Wanderlust

Wouldn’t you know it? I even go out different than the other jumpers. I’ve spent my life courting death in various ways, living for the thrill, the rush, the risk. I jack in, knowing it might steal my mind away, knowing March may not be able to save me this time, and I keep doing it.



Grimspace beckons; I can’t resist the call.



I don’t even want to. I don’t smoke, rarely drink, and I gave up chem years ago. This is my vice.



Even now, I’m faintly irritated that I can’t just jump, take us where I want to go. Fuck straight space travel. But it’s more than that. It’s an itch under my skin, and I can’t scratch it, no matter what I do. The longing won’t go away until the colors come roaring through me, and my mind blossoms to ten times its size. At this point, I must admit it might be killing me, albeit differently than most jumpers go out.



Question is, what am I going to do about it?



* * *



CHAPTER 13



Hell is two weeks on a ship with an infant.



If you don’t believe me, try it. By the end of week one, I’m ready to space both Koratati and her squalling bundle of pee. Dina says there’s nothing wrong with the little rotter; that’s just what babies do.



To make things easier for the new mother, we’ve instigated a rotating care schedule. This wasn’t my idea, by the way. I eventually caved to majority rule, but I did so with poor grace and a lot of mumbling.



I manage to keep my sanity on this straight haul by hiding out. There are six crew rooms. March and I snag the largest one, probably intended for the captain. Surge and Kora share another, while Dina, Jael, and Vel each claim their own. The galley’s on the other side of the ship. That leaves one room vacant, just before the maintenance closet with the hatch leading down to the holds.



I fill this space with spare chairs from storage and other odds and ends to make it more of a sitting room. The bunk can recess completely into the wall, making my job easier. Mostly I’m waiting to hear from Doc, but the satellites are old and tetchy out here. I’ll be lucky to get anything before we make Emry Station.



I tend to hunker down in there when the kid is crying because there’s more metal between us. Sometimes it helps, but you’d be surprised how that racket carries. When all the doors stand open, it’s an acoustic nightmare.



Sometimes my esteemed crewmates join me, like I need company. I’m quite occupied with feeling sorry for myself, thanks. I had a great-aunt whose main hobby included reading about strange diseases and then trying to match her symptoms to whatever exotic ailment took her fancy. Based on my depressive behavior this week, I suspect I may have more in common with my great-aunt Tallia than I would’ve previously guessed.



Today Jael joins me. He’s just come in and doesn’t seem inclined to let me brood. With a faint sigh, I put 245 aside. People never understand why I talk to my PA, an ongoing experiment of sorts. Her AI chip seems incredibly sophisticated, and the more we interact, the more she learns, adapting her communication style to mirror my own. This fascinates me.



“Are you busy?” Without an audience, he sheds most of his bravado, and in an oddly tentative movement, he occupies a chair opposite where I sit.



“I guess not. What’s up?”



“People always treat me different,” he says. “After they find out. You haven’t. So I’m wondering why.”



I figure he’s talking about his origins in the Ideal Genome Project. “This is pretty basic, but . . . it’s because I don’t care.”



The Corp implemented the program shortly before I was born. They offered designer babies for a premium price, and a few wealthy families took advantage of it. They used the profit margin to fund a side research project, seeking to perfect the human condition. Forget antiaging treatments; they wanted to develop bodies that don’t age, don’t suffer from illness, and require reduced amounts of rest.



Few of their Bred experiments survived to adulthood, and the Corp officially shut the program down after religious outcry that outweighed any theoretical value. Who can say what went on behind closed doors? Or what became of lab babies like the one sitting across from me? He’s the first I’ve ever met.



Jael looks puzzled. “You don’t care as in . . . you’re disinterested? Or you don’t care as in . . . it doesn’t matter to you?”



“Both?” Yeah, it’s definitely both.



Why does that intrigue him? He sits forward in his chair, hands clasped across his knees. “I don’t get you.”



Great. He’s interested because I’m not? Men.



“You don’t have to get me. In fact I’d rather you didn’t since you’re disembarking next week, and I’ll never see your face again.”



“Nope.” He shakes his head. “I already spoke to March, and he said I can stay. You don’t have a gunner, and I know this ship’s weapons better than anyone else.”



Now why didn’t March tell me that?



“What do you think will happen on Emry?” I steer the conversation away from personal topics. At this point I’m not interested in playing mother confessor, nor in soothing the scrapes on his soul. Plus I think it’s possible we may need weapons to cow the fools playing at resistance out here.



As long as nobody questions it, they can call themselves autonomous. And the Conglomerate is notorious for taking forever to determine a course of action. I’m amazed we got clearance to head for Ithiss-Tor so fast; we probably have Tarn to thank for that.



Jael gives the question due consideration. “Hard to say. Best to play it by ear once we get on station and see how they’re running things. I don’t think they’ve officially declared that they won’t honor a ship’s request for aid as yet. They’re waiting to hear from the Conglomerate.”



“It’ll get messy,” I predict. “The Conglomerate will say, ‘Fine, if you’re autonomous, you’re also self-supporting, so you can pay for your own supplies, pay for station repairs on your own,’ and so on.”



“I wonder if they’ve thought of that.”



I shrug. “Probably not. They’re Corp wage slaves. This is the first burst of independent thought they’ve enjoyed in a while. One can’t blame them for being rusty. But if that threat doesn’t work, then Tarn might send armed enforcers to clean the place out.”



“The Corp would’ve just blown the place up and built a new one,” he says.



“Like they did DuPont Station?”



“I heard about that. They were looking for you, weren’t they?”



“Yeah. Big scary terrorist, that’s me.”



He snorts. “You don’t look so tough.”



Well, he’s right. At the moment I feel like the baby could snap me like a twig. It’s not a good idea to reveal your weaknesses, however.



“Appearances can be deceiving.”



The man flinches like I hit a raw nerve. “I know that’s right.”



“Aw, don’t tell me people think you’re pretty but dumb. That must really sting.” This conversation is finally getting interesting. “Do they suggest you should be in vids or wearing clothes professionally?”



“Bitch.”



Dina sweeps into the room in time to hear the invective. “Making new friends, are you, Jax?”



I flash her a grin. “You know, with a winning personality like I’ve got—”



“We’ll have ten different factions trying to kill us again within a week or two,” she interjects.



“Ten? That seems a little on the high side, even for me.”



“I figure we’ve already got the Syndicate. The Ithtorians, who don’t really want to receive us in the first place and so aren’t going to be happy with this delay. The folks on Lachion are going to be wondering where we are, too . . . so that’s three already.”



“You think Keri would hunt me down? I thought she kinda liked me by the time we left last time.”



“No, she enjoyed beating the shit out of you.”



Wearing an expression of tentative amusement, Jael listens to us banter. It seems like he wants to join in but isn’t quite sure whether he’s allowed. I don’t tell him that picking on me is practically an official pastime around here.



But she’s brought me a mug of hot choclaste. My brow arches even as I accept the offering. I can’t help peering into the cup with suspicion.



“Did you pee in it?”



“Of course not.” Dina waits until I’ve taken a sip before adding, “The baby did.”



I manage not to give her the satisfaction of spluttering. “Mmm. I thought it had a special something.”



“You’re nasty, you know that?” She shakes her head.



“Did March send you?” The question comes out loaded.



When her gaze meets mine, I see that she’s figured it out. I thought staying out of sight would be enough until I figured this thing out. Shit. I don’t think I’ll be able to handle it if Dina starts being nice to me. Treats me like an invalid.



“What did I miss?” Jael glances between us, sensing subtext. He really is smarter than he looks. That just might keep him alive with this crew.



“Nothing,” I answer before Dina can. “Okay, you did me a favor. Now what do you want in return?”



She pins on a smile that troubles me. Mary curse it, she’s worried about me. “It’s your turn to watch the brat.”



“Oh, it most certainly is not. I just—” I trail off because it’s been days. I hoped if I stayed out of sight, people would forget.



This “team” child-care thing sucks. I’ve never been near an infant so young before. The kids I cared for on Gehenna were all toddling, at least, which gets you a whole different set of problems.



I down the choclaste in one gulp. “Fine. But any longer than two hours, and I’m not responsible for what may happen. Wars have been started over less.”



“Don’t worry, it’s Jael’s turn after yours. I’m sure he won’t forget.”



“As if I’d let him,” I mutter, heading for the door.



* * *



CHAPTER 14



“Bernard’s Luck to Emry Station. Requesting permission to dock.” March has been sending that same message on a timed loop ever since our sensors first picked up the station.



So far no response—and that worries me. Comm silence seldom results from a beneficial cause. Things may be worse than we’ve been led to suppose. Emry Station never qualified as a hub of activity, and no telling what’s going on there now. The last we heard, it was full of Farwan loyalists, but a lot can change in a few weeks.



The whole universe has changed, after all.



“What do you think?”



“We have to stop, no matter what. We can’t go on as we are.”



I certainly agree with that. This crappy little cutter doesn’t have the storage for long hauls. We need to fuel up, refill our water tanks, and get some more supplies on board: nutri-paste at the very least. Mary only knows who’s going to pay for it. The one good thing about the Corp, I never had to worry about that.