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Authors: Ann Aguirre

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BOOK: Wanderlust
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CHAPTER 12

As the hub devolves into many voices talking at once,
Vel takes a seat near me, where I’ve collapsed. “Is it always like this?”

I think about that. “Pretty much. Except sometimes there’s shooting and things blow up.”

“Give it time,” Dina mutters.

“Let’s have the worst news first,” I suggest a little louder. “Maybe the bad news won’t seem so bad.”

March motions for all of us to shut up. “I’ve looked at the routes, and we have two choices. We can go back to New Terra—” Jael immediately protests, and March tries to continue over the noise. “Or we can make for an emergency station two weeks out. If we can’t jump, there’s just nowhere else in this sector.”

“What’s so bad about the emergency station?” I’m sure I’m not the only one wondering that.

I stopped at a few in my Corp days. They’re a little grim, true, with their bare-bones floor plans, and they offer only basic amenities, but I don’t remember them as terrible places. We should be able to drop Surge and Koratati off there. They’ll be able to work for their keep until another ride comes by.

It might be a while since most ships jump at the nearest beacon, six hours out of New Terra, but the kid needs to be old enough to don protective headgear anyway. Looks like she’ll spend her first few turns on an emergency station. That’s not the end of the world.

“According to reports I pulled, Emry Station is full of Farwan loyalists. They don’t care what the Corp did; they just want to preserve the status quo.”

I raise both brows. “You mean they don’t accept that it’s over? There’s no Corp
left
. Doesn’t that technically make them rebels?”

“Whatever you call them, they won’t receive us politely. They’re demanding the Conglomerate acknowledge them as an autonomous outpost, or they’ll refuse to aid distressed ships in this sector.”

That could be catastrophic. In time this area will turn into a graveyard, ghost ships floating, full of people who died from someone else’s inaction. Add that to the already astronomical risk of being hit by raiders, well—we can’t let them get away with that.

This will put us off schedule, but we don’t have a choice. In reflex, I curl my right hand into a fist, and the left tries to follow suit, but instead pain shoots all the way to my elbow. For a moment I see stars, and I’m nowhere near the sensor screen.

“I’m not going back to New Terra,” Jael says flatly. “I’ll kill you all before I let you turn this ship around.”

Before March can respond to that, Vel glides to within a few meters of the man issuing such wild threats and examines him with a detached air. “You would try,” he concludes. His ever-so-average appearance lends him menace that borders on spooky.

If I were Jael, I’d step back. See, this young merc is just too pretty to be as dangerous as he thinks he is. You don’t keep a face like that if you spend your life fighting. He’d have a broken nose or something by now if he actually mixed it up. Instead I find it curious that he reacts so strongly to the possibility of going back. What’s he running from? And is it going to hunt us down?

March poses that very question aloud as I frame it mentally. It’s almost like he’s Psi or something.
Oh, right.

Jael doesn’t want to answer. It would be my luck to discover Pretty Boy was my mother’s business partner, now running from the Syndicate. Possibly her former lover as well, as I doubt she’s kept herself to an immaculate widowhood.

Mary. I’ll never see my dad again. Ridiculous it should hit me so hard, right now. Maybe it’s because of the baby. Once upon a time, before they took me on a ship, I used to be his little girl. He had high hopes for me. Sometimes I wonder what I’d have been like if I hadn’t discovered joy and freedom up here.

As much mind as she pays us, we might not even be here as far as Koratati is concerned. Her whole world rests in the crook of her arm. When she starts feeding the kid, I have to look away, and I intercept a meaningful exchange between Jael and Surge. It’s almost like a lightning-fast argument, conducted silently, a glance, a couple of head shakes, and then:

“He’s Bred,” Surge explains, apparently against Jael’s wishes. “If he stays dirtside, he’ll be subject to discrimination, according to the new laws.”

“It’s almost like they’re trying to force a caste system,” Dina says thoughtfully.

Vel nods his agreement. “In a backward manner, it makes sense. While they are trying to engender a wider alliance with other races, hence the diplomatic missions, they also want to cement human privilege on the homeworld.”

The tone of the new immigration and citizenship laws is downright xenophobic. Page seven, last paragraph restricts nonhumans from holding office and owning land. “It’s going to be ugly for a while. We’re better off up here.”

“Not with a baby aboard,” March says. “We can’t plod along forever in straight space, and we can’t jump with her unprotected. I won’t take the risk.”

I study Jael. No wonder he’s so pretty, and no wonder he doesn’t want to go back. Normals hate his kind. Bred humans tend to be faster, smarter, healthier, and generally superior to their counterparts. With the reforms kicking in, it’ll be worse.

“Our best bet is to head for the emergency station,” I say. “And hope we can talk some sense into those idiots. Maybe they don’t realize how isolated they are.”

They’re Farwan loyalists, not a military group. At best, they’ll be former corporate wage slaves and disgruntled technicians. We should be able to cow them.

“It’s settled then. We haul onward.” March reaches for me and tows me toward the quarters I picked out earlier.

I don’t protest because I could use a break. Aching from head to toe, I follow him into the room he apparently intends to share with me. When the door shuts behind us, he draws me into his arms.

“I’m worried about you,” he whispers.

Ordinarily I’d discount that as pointless, but I haven’t felt right for a while. Most likely I should’ve had a checkup before we left, but I intended to have Doc check me out when we hit Lachion . . . I should’ve known things never turn out the way we plan.

Wrapping my arms about his waist, I lean into him and close my eyes. “There’s something wrong,” I admit, low.

I haven’t wanted to admit it, but I’m not healing like I should. I’m tired all the time, and sleep doesn’t seem to help. I’m no good at being sick, but I think I might be.

So gentle it makes my heart constrict, he presses me close for a moment, and then he steps back to look at my hand where Kora squeezed it. “I think she snapped your fingers.”

“Me, too.” I wasn’t kidding when I said I couldn’t move them. Pain shimmers through my fingertips in odd, erratic pulses when he turns my hand to examine it. Then his fingers trace over the dark bruise forming on my cheekbone. That, too, feels swollen, damage out of proportion to the blow.

“You look breakable.” His gaze lingers as if seeing me for the first time. “And that scares the shit out of me.”

“Hey,” I murmur. “Don’t worry. We’ll figure it out. We always do.”

He doesn’t argue with me, but in his face I see pure, unadulterated fear. That’s why March separated me from the others. He didn’t want them to see it. Nobody else pays attention to me like he does, so the others probably won’t notice that I’m ill.

Wouldn’t you know it? I even go out different than the other jumpers. I’ve spent my life courting death in various ways, living for the thrill, the rush, the risk. I jack in, knowing it might steal my mind away, knowing March may not be able to save me this time, and I keep doing it.

Grimspace beckons; I can’t resist the call.

I don’t even want to. I don’t smoke, rarely drink, and I gave up chem years ago.
This
is my vice.

Even now, I’m faintly irritated that I can’t just jump, take us where I want to go. Fuck straight space travel. But it’s more than that. It’s an itch under my skin, and I can’t scratch it, no matter what I do. The longing won’t go away until the colors come roaring through me, and my mind blossoms to ten times its size. At this point, I must admit it might be killing me, albeit differently than most jumpers go out.

Question is, what am I going to do about it?

 

 

 

CHAPTER 13

Hell is two weeks on a ship with an infant.

If you don’t believe me, try it. By the end of week one, I’m ready to space both Koratati and her squalling bundle of pee. Dina says there’s nothing wrong with the little rotter; that’s just what babies do.

To make things easier for the new mother, we’ve instigated a rotating care schedule. This wasn’t my idea, by the way. I eventually caved to majority rule, but I did so with poor grace and a lot of mumbling.

I manage to keep my sanity on this straight haul by hiding out. There are six crew rooms. March and I snag the largest one, probably intended for the captain. Surge and Kora share another, while Dina, Jael, and Vel each claim their own. The galley’s on the other side of the ship. That leaves one room vacant, just before the maintenance closet with the hatch leading down to the holds.

I fill this space with spare chairs from storage and other odds and ends to make it more of a sitting room. The bunk can recess completely into the wall, making my job easier. Mostly I’m waiting to hear from Doc, but the satellites are old and tetchy out here. I’ll be lucky to get anything before we make Emry Station.

I tend to hunker down in there when the kid is crying because there’s more metal between us. Sometimes it helps, but you’d be surprised how that racket carries. When all the doors stand open, it’s an acoustic nightmare.

Sometimes my esteemed crewmates join me, like I need company. I’m quite occupied with feeling sorry for myself, thanks. I had a great-aunt whose main hobby included reading about strange diseases and then trying to match her symptoms to whatever exotic ailment took her fancy. Based on my depressive behavior this week, I suspect I may have more in common with my great-aunt Tallia than I would’ve previously guessed.

Today Jael joins me. He’s just come in and doesn’t seem inclined to let me brood. With a faint sigh, I put 245 aside. People never understand why I talk to my PA, an ongoing experiment of sorts. Her AI chip seems incredibly sophisticated, and the more we interact, the more she learns, adapting her communication style to mirror my own. This fascinates me.

“Are you busy?” Without an audience, he sheds most of his bravado, and in an oddly tentative movement, he occupies a chair opposite where I sit.

“I guess not. What’s up?”

“People always treat me different,” he says. “After they find out. You haven’t. So I’m wondering why.”

I figure he’s talking about his origins in the Ideal Genome Project. “This is pretty basic, but . . . it’s because I don’t care.”

The Corp implemented the program shortly before I was born. They offered designer babies for a premium price, and a few wealthy families took advantage of it. They used the profit margin to fund a side research project, seeking to perfect the human condition. Forget antiaging treatments; they wanted to develop bodies that don’t age, don’t suffer from illness, and require reduced amounts of rest.

Few of their Bred experiments survived to adulthood, and the Corp officially shut the program down after religious outcry that outweighed any theoretical value. Who can say what went on behind closed doors? Or what became of lab babies like the one sitting across from me? He’s the first I’ve ever met.

Jael looks puzzled. “You don’t care as in . . . you’re disinterested? Or you don’t care as in . . . it doesn’t matter to you?”

“Both?” Yeah, it’s definitely both.

Why does that intrigue him? He sits forward in his chair, hands clasped across his knees. “I don’t get you.”

Great. He’s interested because I’m
not
? Men.

“You don’t have to get me. In fact I’d rather you didn’t since you’re disembarking next week, and I’ll never see your face again.”

“Nope.” He shakes his head. “I already spoke to March, and he said I can stay. You don’t have a gunner, and I know this ship’s weapons better than anyone else.”

Now why didn’t March tell me that?

“What do you think will happen on Emry?” I steer the conversation away from personal topics. At this point I’m not interested in playing mother confessor, nor in soothing the scrapes on his soul. Plus I think it’s possible we may need weapons to cow the fools playing at resistance out here.

As long as nobody questions it, they can call themselves autonomous. And the Conglomerate is notorious for taking forever to determine a course of action. I’m amazed we got clearance to head for Ithiss-Tor so fast; we probably have Tarn to thank for that.

Jael gives the question due consideration. “Hard to say. Best to play it by ear once we get on station and see how they’re running things. I don’t think they’ve officially declared that they won’t honor a ship’s request for aid as yet. They’re waiting to hear from the Conglomerate.”

“It’ll get messy,” I predict. “The Conglomerate will say, ‘Fine, if you’re autonomous, you’re also self-supporting, so you can pay for your own supplies, pay for station repairs on your own,’ and so on.”

“I wonder if they’ve thought of that.”

I shrug. “Probably not. They’re Corp wage slaves. This is the first burst of independent thought they’ve enjoyed in a while. One can’t blame them for being rusty. But if that threat doesn’t work, then Tarn might send armed enforcers to clean the place out.”

“The Corp would’ve just blown the place up and built a new one,” he says.

BOOK: Wanderlust
5.26Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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