Fic: Far Beyond the Stars (1/6; Spencer/Ryan/Brendon)
- These are just a few of the images we've recorded, and you can see it isn't…it isn't what we thought. There's been no war here, and no terraforming event. The environment is stable. It's the Pax, the G-32 Paxilon Hydroclorate that we added to the air processors. It's...well it works...it was supposed to calm the population, weed out aggression. The people here stopped fighting. And then they stopped everything else. They stopped going to work, stopped breeding...talking... eating...
There's thirty million people here and they all just let themselves die.
I have to be quick. About a tenth of a percent of the population had the opposite reaction to the Pax. Their aggressor response increased... beyond madness. They've become...well they've killed most of us. And not just killed, they've done things. I won't live to report this, but people have to know. We meant it for the best, to make people safer.
The Miranda Broadcast
Dusk is falling in the capital city of Warren, fiery orange light catching and reflecting off the hulls of the ships lining the docking port. Brendon weaves through the throng of new arrivals hurrying toward the heart of town, where the pubs are opening their doors and cheerful music is beginning to fill the air. The crowd parts for him unconsciously and automatically-even on the Rim planets his status earns him respect, whether or not those granting it realise what he is.
Alex follows behind with their luggage, keeping pace admirably, despite the unwieldiness and bulk of the hovering trunks. He is silent, though Brendon knows there are questions he would like to voice, protests he would like to lodge. That what Brendon proposes is risky at best, downright suicidal at worst. That there are safer, if less direct, courses of action that could be taken.
There are three private transport ships set to depart before nightfall, each more rundown than the last. The barker of the first ship is an eager looking young man bouncing on his feet, speaking to everyone who passes, loudly singing praise of his crew. He has an ugly desperation in his eyes that makes Brendon ill at ease, and he quickly leads Alex by it.
The second has no barker but a whore, dressed in a mockery of Brendon’s garments-robe parted low to bare her cleavage and high to show the tan silk of her thigh. Her smoky eyes smirk at him as he dismisses this ship, too. He has no qualms with those men and women who choose to make a living at his trade outside the safety and structure of the Guild. All the same, he has no desire to surround himself by said men and women, nor those who would patronise them.
Two men sit in the open dock of the final transport ship, a Drakken class in fairly good shape. The men are playing cards on an overturned crate. Brendon’s gaze is caught by the colourful tattoos up one of the man’s arms, and the way they are both dressed as if they stepped straight out of a film set on the Earth-That-Was.
“Excuse me,” Brendon calls, stepping up the platform. Alex waits obediently behind.
They turn to look at him, the tattooed one’s expression going from surly to entranced at the sight of him. The other one, in the ball cap, turns bright red and looks back at his cards.
“Can I help you?” the tattooed one purrs. The other kicks him rather unsubtly behind the crate. Brendon doesn’t fight his amused grin. He knows the power his smile has over others. “I’m Pete Wentz, and this is Patrick, pilot of this fine ship.”
“It is a pleasure to meet you both,” Brendon says, and extends his hand to them each. Patrick looks like he doesn’t know what to do with it. “My name is Brendon, and my valet is Marshall. Are you still taking passengers?”
“In theory,” Pete says. “Not too many people are keen on heading to the Core right now.”
“Is that where you’re headed?” Brendon asks, careful to keep his tone even.
“Londinium,” Pete confirms, with a nod of his head. “But what with current events, people seem to think it’s safer out on the Rim.” He gives Brendon a searching look. “You heading in?”
“I have no particular destination in mind,” Brendon says. “I have been at Newhall two seasons, and it has lost its shine, if it ever had any.”
Pete gives him a sharp grin. “You’re not much like the other whores ‘round here.”
Brendon refuses to rise to the bait. He does not expect them to recognise his rank. Any ship docking would be privy to basic information such as the lack of any Guild presence in Warren. As far as anyone knows, no Companions have been in the city for over six months. Brendon has travelled as a civilian, and for now, it suits him to pass as a prostitute. “If my profession is a problem…” he offers simply.
Patrick shoots Pete a glare and then turns his gaze on Brendon, apologetic. “It isn’t,” he says. “Can you pay?”
Brendon holds out his palm and Alex comes forward to lay a silk purse in it, coins jingling as it settles.
“Business is booming on Newhall,” Pete says appreciatively.
“Indeed,” Brendon agrees.
“Welcome aboard, the Nevada, Brendon,” Pete says. He nods at Alex, “Marshall. Allow me to show you to your quarters.”
*
Spencer taps his stylus against the data pad, shifting view again. Beaumonde is still there, turning idly in space, surrounded as always by dozens of ships-transporters, smugglers, mail curriers, and the odd Alliance ship.
Ryan reaches over his shoulder, drawing a line that veers off sharply to the other side of Kalidasa, taking them around New Kasmir and heading toward Three Hills and between Newhope and Daedalus, then weaving their way through the Core to Londinium.
“Yeah,” Spencer snorts, “if you want to get there when we’re thirty.”
Ryan makes an annoyed sound. “Once we get past Salisbury we’re gonna be swimming in Alliance cruisers.”
“You’re talking about twenty-three point two days-adding over a week to the trip,” Spencer whines. “Do I need to remind you why we’re going back? You don’t seem to get the urgency of the situation.”
“I get the urgency just fine, Spence.” Ryan levels him with a dark glare. “I’d just rather be late than locked up in an Alliance ship somewhere, or at the pointy end of some Parliament Operative’s sword.”
“You’re being paranoid.” Spencer taps his stylus rapidly against the screen, calling up a highlighted path that takes them between Beaumonde and Zephyr, then towards Qin Shi and Paquin before heading into the Core. “Mikey recommended this route, and according to Pete’s intel, the majority of Alliance ships have reported to the outer planets of Qing Long in response to the Reaver attacks.”
“Yeah, well, last I heard Pete’s best source of information was part of the casualties in those attacks,” Ryan snaps back.
There’s a rap at the inner hull and Spencer raises his head to see Patrick giving them a barely veiled look of amusement. “We got ourselves a couple passengers and I’m getting shit from the docking authorities about our departure time.”
“Thanks, Patrick, yeah,” Spencer says, standing and pocketing his data pad. He taps the comm. button by the hall. “Lock ‘er up, Jon.”
Patrick gives him a questioning look as the engines come online, the ship humming with energy. “Orders, Captain?” he asks, gaze flicking to Ryan and back again.
“We’re sticking with the original course,” Spencer says, ignoring Ryan’s half-aborted noise of rage as he storms off the bridge, grumbling, “Yú bèn de…wáng bā dàn.”
Patrick arches a brow but doesn’t comment as he slides into place at the pilot’s seat. He begins adjusting the controls and releases the docking clamp. Spencer feels the moment the internal gravity takes over. “Pete’s down there with our…guests,” Patrick says.
“Guǐ,” Spencer mutters. “If Ryan tries to give you a hard time...”
“I’ll lock him off the bridge,” Patrick finishes smoothly. He’s heard it enough, Spencer figures, and smiles a little ruefully.
Pete has their guests in the dining hall, showing them the rations. Spencer hangs back in the front hall for a moment, observing. The two bear a passing resemblance to one another-similarly coloured with dark hair and eyes, full mouths, strong noses. The younger one has soft features, is pretty, if in a generic way. His fellow traveller, however, is strikingly beautiful. He is dressed in fine Chinese robes reminiscent of the style on Ariel and Sihnon, a rich, vibrant brocade that is dulled by the man’s smile, the sparkle of his eyes.
His gaze catches Spencer’s and his smile broadens in welcoming. There is no question, in Spencer’s mind, what this man is. The Rim is full of his kind. They dress in the finest silks, style their hair, paint their faces, adopt what they think is a sophisticated form of speech and movement. Having seen the real thing in his youth, Spencer can spot the common whores playing at being Companions.
“Welcome aboard, gentlemen,” Spencer greets them, stepping down into the dining hall.
Pete waggles his brows behind the backs of the guests and Spencer fights the urge to roll his eyes. “Brendon, Marshall, this is Captain Smith.”
The younger one, Marshall, dips his head politely in greeting. Brendon moves closer offering a delicate hand that is soft in Spencer’s. “Captain, thank you for having us on board,” he says in a surprisingly low-pitched voice.
“You’re heading towards the Core?” Spencer asks. He can’t help his suspicion. Even with the current political atmosphere, the Guild will retain its power and prestige. Whores will be no more welcome within the Core than they have ever been.
“We are heading wherever fate takes us, Captain Smith,” Brendon says.
Spencer frowns, studying Brendon’s open, vaguely amused expression. At length, he nods. “Just to be clear, there won’t be any trading of your wares on the ship. You pay in goods, not services. Dǒng ma?”
Brendon takes a step backwards smoothly, clasping his hands behind his back. “Fàng-xīn. It will not be an issue. I believe I have provided Mister Wentz with appropriate recompense for my transport and Marshall’s. And,” he glances at Spencer coyly from beneath his lashes. “I hardly think anyone on your crew could afford me, Captain.” Pete doesn’t bother trying to cover his laughter and Brendon grants him a quick smile. “Now, if you will excuse us, I believe we shall quit to our rooms to freshen up before supper.”
Spencer waits until the ringing of their footsteps has receded before turning on Pete. “Don’t give me niào face,” Pete says, and underhand tosses a silk purse to Spencer. “He gave me two months rent up front. Even once I told him we’d be reaching Londinium within two weeks.”
“And you don’t find that odd?” Spencer asks.
“Dude, they’re whores,” Pete says and shrugs. “Small wonder they made a fortune on the Rim. Small wonder they pissed someone off bad enough they want as far away as possible as quick as possible.”
“Maybe,” Spencer says, but it still feels off. “Just. Keep an eye on them. And keep your ears open. And no touching, okay?”
“Don’t worry, Captain,” Patrick says, ducking into the dining hall. “He’d know better than to try that fèi huà.” He gives Pete an arch look.
“Bǎo bèi,” Pete coos, and goes to him, cosying up under Patrick’s arm. “I believe we shall quit to our room to freshen up before supper.” Pete manages a surprisingly decent approximation of Brendon’s voice. Patrick shoves at him, but follows him easily down to the crew quarters.
Vicky is lounging in Zack’s hammock in the engine room when Spencer pokes his head inside. Spencer will never fail to be impressed by the way she manages to lounge around in her miniskirts without flashing everyone. Zack is mostly obscured, messing around with some…engine-y part. Spencer has supreme confidence in his skill.
“Saw our new passengers,” Vicky says. She does this sort of obscene thing with her tongue between her teeth. “Shiny.”
She’s good at her job, there’s no question, which is probably why Spencer finds it so unsettling when she says things like that. “Do I need to give you the same warning I gave Pete?” he teases.
“Please,” Vicky says, amused. “Patrick would have his yīn jīng if he tried it.”
Zack pokes his head out from under the engine. “New passengers? They know we’re goin’ to the Core? If we don’t fall out of the fucking sky, first.”
“Can you just keep her running ‘til we get to Osiris,” Spencer pleads.
Zack’s eyes flick to the purse in Spencer’s fist. “You’ve been promising me a new compression coil for three months, now, Smith.”
“I’ll get you a whole new gorram engine at Osiris,” he says over his shoulder on his way out.
“You know we could take that from you in a fair fight,” Vicky calls after him.
“Vicky, there’s nothing fair about fighting either of you two,” he calls back, smiling at their unimpressed grumblings.
Jon’s in the kitchen when he comes back through, dicing vegetables on the island. “I’m makin’ a meal for nine, now?” he asks. “I’ve been stretching our rations as is.”
“With what our plus two are paying it won’t be a problem after putting down on Zephyr.”
“Yeah, well I hope our fancy ass guests aren’t expecting some gourmet meal, here,” Jon says, tossing the zucchini into the frying pan all haphazard.
Spencer rolls his eyes. “No one would expect anything of the kind from you.”
“gàn nǐ niáng!” Jon tells him cheerfully. Spencer’s never met anyone capable of cussing him out as pleasantly as Jon can.
The bridge is empty when Spencer returns and he falls gratefully into Patrick’s seat, double-checking everything. Their course shouldn’t bring them close to anyone or anything for a good ten hours. He props his boots up on the control panel, tilts back in the seat, and lets his eyes rest, just for a minute.
*
Alex flutters around the room, covering the grey bulkheads in brightly coloured swaths of fabric, lighting candles and incense, remaking Brendon’s bed with satin sheets from their trunk. It isn’t that Brendon doesn’t appreciate his efforts, but they are distracting.
There are three proposed courses on file, when he hacks into the helm’s computer, and none of them will suit Brendon’s purpose. “They are avoiding the most direct route,” he murmurs. “Alex, stop fidgeting.”
“Perhaps you can convince Captain Smith to change course.”
“Dāngrán. Are you suggesting something unseemly?” Brendon asks, glancing over his shoulder to pin Alex with a look.
“I just thought, being out here…” Alex trails off, refusing to meet Brendon’s gaze.
“Things are different on the Rim,” Brendon says, with understanding. He reaches out to lay his hand over Alex’s. “You have been a remarkable student, Alexander, but the education you have received with me here is dramatically different from the one you can expect upon reaching Sihnon. What you must understand is that although I have been operating outside the Guild’s protection, I have not been operating outside their tenets. I won’t begin to do so now.”
Alex nods meekly. It isn’t his fault, Brendon knows. Most Companions begin training at twelve. Alex, who is twenty-one, has been with Brendon less than a year. At least he didn’t have most of the overly romantic notions about the job that many applicants from the Rim and Border worlds have, but all the same he still has much to learn about the differences between whoring and Companionship, for all that he holds the former in disdain.
Companions may hold sway over their clients, that is true, but it is always as result of a mutually beneficial relationship-Brendon gets the vote cast the way he wants, and his client receives not only pleasure, but counsel, from a trained professional. The Guild has very strict rules about using Companion training on individuals who are not clients.
“However,” Brendon says, taking pity, “perhaps we can help Captain Smith to choose our course through other methods. There is this other course…” he traces his fingertip along empty space to Three Hills.
“That would take us dangerously close to the last known location of Operative Reeves’ ship,” Alex observes, indicating a spot along the orbit of Lux.
“And the other into open space bound to be occupied by many an Alliance cruiser whose allegiance is not guaranteed. No,” Brendon murmurs, “Our best bet is the most direct. Shane and Kara will readily assist us, and I believe William and Gabriel can be persuaded, as well.”
The computer interface provided by Gerard makes for quick, nearly undetectable subspace communication. The only way anyone on the Nevada would notice is if they were looking really hard at the exact channel and at the exact moment the message was sent. Even then, these backwater folk would have no hope of decoding the message.
Brendon composes his message to Shane first. Of all his connections in the Verse, Shane is his most trusted and trustworthy. Shane’s last message puts him somewhere in the vicinity of Beylix, which fits perfectly with the Nevada’s course.
“Do you think that will be enough to make them change course?” Alex asks, going back to his flittering. He moves between their sitting area and the refresher, setting out a basin of steaming water and scented oils.
Brendon finishes his message and rises, shedding his outer robe. Alex moves behind him to collect it, setting it neatly aside before seeing to the fastenings of Brendon’s undergarments.
“I have not yet developed a rich assessment of the character of our Captain Smith, but he does strike me as a rather jǐnshèn. We’ll have to see how he responds to our first move.”
Brendon sinks to his knees on the cushions Alex has laid out, tipping his head forward to bare his neck. Alex lays the sponge to his skin, squeezing out the excess water, filling the air with the scent of almond blossoms. It has been a while since Brendon has been made to resort to a sponge bath; his normal transports are far more luxurious than this.
The droplets roll down his spine and pool in the small of his back. Brendon allows his muscles to relax under Alex ministrations, obediently raising his arms, wrist heavy in Alex’s hand as Alex draws the sponge down his side.
“Does it not bother you that they assume we’re whores?” Alex murmurs. He releases Brendon’s wrist gently, laying Brendon’s hands in his lap and dipping the sponge in the basin.
“There’s no shame in whoring, Alex,” Brendon admonishes. “The men and women of the border planets and in the Rim do not always have access to Guild sanctioned companionship.”
“I know,” Alex says, frowning, “but those men view us as their inferiors-”
“And it suits our purposes,” Brendon interrupts. Alex cups his jaw, tilting his head back, running the sponge along his throat, brushing back the wisps of hair that fall around Brendon’s ears. “Allow them to believe what they will.”
Brendon can sense, even with eyes closed, that Alex disapproves of this course of action, yet he holds his tongue. He is learning to control himself admirably. Perhaps by the time Brendon leaves the Guild, Alex will be ready to enter it.
“Do you ever get angry?” Alex asks, dabbing gently at Brendon’s face, along the arch of his eye and the sweep of his cheekbone.
Brendon bites back a smile. “When you deny others power over your emotions, there is no need for anger,” he answers. “I hope I won’t live to see the day I allow someone like Captain Smith to wield such power over me.”
Brendon opens his eyes to see Alex watching him with an odd mixture of sadness and admiration. It makes his stomach clench with something like regret, which he quickly pushes aside. If he cannot practice what he teaches, how can he expect Alex to do so?
“It’s the price we pay, Alexander,” Brendon tells him, gently. Tells himself, as he was told so many years ago. “We are powerful creatures. We’re coveted and envied by men and women across the Verse. We have all the luxuries we could ever desire. And in turn we sacrifice certain of our emotions.” He rises, slipping on the dressing robe Alex has set aside for him and tying the sash. “It’s no great sacrifice,” he continues. “Anger is self-indulgent and poisonous. Patience for those less enlightened than ourselves is far preferable.”
Brendon has heard the words repeated enough that they have long since become a part of his belief system. What cannot be taught through experience can be taught through repetition. He has found there is little difference between repeating a thing and believing it.
“Remember your first lesson, Alex, and it will serve you well,” Brendon says.
Obediently, Alex recites, “He who controls others may be powerful, but he who has mastered himself is mightier still.” Brendon gives him a pleased nod, allowing the words to smooth over the cracks of his own armour, making it whole again.
As he dresses there is a beep from the interface, indicating receipt of his message. Shane would not risk responding unless there was a problem. Brendon smiles at his reflection in the mirror over the vanity, pleased with this small success.
*
Ryan glares at his data pad, unable to focus on the words. He rolls onto his back, hand falling over the edge of the bed, pad clacking against the floor as he drops it. His legs are long enough that when he stretches them straight up his feet press against the hull above the bunk. His knees bend and his hamstrings sting in the position and he presses his feet hard against the metal above, like it might give, until his legs are aching.
“Fuck,” he says, because it feels good to swear in his own language. He grins vindictively when he imagines what his father’s reaction would be. He thinks he might say it when he sees his father, just because he can now.
If they make it to Londinium at all.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he growls at the ceiling, unsurprised when Spencer opens the hatch unannounced and unbidden. “Fuck,” Ryan says sullenly.
Spencer arches an unimpressed brow. “Dinner’s ready.”
“You’re an asshole,” Ryan tells him, tone matter-of-fact.
“And you’re my best friend,” Spencer says, in the same tone. “What’s that say about you? Get your lazy pìgu up before Zack and Pete eat your share. And don’t think I won’t let them.”
“Asshole,” Ryan drawls, really getting a feel for the words.
“And keep a civil tongue in your mouth around the guests,” Spencer snaps, drawing back.
Ryan rolls out of his bunk, shoves his feet into his slippers and begins climbing the rungs of the ladder. Spencer leans against the far wall of the hall. “You might be Captain of this ship, Spencer Smith, but you are not the Captain of me,” he mutters. “And you’re going to get us all killed.”
Spencer gives him a little shove toward the dining hall. “Your concern has been duly noted.”
Ryan bites his tongue and suppresses the childish urge to shove back. He feels trapped in his skin, caged by the walls of the Nevada, this sense of foreboding pressing in on him. It makes him want to act out, to push Spencer back, to see a reaction worthy of the situation they are in.
“Hey,” Spencer says, serious. “You know I’m not gonna let anything happen to us. You know that.”
And yeah, Ryan’s never had a reason to doubt Spencer before, never would have even entertained the notion. All the same, he can’t shake this feeling, of anticipation and terror.
Spencer stops him before they reach the dining hall, grabbing Ryan by the arm and holding him back. “Ryan, you can do this. You are going to do this.”
Ryan shrugs him off. “Whatever,” he says, dismissive. He hurries through to the dining room before Spencer can say anything else, tossing himself gracelessly into his seat at Spencer’s left.
He grabs a roll off Vicky’s plate just because he can get away with it. She gives him a dangerous look but takes another roll from the dish at the centre of the table. Ryan tears off a chunk of the bread, twisting the soft, doughy bits between his fingers and nibbling at them. He ignores the plate of steaming vegetables; he’s sort of grown to hate the sight of summer squash.
“I hope we’re not late,” a voice says, and Ryan’s head jerks up. Their passengers have arrived, an unremarkably pretty teenager and the man who spoke, with his blinding white smile and dark, soft-looking waves of hair framing his face. Ryan can’t stop his gaze from travelling along the lines of the man’s purple and golden sari to the tan skin of his arms, and elegant hands covered in jewelled rings and mirrored bracelets.
“Not at all,” Spencer says. “Crew, this is Brendon and Marshall.” He goes down the line of the table, introducing them each in turn. Ryan manages a tight nod of greeting when his name is spoken, swallowing when Brendon graces him with a private little smile.
Brendon takes the seat to Spencer’s right and Marshall falls in between him and Jon. “This looks delicious,” Brendon says, allowing Marshall to serve him. “I’ll admit, after our tour, my hopes weren’t that high.”
Jon ducks his head, ears going red. Ryan notes it with a distant amazement. “Glad we meet your standards,” Spencer says, sarcastic on the surface, but Ryan can hear more beneath it, an unsteadiness.
All this over a Border world whore, he thinks, even as he traces with his eyes the curve of Brendon’s jaw, the sweep of his long, long lashes. Brendon catches his gaze but does not comment.
There is a long silence at the table, Vicky and Patrick exchanging absurd expressions with each other, Pete chuckling into Patrick’s shoulder. Zack clears his throat. “So you two from Newhall?”
Brendon takes a drink of his water before answering. “My family is from Hera. I met Marshall on Regina. We spent some time at Three Hills before coming to Kalidasa.”
“The Rim has been an interesting experience,” Marshall mutters sarcastically, earning him a look of mixed amusement and admonition from Brendon.
“And you are all from the area?” Brendon asks, neatly cutting his squash into even pieces before taking a small bite.
“Here and there,” Spencer says tersely. “All over the Verse.”
“And now you’re heading to Londinium on…business?” Brendon gives him a blandly inquiring look.
“Something like that,” Vicky cuts in, giving Brendon her best intimidating look. Ryan’s been on the receiving end of that one more than once. Maybe the guy will take a hint.
“I was just surprised,” Brendon remarks innocently. “You’re the only transport I’ve seen in over a week, heading to the Core.”
Ryan just stares until Spencer’s voice breaks him out of it. “Out here on the Rim people tend to mind their own business. No one’s looking to stick their noses in this whole Alliance xiā shuō bā dào.”
Brendon’s expression is blank, and he blinks politely a few times. Then he gives them a sunny smile. “I’m afraid I don’t much keep up with the politics of the Core. My knowledge of current events is limited to what scandal Magistrate Phillips has got himself into this week.”
There’s a brief silence, the crew stirring and exchanging glances. Pete gestures with his chopsticks. “Yeah, but you have to have seen the Miranda broadcast,” he blurts out.
“Oh yes,” Brendon says with sudden realisation. “That business with the Tams.” Like it’s something distasteful that he’d rather forget, some ugly trifle to be shoved under the rug, rather than the slaughter of thirty million people and the creation of the Reavers. Ryan doesn’t let his jaw drop, but it’s a close thing.
“Yeah, that,” Pete begins, in a dangerously low voice, but Spencer cuts him off.
“I’m sure you can see how the Alliance’s role-not only in their disastrous initial attempt at controlling the populous, but in their attempt to cover it up by ordering the murder of a seventeen year old girl-has weakened the current regime.”
“Well,” Brendon says, the expression on his face like he’s missing the punch line to a joke. “Certainly there has been talk among supporters of the Independents, former Browncoats...but they have no voice in our government, and anyway, opinions have always been more…liberal, on the Rim.”
“It’s true,” Ryan says slowly, playing with his chopsticks. Brendon’s eyes flick to him, lighting with interest. “Guess we uncivilised folk out here get that way about a conquering government that can’t be bothered to provide any form of assistance to its most desperate and deserving citizens. There’re plenty of former Alliance supporters on these worlds out here who have been forgotten and spit upon, repeatedly. Can’t really blame ‘em for feeling a little civil unrest.”
Spencer gives Ryan a look of indulgent exasperation, interrupting. “The thing is, Brendon, it isn’t just us on the edge feeling it this time. Miranda wasn’t your average Border planet. They were trying to recreate the Core out there. Showed people it could happen to any of us, Rim, Border, Core alike.”
“You’ll forgive me, Captain,” Brendon says, brow furrowed, “but it seems to me as though it will take much more than a bit of civil unrest to bring about any significant change in our government.”
Pete lets out a frustrated sigh. “A bit of civil unrest? Do you know how many people died to get that message out? The Alliance-”
A proximity klaxon begins to blare along with the chime indicating a hail. Zack’s halfway to the engine room before any of the rest of them are on their feet. Patrick dashes for the bridge, Pete hot on his heels. Vicky makes for her quarters, no doubt to prepare herself, if boarding becomes an issue.
Spencer turns to the guests, and Ryan is pleased to note Brendon’s vaguely alarmed expression. “You should probably return to your rooms for now,” Spencer says, before heading to the bridge.
Ryan spares them another look. There’s something more he wants to say, but he isn’t even certain what it is. There are more important things right now. He runs to catch up with Spencer as he arrives at the bridge.
“It’s Alliance,” Pete calls out, and Ryan catches Spencer’s eye, saving up all the I told you sos for when they aren’t being hailed by the Alliance.
“What’s the alarm?” Spencer asks, chewing absently on his bottom lip. Ryan looks away, glaring hard at the floor. His heart is pounding so loudly he can barely hear Patrick’s response over it.
“Alliance cruiser on its way from Oberon to Beaumonde. They’ve got shuttles heading for Zephyr, Beylix and Newhall.”
“What the-Tā mā de.” Spencer lets out a long breath through his nose. “Pete?”
Pete’s fingers fly over his controls, eyes scanning his screen. “They’re performing searches of all passing vessels. No mention of what they’re looking for. So far they’ve detained a dragonfly class and two smugglers.”
“Open the channel,” he orders.
Spencer’s back goes straight, his face blank, betraying none of his concern, as a man roughly their age appears on the screen. His messy brown hair and scruff are non-regulation and look oddly out of place with his Alliance general’s uniform. Must have family connections, Ryan notes with a distant, almost hysterical amusement.
“Dekkan vessel, this is Alliance cruiser Regan. Identify yourself,” the man orders.
“Nevada, sir, Captain Smith,” Spencer says.
The general looks at something on the data pad in his hand, gloved finger scanning down. “Your business on Zephyr?” he asks, sounding supremely bored.
“Just picking up some supplies, sir,” Spencer answers, voice smooth. “Running low on foodstuffs.”
The general apparently sees something on the data pad that interests him. He raises his head again, gaze flicking from Spencer’s face to Ryan’s. Ryan forces himself not to take a step back into the shadows, schooling his features into detached annoyance.
“Very well,” the general says, with a curt nod. “Our shuttle will meet you outside the entry point. Be prepared for boarding and have your idents ready.” He makes a signal off-screen and the transmission ends.
“Tā mā de hún dàn. Patrick, what’s our distance?” Spencer asks.
“Still three hours out,” Patrick answers at once. “But with their engines they could make it to us in one.”
“What are they searching for?” Ryan asks, pleased to note he doesn’t sound as terrified as he feels. There’s an odd disconnect right now between his brain and his body, something he hasn’t felt in almost seven years.
Pete shakes his head. “I don’t-There is no official reason given for detaining the ships. They have nothing in…” He stops, tapping at something on his screen. “Oh gāisǐ. They’re all ex-Independents. The captain of the Severn, two passengers on the Defiant, the medic on the Zhāoxiá.”
“For what purpose?” Ryan demands, leaning over the back of Pete’s seat to better see his screen. None of the names stand out to him; they aren’t war heroes, no one who has continued to rebel against Alliance control.
“It doesn’t matter,” Spencer says. “Patrick, what about heading around the other side of Kalidasa?”
“Given the current rotation, that puts us awfully close to Aberdeen and Djinn’s Bane.” Patrick brings up a star map, showing the two planets less than three hours apart. “We could try shooting past Angel and Heaven.”
“We’re still gonna need supplies before we reach open space,” Spencer says, pensive.
“Verbena,” Ryan says decisively. “The ion cloud should hide us if the cruiser sends a shuttle after us, and Brent owes us.”
“Yeah, and I’m sure he’ll be thrilled at us bringing the Alliance to his doorstep,” Spencer mutters.
Ryan gives him an unwavering look and Spencer sighs, shoulders slumping. “You heard the man,” he says to Patrick. “Verbena it is.” He leans over Pete to press the comm. button. “Zack, get ready to run.”
They’re not prepared to do this. They’ve played it safe before, always staying under Alliance radar, always cooperating. They’ve never had the need, before. Their pulse beacon and nav-sat are going to be a dead giveaway.
Ryan hurries off the bridge as Patrick sets in their new course. Jon’s in the dining hall with Vicky, dinner plates replaced with a vast array of weaponry that Ryan hopes they won’t be using any time soon. “Jon, help me out down in the cargo bay.”
“We’re running?” Vicky asks, with no particular tone in her voice.
“Don’t worry,” Ryan tells her with a toothy smile, burying the sour feeling of fear deep down inside until he almost can’t remember it. “I’m sure Brent will be more than willing to step up for an ass-kicking.”
They have a couple of full-pressure suits for emergencies, stored off the main cargo bay. Ryan hates going out into the black; no matter how many times he’s done it, no matter what precautions are taken, he can’t even stop the irrational fear that something’s going to go wrong-a rip in the suit or crack in the mask allowing the pressure to escape, starving him of oxygen. Or maybe his cord will be cut and he’ll just float off forever into the vast emptiness of space.
“Do you know what you’re doing?” Jon asks, eyeing him as he dons the suit.
“Nope,” Ryan says, matter-of-fact. “But Zack and Patrick are sort of busy. You wanna give it a shot instead?”
Jon holds up his hands. “Hey man, I just worry.”
Ryan nods wearily. “You’re not the only one.” Jon helps him lock the helmet into place and gives him a reassuring thumbs up, and then Ryan steps into the inner airlock, waiting as Jon closes it, trying to prepare himself for the inevitable.
The outer airlock opens and Ryan’s magnetic boots activate, jerking him close to the hull. He takes a minute to adjust to the pull before moving, clinging tightly to the cord connecting him to the Nevada. The access panel to the pulse beacon is on the underside of the ship and he makes his way there, slowly and steadily, feeling each step like an echo of his heartbeat.
The thrusters shift as Patrick adjusts course and the whole ship shudders. For a moment, Ryan’s certain he’ll be shook loose. He imagines the reaction of their Alliance general, wonders if the man is surprised at all, if he’ll let them go or give chase. Without knowing what they’re looking for, it’s a risky move. Running draws attention. Then again, so would his and Spencer’s ident cards.
“Ryan,” Spencer’s voice sounds in his ear, wary. “Any particular reason you’re taking a stroll along the belly of my ship in the middle of this potentially hairy situation.”
“Just get Zack to take care of the dummy nav-sats,” Ryan mutters. “I’m going to make sure there’s no trail for the Alliance to follow.”
“If we get stopped by another patrol,” Spencer warns.
“Well, let’s not, then,” Ryan counters, maybe with a bit more venom than he meant to let through. If they’d just taken his course to begin with. He goes down on one knee, gripping the magnetic lock and wrenching it to the left. It gives with a hiss that he can feel rather than hear.
“Just hurry up,” Spencer says, and cuts the link. If possible, Spencer hates being in the black even more than Ryan.
Their pulse beacon is nestled in among dozens of essential and nonessential parts, blinking a dull red to indicate that it’s working. Without it they aren’t going to be making port at any legitimate location. He just fucking hopes Mikey comes through with their transport at Persephone because there’s no way they’ll make it into the Core like this, let alone all the way to Londinium.
The beacon comes away easily in his hand. It still flashes, operating under its own source of power. Maybe it’ll confuse the cruiser long enough that they won’t even realise what’s going on until the Nevada is long gone. He tosses it as hard as he can, which is unsatisfying in the black, watching it turn slowly end over end, drifting away into nothing.
“Good to go,” he calls through his comm., turning back towards the airlock. Jon’s anxious face meets him at the inner airlock, and as soon as the pressure returns he’s opening the door, hurrying to help Ryan with the suit.
“When you two are Kings of Londinium, I fully expect to be compensated for all the stress you hùndàn have put me through,” Jon tells him, after punching him soundly in the shoulder. “We’re talking palaces and Companions and all the weed I can smoke in my life.”
Ryan spares him a smile even though he’s still shivery inside over having been outside. “You’re a man of simple pleasures, Jon Walker.”
“I’ll show you simple pleasures,” Jon growls, and they both jump when Spencer clears his throat from above. Ryan tilts his head back, spotting Spencer on the catwalk.
“We’ll be at Verbena in twenty-eight hours,” he tells them in a toneless voice, then adds, before heading back towards the crew quarters, “It’s late. You should rest up.”
“He was joking,” Ryan says, a little breathlessly, when he catches up with Spencer in the hall outside their rooms.
Spencer gives him an unreadable look. “It’s really none of my business,” he says, which is true, and still makes Ryan want to hit him. He unlocks the hatch on his door, swinging around onto the ladder. “You can do whatever you want with whomever you want.”
Ryan feels his lips twist into an ugly sneer and he just wants to hurt Spencer, like Spencer seems to enjoy hurting him. “Maybe I will,” he mutters, and god, he feels five years old, but Spencer makes him.
Spencer calls up from his room as the door seals, “Maybe you should.”
Ryan kicks the wall, biting back on the initial cry of pain that tries to escape his lips. “Fucking asshole,” he growls, just as Pete comes down from the bridge, giving him a darkly amused look.
“Everything good down here?” Pete asks, voice a teasing lilt.
“Oh, guǎn nǐ zìjǐ de shì,” Ryan snaps at him, swinging into his own room.
His data pad is face down at his bedside and when he picks it up, the text is still glowing black on cream. The words aren’t providing the distraction they normally would. He’d picked Genji out of some fit of irony, only now he can’t bring himself to read it.
The overhead lights go out in his room. Normally when Spencer takes over his controls it makes him smile; a lot of times it’s after he’s already half-asleep and has forgotten to do it himself. Just another way Spencer takes care of him.
Tonight, it makes him fight the urge to throw his data pad against the wall. He is tired, though, lids falling heavy over his eyes. It still takes him forever to fall asleep, mind racing with memories of before the war. It’s been close to a decade since he’s been in the Core; he can’t help but wonder how it has changed. His stomach flips over and over, imagining a hundred different conversations with his father.
It will be different this time. This time his throat won’t close; the words will come out strong.
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