Grimspace (13 page)

We're two standard days out of Marakeq, cruising
straight space, when Keri's reply reaches us.

Stupid to jump until we know where we're going, since by some miracle the gray men haven't descended on us yet. Maybe Zelaco didn't make contact with the Corp after all. Maybe that was just March and me relaxing with a round of worst-case scenario. That'd be a nice fragging change.

Evidently her encryption ware isn't compatible with ours because the message plays in skips and hisses: “…wish I knew what the…but anyway…Lex…exploded. Why do you…Farr's last-known location…Hon-Durren's Kingdom.”

I think I speak for everyone when I say, “Shit.”

Loras plays it twice more, coaxing a few more words from it, but nothing that adds to overall coherence. Everyone's oddly subdued, and for once, I know why. Doc mumbles and heads off to medical, probably to record his will or something.

“So how bad
is
this guy, really?” I ask Dina, who sighs.

“Put it this way,” she answers. “He calls that shit hole on the Outskirts his kingdom. Seriously. Do you need to hear more?”

“Long haul in straight space,” March says, sounding thoughtful.

I sigh. “No shit. Why don't we just let Doc do his best and get on with our mission? We need more samples, don't we? This training academy isn't going to build itself.”

For once Dina agrees with me. “Sounds good. Let's give Hon a wide berth and say a Hail Mary for baby-it.”

Wearing his “captain” expression, March says, “Look, it's my fault this thing hatched early. I can't in good conscience proceed without doing everything possible to ensure it thrives. Let's ask Doc what he thinks.”

Loras studies March with an impassive mien. If this comes to a vote, I suspect he'll be the tiebreaker. Then he beeps Doc in medical to ask, “If we choose not to seek out the Mareq expert, what are the chances we can successfully raise the hatchling to an age where you can obtain viable amounts of genetic material for your research?”

Even through the screen, Doc seems startled. “I thought this was decided. Very well, let me run the numbers.” He taps some figures into his handheld and sighs. “Highly probable we'll kill it within the first month without expert guidance. If it lives that long, I can take some decent samples, but for the sake of my research, I prefer we take the route that benefits the specimen.”

“I say we go, too,” March puts in. “You and Dina vote against?”

I glance at her. Doc's detachment has made me twitchy. How ironic that Doc is arguing for the benefit of the creature, though not for purely humanitarian reasons. On the whole, this side junket seems like a waste of time.

With an apologetic look at March's chest, I mutter, “Yeah. Let's keep working toward the original goal.”

Dina nods. So yep, it's up to Loras now. Everyone turns toward him to see which way he'll swing.

“We should go,” he says at last. “Nobody will die if we push back our schedule, but the little one might if we fail to learn how to care for him properly. And I won't be party to devaluing his existence because he's nonhuman.”

Ouch.
That cuts deep on so many levels. As a humanoid alien, Loras would know all about being made to feel lesser.

Though nobody else would notice, I see the way March relaxes. His shoulders lose a tension I hadn't registered consciously until it dissipates. This meant a lot to him, and I need to find out why.

“You okay?” I ask.

“Yeah.” He makes some effort to shake it off, apparently registering my concern.

In two days, he seems to have gotten used to having baby-Z attached to his chest. I'm not sure what Z stands for, but the name stuck. I've caught March whispering a few times, trying to mimic the only recorded example of Mareq speech among Farr's work. And, of course, I've played surrogate twice more while March was in the san-shower. Nobody else will touch the thing, not even Doc. He said he'd done enough, between the food source and the patch on its skin that provides other necessary chemicals not naturally present in our environment.

“If we're going,” I say, “let's combine what we know about the place.” I wrack my brain for a moment. “It was built as a supply station before certain beacons were discovered. Since then, trade routes changed.”

I don't want them thinking I'm ignorant; I know why Hon-Durren rules that corner of space. Nobody else wants it. But still, the man isn't someone you cross lightly. He styles himself a raider, though nobody knows how many ships comprise his “armada,” because he tends to kill people who come calling, bad for us and worse for Canton Farr.

“Farr might be all right.” March answers me without seeming to realize I haven't spoken. For the first time I wonder if the others know. Obviously Mair did, but what about the crew? “He's a Fugitive, after all, and if he was in deep shit after pirate-publishing his work on a Corp-restricted world, where better to hide out?”

Dina nods. “And Hon-Durren hates few things more than authority.”

I'm familiar with the Fugitives as well, scientists who flout Corp regulations regarding restricted worlds. Every now and then, they orchestrate an impassioned protest, shouting that the Corp has no right to limit knowledge. Though I used to see them as a fringe faction, rabble-rousers and dissidents, I don't disagree with their ideas anymore.

And technically, we're worse than Fugitives, who are so careful when they study on class-P worlds. Under no circumstances would one of their scientists reveal himself; in fact, a few have died of some simple illness rather than compromise an alien culture. As for us, we're more like Freak Show Talent Scouts, although I don't know of any that have kidnapped a Mareq hatchling. Maybe we're just in a class by ourselves.

“Come on,” March says then. “Time to jump, Jax.”

“It's still going to be thirteen days in straight space, even from the nearest beacon,” I tell his back, and he waves in acknowledgment over his shoulder.

As we settle in the cockpit, he gets on the comm. “Head to the hub and strap in, people. We're going to pay an old friend a visit.”

“Acknowledged,” Loras returns.

I pause in checking the port to slide him a glance. Looks like the nav chair escaped damage in the crash, but Dina probably already inspected it. She really is good at her job.

“You know him?”

“Long time ago,” he mutters.

“That's all you're going to tell me?” I gaze at him, incredulous.

He nods. “Right now. We have work to do.”

Sighing, I realize I can't argue that. The sooner we leave this system, the better. We've probably been here too long already.

The comm crackles, and Dina announces, “We're ready.”

March taps a few panels, and I feel the comforting throb of the phase drive powering up. The whine that accompanied its use last time translates to low purr instead, so I know we're good. “Let me see the locus of a long haul between our current position and Hon-Durren's Kingdom,” I tell the nav computer.

“No match,” it answers, sounding almost smug.

Fragging AIs.

March thinks a moment, then suggests, “Try DuPont Station.”

Shit, nobody's used that name in…well, forever, but…of course, that's where we find the file. According to official record, DuPont Station is derelict, but anyone taking these maps verbatim would receive a rude awakening. I study the coordinates and realize I've made this run before, maybe five turns back, although my final destination differed.

“Hate the Outskirts, but at least there's minimal Corp presence.” If there's a place where lawlessness is the rule, rather than the exception, then we're headed right for it.

March grins at me. “Truer words were never spoken, Jax.”

Not until after I plug in do I realize I don't feel the same nausea and dread as the first two jumps. Whatever else he is, he's
my
pilot now. And part of me feels like I've made the adjustment too fast, as if I'm betraying Kai in some fashion.

“He's gone,” March reminds me gently. “And I'm all you've got.”

Hearing those words doesn't hurt as much this time. I know I'm never going to kiss Kai for luck again, never going to wake in his arms, never going to see him smile, never hear his laughter ring out. He's gone, and I'm alive, whether I want to be or not. Only the ache remains.

When March jacks in beside me, he doesn't bring up the mental partition. He's still compartmentalized, just like me, but he's not hiding anymore. Among other things, he lets me see that he needs me to see this thing through. I wonder if he'd let me rummage through his mind, as he seems to do with me or whether he'd slap my metaphysical hands.

Then I register his unmistakable amusement as the seat vibrates beneath me.
Make yourself at home, Jax.

I'm starting to do just that as the trembling increases, and I decide that the way we're rocking isn't right. That slinging side-to-side motion almost feels like we've been hit—and then I hear Dina shouting via comm: “Make the Mary-sucking leap already! Since when does the Corp hire bounty hunters…?”

With a flick of his palm, March shuts Dina up, and the world explodes in color, scintillating, dazzling patterns that form and fold in on themselves. My whole body aches because this is homecoming, and I'll never belong anywhere more than I do here. Grimspace steals my soul a sliver at a time, and I love it too much to mind. Each time I leave, I forget a little of the majesty, or I wouldn't survive the loss.

I can't worry about the ship that fired on us as we made the leap, can't let myself wonder whether they had a jumper on board and if they're giving chase. It takes every ounce of concentration to make the mental translation from straight space, then feel my mind's eye spinning like an old world compass.

But this is different, different than flying with Kai, different than the first two jumps with March. Because I can feel what it's like inside his skin, each breath he takes and how his heart beats. I feel the steady pulse of baby-Z against his chest, the faint stickiness of the nutri-gel that March no longer notices. And I'm aware of his hands on the controls as I never have been. I could almost fly the ship if I had to, because we're not him and me, we're…we, then I sense his astonishment, sharing my mind's eye as we gaze outward to grimspace.

Maybe I gave him some sense of it before, but this time, he sees
completely
, and I know he does: the glory, the colors, and the almost-manifest monsters that writhe along the hull. The
Folly
plows through liquid fire; the world without is a conflagration of possibility, ideas and dreams barely conceived and waiting to be given form.

But March and yes, it's the March-me spinning my mind's eye away from the beacon.
He's
doing it, and I didn't even know this was possible. He's trying to show me—

Shit.
There's a ship coming up fast behind us. I don't know whether they stayed with us through the jump or whether we've stumbled into a time trail. Regardless, I don't want it following us into straight space, because it doesn't seem friendly, and I sense accord from March. We've got to get rid of them and fast, before I exhaust my mental energy. We both know some ships make the jump, and for some reason, never come out again, but the March part of me loves a challenge.

Come on, assholes, let's play.

I know what we're going to do before he does it.

The spin feels ugly, graceless, and my stomach hurtles into my throat, bounces back as we whip the way we came. Suddenly we're coming at them hard-forward, and they have to choose, collision or roll. What happens when two ships crash here?

I'm pretty sure I know why we've never heard of it happening; no one lives to tell the tale. I taste March's satisfaction, the pumping adrenaline. Mary, he lives for this, and with his—our?—pleasure pounding through me, I'm not even afraid as the other ship slings sideways out of our path. This is glorious, exhilarating, and I sense his agreement.

Then we make the loop again, going nowhere, over the top, back the way we came, again and again, until I feel dizzy. He's actually doing it, though I've never seen anyone create grimspace ghosts on purpose. Now there are so many copies of
Svetlana's Folly
that even I have a hard time telling which vessel's ours.

This is the longest I've ever been jacked into grimspace, and I feel my body shuddering, although I feel strangely detached from its meat. The vista in my mind's eye expands until I can see farther than I ever have. What would be the horizon beckons, if this place possessed such a thing. It's not a door but something else and—

No. Jax, no. Find the beacon.

But it's not that easy. For the first time during a jump I'm aware of fierce physical pain, and the outward tug grows stronger. I'm not sure I can resist it, and what's more, I don't want to; I want to see. I want to know. I've spent my whole life preparing for this final journey, and maybe through the door-that-isn't-a-door lie the people I've lost. Maybe Kai's waiting for me with a kiss and a smile.

Don't you dare leave me, Jax. Don't you dare.

And then I feel stronger somehow. March wraps himself around me in ways I didn't know were possible. Everything I am is filled with him. Every cold and shadowed place, he kindles with light, warmth, clutching me tighter, until he's all I know, and I can't hear the siren song anymore.

Stay with me. Stay.

The pain returns as I try to focus, seeking the signal that's always helped me orient in the past, but it feels thready and weak, diluted by my weariness and whatever's gone wrong inside my flesh.

I think, here.

March responds with sure hands, knowing we have to get me out of here, or I'm going to be lost. As the ship shudders, making the leap back, I'm not sure where the frag we are, certainly a first. And my sole satisfaction is that the bounty hunters who hounded us here don't seem to know which
Folly
to follow as our ghosts split in different directions like the scattering of a school of fish.

My hands shake as I unplug, and when I try to open my eyes, it feels like the light is made of knives, stabbing straight in my skull. I touch my face. Find it wet. And my fingers smell of copper. Never known a run this bad.

“Jax…” His voice sounds rough, raw. “You're close, aren't you?”

I don't ask what he means. But for a moment, I can't speak, can't do anything but try to stop the steady stream of blood trickling out my nose. Then I hear him moving beside me, and soon there's a cloth in my hands. I wish I could see his face, but I can't bear the brightness in my eyes. At this moment I'm beyond empty, remembering the delicious pull and the way he wrapped around me. Now, I have neither; I'm just Jax, alone inside my head in a way I never have been, and it isn't halfway to enough.

“Maybe,” I answer finally, and then try to drive some of the despair out of my tone. “You said it yourself, I'm pretty old. Had a good run.”

“Bullshit. I just got used to you.”

I want him to lift me up out of this seat, hold me in his lap like he did after the crash. But he's already nursing one helpless infant, so I stand up blind, finding the open doorway with my fingertips. Before heading for my quarters, I offer a bittersweet smile.

“Haven't you figured that out yet, March? Sometimes bad things happen for no reason, and there's nothing you can do about it. How close did I come anyway?”

His muttered curse tells me he hasn't even thought to find out where we are. “Not the best jump,” he says, after a moment. “But not terrible. We're about three weeks out.”

Eight days then. I added eight days to our trip, but that's what it has to be, because I don't have another jump in me, not for a long fragging time, maybe never. I'll have to assess what I've got left after I rest. The way that I feel, it's just impossible to tell.

“Do we have the supplies to cover the longer haul?”

He sighs, and I hear him tapping away. And then: “Yeah, but after day seventeen we're going to be left eating nothing but paste. Hey,” he calls after me. “Have Doc check you out!”

I dismiss that idea with a flick of my fingertips, but as I'm coming out of the cockpit, I collide hard with someone. I feel hands on my upper arms to steady me, but the faint floral scent surprises me; I didn't realize Dina ever smelled so feminine. “Asshole,” she gripes. “Watch where you're—oh
shit
, Jax. Are you…What happened?”

I just shake my head and brush by because I don't want to talk to her about it. March can tell her anything she needs to know, or anything he feels like she does. Right now, I just want to be left alone.

“No visitors, no exceptions,” I tell the room-bot.

“Acknowledged,” it chirps.

I don't clean up. Though I'm probably a mess with all the dried blood, I just don't care, need to crash out on my bunk and close my eyes. Darkness falls fast—this sleep feels heavy and inevitable as my own death.

Yes, I must be dying because I hear Kai's voice…

 

“Ground control, this is the
Sargasso
. I'd like you to
double-check the suggested trajectory and coordinates. Our readings don't agree. That's going to put us on the ground about one hundred klicks from the landing site and
—
”

A hiss from the comm system, then an irritated male voice says, “The information you received is correct,
Sargasso
. Follow procedure. Control out.”

We exchange a look, frowning. Although we're not jacked in anymore, we share the feeling that something's wrong. I've had that sense since we left Soltai Station, and now that we're making our approach to Matins IV, the bad mojo doubles. Waiting for clearance in this giant bolt bucket, so different from the fast, elegant ships we usually take out with a minimal four-man crew, we do our own math and come up with coordinates that differ dramatically from what the Corp landing authority has provided.

When I nod in encouragement, Kai presses the call button again. “Ground control, this trajectory is not going to create sufficient drag for a vessel of this size. What you've given us is a crash waiting to happen.”

There's a long, ominous silence, then: “
Sargasso
, you have seventy-five VIPs on board. Are you refusing to comply?”

Kai looks deeply troubled now, torn between the need to obey the Corp and the fact we're both certain they're on the verge of doing something terrible, either from incompetence or some agenda we can't begin to guess.

“No,” he says slowly, “but
—
”

“This is your third denial of an approved flight plan. We have no choice but to categorize this as a mutiny attempt and respond accordingly.”

And then they aren't talking to us anymore. There's only silence, which is worse.

“Going to autopilot,” the computer announces with seeming delight. “Override codes accepted. Trajectory and coordinates received.”

Oh no. No.

“We can't survive a hit like this
—
there's no way
—
” I'm scrambling at the terminal now, trying to restore control on our end.

“Siri, what the fuck're they doing…?”

“Wish I knew, baby.”

Dream-Jax hasn't registered the full implication yet, but the rest of me knows what's coming. I want to scream, but this is scripted, so I just watch in puzzlement, part of me still not wanting to believe that the Corp, our benevolent big brother, will let us come to harm, or worse,
cause
us harm. Kai, he's terrified, reaching for me as the planet rushes up to meet us. All around me the world dies.

 

I wake screaming so my throat is raw, and there's
someone pounding on my door, shouting, “Jax!
Jax!
Captain's override, dammit, let me in!”

It's all coming back to me. Unit Psych Newel whispering through my dream therapy, “You wouldn't accept the Corp flight plan, would you, Jax? You used your own calculations. Just say it. Say it, Jax, and this will all be over. Say it, and I'll make everything all right.”

Unlike so many other induced nightmares, this one carries a ring of truth. I know what they did to me, now—I just don't know why. As I'm lying there, bathed in icy sweat, I hear March swearing, muffled murmurs of conversation:

“…been almost three days,” Dina's voice. “I thought she was dead.” She doesn't sound heartbroken that I'm not, actually.

“Open up, right now,” March growls, “or I get the cutting torch.”

“No visitors,” the room-bot tells him sweetly. “No exceptions.”

If I didn't feel like such a pile of shit, I'd find that funny as hell.