Right now, I wanted to do something—anything—to deal with the alien armada coiling inexorably toward us from the dim, almost infrared old sun. I wanted even more to do something—anything—to help bring Farweather into custody. I was taking that one personally, because I’d had her and I’d let her get away.
We were getting real-time updates from Cheeirilaq and its able-bodied constables, and the busywork I found for myself (once the cats were secured) was trying to help them locate Farweather through the Koregoi senso. It still wasn’t working, even though we had a better fix on her location now that she’d launched those drones.
They hadn’t been Koregoi drones. They’d folded themselves into white space quickly, but not so quickly Singer hadn’t gotten footage of them, and they looked perfectly representative of Freeport tech. They hadn’t been among her gear when I searched it, so she must have hidden them somewhere on this vast, ridiculous ship. Someplace I hadn’t thought to look.
Well, she hadn’t thought to look in the places where I’d hidden the bits of her gun, either. They’d all been there when I’d gone and retrieved them. It was still DNA-coded to me too.
I hated the thing, but it seemed wise to hang on to it, so I reassembled it, pulled out the power supply, and hid it under a jacket I borrowed off a human constable about twice my size.
Murtaugh, actually, since they weren’t going to be needing the coat for patrols.
They were bored, but there was no sign of infection setting in. They probably could have used some busywork to keep their mind off their injuries, too.
Void and Well, where was she hiding?
? ? ?
A little while later, I said, “Singer, I have a terrible idea.”
“Well,” he answered, after a Singer-model Significant Pause. “I’m out of good ones.”
“So Farweather has a hiding place somewhere that we can’t locate. Several hiding places, possibly. She must have concealed the drones in some of them—”
“Thank you for the recap,” Singer said blandly. “I’ve grown so forgetful in this massive alien ship with all its room to stretch out in.”
“You know hominids like to listen to ourselves talk,” Connla said.
Murtaugh, from their pallet by the windows, snorted. By this point, I had them figured for the strong silent type.
“The actual point I was actually making,” I said, “is that we can’t know what other equipment she has access to. More projectile weapons, maybe. Another suit. She could have caches all over the ship.”
“Okay,” Connla said. “Valid.”
“And?”
“And I’m sorry I doubted you.”
“Thank you,” I said.
“So how terrible is your terrible idea?” Singer asked.
“Well.” I gestured to the swarm of dark motes, glittering dully in the inflamed glow of the dying star, that were inexorably closing in. “I’ll tell you.”
? ? ?
“Zanya Farweather,” Singer intoned. His voice reverberated strangely through the empty corridors and chambers of the Prize. I’d never heard him broadcast through the whole hull before, and it overlaid and interacted strangely with the still-wordless, still-echoing alien melodies.
“Zanya Farweather,” Singer repeated. “If you are within the sound of my voice, this is shipmind speaking on behalf of the Synarche prize crew currently in possession of this vessel.”
I looked around while he repeated the message. Ops—I still couldn’t bring myself to call it a command cabin on a vessel this size, or a bridge when it didn’t have any stuff in it for, you know, driving a ship or anything—Ops had enough people in it to actually seem crowded.
I glanced over at Murtaugh, who was freshly installed in their suit and grumbling something uncomplimentary as they heaved themself up.
“Wait, you can talk?” I teased.
They rolled their eyes at me. “Don’t chatter; won’t whine,” they said easily. “Better for everybody.” They leaned on a crutch and grinned.
As part of our plan, the constables had all come back up and were variously cluttering up the place. I missed my quiet and privacy. Funny how there’s a fine line between too much alone, and not enough. At least Cheeirilaq had retreated to its web in the corner, and the cats weren’t underfoot, having been captured (more of a trick with Mephistopheles than Bushyasta) and tucked up in their kitty carrier–cum–life pod.
We were all suited now, just in case, though not helmeted up. The alien swarm was getting too close for comfort.
I’ve never been as jealous of exoskeletons as I was when I saw Cheeirilaq’s space suit. It was just a film, adhering to the Goodlaw’s carapace and covering the oxygen-supplement tubes Cheeirilaq wore habitually in human-friendly environments anyway, though I assumed they were feeding it a richer mix now. It wore a combination oxygen tank and battery pack on its back between its wing coverts, and the shimmering gold threads of circuitry covering its intensely green body were thermal control. Since it didn’t breathe through its head, and since its lidless eyes were covered in a hard, transparent casing, it didn’t have a bulky helmet limiting its perception.
Damn, that was a convenient design, given planetary conditions that could support it.
Also, the filmsuit gave it an iridescent shimmer that was quite pretty, especially combined with the gold and the green.
“Message follows,” Singer said finally, and we all heaved a sigh of relief—those of us built to sigh, anyway. I turned and stared out the window. They were still coming. Visible progress: I could watch the flock of alien fighters or drones or limpet mines or whatever they were grow visibly, minute to minute, now.
Lots of time in space to appreciate what dire straits you’re in, unless you never even see what gets you.
“A change is as good as a rest,” Connla said, parting the sea of dark teal and slate gray Justice uniform suits.
I guess I probably should have found those suits . . . troubling, intimidating . . . anxiety-producing? . . . given the history I’d discovered with Justice. But I didn’t. Not now. Having consented to what they’d done made a difference.
Connla stood on my left. I kicked him in the ankle with the side of my afthand to let him know that I was grateful.
Singer waited a five count, then said, “Captain Farweather, we are requesting a truce.”
“Captain?” Connla leaned back.
“Whatever it takes.”
“We are requesting this truce for the purpose of discussing an alliance between you and our crew. We believe that our only effective means of dealing with an existential danger that threatens us all. We have half of the solution needed to communicate with and defuse the Koregoi countermeasures. We believe you are in possession of the other half.
“Again, we wish to offer you a truce and cooperation toward assuring our mutual survival.”
Connla bent his head toward my ear. “Do you think she’ll go for it?”
I shrugged. “She’s a narcissist. We’re appealing to her vanity.”
“Zanya Farweather,” Singer began again.
“Fuck me with a white coil,” Connla breathed.
? ? ?
Somewhere between seven and six thousand and twelve repetitions of the litany later, just as I was about to declare my terrible plan a failure and beg Singer to stop . . . the hatch cover on the main entry to Ops evaporated. I spun around, along with every constable in the place except Murtaugh, who was already facing that way and leaning on a crutch besides. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Cheeirilaq freeze in what could only be a hunting posture.
The constables had their bolt prods out. Adrenaline thrilled up my nerves.
Connla didn’t twitch at all. He just kept staring out the observation port he stood framed against, tall and broad-shouldered and muscular, for a spacer, in his dusty blacks. Even if he wasn’t my type, I could see that the Spartacus gengineers were good.
Farweather stepped through the open portal. She was wearing better clothes than when I’d seen her last: something piratical in deep purple with flowing sleeves and a black waistcoat of some heavy, dully glossy material, playing to type—or stereotype. She looked better-fed, too. I guess she hadn’t been reduced to raiding the algae tanks to stay alive.
“Good dia, puppets of the hive mind,” she said pleasantly. “I understand you need to be rescued?”
“Come in.” I stepped back, opening a space for her. I waved at the constables to put their sticks away. Grrrs’s antennae quivered, but it holstered its weapon, pretty ostentatiously. Nobody likes it when their partner gets hurt.
The constables stepped back. Connla continued to stand where he was, feet apart, attention on the incoming storm of drones. They looked like flakes of mica, now. Like black, flashing octagonal mirrors; like solar panels slicing through the void. They looked like obsidian knives, reflecting their bloated red primary’s sullen gloom.
Our hull still resonated with their song. If they were intended to intimidate, it worked.
Farweather swaggered into the center of the circle. She had a weapon on her belt. Not the one I’d confiscated from her, but also a projectile weapon. I hoped she wasn’t noticing that I was wearing that one.
That must have been quite a cache—
Suddenly I knew where she’d hidden it. And herself.
Singer.