“Were you listening in?” said Nate.
“No,” said Hope.
“Good,” said Nate.
“Just the last bit,” said Hope. “And maybe the first bit too. But not everything.”
Nate sighed, pocketed the communicator, and walked in the direction Grace had run. The thing about firefights, and not getting shot, was to be good at not drawing attention to yourself. There were some good ways to do that. Just off the top of his head, do not point a blaster at anyone. Don’t shoot a blaster. Do not shout. And never, no matter what, should you run. That kind of thing just drew the eye, caused all manner of mischief to rain down on wherever you were, wherever you’d been, and wherever you were going. This worked well for him as a general rule because he didn’t like running on his leg, and he figured he’d mastered a good saunter.
The streets of Arlington were emptying, water down a drain, and it gave him a few moments to admire the layout of the place. Tall, thin residences stretched up out of smaller, squat businesses around them, relishing the freedom that 0.9G gave them. Trees. Everywhere, trees, growing taller, leaner than a standard Earth gravity would allow. He’d hoped they’d be able to stay on this crust a while longer; a lighter step meant a lighter heart, even if the Republic were stuck in here like a bunch of ticks. He had no quarrel with them, not anymore, but that didn’t mean their boot stepped light when it found itself accidentally on your neck.
Like that bar behind him. That was the tread of a heavy boot, make no mistake. If it wasn’t the Republic, they’d sanctioned it, that’s just the way it was. Didn’t make it right — in Nate’s view, it made it far from right, and that’s why he kept grabbing at the tiger’s tail. Speaking of, he spied a flash of straight black hair from a doorway ahead, Grace’s face ducking out for a quick glance back his way. Or back at the firefight in the bar. She waved a come here at him, movements short with anger or fear or both.
He kept up his saunter. No need to spoil the effect as he approached the finish line. He ducked into the doorway next to her. “Hi.”
“Let’s go,” she said.
“Let’s not,” he said. He leaned into the alcove, a nook that felt like it was tailor-made for just this kind of conversation. “We haven’t discussed terms. We haven’t discussed where we’re going. The most important thing we haven’t discussed is,” and here he paused as a particularly loud fusillade of plasma fire from down the street cut him off, “how on Earth, her mighty heavens, the stars we travel across, and the Senate of our true and beloved Republic, you knew me, those Navy boys, or where they want us go. And all of those things are of interest to me before we keep walking down this fine, tree-lined boulevard.”
He was watching her face as he spoke, looking for tells. She was good, maybe even great at hiding them, but this wasn’t his first rodeo. Nate saw the emotions chase each other in quick succession. First there was irritation, then there was anger, and that was followed by something he’d call incredulousness for want of a better stake in the quicksand. Finally, a kind of astonishment mixed with something that might become, in just a few moments, acceptance. She pursed her lips, pushed her scabbard behind her on its shoulder strap, and said, “I need a ride.”
Probably not a lie. “Okay,” he said.
“And,” she said, “there are people after me.” She touched his arm, just a gentle touch, but he knew the drill and ignored it.
Still. What she’d said probably wasn’t a lie either, hand on his arm or not. “Okay,” he said again.
“I can help you,” she said.
That there was one motherfucking lie. It wasn’t that what she said was untrue: it’s that what she said was about two percent of the truth, and that made Nate uncomfortable. He didn’t like people lying to him, but he was used to it. What he couldn’t tolerate was people lying to him about his ship. “Thing is,” said Nate, “we don’t need help. The Tyche, you see, well. We’ve got ourselves a crew, and that there’s—”
“They’ll kill me,” said Grace, “if I stay here.”
Nate thought about that. Okay. That didn’t feel like a lie at all. He felt like she’d just pushed his sucker button and fought the urge to white knight this all the way. Because that sword behind her, and the way she walked, said she wasn’t after a white knight, despite pushing the sucker button hard. “You,” he said, “are trying to play me. Find another ride.” And he turned to see a soldier, dressed in black standing in front of them. Blaster pointed at Nate. Faceless black visor. And here he was, flat-footed, his own weapon still in its holster because of his stupid damn rules about not drawing attention.
Grace moved, steel hissing out of the scabbard. Her drawing strike brought the blade out from behind her and around, slicing through the side of the soldier’s chest plate. Grace’s second strike left the cold whisper of air next to Nate’s face as her sword reversed direction, moving back up through the other side of the soldier’s armor, the front falling away. Her third stroke cut the soldier’s gun in half, and then she was moving out from the alcove, the blade moving up the man’s chest, cutting through clothing and flesh like neither of them were any bother at all. The sword’s edge made the man’s neck as she made the street, and then she was behind him, spinning in place, her sword an arc of white and red. She stopped, facing away from Nate, back to back with the soldier. The moment held, then the soldier’s head toppled from his body, gun halves clattering to the ground, the body slumping a half second after.
She spun the sword through the air twice, blood slicking from the blade, before slipping it in the scabbard behind her.
Nate’s own sword was back on the Tyche, but he hadn’t drawn a blade in the ten years since the Empire fell, and doubted he’d be able to swing it like that even if it was resting comfortable by his side. “That,” he said, “was some impressive shit.”
She turned and looked at the fallen soldier, then at Nate. “I still need that ride, flyboy.” Her look said and you owe me one.
“You,” he said, “are fucking hired. But from here on out? It’s Captain.”
“Copy that, Captain,” said Grace Gushiken, reaching her hand out.
He shook it, then opened his communicator again. “El?”
“There’s a city-wide state of emergency,” said his Helm’s voice from the comm. “What did you do?” Then, “Captain.”
“I didn’t do anything,” said Nate. “Clean out the spare room. We’re taking on one more.”
There was a pause, before El said, “Okay. What did she do?”
“Nothing,” said Nate before pocketing the comm. He wished he’d known he was lying to himself.
CHAPTER FOUR
Elspeth Roussel sat in the Helm’s chair — her chair — on the Tyche’s bridge. It wasn’t much of a bridge, not like what she was used to from her days flying frigates for the Empire, but the captain had given her a paying job and didn’t mind she’d flown for the losing side. And she was still Helm of something.
Even a small lifter like the Tyche. The ship was a single wing design, like an A or V when viewed from above depending on whether you were a glass-half-full kind of woman. The Tyche had three decks and weighed a paltry 150 tonnes, but El liked to think she flew like a much lighter ship. Under her fingers, the Tyche was a nimble fighter. El reached out a hand to the console in front of her, kept clean despite the age of it. “My good girl,” she said.