The Razor's Edge

Geral translated this time, from the start, his voice sounding odd in his own ears, which meant Binwa’d just turned the recorders on and his mic was live.

“Attention Internal Control. Squad Forty Security Update. Seal Three is tight. No hostiles. No anomalies.”

“Squad Forty, we confirm your voice match, we confirm your location, we confirm no hostiles, we confirm Seal Three is secure, we confirm there are no service reminder notes. Please move to next station. Veed feed as time permits.”

He hadn’t found any hostiles so far. Hostiles in his early training had always meant Yxtrang invaders, but that was a scare tactic to help kids keep serious. His whole life, born and bred here, he’d never heard of an actual Yxtrang station invasion. So far as he’d ever seen, a hostie was a Security full-timer slurping toot or half asleep over a streaming ’venture veed.

These days the threat was supposed to be Revolutionists, a secret group trying to change the way things on Spadoni station worked and who was in charge. He’d never met any of them outright, though some of the tougher hanger-abouts might could be. They’d complain that things needed changing—that it used to be you was free to work at what you wanted or what you could, but now they were being sent to the cheese planets on contract, want to or no! Somehow it was Admin doing things wrong, or the Seniors who needed replacing to make things right.

The Revolutionist talk had gained a lot of energy in the last quarter, what with Odd Things happening Out There. Out There being other sectors, sectors they were hearing more and more about because the dust was thinning so rapidly. Outside hadn’t been important growing up, except that it made the Seventeen Worlds allies because of the Envidaria.

He’d read the Envidaria a bunch of times, and you could say he believed in it. To stop one world being the top spot like Liad tried to do, the Envidaria’d kept the sides even … and that meant worlds shouldn’t own all the ships, all the stations, all the commerce. Spadoni was ’sposed to be independent, her people free to work at what they could, while the trade org belonged to the planet system and most of the ships came from Outside. The Envidaria was supposed to make that work.

He’d also read a bunch of the couldies about Envidaria, the idea. They were made-up things like The Secret of Lord Jethri, The Clouds of Spite, and yes, even a buncha the mances like Three on A Ship and The Master Firegemster. It was kind of funny seeing the images of Jethri on this very same station back when it was fresh-built, and knowing he, Geral, carried part of that name, and that he really did, if you squinted, look like Jethri. Stars in his blood, courtesy of his multi-great-grandma’s bunking with the man with the plan.

* * *

Geral lingered in Corridor Nine, feeling a little homesick.

He’d brought Luchee to the 9-9 storeroom for a kiss and some touches back when he was just Deck Plus, and even showed her Vent 77, the inactive space that was technically just a Three Seal since it had been a part of the temporary build-in docks meant for short term storage. Him and Luchee’d been of an age, and ’bout as poor, both born to mothers on station base pay. The mothers lived cubbywall to cubbywall, shared corridor frontspace, and on slowdown weeks they sat out front with everyone else, passing sips while the kids hunted stuff to turn in for credits at the recycle, being too young to trade blood for points. Once he’d been born and was proof her line was clean, that was the start, and after he hit puberty they knew he didn’t break his bones just by standing, or bleed forever, nor any of the other problems that had come along to stationers in the rough times a couple hundred Standards goneby.

Him and Luchee, they’d got in a fight once, a fierce thing where they wasted some of that precious blood arguing about if it was good to trade blood in.

“Points are good and you know it. Have to save a little extra,” he’d told her.

She’d squinched her face up, looked those gray eyes straight at him. “You do it more than once and it’ll go on your records. And then you’ll get stuck, just like your ma. She can’t go higher, ’cause Admin keeps her like she’s a crop down in ’ponics!

“I see my own ma just waiting for the points to rack up and I’m not gonna live like that and neither should you.

“I could just shake you sometimes for not paying attention!”

Well, she did shake him, and he shook her back, and somehow they hit a gravity well frustrated with each other. And there was the blood, and needing to clean it up before someone called a safety on them for creating a hazmat situation.

In the end they’d patched it up and kept hanging together. They promised each other they’d keep their blood and use all that extra energy to study. They even did some joint Informatics until their skills didn’t match any more. Luchee was good with maths, and she’d been set to student status, ’cept all the classes were always full of the C and B deck folks and no room for her, no matter how high her test scores were.

Him, the one Luchee was always getting out of scrapes—he’d been free to study how he wanted—station stuff, and the Envidaria—always interested as much in how the station worked as in how far he could go updecks in life. So, turned out, he could make a living doing what he wanted, and she couldn’t even go to school, nor get anything better than hour-work.

Luchee and him had thrilled a couple times in the vent space in Corridor Nine but he gave it up after he’d stopped by to find her there not very dressed and with an older guy from up Admin Deck just as sweaty and calling her name like he was hurting, which still made him twitch to think about even if it was a few years back.

She might have warned him, anyhow … but she hadn’t, and they’d got all disconnected over it, with her saying things was too complicated for her to talk about with him anymore, and levels he had no business to know—him being in the Service Squad and his ma still transfusing.

She wouldn’t know him, then, and he got busy with his doin’s, so he forgot to miss her, ’til he heard she’d connected with a visiting spacer, and gone off as side-crew with no notice to no one. He figured that was luck for her and he did miss her, though by then he had a crew-grade sleep-unit, and didn’t need the cubby, anyway.

“Squad Forty, this is Green Office.” Binwa’s voice in his ear jerked him out from remembering. “We have inbound ships and I have to check-mark all the security stations. No one’s covering the armory. I have keyed your unit in; I need you to go there and sit at the boards, it’s supposed to be occupied when ships approach.”

“Green Office, Squad Forty is just one of me, and that’s supposed to be a three-crew location, according to training. I …”

“This is also a three-crew location and there’s one of me, Squad Forty. We are in security lockdown mode because of that meeting. Go, lock yourself in, report. The hatch is set to your ID.”

“I’m on my way. Does route matter?”

“Squad Forty… call it a hurry, and I don’t care how you get there long’s you do it quick.”

“Confirmed, this is a hurry and I’m on free route. Going.”

* * *

The armory had opened to him, as Binwa’d told him it would. Geral rushed into the control area and was in front of the screen, helmet and gloves off, still sweating—and only part of that from the path he’d followed. He looked at the controls, familiar only from sim, and worried, thought of Luchee getting stuff right off and figured he could remember what he had to here.

He was trying to get his balance back on account of the tween-deck utility shafts he’d run as fast as he could. The places where you could be caught in gravity errors where you got pulled in two or three directions from overlapping grav fields or where weak fields might let you dive down a metal tunnel for meters on end.

“Squad Forty! Check that hatch!”

Geral twisted his head.

“Closed.” It had made a muffled thrum when he’d pushed it across hard.

“Not showing good here!”

He rose carefully, left leg and knee a trifle sore from a missed gravity slip. It hadn’t been there last time he was through … but that happened these days as the fabric of the station strained against its age. It should have been refitted before he was born, but there’d been the Troubles, after all.

He twisted the handle and slid the hatch open an arm’s length. He hadn’t tested the pressure gauges and now his helmet sat at the second seat, with all his readouts…

He pulled, sullenly, and yelled across the room as it slammed …

“Now?” He forgot his formal again, but then so did Binwa, who was sounding strained.

“Not sealed!”

Geral pulled his weight against the handle, yanked it open, staring into the hatch mechanicals.

“Mud and wind twists!”

There were four pressure latches meant to grab and seat when the handle was rotated. One close to his hip level was fine and bright, and the one just above chest height was, too. The top and bottom latches though, looked like they had something in the way of that final click-seal, something printed in a very thin flex-sheet that fell into place after the hatch was cycled once.

“What was that, Squad Forty?” Now Binwa sounded really worried.

Fingers quick on the sharp metal hatch edge, Geral pulled hard, and out came the bottom strip, unfolding to near half his arm length. He stared, shoved it into a storage pocket on the duty-suit, reached to pull the other while ….

“Problem spot, hold comm,” he managed, and emphasizing that helped him pull the tattered top strip down to shove it, too, into his pocket.

“Jonimo!” He slammed the hatch hard, and this time the click sounded like a solid thunk, alright, and …

“Jonimo?” came the worried voice and then: “That’s got it!”

He sat heavily at the console, pulling a frayed yellow strip from his suit.

“Is that code, Squad Forty?”

Geral gasped a short laugh, wiping sweat from his forehead.

“Kind of is, Binwa. Haven’t you ever done a suit-walk? Jonimo is what you say when you jump off the station, to tell your squad you’re free in space.”

“Never been off-station. Never been on a ship, either,” Binwa admitted.

“Anyhow, looks like the hatch was blocked from tight seal. I mean on purpose—I’ve sent you veed of it!”

“Yes. I should have expected this. This is part of it all, I’m afraid.”

“Part of what?”

“Things happening. Comm channels I can’t get to, and ships incoming but no one’s talking to me. There’s a Conference going on and I can’t get feed on that, either. Security’s tampered with, locking me out! I don’t think they trust me, Geral, I see what they’re up to!”

He sat; the board demanded ID.

“Binwa, you have to approve my biometrics, it says.”

“Yes. They left me alone here and now I invoked Catastrophe Ops. I’ll confirm you as Security, Acting Squad Leader. I got the key. Heck, I’ll just make you Shift Security Leader. Sensors on!”

Geral paused, the sound of Catastrophe Ops bouncing around his thoughts, making him a little worried.

“I’m looking into the camera, straight-face, and got my left hand on the pad.”

“I see this, Squad. Takes a moment—give me your full ID, number, and names.”

He did the numbers and letters first, then said “Geral Jethri Quai-Hwang.”

“Moment, Squad.”

The screens lit up, followed by a shockingly loud click as something mechanical thunked in the walls near the hatch.

“You are live, Security Leader. Right now, there’s you and me, and then there’s the rest of the station. You’re Security Lead. You can do almost anything. Wait, I need to take care of something. It may be a few minutes.”

Probably has to go pee, Geral figured, he’s like that when he’s nervous.

Geral was used to waiting, but not to having this much information in front of him, open to him, with the time going from one minute to many.

But yes, he did see, there on one screen all the pressure points on the station, on a zoomable map-grid, and there, on another, the status of the doors, the pressure variations, water and fluid flow, the gravity variations. Also, all the reports, everyone’s shift status, security stations, medical alerts, a blinking yellow triangle showing a guard status—

Two names he knew quite well, under guard in the hospital, on pregnancy watch. Tifney and Pettipi! Both of them? Both of the twins under guard? Both due multi-births?

He rolled the idea around in his head, remembering how they’d corraled him on First Orbit’s Eve, the pair full of energy and inviting him to a quiet shindig, offering up a touch of vya and, after the vya, a long night on a bed full of them and them alone. The following shift-month they’d collected him individually a time or two—and then the Admin shifts changed and his moved to match Famy Binwa’s. He’d wondered what happened.

The blood. They’d wanted his blood, that was what. And when they’d tested pregnant …

There was dread in his gut and he couldn’t quite swallow it away.

* * *

Binwa didn’t tell him what took a few minutes, but Geral knew it was far longer than that. He’d drilled down, peeking into private records, including the two women in hospital expecting multiple births. He found his own record, eventually, full of notations like “loner, no strong friendships, tractable if left to his own pursuits,” but the cross-references to Senior Resource and Admin Alert made him worried, and the multiple notes over time—Transfuse only to Seniors and Blood Resource—worried him more.

Other areas didn’t open to him—but yes, the Seniors had their own shifts and apparently they’d added his mother to their number, for her records were all behind a security wall he couldn’t breach.

He’d closed that file, tried to understand the rest of the boards in front of him, including the 3D station situation board.

“I am back,” Binwa said, sounding winded. “What do you see?”

“Three ships,” Geral said once he figured out what he was looking at. “Three ships closing this says.”

There was a curse then, and an ugly sound, like muffled warning horns over and over, and then distant shivers in the fabric of the station. Inside the armory, panels flashed, lights dimmed, the status board showed blue blocks on the station map—every pressure door and hatch was sealed or sealing. The words GENERAL SECURITY LOCKDOWN were prominent.

Under that status a series of images flashed onto the screens, security cameras showing rotating views of corridors. The red lights showed—

“Where’s Security? If this is a general lockdown, where’s the rest of Security?” Geral tried the corridor cameras, finding nothing. The meeting rooms, though, were crowded.

“Never mind them, Geral, you’re Security, because I can depend on you, and they’re conspirators. All of them. The rest are … offline. They’ll have to back down, now.”

“Who?”

“There’s a revolt, Geral. The Seniors are trying to sell the station to the cheesers and that’s not in the Crew Compact. The station and all of us, they want to trade us so they can live forever. You and me and … the Seniors are locked in a room, and Admin, too. They were having their meeting, so I had to act. The Seniors made me do it! I’ve put out a call-in for the rest of the Service Squad to take over Security, but you’re the only one’s come to me, Geral. My mother’s on their side, she says the Envidaria is over, done. Who believes that?”

Geral thought about it. There hadn’t been an end date on the Envidaria, the arrangement. It was how they’d lived for hundreds of Standards. It was what made Jethri and Arin so important, and helped guide millions of lives …

“Control, Green Office. I mean—I don’t think the Envidaria is over, Binwa. I don’t! What should I do, then?”

“There’s a loyalty oath on the screen, Geral. Accept it. Then we’ll open the armory weapons bay, so you can repel boarders.”

* * *

Geral was, according to Famy, fully second in command now. The Seniors, the Security Squad, everyone had to listen to Binwa until this got fixed. Binwa had a copy of The Crew Compact open and was reading it out across the channels to them. Geral could hear him in the background, droning on, then emphasizing random words.

Geral’d left the anteroom, secured it so it would only open to him or on order from Binwa. He’d rushed to the inner armory and now, in the weapons bay, he was bathed in brightness.

The full-suits were there. All of them were there, including three brand-news that had Full test Green labels everywhere—new and never worn.

He hurried, stripped to basics, grabbed up one with a green tag showing shoulder and hip to toe ratios that ought to do, and squiggled his way in, knowing that the wrong that was happening was really wrong—all the suits here ought already to be on someone, all of them ought to be in position, all of them. Comes to worst, might be someone expecting this suit might come through the seal any minute—

But they weren’t roused, were they? All the external packs were on the wall, weren’t they, and all the guns?

Seemed strange that they wouldn’t have grabbed the guns for a revolt. Seemed strange they could have grabbed the Bloodlines—that would be Ma, among others!—without bothering other services. But the alert was out and they weren’t here, the regular crew, nor his.

“Squad Forty,” he said to the mic even before his gloves clicked on seal, “this is Lead on Squad Forty, back-up not suited yet,” he said, knowing that someone in Control ought to have a veed feed and see him standing alone and know what he meant. If someone was back-up to Squad Forty they were going to have to show soon, else …

“Squad Forty, confirmed. Watching for you to get under pressure. Pack M and L are assigned yours. If crew shows with my code, make them double up on extras.”

But there wasn’t anybody else. It would be him and Binwa, wouldn’t it? Pack M was the full mobility unit with projectiles as well as lasers. It was a leader’s unit—had some range on the jets, had some firepower he’d never tried, but supposed to be automatic. The suit should fit itself in when he got there, and the unit ought to heed him …

“Sealed,” he said when he was, again seeing the squad room that ought to have sixteen people, empty but for him. The heads-up display came live, bringing almost too much information: local internal and external pressure and atmospheres, state of the connections and network, ammunition count, loitering time, battery state, and … empty slots where Squad Leader ought to have a squad.

“Control? Squad Forty prepped for EVA, grabbing packs.”

Not much more to be said, with no one talking back and no one yet coming to be his backup.

He slapped the plate and walked through, lights coming up as he did. Earnestly wishing there was motion behind him, knowing there wasn’t, he only quarter-turned to the plate on this side, where the pre-packs waited, patient as death, for their missions.

That slap was bordering wistful; the angled sliver of view showed the stark white of the two closest suits, hanging empty, before the scissors of the closing door left him even more alone.

“Two seals, Control. Mounting up.”

“You are authorized to open to vacuum and deploy. You are authorized to use force; your weapons are live.”

There were two hatches, one with pack rails and one without, and the packs sat there waiting. The hatch could take five at a time if need be—

Geral backed into Pack M, reaching overhead to pull himself up onto that slight saddle, his elbows and forearms resting on the U of the equipment, his legs on the stirrups. Quick motions clicked the umbilical on each side into the power systems and into the pack’s extended environmental units.

“Pack M systems attached to Leader,” a quiet voice told him. “Accept, please.”

He did that, and Pack M let him know that Pack L was attaching to hard points, which he felt, and he took a deep breath. Now the view was augmented even further and all those points there on the left side were weapons far more powerful than a pistol. He shuddered with knowing he’d not armed things yet, and knowing he had too much power, anyway, for someone whose leading had mostly been to a spot at the bar and then open a door for bed and a roll, if he was lucky.

“Geral, we need you to occupy Bay Four. The other docks are under control from here, so they’re secure … and I got Traffic’s radio feeds locked up tight so they can’t be involved—but if that ship gets to the dock, I can’t stop them here—none of the other service units are responding. Security has gone over, they’re on strike, too. They’re all Revolutionists and we got to stop them. Hold Bay Four!”

“Confirm, Control. Hold Bay Four.”

* * *

He barely noticed space, space being what there was mostly except for the reality of the station and the need to be at a hard-to-reach location. His suit was quiet around him, but he heard his own breathing, kept reminding himself to follow the color-coded dots, to follow the easy-to-read blinking lights … but no, he shouldn’t!

Resisting the urge to talk to himself about it, he said, “Control, you might want to turn off traffic control lighting. I can see where I’m going without.”

“Will do. Might need to go silent so they can’t monitor… I’m releasing all suit control to you, Geral. You’re autonomous now.”

Many of the flashing lights went away. The numbers on the side of the station’s hull didn’t, but the details of a docking collar would be harder to see with the station rotating into darkness, especially if there was someone between you and getting close enough to use ship lights to illuminate it.

Guidance. He could use some guidance here …

“Control?”

Silence.

Out there, suddenly, there was blackness as the local star was eclipsed, and then again, the light making him a shadow.

They’d never warned him about this kind of stuff, that he’d be a sharp spot on the hull, that resisting invasion gave the advantage to the people out there who wanted to take…

“Test, circuit open. Spadoni, please reply. Please initiate routine docking. … There’s my echoes, Spadoni, you can hear me.

“Spadoni, we are coming to dock. Please turn guidance on. This is Carrassens AnnaV on a scheduled shipment. I am Pilot In Charge Luchinda Eerik of the—”

Luchinda? His Luchee? It sounded just like her, it did, even across the years and, yeah, she was quick and sharp. A pilot? But there was trouble now …

Also, Control was on silence and had locked down Traffic’s radio.

“This is Squad Forty. There’s been riots and Revolutionists. We can’t let you dock until there’s an all-clear ordered. We may use any means to hold this docking bay. We have been authorized to use force, if required.”

“If you fire on my ship I will return fire, Squad Forty.”

“I know you will, Luchee,” he said, “Just like you busted my nose, thank you.”

A pause, not caused by the slow crawl of radio waves. He used it to maneuver his unit to one of the hard points. The dull red triangle glowed in outline on the left and he speared the arms-length metal pipe protecting the cabling into it, feeling the snap as it tightened, followed by inserting the cable into the blue circle on the right with a similar mechanical snap. Pack M and Pack L oriented themselves as the hardpoint locked; he was essentially an external gun turret now.

He should have heard confirmation from Control on that, but inside the suit everything matched up. Autonomous.

Through his faceplate he could see another eclipsed star, and then augments hit and he had targeting information on a ship coming nearly straight at him. The bad news was that they must have him now, as well, know that he was not speaking from a station defense battery, he was merely a stud locked upright on a bright hull, casting a shadow to infinity.

“Squad Forty, we are not looking for a fight. We’re not Revolutionists, we’re a trade ship. And I’m getting counter information from another source claiming that you have been misrouted and misinformed and are to be ignored. If you’re Geral, you’re a braver fool than I ever realized, facing down a ship with a suit!”

He heard that, breathed a curse that was loud in his own ears even if not broadcast.

“Control? What status? What support?”

He was clicking between comm broadcast channels furiously, the head’s up display showing him active bands.

After a long pause, Binwa broke silence.

“I still hold Control. Security won’t help. They want to give the station away, the whole station, Geral! Why’s there three ships? At least one of those ships are what they’ve been waiting on. They want to send us all to Fromage Two. They’re going to occupy the station … you got to stop them from getting in.”

“Squad?” came Luchee’s drawl.

“AnnaV, I’m sorry. My orders remain.”

“Dammit, Geral, you’re alone in a spacesuit and there’s three ships out here.”

“I’m on lockpoint,” he managed. “I’ve got war units, Luchee. Are you in a battleship?”

“Can’t discuss it, Squad Forty. You’re going to have to move away from that dock. I hope you’ll do it soon; my shift is due to end but I’m not allowed to leave docking incidents unresolved. I’m lighting up for rendezvous.”

The faceplate showed two ghostly outlines now, the M unit’s sensors showing where the approaching ships were, where …

There! A blot took shape exactly where the faceplate put it, stars going away, and then the blot took color and shape as brilliant points of light, some blinking to varying pulses and others just there.

Training recall came to him, the five blue lights circling the nose of the ship meaning AnnaV was headed right at him, the slow blinking red lights ringing the blue were the pods-heads, the apparent bright ring between the blue and the red was where AnnaV’s hull swelled to the pod points. More light now, and he was awash in it, the faceplate barely shielding him from the full intensity. The approaching ship slowed, loomed …

From the station channels:

“Squad Forty, you must stand down and return your aux-packs to the armory. Your training mission is over. Famy Binwa has been relieved of all command. Your loyalty oath is noted. You must return to the armory …”

Geral shivered. It was Famy’s ma!

“Don’t listen! They’ve breached this line, but we resist the revolution. Civilians cannot understand the dangers—”

“This is Vice Administrator Binwa. My son has been relieved of shift and staff command and is being removed from the control room. You are now under my direct orders, Geral Jethri. Return to station, place yourself under Security’s protection. You will be escorted to upgraded quarters and this incident will be purged from your file.”

There was a short pause before she spoke again, sharply.

“Geral Jethri?”

He swallowed, the promise of upgrades making his stomach clench, as he thought of the twins, both pregnant. His kids. His blood …

There came sounds of heavy breathing, and pounding, through the earset, then Famy Binwa’s voice, loud.

“I’m loyal to the Envidaria. This is a breach—I will resist, I will eject, I will—”

Beneath Geral, the station lurched, vibration traveling through the taut cables locking him and his packs to the surface, shaking him and his suit against the strapping.

“Geral Jethri? Let me make your choice plain. Return to station and receive an upgrade. Continue this revolt and we will be rid of you.”

Geral was still trying to understand. Famy. The Revolutionists. Forced labor on the cheese worlds. The—

“I am,” he whispered, “under the command of Famy Binwa.”

There was another lurch; this one smaller and more personal.

“Control?” Geral demanded, wondering if some unknown ship had managed a violent latch-dock out of his view. “Squad Forty reporting anomaly—”

His faceplate showed him a flashing: UNLOCK ALERT UNLOCK ALERT UNLOCK ALERT UNLOCK at the same time it showed a potential target not much bigger than him drifting away from the station, a tumbling figure, a …

His faceplate flashed a warning—power issues for the lockpoint.

A KLUNG shook him; distantly a station thruster showed power and the station twisted. Or he did.

Jettisoned. He’d been jettisoned!

Below him the station rolled and the faceplate echoed that, and now it showed him the station as a target, receding slowly.

Everyone he knew in the universe was out there, targets. Targets, if he was willing.

* * *

He’d tried three airlocks, chasing them as the station rotated. It was as if he didn’t exist. His suit showed station comm circuits locked against him, and the last effort to close with the station had been met by a round of attitude jets, almost taunting him.

Working his suit kept him calm; he had to think hard about it, but it was a new suit and getting easier to use every minute.

Eventually, one of the ships disappeared beyond the bulk of the station; he could see portions of it as it docked, but wasn’t in comm circuit.

The other two ships now rode in orbit between him and the station. One was, he knew, the AnnaV. The other he didn’t know—

“Spacer Geral Jethri, this is AnnaV, offering to connect you with a recovery ship.”

Luchee’s voice was calm and quiet in his ear.

“Spacer? I’m a stationer. I can’t …”

“You are a distressed spacer, discovered free-floating in an orbit you are unable to recover from under your own power. I can certify that. We can do that for you, Geral Jethri.”

“But the station! I’m Service Squad, I’m supposed to…”

“They abandoned you, Geral Jethri. You’re locked out.”

He fought with himself. He had forty hours of air. Enough firepower, though, to …

Famy Binwa had trusted him. Famy had fooled him. Famy … had ejected without a suit …

Luchee took a breath.

“Either you’re a distressed spacer or you’re dead,” she said flatly.

“I don’t have anything …” He stuttered to a stop.

She didn’t argue that point. His air showed thirty-eight-point-seven hours now.

“Geral, I’m going off-duty. My shift is ending. Be smart. I can arrange for pick-up, while I’m Pilot In Charge. That’s all I can do. You need to make the choice.

“You need to save yourself.”

Geral stared beyond the lurking ships, beyond the station’s disorienting rotation against the background of a distant three-mooned planet.

There was silence for a while. When Luchee spoke again, it was like she’d woken him up from a drowse.

“Geral, we’re docking next. We can’t pick you up; if you’re on-board when we dock, Spadoni will arrest you. They’ll lock you up and take your blood and you won’t even get points for it! You’ll never be free!”

The station rotated under him.

“The other ship with us is not docking, Geral. Will you let them pick you up? She … they believe in the Envidaria. They live by it. They’re free! They want to talk to you, Geral. I trust them. Remember, we said we weren’t going to give blood to the Seniors. You promised me, Geral! We’ll be in radio shadow now, be smart!”

The station’s rotation was patient, unforgiving. AnnaV, in pursuit of a docking bay, slid into the bright side while he and his suit were in the darkness.

Geral was alone, as he often was. But …

He had a choice. He could be desperate for what wasn’t going to happen, like Famy Binwa, or he could be like Jethri and Arin had been and make something happen. He could let the Seniors own him or he could …

“This is Spacer Geral Jethri Quai-Hwang. What ship?”

He asked as if he knew ships, which he didn’t; as if the name mattered. He’d been prepared to fire upon them, an hour gone, and now …

A pleasant female voice filled the ether, carried by a strong, directional signal.

“This is Ship Disian. Geral Jethri, may we match velocity with you and bring you aboard? Please, call me Disian.

“Also,” came the pleasant voice, with no sense of irony, “it would be good if you would turn off targeting mode and safe your weapons. We can rendezvous in ten minutes.”

Geral flinched, shook his head at himself, and safed the weapons. The oxygen read-out on his faceplate said thirty-six-point-seven hours and he was free to watch it count down, if he really wanted to. Maybe the station would pull him in, right before the last. Maybe they’d decide they needed his blood too bad to let him go.

Or, maybe they wouldn’t.

A deep breath then, and he used his jets, turning to admire the view, and the ship, approaching.

The oxygen countdown had begun to bore him and he realized that, despite it all, he was getting hungry.

“Yes, Ship Disian,” he said eventually. “Thank you. Please come for me. This distressed spacer accepts your offer of aid.”