Mr. Chopra’s Curious Collection 

Chapter One

Captain Minerva (Mo) Vasilakis felt the gentle vibration on her wrist and raised her cuff to read a message from her mech tech, Keller. “Danger, Cap. I’m hurt, hiding in maintenance duct 12. It’s the pilot. Turn on the signal jammer; I think he’s been transmitting off ship.”

Mo looked over at her engineer, Danette Santiago, who was perusing the newsfeed on the bridge’s main screen. She barely noticed the long burn scar ruining the right side of Danette’s face. Mo forwarded the message. 

“Check your cuff, Danette. Help Keller,” Mo called over to her. “I’ve engaged the interference field, and I’m locking bridge controls.” 

Danette shoved the console away, shot to her feet, reached under her seat, and grasped a shock gun. Her scarred cheek reddened in the seconds it took Mo to go for her own sidearm. 

“That slimy space worm.” Danette paused at the hatch. “Why are you asking me to help Keller and not Peeta?”

“If Peeta sees that Pilot Jek attacked Keller, she’ll kill him. I need him alive.”

“Peeta would be pleased to neutralize him.”

“We’re not killing him.”

“Prig.”

“Get to Keller, Officer Santiago.” Mo clenched her teeth. “Bring a med pack.”

“Seven Hells, Captain, no need to pull rank.”

“Go!”

Danette grabbed a med pack off a rack by the hatch and ran, her boots pounding down the passageway. 

Mo glanced at the empty pilot’s chair while she quickly adjusted the connection between the socket of her right lower leg prosthetic and her residual limb. 

“Strident,” Mo called to the AI. “Locate Pilot Jek.”

“Pilot Jek is on cargo deck two in bin 49.” The calm female voice of Strident’s AI soothed Mo’s racing pulse. Slightly.

As Mo ran, she called out to the AI, “Strident, message to Peeta: ‘Meet outside bin 49, armed. I’ll meet you there. Do not engage before I arrive.’”

“Acknowledged.” 

Mo’s heavy magboots filled the passageway with loud, echoing bangs. As she approached the drop tube, she shouted, “Strident, express descent to cargo bay two.” She teetered at the lip of the drop-off before the pillar of gravity pulled her into what felt like free-fall. Her shoulders bounced back and forth between the cottony grav boundaries as ladder rungs raced by. 

Mo had the urge to slow her downward fall, but knew that the heavier the mass, the quicker the transit. Peeta outweighed her by another half mass and was likely to ignore safety protocols. No one was a better second in a nasty fight than Peeta, but her impulsive urge to protect was at odds with ship protocol and HUB law. 

Pilot Jek had made inappropriate advances on Keller earlier in the voyage. And no one messed with Keller if Peeta was in the same quadrant. 

Mo regretted calling Peeta for help. She watched the retractable cargo-deck landing plate coming up too fast and hit it hard enough to lose her balance and roll into the dim passageway beyond the drop tube. She scrambled up and limp-ran along the corridor until she turned into the 40’s bin row. Peeta was already at bin 49, trying codes to open the locked hatch. Mo was panting as she stopped and looked up into Peeta’s narrowed eyes. Peeta’s weapon was raised, the slide pushed to red, for kill. Not stun. The muscles corded on her widened neck like the gacka bird defending its mate. 

“Peeta, set to stun,” Mo said, schooling her face to zero attitude and gesturing her own weapon at Peeta’s.

An inarticulate glottal roar came out of Peeta’s tongueless mouth. 

“We’re not killing him. We need information. We need this ship. And I need you here, not in the station lock-up.” Mo watched Peeta steadying her aim at the lock. “Stand down, Officer Krosny.”

Peeta stepped closer to the locked bin door. Mo stepped in front of her. Peeta swung her arm across Mo’s face, knocking her down and back three feet. Mo shoved herself up to a sitting position and felt a trail of warm blood trickle down beside her eye. She raised her gun and pulled the trigger twice. Peeta’s arm faltered. Her deep-set dark brown eyes widened as her almost two meters of solid muscle wavered, then thunked to the deck. 

Mo wiped her face and stared a moment at the blood on her uniform sleeve. She holstered her sidearm, climbed to her knees, and ran her hand over the attachment point below her knee. It was solid. She shoved up to a standing position. Her hand pressed against the nearest wall. Black spots at the edge of her vision faded. 

Mo took a deep breath, palmed the lock pad, gun up, set to stun, and yanked open the compartment hatch. The pilot spun around, and she shot him. She heard his gun clatter to the deck, stepped forward, and kicked it spinning away from his fallen body. Mo rolled him over, yanked his arms back, and zipped his wrists together. 

She pocketed his gun, patted him down, removed two knives, and took a signal booster from his utility pouch. She stepped around the cramped interior of the bin, its cargo stacked neatly and its mesh safety harnesses intact. At the rear of bin 49, a shorter stack of containers gave way to inward-curving struts. She spotted the wire plug hanging from a magnetic cube stuck to the inner hull bulkhead. He had been signaling someone, and judging by his earlier transgressions, he wasn’t calling home.

Jek woke sooner than she’d expected. He cursed in Sydenese as he managed to sit up. Mo yanked him to his feet and shoved him out into the passageway, partially blocked by Peeta. She panted audibly.

Jek spat on the deck. “You people are so broken, not to mention useless and pathetic.”

“I’d be a little nicer were I you. I just saved you from dismemberment. By Peeta there.” Mo gestured to the prone body whose only sign of life was a palsied, spasming of two outer fingers.

“What would that tree-trunk of a Cavbot have against me anyway? I can’t even tell if that ugly mug is male, female, or some sexless void-spawn.”

“Her people prefer Cavarian, and she is neither bot, broken, nor useless.” Mo pushed him toward the cargo bay airlock.

“She’d have no reason to kill me. Unless she’s upset that I like the pretty one over her. I know some fellas like the big oxes. Not me, I like them pretty and quiet, like the blond.”

“Did you even try to remember the names of your crew, Jek? If you’d paid any attention, you might have noticed that Keller, the blond one, and Peeta are a couple.”

“That’s ridiculous.” Just then, the deck shook. The red lights and the klaxon sounded. Mo caught the lazy smile rising on Jek’s weasel-like face.

“Strident, report,” Mo shouted over the noise.

“Captain, there are flames in maintenance duct four. Fire suppression is glitching. I’m attempting to seal the compartment and vent atmosphere.”

“Alert me if the fire reaches the passageway.”

“My friends are almost here,” Jek crowed, doing a shoulder lift and curling his lip. “And the blond one’ll be my prize.” As sometimes happened, a stun could loosen the tongues in certain galactics.

Mo’s eyebrows rose. “Who do you report to?”

“As if you didn’t know. The Valcon Sea’s Captain Wong wants to drink your blood for breakfast. You seem useless enough to me, but he won’t shut up about you screwing up some scam he had going at Dandelion Station.” His laugh was high-pitched.

Mo thrust him into the airlock, spun him around, and slashed the binding on his wrists with one of his knives. He banged into the bulkhead on the far side of the airlock and turned to face her.

“No, stop!” He charged back toward her, then stumbled to a stop, eyes widening at the sight of her gun, aimed at his chest. She tossed a vac suit to the deck and back out the entry hatch.

“Suit up. You’re kissing vacuum in one minute.” She punched the hand pad on the bulkhead and listened as a series of levers and clamps juddered and chunked, as the hatch seal engaged. His lips moved as he raged unheard, arms waving as Mo watched through the viewport. He ignored the vac suit, his stun-lag seeming to shield him from reality.

She initiated the airlock cycle, watching the viewport briefly fog, then clear. His mouth grimaced, a muscle jumping at his jawline. His head whipped side to side like a caged animal too soon off its trank shot. He pressed his hands over his ears, the pain of depressurization hitting his awareness. Lips pursed, he pinned Mo with a hunted stare. She paused the depressurization cycle and watched him fumble with the vac suit. Once he achieved a seal, the revolving red light atop his helmet began to spin. He lunged toward the ship-side hatch, grasping the bar that protected the walls from cargo damage.

Mo hit the vent button with unnecessary force. The outer airlock slid open, and unswept white insulation pellets spun into a blizzard, flying out as Jek’s legs were yanked horizontally into the torrent of escaping atmosphere. His grip loosened, and he flipped out into space, end over end. She triggered the closing mechanism and watched as the outer airlock slid shut. Danette’s boots pounded down the passageway toward her. Mo turned and saw the raised wrench.

“Where’s that poxy pilot?” Danette yelled.         

Mo gestured to the airlock viewport. 

The bulkhead rang as Danette’s wrench slammed into it. Mo winced at the sound while Danette watched the tumbling, space-suited pilot diminish into the void. 

“You spaced him!”

Mo prodded gently at the swelling by her eye. “I saved his life. He’s safer out there than he was in here.”

“Did he do that??

“Peeta…”

“Peeta’s a menace. She could lose us this ship,” Danette yelled.

“Is Keller stable?”

“Yeah, no thanks to that pilot. Keller says…”

“I know. He’s been tight-beaming our location to the Valcon Sea.” Mo blew out a hard breath. 

“How can you know that?”

“Jek’s one of the stun-blast truth talkers. Captain Bellamy Wong has us in his sights.”

“He doesn’t.” Danette’s knuckles whitened around the wrench. 

“We’re going to be attacked if we can’t change course and blaze out of here. Jek seems to have sabotaged the ship.” 

“Orders?”

“I’ll revive Peeta and get her between hulls. I need you in maintenance duct four. There is or was a fire.”

“Sure thing, Cap.”

#

An hour later, their hasty repairs allowed a course change. Long-range scans detected a ship closing on their vector. Mo shouted an all-ship message, “Battle stations.” Klaxons shrieked on, and the pulsing red lights bathed the flight deck in a threat of impending doom. She disengaged the failsafes and pushed the engines into the red zone. The excess speed shook the deck plates and rattled her seat. Mo gritted her teeth, making her jaw ache. Her fingers flew over the jittering console, switching attention between the engine’s red-lining gauge and the three scan screens. 

“Come on, girl,” she mumbled.

The klaxon seemed to bore into her inner ear as the screen flashed, Structural Integrity Alert.

Danette glared at the three holographic screens, which displayed long and short-range scans. She bellowed, “Captain, I’m getting anomalous readings. Sensor ghosts are appearing and disappearing.”

“Strident,” called Mo, “How accurate are the scan readings?” 

“The engine’s speed governor has been disabled. May I reinitialize the system for safety?”

“No,” shouted Mo. “Are scans accurate?”

“The high rate of heat energy exhaust is endangering hull integrity due to excess ionization.” Strident flashed a system-wide warning across all screens. “The beyond-spec temperature of plasma exhaust has created an unstable cloud of electromagnetic energy. Scans are ineffective due to close-ship radiation.”

“Strident show hull integrity,” Mo yelled.

“Mo, it looks like the hull’s on fire,” Danette wailed. A profile of the ship appeared in blue, with thin to thick fields of yellow, orange, and red surrounding it, spiking in places like an exploding mine. The diagrammed red plume from the exhaust section extended far beyond the outline, with curling and backflowing red waves. The rear of the vessel displayed a deep red color with warning symbols in bright yellow.

“Cap, that looks like a sun storm, with all the spikes and out-shooting heat. We might do the Valcon Seas job for them.”

“Strident,” Mo called, “rate the level of hull integrity on the diagram.”

Numbers were overlaid on areas all along the hull, with lines carved through the ship’s framework to correspond with pressure-locked and bulkhead-sealed sections. The lowest hull integrity numbers were at the exhaust ports.

“Automatic shutdown override in two minutes,” said a canned repeating message between the ear-splitting klaxon pulses.

Mo eased their speed, felt the vibrations decrease, and noted the high-pitched background engine stress lowering into a steady thrum. Glancing at the diagram of the hull, she saw the reds change to orange, yellow, then green; all the spiking points fell, and the hull stress numbers lowered toward normal.

The klaxon stopped, and the blinking red emergency lights shut off. “Scans, Danette,” Mo called in a more conversational tone.

“No more ghosts, near scan looks clear, I should have long scan results soon.”

“Mo, I had no idea Strident could go that fast.” Danette panted, wiping her forehead. “I can’t see the Valcon Sea catching us now.”

A minute passed, then another. “Captain, long-range scans are up. The ship back there is decelerating.”

Mo blew out a long breath. She pressed the all-ship transmit button, “Stand down.” She listened as the hiss and suck of the flight deck’s hatch opened and heard distant thunks as compartments unsealed. She felt the pain in her ear as the air pressure from the other compartments equalized with the bridge.

Mo calculated the energy drain from their speedy run as she looked at the diminishing bar of their energy reserves. That escape came with costs. A wave of weariness flowed through her like a badly aligned gravity transition. She pressed her thumb and forefinger against the bridge of her nose.

“Damn it,” Danette’s voice was high. “Peeta should be punished for hurting you.” Her whiny tone of grievance was reminiscent of other stressful times. Mo let her vent, her head down to loosen her neck muscles. Her head jerked up as she sensed a change. Her peripheral vision noted Danette’s dramatic arm waving.

Peeta stepped with quiet progress onto the flight deck toward Danette’s back. Her eyes were slits, her uniform tight over her biceps. Mo gave a head shake as Danette ranted on, which was ignored.

“I’m just saying that if Peeta wasn’t such a psycho, you wouldn’t have had to space that vacuum-headed, barely sentient bag of orbital debris.”

“What did you just say?” Peeta messaged with her cuff as she stepped in front of Danette. Her large presence filled the space. Danette stared up at Peeta, her mouth open.

“Look at your cuff, Danette,” Mo growled.

Danette read her cuff. “Um, I guess I said you’re an impulsive psycho. But, it’s not like that’s always a bad thing.”

Mo threw up her hands.

Peeta’s uniform creaked. They stood like two incendiary statues inches from flashpoint. Mo’s eyes widened. The chronometer clicked the seconds, the distant hum of the reactor droned, and the crackle of meteorites hitting the shields punctuated the tense stillness.

All heads turned as the uneven steps of Keller approached from the passageway. She eased through the hatch, bandaged, favoring her left side, and came up to the rigid threesome. She laid her pale hand on Peeta’s muscular, deep tan forearm. Peeta looked at it, then covered it with her own. Keller, born blind and deaf, had implants that not only allowed her to see and hear but also to link with ship systems to access any part of the ship, except private quarters. Her preferred method of communication was through her cuff.

Mo mouthed “Thanks” to Keller.

“Peace,” showed up on Danette’s cuff.

“Peace,” Danette said aloud. 

“Good timing, Keller.” Mo heaved a long breath. “Peeta, Danette, sort out your differences. I need you both, but I’ll lock you in an airlock together if you can’t control yourselves.”

Mo glared at Danette and Peeta. They each dropped their heads, then nodded at each other.

“I’m sorry, Cap,” Peeta private messaged to Mo’s cuff. She lifted her large, slightly grease-stained hand and tenderly traced the swelling by Mo’s eye. Mo met her eyes, surprised by the feather-light touch.

“Do systems checks and prioritize needed repairs.” Mo looked up to see the crew checking their pads.

A couple of minutes later, Mo raised her hand. “I just sent a distress signal to Nova Station, and they’ve put us on ‘Observation.’ We’re too far out to expect support from HUB vessels, but Nova could order a cargo ship to divert. I also tight-beamed TCB (Transit Central Brokerage) a complaint about their pilot assignment. I told them Jek’s connected to the Valcon Sea, a sanctioned privateer and possible pirate vessel, and about his illegal comm setup. I’ll hold the assault complaint until we reach the station.” 

TCB was the HUB’s contractor for assessing, listing, and tracking berths and pilots. Unfortunately, the large cargo shippers, passenger Starliners, and HUB enforcement vessels got the best pilots, while the miners, one-off cargo haulers like the crew of the Strident, and small-haul commuter ships got the leftovers.

“Maybe they’ll send us a better pilot next time,” Danette said.

“Maybe Strident will be impounded,” Mo said. “For damn sure, they’ll block our access. We did space their pilot.” 

“They can’t do that. It’s their fault we almost lost the ship,” Danette’s scar reddened.

“We’re a single ship—a meteorite in a solar storm. A mote in the Goddess’s eye,” messaged Keller. 

“And they’ll have to send a ship to collect that bipedal piece of space trash,” Mo said. “It’d be cheaper for TCB if we vanished off their radar, never to be seen again. Let’s hope they don’t bill us for collecting him.”

“But, if we’re suspended, how do we get contracts? Much less deliver them?” Danette shouted. Mo held up her hands. Danette pressed her lips together and subsided. 

“We just don’t know.” Mo turned to Peeta, “Strident has a list of physical inspection tasks.” Peeta nodded once. Mo watched her turn and jog out the hatch into the passageway. “Keller, catch a sleep cycle. Danette, do short and long sweeps for any ships within range.”

Keller waved and left. Danette looked around the near empty bridge. “Mo, I’m sorry I lost it about Peeta. We’re not going to lose the ship, are we?”

“Danette, sometimes I hate being the captain. We absolutely could lose this ship.” Mo’s fingers pressed her temples. “Our credit account is pinched. I’ve signed some bad contracts, including that shit consignment to Port Vargas waiting for us at Nova Station. We have enough to pay our dock fees, but not much else. If the Valcon Sea comes after us again, we’ll lose our lives, not just the ship.” 

“Ah, the joys of owning our own ship,” Danette said.

“Let’s just get to Nova Station,” Mo said.

#

An alarm jerked Mo awake. A bolt of heat roared through her body. A cursory glance at the screens showed they were within range of Nova Station. Her fingers tapped through the necessary hail and response. 

“Meet in the galley, we’re on approach to Nova Station,” Mo cuff-messaged the crew.

A few minutes later, they were all gathered around. Ration bar in hand, Mo said, “I need you cold sober on shore leave.”

“Mechs are charged and ready to load,” Keller messaged.

Peeta messaged Mo, gesturing to Keller, “We’ll stay on board in case some asshole from TCB tries to impound Strident.”

“We’ve got the berth and a contract. Aren’t we safe?” Danette asked.

Peeta messaged, “TCB’s unpredictable.”

“I’ve filed a report including his comms and coordinates,” Mo said. “In a perfect galaxy, his attempted piracy trumps our airlock drop.”

“How’re you finding us a pilot without the TCB?” Danette asked.

“I’m going to the Longshot.” Mo frowned.

“Speaking of an imperfect galaxy, the Longshot is not a nice bar,” Danette said.

Peeta raised her left eyebrow at Danette.

Danette flapped her hand at Peeta, “I like companionship.” 

Chapter Two – Nova Station

Captain Mo nursed her sub-par drink, tasting iodine from the water recycling system. She shoved exhaustion and desperation aside and sat up straight. She used the mirror to look for a candidate and found her reflection instead. She needed a cut; her curly brown hair was too long for helmet duty. The illumination from the bar counter, like the running lights on old ships, made her brown skin look oddly pale. 

A man she wasn’t waiting for winked at her reflected face as he paused behind her. She shook her head to signal she wasn’t interested. Her cuff vibrated. Looking down, she groaned. TCB had issued a non-specific system-wide grievance status against Strident. Any pilot candidate in good standing who checked Strident’s profile would dismiss her. The lack of description in a generic TCB grievance status could signify suspected illegal trafficking, legal peril due to reported regulatory violations, or signal possible impending impoundment of the subject vessel. Any of these could spell trouble for the pilot stuck aboard a ship if the TCB, HUB enforcement, or Station Judicars signed off on a seizure.

The Long Shot was frequented by pilots on probation. Every station had two or three disreputable bars that catered to the incompetent, the bent, and the desperate. Any pilot on probation was locked out from listing their availability on TCB’s platform, and their searches for possible vessels were restricted to the lowest level of ship profile. Any ship captains saddled with a grievance status had few options once they’d run afoul of the TCB. 

Mo’s chest felt tight. Her earlier elation that their Port Vargas contract hadn’t been canceled faded as the hours counted down toward termination. Danette sat at the bar a few stools down, drinking one of her ridiculous drinks. Smokey orange vapor spilled down the outside of her glass and spread across the bar. Danette’s wavy blonde wig, a bright contrast to the short haircuts and shaved pates of the other working spacers around them, cascaded down the languid curve of her back. Her facial burn scars kept the seat next to her empty. 

The man Mo wasn’t waiting for slid onto the stool beside her.

“What’s with the Princess Sabina hair?” he asked, nodding toward Danette. “Why bother?” His stiff, straight-up black hair defied the pull of spin gravity this close to the station rim. His neat, symmetrical features were mildly pleasing, and his tanned skin could be from anywhere in the HUB.

Mo frowned. “That’s my crew you’re insulting.”

“Don’t worry,” he said, “I’d have insulted her no matter who she crews with. Did you see that face?” 

“Every day, jackass. What’s wrong with you?”

“Me?” He looked affronted. “I’m not the one who hired her.” 

Mo opened her mouth but closed it when she saw his Transit Cross pin. His too-long hair suggested a significant break since his last flight contract. She recalibrated and said, “You suck at flirting.”

His eyebrows lifted. “Was I flirting?” He smiled, flashing white teeth, and abruptly, he was handsome.

Mo pulled back her shoulders and leaned toward him. Watched him react to her breasts. “Looks that way to me.”

He smiled again. “Okay. Interest in a short hop isn’t exactly worthy of the news feeds. For the record, I’m from Ellipto.”

Elliptoids were known for their lack of tact—and dubious beliefs. “I’ll give you a break, Elliptoid. Next time you sidle up to someone looking for a thrust, just smile, say hello, and shut up.” 

“Are you saying I talk too much?” His pleased expression affirmed his lack of concern. “We’re plain-speakers, you know. And the plain truth is, I’m very good.” 

 “I can’t believe they let you people into the HUB.” 

He waved a hand. “I’ve taken the sensitivity training. If you want my opinion, it’s not us who need the training. People in the HUB can’t tolerate what they consider insulting words, but they’re supposed to tolerate unclean acts and ill-formed people? It’s ridiculous.”

“I don’t,” Mo said. 

“Don’t what?”

“Want your opinion.” 

He laughed, full-throated. “You’re blunt. It’s nice. Better than the polite shit in the elite corridors or the impenetrable silence on the docks.” 

“Dock workers are quiet because they don’t like you.” 

He blinked. “Really? What’d I ever do to them?”

“I have many, many guesses.” 

He smiled again, and its calculation didn’t make it less attractive. “Now I am flirting. You are, without a doubt, the most proximate potential sexual companion in this bar.”

She barked out a laugh. If he weren’t Elliptoid, and they weren’t skating on the rim of disaster, they could have had fun. “What’s your name, pilot?”

“Hellatrobus Quee, but you can call me Latro.”

“Latro. How often do you achieve lift off once you close in for a hop?”

The pause ran long, which was fair. Men didn’t like to admit failure any more than women. 

She raised an eyebrow. “I’m asking you an honest question, plain-speaker.”

He shrugged. “Not often. Less and less as the weeks go by.”

“They look you over, like what they see, excuse themselves to the toilets, and don’t come back?”

Another pause. “Yeah.” 

Mo pulled out her pad. She opened the TCB pilot platform, a subset of the HUB social, pleased that her access hadn’t been restricted. As she scrolled the Q’s, his default picture, with military-short hair, jumped out at her. In a sea of stylized and surgically enhanced smiling profile pictures, his sullen, unsmiling mug looked like the last guy you’d bring home to mama. Or hire for a long haul. Or trust not to steal your shipment. 

She pressed her lips together to hide a grin and tapped his picture. His profile was longer than average, with a series of single-transit contracts and few re-hires. It was a listing of details that’d put off many a potential sexual partner. 

In five years of flying, he’d collected a red warning notification—probation—and a warren of lesser violations. He’d broken at least one rule in every HUB zone. Dockings at restricted ports made it clear he didn’t mind flying for unlicensed contractors. None of this helped his reputation. 

Well, it didn’t help him. “You know why people go to the toilets, don’t you?” She was enjoying herself now.

“Is this a trick question?” 

She grinned. “They’re checking your profile.” 

“Why would they check my profile? I’m right here.” He thumped his chest.

“Your profile tells them everything you don’t. You’re Elliptoid. You should hide that. Or claim you’re from Vomstagan.”

“What a dump.”

“It’s costing you jobs, and so is your probation. You need someone to edit your profile.” 

“I didn’t even post all that crap.”

Mo rolled her eyes. “Judging by your profile history, you’re kind of an idiot.” 

“Elliptoids are not idiots. Our average IQ rating…”

“You’re culty religious wackos.”

“I find your lack of tact titillating. What’s your name?” 

“Mo.” She tapped on his pilot skills ratings page. His scores were phenomenal.

He’d been to plenty of embargoed ports. Their wretched contract to Port Vargas wasn’t technically embargoed, but it might as well be. Too bad she’d signed the contract without finding out what a cesspit it was. She looked back at his history page and narrowed her eyes. “You docked at Chennai, Hangzhou, and Norton.” She shrugged her shoulders. “You flew unsanctioned cargoes for non-compliant contractors.”

“How are those port arrivals even on my profile?” He was whining now. “I never meant to fly to sanctioned ports. I thought a port was a port, and I needed the work.”

Mo wondered how he could be so ignorant. “Your profile is populated by public information.”

“Can you erase it?” 

“I need a pilot, Latro. I might help you fix your wretched profile if your rate is right.”

His face brightened and became attractive again. “Can you make me look normal?”

She smirked. “A hacked profile can only do so much. But I’ll help you—in exchange for a test run and a contract option.” She held her breath.

“Great.” His head bobbed like a suki bird, which made him less attractive again, which was good, she supposed. 

“Scale with no cargo percentage. Option for ten runs at Guild-recommended rates if I like your work. You’ll have steady employment until some of your bad reputation times out.” 

“Done,” he said. 

She held out her pad. “Sign here.”

Latro tapped hard enough to slap her pad to the bar top. He flashed a handsome smile and said, “Shall we get a room to celebrate?” 

“Brake your thrusters, Elliptoid. You’re arrogant to think you can hop your captains. And it’s my guess you don’t hop the imperfect.” 

Mo slid off the bar stool, took two steps, and paused. Her prosthetic leg made a longer-strided stroll feel comfortable, so she used it. Her knee-length jumpsuit revealed her C-class prosthesis. She glanced back to measure the revulsion on his face. 

He scowled at her. “You really captain a ship?”

She tapped her captain’s bars. “It’d be a crime to wear these if I didn’t.” 

He pointed to her leg. “That’s a crime.”

Mo tilted her head and stared at him. “Due to the sad circumstances of your birth, I’ll give you one chance to rescind your signature and walk away.” 

His jaw twitched, but he shook his head. “My word is worth more than my signature. You have both.”

She nodded. “All right. Repeat your sensitivity training while you’re under contract with me.”  She strolled out of the bar as if she didn’t have mere hours to stay in contract compliance. She glanced back to watch him wrestle with a shoulder bag too big for the budget locker. Her lips twitched up.

Chapter 3 – Strident

Mo paused outside the Longshot and let Latro catch up to her. “Am I the first maimed person you’ve ever seen?” 

Latro snorted. “You need sensitivity training more than I do if you think we release adults for being victims of industrial accidents.” He tilted his head. “Elliptoids just… know better.”

“Release?”

“Uh, wrong word choice. Before joining the HUB, we released DEEDs at birth. That is, of course, against HUB standards, and the governing bodies all signed off on ending the practice. But out in the country, it’s probably still the practice.”

“That’s barbaric. There’s med tech to solve many problems present at birth,” Mo shook her head.

“I’ve evolved.”

“I suspect I’m about to disagree.”

He waved a hand. “Look, partial people can contribute, Captain. Elliptoids don’t dispute that. It’s just that, in most cases, a whole person can do a thing better than half a person. Or even three-quarters of a person. It’s not bigotry like all you wide-minded people in the HUB seem to think it is.”

She’d already noticed him huffing under the weight of his duffel and picked up her pace. 

She’d be happy to see him sweat while he told her she was inadequate. “You really believe that?”

“Dare I answer?”

She nodded. 

“Okay. A spaceship isn’t a planet-side rehab center. It’s a dangerous bubble of air trapped inside an alloy skin that can be pricked apart with energy beams or flying debris. Ships are designed with whole people in mind. So whole people are better for space than DEEDs.” His smile was blinding. “I still need this job.”

“You still have it. And I disagree.” 

“Well, you would, wouldn’t you? You’re a DEED,” Latro said. 

“Don’t call my people that.” 

“It’s not a slur, Captain. It’s a simple and plain designation.” 

She’d have to look it up later, but she already had a sense of the man. 

“There a reason we aren’t taking the lifts?” he huffed. 

She didn’t look back. “There a reason you need one?”

“Want, maybe….” She listened as he panted and fell behind her.

Once on the dock or rim level, she observed the curve of the station as she approached their berth. She palmed the lock. It lit up; letters crawled across the scratched surface: Nova Station, Dock 8, Berth 14, Captain Minerva Vasilakis, Strident, contract expiration 8:54 hours. The 8:54 seemed to float before her eyes, an impossibly tight countdown to keep the contract.

The security door slid up, grinding metal sounds making her clench her teeth. Once opened, she frowned at the tall rows of cargo containers bulked in front of the Strident. The upper section of the belled-out shape of Strident seemed to smile in the reflection of the dock lights. Just like the day the crew took possession of her out on Station 431. They’d all paid dearly for their escape from Dandelion Station and the independence that last-minute justice had wrought. This ship was their life. Her breath hitched as she stood dwarfed by the Strident, staring beyond the stacks to the narrowing upper section. The atmospheric bubble ended below her cone, distorting the starfield beyond into a watery black ocean punctuated by swaying ribbons of light. 

Large clamps held the Strident in position over a well-lit mechanics’ pit. Umbilicals from Nova Station’s utilities looked small next to her bulk. Mist hovered over the hot water line, reminding Mo to get Latro a shower before lift-off. She appreciated Latro’s sluggish pace, giving her a chance to gaze up at the ship that was miraculously theirs.

Latro panted up, dropped his bag, and clearly needed an excuse to stop and catch his breath. “You use the brackets?” he gestured at the flush sets around the Strident’s girth. They allowed exterior shipping containers to be bolted on for zero-g deliveries. 

“Not yet. We’ve never flown her with an exterior load.”

“What’s that, triple her cargo capacity?”

“Triple or quadruple, depending on the container size.”

“Nice,” Latro grinned at Mo. 

“We have eight hours to launch,” she said, “so the cargo needs to be loaded yesterday.”

“Why isn’t it already loaded?”

“Without a pilot, I’d have been in breach of contract. Technically, possession of their cargo would have been theft.” 

“Cutting it fine there, Captain.” 

She shrugged and didn’t say, “I was leaving that bar with a pilot, or blind.” 

Mo entered the ship, waiting for Latro to heft his bag. She walked briskly into a lift, barely waiting for him to enter before she touched the bridge deck control and used her cuff to call the crew for load-in. 

Lights came on, illuminating a spacious bridge. The holo-screens lit up in dim standby mode.

“You’ll use that station.” Mo gestured to the seat and console in front of it. She watched his reflection in the front view screen. His hands rose in front of him, moving left and right, setting the distance of each holo-screen to his preferred gap. He watched as the response graphics showed the Strident’s limits. 

“What’s this?” Latro asked, his fingers paused above the unfamiliar symbol on the weapons display.

“We call that Pumba.”

“Because?”

“Because I’m the Captain.”

“Aye, Captain,” he said.

“I need you to shower and report back to the cargo bay. The rest of the crew should be loading by then.” 

“I’m transit. I don’t do cargo.” 

“That was an order. And plain speaking, you stink.”

“Aye,” he ran his hand down his rumpled uniform and looked at a couple of stains, “Captain.”

She held out a cuff. “You’ll need this onboard to communicate with some of your crewmates.”

He rolled it onto his wrist and adjusted it. His lip curled. “Aye, Captain,” he enunciated overly loud into the cuff without looking at her.

“I can hear you. You needn’t use it with me in person.”

After leaving him at his berth, she weighed whether to warn the crew about his Elliptoidness, reflected on their previous pilots, and shook her head.

The first person she saw when she exited the lift was Danette, her wig gone. “I’d like you to check the weights listed on each container against the manifest. Get Keller to weigh any that conflict.”

“Sounds good. I had to help repack mid-flight on my first contract,” Danette sneered. “What a bunch of disorganized vacuum-heads. I never want to do that again.” She glanced at the time on her cuff. “This could take a while, and I need time in engineering before takeoff. A little help?”

“We’ll get the pilot to take this over when he comes down.”

“Hmm, how’s that going to go?” Danette smiled her crooked smile.

“Our pilot comes with some complications. My credits say he’ll do it.”

Fifteen minutes later, Mo got the alert from Strident that Latro was in the lift. When he exited, his hair was both wet and cut helmet-short. 

“Danette, our new pilot, Latro. Latro, Danette, our engineer.”

“Uh huh.” Latro’s lips pressed flat, just shy of a sneer.

Mo sighed. “He’s Elliptoid.” 

“Yeah, I checked your profile. I’m sorry for you.” Danette nodded. 

“You know, that gets old fast,” Latro told the captain as they walked away. 

“What?” Mo asked. “People knowing you’re an asshole?” 

“People making assumptions because of where I’m from.” Latro frowned. “I already didn’t like her.” 

 “I’m sure she’s crushed. You’re meeting Keller, the mech tech next.”  

Mo strode past tall stacks of containers toward the metallic rumble of a mech in motion. She raised her arm, and the mech stilled. Walking past it, Mo called out to Keller. Between vertical container rows, out of sight of the mech, a pretty, blond woman sat on a container. Her head turned their way, and her fingers tapped on a screen. 

Sounds of the mech moving began again.

Mo noticed Latro watching Keller with narrowed eyes.

“Keller, our new pilot, Latro. Latro, Keller, our mech tech.”

“Uh, hi,” Latro said.

Keller nodded in their general direction. No smile. Her attention went back to her screen. A whine from the mech said the introduction was done.

“She’s blind and deaf and prefers cuff communication to verbal,” Mo said as if giving directions to the head. She led him back the way they had come. 

He sped past her and came to a standstill, hands on his hips, forcing Mo to stop. “You’re busting me, right? Who’d let a blind person load cargo?”  Mo watched his earlier efforts at normalcy wither.

“She’s blind and deaf, my friend, not stupid. She has implants. But it’s true if her mech turns you into a red stain, she won’t be able to see it.” 

Latro’s skin grayed, and his mouth opened slightly. Once they returned to Danette, Latro asked, “Should I head back to my rack?” He didn’t look at Danette.

“I’ve got a little task for you,” Mo said. “Danette will show you.”  

Mo walked away from them and stopped behind the next row of cargo containers. Her curiosity drove her to pull out her pad to look up DEEDs. She learned that the DEED designation on Ellipto was a classification for individuals who were delayed, enfeebled, encumbered, or deformed. Before joining the HUB, it was common practice on Ellipto to euthanize this category of citizen at birth and beyond. Mo tuned into the talk between her new pilot and Danette.  

“At least you can see and hear,” Latro grumbled to Danette. “What’s next with you defectives? A head suspended in a bottle running the containment field?”

“We don’t use that word. It’s offensive,” Danette said with a raised voice. 

“You people and your damned sensitivities. I guess it’s good you DEEDs are all confined in one place.”

“I’m gonna kill Mo for hiring you,” Danette said.

“I picture her doing the killing.” 

“Oh, she told you about Pilot Jek?”

“Eh?”

“Spaced his ass in a shipping lane and took over the ship.”

“Mo pilots?” Latro asked.

“She’s got her Transit Cross pin. She flew the Level Two asteroid field off Dandelion Station.”

“Then why doesn’t she wear it?” 

“Guess she thinks captain’s bars are more valuable.”

“What’s more valuable than an excellent pilot like myself?”

“Does your entire cult planet think so highly of themselves?”

Mo heard Latro sputter. She imagined he was confused by Danette’s confidence. 

“Our Elliptoid education level is far in excess of the HUB median…” 

 “We’re getting another pilot,” Danette said.

“Gonna space me too?”

“He had a suit on,” Danette corrected. “He didn’t die,” 

“That supposed to make me feel safe?” 

“Nope,” Danette laughed. Mo grinned. She walked away, certain Danette had Latro in hand. 

After twenty minutes of pre-launch admin, Mo returned to the cargo bay. Latro, clipboard in hand, was inspecting a shipping label.

 “You know to raise your arm when you get near the mech, right?” she asked Latro. 

“I’m not going near that thing with Blindy running it.”

“Her name is Keller. You will use crew names and none of your own invention. That’s an order.”

“Aye, Captain,” Latro said with exaggerated politeness. Mo observed his obstinate scowl. She was sure the crew would have some choice nicknames for him. 

Back in her work cubby, Mo read and erased rejection after rejection to her queries and Proposals-to-Ship. Her cuff lit up. 

“He’s done,” came Danette’s message.

“Have him meet me at the lift,” Mo messaged.

Latro was at the lift when Mo stepped out. 

“Go over your pre-flight checklist. When done, hit your bunk.”

“Aye, Captain. I notice you haven’t mentioned our destination. Navigation is part of my job, you know.” Latro cocked his head with a jaunty smile. “And I’m good at it.” 

“Just a little jaunt to Port Vargas.”

“A little jaunt?” Latro’s mouth sagged open. “I’m getting scale and no cargo percentage for a Hazardous Run?”

“You’ve done it, right?” Mo asked. She knew the answer from his profile.

“That place is worse than Norton. I vowed never again to set foot on that poxy planet.”

“Good,” she said. “Then that’s not a problem.” She gave a small wave and turned to leave. Walking down the hallway, she listened to the fading sound of his stamping boots, his exact words of complaint were drowned out by the hiss and click of the air system.

Chapter 4 – The Trip Out

     Hours out of Nova station, Latro scanned an article on the latest drive technology. The sound of clacking boots strode onto the flight deck. Latro looked up. At almost two meters tall, stocky-framed, with broad cheeks and deep-set eyes, it lacked jewelry, tattoos, or any other indication of its gender. The person’s flinty look made Latro feel like a uniformed schoolboy waiting for a correction. He half expected a discipline rod to hiss out from behind their back. It stepped too close, forcing Latro’s head to angle up to meet its stare. His neck ached already. The smell of grease on the jumpsuit cued his distracted brain. 

“You must be the mechanic. I’m Latro, your pilot.” He tried his most charming smile and waited for a response—any response. He pictured the level of damage this large person could inflict while the silence stretched. The intruder grasped his arm and yanked him up to his feet, his console whipping to the side. His wrist was thrust up under his nose. The cuff faced up. Green letters spelled out, “Hello.” 

He tried to conceal his need to gulp air. He stared at the cuff like he’d never seen one before. “Hello,” he said again. Then he dropped his arm and asked, “What’s your name?”

The person waited, then opened their mouth and emitted a multi-syllabic combination of glottal stops and mush. A wet slug clinging to his face couldn’t have been more unwelcome. It was another DEED on this DEED-infested ship. It yanked his arm up again. He looked at the cuff.

“My name is Peeta Krosny. You can call me Peeta or Krosny. Don’t crash the ship.”

“Can you hear me?” Latro asked. He stared at his cuff and got no response. He looked up and saw her face darken with a scowl. At least he knew this obnoxious person was female. He plopped down in his seat and pulled his console close like a shield. 

She reached over and switched the cuff’s vibrate setting to “on,” which she could have done earlier. But no, like the other DEEDs on this ship, she chose to make her problems his. 

#

For Latro, the seven-day transit would have been a typical hazard run through a nasty asteroid belt if not for the DEEDs crawling everywhere around the ship. As far as he was concerned, they were sarcastic, unsuitable people who didn’t belong in space. Even the captain, who did a great job of overcoming her failings by pretending she didn’t have them. He was annoyed at finding himself following her with his eyes whenever she was around. Even when giving him orders, she seemed to have a little knowing smile that made him wonder if she noticed. Too bad about her leg. Whoever heard of a ship’s captain with a stump?

Chapter Five – Port Vargas

Latro watched Port Vargas grow larger on the main viewscreen. His back stiffened as the empty berth yawned open below. Like a bomb-blasted emergency landing zone, the containment walls were blackened by multiple launches and appeared not to have been inspected or cleaned since it was built. The nearby ships were a collection of sad, salvage-bait relics, no doubt doing more planet-side haulage than space-piercing contracts. 

Port Vargas did little to slow the flow of fees. They had their lane: efficiency, red-tape-free, and commerce first. Unless you were a labeled pirate, there was a berth for you, a wide range of entertainments, and inter-space foodstuffs available around the clock. It wasn’t an authorized HUB port, but it wasn’t under threat of sanction, either. 

Port Vargas was a disposable planet, an aging mining hub, destined to be a hollowed-out hulk in the next hundred-year. Its atmosphere was breathable if you could hack the stench. With all the mining in the nearby Solaris belt and Port Vargas itself, the scent of prosperity was foul.

Strident landed at her berth. The forward screen scrolled—Port Vargas, dock 19, berth 42. Latro tapped his console to see their logged landing time. “Fresh O2! We’re on time!” He crowed.

A message in yellow glowed on Latro’s arm. “Do we need to give him a medal?” 

Considering he hadn’t seen her since load-in, it was a goosebump-inducing reminder that Keller could hear anything he said anywhere on the ship if she chose.

His cuff lit up. “Latro, take a sleep cycle while we unload.”

Back in his berth, jumpsuit in the sonic cleaner, the hot water gauge full from the station hookup, he indulged in a five-minute shower. The tightness across his shoulders melted away, and he relaxed for the first time. He turned onto his back in the bunk, looking forward to sleeping a full eight. He smiled toward the ceiling, “Strident, lights out.” 

#

Latro jerked awake in his bunk, disoriented, the drag of mid-cycle sleep interruption an ache behind his eyes. His cuff scrolled its message on repeat, “Breakfast meeting in five.” 

Latro slid into the galley bench next to Peeta, who didn’t bother to look his way. Danette slid in next, her hideous burn scars facing him. Oh, Blessed Mother. He turned as far away from her as possible. He grabbed a ration bar and stared at it with bleary nausea. Mo cleared her throat from across the table. 

Latro took a breath to complain about being summoned mid-sleep shift. 

“Delivery’s done, countersigned, and paid.” The lines between Mo’s eyebrows and frown did not mirror the good news.

“Then why are we awake?” Latro slapped his palms on the galley table. “I don’t like having my contracted sleep hours interrupted,” 

Mo glared at him, “We do, however, have a situation. Strident’s caught a ping from the Valcon Sea. Their beacon is in range.”

“Who the Seven Hells are…?” Latro started.

Danette stood. “How close are those poxy bastards? And why follow us to the ass end of the galaxy?”

“They’re coming through the belt as we breathe,” Mo answered. “I don’t know if they’re after us or just here for general criming, but I’ve re-registered us as a gas freighter with the station agent. We need to jump on our next contract, sleep cycles, and shore leave be damned, and blaze out the gravity well like we’re the Second Secretary of Tanoss IV.”

“Huh?” Latro said.

“Do you watch the newsfeeds?” Danette asked.

Latro shrugged his shoulders and frown-smirked. “What’s the problem with the Valcon Sea?”

“Cap kind of ruined their mining scam a while back, and we’re not anxious to share the quadrant with them,” Danette said. “And they maybe tried to kill us before we made it into Nova Station.”

Peeta erupted into an inarticulate yell.

“Maybe..?” Latro shouted.

“Peeta, he’s crew,” Danette said. “He ought to know who killed him before he kisses his useless ass goodbye.”

“Hey, I’m just transit. This has nothing to do with me. I’m going back to my bunk and packing my duffle. You DEEDs can go die without me.” Latro grabbed his ration bar and stood up. Peeta’s hand shoved him down like a two-G surge. Latro rubbed his temples. He looked up to see Mo staring at him, eyebrows raised. 

“I didn’t think they’d come after us without a co-conspirator on board,” Mo said.

“That pilot you spaced?” he asked.

“Yeah.” Her eyes held his. “You’re crew, Latro, we honor the contract.” He looked down, his shoulders drooping. 

When he looked up, they were all watching him. Mo’s gaze warmed his chest. He nodded.

“Peeta, Latro, you’re with me,” Mo slapped the table top and stood. “Peeta, grab your electronics kit. You’ll probably need disruptor charges. Latro, can you drive an Albuteron cargo hauler?”

“Where are you going to get one of those old fossils?” Latro asked, hurrying to keep up.

“You’re going to steal it,” Mo said.

“Why would I do that?”

“We can’t rent a proper hauler because our fake dock ID isn’t in their system. The minute we rent machinery in our real name, it’ll ping the Strident’s profile.” Her eyes squinted at him like a teacher looking at the stupid kid.

“We landed here. Isn’t that already on her profile?” Latro asked.

“That won’t pop up till our next turnaround. If that,” she said.

“I don’t get why equipment renters log faster than the port,” Latro said.

“They’re corporate, they’re systematized, and if you’re not in their system, you don’t rent.” 

“So, we’re stealing now?” Latro threw up his hands.

“It’ll get returned.” 

“This is outrageous.” 

Once they arrived at the equipment storage compartment, Peeta shoved various items into a voluminous bag.

“How do we get the cargo?” Latro asked.

“Obviously,” Mo scowled, “it’s in the Customs shed. Your questions are time-wasting.” 

His need to know all the steps overruled her rebuke. “How do we get a hot hauler past a customs checkpoint?” 

Peeta punched him. He rubbed his arm, glared at her, and stopped talking. It was annoying that people in the HUB frequently told him to stop talking. Inquisitive Inquiry was the cornerstone of controlling any circumstance, and this situation clearly lacked control.

They left the ship, and the remembered smell made Latro’s nasal passages drip.

Mo looked back and frowned at him. “Look like you didn’t lose last night’s poker game.” 

Latro looked down at the wrinkled jumpsuit he’d thrown on. He straightened up and yanked it smooth. The ramp steepened; he couldn’t hide his labored breaths. A few minutes later, they reached a storage area for cargo mechs. They avoided the brightly lit, fenced security area with the shiny, modern models. Peeta led them into a dimmer section with older, scratched, and dented machines. Some resembled large crouched insects with triangular tracks for legs, while others looked like headless metal gorillas. Peeta headed to a section filled with the larger Angaloda mechs and the smaller Totaloda models, each one tapped and dismissed until she stopped by a squat, older Totaloda. She disappeared behind it.

“What’s she doing?” Latro hissed. 

“We need a mech to load the cargo onto your hauler,” Mo said.

“We’re going to get caught and die in the foulest-smelling jail ever. I never should have left Ellipto.”

“Bit late for a new strategy.”

“Do they have the death penalty for theft here?” Latro whispered.

“Someone’s coming,” Mo hissed and grabbed his sore arm. “Follow me.” 

“Vortex bled, how do you know?” Latro whispered.

“Strident.” She hissed, then turned down an aisle with a charge-and-test alcove at its end. They crouched among dusty umbilicals. 

Latro remembered a time when he was five and he’d run out of their yard into the neighboring streets. He was free, running between walls, jumping hedges, and waving at children trapped in their own yards. He’d felt strong. Then a man appeared and grabbed his arm and dragged him into a nearby compound and locked him in a room. Latro had yelled and asked questions. Hours had gone by. He was moved by two more men to another location. No one would speak to him. He didn’t know if he’d ever see his home again. After two more transfers, being hauled like a prisoner, he was brought home, hungry, tired, and confused. His father whipped him and sent him to his room with no comfort or clarification. Latro hated being pushed around with no explanation. 

Resisting the urge to grab Mo’s arm in frustration, dust tickled his nose, his stomach roiled, and his heart beat too fast. He watched her lifted chin, letting her stillness calm him. A few minutes passed. Peeta joined them, her bulk pressing Latro into the wall. He cocked his arm, ready to tap a question into his cuff. Peeta gripped his sore arm. He tensed, heard steps go by, and realized he was holding his breath. 

Mo’s face glowed from whatever message lit her cuff. She didn’t share it. She eased up, and the three of them left their hiding place and walked out of the storage cavern. Latro took up the rear, glancing back. He spoke quietly into his cuff, “Where are we going?”

Peeta yanked him in front of her, giving the sore spot on his arm from her last manhandling a good squeeze. Latro croaked. The tempting smell of bad fry food distracted him. His stomach woke up and audibled. The dim hallway they’d been in opened onto a bright concourse of shops, carts, and a hot food commissary. Latro’s head lifted and turned. Peeta’s hand touched his sore arm, his head drooped. Since he was looking down, he didn’t see the sign ahead: Customs Storage Depot. 

A couple of carts full of uniformed workers hummed past them. Mo turned into a narrow maintenance tunnel. It was poorly lit and furred, its textured walls covered with fine dust, glued with airborne fry grease. Latro had rubbed against this type of grime before, and the smell had stuck to his uniform for multiple sonic cleanings. He stayed to the center, arms tight to his side, and lost his appetite. 

Mo halted at a gate with a pad. Peeta stepped forward and laid her cuff on the surface. Mo stood statue still while Latro’s ankle jitter caused a lazy rising dust cloud. The gate clicked open.  A dim tunnel yawned ahead. It opened into a haphazard storage/parking area with a mix of cranes, haulers, and broken-down mechs.

They walked down three rows until they came to a corrosion-pitted, old Albuteron cargo hauler. Its tall seat and steering section were up a dozen steps. Latro looked at its long, dust-covered length and wondered if he should mention that he’d never actually driven one. He’d passed certification on various military vehicles on Ellipto and hoped the concept was the same. He couldn’t bring himself to tell her. Peeta climbed the steps, sat in the pilot’s seat, flipped the control panel up, and eased the under-cover off. 

Latro gazed at Mo as she focused on Peeta. He felt a strong urge to touch her, to show support. But she was a DEED. Heat flushed in his chest. He wanted her to see him as strong and capable. He shook his head. Her focus was like a force field. He kept his hand at his side. 

A hum accompanied lights and a gentle vibration as the Albuteron came alive. Peeta stepped down and belted herself into one of two barstool-like hinged passenger seats. Latro belted into his high-up seat and wondered how many other pilots had an aversion to heights. His stomach contracted when he looked down from the armless seat and felt its wobble. He located the basic controls and looked around, uncertain how to get this fifty-foot-long vehicle out into the empty aisle to his left without scraping the vehicle ahead. He noticed a circular control with a graphic of many lines facing forward. He rotated the control 90 degrees and heard a satisfying squeal of wheels on plascrete.  Echoes of jerks rocked his seat as the long-unused wheels responded unevenly.

By the time he had the Albuteron in the aisle, he cursed the day he’d left Ellipto. A map showed up on his cuff. He struggled through the turns from the vehicle storage to the customs area. By the time he drove to a barred gate, attended by a surly Galactic, he’d schooled his face to project a calm he didn’t feel.

Peeta stepped down and tapped her cuff to transfer their contract to the guard’s clipboard. The guard glowered at it like he’d been asked to do an EVA with a half-full oxy bottle. He strode back to his temperature-controlled booth. The chill in customs was a physical thing. Latro wished for one of the newer haulers with the enclosed and heated driver’s cab. The guard strode up to Peeta; “No,” stitched all over his lined face. 

Mo stepped down with care and followed the retreating guard into his booth. Latro looked at Peeta. For once, she didn’t look like she wanted to smack him. A tiny head shake was all she gave him. The cold pressed inward as they waited. Latro felt exposed on the pilot seat. He knew rubbing warmth into his chilled arms would not show confidence. His shoulders curled inward in a vain attempt to preserve body heat.

Latro panted, eyes fixed on the two inside the security booth. They appeared to be yelling at each other. Peeta’s fingers touched his leg. He looked down at her. She’d unstrapped and climbed the steps to reach him. She nodded at her cuff. With a final pat, she climbed back down.

His cuff showed a simple game of War Flies. He tapped it, punched the first fly, saw an orange starburst, heard the familiar ding, and smiled. Five minutes flew by while they played and leveled up. He nudged her upper arm with the side of his boot after an especially gratifying point and was rewarded with a small smile. A tiny chirp announced the next level. He grinned back at the top of her head. She’d already started and scored before he collected his wits.

The game vanished. Latro looked around. The guard walked toward them, the captain by his side. She smiled and touched his arm like they were old pals, but her eyes were red-rimmed. Heat filled Latro’s chest. His back stiffened. All his earlier anxiety rushed back, but this time, instead of worrying they’d be jailed, or vaporized by the Valcon Sea, he worried about Mo—not that she’d appreciate it. Why, in the seven hells, in the middle of the biggest flaming cluster burn he’d ever been in, did he ache for a DEED?

The long barrier in front of the hauler lifted. Latro drove the machine forward. Checking his cuff, he saw the cargo storage number and map coordinates, along with a blinking line indicating the way. He saw a large cargo lift at the head of every other row. A familiar dented Totaloda sat in the open-gated lift at the head of their row, red light blinking. After they passed, its treads clacked out of the lift and followed them.

They arrived at the numbered section. Mo stepped down, tapped in the code, and their heads bent back as they watched the wide door section disappear into the yawning cavern above. The mech clanked forward into the fenced area, scan beeps calling out as it passed each row.

Latro climbed down and strode up to Mo, “What the seven hells was that all about? First, you and that guard looked like you were shouting at each other; he obviously made you cry, and now you’re best friends?”

“I probably could have driven that Albuteron better than you.”  Mo waved her hand like she was flicking a spiket.

“Not taking the bait. What happened back there?”

“Not that it’s any of your damn business, but he asked for the rental agreement for this beast, which we don’t have, so I used tears. They proved most effective.”

“That’s it? You turn on the faucet and the big bad security drone caves?”

“Some credits may have changed hands.”

“Am I still getting paid?”

“We’re not out of the wormhole yet, Latro. We have work to do. Not you. You go over there.” Her stiff arm indicated a point beyond the hauler. Latro trudged away, rubbing warmth into his chilled arms. He leaned back against a cargo cage, and a wave of exhaustion pulled him under.

A gentle kick brought Latro back to wakefulness. He felt as chilled as a corpse in the crouched position he’d fallen asleep in. His back made a loud crack when he stood. The Albuteron was loaded, blocking his view of the cargo enclosures beyond. Peeta was nowhere to be seen, and Mo, red-faced, yanked him toward the hauler.

“Get this thing moving now!” Mo yelled.

He climbed up to his seat in a daze. “What about Peeta? What’s going on?” 

“Strident alerted—security’s incoming to check our authority to remove cargo. Start this thing up and fry some space.”

“How?” Latro yelled.

“Now!”

“Where do I go?” 

“Forward. Use your cuff. Don’t stop no matter what.”

He started the groaning Albuteron forward as fast as a fifty-foot-long, fully-loaded cargo hauler could go. He pictured the boxes swaying behind him as a dial showed red. Just then, a klaxon wailed, and red lights blinked on and off. He let the hauler slow.

“Go, go, Latro,” Mo shouted over the blare of the alarm.

They were dead, he thought. The lights in the cavern went out all at once. The blackness contracted his sense of space. The alarm cut off mid-wail. Latro held up his cuff and steered one-handed, using its direction. He expected to crash into a wall or a high cargo pile and be crushed at any second. His sense of Captain Mo strapped in below him was a lash across his back. After three minutes of nerve-fiber annihilation, Latro wished for a Class Four asteroid field. He saw Peeta backlit ahead at an exit gateway. Latro anticipated the gate coming down to crush his body and flinched.

Peeta jumped onto the moving hauler as he passed through the gate. His cuff suggested a change in direction. As he started the turn, the machine showed a tilt icon. He braked before they lost the load. The breeze in his face became stronger, as did the odor. His cuff showed him the course into the massive docking space. He felt safer seeing the familiar chaos of ramps, delivery vehicles of all sizes, and cranes. Their cargo load blended into the ponderous parade of haulers.

“There she is,” Mo shouted up to him over the din of the port.

Latro turned his head. An open security door on the right revealed the Strident. Her open cargo bay door framed two mechs. He called down to Peeta, “How do we protect our cargo during loading?”

In a minute, his cuff lit up. “Security doors.” Of course, he thought, Port Vargas was not known for its law enforcement. They’d protect the port in any dispute and let Darwin fix the outcome.

Fitting the Albuteron into the docking space inside the security door was a challenge, one Latro’s tired synapses executed with mediocrity. Peeta must have known Latro’s candle was more a pool of melted wax than wick. When he powered down, he swayed in his seat, and Peeta was there, balanced on the step to ease him down. Considering that Peeta didn’t speak, Latro was surprised they communicated so well. 

He slouched into the lift and looked back at the loading already taking place, too fast for protocol.  He punched the button for the berthing level. Once there, he staggered to his bunk and passed out.

Chapter Six – The Valcon Sea

“They may have found us, Cap,” Danette said. Her voice was calm, but Mo caught the quiver in Danette’s right hand. 

“What makes you think so?” Mo asked.

“We’ve had our ID scanned twice in the last two hours. The second one was just now.”

“Any problem with that ID?”

“If they can access dock security cams, they’ll see we’re no gas freighter.” Danette’s scarred cheek flared bright red.

“Keller, Peeta, emergency, we have to launch,” Mo cuff messaged.

“We’re loaded, I’ll button her up,” messaged Peeta.

Mo worried at her lip. “We should assume they’ve identified us.”

“I’m warming her up. Once burned, was enough for me,” Danette said with a nervous laugh.

“Strident, get Latro up top, now,” Mo called to the ship’s AI.

“Acknowledged,” Strident said.

Latro panted onto the flight deck four minutes later, helmet in hand.

“Get your lid on and strap in. We’re launching,” Mo said.

He froze, eyes darting to the various screens.

“Strap the fuck in,” Mo shouted. “If we’re caught, we’re slag.”

Latro dogged his helmet home with a loud snap. Danette’s one-sided conversations with launch control kept chatter at bay. Mo’s helmet, with its three-quarter quartz visor, allowed her to watch Latro fuss with his screen settings. And see his clenched teeth and jutting chin.

Strident droned the countdown. 

“I need to do a proper pre-flight check,” Latro whined.

“Danette’s on it. As well as communicating with traffic control.”

“Danette is an unqualified DEED who needs to defer to a trained expert.”

“Shut it, Latro,” Danette waved a hand in his direction.

“Focus,” Mo yelled.

“If the Valcon Sea takes us out in a shower of exploding ordnance, at least the universe will be rid of this assless fuckwit,” Danette yelled.

Latro flicked a hand in her direction. “Do they even know we’re here?” 

“I’m not waiting to be pushed out an airlock. We’re launching while they’re still docked,” Mo said. 

“We any good in a fight?” he asked.

“Peeta’d set the self-destruct before she let them take us,” Danette said.

“What the…?”

“You think she’s mute for fun?” Danette hissed. “She was on a ship that got boarded. She’s not doing it again.” 

“I did not sign up for this,” Latro pounded his armrest.

“Brace for lift-off,” Mo shouted. The deep rumble and shudder of launch began. The clamp of two and a half gravities spread to different pressure points on her body, making Mo’s breaths short and shallow. She was yanked into a space filled with acrid dust in her mouth, yellow ash in her sight, struggling to get enough air. She recognized the knee-jerk sense-memory of the volcano quake that almost killed her family. Her hands squeezed into fists and relaxed, her physical cue to connect with the now. She let a beat of time go by, noted the reaction for what it was, and focused her attention on the forward view screen.

Mo wished a message to launch control could delay the Valcon Sea’s lift-off, but no chance of that. Mo’s cheeks felt like they were being pulled down by her chin. While waiting for gravity to ease, she took a moment to regret taking this contract. 

After they’d burned up and out of the gravity well, Mo called over to Latro, “I need to know what it looks like back there.”

Latro gave her the up thumb. The roar of acceleration ceased, and Mo was able to draw in a full breath. “Scans, Danette?”

“Three freighters way back and another ship mirroring our course at high velocity.”

“Any reason it wouldn’t be Valcon?” Mo asked.

“None. It makes no sense to torch fuel just to lose velocity in the belt,” Danette answered.

“How tasty is our cargo?” Latro asked.

“We’re packing refined heavy metals. Our load could be sold anywhere,” Mo answered.

“What’s their ship like?” he asked.

“She outguns us by a parsec. But we’re faster.” Mo used her cuff to tap in a code, and the dimmed symbol on the side of Latro’s console lit up. “You don’t use Pumba unless I say. Got it?”

“What is it?” Latro asked.

“It’s salvage from another vessel and came with the ship. The cruiser it was on lost power when they fired it,” Mo answered. 

“It’s salvage?” Latro’s voice went up a pitch.

“Just shut up and fly, Elliptoid,” Danette said.

Mo mirrored Latro’s course and speed screen to her left display. She pressed her lips together as Latro adjusted their course, blazing near the red zone for speed. Her rear-view sensors showed an extrapolation of the course and speed of the following vessels, gathered on Latro’s brief thrust modulations. It showed them increasing their lead on the following ship as they approached the halfway point to the Solaris belt. Her fingers bit into the armrest as she questioned his choices. She glanced his way and saw his head up, chin forward, and hands almost graceful in their moves in front of the holo screens. Her fingers relaxed.

Danette shared multiple belt insertion scenarios from the nav computer to Mo and Latro. Each involved thrust reversal. He continued without comment past the halfway point at full burn.

“Are you going to decelerate or let the belt rip us apart?” Mo demanded.

“We’re going in closer before we bleed velocity,” Latro said. “I have a plan.”

“I’m not ready to meet my goddess or yours,” Danette said.

The tension on the flight deck thickened. Mo watched Latro’s attention flick between screens. He cut thrust about the time Mo was ready to blow a junction gasket. She watched him ply side jets to flip Strident tail first toward the first masses in the belt. They hurtled into the asteroid belt, proximity alerts blaring, and red lights flashing. 

“Cut the noise, Cap,” Latro called. 

Mo shut off the klaxon, but the red lights continued to flash. She studied the near scans. Strident was missing larger asteroid chunks, but the shields were flaring as they repelled the small bits the scans couldn’t detect. 

“Latro, you insane…” Danette started. Latro fired a maximum short burn, and the mass in their path vaporized. “Oh,” she finished.

Mo sat with her back straight and stiff for minutes as she studied his actions. At a higher velocity than Mo ever contemplated using inside an asteroid belt, he tapped the jets, alternately scanning and igniting any solid bits in their cone of progress.

“Kinda fast for all the particulates around, Latro. Do I need to worry about some Elliptoid death wish of yours?” Mo asked.

“No, Cap. This is little stuff. This is my specialty. When I hauled Ista, they paid bonus credits for every hour I shaved. The Lunik Five run had two narrow class-two asteroid belts between Ellipto and the station. I blazed up to them, did a flip-and-burn, and smoked rock through both. It was a bonus bonanza. I can’t flame through this beast of a belt, but alternating our inertia with strategic burns, we’ll lose that ship back there before we hit the primary debris field.”

“I like it, I think—unless you’re blowing exhaust up my intakes,” Mo said.

“No Cap, those bonus credits bankrolled my jump to the HUB.”

Mo relaxed a bit with each successful maneuver. Soon, anticipating when he’d fire the jets, she shut off the blinking red lights. Latro’s maneuvers were not practiced technique or anywhere close to accepted procedure. Yet, they’d shed their follower decisively. A drop of perspiration burned her eye. She toggled the helmet fan up. The vibration and noise of the latest burn cut off. 

In the silence, Mo watched the radar screens fill with masses. Latro hit the jets, incinerated the pieces, then shut down again. Twenty minutes of on-and-off bursts and insertion bled their inertia away. They flipped head-in to face the field. In three hours, they hit big rock territory.

“It’s getting pretty thick out there,” Danette said. 

“Danette, let’s have you catch a sleep cycle,” Mo said.

Mo knew dodging mammoth hunks at a slower speed was the game to play. The center of this belt was filled with large, cratered rocks and planetoids. It was unfortunate that this sector also harbored pirates. She took an image of a passing asteroid and shared it to Latro’s screen.

“Is it just me, or does that asteroid look like a Fainwian phalopod? My nose is itching just thinking about it.” Mo’s laughter filled his helmet.

“It does. Those are so foul. I knew a Fainwian pilot; he told me they’re a delicacy on his planet.”

“Did he have olfactory function?” 

Latro laughed, “Well, let’s just say the Fainwian’s personal hygiene doesn’t stand up to Elliptoid standards.”

Mo snorted. 

“I love hearing you laugh,” he said.

After minutes of easy passage, Mo looked around the quiet flight deck and ended up considering Latro’s hands. For all his rude ways, his hands moved with grace over his three holo screens. She watched his whole body melt into the pilot seat. She’d never seen that happen. His eyes were open, and his hands were up. 

“There’s a rock out there the size of Nova Station,” he said, his voice thick and honeyed. 

Shit. Was he in the Transect? “What do you see?” she asked. 

He licked his lips. “What do you mean? I see what the ship sees.” His fingers flicked between screens, and he sighed. 

Her luck was changing. “You sound like you’re in a bordello.”

His laugh was vacant, barely there. “This is better than a bordello. It’s why we pilot, isn’t it?” He rolled his head on the rest to glance at her, his pupils blown wide. His full lips pushed forward as if for a kiss.

He was definitely in the Transect. “It is,” she said, wondering if he’d remember her lie later. She’d not only never experienced the Transect, but she’d hesitated to pilot for fear of blacking out from old memories during a launch. 

She felt Strident alter course while his eyes fixed on hers. Heat filled her chest. His lips, his eyes, and those hands, hypnotic and fluid in their command of space. Her fingers gripped the base of her console, and she tore her eyes from his. “What do you call this space?”

“The Flow. Because that’s what I’m doing.” His fingers twirled near the right screen, and she felt the ship roll. She didn’t even look at the screen to see what he was avoiding. 

Maybe one percent of pilots connected to their ships’ data feed, feeling the external array as an extension of their bodies, sensing the space outside the ship. Maybe one percent. And this guy, who thought he was better than everyone else, didn’t even know—why he was better than almost everyone else. 

His voice, low and slow, said, “What do you call it?” 

Mo took a deep breath and exhaled a silent laugh. “The Knack.” She could sleep in her cabin now, not the narrow rack at the rear of the flight deck. She could catch up on sleep because pilots who entered the Transect didn’t like to come out. If she could keep him from finding out his gift’s value, the Strident’s universe just got a whole lot bigger. 

“Mmm. The Knack,” Latro slurred. “I like that. Have you tried to feel your leg when you’re in there?”

Her anger flared hot, and she almost—but no. He felt so much beyond his body that it made sense that he thought she’d welcome a reminder of what she’d lost. All her missing leg did was drag her back to that crushing blow when she ceased to exist, and was dragged screaming, back into an altered and diminished place. But that angry reaction reminded her that she was no good to the ship, exhausted. “No. And we don’t talk about it. That’s a HUB thing,” she said, thinking fast. “Nobody talks about it. I don’t mind you talking with me, of course,” she said. “But just so you know, society out there…we don’t talk about it. Not even with other pilots.”

“Mmm. Okay.”

Mo had never met a pilot with the gift. She watched his hands move in languid gestures and felt a stirring beneath her breasts. He inserted Strident through the gauntlet of multiple turning, shifting objects, with the clever ease of water seeking the next opening. 

Mo observed that Latro had his own way of working with Strident. He coaxed and saw three steps ahead. He was like a bird of prey, seeing into the distance so that even when he pounced between two objects, she felt interest instead of dread.

Mo recalled more than one trip to the med bay after blood-stopping avoidance maneuvers and gravity-defying dives from previous pilots. She shook herself; hours of adrenaline had faded to a weary hangover. If this were a normal shipping run, she’d plan how best to conserve her pilot’s reserves. They’d snug up to some pocked behemoth and sleep.      

“Latro, want to find us a hole to hide in?”

“I’ll duck into a hidey hole when I need to.”

“I’m not comfortable leaving you up here alone.”

“I’m used to flying alone.” She thought his voice sounded sad. 

Mo stared at the back of his helmet as she paused at the hatchway, then turned and headed to her berth. Hours later, Mo woke. Her curiosity roared back like a cold sonic shower. 

Back on the flight deck, Mo strapped in during a lull in maneuvers. “Latro.”

Nothing. His hands hovered, moved, curled, and hovered again. Feeling like a voyeur, she watched him drift in the Transect for a few minutes until Danette appeared and made her way to the NAV chair.

“I see we’re still breathing. Latro there, is doing a fine job of avoiding looking at me.” She frowned.

“He doesn’t know either one of us are here right now,” Mo said.

Danette’s eyes widened. “Are you saying the Transect isn’t just a pick-up line? I’d say the Goddess is seriously messing with us.” She dropped her face into her hands and mumbled, “Why did it have to be him?”

“I know, but it’s true. I told him people don’t discuss it, so please keep this under your helmet.”

“Sure thing, Cap.” Danette blew out her lips and mouthed, “Wow.”

“Latro. Report.” Mo waited. “Latro!”

“Yes, Cap?” He looked over at her, his mouth partly open, as if he didn’t know when she’d come back on deck. 

“Danette says we’re near an area of recent pirate activity. Find us a friendly cavity to take cover. She needs time for low-energy long scans.”

Minutes elapsed until a candidate was located. Latro eased them deep into a crater. His hands hung in space in front of the center screen, a mute regret. Mo gestured him to the hatch. His slow boot steps scuffed the passageway deck as if retreating from a lost battle.

Danette scanned a sped-up history of the maneuvers executed while she slept. “I don’t care how much time he saved us with his burn-through-the-belt trick; those Valcon Sea clone rejects could get ahead of us while he sleeps and wait for us in the shipping lane.”

Mo shook her head. “Their weaponry suite is great for sneak attacks in the belt, but they can’t touch our speed in clean space. Find Peeta and help her prep for weapons fire. Including Pumba.”

Seven hours later, Latro took them out of the crater. They’d decided to burn for the belt edge and managed half an hour before sensors picked up a ship. Mo looked over and saw that Latro was once again in the Transect.

“It’s coming fast,” Danette shouted. “It’s the Valcon Sea.”

“Latro, you seeing this?” Mo yelled.

“Run or attack?” he asked in a calm voice.

“Attack. We can’t run with all this mass moving around us. And if they catch us…” Mo said.

The red proximity alert lights bathed the tense flight deck. 

“They’re approaching target range,” Danette called.

Strident counted the distance in the background. The first torpedo they fired missed. Strident called out, “Target lock,” then, “Incoming.” Their restraints bit deep at Latro’s evasive maneuvers. 

“They missed,” Danette shouted, coughing. 

Strident came around, got a target lock, launched a torpedo, and hit. Before they could cheer, Strident’s voice called, “Target lock.” The bridge fell silent, then, “Incoming.” Strident dove steeply and evaded again, but the distance between ships had shortened. The next target lock could prove fatal. 

“We’re going to pour around that big hulk to port,” Latro said.

“Are you going to use the planetoid’s mass to conceal us while we run?” Danette asked.

“No, it’ll shield us and give me a chance to get behind them if they chase,” Latro said. 

“Get prepared to hit’em with the Pumba,” Mo ordered. “Just not yet.”

“Target lock,” Strident said. “Incoming.”

“Shoot chaff, we need to get to that rock,” Latro called out.

The boom of multiple chaff launches shook the ship. The pirate’s incoming missile exploded near the ship. A groan and shudder shook them. Red lights blazed on the ship’s schematic on the main screen. Damage warnings scrolled across the top of all screens.

“Almost there,” Latro called.

The forward screen filled with a computer-generated image of porous gray rock. Maneuvering jets fired hard, yanking the crew mercilessly in their restraints. Latro brought the ship close enough to the mass to hide them from sensors. Mo saw his body relaxed in the Transect and felt a hit of fear. Could he fight in the transect?

“That was close,” Danette yelled. “If they hit us again…” 

Mo watched Latro’s fingers fly in front of his screens. He expanded the view of the pirate vessel’s path back as far as Strident could reveal and adjusted their speed and course. Mo willed Captain Wong to assume she’d run. 

“Now,” he yelled. Mo felt the orientation gyrate under full forward and side acceleration as they swept out from behind the rock.

The pirate ship hadn’t taken the bait. It hung in space, its angle canted up, ready for battle. It had gambled on the wrong part of the asteroid. Latro came out low, dodged under them, and spun Strident in a blackout-inducing churn. “Torpedoes away,” yelled Danette.

“Contact!” Mo yelled.

“Target lock,” Strident noted. The ship shuddered from an impact, and red emergency lights blinked on and off.

“Shields are down to 50%,” Danette yelled. “And we’re blind.” The screen showing the front scan array was blank. 

Mo’s screens only showed the rearview. She looked at Latro and his mostly blank sensor screens. His hands were still in motion, turning Strident. One screen displayed an image with a vector line.

“Target lock,” Strident said. “Incoming.”

“Shooting chaff,” Danette yelled. 

“Pumba, now,” Mo shouted, her head turned to Latro.

She watched his one hand spin and roll Strident, the other poised over the new weapon keys. “Firing,” he yelled. Mo felt a heat as his eyes locked on hers. The bridge bucked. A light so bright it blinded her pushed Mo to the edge of consciousness. She squeezed her fists to claw back to the now and was jerked away to a numb place of nothing. 

Chapter Six – Blind

Latro’s face shield broke, pieces pelted and punctured. The heat of fire roared at him. His eyes burned, and he cringed away from the why of their pain. He struggled with his seat restraint and managed to get it open. He slid off his chair and thumped to the deck. Gravity control wrenched him in the wrong direction; its pull heavier than one g. The ship yawed, slamming him hard into a bulkhead. Everything hurt. He heard flames. His lungs constricted from the heat. Gasping and coughing, he kicked away from the wall, turned over, and crawled in search of air.

“Mo,” he croaked. The crackling sounds of flames were the only answer. Gravity shifted in a new direction. He rolled and slid, his inner ear’s ability to tell up from down blown.  He tried to get up to his knees, his throat burning. The clack of his helmet hitting the deck woke him for a moment. 

Latro woke to the sensation of being dragged. He was face up, and a burning pain throbbed along his left arm. He tried to see, and failed. A gritty pain burned his eyes. Dizziness tugged him down. “No,” he heard himself yell while he clung to the smell of burnt wires and melted plasteel that singed his nose. 

He woke up, felt a firm band pressing his chest, forehead, knees, and ankles. Someone was pulling bits of something sharp from his face. Blood-warm liquid, like tears, bubbled on his cheek. He meant to bat the hands away, but his arms were strapped down as well. He struggled and heard himself moan. Whoever it was kept torturing him. Then, cool liquid stings came down again and again. 

“Keller?” he croaked. A small hand patted his right shoulder twice. He felt the odd sensation of zero g, which explained why he was strapped down. Smells told him this was the med bay. His left arm throbbed. 

“How are we still breathing?” he asked, then realized she couldn’t answer. 

“Wee rrrrrr sttuuuckk.” Keller slowly pushed the sounds out of her mouth.

“You can talk.”

She patted his arm twice. Magboots approached. 

“Can he fly?” Danette asked.

“Heees huuurrrt,” Keller pushed out. “I gggoooo.” Keller’s mag boot steps receded.

“Danette, are you alright?” Latro asked.

“I suppose. Scans are down, and we don’t know if Pumba killed those poxy bastards or not. So we’re alive until they fire back, board us, or we get hulled by a ’roid.” 

“What about Mo? Peeta?”

“Cap’s unconscious; she’s in the med bed next to you,” her voice was calm, “Peeta’s in engineering; we had to vent the bridge.” 

He struggled to free his arm, “Mo,” he yelled. A dizzy sensation took over and pulled him down. 

Sometime later, he woke again. “Danette? Will Mo be alright?” he called out. “Danette?” He yanked against the straps. “What about Mo?” He yelled. There was no answer.

The click of magboots approached.

“Danette!” he yelled.

“Sheee Fiiixx,” Keller said.

“I’m glad your implants are working, Keller. If I wouldn’t be consigned to eternal damnation, I’d want one or two of them right now.” As he said it, he knew it was a lie. “Why can’t I open my eyes?” He heard the whine in his voice and hated being so out of control. His eyelids had a bandage applied with pressure keeping them closed. Keller patted his shoulder but said nothing. 

The effort to open his eyes heightened the feedback of agony from various parts of his body. Was he a DEED now? He’d rather be dead than blind and not able to fly. Anyone on Ellipto would understand. 

Keller put something cool on his forehead. 

The short, metallic clicks of Danette’s magboots sounded in the corridor. Palms smacked in greeting, and Keller’s longer-gapped tread retreated. 

“Danette, what’s happening?” he asked.

“It’s not good news. The only functional things on Strident are life support and engines. Peeta’s gone EVA. Keller suggested installing portable sensors on the hull and connecting them to her implants to relay to Engineering.”

“That sounds idiotic,” Latro said.

“You do realize we’re a dead ship floating, right?”

“Sorry. But won’t that amount of input just fry her implants, rendering her a useless meat sack?”

“Keller’s risking her life, you Elliptoid piece of shit,” Danette growled.

“Uh, that’s not, I wasn’t…”

“Look, the sensors could give us a chance if Peeta can patch the damage.”

“Slight problem there,” he said, trying to match her calm. “Who flies? Will Mo, she’s got a transit pin, right?”

“Mo’s in a coma.”

“No, no.” Latro gripped the sheet in his right fist. “Can you or Peeta pilot? Can I? I mean, how bad am I?”

“Forget Peeta or me. So here’s the deal, your left arm is broken, but you could still lift it, and you’ve got a couple of burns on your face, but that’s just pain. The sticky thing is your eyes. Your right eye and your eyesight may be impacted if you try using it too soon.”

“One of my eyes works?” Latro asked. “What about the other one?”

“Keller says you need the station docs for that other one. She needs to test your right eye properly when you’re awake. She got a good pupillary reaction after you passed out last time.”

“Test it, I need to fly.”

“No can do. I do machines, not people, but I can haul you to Engineering, and we’ll find out.” Latro felt the release of pressure as the restraints loosened. “You need to put this on.” He felt a helmet press into his right hand. “I’m tethering you to me, so I can haul your pathetic ass. If we hit something, we need to protect your head.” 

“Glad you found your insult bone,” Latro wheezed.

“Yeah, one of the few functioning bits left on this ship,” Danette huffed a laugh.

Latro heard a hasp click onto his belt loop. He felt pulled forward and put his good hand in front of him. He felt nothing till he missed the hatch and smacked into the wall next to it. He grunted. 

“This is harder than I thought,” Danette said. 

“This is a terrible idea.”

“We’re about to go down the drop tube,” Danette said.

“What if the gravity kicks in?” Latro said.

“Then we’re dead.”

Latro laughed. “We aren’t already?”

“Peeta messaged me she’d kill you if you let us die, so…” Danette laughed. 

Latro pictured himself head down, plummeting to his death.

Minutes passed, “We’re at the engineering level hatch,” Danette panted. “Can you grab something and stop your inertia?”

Latro reached out and grabbed a rung of the ladder. He held tight, his momentum pulling him into it, and his weight pressed on his broken arm. He yelled and let go. 

Sometime later, he felt the helmet slowly ease off. He patted his surroundings and found himself strapped to a chair. He heard the breathing of two people. People who had to help him because he was useless and couldn’t help himself. He panted and gripped the armrests until his fingers hurt.

“Easy there Latro. Just breathe,” Danette said.

Keller patted his shoulder.

“You don’t get it. If I can’t help myself, I’m just a useless DEED.”

“Wow, feeling pretty sorry for your culty self there aren’t you. I suppose you changed your own nappies when you were a baby, too.”

Keller’s familiar fingers squeezed his shoulder and rubbed back and forth. Latro felt tears burn behind the bandage. He shook his head. “Don’t be kind,” he hissed.

“Then you can’t be strong and perfect?”

He shook his head. “Something like that.” Keller stilled her fingers, but their warmth stayed.

He reached out with his right hand and patted the console in front of him. There were little bumps that must be text for the blind. Too bad he didn’t know how to read it. 

“I have to check on Peeta; she might need a hand,” Danette said.

Keller stayed next to him, her hands resting on his shoulders. He pictured her beautiful face and the kind expression he couldn’t see. Then he thought of Mo. He wished Mo was the one resting a hand on his shoulder. Maybe if he was a DEED himself, she’d see him, and he could be with her. He sighed.

Time passed, and magnetic clicks grew louder as Peeta’s big mag boots came closer. He heard the click of tools, the sound of heavy breathing, and a couple of grunts. Keller patted his shoulder and removed the covering on his right eye. Brightness showed red against his eyelid. His breath caught in his throat.

He felt a burning sensation as he attempted to open his eye and blinked, trying to see the screen that he could feel in front of him. “I only see light, dark, and shapes.” Latro willed the screen to focus. A finger snap stopped his wandering thoughts. Latro looked in the direction of the sound. Objects on a holo-screen were more defined. But they looked like they were next to each other. 

“Keller, am I seeing through the hull sensors? Are you alright?”

She patted him.

“I need to see the depth of field. Can you use different colors and saturation to define distance and proximity? I want access to what’s beside us, too.” Keller patted him and clicked away. 

Five minutes later, Latro stared, absorbed the fuzzy input, and tentatively moved his hand in front of the center screen. It was like learning to fly a new ship. During a nightmare. Strident’s engine responded. She was as blind as he felt, but he could see for them both thanks to Keller.

He saw a massive shape moving toward them. He rolled his hand cautiously, and the press of gravity confirmed Strident’s response. He saw two more masses approaching and moved out of their path.

“Wrrrongg wayyyiii,” Keller tried.

“I’m going the wrong way?” Two pats.

“You’ll have to help me with direction.” Two pats. Then Peeta’s large, muscular hand gripped his shoulder and twisted as if he were a control stick. He rotated his hand with a hesitant motion and felt the maneuvering jets turn Strident. He paused; the screens told him how the turn continued. A few breaths later, Peeta gave a rock-back squeeze. 

“That the way?” Two pats. He cocked his hand back and up to hold their position. A wave of heat rolled through him. The effort to know what was ahead and what would happen to them if he made a mistake made him pant.

“Eeeasyyyii,” Keller said.

Keller had parsecs of sensor data roaring through her buffers; Latro flinched at the thought. He knew his worry wasn’t helping. There was nothing neat or orderly about this situation. This would never happen on Ellipto. Everything there was planned, organized, and triple-checked. This situation was so wrong and out of control that he wished he could curl up and hide. Peeta’s warm, large hand resting on his shoulder steadied him. He’d never flown blind. Then he remembered burning a path through debris in that first asteroid belt.  He heaved a sigh. Her hand squeezed his shoulder. 

“Keller, can you punch up the brightness a bit?” Two pats. He sped Strident into a welcome open chunk of space and felt the comfort of gravity press him into his seat. Moving his head, he looked at the blobs around them and planned his next evasive maneuvers. With a certainty that defied logic, he knew that a small, distant, blurry smudge was a ship. 

“Keller, can you scan if that’s metal?” He pointed to the small blob in the upper part of the screen. He heard her breathing speed up. It was crazy-making that he couldn’t see what was going on. 

“Doonn’tt knnoowww.”

He cut their forward momentum. “I don’t want to get any closer. It feels like it’s the Valcon Sea.”

Silence greeted him. “Peeta, can you program one of the missiles for that spot?”

Peeta’s mag boots retreated, heavy and slow. Keller’s hand rested, just a hint of physical contact on his shoulder. Latro made subtle maneuvers, thrusting just enough to avoid objects and keep the mass in view. Five long minutes later, he heard Peeta as she clumped toward them. A rumble and jerk from deep in the ship made Latro yell. Something bumped into the back of his head. He reached back a hand and felt a uniform. Peeta’s boots came close. He heard Keller’s boots snick up and not set down. Heavy intakes of breath and a low whine told him Peeta was in distress. His desperation to see made him bite his cheek.

“It’s Keller, isn’t it? Peeta, I’m sorry.”

The chair next to him made a little squeak, and seat restraints clicked into place. He turned his head to check the sensor views. The port sensor view was missing. The scene ahead and the object positions had changed. Strident must have recoiled from the missile launch. “Did we hit it?”

There was no answer. He saw a large object tumble toward them and gestured with care, a slow turn. Strident’s thrusters matched the pace of the object. He eased them closer, and with a final push, they caught its faint gravity.

Danette’s quick mag boot steps sounded from the passageway.

“What’s going on? What happened to Keller?” Latro asked.

“Peeta cuffed messaged me. Keller collapsed when the missile fired.”

“One of my screens went blank. I’m disoriented.”

“We might lose the rest of the sensors. Keller’s pulse is weak. She could die.” Danette’s voice hitched.

“Which way is Nova Station?” Latro’s hand reached toward the blank screen, then dropped to his lap.

Danette sniffed. A minute later, Peeta’s heavy hand came down and made a turning motion on his shoulder. He moved them out from the planetoid.

“Can you get in your flow?” Danette asked.

“It’s not like ordering a Tikka Masala from the hot cart. It just happens,” Latro shouted angrily. “Sorry. Why can’t one of you do this?”

“You’ve seen how fast some of these random masses move. They’re too unpredictable. And holo-screens require skills we don’t have in these conditions. You have to figure it out.”

Peeta’s hand squeezed his shoulder bones until he croaked.

“Fine. I’ll try.” Between worrying about Mo, being in constant pain, and having an audience, he was having a very dis-emotive reaction.

Latro pinched the view on the main screen, filled with masses, until a dot, signifying Nova Station, centered. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and reached out. He’d never analyzed the flow, afraid that if he looked too hard, it would never visit him again. One of the other Elliptoid pilots had told him about the flow and how he used it to get bonuses on belt runs. 

They’d argued about whether using the gift for credits was unclean. Pilots were already judged unclean since they carved into heaven, piercing the abode of the dead. Whether the flow was a piece of goddess-head or a demon’s wit, he’d reached for it. And found joy. A joy he’d never experienced planet-side. A joy his religion would condemn, A joy he couldn’t give up. Moving to the HUB had been the only choice for his unclean soul. 

He blew hot, moist breath onto his fingers, focused his mind, and reached out. A watery deep filled his senses. A dreamy landscape of large and small rocks spread into the distance, bouncing in different vectors like uncountable dice thrown by the Goddess, chances colliding and missing in a tapestry of fate. A warmth like an undersea vent smoked against the right side of his chest. His fingers moved in the space in front of him, avoiding it. Then he corrected back toward the direction he knew, to his core, was Nova Station. 

A shadowy creature dove toward him; he evaded it. He sensed a zigzagging school of fish pressing from above and dove. A bubbling mass, unseen with shut eyes, drifted toward him, peppering him with heat and pressure. Pushing down rising tendrils of doubt, heightened by the quick intakes of breath beside him, he drew himself farther out.  He glided into the ocean of space. Masses took on colorful shapes. Dodge, slip, turn, speed up, slow down. It was beauty, it was freedom, it was threat and retreat, it was life, it was terror, it was intoxicating. 

Time didn’t matter in the space he swam in. When pain impinged from his weary body, he dived deeper into the swirling confusion of objects. Water pressed against his lips, and he let it flow into him. He smelled a wonderful scent and dimly felt flavor and hungrily chewed and swallowed, energized. 

More masses bulked, sped by, and lumbered, colliding and creating new trajectories to avoid. An old mass, pocked and riven by collisions, wore its history in a vibrating gravity, drawing him close, thrumming its yearning to connect. He felt the danger and called out, “Hold on.” 

Danette gripped his good arm. A delicious mind touch stroked him, reached inside, and pulled a memory hungrily. It raced through him, morphing into something new. His head fell back on the headrest, and he saw the little walled yard from his childhood. Swerve. Fruit trees, chairs, and border flowers that his mother tended daily. Dive. His friend Rondo, building a chinklo blocks house. Soar. Latro knocking it down and laughing. Dodge. His mom yelling, Rondo crying. Pitch up. Rondo getting in trouble for crying. Turn. That unfair punishment and Rondo’s banishment from their home, burned his chest. Roll. Rondo rebuked, as unclean. Dive left. Latro never breaking a friend’s anything after that. Climb. Then Danette was in the walled garden. Swerve. His mother and father screamed that she was unclean and dragged her out of their gate. Dive. Dive again. Latro yelled and tried to stop them.

“Hey, hey, Latro, Latro!” It was Danette’s voice. He heard himself yelling.

“They hauled you away,” Latro wheezed. Swerve. 

“I’m right here.” She waited for a response. “Where are you?”

“Can you just talk to me while I fly? I touched something, and it touched me back. I worry I might dive into one of these things if I go any further into dreamland.”

“What do you want me to say? I could talk about what a vacuum-sucking horror you are as a HUB member, puff you up on your piloting skills, or tell you about where I’m from. 

“Tell me about your upbringing. Since I just dreamed that my parents basically wanted to kill you because of your scars.”

“Gee, can’t wait to meet them.”

Latro’s being, like smoke, radiated and spread in the space ahead and veered from indistinct shapes. His mind clung to Danette’s voice and the steadying vision of endless vistas of flat farmland. 

A harvest later, they entered clear space. Latro felt far away from Strident. An echo of the hungry gravity behind him drew his attention. The smell of orange blossoms tempted him. A tingle of fear, coupled with the sense that he was near a lost place, stilled his reach. And yet…

“Latro, Latro,” fingers snapped. A sharp sting on his cheek brought him to a place between the orange blossom haze and machines tilling on the horizon. Danette’s rising voice jerked him from outside the confines of their thin metal shell and pegged him back into his chair. “We’re out of the belt.” 

His fingers hovered. His left arm ached; he dropped it into his lap and groaned. Latro felt a hunger for the mind-touch of the ancient mass, its gravity tasting of stillness and profound knowledge. 

“Yeah,” he sucked in a deep breath, “yeah, that was different.”

“Peeta patched up the autopilot and rigged up emergency comms.” Danette’s hand grasped the fingers of his right hand and pulled them down to his lap. “She’s turning on the autopilot. We’ll be sending a low-beam message to reserve a tug at Nova Station to get us to our berth. Your shift is over.” 

“I feel insane,” Latro mumbled.

“Sanest thing you’ve said since I met you. Let’s get you some good drugs up in Med Bay.”

Chapter Seven – Next Plans

Mo woke to the smell of recycled air and tasted a medicinal tang in the back of her throat. Considering the alternative, she’d take it. She’d awakened a few times previously, but she felt more conscious this time. She found herself propped up against the headrest, supported by multiple pillows. She sat up straighter in bed. Her head felt like it was packed with insulation; it was like the time she’d stepped too close to the inertial dampening field on an out-of-compliance old mining shuttle. She’d heard the yelled warnings, but they didn’t translate. Luckily, someone pulled her to safety, and after a few hours, she was her old self again. 

She turned her head side to side and saw Latro curled in on himself, eyes covered with bandages and angry red skin with translucent gel over his cheeks. His left arm was in a sling, and like her, fluids were dripping in at his shoulder. She took a deep breath: not hurt, but not right either. She reached up and brushed the bandages covering her head from mid-forehead, around her ears, and down to the top of her neck.

“Latro?” He didn’t even move.

A med-tech bot rolled in. “You’re awake, Captain. Your cranial regen went well.”

“What happened to him?”

“Pilot Quee is currently sedated. He sustained ocular damage, which has been surgically addressed. Once his visual acuity stabilizes, we will proceed with accelerated bone regrowth for his humerus. He will be advised to file a grievance against the medical care onboard the Strident. Tests at this facility revealed his humerus bone was damaged by a secondary blow hours after the initial trauma, when he should have been sedated.”

Mo vaguely remembered Danette holding her hand and describing what happened in the final moments of the fight with the Valcon Sea and the fire that torched the flight deck. She didn’t recall any talk about Latro’s injuries. “Can you update me on the status of my crew members, Officer Krosny and Officer Keller?”

“Officer Krosny is not a patient at this facility. Our system indicates that she is located on the premises with Patient Keller. Patient Keller is in a medically induced coma due to intracranial trauma. She will be receiving a replacement implant once her swelling has subsided.”

“Oh.” Mo wanted to know more, but her body felt so heavy. And she drifted off.

#

A whispered voice hissed, “Are you awake?”

Mo opened her eyes and saw Danette lounging in the doorway, eyeing Latro’s rucked-up covers and smirking at his intermittent snores.

“Me or him?”

“You, obviously,” Danette said. She walked over to the chair by Mo’s bedside and picked up Mo’s pad. She scrolled to a message and handed the pad to her. “Did you see this?”

Mo’s mouth opened, “Our grievance status with the TCB says ‘Pending’?”

“Yeah, still the kiss of death for contractors and pilots, but a slight improvement. Especially if we still have Mr. Full of Surprises on contract.” 

Mo shrugged her shoulders.

“I mean, it is good news.” Danette smiled her crooked smile. “Sort of.” 

Mo bent her knees and grasped the railings on her bed. Danette shook her head.

“You’re still on lockdown with that head injury. Don’t worry, I’ll come back and give you the good gossip.” 

Mo listened to Danette’s footsteps receding down the hall. She looked over at Latro. Various bandages and gel packs indicated where his burns and other injuries were healing. He’d kept his part of the deal, so, other than the annoying itch from the dressing around her head, she couldn’t come up with a reason not to fix his profile.

Hours later, she felt his eyes on her and turned her head. It felt a bit heavy.

“Nice turban.” His voice was jokey, but his eyes were serious. 

 “You’re now from Vomstagan.” She pursed her lips to suppress a smile. “You’re welcome.”

“What? Why?” Latro wailed. “At least Ellipto has higher education and faultless personal hygiene.”

“With their political upheaval, no one will question why your records aren’t accessible. If you’re going to hack a profile, you need to know how to make it look plausible.”

Mo watched him abort a reach for his bandaged left eye, then pick up his pad and check his profile. “Wow, TCB took me off probation.” His right eyebrow rose, and his smile was open-mouthed, adorable. 

“I sent a commendation to TCB for your piloting skills under pressure,” Mo said.

“Thank you.” He squirmed. “You know, Danette pulled me out of that fire on the bridge, right?”

“She failed to mention that.”

“I don’t see how someone as horribly burned and disfigured as she is could ever choose to go back into fire.”

“Danette’s not a walking burn scar, Latro. She’ll always do what’s needed,” Mo said.

“There’s a planet full of Elliptoids who’d never do what she did.”

Mo looked at her pad and sighed.

“And speaking of people who deserve a commendation,” Latro continued, “I can’t believe someone blind and deaf like Keller could pull our fumes out of the blast cone like that.” Latro waved his good arm. “Who’d believe that I almost died in space and got saved by a bunch of DEEDs? Or, however I’m supposed to refer to your capable group of un-whole people.”

Mo swallowed a tart comeback. “Your crew,” she bit the words off.

“What?”

“They’re your crew, asshole.”

“That came out wrong,” he said.

“Most of what you say comes out wrong, Latro. You just don’t hear it.”

The silence stretched long enough that Mo thought he’d let her sleep before he said, “I’m amazed to be alive right now… and grateful.” His voice faltered at the end. “And you fixed my profile.” 

She heard the apology in his voice and turned over to face him. He was glued to his pad. 

He sighed. “The Strident’s toast now, right?”

“She’s in the repair dock. It’s not that bad.”

Mo stared at his updated profile to distract herself. She hadn’t just changed his planet of origin but also his picture. It showed his profile at the console, hands up, slender fingers in control, head cocked, lips parted. She’d caught it when they left Nova Station. It was a nice image. 

At a soft knock from the doorway, Mo looked up and saw Latro glance at Danette.

“Oh, blast.” His face jerked away from her scars. He took an audible breath and smiled in her general direction. The smooth right side of Danette’s face was pretty, in a high cheek boned, hunting-fox kind of way. But she generally faced her scarred side toward Latro.

“Thanks,” he said while fiddling with the white thermal blanket over his thighs.

“Not this again, will you stop thanking me already?” 

“I owe you my life,” Latro said.

“Look, Latro, space happens,” Danette started, “We all saved the contract. Thanks are irrelevant. And if you try thanking Keller or Peeta, they might re-break your arm.”

“Why did we even have to save that stupid contract, anyway. I don’t get it. There were probably ten ships on that dock that could have done it, right?”

“Oh, my Goddess,” Mo mumbled.

“Abandoning a contract leaves a permanent mark on your ship’s profile, plasma brain.” Danette shook her head. “For a one-ship outfit like us, that’s a short jump to a black hole. How do you not know this?”

“I’m transit, I don’t need to know it, right?” Latro gave an uneven shrug. “So, yay, I guess, that you’re still in business. But you saved me, Danette. If someone saves your life on Ellipto…” 

“Nobody gives a skipped orbit what they do on Ellipto. Just be glad you’re off that tight-ass, culty, perfection-worshipping planetoid.”

“It’s not a planetoid,” Latro laughed. 

Danette wandered off the way she’d come, and Latro stared after her. “She’s something else, huh?”

“Even scarred?” 

He nodded. “Maybe especially scarred. I mean, once that happens, how do you live?”

Mo debated the merits of what she was about to do for a full minute and then did it anyway. “I’ll give you a new contract. Long-term. Two years or a hundred transits, whichever comes first, with cargo percentage. I don’t care how many one-off gigs you take; they won’t buy you security. And I’m guessing — just guessing, mind you — that you’re going to piss off somebody else soon enough and end up back on probation.”  

#

Five days later, Mo nursed a drink at the Longshot. She sighed as she watched the contractor walk out the door. Their need for work didn’t include shipping tranked exotic species. Work was thin on the docks.

Her eyes widened when she saw Latro in the mirror, working his way from the entry to the seat she’d obstructed with her right leg. He reached over the seat back, placing one hand around her mid-calf prosthetic and the other around her mid-thigh. He gently picked up her leg and moved it to the dented chrome foot rail, then slid onto the stool.

“You still have hair,” Latro’s smile lit her mood. “I pictured you bald with a piece of bulkhead sticking out.” 

“I don’t recall inviting you for a drink.”

“You posted your location. I figured it was an invitation.”

“If you stopped checking your and everyone else’s profiles every five seconds, you wouldn’t make that mistake.”

He signaled the bot to bring her another drink. 

“Why are you here, plying me with liquor, anyway? I’ve already contracted you,” Mo said.

“Well, now that I’m here, you are the most proximate potential sexual partner in this dump.”

“Didn’t I tell you I don’t sleep with crew?”

He grinned, all teeth and attractiveness. “Technically, my new contract starts tomorrow. Also, I have a room.” 

Mo moved her knee to touch his. This was a bad idea in all the ways ideas could be bad. “I have an interest.” She slid off the barstool. He caught up with her at the door. “You’d better have paid for that drink you ordered.”

“Crap.” He turned and hustled back to the bar.

Mo laughed and let herself watch him go.

She followed him to a room that was above his pay grade, flattered. “Was this for me?”

“I’d hoped so.” The door hissed shut behind them, and he stared at her as the lights came up. Licked his lips. Didn’t move. 

Mo raised her eyebrows. “Are you waiting for an invitation?” 

“I told you I took the sensitivity courses. That doesn’t mean I haven’t made mistakes.”

Mo shook her head; he needed a keeper.  Mo crumpled the front of his jumpsuit in her fist and thumped him back against the wall. They were almost of a height, which meant she didn’t have to tilt her head too far up to kiss him. She liked that. Liked the clean breath and the stuttering sound he made when their mouths touched. Liked the way his hands fluttered in the air before he grabbed her at the waist and pulled her in. 

“Better,” she said. “I don’t like something, I’ll say ‘no.’ You just be your arrogant self.” 

Latro’s hands started traveling, plenty arrogant and plenty welcome. Mo pulled down on the zipper of his jumpsuit and worked the heavy fabric off his shoulders, shoving it down to his hips to reveal skin so uniform in tone that it was a surprise he hadn’t been raised in space. She put her hand against his chest to admire the contrast, her ruddy bronze against his darker brown. 

“Mmmm,” he said and humped against her hip. 

She had to laugh, if only because she’d found a way to shut him up. “You’re very pretty,” she told him. 

“Thanks. Take, uh,” he pointed, waggled his finger, “take that off.” 

She unzipped her jumpsuit and slid out of it, letting it hang around her hips to match his. “Any other orders?” She was breathless. Latro surged away from the wall. His hands were everywhere, stroking and testing, mouth sliding past her ear, and she thought, don’t get used to this. 

Her head lolled back, then she looked up to watch him help with the nakedness a little more. He pulled at the legs of her suit, tugging it over her hips and down her thighs. Underwear next–stretchy and utilitarian, white against her darker skin. 

She grabbed his hips and yanked him onto the bed, where his weight crashed onto her, then she rolled him aside and straddled him. He arched his hips up under her to push his own jumpsuit down and gazed at her with a look of desire mixed with disbelief. Charming, sexy. She wiggled and teased her jumpsuit down to mid-thigh and stopped. She watched his reaction, his eyes dilated slightly, mouth open. The pause invited him to continue. She watched as he pulled her jumpsuit to her ankles and saw the place where the socket met the stump, just below her knee. She saw his face change, saw him go soft. 

“I can’t do this,” he said. 

He pulled away from her and sat, curled in on himself, on the edge of the bed, eyes closed.  

“I’m not the one who invited me here,” Mo said, her voice hard. 

“I know. I’m sorry. It’s my fault, I know that. I just… I can’t.”

The rustle of clothes as she yanked her jumpsuit up propelled him to action, and he stood up, suit still pooled at his ankles. “Mo. I did want to. I did.”

“Clearly,” she said, “so did I.” She yanked the door open, the empty hallway the only witness to his distress, and regretted that she couldn’t slam the door because of its damn pneumatic hinges. “I won’t hold you to the contract.”

Outside his room, Mo leaned against the corridor wall and cursed Latro, Ellipto, and the HUB for letting cultish freaks like them join a universe so far from perfect. His people would have cleansed it all. Then she sucked in a breath, stood tall, and strode through the corridors of the station, away from the ship and the bright lights. 

The all-hours gym was a welcome refuge: loud music, virtual game workouts, and high-grav resistance machines. She distracted herself trying to read tattoos on the dock workers, cooks, and miners nearby. The repetitive nature of pull-ups gave her time to remember how Latro made her laugh. You don’t laugh enough, he’d said early on. Bastard. He’d tried to impress her—and had. She’d done nothing to lead him on. She knew herself; the damned Elliptoid was the one with the problem. 

Well. No. Mo was the one with the problem. She’d lost her pilot. A valuable pilot. Shit.

Two problems. She’d wanted a lover, not an hour of shore-side entertainment. 

Bastard.

Hours later, alone in the dark, she leaned against the rail in the high-grav observation deck and gazed out into space. She was tired but ready. Ready to see Strident’s final repairs finished, ready to see her crew functional again, and ready to move on to the next contract. Goddess, please, let there be a next contract. 

Her eyes followed a freighter, which made its slow progress toward the docks, as knobby and ugly as a badly conceived chinklo blocks barge, pre-fab segments welded on with the haphazard, do-it-yourself ethos of zero-g commerce.

One of its O2 tanks was holed. She flashed on the Valcon Sea and Danette’s skillful avoidance of the subject. They could still be out there, afloat in the belt, patched and desperate. Or they could be cosmic dust. Worrying about it would be about as productive as sacrificing arthropods in hopes of a safe passage through the pirate zone. She turned away from the view, ready for sleep.

A lump of something brown lay in front of their berth-security doors. It was Latro, curled up on his duffel. She wanted to kick him. She wanted to kiss him. She wanted the fool to disappear. She wanted to watch him in the transect. So, she stood there and stared at him. He sat up and stared back. Minutes ticked by. 

“Well, this was fun,” Mo said and started to walk past him. 

“Hang on! I’ve been waiting here for hours.”

“Ran out on the bill for your room? That’ll look good on your profile.” 

He smiled up at her, the most artificial effort she’d yet seen. “I paid. I just… You still need a pilot, and I still need a job.” 

Mo rolled her eyes. “You don’t need this job, Latro. And I don’t need your shit.” 

She walked on by, but he followed her and grabbed her arm to stop her. “I—what do you want me to say?”

She looked down at his arm. “How about, ‘I’m sorry I have my hand on you?’” 

He flushed and let her go. Shuffled a little. Damn him, he was handsome when he did that. “What else do you want me to say?”

“I can’t think of a thing,” Mo said. 

He looked down at his bag. The moments ticked by until, finally, he looked up and said, “I fucked up. I’m sorry. Won’t happen again, Captain.” 

She rubbed her eyes and sighed. He was the best pilot she would ever have the good fortune to find, and she could tolerate disappointment for the sake of her ship and her crew. 

“Grab your stuff and come aboard.”

End