Steady, now. This isn’t about that.
Okay, okay. Communications infrastructure second to none but no clue how it worked, check. They were tougher than humans due to a shiny shell; fists and clubs were useless but blasters worked just fine. What’s in the other files? Hope flipped through, thinking Kohl is dying upstairs, and wondered what might cheer him up. They said laughter was the best medicine, so … weapons?
Weapons. Not a lot here. They used numbers, which — a cross-referenced note to breeding in another file — were supplied by native populations. Not great news, that. They had sharp mandibles, and claws made with purpose; rip you apart or deliver larvae, and that was your typical warrior-slash-drone. There were other files here — a land-based big thing, and something that looked like a brain roach. Time scales were variable, but if Kohl had been infected it should have happened by now.
Should.
It’d cheer Kohl up, if he ever woke. Not having your brain eaten by insects was a good thing, right? Even if his wasn’t much of a brain to start with.
Hope looked at the sword again. Time to get to work.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Nate woke with a start, the scrabbling fingers of a dream still dragging at him. He flailed in his bunk, reaching for a blaster that wasn’t there, then a sword that wasn’t there either. Only after all that carry on did he work out where he was — the Tyche, home — and was happy no one was watching him, because it was his cabin, and no one should see a man wake from a nightmare. Even if they had just gone through hell with a bunch of angry space insects.
He blinked at the open door. The open door.
Nate was up in a flash, feet on the deck, eyes scanning the room. Definitely no one here, but the door was also definitely open. He had closed the door when he came in. It wasn’t that he was sure of it. And even if he hadn’t, the doors closed themselves, unless someone was messing with them. It was a ship, and ship doors wanted to be airtight, in case some part vented their breathable atmosphere into the hard black. What was worse than waking from a nightmare? Waking while being sucked into space.
Technically, it wasn’t sucked, it was blown, but that wasn’t the issue here.
The issue was his door was open.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand — great, no drool — and checked the door control. Looked normal, panel was in place, lights doing the things that lights did. Except … there. A tiny scratch. Something you wouldn’t notice, unless you know every square millimeter of the Tyche like the back of your hand. Nate reached his metal hand up and applied pressure. The panel popped off, revealing a mess of wires underneath. Hey now: someone had installed a bypass.
Someone had busted into his cabin while he was asleep.
He let the panel go, dangling by wiring, and turned back inside. Nate stood in the middle of it and closed his eyes. Think. Remember. What had it looked like before?
His cabin was underneath the flight deck, spacious by the standards of the rest of the ship. It had windows that looked out over the forest they’d landed in. It was the same view they’d have on the flight deck, without the holo in the middle of it all, and without El complaining about one damn thing or another. In his mind’s eye, his bunk was undisturbed — call that a wash, because he’d been thrashing about it in it for a good couple hours. His personal terminal was off. The old sea chest at the end of his bunk was closed, two leather straps fastened and a third just looking like it was clasped, because it was broken. His wardrobe — hah, as if that’s what you’d call a thing with so few clothes and only one pair of boots — stood closed.
Nate opened his eyes. Status.
Holo, still off. Not that it would matter, there were just messages on there, and Nate assumed messages sent over the air were being read by everyone anyway. That kind of thinking had kept him alive more often than not.
Sea chest, still closed. Two clasps, shut, but the third broken one was loose, at an angle from where it should have been. Someone had either opened it and put it back wrong, or been unable to open it. Something to check.
Wardrobe, closed, but the door not lining up right with the frame. That could have been the work of the refit just as much as tampering, but it’d also bear looking in to.
He dropped into a crouch in front of the sea chest, flicking the clasps open. They released with satisfying thunks. The lid yawned with the smell of sandalwood, and inside were some things he expected to see and one he did not. Also, a thing was missing. Some personal effects, a vanishing few for a man who’d served on the Emperor’s Black for more years than most survived. A couple of still holos, one his metal fingers found as if by themselves. A picture of him with a young man — they were both young men when the shot was taken. Dom, what would you have thought of this ship of fools I’ve built? A necklace made for him by a woman who was dead. Annemarie would have laughed at him, shut the lid of the sea chest, and told him to put away his childish things.
She might have remarked on the loss of the sword. That was the thing that was missing.
She might not, just as easily. Annemarie was never much interested in the things the Emperor’s Black kept about their persons. But Dom? He would have remarked on it. He’d given Nate that sword. Dom had told Nate sorry, I know it doesn’t make up for losing a hand or a leg, but it’s the least I can offer. Like Nate hadn’t failed him; it was before both of them knew failure would cost an Empire. Nate wasn’t there at the end. No arm, no leg, a sword he couldn’t swing anymore, and a discharge on top. Honorably, but it never felt that way.
Nate shook his head. Some fucker had taken his sword.
The unexpected thing was a data sliver. He picked it out and slotted it into his console. It hummed to life, and Grace Gushiken burst into life on the holo. She was looking over her shoulder, like she was doing something she shouldn’t, before looking back at the recorder.
Nate sighed. Goddamn it. He stood, shutting the chest, as Grace spoke. “Nate? Nate, we’re missing something here. We’re … I’ve got to find out. They’re speaking to me, Nate. They’re whispering. In my head. I can’t get them out.”
He turned away from the holo, taking the few steps needed to open the wardrobe. Inside, his Emperor’s Black was hung neat and crisp. It was also jumbled about, but any number of things between when he’d last opened this wardrobe and now could have done that. El flying at supersonic speeds while dodging rocks was one. But it meant Grace knew, and that wasn’t helpful, because she was a fucking esper, and some things couldn’t be trusted to people like that. She’d have one over on him now. Something to bargain with. You tell them about me, and I’ll tell them about you. It had happened before.
The holo was still speaking. “I know this doesn’t make sense. It doesn’t make sense to me. I needed a weapon, and so I’ve … I’ve borrowed yours. I’ll bring it back. I promise. And then we can talk. Because we need to talk.” And then the holo went dark, like a memory, gone like the faded tatters of his dream.
In a way, it was good news. She was out there on a planet infested by aliens. As they would have said back in the day, that’s a problem that will solve itself. Nate ran a hand over his face — the hand that was still human, still made of flesh and blood — and sighed. The problem was that Dom would have taken him to task about that. He’d set up the Intelligencers, because he believed they were an asset, not a problem. He’d died for it, of course, but he’d still believed. Annemarie would have touched his chest, where the necklace used to sit, leaned close, and said you need to get the girl, Nathan Chevell. You’ve always needed to get the girl.