over this whole situation. And if he was too blind to see what was true, that was on him. Grace only told people what they wanted to hear.
It wasn’t really lying.
“I guess,” said Nate, then stopped. “I guess I owe you an apology.”
“And why’s that?” said Grace.
“Because,” said Nate. “I thought you were too good to be true.”
Too good to be true. She felt sick and wanted to pull back, but held herself still through force of will born of long practice. It didn’t matter what she felt. It mattered that she got to where she was going. And then the next place after that. And the next. She wanted to say, maybe I’m just what you need. Because she wanted it to be true.
And she wasn’t sure why.
Instead, she said, “Sometimes, good things happen to good people.”
“No,” said Nate. “I’ve never known that to be true.” She saw his metal hand flex and felt something like remembered anger come off him. “But you, Grace? You’re right. And I’m sorry.” He held out his hand — the flesh and blood one. She grasped it, finding his hand warm as they shook. “Welcome to the Tyche. Welcome to our family.”
Perfect.
She watched as he left the cargo bay, and shivered again. The Tyche was breathing for both ships for the moment, but the air still felt stale, false, canned. Just like her. She put a hand on her stomach, willing that sick feeling away. It had to be this way. Had to be.
Didn’t it?
Of course it did. She couldn’t trust these people. Not really. Because of what she was. And she couldn’t change that. In a couple more jumps she’d be off the Tyche and free on a new world where no-one knew her. That was the best thing for everybody.
• • •
Walking the Ravana felt right. It was empty of souls who cared. It — still — had bodies, empty of all concern, but placed in an airlock away from the rest of them. Nate had said to them all he’d decide what to do when the time came. She didn’t know what that meant, and she didn’t care.
I don’t care. She repeated it to herself. I don’t care I don’t care I don’t care.
Walking a drifting hulk, tiny bright sparks of consciousness scattered through it like failing beacons of hope, kept her grounded. Kept her running towards her north star, kept her aware of what she needed to do. It was about survival.
Grace let a hand touch the metal walls of the ship, fingertips trailing. How many other people had walked through here? How many crew had the Ravana seen before this last, inglorious end? Stripped of her drive, left to rot in a system that held nothing for any humans, not even a scrap of metal worth sending a run-down mining crew to gather.
Maybe Grace should stay. It’d be a good place to hide.
Her comm clicked in her helmet. They all wore full suits now that the drive was cold. Tyche’s life support was still trickling air and heat into the empty shell of Ravana, a tiny sprite trying to keep a dying elder sister alive. It was enough to not flash-freeze like she’d seen before; the man who’d been hunting her had looked so surprised, right before the external lock had blown him into the hard black. No suit. He’d looked like he’d been trying to scream, and then he’d turned into a hunk of slowly turning ice and meat. The yellow hate of his mind had snapped out faster than she’d expected, but it still took a long time. Fear and desperation/conviction screaming into the void along with all of his air.
So yeah. She wore her helmet. People had told her she had trust issues. Her comm chirped and she keyed the receive controls. “Grace here.”
“Um,” said Hope. “Grace.”
“I know, the name sounds cool to say,” said Grace. Then she caught herself. Don’t engage. She couldn’t get … attached. Not to any of them, and especially not to a needy on-the-run person trying to stay out from under the Republic’s boot. “Sorry. What’s up, Hope?”
“I was wondering,” said Hope, “if you could give me a hand.”
Grace paused. She’d walked the long length of the ship, or near enough. Her feet had led her to the ready room, with its empty acceleration couches and forgotten horrors. Her hand still touched the wall, because she wanted to feel something. This ship shouldn’t be so empty. It was too big, too proud. Her traitorous feet had wanted to show her the ready room again. To remind her of what it meant to be a part of something.
Yeah. A part of something where everyone dies, together. No thanks. “Sure,” she said. “I can give you a hand.”
“Great,” said Hope. “I’m in Engineering. On Ravana.”
I know, Grace almost said. “Okay,” she said. “I’ll be right there.”
• • •
Grace didn’t know what she’d been expecting. Something orderly, something regular, something like the Tyche’s engine room. An acceleration couch like Hope’s in a corner, tools racked and stacked. This might have started that way, but there was a huge crater in the floor, metal plates of the Ravana’s structure lifted, sheared, cut, torn. The reactor swayed in the air above the hole, pieces of decking still stuck to it. Chains anchored it to the ceiling.