“No,” she said. “Because, you know. We got him. We got Penn.”
“Okay,” said Grace. “It’s just that, I’m alone here. In the ready room.”
There was a long, long pause. “It’s locked now,” she said. “I’ve really locked it! It is locked in a way that even the cap won’t be able to get through.”
“Good,” said Grace. “You stay there. You don’t open it. Not for anyone.”
“Not even for you?” said Hope.
“Not for anyone,” said Grace. I guess this is it. You’ve decided. This crew. Here. Now. “Hope?”
“Grace?”
“Don’t bother the captain,” she said. “He’s got enough on his mind.” She didn’t add, bothering the captain would also bother El. And bothering El would mean the alien mind readers would know what’s up. Grace unclipped her acceleration harness, easing herself from the chair. Feet on the deck, she felt the artificial gravity of the ship pulling her down, and the thrust pushing her back. It was an odd sensation, like standing on an uneven floor.
Odd for her was odd for aliens too.
Last time she’d fought Kohl, she didn’t have a sword. This time, she wouldn’t make the same mistake. She set off to her cabin.
• • •
Of course the sword wasn’t in her cabin. The shiny new blade that Hope had made for her was missing. There was a note scrawled in blood on the wall above her bunk. It said COME AND GET IT.
She sighed. Where did Kohl end and the alien begin? Did they change all at once? Was it like delirium, curable with antibiotics and a good chicken broth?
Grace Grace Grace Grace Grace…
This voice was fainter. She could hear the alien hiss through it, the words in her mind speaking to her, but from within the ship. Closer, and smaller at the same time. Younger.
Grace looked at the blood on the wall. Now there was a good example of someone not in their right mind. If she’d been younger, been more afraid of her own shadow, she might have been scared, but what she felt was bored and frustrated. It didn’t postpone the inevitable. It made a hard job harder. Seriously, why hadn’t Kohl just waited here for her?
Kohl might not want to kill you.
“Oh,” she said. “So you fuckers aren’t always in control, huh? Not at first, anyway.” That was good to know. It was also bad to know, because instead of just killing Kohl — the man deserved it, in the way plants deserved rain — she’d have to work out whether he’d turned, like milk left in the sun. Whether the core of him was sour. Whether it could be saved.
The ship gave a hard swerve, up becoming left for a while, then down swapped with up and right. Grace’s feet left the decking, she hit the wall, then the ceiling, then the other wall, and landed on the decking again. Fucking rock-throwing aliens.
Grace.
Together!
“Okay,” said Grace, rubbing her shoulder. “Together it is.” She left her cabin. Grabbed the handrail against the wall, using it as an anchor, the ship bucking hard. The muted roar of the PDCs trembled the metal under Grace’s hands, and then hull rang like a bell, something too big or too fast hitting them. The Tyche spun around her axis, Grace’s grip tightening on the handrail so hard her fingers went white.
Silence.
She made her way to the storage room they’d fixed up for Penn to stay in. There was still Penn slime on the floor, but at least the light was working again, someone — Hope? — having fixed the damn thing. Sword, sword, sword… almost anything would do. Give her a piece of pipe and she could swing it like a boss. She knew Kohl would just break her into component parts if she didn’t have a weapon. With a weapon? She might stand a chance.
No pipe. There was a small blaster, tucked in with some protein cakes. It might have been Penn’s, squirreled away for a rainy day, or it might have been tucked here for just such an emergency. She grabbed it, checked the charge. Good enough.
Back when Grace had been doing training — back when she’d learned she wasn’t a good shot, not good enough unless she was firing grenades — her instructor had leaned forward. He’d said Grace, you suck. So what you’re gonna do, when you’ve got a gun? You use that gun to get a sword. That there is the best I can do for you. He’d leaned back, wiped his hands on his uniform, and then asked her to keep shooting anyway. Because her father was paying him to teach her how to shoot; the other advice was free.
No problem. She’d go get herself a sword.
• • •
Getting a sword proved easier than she thought it should have been.
It was waiting in the middle of the cargo hold. Blade bared, catching the light, the steel rammed into the decking. Something that was strong — and something that didn’t care about caring for swords — had done that. Grace was watching it from the top of the ladder leading into the cargo bay. No other movement. She couldn’t hear anything, but that wasn’t unusual. They were flying under thrust, the rumble of engines and the sporadic chatter of the PDCs overlying everything else.
“Grace,” said Hope. Grace almost jumped out of her skin.
Hope wasn’t there, of course. It was her comm. She keyed it. “Hey.”
“Kohl’s down there,” said Hope.
“How do you know?”
“I’ve tagged his blood with a radioactive isotope,” said Hope. “It lets the Tyche watch where he’s going. I can even tell when it’s him using the head.”
“Really?” Grace was trying to get a glimpse of something, anything, down in the hold. The sword was a trap. It was a good trap. Grace wanted to get caught in it.
“No,” said Hope. “Why the hell would that sound plausible?”
“You’re an Engineer,” said Grace. “Engineers do … stuff.”
“I once was an Engineer, sure,” said Hope. “But I’ve never been a sorcerer. Anyway, it’s cams. They’re all over the ship. I saw him go down there. Didn’t come back up.”
“Could he have got out some other way?”
“You seen the size of that man? He doesn’t diet.” Hope paused. “I don’t think he could have got out another way. Are you going to kill him?” This last was said in a rush, and it took Grace a moment to process it.
What I want is for you to decide.
“I don’t want to,” she said after a little while.
“I don’t think I want you to either,” said Hope. “Or I do. He’s … not a nice person.”
You, Grace Gushiken, are not a nice person either. It’s just that Hope doesn’t see it, because you bent her around your little finger on day one. But you want to come back from the edge. Maybe Kohl does too. “He’s … necessary,” said Grace.
“Okay,” said Hope. “Can I make one suggestion?”
“Shoot,” said Grace, tightening her grip on the blaster.
“Turn your magboots on,” said Hope. “That way you won’t fly all over the inside of the hull when we maneuver.” The comm clicked off.
Grace sighed. The problem with not being born a spacer, with learning to fight on the crust of a world, was that the obvious things weren’t … obvious. She tapped on her console. Her boots made a comforting cthunk as they snuggled up to the metal deck plating. She wouldn’t be able to move like a dancer, it’d be like moving in treacle. But moving in treacle was better than not being able to hold on to something and dying as she was smashed against the inside of the Tyche.