Grimspace (3 page)

Try to describe grimspace for us.

At parties, when everyone's knocked back a few, there's always someone who asks me to do that. They don't seem to understand, it's like trying to define red for a blind man. If you're not a jumper, then you're blind to the most extraordinary, primordial colors. And nothing I say will help you understand.

The name's misleading. Grimspace means inexorable, implacable. Not to be appeased. You see, grimspace will have its due from all who traverse it. But it's beautiful there, or we wouldn't be drawn back, time and again, driven on by a jones stronger than anything mankind could devise. Jumpers burn out smiling for a reason.

My pretty, poisonous mistress, I'm coming back.

New ship. New pilot. Same old Sirantha Jax.

I settle into the nav chair and run my hands over the interface, checking the port to make sure it's clean. Knowing that my predecessor fried right where I'm sitting, well, talk about cold chills. I focus on procedure, not the fact that the ship's being bombarded. I've never jumped under these circumstances, but I can do this. I can.
Just be cool, Jax.

It occurs to me as I'm setting up, ready to jack into the nav system, that it's got to be terrifying for a pilot, working with a new jumper for the first time. And who knows how long it's been for March? Meanwhile we've got people shooting, and I'm supposed to be his eyes, and he acts as my hands. For the duration of a jump, we're literally twined together via wetware, and even if I knew how, I couldn't fly the ship while I'm tracking grimspace, finding beacons the old ones left along the star lanes, so long ago that we've given up trying to date it. In trying to figure out FTL travel, someone, a long fragging time ago, discovered a better way.

Grimspace.

And so, just as I have to trust him to make the right adjustments to the controls, safeguard my body while I'm seeing nothing but a world so wide that I don't have words to encompass it, he has to trust that I'm not going to steer him wrong. Oddly, even though I can
do
it, I have only a fundamental grasp of the principles.

Jump ships all carry a phase drive that accesses the secondary space that bends distance beneath, between, whatever, two points in straight space. To get from here to there, you jump into grimspace via the phase drive, then your navigator finds the beacon nearest your destination, and you make the jump back. The beacons are like doors, portals, something, a corridor back and forth, and the phase drive, well, that's the key.

Eons after discovering its existence, we're still exploring the Star Road. That was our specialty, Kai and me. Making long jumps to places no one's ever been. Tagging new beacons. Logging what's there and providing charts for the Corp, sometimes livable worlds, sometimes gas giants, sometimes asteroid belts where a planet might have been.

I loved it. Loved
him
, after a while.

Lost him.

Oh God, Kai, I'm sorry, baby. It's too soon.

March is looking at me. Waiting for me to jack in. But he doesn't say anything, nothing to ease the moment but nothing to make it harder, either. He doesn't bitch at me to hurry, even though I need to, or tell me that there are lives hanging on me. There are
always
lives hanging on me. Maybe that's why jumpers go crazy.

Control yourself, Jax; don't let nerves get you.

He's not Kai, never will be, but I've got to learn to do this with him. In a way, it's more intimate than fucking a stranger because he's going to be part of me for the duration of our flight. I don't
want
March inside of me.

Loras speaks over the comm, calm, measured. “Launch override codes input, bay doors opening in approximately ten seconds. You'll need to hold them, though. Corp security won't permit them to remain that way long.”

I feel the swerve as the ship lifts, reluctantly admire the way March handles the controls. The weapons systems come online, and he fires, disabling the bay doors. They're standing wide now, and I can see through the forward screen that the gray men are fighting vacuum; nothing about this has gone according to Corp procedure. Gray men don't boast flexibility as one of their dominant traits. They expected to stop us in the bay; we weren't supposed to get this far. But we have. One thing about gray men…they just don't quit. They're going to hunt us to the end of the galaxy.

Cheerful fragging thought.

“Dina, take over guns. Return fire, keep them off us.”

And in a graceful spin, we're out, weapons fire coming in hard on aft shields. They're scrambling ships, but it will take time to find a jumper fit to run, and we've got one ready to go. Me. The stars swim around us, and part of me thrills to it, even as I suck in a breath, preparing myself for March. I'm a virgin on her wedding night, arranged marriage, and I've never even given him a closed-mouth kiss.

“What's our destination?” I ask. “Let me see the star charts.”

That seems to reassure him because a good jumper always wants to see the locus of two points in straight space before she tries to translate it. And I'm no exception. I study the maps for a minute, noting that we're making for a habitable rim world. Lachion. It's just an outpost, really, a place to refuel, buy supplies and a whore for the night.

Taking a deep breath, I plug in.

And the cockpit disappears.

Right now I'm simply blind. He's giving instructions over the comm, and I hear the crew acknowledging orders. They've strapped in and donned their helmets. Superstitious spacers say if you don't wear your headgear during a jump, there are demons waiting to suck the soul right out of your body. While that sounds a whole lot like Old Terra sailors who believed sea monsters would eat you if you sailed over the edge of the world, I
do
know it's a bad idea to run unprotected.

We haven't made the jump yet, and I can feel the phase drive powering up, the trembling hum of the seat beneath my fingertips. And then March plugs in beside me, and I can
feel
him in ways I never wanted to. There's no give to him, even here, but I sense a self-deprecating humor that I didn't expect, and it gentles him, making him easier to bear.

You ready?
He doesn't need to say it any more than I need to vocalize my response. At this moment, we're beyond all that. We're pilot and jumper, and we're going forth together.

Now.

The world opens up to me, an orchid unfurling at accelerated speed. I think of it as the primeval soup from whence all life originally came, a maelstrom of chaos and energy, sights the human mind isn't supposed to be able to parse, let alone convert into coherent images that can be used to navigate.

Because of the J-gene I can sense the beacons, feel them pulsing like sentient life, and perhaps they are, for all I know. Perhaps if we could find their frequency, we could converse with them and discover we've long been diving down the gullets of cosmic dragons and shooting out their cloacae to somewhere else, and guess what, they aren't exactly happy about it. On second thought, some mysteries simply shouldn't be delved into.

He senses my directives in the same oblique manner in which I'm conscious of his hands on the controls. I feel him making adjustments according to what I see, a symbiosis that's never seemed more miraculous than this moment. It's an eternity; it's a heartbeat, and grimspace gazes back at me, scintillant and impossibly alluring.

That's the bait in the trap, you want to stop focusing on yourself and you want to
explore
in ways that aren't corporeally possible. For the first time it occurs to me—perhaps burnout isn't such a dreadful thing. Perhaps it's nothing to fear at all, simply another doorway opening.

No.
That's March. Rare for a pilot to risk breaking a jumper's concentration, but I sense frissons of tension rippling through him, soul deep.
That's how a navigator thinks, preparing herself for the last run. You're not there. You're not.

Instinctively, I reassure him. I don't know why he gives a shit. But it hurts him to think of leaving me here. I feel it, crashing over me in waves he can't quite subdue. Maybe it's transference. He's grieving, too…for Edaine, who was his friend, if not his jumper, for someone named Svet, and for another navigator whose name I don't know. I glimpsed his myriad losses before his walls came up, and I don't know when I ever saw someone so alone.

Before this moment, I never thought about what it's like for a pilot when his jumper leaves him behind. End of the flight, and she's still in the nav chair beside him, but she's gone. The spark, radiance, whatever made her unique. Gone. I know what it's like to be left behind. And that's rare for a jumper; we don't have long life expectancies.

Almost there.

Gravitational pull. My mind's wide-open, full of flares, sheer artistry that even the best pilot cannot comprehend. At its most basic level, the universe is beautiful. We're about to slingshot through our target beacon and back out to straight space.

I've done it.

Distantly I know that the ship's trembling beneath me again, readying itself for the second jump. And then feel it, the instant before I go blind again. Leaving grimspace hurts. But then, what doesn't?

We should be just a short cruise away from Lachion. So many outposts spring up along the Star Road, and the only thing that comes close to the feeling after a solid run is free fall. For this moment, I don't even mind that March is here, sharing my pleasure, that I'm making him feel good because I do. But he's not sampling that on purpose. As soon as he can, he unplugs, and I do the same. Even though I don't know him, not even sure if I like him, I already miss him. You don't know what it's like to be alone until you've had someone inside your head.

And that, you see, is why so many pilots and jumpers wind up sleeping together. It's too much on the senses—that mutual stimulation needs an outlet, and there comes a point when nobody else will do. You want to share your body the way you've shared your mind, so many times, and the sex is better, stronger, and so intense.

Some pairs do it while jacked in, not while jumping, of course, but in the cockpit, joined both ways, writhing together, ecstasy washing back and forth in a closed circuit, constantly driving things higher. It becomes its own addiction after a while, and I've known pilots who simply can't perform unless they're with a jumper.

Anything else is just too vanilla.

Like he knows what I'm thinking, March flicks me a
scathing look as he signals the crew it's safe to unstrap from the harnesses and remove helmets. While they report back, I decide that doing me, jacked in or otherwise, is the last thing on his mind. That's good; it's a complication I neither want nor need. I stretch, conscious of no more wear and tear than a residual headache, like a day-old hangover.

I've had worse.

Leaning forward, I take a look at our updated position on the nav charts, and yeah, we came out right on target. Lachion's less than a two-hour cruise, and I settle back to watch. Don't know what I think I'll learn, but he's good at what he does; sure, capable hands manipulating the controls, attentive to various readings. Stuff I don't understand, to be honest. I'm not a pilot, although I've spent almost half my life on board ships.

“Good jump,” he says finally.

And it's a surprise to hear his voice, different, more forceful. Then I could sense his uncertainties and constant grief. Now he's all steel and implacable resolve again.

“I don't think it was my fault,” I blurt, before I've formed the words inside my own head. But I need to say it. I need someone to believe me. Don't know whether March is that someone, but I need some of the weight off my soul.

He cuts me a sharp look, a full ten seconds away from the control panel. “Matins IV?” As if there's any doubt what I mean.

“Yeah.” I don't look at him. Instead I stare out into straight space, nothing too fascinating there for one accustomed to wildfire. But it's better than measuring his expression, doubting my own credibility.

“We don't think so, either,” he answers, neutral.

Something in his tone tells me he's speaking more for others than himself. Having seen inside him, I can say with authority—March is a man, who, if asked to capture the legendary pink orangutan of New Inglaterra, would devise a foolproof plan to catch said beast and equip himself with all necessary accoutrements, and never mind the fact that he doesn't believe in the thing. So, no, he doesn't necessarily believe me. But that doesn't matter to him because he's been asked to deliver me, and I'm starting to wonder why.

“Why me?” I know I don't need to clarify.

One of the advantages to the pilot/jumper bond is that even when you jack out, you carry certain awareness with you, remembrance of how your partner's mind works. He'll know what I'm asking although he could choose to be an ass and feign incomprehension. I respect the fact that he doesn't.

“You're pretty old,” he tells me, not unkindly. I'll be thirty-three this year. “And you've logged over five hundred successful jumps and more new charts for the Corp than any navigator ever. There are people who would like to know the secret to your success, Ms. Jax. I represent those interested parties.”

“And they can't find out shit from me if the Corp cracks my brain like an egg and locks me up.”

Okay, so…the Corp used me for fourteen years, knowing I would eventually burn out. And I said yes because I wanted adventure and excitement, wanted off New Terra. I wanted the universe; why should I settle for one boring man and a passel of kids? And now, someone wants to use me to find out why I haven't burned out yet. You know, I'm a bit tired of being used. They're going to learn I'm not the easy mark they anticipate.

March offers that saturnine smile again. “Just so. We were sent to prevent that from occurring if at all possible.”

And he's telling me the truth, as far as it goes. There may be more to it, but he isn't actively lying. I'd know if he was.

“I'm sorry about Edaine.”

His smile falters. Dies. “Yes,” he says, too quietly. “Me, too.”

Don't know why I said that. It wasn't my fault—

Then it occurs to me I'm singing that refrain a hell of a lot, lately. At what point do I accept some blame? No, I never asked her to make her last run with saving me as the objective; that was her choice. But if it weren't for me, maybe she would've chosen retirement instead. I feel like I need to make her sacrifice worthwhile.

“Okay if I go talk to the crew?” I really want out of the cockpit. This is more awkward than waking up next to someone whose name you don't remember.

He nods. And that's all. As I go down the corridor, I can't help but think he's almost as glad to see the back of me as I am to go. They're all chatting, still sitting in their safety seats, although not strapped in anymore. When I come into the central hub, though, conversation dies as if I've lobbed a grenade. I drop down in one of the empty places and fold my ankle up on my knee. Wait.

It doesn't take too long. Most people can't stomach silence; it provides too much opportunity to think about things they prefer to avoid. It's the young man who speaks first, something that doesn't surprise me much.

“Is it true you made the leap to Quaren when you were just nineteen?”

Don't know if I should disillusion him. I didn't realize I'd acquired a reputation. We just do what we do, you know? And seldom think about how the rest of the universe perceives us. “In fact, I was twenty-three. Was nineteen when I made my first jump, period.”

I know my service record. Almost fourteen years, averaging forty-one jumps a year for a total of five hundred seventy-five successful runs, and of those, I charted eighty-eight new beacons for the Corp. Decorated twice for bravery beyond the call. And the average jumper burns out in less than ten. So I guess I can understand why someone is interested in finding out what makes me tick. Unlock my secrets, and maybe he could improve productivity for other jumpers. That'd be a good thing, overall.

However, the critter that winds up dissected for the greater good…well, I'm guessing it probably doesn't feel too pleased about the contribution. So I'd do well to be on my guard and remember that even the good guys probably don't have my best interests at heart. The only person I could've trusted at my back, no exceptions, had his molecules dispersed with all due ceremony about fourteen days ago.

I fucking miss him.

“There are some things waiting for you in quarters,” the doc, Saul, is saying. “Clothes. You can change and make use of the san facilities, if you want.” He sounds strange, diffident, at odds with his stolid, steady appearance. “Down the hall, second right. The door will recognize you.”

His sincerity gets to me. It's easy to be tough when everyone around you is bristling with rancor and suspicion, but let someone show you some genuine kindness, and you find yourself on the verge of breaking down. So I just nod and follow his instructions. Can feel Dina's eyes boring into my back. That one would rather space me than deliver me safely to Lachion.

Walking away, I hear Dina logging her report: “Aft shields at thirty-five percent in sectors 12 and 18, damage to the holds, structural damage in—” But I tune her out. That stuff is her worry. As long as the ship's in one piece and will get us there, I don't much care.

My quarters are small, no more than a closet with a bunk built out from the wall, but as promised, I find a change of clothes and a san shower. Feels good to be clean, and when I dress, I notice that someone's been studying my file. Because this blue bodysuit is an exact replica of one I wore for a photo op with tall s-leather boots and tribal jewelry from one of the inhabited rim worlds, all handmade stuff, very rare. A gift when we made planetfall since a jumper is part navigator, part surveyor, and part diplomat. I've made first contact with indigenous peoples no less than five times.

The outfit is smooth; it stretches at the neck enough to let you shimmy into it, then the fabric snaps back into place. It's some poly-silk blend that looks elegant but doesn't snag or tear and it's damn near fireproof. I wish I had my boots; they weren't just a fashion statement, as the toes were reinforced and a well-placed kick would break someone's kneecap.

As I'm emerging from quarters, March's voice comes over the comm. “Approaching Lachion, planetfall in half an hour. All crew to stations please.”

That seems an unnecessary formality, given the size of the crew, but I watch, hoping to learn something about my companions. And I do. From the central hub, Saul heads for medical, but I already knew he's the ship's doc. Dina told me she serves as mechanic, and that just leaves Loras. He takes position at the comm, so he must be the communications officer, and that usually includes systems work and encryption.

“He's a savant,” March says at my shoulder. “He hears a language once, intuitively understands its syntax and structures. Vocabulary takes another day or so.”

I jump. “Going to put a bell on you,” I mutter.

Is
he reading my mind? Or following the trajectory of my gaze, deducing my thoughts via logic instead of Psi? I honestly have no idea, and I've never encountered that before. Nothing in his mind gave me any clue. Unlike Kai, who was a chaotic whirl of impulses, half-formed ideas and inclinations, March was orderly, silent, contained. Even while we were jacked in, I received few things from him that he didn't specifically send.

Compartmentalized,
I realize.
Like me.

I glance at him.

And he smiles, cool and humorless. “They'll be waiting for you when we touch down,” he says. “Try not to offend anyone.”

Smile sweetly back and reply, “Isn't that
your
job, dickless wonder?”

I'm pretty sure I hear Dina chuckle.