“I need to send a communication.” I hope Goff will know how to do that.
“I work with the engine.” It’s his answer to nearly every question I’ve asked.
“You must know how the comms work,” I press.
“I work—”
“With the engine. I know.” With hands on my head, I pace back and forth on the bridge of the ship—if you can call it that. It’s basically one chair covered in cheap, ripped biweave stationed in front of a large bank of computers. The number of loose wires worries me.
I sent Eben off to find us something to eat, so it’s just me and the e-cuffed Goff, but he seems compliant. He interfaces to work with the computer—
“Computer?” I hazard.
<<PLEASE STATE YOUR REQUEST>>
I hold my breath. Could it be this simple?
“Open a communication channel with the Phenyx. Uh, Captain,” I bite my lip. What is his full name? “Captain Hike.” I grimace, but here’s hoping that’s enough.
<<PROCESSING REQUEST>>
My foot taps on the grungy floor. Is it possible Renner wasn’t shot and somehow found a way to stop the Phenyx’s destruction? I’ve almost convinced myself he’s too smart to die, but is it wishful thinking?
I feel exhaustion seep into my limbs. I’ve been running on what strength I’d gained from the rest period we had while on the Phenyx, but that seems like a long time ago.
<<LIVE COMMUNICATION REQUEST DENIED. TRANSMISSION HUB DAMAGED. WOULD YOU LIKE TO SEND A DIGITAL REQUEST?>>
I frown. Of course this ship would be a piece of space junk and unable to send live transmissions. But does the digital option mean there’s a Phenyx to communicate with?
“Yes.”
<<PLEASE DICTATE REQUEST>>
“Direct to: Captain Hike.” I bite my lip. What do I say? Is Renner alive? That seems too obvious. And then another thought strikes me. What if Hike was part of this whole thing? Did he sell us out to Brownus?
This ship will have an unknown communication code. It’s possible Hike won’t even see the message, but if he does, and if Renner is still alive—stars above, he’d better be—then he needs to know it’s me.
“Change request. Direct to: Rex Lars.” That will be his name on the manifest. “If this reaches you, meet me on—”
I look at the map, frantically searching for a location. We’re not far from Bolarius. I know nothing of the Outlier Rim aside from the stories I’ve heard, but I know enough to want to leave as soon as possible. We’ll fit in seeing as this ship is an ORim ship, but not for long. Whoever Pav was going to meet will come looking for us.
“Bolarius at—”
I tap a few places on the screen and bring up the Bolarius spaceport. It seems to be a hub of activity, more so than whatever is on the surface. It should be easy enough to disguise ourselves and meet.
“The Galactic Cafe on the spaceport in two standard days. Signed, SS.”
I keep it cryptic knowing he’ll know SS is for Soaring Starress. It feels like a hasty—possibly terrible—plan, but it’s the best I’ve got.
“Send.”
<<MESSAGE TRANSMITTED DIGITALLY>>
Now on to the next stage. I’m about to attempt a verbal command when Eben comes back with two ration packs. They’re going to taste like trash, but it’s calories, and we need them.
“It’s all they have, but there are a lot of them.” She shrugs and pops hers open.
We won’t starve. That’s good news.
“What are we going to do?” She leans against the only wall sans wires.
“We’re going to Bolarius. I have to see if my husband is alive.”
She nods in understanding.
“Is there somewhere you can go?”
Eben looks out the sio-glass encasing the cockpit. It’s dinged as if it’s been through an asteroid field—which it probably has—and all we can see are stars, but that seems to be all she needs.
“I’ll figure something out. I always do.”
There’s more to this girl, and I want to know what that is, but first we have to make sure we can actually get to the location I told Renner.
“I’m going to tell the computer where we want to go. I’m hoping it can activate the nav-bot.” I indicate the bot bolted to the floor like an unruly piece of furniture. Nav-bots aren’t made with movement in mind, but even I can tell they did a ragtag job with this one.
“Computer, direct nav-bot to take us to Bolarius Spaceport. Max speed.”
“Uh.” Goff shifts. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”
“What?”
“Max speed is reserved for special occasions only.” His voice sounds almost robotic. He’s reciting. “The engines are running at 48.6% capacity and will last approximately 30 hours at max speed, leaving you only thrust power after that.”
“What speed would you recommend for us to get to the spaceport I mentioned in two days?”
His head tilts to the side as if he’s processing—which, I realize, he is—and then he comes back to life with his suggestion. It sounds slow to me, but who am I to argue with the guy who keeps the ship running?
“All right.”
Eben and I share a look, but I direct the computer with the new inputs.
“Good.” Goff smiles his goofy grin, and the ship makes a clunking sound that I assume is the engine engaging. It doesn’t sound promising.
“Are you required in the engine bay for the ship to run?” I’m worried that by keeping Goff here, I might be opening us up to more engine troubles. But can we trust him?
“Not required, but it is advised.”
“All right. I’ll release you from the e-cuffs, but I need to know your directive.”
“I work with the engine.”
Doesn’t that sound familiar?
“Who can give you orders?” It’s a trick question, but I want to see how he answers.
“I’m governed by the captain of this ship.”
Hmm. I wonder if there’s a gray area. “Who is now the captain of the ship?”
His head tilts to the side again and then brightens. “You.”
That’ll do it. “Okay.” I remove the e-cuffs. “Please return to your duty station. Keep the engine running as efficiently as possible until we reach Bolarius.”
“Yes, captain.” He offers a smile and then lumbers away.
“That was…strange.” Eben’s been quiet through this whole process, but I get the sense she’s an observer.
“You have to work the loopholes.”
It makes me think of my mother. She said something similar to me so long ago I barely remember it. But her intention was clear—as someone in a political spotlight, you must say what you need to in order to gain the desired outcome.
I never liked that. I would much rather tell the truth, but I see her point now. There will be times where a lie of omission is preferable.
“Shall we have a meal?” I hold up the rations. “It looks like we’ve got forty-eight hours to kill.”
She nods and plops down on the floor, digging into her ration pack.
I marvel at what we’ve accomplished in such a short time. I want to gloat to Renner, show him that, while I’m not military, I can hold my own.
Even the fleeting thought of him makes my insides hurt. I need to know he’s alive.
The thoughts I’ve kept at bay resurface. What if Brownus’s plan worked? What if Renner is gone?
The thought of his death brings my feelings into sharp relief. I know they’re against my future duty, but I can’t help wondering if the risk of loving someone and losing them is still better than never admitting those feelings.
I’m afraid of the type of person it makes me—caring for Renner when I know there’s an end date in sight—but now I’m more afraid of him never knowing my true feelings.
A pang of regret stabs me, and the greasy, calorie-dense ration meal churns in my stomach.
<<INCOMING MESSAGE FOR SS>>
I jump, not expecting the computer’s loud announcement. My heart thuds to action, the adrenaline making my hands shake, and I fumble the ration pack. Could it be…
“Computer, display message.”
The screen in front of me lights up:
It’s a small thing, his mention of muffins, but it’s all I need to know that Renner is alive. The chance I hoped for isn’t out of reach. And that is everything.