—
Matteo wakes me early the next morning.
I shower and dress in silence. Before I leave the room, I look out through the ovular windows and listen for the last time to the song that seeps through the glass. It was with me throughout my recovery, and I think it will be the only thing I miss from this place.
“You are fortunate. The ship is stocked with cuisine from our own stores. It is run by a sophisticated artificial intelligence named Pilot,” Matteo says as we enter the hangar. A Y-shaped ship waits with its ramp unfurled. On the opposite side of the hangar, Darrow’s black ship undergoes repairs. It looks a little like a pitviper, I think. Light from welding drones casts wild shadows on the floor. “Pilot may lack creativity, asits name implies, but it will return to Mars as efficiently as any human could.”
“What if enemy ships attack us?”
“It will react.”
“What if I try to take the controls?” I ask.
“There are no controls to take. You are superfluous to the functioning of the ship.” And everything else. “It will leave in”—he checks his chronometer—“a half hour. All you need do is lay back, enjoy the ship’s myriad comforts, and you and your fellow passenger will land in Agea thirty-three days from now. Assuming you don’t get shot down or kill each other in transit, that is.”
I stop at the ramp. “My fellow passenger?”
“He’s already inside. Before we say farewell, I wish to thank you, Lyria of Lagalos.”
“For what?”
“A reminder of the beauty of friendship, and that any mob is made up of people, in the end. I’ll look back a little more fondly because of you.” Look back? I’m not sure if I’m insulted or not, but I blush when he sweeps down to kiss both of my cheeks. He smells like heaven and flowers and sunlight.
“Friendship.” I snort. “Darrow and the rest are going to find my friend. And I’m being sent the other way.”
His eyebrows float up. “Indeed. At gunpoint even. Safe journey.” He sweeps toward the hangar exit, whistling a lovely tune.
The hall entry from the ramp leads to the ship’s lounge where a shirtless, tattooed man sits on the floor drinking from a coffee mug. I stare in awe at my fellow passenger.
The Goblin of Mars. Holy bloodydamn shit. I almost run away.
“You’re late,” he rasps.
“What?”
“You’re late.”
“Darrow said the ship wouldn’t leave until 0500.”
“The shit you think we’re waiting on, ruster? Refueling? Clear skies? Naw. You.” He tips his mug at me. He slaps the floor. “Let’s get, Pilot.”
“Negative, passenger Barca. This vessel may not depart until the specified window. We are not the only ones in the asteroid belt. Your demand is declined.”
“Slag that. Let’s go.”
“Negative, passenger Barca. The vessel”—
“Heard you the first time.”
—“may not depart until the specified window.”
Sevro scowls down into his mug. I stand awkwardly until he glares at me. “Whatchu looking at?”
I look at the ceiling and feel stupid. I look back at him. Darrow is all weight and silence. Sevro is like staring into a woodchipper, not sure if it’s coming your way.
“You’re Sevro Barca.”
“So they say.”
