Well, most of them.
If she cranes her neck, she can see Sandy’s hatch from here. Of her three fellow passengers—the legal ones—it is the tier three who consumes most of her thoughts. Sandy, who can pull the truth out of anyone. Sandy, who can read and integrate two species’ complete mythologies, add a couple dashes of observation, and distill them down into a solution to an impossible problem. Sandy, who keeps a bounty hunter’s faceplate pinned to her wall. Who is seven years old and actually owns the ship Sarya is living on. Who travels with a father who doesn’t even approach her intelligence. Who has outsmarted Sarya effortlessly, more than once. Who has eyes on everyone, all the time. Whose motivations are one hundred percent opaque.
And who, evidently, also wants to go to the Blackstar.
Sarya coughs, the spray of crumbs immediately reminding her that she still hasn’t chewed her last bite. She covers her mouth with Roche’s hand and glances out into the corridor self-consciously as she cleans herself up. She’s probably being ridiculous. When motivations align, does it really matter why? After all, she got what she wanted: she’s going to the Blackstar. And if you get what you want, should you question further? Does it really matter if your plotting and scheming and careful planning turn out to have exactly zero effect on your future? Does it really matter if higher minds make the real decisions and you’re just along for the ride? She crushes the rest of the food bar in Roche’s hand as she thinks: that would be an extremely irritating way for the galaxy to work.
“It’s our ship,” rumbles Mer from the corridor. “I mean, it belongs to one of us. But still. We ought to be the ones taking it in.”
Sarya releases the food bar in an explosion of debris. Hell yes, it matters. Decisions matter. Because she, for one, is sick of other people trying to take charge of her future. The crumbs jump as Roche’s hand slams to the table. Slowly but casually, as if standing is no big deal, Sarya levers herself to her feet.
“The little one told Ol’ Ernie the same thing, Fuzzy,” says the voice from the ceiling. “I’m a three, she says. You’re a two-seven. Whyn’t ya let me bring ’er in? Know what I told her, Fuzzy? Same thing I say to ever’body. Y’all ain’t got what I got, see. This gorgeous sound in y’all’s aural sensors? I may be a li’l two-seven, but I’m wired up to more minds’n y’all can count. Six trillion of us, flyin’ for this one li’l Blackstar, working on our third millennium without a collision. Don’t care how high that tier is, ain’t no way y’all can beat that.”
Sarya stalks out of the galley and into the corridor during this monologue. She presses herself against the wall to squeak past a rumbling Mer.
“Six trillion of us,” Mer mutters in a nasal tone, three sets of talons barely missing Sarya’s leg. “One li’l Blackstar.”
“Y’all know what’s on the other side of this here little tunnel, son? Y’all know what a Blackstar is? Even if y’all could get that far without gettin’ lost in subspace for all eternity, even if y’all could navigate through a few trillion starships in close proximity, well, first thing y’all’d do is put a kilometer-wide hole in the only Network Station in a few hundred lightyears. Maybe knock a few solar systems off-Network for a few centuries, start a brand new war or two. You just trust Ol’ Ernie ’n’ Company, partner. We been bringin’ in boats since before y’all’s dear ancestors even thought about ovulatin’ or buddin’ or layin’ eggs or whatever the hell you people do. Ol’ Ernie knows every trick of the trade.”
“You just trust Ol’ Ernie. Ol’ Ernie knows every trick of the trade.”
“And upgrade y’all’s damn cooling system, for Network’s sake! Y’all got me workin’ with about a degree and a half of tolerance, with four days of close solar orbit to go. Y’all want to die, y’all’re on the right track.”
And look at that, Sarya is at the top of the ladder. She does not even consider asking for assistance. She almost—but not quite—smiles as she looks down at her boots. Look at those legs, doing their thing unsupervised. She’s ready.
But she’s not. She’s not prepared for the rage-inducing difficulty of an act that should be second nature. She focuses very carefully on each part of her body as it does the job she’s assigned it. Slowly, shakily, and with a few terrifying near misses, her wayward limbs lower her, rung by rung, toward the cargo bay. She almost loses her grip when she kicks the switch; by the time she’s finished panicking, the blue darkness of the cargo bay yawns beneath her. Halfway there.
Sarya descends from the boiling upper ship into the relative cool of the cargo bay with an actual sigh of pleasure. She lands in several centimeters of meltwater, comes very close to falling over, then sloshes her way through the tunnel of thawing ice. Ol’ Ernie’s diatribe echoes through the cargo bay, faint but clear, and she wonders if he’s going to keep this up for four solid days.
“What do you mean can Ol’ Ernie handle a Foundation Nine? Can y’all handle them ugly furballs y’all call feet? Course Ol’ Ernie can handle a Foundation Nine. Thing to remember is, they pilot sideways just as good as they do forward. Can y’all handle a Foundation Nine, he says. I remember when AivvTech stopped makin’ the damn things.”
The suit is shut and inactive when she reaches it, which is annoying. Her boots, she has just noticed, are no longer waterproof. She holds her arms out for balance as she wobbles, tightening her jaw as she feels the cold spreading from the toes to the heels. “Eleven!” she calls, her breath now barely visible.
Eleven’s holo ring blinks on like a floodlight, a blazing scarlet logo in the darkness. “Thank you for choosing an AivvTech R2 Universal Autonomous Environment!” calls the suit. “How can this unit improve your day?”
“You can open up,” says Sarya, alternating her weight between legs and realizing that there is no experience in the world that wet feet cannot make worse.
“This suit is undergoing a routine inspection!” says the suit. “Please choose another!”
“Eleven!” shouts Sarya. She splashes forward and bangs on the front of the suit with Roche’s hand until finally, with the thud of bolts sliding into housings, the suit splits and a current of warm air blows her tangled hair back. “Thank the goddess,” she says, stepping back to give the gangway room to descend. “I don’t think I can take much more of Ol’—”
She stops. In the dim red light at the top of Eleven’s ramp, dozens of points of light gleam.
[Did you need something?] asks Sandy. Her words float next to her eyes in glowing red.
Sarya stares at those eyes, suddenly uneasy. For some reason it had not occurred to her until now: if Riptide is Sandy’s property, then so is Eleven. And then that unease transforms into more than a twinge of anger. Eleven, who has saved her multiple times, is property. Eleven, her…yes. She’ll say it. Eleven, her friend. “Yeah,” she snaps before she can think. “I thought I’d visit my—”