NINE

The multi-ton ship rumbled down with precision and care and alighted on the landing pad in front of them. The repairs had been fast and cheap, and little time had been spent on making the new sections of hull blend with the original.

Important part is that they hold.

Cindy wrung her hands, her puffy eyes on the ship. “I thought it would be… better.”

“Ain’t lying, babe.” Gooch slid his arm around her waist. “Looks like it’s been hauling garbage for twenty years.”

“Gooch!” Carmen slapped his thick arm. “A little gratitude. It’s a piece of history.”

Gooch guffawed. “Piece of something. I get a refund?”

The airlock door slid open to reveal an alien warrior clad in her shining battle suit.

“That’s Float, copilot and head of the complaints department. She can bench about two thousand.” Brooklyn waved to her. “Got anything else to say, Gooch, take it up with her. Or stay here until they toss you out. Your choice.”

“Just joking, man. Tryin’ to keep it light for Baby Girl.” He offered a chicks-are-crazy smile/shrug combo. It looked well-practiced. “One-way trip like this. It’s tough.”

Four pallets were waiting to be stuffed into the Victory’s tiny cargo hold. The ship had started life as a long-range multi-purpose platform in the early ’50s, and her designers hadn’t had cargo in mind. Forty-plus years of refits and overhauls hadn’t changed that much. Most of the space Brooklyn had carved out had once belonged to ammunition and rescue gear.

“How many times did Bugs crash on the way?” he asked Float.

“Three and a freeze. Call it four.”

“Getting better.”

Steve put his hand on Brooklyn’s shoulder. “Appreciate like hell you doing this for us, Brook.” He looked like an L.L.Bean model, a stylish refugee in a lined barn coat and thick boots, a blaze-red backpack over one shoulder. “You could have made some real money and chose friendship instead.” His gray eyes whispered ‘sucker.’

Brooklyn cleared his throat. “Float will show you around while I get the cargo stowed. Probably be ready to leave in ten–fifteen minutes.”

Three of them followed the exo into the ship. Carmen lingered to look up at the quarter Earth hanging overhead. “There’s no way we can get everyone off that thing is there?”

Might not need to. “Five billion’s a big number, Carm. Maybe two million have emigrated so far, Mars and Venus combined. What is that? Half a percent?”

“Less.” Her forehead furrowed. “Point-oh-four percent.”

He grinned. “Look at you. Who needs a working nav computer when I got Math Club Carmen on my side?”

“What’s wrong with the computer?” He’d once burned down their apartment with an attempt at technical acumen.

“Not a damned thing.”

“Brooklyn!”

Gooch failed to offer help while Brooklyn jockeyed the pallets into the cargo hold.

“What’s this other stuff?” the former football star said. He toed a stack of cardboard boxes bungeed to the wall.

“Mostly junk food. You wouldn’t believe what you can get for a bag of pretzels and a six-pack of soda out here.” He gestured toward the stairs. “Let’s get you stowed.”

The passenger berth was a narrow room with two bunks on either side and space below them for storage. “Push the bunks together if you want to get freaky.” Brooklyn pointed up the corridor. “The cockpit. That’s where I sleep and where you are not allowed. Stay out of engineering, too. Float stays in there. Galley, bunk, ’fresher… water-processing works well enough that you can probably get a shower apiece every couple of days. No laundry. Plenty of books for the ’fiche reader. Board games in the bunk.”

Brooklyn headed to the cockpit and fell into his seat. Lights were mostly green all around, and he tapped the key that turned on the microphone. “Good morning, Bugs!”

It took a second, but the computer grated out something that might have been “Good morning, Captain.” He’d been working on the thing for years. Float, out of sheer perversity, refused to help.

“Plot me a course to Venus, pal.”

The screen turned blue with an error message.

Brooklyn swore. While he waited for the thing to reboot, he coded a message to Demarco on the secure set. Anything new on the OAO? Inquiring minds wanna know. It was a separate system, thank the gods, and not prone to the failures of his more recent work. When the navigation computer announced it was ready, he forwent the voice input and keyed in the coordinates. There were better times to go to Venus. When the orbits lined up right, the weird little planet was only twenty-four million miles away. At worst, it was about a hundred and sixty-two million miles. They were well past the sweet spot and headed into fuck-that’s-a-long-trip territory.

Bugs spat out the requested information. Brooklyn printed out a copy and taped it to the wall. Little over two weeks. He rubbed his eyes. Flying alone, or just with Float, was far preferable to hauling passengers. He and the jelly knew each other well enough to stay out of each other’s way, maybe coming together a couple of times a day to check in. Cramming six into the space of a big Winnebago with no pit stops… At least Float could hang out in her tank and ignore everyone.

He tapped the intercom. “Find some place comfy to sit and strap in. We’re launching in ten minutes.”