“The ship is drifting,” Voller says. “No propulsion.”
“No comm chatter, either,” Lourdes adds reluctantly. “I’ve been sending a response to their distress call since we first picked it up, but… nothing.” She hesitates. “Do you think there’s anyone still alive or…?”
Six hundred and fifty lives. Six hundred and fifty bodies.
The bridge falls silent. The ship appears cold and still, frost glittering in a light sheen across her hull. Not even a flicker of light from one of the tiny portholes to indicate life.
“Records indicate that theAurorahad a water generation system. State of the art at the time,” Nysus says over the intercom finally. “But they only had eighteen months of food. I guess they figured that would be enough for someone to reach them if they ran into trouble.”
Except, for whatever reason, that was not what had happened.
“Oh my God,” Lourdes murmurs, tugging at the scroll capsule on the chain around her neck. “Those poor people. Starving to death out here, all alone and—”
“We don’t know that,” Kane interjects soothingly. “It’s possible they used the escape pods. We can’t tell from here.” He gives me a sharp look, but I see no point in lying to Lourdes.
Is it possible? Sure. But if so, those escape pods were also never found. And if the passengers ejected out here? They’d have run out of air long before anyone arrived to save them. A different, equally horrible death.
But I keep my mouth shut on that. I’ve been told I have a “cavalier attitude toward mortality.” The psychologist Verux brought in to evaluate me after Ferris Outpost is the one who first tagged me with that gem, and it’s followed me ever since. That evaluation—from when I was a kid—kept me off the Verux exploratory missions and I suspect played a role in my being turned down for transport captain. Apparently being “cavalier” is also interpreted as “reckless.”
Which is not true. I’m not reckless with anyone but myself and I’ve never lost anyone on my team. But I will say this: once you’ve been in a position to watch everyone you’ve ever known die, the light go slowly out of their eyes, transforming them from this magic assemblage of quirks, habits, preferences, and dreams to an inert pile of spent flesh and bone, you realize not only that life is precious but also that death is absolutely inevitable. No matter what you do. The people you love will die one day, and sometimes it happens sooner and faster and more horribly than you could imagine. Sometimes it’s even your fault.
I prefer facing that particular unavoidable reality rather than pretending it doesn’t exist. The same way I’d rather limit my attachments. To anyone. Why set myself up for that pain? But apparently that kind of thinking makes me “detached,” “cold,” and, as I once overheard, “sort of creepy.”
“We need to get back,” Kane says. “Make contact with Dispatch. They’ll send someone. Search and rescue.”
I appreciate Kane’s optimism, the hope that it springs from. It’s a part that I’m missing.
But there’s nothing to rescue. This is just recovery, plain and simple. And if that’s the case…
I study theAurora,the dark windows, the cold engines, the likely luxury—and horror—inside. The construction costs alone had to have been billions. And that was twenty years ago.
An ugly flicker of an idea passes through my mind. Our regs are based on the old maritime laws. Even for the relatively obscure stuff that doesn’t happen out here as often as it would have in the days of Spanish galleons and navigating by starlight.
But an unclaimed wreck is an unclaimed wreck.
“What are you waiting for?” Lourdes asks Voller, his hands unmoving on the boards. “Let’s get out of here and report it.” She shudders. “It’s like staring at a mass grave.”
She’s not wrong. And yet… a dozen of those rumored gold faucets—branded with the nameAurora—would be more than enough to start my own transport company. If not in genuine market value, the oddity/souvenir black market would certainly do it. You don’t have to be “hireable” or a “people person” if you’re the boss.
Voller’s leg jounces in a nervous rhythm, but his hands remain still.
Is it possible that, for once, Voller and I are on the same page?
Lourdes glances back at me in uncertainty. “TL?”
“Claire,” Kane says, and his voice holds a warning.
At my silence, Voller swivels his chair toward me, head tilted in consideration. Whatever he sees in my expression must confirm what he’s thinking because a slow smile spreads across his narrow face.
“Oh, yeah,” he says, pointing at me. “Exactly. Now that’s the kind of crazy I’m talking about. Fuck theGinsburg. We’re going to be rich!”
Voller spins around and taps in coordinates, and LINA accelerates, sending us toward theAurorarather than away. Our bodies sway slightly with the abrupt change in direction as the micrograv generator catches up, recalculating “down” for us. Nausea swirls in me momentarily, but I’m not sure if it’s the sudden motion or the decision I just made.
“We have no idea what happened,” Kane says to me, edging away slightly so he has the space to turn and face me. “We don’t even know if it’s safe to—”
“It doesn’t hurt to check it out,” I say, folding my arms across my chest.
“It doesn’t hurt?” Kane repeats in disbelief. “Are you kidding?”
