Ellis’s soft voice droned on, carrying back to where the Max rested, to where Lara and Jess drifted silently. The young tech had been at it for almost three hours and still managed to sound hopeful, as if he believed his voice might actually reach farther than the distress beacon. As if with each pause, he expected to hear a reply.
“Anyone listening would’ve picked up our code hours ago,” Jess said quietly, a touch of concern in his deep voice. Lara was glad to hear it; maybe it was selfish on her part, but Jess had tuned in again and it was a relief to have him back.
She shrugged. “Let him talk, if it makes him feel better.”
Jess sighed. “Yeah. What the hell, right?”
Rhetorical. Lara nodded anyway, wondering if the time was right to bring up what she’d been thinking
about. With both men so fragile, she’d been hesitant to talk about the specifics of what needed to be done—but she knew that she didn’t want to spend her last minutes of consciousness trying to breathe, and she needed to know what position they would take.
7 can do myself, but they might need help, Ellis, anyway. And is either of them strong enough to watch if I’m the only one wanting to sign out early?
“Still got Pop’s standard issue?”
Lara blinked, then nodded again. It seemed that she wasn’t the only one considering their options.
“Twelve rounds,” she said, before he could ask.
Jess looked at her, and she was grateful to see how composed he was. “Talked to Ellis yet?”
“Not yet.” Lara smiled a little. “There’s not really any casual way to slip it into a conversation.”
Jess grinned suddenly, his gaze glittering with humor that she’d thought he’d lost. “Oh, I don’t know. How ’bout, ‘So, got any plans for how you wanna buy it? I hear getting shot’s not so bad; pass the coffee, wouldya?’ ”
Lara was surprised into an actual giggle. It was a small sound, but it made her feel a hell of a lot better— and she thought that if she had to go anyway, at least her final hours would be with someone like Martin Jess. Whatever he’d done in the past, he was a good man.
“Want me to talk to him?” Jess asked, his smile fading.
Lara shook her head. “I can do it. Might as well wait a little longer, though. He’s . . . he’s still got hope, you know?”
He knew. She could see it in the dark depths of his eyes. Hope was a fleeting thing, something that shouldn’t be ripped away before it had a chance to dwindle on its own. She was only a few years older than Ellis, but like Jess, she had no illusions about their situation; if Ellis was still able to find comfort in his, she didn’t want to deny him that.
“Do you think they’re looking for us?” Jess asked. “For that download?”
There was a thread of anger in his voice that she hadn’t heard before. “I don’t know. Doesn’t matter, does it?”
Jess shrugged. “I guess not. I’m—I gotta admit, I wouldn’t mind running into a Company crew right about now, and not just to save our butts.”
His tone was mild but his eyes narrowed, the set of his jaw and the tic high on his cheek telling her more perhaps than he wanted to reveal. “Fuck ’em, right?”
Definitely anger, and he meant it. Lara nodded slowly, thinking that misplaced hope wasn’t the only thing that could keep someone going.
Ellis has his rescue dreams, and it seems that Jess has revenge . . .
“I’m gonna go see how he’s holding up,” Jess said, and moved away, leaving Lara alone. Leaving her wondering what she had, what was keeping her from collapse.
“I’m a goddamn Marine,” she mumbled, the soft words filling her with an odd mix of amusement, embarrassment and pride. Out of practice maybe, running transmission lines on a corporate payroll, but the Corps was the Corps; as the saying went, she didn’t get to die without permission.
Semper ft, sir, yes sir. Not much, maybe, but it beats the hell out of feeling sorry for myself.
It’d do. Lara mentally squared her shoulders and headed up to the front, Ellis’s soft voice still droning on, his words surely disappearing, unheard, into the blank waves of emptiness that would be their tomb.
Briggs liked to think of himself as a thoughtful man, but the garden so originally titled “Sand” was peaceful to the point of coma-inducing. He sat on a small stone bench at the edge of a vast, carefully raked field of white grit, wondering what genius had marketed a giant sandbox as art. He could understand the appeal, he
supposed, if one liked staring at waves of lines and contemplating “beingness,” but he wasn’t that one.
Briggs glanced at his watch and then sighed, gazing back out at the flat, featureless sea. He’d have to give it another ten or fifteen minutes. Heiro Fujiyami probably wouldn’t bother looking at Briggs’s Respite itinerary, but it would be well worth an hour of boredom if he did; Sand was Fujiyami’s favorite, and his vote would carry at least two of the others along when it came time for the Board to elect their new member.
Still . . .
Another sigh. It was sand, nice patterns but not even a rock or tree to break the monotony. Twilight was settling, a cool purple light bathing the bland garden, at least giving it a color. He’d have to treat himself afterward, perhaps a nice dinner at the seafood place near the suites. They grew catfish there, killed to order and fried with cornmeal; heavy, but he deserved some reward—
The bleat of his ‘com was a welcome distraction. Briggs slipped the handset from his breast pocket and hit the receive.
“Mr. Briggs, this is Nirasawa,” the bodyguard’s smooth voice rumbled. “You have a call from Mr. Ter-rence Roth, on behalf of Ms. Julia Russ, Tri-Sec Communications Coordinator for—”
“Yes, put him through,” Briggs snapped. Nirasawa was more efficient than Keene, but only physically. He seemed determined to fit as much formality as possible into each and every sentence.
There was a short pause, enough time for Briggs to remember that Roth was the name of Julia’s field scout, before a low, tentative voice sounded in his ear.
“Mr. Briggs? Ah, Ms. Russ asked me to call you if I, if we picked up anything on that possible fugitive situation. She said you could contact her if you wanted any more help. Information,” he amended hastily. “Anything besides what I picked up. What we picked up.”
He was rattled. Some low level, undoubtedly aware
of the animosity between Julia and himself. Briggs smoothed his tone; if she wasn’t actually listening in, she’d certainly be recording the conversation. “I appreciate your call, Mr. Roth. And excellent work . . . you say you’ve found something?”
“Yeah,” Roth said, obviously relieved that he wasn’t going to be skewered by his boss’s nemesis. “Sir. We caught the distress signal for, uh, ETTC-C Nemesis, shuttle six-oh-nine-one-oh, far edge of Sector 955.”
Got you!
Briggs forced a calm he didn’t feel, grinning out at the field of sand. “Really? That’s wonderful. Do you know their status?”
“They’re out of fuel . . . and unless someone on Nemesis stocked the shuttle up with extra oxy filters, they’ve gotta be low on air. I’d say they were out, but Ms. Russ told me that there might be a couple of techs on board, they could’ve stacked the screens . . .”
Briggs gritted his teeth, reminding himself that Ir-win could have the ship ready to go in five minutes as Roth droned on for another few seconds about the mechanics of air filtration. They could be on their way in ten.
Far edge of 955, there’s that survey outpost on—Buddha? Bandy? Thirty, thirty-five hours, tops. Have Keene look up the head there, probably some bio geek, make sure they read the goddamn memo—
“. . . and then the cross weave’d give ’em another ten, maybe twelve hours. Anyway. Ms. Russ said that you’d want to be informed before any decisions were made—”
“—and I thank you for your promptness, Mr. Roth,” Briggs said. “Please tell Julia that I’ll handle things from here. And that I’ll contact her just as soon as I need her input.” He accented need, grinning again.
Perhaps I can call to get her opinion on what to wear, my first week on the Board . . .
Roth quickly signed off and Briggs stood as he punched Nirasawa’s number, turning away from the ri-
diculously dull garden and talking as he walked. He was in his element, now that there was something solid to work with; over the koi pond and past the authentically shabby tearoom, motioning to Keene who stood stiffly by the front entrance and giving instruction to Nirasawa, Briggs felt full of anticipation, of excitement for things to come. No more waiting, hoping, if-ing . . .