The Long Way to a Small, Angry Planet

Day 249, GC Standard 306 CRICKET

It was an odd name for a moon. Calling it a colony was an exaggeration. Ashby could count ten buildings nearby, plus a few solitary settlements peppering the hills and cliffs beyond. The roads were little more than flat grooves in the dirt. There were flight lights and pedestrian paths, but they looked like an afterthought. The sky was the color of sulfur, the ground the color of rust. Fine silt already settled thickly in the grooves of their breathing masks and the frames of their goggles. There were no other sapients in sight.

Ashby held up a hand to block the glare of the white sun. “Sissix?”

“Mmm?” Her voice, like his own, was muffled behind a mask.

“Why are we here?”

“Is this a philosophical question, or—”

He shot her a look. “Why are we here, on this platform, right now?”

The platform in question was a thick sheet of industrial metal, orange around the seams, held up by support beams of dubious reliability. Kizzy and Jenks sat on the edge on the platform, ranting about some action sim while Kizzy twisted bits of discarded metal into animal shapes. Rosemary was in a nearby kiosk, arguing with a malfunctioning AI about docking costs. A faded sign hung from the kiosk roof: WELCOME TO CRICKET. Beneath this sign was a lengthy warning regarding the tendency of unlicensed sub-dermal implants to set off weapon detectors.

Sissix adjusted her goggles. “As I remember it, Kizzy said, ‘You know what we need?’, and you said, ‘What?’, and she said, ‘Guns,’ and you said, ‘No guns,’ and she said, ‘A shield grid, then,’ and added that she had some friends who could fix us up, and that they weren’t too out of the way—”

“That much I recall,” said Ashby. “I suppose my real question is, why did I agree to this?”

“You were concussed and mildly sedated.”

“Ah. That explains it.”

“I have to say, Ashby, having a few weapons on board for this job isn’t a bad idea. Especially in light of recent events.”

“Don’t you start, too. Us getting boarded was a freak occurrence at best. I’ve been flying all my life, and that’s never happened to me before. I’m not filling my home with weapons just because we’re feeling shaken up.”

“Ashby, we’re heading into what was very recently a warzone. You think there won’t be other desperate, dangerous people out there?”

He touched his jaw. The bruises from the Akarak’s rifle were still fading. He revisited those horrible moments in the cargo bay, remembered how it felt to have strangers rip their way into his home. He recreated the incident, imagining a gun in his hand. Would he have fired? He couldn’t say. But imagining the addition of a weapon in that scenario made him feel safer. He no longer felt helplessness. He felt powerful. And that was what scared him. “I’m not compromising my principles over this. That’s that.”

“Fucking Exodans,” Sissix said, but she said it with a smile.

Ashby snorted a laugh. “Kizzy said the exact same thing. She’s making out like we need an entire planetbusting arsenal strapped to our hull.”

“She was scared, Ashby. We all were. We all are.” Sissix held his hand and nuzzled his shoulder with her cheek.

Rosemary slammed the kiosk door behind her. “Stupid hackjob AI.” She glowered as she tried to brush a stubborn clot of dust off her goggles. “For as much as it cost to dock here, they could at least provide decent customer service.”

“How much did it cost?” asked Ashby.

“Seventy five hundred credits,” said Rosemary. “Plus administrative fees. Not that I actually see any administrators around.”

Ashby whistled. “Damn,” he said. “These friends of Kizzy’s better be worth it.”

Rosemary fidgeted. “Ashby, it’s a little sketchy here. I don’t mind doctoring formwork a bit, but—”

“Don’t worry,” said Ashby. “I’m not bringing any illegal equipment onto my ship, especially not when we’re so close to Quelin space. I’m sure Kizzy’s friends are trustworthy folks.”

“How long have you known Kizzy?” Sissix said. Ashby followed her gaze toward an open-top skiff humming its way to the platform. The driver stood up on his seat as he approached, even though the vehicle was still moving. He was a solidly built Human man, younger than Ashby, wearing nothing from the waist up but an air mask, several carved pendants, and a small rocket launcher on a shoulder strap. Shaggy burnt copper locks fell down past his shoulders, cloak-like. He had a beard to match, clipped short along his jaw line, cascading into a braided curtain below his chin. His skin was darkly tanned, but the peach undertones indicated an isolated ancestry on an old fringe colony, far removed from Exodan intermingling. His chiseled muscles were covered with implanted techports and intricate tattoos, and his left forearm had been replaced by a multi-tool appendage, which looked homemade. As the skiff got close, Ashby could see thick scars braided around the seam between the tech arm and the man’s skin. He had a feeling the surgery had been a home affair as well.

“Ah, great,” Ashby sighed under his breath. A shield grid was a good idea. A tweak-happy hackjob mod was something else entirely. How had he agreed to this?

“Kizzy!” the skiff driver boomed, his voice jubilant. He spread his arms wide, reaching toward the sky.

“Bear!” Kizzy squealed, tossing her half-folded metal rabbit aside. It sailed past a placard instructing dock users on the proper disposal of litter. She ran down the platform steps two at a time. “Bear, Bear, Bear, BEAR!” She launched herself over the side of the skiff and into his arms, knocking both of them back into the seat. Jenks sauntered after her, grinning. He and Bear clasped hands warmly as Kizzy hugged Bear’s head, cheering “hooray!”

Rosemary turned to Ashby. “His name’s Bear?” she asked in Ensk.

“Seems that way,” Ashby said.

“Does ‘bear’ mean something?” Sissix asked. The Ensk word stuck out awkwardly in Klip, especially with Sissix’s accent. “What’s a bear?”

Ashby started walking. He nodded down toward the hulking, hairy man crushing their mech tech in his massive arms. “That’s a bear.”

“Welcome to Cricket!” Bear called out, giving them a wave. He was friendly, at least.

Ashby extended his hand once he cleared the stairs. “Hi there. Ashby Santoso.”

“Ah, the captain!” Bear shook Ashby’s hand. Ashby tried not to stare at his other arm, the one with the wires and scars. “Kizzy speaks very highly of you.”

Kizzy blushed. “Shh,” she said. “He’ll think I asked you to butter him up.”

“You must be Sissix,” Bear said, reaching out to shake her claws. “It’s nice to meet you.” He stared at her, holding her hand a little too long. He gave his head a shake, as if waking himself up. “I’m really sorry,” he said, looking embarrassed. “I don’t get off-world much, and we don’t get a lot of other species out here.”

“That’s all right,” said Sissix, looking a little confused. She probably hadn’t even noticed that the handshake was too long.

“And…” Bear thought for a moment. “Rosie? Is that right?”

“Rosemary,” she said with a smile, shaking his hand.

“Rosemary. Got it. Hey, did I see you walk away from the AI just a little bit ago?”

“Yeah. Sure isn’t cheap to dock here.”

Bear shook his head. “I’ll get that credited back to you. This jokester named Mikey set that thing up just to make some quick creds from offworlders who don’t know better. It’s a total scam. I’ll tell him you guys are family. It’s close enough to the truth.”

“Aww,” said Kizzy, giving him a squeeze.

“Alright, everybody pile in,” Bear said. “I hope you don’t mind getting a bit cozy.” The skiff was not built for five passengers (especially one with a tail), but with a bit of wiggling and rearranging, they managed to cram themselves into the dirty, dented vehicle. “Kizzy, travel music, if you would.” Bear directed her to a makeshift sound system that consisted of a hacked scrib and three small speakers held down with industrial bolts. The size of the speakers was deceptive. Everybody jumped as the first violent strains of some charthump band emerged with a roar. The three techs gave one another a satisfied nod, and the skiff tore off.

Between the throbbing music and the air rushing past, there wasn’t much room in the skiff for conversation. Ashby watched the world go by from his cramped seat. He had thought upon arrival that perhaps a proper colony might be hiding somewhere behind one of the towering cliffs, but no, Cricket was an empty moon. Craggy expanses of dust and rock stretched on and on, punctuated by the occasional bunker-like homestead. Stubborn succulents peeked out here and there, but Ashby saw no signs of farming—nor water sources, for that matter. There had to be water somewhere. Agreeable gravity and a tolerable atmosphere wasn’t enough to warrant a colony, not unless you had the means to import water from off-world. From the little he had seen, he didn’t think the people of Cricket were quite that well-to-do.

Off in the distance, something scurried into a crack in the ground. The skiff was moving too quickly for Ashby to get a good look, but whatever it was had been big, about the size of a large dog. Perhaps Bear’s rocket launcher wasn’t just for show.

The skiff followed a curving road up one of the cliffs. The road was wide enough for the skiff, but barely. Ashby glanced over the edge, and immediately regretted it. Like many lifelong spacers, Ashby didn’t care much for heights on land. Looking down at a planet from orbit was no problem, because out there, falling meant floating. If you took a long fall inside a ship—say, down the engine shaft on a big homesteader—you’d have enough time to shout the word “falling!” This would prompt the local AI to turn off the adjacent artigrav net. Your descent would abruptly end, and you’d be free to drift over to the nearest railing. You’d piss off anyone in the vicinity who’d been drinking mek or working with small tech parts, but it was a fair price to pay for staying alive (the “falling” safety was also popularly exploited by kids, who found the sudden reversal in gravity within a crowded walkway or a classroom to be the height of hilarity). But planetside, there was no artigrav net. Even a drop of a dozen feet could mean death, if you landed wrong. Ashby didn’t care much for gravity that couldn’t be turned off.

As they rounded a corner, a homestead appeared, built on a flat outcrop. A tall sheet metal fence surrounded all but the overhang, protecting the building within. The skiff passed through an automated gate, and the homestead came fully into view. It had been constructed, in part, from a small cargo ship, grounded forever. A drab dwelling was conjoined at its side, like a bulbous sprout unfolding from an ugly seed. A receiver dish was stuck atop the roof, alongside a blinking light meant to shoo away flying vehicles. A safe distance from the homestead, two delivery drones rested on their launch pad. There was an industrial, fortress-like quality to the place, but there was something endearing about the all-too-Human workmanship.

“Home sweet home,” Bear said, parking beside a second skiff. “Let’s get inside. Oh, you can take your masks off out here. There’s a shield covering everything within the fence, and we fill the pocket inside with breathable air.” He slipped the mask from his face. “Ahh. That’s better.”

Ashby unfolded himself from the back seat. Sissix groaned. “My tail’s asleep,” she said, wincing as she flicked it from side to side.

They followed Bear to the front door of the homestead. Ashby noticed a huge trash bin beside the building, so full that the lid was bulging open. He squinted. Atop the mechanical junk was a piece of some sort of organic husk, brittle and translucent. It reminded him of the insect casings he’d seen in Dr. Chef’s kitchen trash. Only bigger. A lot bigger.

“Wow,” said Rosemary, looking up at the homestead walls. “Did you build this place yourself?” Ashby doubted that she’d ever seen a modder community firsthand. In some ways, he found it sweet that the galaxy was so new to her. Sweet, and a little sad. He was glad he hadn’t grown up that sheltered.

“Most of it, no,” Bear said. He pressed his mechanical palm into a panel on the wall. The entry door slid open with a thunk. “My brother and I—knock off your boots, please—bought this place about five years back. That’s what, uh… about three standards? Or something? Never can remember GC time. Anyway, it belonged to an old comp tech who decided—oh, you can hang your masks on the rack here—she decided to go live closer to her grandkids. Since there was already a workshop and lots of storage space here, wasn’t much we needed to add, just the launch pads and the receiver dish, a few comforts here and there—”

“Hello!” Another man entered the room. His uncanny resemblance to Bear made it unlikely that he was anyone but the aforementioned brother. His skin was likewise covered in dermal ports and tattoos, but his hair was tied back, his beard neatly combed. He wore a tasteful buttoned shirt over his creased pants. An optical plate covered his right eye socket. The surface of the scanner embedded within it glistened, like the inside of a shell. He, too, was armed, but his weapons were more subtle: twin energy pistols, holstered in a vest. He carried a scrib as well, held close to his side as if he had just stood up from reading. There was a distinctly academic air to the man. Ashby could tell right away that he was one of the more bookish modders, the sort who reveled in knowing obscure data and the history of invention.

“Nib!” Kizzy cheered, running in for a hug. “Oh my stars, how are you?”

“I’m very well,” Nib said. He did not return the hug with as much gusto as Bear, but the smile on his face showed a degree of fondness equal to what his brother had displayed. “You’ve been away too long.”

“Seriously.”

“What, no hello for me?” Jenks grumbled.

Nib peered all around the upper edges of the walls in an exaggerated manner, then looked down to Jenks. “Oh, hey, Jenks! Didn’t see you down there!”

“I hear that a lot from dipshits who shoot their own eyes out,” Jenks said with a grin. Both men laughed. Ashby blinked. He’d never seen Jenks react to jokes about his height with anything but silent, unnerving disapproval. Nib had clearly earned a few points with Jenks in the past. But Ashby also noticed that the exchange had left Bear unamused. It seemed the scruffy man wasn’t fond of making fun of friends.

Introductions were made and hands were shook. They followed Nib out of the front hall and into a common room. Ashby smiled the minute he walked in. He had been in homes like this before—sturdy, ramshackle dwellings made from whatever a few hard-working pairs of colonist hands could scrounge up. Cheap faded tapestries covered the walls, barely hiding the industrial sheet. Mismatched chairs and sofas were stuffed into the room, all angled around a pixel projector (that, at least, looked new). Pixel plants sat in the windowsill and hung from the ceiling, their digital leaves curling hypnotically, as if they were breathing. Ashby’s grandmother had owned pixel plants like that, cheerful and homey. The air flowing through the ceiling vents was clean and cool, but there was a lingering scent of stale smash smoke—soot-like, woody. Behind one sofa was a workbench, covered with hand-labeled jars and boxes. Some room had been cleared on the bench for a pitcher of mek, a bottle of berry fizz, and several glasses. Alongside the refreshments lay a partially constructed mech arm.

“That’s the project that will never end,” Bear said, noticing Ashby’s gaze. He raised his own mech arm. “This one’s fast, but it can’t lift as much as I’d like. That one there’s a prototype. I’m trying to create the perfect blend of physical strength and fast reflexes.”

“Good luck,” laughed Kizzy. “You only get one or the other.”

Jenks leaned toward Rosemary to explain. “If biotech signals go too fast for your nerves to process, the rest of your body doesn’t know to brace itself for the weight. You’ll tear your muscles to shit that way.”

Bear frowned at the prototype. “But there’s got to be a way around it.”

“You pull it off, you’ll be the richest tech in the GC,” said Jenks.

“I don’t even care about that,” said Bear. “I just want to be able to throw a ketling bare-handed.”

Kizzy, Jenks, and Nib laughed. Ashby started to ask what a ketling was, but Nib spoke first. “May I offer anyone something to drink? Haven’t got much, I’m afraid, but friends of Kizzy’s deserve as much hospitality as we can give.”

“That’s very kind. I’ll take some fizz, thanks,” Ashby said. His nose was already warming to the aroma rising from the mek pitcher, but he didn’t want to get too relaxed. He was here to buy equipment, after all. Laziness and credits rarely mixed well.

The front door thunked open as Nib distributed drinks. “Hey!” a female voice called from the hallway. She sounded young. “Are they here yet?”

“We are here!” called Kizzy. “Hello, sweet face!”

“Hi!” said the voice.

“Hi!” said Jenks.

“Wait until you see what I just bagged. Hol-ee shit—”

“Ember,” said Nib in a voice that could only belong to an older sibling. “Whatever you’ve got, do not—”

“I’m not bringing it inside, dumb ass. I hit its goo sac. Leaking green shit all over the place. Come on out, you’ve got to see this.”

Bear and Nib looked at each other. “Dammit, we talked about this,” Bear said, already on his way out the door.

Nib sighed and handed out drinks. “Our sister has a penchant for seeking out trouble. Especially if it involves ketlings.”

Rosemary beat Ashby to the question. “What’s a ketling?”

“Come on,” Nib said. “Bring your drinks, I’ll show you. And, ah, I hope you’ve got strong stomachs.”

They went outside, safe behind the shield’s breathable boundaries. The body of a creature lay in the dirt, motionless within puddles of its own fluids. Over it stood a rifle-wielding young woman—or was she a girl? Ashby couldn’t say. She couldn’t be any older than twenty. Unlike her brothers, she had no visible ports or implants. Her long curly hair was wild as Bear’s, and her face was pretty in a hard sort of way. Her arms were toned and muscular, her skin dark with sun. Ashby wasn’t sure that he’d ever been that fit.

The creature, on the other hand, was silent and terrifying. It reminded Ashby of a grasshopper, if grasshoppers had needle-like maws and angry ridges across their backs. Layers upon layers of sharp-edged wings lay in a broken heap. Its legs were contorted and broken, some of them curling inward at rigored angles. There were thin hairs around its mouth and beneath its belly, which somehow made Ashby shiver more than any of the rest of it. The pillow-like sac beneath its jaw wasn’t exactly leaking, as Ember had said. More like gushing in slow motion. Sticky, oily, sour-smelling green gunk pooled around the thing’s nightmarish head.

“Would you look at this fucker?” Ember beamed. “It’s as big as me!” She looked around. “Also, hello, new people. I would shake hands, but, um…” She held up a gloved palm. It was smeared with green.

“Wow,” said Sissix. She crouched in for a closer look, sipping her fizz. She did not seem to notice (or, at least, care) that Ember was studying her just as intently. “I take it this is a ketling?”

Ember gave a surprised chuckle. “You’ve never seen a ketling before?”

“Why would she have?” Bear said. “She’s never been to Cricket.” He turned to the group of onlookers. “That’s how this moon got its name, incidentally. From these bastards.”

Nib inspected Ember’s handiwork. “Where’d you find it?” he said, his voice far too calm.

Ember’s smile wavered for split second before making a practiced recovery. “Um, y’know, sometimes there are loners hanging around the wells—”

“Bullshit,” Bear said, crossing his arms. “Where?”

Ember swallowed. “Drymouth Gorge,” she said. “But it was fine, I didn’t get that close.”

Bear took a bracing breath and looked skyward. Nib frowned. “Ember, you know better.”

Ember’s cheeks went red. She gave a sulky shrug. “It’s dead, right?”

“That’s not the—” Bear started.

“We’ll talk about this later,” Nib said, his eyes flicking briefly toward their guests.

Jenks examined the ketling’s head, tipping it up to face him. It crunched as it moved. “Holy shit,” said Jenks. “You got it in the head. Kizzy, look.” He pointed to two holes, one on the side of its jaw, one near its lidless eyes.

Ember shrugged again, but the corners of her mouth betrayed satisfaction. “Yeah. It was rushing the skiff, so I had to be quick about it.”

“Dammit,” Bear said. He continued to shake his head, but said nothing further.

“I don’t think I could’ve done anything if this beastie was coming at me,” Kizzy said, poking at the split carapace. She looked at Ember. “Stars, I want to hug you so bad right now, but I’m afraid that green shit will poison me or something.”

“It’s not poisonous,” Ember said. “Just sticky.”

“Yeah, I don’t want to be sticky, either.”

Ashby glanced over at Rosemary. Her arms were folded across her chest. “You okay?” he asked.

“Yeah,” she said, shaking her head. “Its mouth is just…” She shuddered.

“You said it,” Bear said. “Once they bite down, they don’t let go, especially if they’re mad. If they get your throat or your abdomen, you’re a goner. And they chew on everything when they’re in a breeding frenzy. Walls, skiffs, scrap, fuel cables, well pumps, you name it.”

“That’s why they’re such a problem when they swarm,” Nib said. “In their dormant phase, they just cluster in the crags. They don’t come out unless something gets close enough to piss them off.” He gave Ember a pointed look. “But every year or two, they fly out en masse, flinging spawn everywhere and chewing on everything. It only lasts a couple days, but if you don’t protect your property, you’ll lose everything. That’s what happened to the first settlers here. They showed up during dormancy and were totally unprepared for the first swarm.”

Ashby started to wonder why the settlers had bothered rebuilding at all, but he already knew the answer. To some Humans, the promise of a patch of land was worth any effort. It was an oddly predictable sort of behavior. Humans had a long, storied history of forcing their way into places where they didn’t belong.

“See how much goo’s in the sac?” Ember said. “This one was definitely ready to breed.”

Nib nodded in agreement. “We are overdue for the next plague.”

Ember was eager to explain. “The goo becomes spawn once it’s fertilized. They keep it close to their maw so they can protect it. It’s so gross. They just fly around for days, humping each others’ heads.”

“Ember,” Bear said, cuffing her shoulder. “Guests.”

Ember ignored him, speaking with horrified relish. “And when they’re done, they hurl the goo out of their mouths. I bet they’re gonna swarm in the next tenday.”

“What do you do when they swarm?” asked Sissix.

“Hunker down and wait it out,” said Bear. “Nib and I upgraded the shields of the entire colony after we settled here. Ketlings can’t get through once folks fire them up. Of course, we can’t get out, either. Swarms are a great time to get caught up on vids.”

“What about the spawn?”

“We shoot it. Or set fire to it. Sounds mean, I’m sure, but trust me, it doesn’t matter. They’re always back in the thousands. And it’s not like they’re sentient or anything.”

Nib nodded toward the ketling. “You should clean it before it goes bad,” he said to Ember.

“That was the plan,” she said, pulling a large utility knife from her belt. “I just wanted to show you guys before I put it in the stasie.”

Rosemary’s eyes were fixed on the sticky puddles beneath the ketling’s damaged head. “You’re going to eat that?”

“No different than little bugs,” Ember said. “Easier to clean ’em, too.” Without warning, she brought the knife down to sever the ketling’s head. The outer shell was thick, and Ember had to twist the dangling head around a few times to break it free. Rosemary’s mouth twitched.

Nib gave a little chuckle and patted Rosemary’s shoulder. “If you stay for dinner, maybe we can change your mind.”

“Ooh, yes please!” Kizzy said. “I have a million stories to tell.”

Bear smiled at the group. “You’re all welcome to stay. I make a crazy good marinade, if you’re up for barbecue.” He looked to Ember, who was admiring the ketling’s gruesome head. He sighed with resignation. “You want a pike for that? There are a few spare support poles left in the workshop. You could shave down a nice point with the metal grinder.”

“Oh, hell yes,” Ember grinned. “I should finish cutting it up, though.”

“We’ll leave you to it,” Nib said, with a quick glance at Rosemary. “I think our guests have seen enough gore for one afternoon.”

Ember smiled and nodded. As soon as their backs were turned and they had taken a few steps away, a wet splintering sound came from behind. Ashby didn’t look back. He wasn’t the squeamish sort, but there were some things in the galaxy he didn’t need to see.

“Damn, that girl’s a kick in the ass,” Kizzy said. “I remember when she couldn’t shoot a rock. And she was like, half my size at one point.”

“So?” said Jenks. “I’m always half your size.”

“You know what I mean.”

“She’s getting to be a better shot than me,” Bear said. “And she’s strong as hell. I’d like it if she spent more time in the shop with us, but these days she’s more interested in climbing rocks and running around.”

“Which is fine,” Nib said. “But we need to have another talk about provoking ketlings.”

“Yeah, because she’ll totally listen this time.”

Nib frowned. Ashby was almost certain by now that Nib was the elder brother. “I’d like for her to reach her seventeenth birthday in one piece.”

Ashby gaped. “She’s sixteen?” That was enough to warrant a glance back. The girl was dismantling the ketling with confidence, humming as she hacked its legs off.

“How old is that?” Sissix asked. “Put that in Aandrisk context.”

“She’s only got half her feathers, and she’s molting constantly.”

Sissix raised her eye ridges. “Remind me to never get on her bad side.”

“Well,” said Nib. “What say we get on to the reason you’re here?”

He led them over to the bay doors of the grounded cargo ship. With the press of a palm lock, the doors groaned open. A few light globes revealed a cluttered work space filled with industrial tools. Beyond, a small forest of storage racks stretched from floor to ceiling, holding shield generators of all shapes and sizes.

“Where’s the fun stuff?” Jenks said.

“Up out of the way,” Bear said.

“Well, come on,” Kizzy said. “Let’s see things that go boom.”

Ashby frowned. He didn’t want to disrespect the brothers’ work, but… “I hope Kizzy was clear about the fact that I’m only in the market for a shield grid.”

Nib smiled. “I gleaned that from her message,” he said with a wink to Kizzy. “Don’t worry, we’re not going to push anything on you. We’re not weapons merchants, strictly speaking. Custom shields are our bread and butter. The weapons we make are just for fun. But they are available to you, should you change your mind.” He gestured a command at a control panel. There was a clanking sound above. Several flat racks descended from the ceiling, weapons hanging from them like heavy, frightening fruit. Ashby looked around in amazement. It was enough to equip an Aeluon assault squad, and then some. He wondered what Pei would think.

“Wow,” Sissix said.

“I know, right?” said Jenks.

“And this is all just for you guys?”

“It’s our hobby,” Bear said. “We only sell them to neighbors and trusted friends. We’re not in the business of equipping bad guys. But if you want to discourage bad guys, oh yeah, we can do that.”

Rosemary said nothing, but her face was tight. Ashby could relate to her apparent discomfort. They were standing in a cargo hold filled with things designed for killing. He doubted quiet Rosemary had even seen a gun before the Akaraks.

“A little overwhelming at first, I know,” Nib said with pride.

Nib seemed to be an agreeable sort, so Ashby didn’t mind being honest with him. “I don’t mean to offend, but I really don’t want any weapons aboard my ship.”

“Let me guess. You’re from the Fleet?”

“That obvious?”

“A bit,” said Nib with a smile. “We have different philosophies, you and I, but I can understand where you’re coming from. Violence is always disconcerting, even if it’s only potential violence. But after the trouble you recently found yourself in—not to mention the place you’re headed to—it sounds as if you could do with some basic tools of self-defense. If that only constitutes shielding for you, that’s okay. But you need something.”

“Like that,” Jenks said. “I like that.” Ashby followed his gaze to a gun—no, not a gun. A small cannon with handles. The barrel looked big enough to hold an infant.

“We call that one the Sledge,” Bear said. “Packs a hell of a punch. And I highly doubt you need it.”

“Oh, but I do,” said Jenks. “I need it desperately.”

Bear laughed. “We can go shoot holes in the cliffs with it later if you like.”

Jenks looked at Kizzy. “We need to come here more often.”

As Kizzy and Jenks fawned over the ludicrous assortment of weaponry, Ashby and Sissix perused the shields. All misgivings that Ashby had about buying modder equipment vanished as Nib spoke to them about his tech. Nib already had the Wayfarer’s specs on hand, but he wanted to know more than just engine readouts and hull dimensions. He wanted details. He wanted to know how old the ship was, what it was built from, if the materials used in the living quarters differed from the original framework. He wanted to know the specific strain of algae they used for fuel, and how much ambi they kept on board at a time (Ashby cringed inwardly at the reminder of the stolen cells; the GC was covering the loss, but still, it was an awful waste). Nib asked Sissix careful questions about her piloting techniques, and nodded with sincere consideration as she answered. Bear joined the conversation after a time, and the brothers debated shield mechanics with enthusiasm. In the end, Bear and Nib decided they would take apart several existing models and combine the components into something specially suited to the Wayfarer. Ashby felt as though he were buying a tailored set of clothes. These modders were no mere techs. They were artists. And for all they were offering, they required only a day’s work and a sum of credits that Ashby suspected covered little more than the components themselves. Ashby made a mental note to thank Kizzy for being friends with these people.

He turned around to see Jenks hand Rosemary a small energy pistol. The weapon looked out of place in her hands, like a fish being held by a desert-born Aandrisk. “See, not so scary when you’re the one holding it,” Jenks said. Rosemary didn’t look too sure.

Bear beamed. “Want to take it for a spin?”

Rosemary swallowed. “I don’t know how to shoot.”

“We can teach you,” Bear said. “Easy-peasy. You don’t need to know anything fancy.”

“And it’s fun,” said a voice behind them. Ember, covered in green slime, ketling head in hand, walked into the cargo hold and began digging through a pile of metal support poles. She clutched the ketling’s head by the antennae, holding it up to one pole at a time, trying to find a good width for skewering.

“Ember,” said Nib. “Please tell me that you did not leave a butchered ketling lying out in the sun.”

“Meat’s in the stasie,” she said.

Bear gave her a knowing look. “Please tell me that you did not leave a pile of guts lying out in the sun.”

Their little sister set down the pole she had in hand, flashed a guilty smile, and tiptoed in an exaggerated fashion back out of the cargo bay.

Bear rolled his eyes to the ceiling with a sigh. “I cannot wait for her to stop being a teenager.”

“I can,” Nib said. “Do you know how impossible it’s going to be to boss her around when she’s twenty?”

“Question for you,” Sissix said. “Totally unrelated.”

“Go for it.”

“One of our rotational stabilizers was damaged when the Akaraks hit us. We were going to pick up a replacement on our next market stop, but I hate flying without it for that long. You guys don’t carry anything like that, right?”

“We don’t, but we’re hardly the only techs on this rock. You should to talk to Jess and Mikey,” said Bear.

“The same Mikey with the AI scam?”

“The same. But don’t hold that against him, those two really know their shit. Old-school ship techs. Retired now, but they still spend lots of time in their workshop. Awesome folks. They live about an hour from here. If you like, I can call down and see if they’re in. You could borrow a skiff, and be there and back by dinner time.”

Ashby looked to Sissix. She nodded. “Might as well, as long as we’re here,” he said. He turned back to the brothers. “You sure you don’t mind us using a skiff?”

“Nah, it’s no worries. If you guys can punch holes through space, I trust you to bring my skiff back in one piece.”

“Hey,” Ember yelled from outside. “Anyone want to see what a ketling nervous column looks like?”

“No,” yelled Bear.

“No, they do not,” yelled Nib.

“Yeah, kind of,” Jenks said. He dashed outside, dragging Kizzy with him.

Nib gave Ashby an apologetic shrug. “Sorry for the chaos,” he said.

“That’s okay,” Ashby said. Outside the cargo hold, Kizzy and Jenks were making disgusted, delighted sounds. “I’m kind of used to it.”

Rosemary had the sense that Ember knew a lot more about life than she did, but the girl had been wrong about one thing. The swarm didn’t wait a few days. An hour or so after Bear put the butchered, basted ketling over the fire, its kin erupted from the crags with a fury. The sky was darkened within minutes. At a distance, the twitching clouds of insects looked almost like clusters of malfunctioning pixels. The ketlings darted madly across the sky as they fertilized, killed, and sometimes ate one another. There had been a quick succession of bright flashes across the skyline as the people of Cricket activated the shields around their homes. The ketlings rammed headfirst into the shields, though they did not do so for any obvious reason. They did the same to rocks, plants, abandoned vehicles, even other ketlings. It seemed that the bugs disliked anything that infringed upon their ability to move in whichever direction they pleased.

Ashby and Sissix had still been at the other compound when the swarm hit. Rosemary had checked in with them via her scrib’s vidlink. None of them had any choice but to spend the night as unplanned houseguests. Neither of their hosts seemed to mind. On the contrary, it seemed that Jess and Mikey were only too happy to entertain some off-worlders. Ashby said that they had been pulling stashed delicacies out of cupboards left and right, and after Sissix had learned that the old couple spoke a little Reskitkish, they had become instant friends. Rosemary heard the women talking in the background over the vidlink—Sissix going slow, Jess pushing doggedly through the hissing syllables. From their laughter, Rosemary gathered that the conversation was a good one.

The modder siblings were similarly delighted. “There’s nothing you can do about a swarm,” Nib said. “It just means we get a day or two more with our friends.” The brothers were treating the miasma of biting, thrashing, spawn-vomiting insects as if it were a holiday. Ember and Kizzy lugged a case of homebrewed kick up from the cellar (like most things on Cricket, it had been made by a neighbor). Bear roasted Ember’s prey beneath the safety of the shield. It was an odd tableau: an apron-clad man brushing marinade onto a spit roast while slavering beasts bounced furiously off of the crackling bubble of energy above him. The bugs were undeterred by the piked ketling head, standing tall beside the entry gate.

At first, Rosemary had felt uncomfortable being stuck in the modders’ home, and not just for the swarm outside. Kizzy and Jenks were good friends with this family, but Rosemary was the odd one out. The thought of imposing on these strangers for a day or two—eating their food, sleeping on a grubby couch, listening to inside jokes—left Rosemary awkward. But the siblings’ congeniality did away with those feelings. Bear in particular made an effort to include her, and attempted to fill her in when the stories started going over her head (most of the stories fell into one of two groups: “the time we built this amazing thing” or “the time we smoked too much smash and did something stupid”). Once she had gotten past the memory of the oozing ketling carcass, she found the shreds of spicy, flame-licked insect, wrapped in airy flatbread and washed down with crisp kick, actually made for an enjoyable meal. By the time dinner was over, Rosemary found herself unexpectedly at ease. The armchair she sat in was dusty and worn. The pixel plant flickering nearby smacked of poor taste. The enthusiastic chatter about tech and modding was impossible for her to contribute to. But unfamiliar as everything was, it was clear that her companions felt right at home. Belly full and body laughing, Rosemary could pretend that she fit in there, too.

Nib brought out a fresh pot of mek to his houseguests and siblings, all of whom were situated around the pixel projector. Bear sat on the floor with his back against a couch. Kizzy sat behind him, putting tiny braids in his thick mane of hair. Jenks lounged nearby, smoking redreed and looking content. Ember sat at the workbench, frowning as she fussed with a circuit panel.

“You know,” the girl said as her brother entered the room. “There’s a way for this project to go way faster.”

“Really,” said Nib, his voice flat. He looked to Rosemary, raising the pot and his eyebrows in tandem. “Mek?”

“Yes, please,” Rosemary said. A soothing cup of mek on a full stomach sounded perfect. It was almost enough to make her forget about the muffled droning coming through the outer walls.

“Seriously,” said Ember. “These junction pins are so hard to see. If I had—”

Bear glanced up. “If it starts with ‘O’ and ends with ‘cular implant,’ the answer is no.”

“Stop moving, Teddy,” Kizzy said. “You’re gonna end up with messy braids.”

Ember sighed with the long-suffering weariness of a teenager. “Hypocrites.”

“When you’ve stopped growing and your brain chemistry has evened out, you can get all the implants you want,” said Nib. His tone was parental. It seemed to irritate Ember all the more.

“Hate to be the bad guy, but your brother’s right,” Jenks said. “Put implants in too early and you’ll wind up a mess. I knew a dude who got a headjack when he was fifteen. As he grew, his spine stretched, and the interface got all fucked up. Had to go back and get it done all over again. The hackjob idiot working on him didn’t know what he was doing, and the poor kid wound up with an infection in his spinal cord. Almost killed him. Had to get all four limbs replaced just so he could move again.”

“Who the fuck puts a headjack in a kid that age?” Bear said.

“Stop moving,” Kizzy said.

Bear grumbled. “Ember, seriously, if you ever meet a modder who will implant teenagers, run like hell. Modding isn’t just about getting sewn up with cool tech, it’s about orchestrating a balance between the synthetic and the organic. If you don’t care about the well-being of the organic, then—ow!” He yelped as Kizzy pulled his hair.

“Stop. Moving.”

“I know,” Ember said to Bear. “Spare me the platitudes.”

“You are too young for a word like ‘platitudes,’ ” Jenks said. Ember stuck her tongue out at him. He returned the gesture.

“Besides, sweetie,” Kizzy said. “You’ve got such pretty eyes. Why get a full implant when you could just wear a hud?”

“He’s got a full implant,” Ember said, pointing at Nib.

“He also had an ‘incident,’ ” Jenks said. He pantomimed firing a gun at his own face, and made an explosion gesture over his eye. Redreed smoke burst from his nose as he laughed.

“I’m so glad you’re staying over,” Nib said.

Jenks raised his mug in a jaunty salute.

Nib glanced at the clock on the wall. “News should be uploaded by now. Anyone mind if I put it on?” he said.

There was a general shaking of heads. “Nib is something of a junkie when it comes to current events,” Bear said to Rosemary. “Or past events. Or just events in general, really.”

“He’s a reference file archivist,” Kizzy said.

“No kidding?” said Rosemary. “Volunteer?”

Nib nodded. “Some people knit, some people play music, I dig through dusty old facts and make sure they’re accurate.” He flopped back into a chair as the pixels in the central projector flickered to life. “I like knowing things.”

Rosemary was impressed. Archivists were passionate people, some of whom dedicated their whole lives to the pursuit of unbiased truth. Given the wealth of information that needed sorting through, professional archivists relied heavily upon volunteers to help keep public files current. Rosemary had always imagined them like guardians from some fantasy vid, defending the galaxy from inaccuracies and questionable data.

“What are you working on, if I may ask?” Rosemary said.

“I belong to one of the interspecies history teams. It’s fascinating work, but it can be a real pain in the ass. You would not believe the amount of bogus, speciest submissions we have to deal with.”

“Examples,” Kizzy said.

Nib sighed and scratched his beard. “The best one I’ve seen in a while claimed that the Exodus Fleet could never have sustained that many people for so long, ergo the Human race did not originate on Earth at all.”

Jenks raised his head. “So where are we from, then?”

Nib grinned. “We’re a genetweaked species the Harmagians cooked up.”

Jenks hooted with laughter. “Oh, my mom would have a coronary if she read that.”

“That’s so dumb,” said Ember. “What about all the Earthen ruins and stuff? All those old cities?”

“I know, I know,” Nib said with a shrug. “But we still have to go through the process of objectively disproving the claim. That’s our job.”

“Why would people go to all the trouble of trying to prove something like that?” Kizzy asked.

“Because they’re idiots,” said Bear. “And speaking of, the news has started.”

Nib gestured to the pixels, bringing the volume up. A pixelated Quinn Stephens spoke from his desk, as always. Rosemary had never followed Exodan news feeds before coming aboard the Wayfarer, but she’d picked up the habit from Ashby. It was a comfort knowing that no matter what system you were in, Quinn was there to bring you the news. The pixels flickered with signal decay. They were a long way from the Fleet.

The newsman’s voice came through. “– news from Mars, the trial that has been dubbed the scandal of the century finally came to a close today with the sentencing of former Phobos Fuel CEO Quentin Harris the Third.”

Rosemary’s warm, comfortable feeling disappeared with a thud. Oh, no. She dug her fingers into the folds of her pants, trying to keep her face as emotionless as the newsman.

“Harris was found guilty of all charges, including extortion, fraud, smuggling, and crimes against sapient kind.”

Breathe. Don’t think about it. Think about the bugs outside. Think about anything.

“Damn right he was found guilty,” said Jenks. “What an asshole.”

“Who?” asked Bear, raising his chin.

“Head down,” mumbled Kizzy, holding several hair ties between her teeth.

“The Phobos guy,” said Nib. “The one who sold weapons to the Toremi.”

“Oh, right,” Bear said. “That asshole.”

“I don’t know who we’re talking about,” Ember said.

“Ever heard of Phobos Fuel? Big ambi distributor?”

Second biggest, in Human space, Rosemary thought.

“I guess,” said Ember.

Bear pointed at the pixels. “Well, the dude who owned the company apparently had an illegal weapons business on the side. That’s where his real creds came from.”

“You’ve got illegal weapons.”

Nib crossed his arms. “Ember, there is an enormous difference between making weapons for fun and selling gene targeters to both sides of a interstellar blood feud.”

Ember raised her eyebrows. “Gene targeters? That’s… wow. That’s fucked up.”

“Yep,” Bear said. “And now he and his buddies are going to jail forever.”

Jenks shook his head. “Why can’t people just stick with bullets and energy bursts and be happy about it?”

“Because people are assholes,” said Bear, dutifully keeping his head down. “Ninety percent of all problems are caused by people being assholes.”

“What causes the other ten percent?” asked Kizzy.

“Natural disasters,” said Nib.

The projector showed a cuffed and humiliated Quentin Harris the Third as he was marched from the courthouse to a police skimmer. His face was unreadable, his suit immaculately stitched. Angry protesters pressed against the energy barriers that surrounded the courthouse. Cheap printed signs danced over their heads. “THERE IS BLOOD ON YOUR HANDS,” read one. Another held a pixel insert of a bloodied Toremi carrying a mangled corpse. Below the insert was the Phobos slogan: “KEEPING THE GALAXY MOVING.” Other signs were more simple. “WARMONGER.” “TRAITOR.” “MURDERER.” The barriers holding them back bulged like overfilled pockets.

The reporter continued his calm tale of biological warfare and greed. Rosemary focused all her energy toward her eyes. Do not cry. Don’t cry. You can’t.

“Rosemary, you okay?” Jenks asked.

Rosemary wasn’t sure how she replied, something about being fine and just needing some air. She excused herself, walked steadily down the hall, and exited the homestead.

Outside, the ketlings continued their chaotic dance. The sun was setting behind them, transforming the scene into a macabre shadow puppet show. Rosemary was unfazed. The ketlings did not feel real. The homestead, the siblings, the moon beneath her feet, none of it felt real. All she could think of was that pixelated face on the projector, the face she had traveled across the galaxy to get away from. She tried to breathe slow, tried to fight back the raw, smothering feeling blossoming within her chest. She sat down in the dirt and stared at her hands. She grit her teeth. Everything she’d worked so hard to bottle away when she left Mars was bubbling up, and she wasn’t sure she could push it back down this time. She had to, though. She had to.

“Rosemary?”

Rosemary jumped. It was Jenks, standing beside her. She hadn’t heard the door, or his footsteps. She barely heard the ketlings droning overhead.

“What’s wrong?” His hands were in his pockets, his eyebrows knitted together.

As she looked him in the eye, something within her broke. She knew it might cost her the goodwill of the crew and her place on the Wayfarer, but she couldn’t do it anymore. She couldn’t keep up the lie any longer.

Rosemary looked away, out past the ketlings, across the rocky crags, all the way to the unfamiliar sun. Its light seared into her eyes, and remained there, heavy and orange, even as she closed them. “Jenks, I haven’t… I haven’t been… stars, you’re all going to hate me for this.” They would. And Ashby would fire her, and Sissix would never talk to her again.

“Doubtful,” Jenks said. “We like you a lot.” He sat down next to her and hit the bowl of his pipe against his boot. The tightly packed ash came loose and tumbled to the ground.

“But you don’t, you don’t know… I can’t do this.” She leaned her forehead into her palm. “I know I’m going to get kicked off the ship, but—”

Jenks stopped fussing with his pipe. “Okay, now you have to tell me,” he said, his voice stern but calm. “Take all the time you need, but you’re telling me.”

She took a breath. “That guy on the news,” she said. “Quentin Harris?”

“Yeah?”

“He’s my father.”

Jenks said nothing. He exhaled. “Holy shit. Oh, Rosemary, I’m… wow. I’m so sorry.” He paused again. “Shit, I had no idea.”

“That was the point. Nobody was supposed to know. I shouldn’t even be here, I’m not—I lied, Jenks, I lied and cheated and covered things up, but I just can’t do this anymore, I can’t—”

“Whoa, hey, slow down. One thing at a time.” He sat quiet, thinking. “Rosemary, I have to ask this, and you have to tell me the truth, okay?”

“Okay.”

His jaw was firm, his eyes wary. “Were you involved in… in what he did? I mean, even just a little bit, doctoring forms or lying to the police or something—”

“No.” It was the truth. “I didn’t know anything about it. I didn’t know anything until the detectives appeared at my apartment and spent the morning asking me questions. They knew I had nothing to do with it, and they told me I was under no obligation to be involved with the trial. I didn’t even have to stay on Mars.”

He searched her face, and nodded. “So… okay.” He laughed. “Stars, that’s a relief. I thought I was going to hate you there for a minute.” He patted her leg. “Alright, you’re innocent. So…” He looked baffled. “Rosemary, sorry, but what the fuck is the problem here?”

She was shocked still. “What?”

“I mean, okay, I get that you’re going through a lot right now, and by a lot, I mean some serious emotional shit that’s going to take us dozens of bottles of kick to work through, but why lie about it? If you’re not involved, then why would you think we’d care?”

Rosemary was unprepared for this. Months and months of worrying and dreading, and he didn’t care? “You don’t understand. Back on Mars, it didn’t matter that I hadn’t done anything. Everyone knew who I was. All the news feeds, it was nothing but our family history, even vacation pics and things like that. All focused on my father, of course, but there’s little me, smiling and waving at his side. I don’t even know how they got that stuff. And it was all paired up with medical experts talking about what targeters do to you, and all those news people yelling about corruption. You know the feeds, they never stop once they get their claws in. My friends stopped talking to me. People would yell things at me out in public—‘hey, your dad’s a murderer,’ as if I didn’t know what he’d done. I’d been applying for jobs at the time, and nobody called me back. Nobody wanted my family’s name associated with their business.”

“But your name’s Harper,” Jenks said.

She pressed her lips together. “What would you do if you wanted to get away? I mean really get away, so that nobody knew who you’d been before?”

Jenks thought. He gave a slow nod. “Oh. Oh, I think I get it.” He reached out his hand. “Let’s see it.”

“See what?”

“Your patch.”

Rosemary hesitantly lay her right wrist in his palm. She pushed up her wristwrap, exposing the patch beneath. Jenks leaned in, studying it closely.

“This is fucking amazing work,” he said at last. “The only way you can tell it’s new is by how it healed. If I didn’t know better, I’d say this was a genuine replacement for a fried patch.”

“That’s because it is a genuine replacement,” Rosemary said. She swallowed. Her tongue felt thick.

Jenks was puzzled. “How did you get—” His face lit up. “Phobos Fuel. Right. You’ve got money. Serious money.”

“I had money. Before—”

“Before you paid someone off. Paid someone to give you a new ID file. Shit, Rosemary, you must’ve paid them a fortune not to talk.”

“Everything I had,” she said. “Except for transport and hotels, that sort of thing.” She laughed without smiling. “My family may not have taught me much about the galaxy, but buying favors? We’ve got that down.”

“But you’re really a clerk, right? Like, you know your way around formwork, you obviously went to school. That’s all true, right?”

She nodded. “The official who helped me, he changed all my records, made sure my new file was linked to everywhere I’d ever been. So my diploma, my certification, my letters of recommendation, they’re all mine. The only way anybody would find out that the associated ID file had been altered was if, say, one of my crewmates went to Mars and asked one of my friends about me. I figured finding work out in the open limited the chances of running into anybody from back home. So I put my name on the queue for long-haul work, and here I am.”

Jenks rubbed his beard. “So, then, what’s wrong? If you did the course work, and you have the skills, you deserve to have this job. Why would we throw you off the ship?”

“Because I lied, Jenks. I lied to Ashby when I told him who I was. I’ve been lying to all of you every time you’ve asked me about my life back on Mars. I came into your home and told you lie after lie about who I am.”

“Rosemary.” Jenks put his hand on her shoulder. “I’m not going to insult you by pretending like I get what you’re dealing with. If someone in my family did something like this… stars, I don’t know what I’d do. I can’t offer advice here, but if you ever need a shoulder to cry on, mine’s good and ready. As for who you are—and your name really is Rosemary, right?—okay.” He nodded back toward the homestead. “Do you know why Human modders give themselves weird names?”

She shook her head.

“It’s a really old practice, goes back to pre-Collapse computer networks. We’re talking old tech here. People would choose names for themselves that they only used within a network. Sometimes that name became so much a part of who they were that even their friends out in the real world started using it. For some folks, those names became their whole identity. Their true identity, even. Now, modders, modders don’t care about anything as much as individual freedom. They say that nobody can define you but you. So when Bear gave himself a new arm, he didn’t do it because he didn’t like the body he was born in, but because he felt that new arm fit him better. Tweaking your body, it’s all about trying to make your physical self fit with who you are inside. Not that you have to tweak to get that feeling. Like me, I like to decorate myself, but my body already fits with who I am. But some modders, they’ll keep changing themselves their entire lives. And it doesn’t always work out. Sometimes they seriously mess themselves up. But that’s the risk you take in trying to be more than the little box you’re born into. Change is always dangerous.” He tapped her arm. “You’re Rosemary Harper. You chose that name because the old one didn’t fit anymore. So you had to break a few laws to do it. Big fucking deal. Life isn’t fair, and laws usually aren’t, either. You did what you had to do. I get that.”

Rosemary bit her lip. “I still lied to you all.”

“Yeah, you did. And you’re going to have to fess up. Not to anybody outside the crew, if you don’t want to, but the people you live with need to hear it. That’s the only way you can make up for it and move on.”

“Ashby—”

“Ashby is the most reasonable man I’ve ever met. Sure, he’s not going to be thrilled about it.” He paused for a split second. Rosemary could see a separate thought flash past his eyes, distracting him. He cleared his throat, and came back. “But you’ve been kicking ass at your job, and you’re a good person. That’s going to matter more to him than anything else.”

Rosemary looked at her friend, and hugged him hard. “Thank you,” she said. Tears flowed down her cheeks. They felt clean.

“Hey, no worries. We’re crew. And you’ll get through this, you know. I know you will.” He paused. “I’m sorry for calling your dad an asshole.”

Rosemary looked at him with disbelief. “Jenks, my father sold biological weapons to both sides of a civil war outside his own species, and all for getting access to the ambi across their borders. I think calling him an asshole is being generous.”

“Well… okay, yeah, that’s fair.” He rubbed his beard. “Stars, I wish I knew what to say. When we get back to the ship, you need to talk to Dr. Chef. One on one.”

“About what?”

“About his species.”