Grimspace (19 page)

Dina scrambles for the gun pit.

I figure if March were awake, he'd be in the cockpit, so that's where I head, even though I know perfectly well we're better off on autopilot. At least the computer will continue to move us in the direction of Gehenna. Based on my performance getting us off station, the same cannot be said of me.

Regardless, as a good proxy, I take my place in the pilot's chair, even though I've got no clue what I'm supposed to do. I peer at various screens and panels until I get visual on the two ships. At this distance I can't tell where they hail from, but I'm willing to bet they've been sent from the kingdom formerly known as DuPont Station.

“Can you take evasive action?” I ask the computer.

“The autopilot is programmed with the standard S-68 dodge and 410 spiral. Please state your preference.”

Shit, I have no damn idea.

I tap the comm, hoping she won't laugh at me. “Dina, what's the difference between the S-68 dodge and a 410 spiral?”

“Huh?”

I get the feeling that encapsulates her knowledge on the subject. “Never mind. All weapons online?”

“Affirmative,” she comes back. “We're going to be in range soon. Get the shields up if you haven't already.”

Double shit.

“Computer, enable S-68 dodge with autocorrection based on trajectory of incoming enemy fire,” I say, hoping that's possible.

Hoping it makes sense and the computer won't argue with me or call me an idiot. I certainly feel like one.

“Acknowledged. At current cruising speed, the pursuing vessels will overtake us in approximately five minutes.”

“Shields online, extra power to aft section.” That's where Doc and March are, and I don't want a hull breach back there.

The computer objects, “Insufficient energy, Sirantha Jax.”

“Reroute power from secondary systems. I want stronger shields aft,” I insist.

Maybe that's not the right thing to do, but I'm not trained for this. I'm not a pilot and certainly not one seasoned in space combat. Apart from the time I've been on the
Folly
, I've
never
had ship guns fired at me. I was Corp, for frag's sake—people rolled out the red carpet for Kai and me. How am I supposed to know this shit?

And the computer starts beeping and humming, hopefully doing as I ask. Don't know what I'll do if it doesn't because I'm not March. I can't program this by hand. I just hope my best is good enough up here.

After a moment, it announces, “All shields online, aft operating at one hundred thirty-five percent. Is that satisfactory?”

“We'll see.”

That's really all I can do. So I cross my fingers and wait.

I feel the ship shudder as we take the first hit, but the shields seem to hold. And then the
Folly
begins what could only be standard dodge pattern S-68. Maybe the other pilots aren't academy trained so they won't recognize it. It's oddly silent, except for the odd jolt where they score a hit.

The comm crackles: “What the hell are you doing up there, Jax? We're slinging around like an old woman dancing drunk.”

“It's called evasive action,” I grumble. “Just shut up and shoot.”

“I will if I can keep from puking.”

But I see on-screen that she's got one of them. I hear nothing, but the ship crumbles into nothingness. It should be more dramatic, perhaps, but these are sleek, fast, one-man ships. Nothing else could've caught us, and they don't quite have the durability they need to take us on. Maybe they thought two-on-one odds would do it, but they didn't take a close look at the way the
Folly
is outfitted, heavy shields, hard-core guns.

And then I feel another hard lurch, just before something explodes somewhere starboard. “Imminent engine failure,” the computer tells me helpfully. “Immediate maintenance required. Danger. Primary systems compromised. Immediate—”

I launch myself out of the pilot's chair.
Shit.
This pilot's smarter; he's not attempting to take us out by himself, just trying to cripple us. Leave us dead in space so that a larger vessel can catch up, then tow us wherever they want us.

There's no way I can repair those engines so let's hope I can figure out the guns. I don't know how to transfer controls to the cockpit, so I sprint for the gun pit, where Dina's already unbuckling. “Get your ass in there and take him out,” she tells me, running for the engine room.

The ship shudders again, and now the whole area is lit with flashing red light, as if the blaring noise wasn't enough to alert us to the fact we're in trouble. I look at the panel in panic, trying to figure out—

Think I get it.

Inside the pit, I seem to spin as I tap the scope, and damn, Dina's right, this drunken lurch called dodge S-68 that we're running makes it hard as hell to target. But I mash the button, launching a volley toward the lighter ship. It swoops around us with a grace I can't help but envy with the autopilot driving and me on guns. If we make it out of this alive, it'll be a miracle.

I learn to spin the scope counter to our evasive maneuverings, and I can't help but shout when I hit the other ship. Just a glancing shot, didn't do any real damage, but it means I'm getting the hang of this. Maybe I can take him out before he destroys our engines completely.

Two hands on the controls, spin and target, then let it go.
Yes!
I can see he's crippled now, having trouble. There's a distinct dip when he turns portside, so I focus there, continuing to fire. I'm almost surprised when the other vessel seems to crumple, then there's a silent array of sparks. Now he's nothing but salvage.

I'm surprised to find I'm covered in a fine layer of sweat as I pull myself out of the gun pit. I already hurt from lugging March, and now every muscle throbs as if I've taken these guys on in actual physical combat. No wonder Dina's so strong; she fragging has to be.

I stagger out to the hub and don't see anyone. Eventually, I locate Doc in the cockpit, as he took over giving the computer orders when I hit the turrets. We find Dina in the engine room, using mechanic's tools and voodoo magic to keep us moving.

“How bad is it?” I ask, shoving the frizzy hair out of my eyes.

“Bad enough. This is just a workaround; we're not even running on main engines, and with what I had to do, the kitchen-mate isn't going to work, among other things. Enjoy your paste until we get to Gehenna.”

If we get to Gehenna.

I'm so fragging tired, I feel like I could sleep for a week. One thing's for sure, though, I need to learn some shit. Because this boast of not knowing anything but grimspace isn't a good thing, and it just may get me killed, sooner rather than later. It's not enough to be a good navigator; I'm not a Corp celebrity anymore. I live in the real world now, like it or not, and that means expanding my repertoire.

I need to learn to pilot in case this happens again. I need to learn guns. I need to learn emergency maintenance. I need to learn—

Shit. I'm too tired to finish the list.
But it's really long. Maybe it's to my credit that I've realized as much.

“Is March all right?” I roll my shoulders.
Think I pulled something.

Doc nods. “I strapped him down before I went to the cockpit, but I should probably go check on him. I'll let you know if there's any change.”

The old Jax would've taken his word for that, but instead I follow him to medical because I want to see with my own eyes. March has taken on greater significance than I can parse at the moment. He's like the last hope I have, the last chance to prove I'm not a living, breathing curse.

He's quiet and still, so fragging pale. It hurts me to see him like this, and for a moment my eyes sting because I can't make myself believe he'll ever wake up. I'm glad I don't have to see the mangled meat of his left arm. Doc's got that wrapped, and a steady burst of painkillers keeping March quiet. His vitals do look good, though, from what I know of such things.

I forget Saul's standing there, as I step closer to the table. It seems wrong to leave him strapped, so I start unbuckling him. When I'm done, I adjust the thin synth blanket, tucking it neatly around his waist. What I wouldn't give to have him wake up and tell me what a waste of space I am, chew me out over everything that's gone wrong.

But he's so fragging far away—I can't feel him anymore. Can't help but press my palm to his cheek, feel the too-cool skin, and trace the line of his cheekbone. I've lost so many people. Some I left on purpose and never looked back. Some were taken from me, and I never said good-bye.

March…he was supposed to be different, irascible but indestructible. As it turns out, he's flesh and blood like any other man. I drop my hand, nod at Doc, and leave Med Bay without speaking. I'm so tired, all the way down to the bone. The old Jax would've headed to quarters to shower and crash. She would've figured she'd done enough.

So I head for the engine room to begin my crash course in starship repair.

We limp into port at Gehenna, not quite trailing smoke,
but it's close.

Dina must've used every trick in the book to keep the
Folly
running. We all know we can't afford another battle or another delay. It may have already been too long for March. I won't speak that fear aloud, though. I put my faith in primitive gods right now, where you can keep the bad magic at bay by refusing to acknowledge it.

They say you never forget your first glimpse of Gehenna. Over the tall buildings the sky swirls with orange and red, true titian, a feature of the unique atmosphere. Of course that same air would kill human beings; hence they built the entire city inside a dome. Eternal sunset, that's why the place is so wild. You know the feeling you get, just before full dark? Sundown makes you feel like the world burgeons with possibility, and that's Gehenna for you.

Like any other romantic notion, it's based on bullshit, of course. Gehenna isn't the land of eternal sunset and infinite potential. The gas in the atmosphere just makes it impossible to see the sun.

The whole place is a rich man's experiment, really. If Venice Minor is famed for luxury and natural beauty, then Gehenna is pure man-made vice. At the open markets near the space port, you can buy anything from exotic weapons to designer drugs to trained slaves. Twinkling marquee advertisements beg for our money and our time. This club boasts “the most beautiful girls in the galaxy” and that one promises “the biggest jackpot ever, you'll break the bank,” the one where a pair of enormous luminous dice seem to roll themselves, again and again. It's almost hypnotic.

I'm positive my landing skills aren't up to this challenge. Getting into the port authority requires traversing a complex series of locks; it's a measure that ensures the air inside the dome's not compromised. So when the docking agent contacts us, asking for our itinerary, I answer, “Our pilot is incapacitated, and we're coming in on auto. Can you transmit vectors?”

She sounds irritated that I've disrupted procedure. “
Svetlana's Folly
, is this trip business or pleasure?”

I don't know which this qualifies as, so I reply, “I repeat, our pilot is injured and in need of medical attention. This is an
unscheduled
stop.”

That seems to appease her. “I'm sorry to hear that. We can bring you in safely if you accept the override.”

Oh Mary, I get a cold chill, just thinking of turning control of the
Folly
over to strangers. For a moment I flash on Matins IV, but then I give myself a mental shake. This isn't a Corp outpost. It's a private playground, a smuggler's paradise. That's why it was built in the Outskirts, and as far as I know, nobody here is trying to kill us.

Give them time.

So I tap the panel to accept the override, and they bring us through the landing sequence, smooth as s-silk. There's no way I could have managed all these turns, the precise stops and starts while we proceed through the locks to the hangar. Maybe our computer could've handled it; I don't know. I'm glad we don't have to find out.

As we come down the boarding ramp, an official waits for us. “You said you have injured on board?” She's also outfitted in full hazard gear. “I'm afraid I need to check him to ensure you aren't carrying a contagious sickness.”

“Go right ahead,” Doc says, stepping back from the sled.

The dockmistress, or whatever the hell she is, runs a scan on March, head to toe, then nods, seeming satisfied. She pulls off her helmet, and I'm surprised to find she's quite young. “Note to log, merely an injury to an extremity, nothing infectious. Do you need transport?”

“That would be perfect if you can arrange it,” I say.

I've only been here once before. Kai and I rented a sporty little two-seater, but that's not going to get the job done. And in fact, he handled the details, so I wouldn't even know where to start.

“I'll see to it,” the official says. “I'll provide documentation for those traveling to the clinic with the patient. Here.” She hands us an orange card. “But I do need someone to stay and fill out forms regarding your stay and, of course, pay the docking fee.”

I'm about to volunteer when Dina says, “I'll do it.” At my look, she shrugs. “I hate hospitals. No offense, Doc.” But I can read the look she gives our helpful docking agent. “Afterward, I'll hit the market and see about parts for real repairs.”

“Let's go then.” Saul tows the emergency sled behind him easily, which is impressive, considering the thrusters that lift it don't do anything for propulsion.

As promised, we find a skywagon with an orange cross on the side waiting for us in front of the docking authority, and it's large enough to slide the sled in back. Doc gets in the front with the driver, giving directions, and I climb up with March. With a smooth swoop, we're off. Gehenna whirls around me, an impossibly bright collage of color.

I rest my hand on March's chest, feeling the slow, steady thump of his heart. The last two days I've found it impossible to sleep, and I'm somewhere past exhausted. Maybe I doze off sitting beside him, because it feels to me like we just got moving, then we stop. Someone opens up the rear doors.

I recognize Doc hauling on the sled, so I hop down. Guess he's already paid the driver, so we make our way into the clinic, a posh-looking place done in ultrachrome and diamante with a marquee that proclaims, “We build a better you” and a second sign that says “Where the stars come when they fall.” I'm not sure what that means, but I follow Doc, hoping he knows where he's going.

“Saul Solaith!” calls an extremely affable voice. It turns out to be attached to a slim silver-haired man around Doc's age. “Why didn't you tell me you were coming? I'd have booked the twins and a suite at the Capital.”

“Spontaneous stop,” Doc answers. “I've got a friend here in desperate need of your expertise, Ordo. Do you have an op-room free?”

“Yes, yes, of course. And if I didn't, I'd put someone out for you.”

The two men walk away, leaving me standing in the foyer with the potted plants and an impressive view through the skylight. I drop down into a padded orange chair. Overhead I can see an ad satellite orbiting the salmon sky, but I can't make out its slogan. Somehow it seems important, like it's a special message just for me, so I continue to gaze straight up, waiting for the moment when it turns so I can read it.

Working girls prefer Sapphire.

I don't know what that means, either, but over the next several hours, it works on me. The words must be a message written in code, and if I can just unravel their hidden significance, then March will be all right. But I can't work it out, and as I feel myself drifting off, I realize I've let him down.

Don't know how long I was out, but Doc wakes me with a gentle hand on my shoulder. “He's awake, Jax. You want to see him?”

“Yeah, please.” I yawn as I push to my feet, scouring the sleep from my eyes with my knuckles. “Did you…that is—”

“We couldn't save the arm,” he says gravely. “I had to choose between an organic and a prosthetic replacement.”

“He wouldn't want a—”

“I know. It's going to take some time for him to build strength in the new arm, and it looks a bit different. But with physical therapy and exercise, he should eventually return to normal. Come then, this way.”

He leads me through a warren of hallways and opens the door to a recovery room. With luxurious draperies, mosaic tile floor, and commodious bed with multiple settings, this space looks every bit as lush as the rest of the clinic; Doc wasn't kidding when he said he had connections here.

March sits propped up, his shoulder wrapped decorously in liquid skin. The new arm looks strange and pale, not to mention slim, almost delicate in comparison with his right. Every now and then he flexes the fingers of his left hand, probably testing to be sure they really work. I can't blame him.

“March,” I say softly, and he looks up as if he hadn't heard us enter.

Lost in thought, I suppose. I would be, too. Doubtless he has a lot to think about. Neither one of us says a word in protest when Doc backs out of the room and closes the door behind him.

“I understand I have you to thank.” He beckons me with his right hand, and I approach the bed, feeling oddly tentative.

Shaking my head, I sit down, careful not to jostle him. “What did Doc tell you?”

“Not much. And that worries me.” His impossibly dark eyes search mine.

“It wasn't me,” I say then. “It was Loras. And he didn't…he didn't make it.”

I expect him to light into me, tear me a new one over everything that's gone wrong, but instead his long lashes sweep down. His mouth compresses into a white line, and I see his throat working. I don't understand what's happening any more than I understood the slogan
Working girls prefer Sapphire
. March reaches blindly for my hand, and I curl my fingers through his. Waiting.

“I'm sorry,” he whispers. “You were right. There was nothing we could do up there, and Loras shouldn't have died just so I could find that out.”

Tears burn behind my eyes, and he's hurting me with his grip on my fingers. But I don't pull back. “Maybe you can't save the world, but you'll never stop trying. It's the best thing about you.”

He opens his eyes then, and they're so dark I can't see his pupils. I hope it's the drugs talking as he bites out, “Save the world? I can't even save the people I
care
about. It's just fucking hopeless.”

I've never seen him like this, and I don't know what to say. Reassurance isn't my style in the first place, and to make it worse, I don't disagree with him. He's tapped into
my
worldview, but I don't like seeing it on him.

But in the end, the only answer he needs right now is the warmth of my hand wrapped around his as he fades out.