Wanderlust

From somewhere behind me, Jael says, “If we don’t need to be strapped in, then I’m off to quarters. I’d rather not watch.”

“You prefer the baby-making, do you?” I’m amazed Koratati can find the wind to be flippant, but she manages to make an obscene gesture at Jael as he retreats. “Go on then, get out of here, you gormless coward!”

“If you insist.” Surge pretends he thinks she’s talking to him, heads for the hallway, and calls to Jael, “Slow up, lad, maybe we can get a game together.”

This looks insanely painful. If I’d ever been inclined to romanticize motherhood, this would’ve dispelled those illusions straightaway. Koratati’s belly roils with her labor, and she sits forward, knees splayed wide. The golden fur running down her neck is wet with sweat. She smells funky, too. By the way Kora bares her teeth, it’s just as well Surge took to his heels.

A gush of fluid spatters the blanket Dina laid down. The mechanic whispers soft words of encouragement with a surety and comfort that astonishes me. She correctly interprets my surprise and shrugs.

“Back on Tarnus, I was present at my mother’s bedside for every birth. I had three sisters. It was tradition.”

Her family is dead now. I wonder what she’d do in my place, given what my mother has asked of me, what Dina would’ve done to save them, if she’d had any power in the matter. Koratati growls low in her throat, signaling that she should be the center of attention, as she crushes my fingers in hers.

“You’re doing great,” Dina murmurs. “I’m timing you, and it’s time to push.”

That’s Vel’s cue. Despite our racial differences, he’s still quintessentially male, and this is a woman thing. I sigh.

I wish I had a penis.

March’s amusement ripples through me. Yeah, that’s going on the list of things I never want to hear again. I grin, knowing I’m not going to explain the context.

“I think I will go see what they’re playing,” Vel says, and hurries off.

I’d like to say the birth affected me profoundly, that it was beautiful and miraculous. Maybe even report the experience changed me forever. But that would come across as pure bullshit to anyone who knows me.

So I’ll tell the truth: The ordeal struck me as painful, bloody, smelly, messy, and a whole lot of trouble. I can’t believe women go through it on purpose. Kora looks positively beatific when we lay her daughter in her arms, though, a wrinkly, squalling little thing with tufts of gold hair. So I suppose she must think it’s worth it.

As for me, I resolve never to pass along my genes. The guys return when the coast is clear, first Surge and Jael, then March and Vel. They admire the child dutifully and then break open a bottle of homebrew Surge brought on board. He knew he’d have something to celebrate.

The mood on board shifts from tense to festive, but I know it won’t last. I can tell by March’s expression he has crucial information, and we may not like it. Then again, when do we ever?

Like a good captain, he lets them celebrate for a while, though. Doesn’t want to bring the mood down too soon. Dina coaxes some music out of the ancient comm system, and Jael shows off a surprisingly deep singing voice. Kora basks in Surge’s proud fatherness. I don’t think I’ve ever shared a moment like this with anyone.

Finally, March has to speak because time marches on, as that’s what time does. I’m shocked to find we’ve been up hauling straight space for over twelve hours. “I have bad news and worse news. Which do you want first?”

Shit. I hate this game.

* * *

CHAPTER 12

As the hub devolves into many voices talking at once, Vel takes a seat near me, where I’ve collapsed. “Is it always like this?”

I think about that. “Pretty much. Except sometimes there’s shooting and things blow up.”

“Give it time,” Dina mutters.

“Let’s have the worst news first,” I suggest a little louder. “Maybe the bad news won’t seem so bad.”

March motions for all of us to shut up. “I’ve looked at the routes, and we have two choices. We can go back to New Terra—” Jael immediately protests, and March tries to continue over the noise. “Or we can make for an emergency station two weeks out. If we can’t jump, there’s just nowhere else in this sector.”

“What’s so bad about the emergency station?” I’m sure I’m not the only one wondering that.

I stopped at a few in my Corp days. They’re a little grim, true, with their bare-bones floor plans, and they offer only basic amenities, but I don’t remember them as terrible places. We should be able to drop Surge and Koratati off there. They’ll be able to work for their keep until another ride comes by.

It might be a while since most ships jump at the nearest beacon, six hours out of New Terra, but the kid needs to be old enough to don protective headgear anyway. Looks like she’ll spend her first few turns on an emergency station. That’s not the end of the world.

“According to reports I pulled, Emry Station is full of Farwan loyalists. They don’t care what the Corp did; they just want to preserve the status quo.”

I raise both brows. “You mean they don’t accept that it’s over? There’s no Corp left. Doesn’t that technically make them rebels?”

“Whatever you call them, they won’t receive us politely. They’re demanding the Conglomerate acknowledge them as an autonomous outpost, or they’ll refuse to aid distressed ships in this sector.”

That could be catastrophic. In time this area will turn into a graveyard, ghost ships floating, full of people who died from someone else’s inaction. Add that to the already astronomical risk of being hit by raiders, well—we can’t let them get away with that.

This will put us off schedule, but we don’t have a choice. In reflex, I curl my right hand into a fist, and the left tries to follow suit, but instead pain shoots all the way to my elbow. For a moment I see stars, and I’m nowhere near the sensor screen.

“I’m not going back to New Terra,” Jael says flatly. “I’ll kill you all before I let you turn this ship around.”

Before March can respond to that, Vel glides to within a few meters of the man issuing such wild threats and examines him with a detached air. “You would try,” he concludes. His ever-so-average appearance lends him menace that borders on spooky.

If I were Jael, I’d step back. See, this young merc is just too pretty to be as dangerous as he thinks he is. You don’t keep a face like that if you spend your life fighting. He’d have a broken nose or something by now if he actually mixed it up. Instead I find it curious that he reacts so strongly to the possibility of going back. What’s he running from? And is it going to hunt us down?

March poses that very question aloud as I frame it mentally. It’s almost like he’s Psi or something. Oh, right.

Jael doesn’t want to answer. It would be my luck to discover Pretty Boy was my mother’s business partner, now running from the Syndicate. Possibly her former lover as well, as I doubt she’s kept herself to an immaculate widowhood.

Mary. I’ll never see my dad again. Ridiculous it should hit me so hard, right now. Maybe it’s because of the baby. Once upon a time, before they took me on a ship, I used to be his little girl. He had high hopes for me. Sometimes I wonder what I’d have been like if I hadn’t discovered joy and freedom up here.

As much mind as she pays us, we might not even be here as far as Koratati is concerned. Her whole world rests in the crook of her arm. When she starts feeding the kid, I have to look away, and I intercept a meaningful exchange between Jael and Surge. It’s almost like a lightning-fast argument, conducted silently, a glance, a couple of head shakes, and then:

“He’s Bred,” Surge explains, apparently against Jael’s wishes. “If he stays dirtside, he’ll be subject to discrimination, according to the new laws.”

“It’s almost like they’re trying to force a caste system,” Dina says thoughtfully.

Vel nods his agreement. “In a backward manner, it makes sense. While they are trying to engender a wider alliance with other races, hence the diplomatic missions, they also want to cement human privilege on the homeworld.”

The tone of the new immigration and citizenship laws is downright xenophobic. Page seven, last paragraph restricts nonhumans from holding office and owning land. “It’s going to be ugly for a while. We’re better off up here.”

“Not with a baby aboard,” March says. “We can’t plod along forever in straight space, and we can’t jump with her unprotected. I won’t take the risk.”

I study Jael. No wonder he’s so pretty, and no wonder he doesn’t want to go back. Normals hate his kind. Bred humans tend to be faster, smarter, healthier, and generally superior to their counterparts. With the reforms kicking in, it’ll be worse.

“Our best bet is to head for the emergency station,” I say. “And hope we can talk some sense into those idiots. Maybe they don’t realize how isolated they are.”

They’re Farwan loyalists, not a military group. At best, they’ll be former corporate wage slaves and disgruntled technicians. We should be able to cow them.

“It’s settled then. We haul onward.” March reaches for me and tows me toward the quarters I picked out earlier.

I don’t protest because I could use a break. Aching from head to toe, I follow him into the room he apparently intends to share with me. When the door shuts behind us, he draws me into his arms.

“I’m worried about you,” he whispers.

Ordinarily I’d discount that as pointless, but I haven’t felt right for a while. Most likely I should’ve had a checkup before we left, but I intended to have Doc check me out when we hit Lachion . . . I should’ve known things never turn out the way we plan.

Wrapping my arms about his waist, I lean into him and close my eyes. “There’s something wrong,” I admit, low.

I haven’t wanted to admit it, but I’m not healing like I should. I’m tired all the time, and sleep doesn’t seem to help. I’m no good at being sick, but I think I might be.

So gentle it makes my heart constrict, he presses me close for a moment, and then he steps back to look at my hand where Kora squeezed it. “I think she snapped your fingers.”

“Me, too.” I wasn’t kidding when I said I couldn’t move them. Pain shimmers through my fingertips in odd, erratic pulses when he turns my hand to examine it. Then his fingers trace over the dark bruise forming on my cheekbone. That, too, feels swollen, damage out of proportion to the blow.

“You look breakable.” His gaze lingers as if seeing me for the first time. “And that scares the shit out of me.”

“Hey,” I murmur. “Don’t worry. We’ll figure it out. We always do.”

He doesn’t argue with me, but in his face I see pure, unadulterated fear. That’s why March separated me from the others. He didn’t want them to see it. Nobody else pays attention to me like he does, so the others probably won’t notice that I’m ill.