For now, she’d take the pain instead of a reminder of that loss of control. That moment of vulnerability. It didn’t sit well with her.
Not because Kohl had beaten her like an old carpet. Grace had plenty of situations in her life when her skill with a sword had proved … insufficient. But she’d never had a situation when her ability to understand people, to bend them, twist them to her needs, had failed. Sure, sure: it was alien parasitic scum inside of Kohl that had been pulling the strings, but even still, she should have seen the signs. She should have known something wasn’t right.
Grace shouldn’t have gone down into the hold after her sword. It was just a sword.
Except that it wasn’t. It was a little piece of her past, and a friend had remade it — for her — after she’d been careless. The sword was a weakness, and she should throw it away.
She gripped it tighter in her hand instead. Her breath caught in her chest as some damaged nerve in her spine twinged.
“Hey,” said Hope. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” lied Grace. “I’m fine. You?” They were in the sickbay, one of the few areas of the Tyche that could still hold an atmosphere. It wasn’t currently pressurized, Kohl unconscious in front of them, stuffed inside his suit. It was a wonder any of them were alive. A piece of the Gladiator had gouged a furrow through the hull, opening the cargo bay to the hard black, venting out a bunch of their air. The emergency close had kicked in on all the airlocks, sealing them inside, safe and sound, until the battle was over. Only a pilot with great skill could have kept the Tyche flying true while all that was happening. Only an Engineer with her hands feathering the power to the drives would have made it possible. Only a captain with more bravery than brains would have tried it.
They were lucky to be alive.
Hope toed the bed Kohl was on with a booted foot, the motion causing her to make a lazy rotation in the vacuum. She moved in zero G like she was born to it. “I’m scared,” she said.
She wasn’t lying. Grace could feel fear/run/fear/run coming off her in waves. It was a wonder Hope was sitting still, but to be fair there wasn’t anywhere to go. “They aren’t on the ship anymore. Hope? They’re all gone. All of them.” It was true. Grace hadn’t been able to sense any of the hissing static that marked the Ezeroc, not on the Tyche, and not coming from the cored remains of their giant ship. When Nate had blown chunks out of the interior of it with a handful of salvaged weapons, there’d been a great hissing cry from the planet’s surface, then … silence.
“I know,” said Hope, looking at Kohl. “I wonder whether we got all the things that needed killing.”
“Huh,” said Grace. She wondered whether she should say I won’t let him do whatever it is you fear, but she wondered if she’d be lying. Beating Kohl wasn’t a thing she could do. She’d gotten lucky. This time, a particular set of circumstances had aligned to bring the big man to his knees. Grace didn’t know if he’d ever wake up. They’d scraped the remains of the parasite out of his back, sprayed synthskin over the wound, and plugged him in to the cheap medical unit. It couldn’t do much for him other than keep his heart beating and his lungs sucking in oxygen. Wiring Kohl into the thing through his ship suit had taken both Nate and El hands; Grace wasn’t up to it. Clumps of foam sealant bulged on the exterior of the suit like growths.
“I didn’t mean…” said Hope, trailing off.
Grace reached over, giving Hope’s hand a squeeze. The movement felt clumsy and awkward through the gloves, but she did it anyway. “We won’t let him do anything to you, Hope.” That at least was true. She knew Nathan would drop Kohl out an airlock if he brought their crew into jeopardy again. He’d almost done it when he’d found out what had happened in the hold. Grace had stopped him. She’d explained it was a parasite, that he’d been infected, that it wasn’t him. Grace might have scratched her head in puzzlement, if she could have through her helmet, or if the movement wouldn’t have hurt so much. She didn’t understand her own motivations. “Tell you what,” said Grace. “Why don’t you take a break. I’ll watch him.”
“What if,” said Hope, and then stopped.
“I’ll be fine,” said Grace. Lying again.
Hope left.
• • •
“Gracie,” said Kohl, his voice raspy over the comm.
“Asshole,” said Grace, looking up. She’d been almost asleep. The Tyche’s lack of gravity had let her float, the pain lower without pressure on her joints.
“Huh,” he said. “I thought I had a dream.” He looked down at his suit, the clumps of sealant, and the tubes and wires going into the machine at his side. “It wasn’t a dream, was it?”
“No,” said Grace. She didn’t move, because moving would hurt, and she’d wince, and Kohl would see her weakness.
He held her eyes for a few minutes, then looked away. She felt the emotions coming off him, a complicated brew, but the biggest one was shame. That surprised her. Kohl spoke, his face still averted. “You put up a hell of a fight.”
That made her lean forward, something she didn’t manage with the elegance she wanted. Grace hadn’t spent enough time without gravity to move well. Against the pain, her teeth gritted. “Was that some kind of apology?”
“No,” said Kohl.
“The great October Kohl doesn’t apologize?”
“The great October Kohl didn’t do anything wrong,” he said. She supposed it was true. It was like being on a ship flown by someone else.
“You’ve got to wonder why you’re sucking oxygen instead of vacuum right now,” said Grace. “You’ve got to wonder if someone talked the captain down from throwing you out an airlock.”
Kohl turned back to look at her. “That the truth? The cap want to space me?”
“Would it matter?” said Grace.
“I guess it might,” said Kohl. “Who would do that?”
“No one sensible,” she said. “But I got to thinking.”
“What about?” said Kohl.
“I was thinking, ’Hey, Grace. During that scuffle where you beat the stuffing out of October Kohl—’”
“Hey now,” said Kohl.
Grace gritted her teeth. It might have been a smile, under different circumstances. “’When you beat Kohl senseless, there were at least five times he gave you an advantage. What would make a man do that? What would make a man throw the biggest fight of his match career?’”
Kohl was silent a long time. “You don’t know what it’s like,” he said, “to have one of those things in your head.”
“I’ve got some idea,” said Grace. “They don’t need to be inside me to do it.”
He nodded, nice and slow. “Esper, huh.”
“This story’s not about me, Kohl.” She wanted to move, but knew it would hurt. “This story’s about you. And then I wondered why you’d throw a fight with me. You don’t like me. You think I’m diseased.” She held up a hand to forestall his comment. “Kohl? Don’t. I can’t tell what you’re thinking. But I know what you’re feeling when you look at me. It comes through loud and clear. The signal is strong, you get what I’m saying?”
“Hey,” said Kohl. “Anytime you want to go for round two—” He stopped as her sword cleared its scabbard, the blade moving through the vacuum without resistance. Grace moved the scabbard back as her blade moved forward, balancing each other in harmony in zero G. Her boots attached to the floor with a thunk, giving her the stability she’d need for a killing stroke.