• • •
“Captain,” said Penn, “we need to—”
“Sit the fuck down, Penn,” said Nate. “Sit the fuck down, and stop talking for a second.” They were in the ready room. Hope was there, still finishing breakfast or lunch or whatever the hell it was at this time of day. She was eating with gusto, like she hadn’t eaten for about three days, and that could well be true. El was standing against the wall connecting to the flight deck, arms crossed, poker face on — and she could play a mean hand of poker. No Kohl, because a machine was still pumping him full of nutrients and antibiotics. No Grace, because she’d left the Goddamn ship, with his sword, and would get her fool self killed.
With his sword.
The Rear Admiral’s lips went into a tight line, the blood pressed out of them. Nate figured he was building for a powerful rage, and it was best to cut that off. “First, before you say anything, you need to know the situation you’re in here. Number one on the list is that you’re on my ship. If you ever don’t want to be on my ship, you let me know, and you can get off. Hell, we’ll even help you off. Right here. Right now.”
“Your gorilla is in medbay,” said Penn. “You can’t—”
Nate’s laugh cut him off. “Oh, Penn. If you think I need Kohl to throw a little trash off my ship, you’ve been reading the wrong files about me.”
“I didn’t—”
“Second thing, and this is an ordered list, is that we are not leaving this rock until we get my sword back.” Nate caught the glance from Hope, and the glance from El, even through her poker face.
“What sword?” said El.
“What about Grace?” said Hope.
“Captain,” said Penn, “I can buy you another sword.”
“Not like this, Penn. Nothing like this.” Nate cleared his throat. “So here’s what’s going to happen. You can stay here. Hell, all of you will stay here. I will go out, and I’ll get my sword back.” There was a small whine as he unclenched his metal hand. “If I’m not back, Penn, and this is number three on the list, El and Hope will take you out of here.”
“Cap—” started El.
“Hell no—” said Hope.
“That’s reasonable—” said Penn.
“All of you,” said Nate, “need to be quiet. This is not a democracy. This is not a committee. This is my ship. In five hours, Absalom will have turned enough to bring us under the eye of that fucking Ezeroc ship. Therefore, in four hours the Tyche will leave, whether or not I am back on board with my sword. I have already locked Helm control, because I know that Penn will want to use some form of coercion on you all.”
“I wouldn’t—” started Penn.
“It will unlock,” said Nate, “in four hours. In four hours,” and here, he looked at El, “you will take off. El? You hear me good. You get my family out of here.”
She looked down at her crossed arms. “Okay,” she said.
“I can live with these terms,” said Penn.
“You’re still acting like it’s a negotiation,” said Nate. “It’s not. It’s just the way it is.”
Hope was still sitting, mouth half-open, eyes wide. A strand of pink hair had fallen over one of her eyes. “Oh,” she said, after a long moment. “Oh. You’re going to get Grace.”
“If Grace is still attached to my sword, sure,” said Nate. “Otherwise, no.”
Hope bounced from her seat, came over to him, and then stopped all in a rush. She leaned forward, and whispered in his ear. “I knew it.”
“It’s not that,” said Nate, but he spoke quietly too, because he wasn’t sure about much right now. He needed more sleep, and all he had was stims. They’d have to do.
CHAPTER TWENTY
The sword in her hand was foreign, just like this planet.
Breath loud, harsh inside her helmet. Grace was running, her feet trampling through plants that looked like they could be at home on Earth. She’d been to Earth, spent time there, none of it on a nature trail, but she’d seen holos. Ferns whipped past her legs, creepers draped low to touch at her helmet, the noise of them drumming like fingers against her skull. All so similar, but so strange — the plants growing lower than felt right under a little more gravity, a gene splice here or there giving leaves a strange color, or a strange shape.
Now she was moving, she had purpose. Sitting around on the Tyche wasn’t for her. They’d been waiting to die, huddled against the ground. A prize for the Ezeroc to snatch at a time of their choosing. Grace knew they were coming, because the voices in her head wouldn’t stop. They got louder, and louder, and more insistent.
When she was younger, Grace had been taught how to be still. How to quiet her mind, so her feelings wouldn’t brim over to the people around her. They called her esper, but they also called her mongrel. Her father’s eyes had turned hard and cold when she had shown her gifts to be less than his. He had been twisted into something beautiful by science, and she was an apple fallen too far from the tree. Grace couldn’t argue with his reasoning, because she was always buffeted by the feelings of the people who walked next to her, each alone in their own heads, each shouting as loud as they could within the bone walls of their skulls. Wanting to be heard, but unable to speak.
She could hear people’s feelings, but not the words. Her father had heard their voices, and could speak to them. He had served the Empire, he said, until the Empire was unworthy of his service. Then he had pulled it down.
They called her esper, but she was twice damned. To carry the stigma of it, the hated stares the deaf and mute used against her kind. By the same token, damned to be almost a hikikomori, closed off, mute in her own mind. Able to listen, and only to the partial meaning. Unable to speak.
Until Absalom. Until now.
She couldn’t speak, but these words filled her mind. Her name, spoken so clear and bright. Not even her father had been able to speak to her like this.
Grace needed to know who was speaking. With borrowed steel, she left the Tyche’s lights behind her.
• • •
Grace had always exercised. Before the fighting it had been the joy of kata. Before kata it had been running wild and free, just out of the grasping reach of a parent’s fingers. As her frame had grown longer, leaner, she’d kept the speed, used the drills to keep her mind and body sharp.
It was hard, on a spacecraft, to keep fit. To be fit, to move, to dance. Running was a particular discipline that was challenging when your entire world was only a hundred meter lap.
Even so, she ran. She ran until she was sick. Grace ran until her throat burned. She ran, because she could only hear one thing, and the sound of her ragged breathing helped to drown it out.
Grace.
Together.
Grace Grace Grace Grace Grace.
• • •
She was climbing a hill now, the sword in her hand heavy. Grace knew she should toss it aside, because she wouldn’t need it when she got to the voice.
Grace!
But her body wanted to hold it, so she held it. Her body knew what it was for.
When she was learning the drills, kendo forms learned at the feet of the best sensei money and influence could buy, her body was too small to hold the bokken they’d given her. She’d asked for a smaller one, and been told that her enemies wouldn’t bow to her size. There had been many lessons about how, for all that her chin jutted out against the wisdom of her betters, she would always be smaller than someone else. Weaker. They’d said this while their minds whispered things like mongrel/avoid/hate at her. Those had been lessons too.