“Cap,” said Hope. “I just—”
“Haven’t finished,” said Nate, and then softened. “Sorry, Hope. You rest now. Without what Grace did, when she had no reason to know us, or to trust us, we would have lost our Engineer. No Engineer, no Tyche. Simple as that.”
“Fuck,” said Kohl. “It.”
“Kohl, I’m glad you’re joining the conversation, because back in that city? Back in Absalom Delta. You were down for the count. We were all going to die. Do you remember who saved your ass?” Nate leaned down, clapped the big man on the shoulder. “Do you remember?”
“Uh,” said Kohl.
“That’s right,” said Nate. “It was Grace. Now, I’m about ready for some sleep. I’m going to go to my cabin, and I’m going to lock the door. When I wake up, everyone on this ship will still be alive. No one will kill anyone else. Am I being fairly clear?”
“Sir,” said El.
“Nate,” said Grace. “It’s okay.”
“I said,” said Nate, “am I being fairly clear?”
Grace felt something in her chest, the flutter of a moth’s wings. She hadn’t felt it for years. It was hope. “Yes,” she said.
“Damn,” said Kohl, “it.”
“I’ll take that as a yes also,” said Nate. “Kohl, you remember this. You remember that when you were at Grace Gushiken’s feet, after you’d tried to kill her, she let you live. You think on that some.” He gave Grace a wink, then let himself out of sickbay. His boots clanking on the metal decking faded into the distance.
“Sorry,” said Grace, because she had nothing else to say.
“Are you?” said El. She was looking at Grace, her eyes hard, her voice harder. “I swear—”
“I’ve got something for you,” said Hope. She got herself upright, swaying. Grace moved to her side, held her arm. Helped her stay on an even keel. Hope looked at Grace, really looked at her. Not what she was, or what she could do. “Come on. I’ll show you.”
Grace followed Hope’s lead from the sickbay, still holding her upright. They left El and Kohl behind. Whether for good or ill, it was impossible to say, but Grace suspected she’d stay alive long enough for Nate to finish his nap.
• • •
Engineering was dark, the murmur of machines making a gentle background noise. Hope was walking on her own now, leading the way. Inside, she paused, then bent to pick up the bent remains of her rig. She held it up. “Penn,” she said, as if that explained everything.
“Strong,” said Grace.
“Not human,” said Hope. “I don’t know how long for. I’ve sent files to your console. About what they were doing down here. About what they learned.”
“He was becoming a new Queen,” said Grace.
“How do you know?” said Hope.
“For a time,” said Grace, “I was … together with them. I saw hints, flashes. Penn was the start of something new.”
“Here it is,” said Hope, her hands moving through the pieces of machinery on her workbench. She held up her find: Grace’s sword. Hope walked over to Grace, then held the sword out to her. “You threw it away.”
“It was broken,” said Grace. “It wasn’t worth keeping.”
“Say that next time Kohl has his hands around your throat,” said Hope, the hint of a smile on her lips. “Go on. Check it out.”
Grace drew the blade. She knew what she’d see — the silver of the metal gleaming its way free of the scabbard, right up to the fractured tooth it had become, a foot down the blade. As the blade came free from the scabbard, she saw the metal, and then she saw … more metal. The blade was whole again, the jagged stump that had been left after Grace’s encounter with the Ezeroc replaced with new, gleaming metal. She looked at Hope. “How?” Then, “Why?”
“How is easy. I set up the fab to print a new blade.” Hope frowned. “Well, easy isn’t quite right. I couldn’t drop-forge that sucker. Because we don’t have a forge. And I’m no smith, you know? Ha. But it’s printed the best I know how. No imperfections in the steel.”
Grace swung the sword, the weapon feeling right in her hand. Like she was used to. Not like Nate’s sword, with its straight blade and unfamiliar weight. “Okay,” said Grace. “Why?”
“Oh,” said Hope. “Because you needed it.” She turned away, hefting her broken rig. “Now I need to fix this.”
Grace reached out a tentative hand, touching Hope’s elbow. “Thank you,” she said.
Hope stood still, frozen by the touch, then relaxed. She turned to Grace, then grabbed her in a hug. The young woman was crying, and Grace was confused, buffeted by the emotions pouring off her. She reached a cautious hand around Hope, hugging her back. When Hope had stopped crying, she said, almost as a whisper, “Please don’t leave. Please don’t leave our home.”
Grace leaned her head forward against the top of Hope’s, pink hair under her nose. “I won’t,” she said. “I don’t think I’d know how. Not anymore.”
• • •
Grace knocked on Nate’s cabin. Hard, with the hilt of her sword, clang-clang-clang.
Nate opened it, eyes befuddled, shirt half open. “Wha..?”
“You,” said Grace, “owe me a story. About a sword, and where it came from. I gave you my story, and now you need to give me yours.”
“I … sleeping,” said Nate.
“You can sleep later,” said Grace.
“I’m the captain,” said Nate, almost hopefully.
She pushed past him into the room. She saw the sword. Nate had placed it on top of the chest she’d stolen it from what felt like weeks ago, but was only hours. He hasn’t put it away. He hasn’t hidden it again. She pointed at it. “Tell me.”
“It’s better if I show you,” said Nate, standing still at the doorway for a second. She could see the metal of his hand resting against the sill. He sighed, walked next to her, and said, “Tell me what you see.”
Grace looked at him, felt concern/not-trust/friend/trust coming from him. “You’re wondering if you can trust me.”
“Yes,” said Nate. “I’m becoming more sure though.” He reached for the sword, his flesh hand closing around the hilt.
He vanished.
She gaped. He was still there; her eyes told her he was right in front of her, but his mind had gone quiet, like it didn’t exist. Like he was dead. He held the sword up. “Now tell me what you see.”
“You’re … not there.” She reached a hand out to touch him. Her fingers found his chest. Solid. Real. “What is it?”
“Doesn’t have a name,” he said, not moving her fingers. She pulled them back, all of a sudden, like they’d been burned. This feeling of someone without the someone was … alien. Magical.
Wonderful.
Nate was still holding the sword between them. “At least, I don’t think it has a name. There weren’t many made. Maybe just one.”
“It … hides you?” Grace wanted to touch him again, for the thrill of not feeling the endless cascade of human emotions that always came with it. She reached out a hand, cautious, tentative, to lay her fingers against his arm. Nothing. Nothing traveled that physical link, other than the warmth of another human, out here on the edge of the hard black.
“I don’t know,” said Nate. Oblivious, she guessed, to the wonder she felt. If he could feel what she was feeling, he would see it as grateful/thankful/joy. But he never would, so she would just have to enjoy it alone. Like all other people were alone. For as long as it lasted. Nate was still speaking, and she tried to focus, removing her hand again. “I guess that’s it. A part of it, anyway. But it also makes it so that the Intelligencers can’t fuck with my mind.” He tapped the side of his head with his metal hand. “When you’re holding this sword, skin on the metal, you’re free. Free of any outside influence. It’s why I think … I think I know I can trust you.”