32

What You Wish For

Someone is screaming in my ear.

Whatever dreams I was having shred away in an instant, just gone, and I'm yanked awake. I jerk upright in the bed, scanning about me furiously.

Mistake. An iron fist grips my ribs from the inside, squeezing, crushing, tearing me with white-hot claws. The room spins, and I sink to back to the pillows with a gasp. Trying not to vomit.

I don't understand. It didn't hurt this much when I was actually shot. I don't think I'm going anywhere. I can barely manage to turn my head.

Who's screaming?

No, not who. What. Docking proximity alarm.

Docking proximity alarm? But that would mean—

Miranda's neural lace is active when I try to open a voice channel. “Miranda, what the hell just happened?”

“I don't know! This siren just went off!” her worried voice comes back. “Don't you know what it means?”

“No, I know what it means. It's a proximity alarm. There's a ship nearby. I thought you said no one else was coming for us?”

“They weren't! I checked all the drive traces!”

“Okay, get up here, and we'll try to figure it out.”

“Already on my way.”

I've already got the map display up, running through trace history, when she arrives a few minutes later. She's barefoot, dressed in sweatpants and some sort of dark blue t-shirt that's way too big for her. She's gathered the material at the waist and tied it in a knot to snug it up, though it's still ludicrously baggy around her shoulders.

Wait, that's my shirt. She's stealing my clothes now?

“Did you find it?” she asks, leaning over the bed.

“Yes. There's no drive trace at all of it coming in, but… look here.”

I pull up the camera displays again, coupled with the software tool Leela wrote on the fly to get projections of the Snark. A 3-D model spins in the air.

“Well,” I say, “so much for 'nobody has any warships any more.'”

It's another torchship, a sleek, streamlined cylinder, covered in what looks like ablative armor plate. Probably from a more expensive builder like SpaceX or Faulcon-DeLacy. I count at least four batteries of point defense cannons, alongside three railguns, much longer and sleeker than my kit model, and the swelling bulges of missile tubes.

“Oh,” she says. “Sorry. I really thought… is there anything we can do?”

“Against that monster? Even if the railgun still worked, we'd get maybe one shot off before they tore us apart with those vulcan cannons. And I don't think we can take them out with one shot.

“Out of our league, then?”

“Not at range. I could fly rings around them further out if the Cat was spaceworthy. Come to think of it, I kind of did. But they're within a thousand meters and closing. I think they must have been running dark like we did earlier. Set up an intercept trajectory, turned off their drive, and just glided in.

“I think it's too late to avoid them now. Sorry, Pixie, I got nothing.”

Nothing is right. I'm all out of schemes. We leaped every hurdle that Murphy and the universe could throw at us, until we couldn't, and we moved the goalposts, and we surprised everyone.

Maybe we changed everything. Forever. But now I'm flat on my back on this bed, exhausted, with no more tricks in my bag. I shoot her a rueful expression. It even hurts to shrug.

She gives me back a sad little smile. “It's okay, Marcus. No one could expect anything more than what you did. You carried us all so far and so long… Way beyond anything I thought was possible. You even took care of me when I really didn't deserve it. I know you think I'm spoiled, but that doesn't mean I'm useless. Let me carry us now, okay?”

“Pixie, I don't think you're useless. Hell, you saved my life. And you're right, I pretty much can't get up. In fact, I feel worse today. Everything hurts more, but—”

“Oh, that's normal. You're starting to heal. It's a lot of work.”

“—but I don't think you're exactly equipped to fight these guys by yourself.”

She smiles again, and rests one hand flat on my chest. Gently. It's cool against my skin.

“I'm not going to fight them, silly. There's nothing to fight over. Leela and the Snark are already gone. I'll going to negotiate. You know, drop my family's name and see how much they want to give us a ride home.”

“A ride home? But the Cat—” I begin, struggling to get up. I'm not going to lose my ship over this. I'm not.

She presses me back gently onto the bed. I'm actually so weak that she can do it. Or maybe I just don't feel like fighting her anymore. Not since… well, I guess we're just past that now.

“Easy. I'm not going to let you lose your ship. We can send a salvage team back later. Speaking of which, I've already canceled your debts on her. Trust me. Well, at least with this, okay?”

Trust her?

What a terrible idea… except…

Except it's not. It's not a terrible idea anymore. I do.

I'm not worried about her, not anymore. I'm worried for her. What if she gets hurt?

“Okay, but what if they're like the last guys? They weren't exactly the talking kind.”

“I don't think that's a problem. Look.”

She zooms in the projection, focuses on a symbol emblazoned on the side of the ship, just in front of what looks like a sensor blister… a single gold five-pointed star superimposed over the outline of a state that no longer exists…

“That's a Lonestar logo.”

“Yes. I didn't know they had warships, but that's professional security, not thugs. My family works with them all the time, or at least our security team does. They'll know who I am.”

“Okay, well… yeah. Just… keep me in the loop, okay? Speaking of which, I hope you're ready sort of now-ish.”

“Why?”

“Look.”

On the display projection, the warship has sprouted tiny dots, scooting away from the hull on vapor trails of expanding gas. Flying in tight, disciplined formation.

Boarders. Again.

“Dr. Foxgrove?”

“Yes,” Miranda says. They still haven't slung their compact, short-barreled carbines, but at least they aren't pointed directly at us anymore.

I'm sure as hell glad I didn't have to take on any of these guys. Watching them from Leela's little webcams as they moved up to the ship to medbay was an instructional course in structure clearing, the efficient, slow and methodical crawl of a multilimbed, multiheaded beast, a rifle pointed in every direction at every moment, no rush, no confusion, no corner left unchecked, no chatter. Professionals, used to working together, tied into each other's neural lace for tactical augmented reality display and communications.

Smooth and by the numbers.

The speaker is an officer of some sort, or a team leader, with some sort of rank badge I don't recognize emblazoned on his dark gray plate carrier and helmet. He's a small, spare man, short and wasp-waisted, with defined muscles in his forearms and a quick economy of movement.

If I could get up from this bed, I bet I could take him in a fair fight, though. Probably. Not that it matters. Man's a pro with a squad of pros, and is not interested in silly, wasteful concepts like fair fights. Neither are his pals.

I wouldn't bet on the crew of Tuf Voyaging to last thirty seconds against this outfit.

“Doctor Miranda Lynn Foxgrove?” he asks again, as his three foremost team members fan out in both directions, crowding into the medbay and positioning themselves at corners with clear fields of fire.

“Yes, that is who I am. Who are—”

“Lieutenant Jordan, ma'am. Lonestar Security Special Task Group Four. Gregor, scan her.” His voice carries the characteristic drawl of the vanished Terran state his company hails from. Must be third or fourth generation corporate.

“Aye, sir. Ma'am, please hold still for the camera. There. Done. It's her, sir. Hundred percent match.”

The carbine barrels are nowhere near her direction now. I notice that, even in a hospital bed, I am not receiving the same courtesy. The lieutenant speaks into a mic pickup I can't see.

“Tac-com. Package is identified, no threats, moving to secure.”

He turns back to Miranda, who appears a bit stunned by all this. “Ma'am, we're your extraction team, on contract with your family. We have a five-minute window, so if there's anything you need to bring with—”

“I'm going to need some time. This man is badly injured, and needs to be prepped and stabilized before we can move him.”

“Sorry, ma'am. Your crew is not a mission priority. You need to come with us, now, please.” His voice is polite, but firm.

“Lieutenant, that was an order. We're going to—”

“Take her,” barks the lieutenant, and instantly two of his squaddies are on her in a flying tackle from both sides, slamming into her tiny body with a sickening pair of almost simultaneous thuds. Hard. They clearly don't give a shit about bruising her up, so long as they get her out of here.

In the doorway, a fourth man has produced some thick-barreled plastic parody of a child's toy gun, black and orange, perhaps a stun weapon or some kind of tangler, but it's clearly superfluous and way too late, the first two are on her, hard and rough, forcing her hands behind her back. One turns his leg to catch the savage kick she aims at his kneecap.

I don't even think about it. I'm rising off the bed, half-naked except for the underwear Miranda didn't cut away while she was operating. The pain is brutal, sickening, but I don't care, I just wall it up, push it away, lock it somewhere in corner of my brain. Later, when I have time, I can whimper, throw up, maybe cry a bit.

Later.

That's when the third man steps in. I don't think his eyes ever left me. My rising chest meets a rifle barrel coming the other way, and the flash suppressor on the end of it hits me square in the chest, folds me up around it. I still don't care about the pain, but the pain doesn't care that I don't care, and my vision swims as I drop back down to the bed.

“Don't,” a blurry, dark-skinned face snarls from somewhere behind the rifle. Somewhere far away I hear Miranda screaming something about don't, he's in critical condition, you'll tear the fucking stitches, trying to give instructions, orders no one's listening to, and then a metallic ratcheting sound. Handcuffs, maybe.

Then her muffled voice, trying to scream more words through—cloth, or something.

I can't get up. I can't go to her.

I try to focus on the face in front of me… some kinda Indian, maybe Pakistani. I wanna remember that face, save it up for later. Him and the lieutenant. Jordan. Whoever else I can see.

Maybe I find you again, little man. When I'm not stuck in this bed. When your little friends aren't around.

“Package is secure. Cass-evac for the other one, sir?”

“Not a mission parameter. Leave him. We evac now.”

There's a muffled shriek in Miranda's high voice, and then another one, deeper, masculine.

“OW! Fuck! She bit me!”

I'm still pinned down by a rifle barrel, but I manage to turn my head and get a look at her. She's fighting, squirming like a kitten that's just understood the concept of “the vet,” and one of her captors has his hand tucked into his armpit.

“You can't just leave him, you idiot! He's in critical condition! He needs ongoing medical care, or he'll die! I swear to god, if you don't get off me, I'll—”

“Dammit, I'm bleeding. Crazy bitch—”

“Rodgers, take over for him. Spray it with foam and get her in a vacuum rescue bag. Move.”

“—make you regret it for the rest of what used to be your career, you slack-jawed fuckwit!”

“Come on, carry her if you have to.”

She stops screaming, suddenly, and her outsized purple eyes are focused on me now. Wide, shining. Desperate.

“Marcus, I—”

She stops, swallows, shakes her head with her eyes squeezed shut, like she's mad at herself, or the world, or… something.

“No, not important. Not now. Marcus, there's a tube in your chest to drain the fluid. The stitches will dissolve on their own, but you need to pull it out when they do. About five days.”

Her eyes drill through me, like she's trying to stare the information into me. There's no time to say anything to her, no time to do anything but listen, repeat under my breath, try to remember.

“There's nanite antibiotics in the second drawer on the left, in a blister pack labeled “Axalovid,” the one with the silver foil.”

They've dragged her to the door now. She tries to hook the frame with an ankle, but they just power right through, out into the corridor.

“Take one a day, every day, until they're gone. You have to take them all! Stay in bed as much as you can, but don't….”

And she's gone. Her voice unintelligible, just an incoherent echo, as they drop down the ladder, low-gravity style. I can still hear her screaming what sounds like curses as they open the airlock.

By the time I think to check Leela's camera array again, I get nothing but a fleeting glimpse of the squad dragging an inflated, and still struggling, vacuum rescue bag into the airlock. I try the neural link, but there's nothing. Those bags are radiation-shielded.

And then she's gone for real.

Can't think about that. Gotta remember what she used her last seconds to tell me. Chest shunt. Five days. Bed rest. Antibiotics. Second drawer on the… was it the left? Or the right? Axalo… something. Better be able to find it. My life could depend on that.

She's gone.

Just like that.

Out of my life.

I swore I'd get her out of my life. Way back when.

Be careful what you wish for.

I'm going to stay alive. I'm going to get my ass out of this jam. I'm going to make it home. You said it yourself, Miranda. I don't give up. I don't stop fighting. Not now. Not ever. I may be a fuckup with a history of bad decisions, not least of which was signing onto your crazy artifact heist, but at least I don't let them stop me. I keep going.

I'm going to get out of this somehow. And get home.

And you? You take care of yourself, too, you fucking crazy little adorable psycho pixie brat. Give them twice the hell you gave me.

Bite more fingers.

Get home okay safe, okay? Don't let your dad give you any shit about all this.

Take care of Leela for me.