Unlucky

He was hungry.

He'd been hungry for a long time. There was food, rotting, stinking food that sometimes made him vomit, but food nonetheless, in the cans scattered here and there, but he was usually chased away from it by those larger and stronger.

Or if not larger and stronger, then at least with others to help them hunt away strangers and claim the food for themselves.

He didn't have others.

He was alone.

That was worse than being hungry. Being hungry was a constant pain that gnawed at his belly and burned his throat and made him almost too weak to walk, sometimes, but being alone was Wrong.

It wasn't his fault. He'd just been unlucky, or that's what he tried to tell himself when the feeling of Wrong got so bad he couldn't uncurl himself.

He hadn't always been alone. He'd had a pack, too, once. Not a big one, but a good one. He hadn't been hungry, or cold, or chased, then. He'd had a good leader, even if it was a Big, a leader who always made sure there was food, and fresh clean water that hadn't been pissed in, and had kept strangers out of their home.  It hadn't been a big home, but it was big enough for their pack, just him and his sister and Packleader.

Packleader hadn't been able to talk properly, of course, being a Big, although it tried sometimes, making noises with its mouth.  He'd learned how to understand what it wanted when it made those noises, or some of them, anyway, and that made Packleader happy.

But then one day Packleader had started to smell wrong.  It had laid down in its sleeping place and stopped moving. He and his sister had tried to wake Packleader up, had licked all its fur the wrong way round, but Packleader didn't wake up, and after a while Packleader started to be cold and smell even more wrong, and that's when he'd known that Packleader had stopped being there and had turned into food, even though nobody had bitten it on the back of the neck the way you did to turn something into food.

That was the first time he'd known what it was to be hungry.

He'd pulled on the metal thing where Packleader kept the food, even though that was a Badboy, Wrong, thing to do and it made him want to dig a hole and hide, doing it. He and his sister had drunk water from the bowl in the waste place, beside the dirt Packleader always put there for them to use, even though drinking water from that bowl was another Badboy thing.

They'd been thirsty.  He didn't think Packleader would have wanted them to be thirsty.

They ate the food from the metal thing until it ran out. Then he'd tried to find more food for them, but their home only opened when Packleader made it and neither he nor his sister had been able to make it work.  They'd waited for another Big to come and bring food, but no Big came, and they got hungrier and hungrier. His sister's fur began to fall out, and his mouth hurt and bled all the time.  One day his sister wouldn't get up from her sleeping place.

That's when he decided they had to eat Packleader.

It was an awful, Wrong, Badboy thing, but he couldn't think of anything else.

Packleader was enough food for a while longer, but he'd started to worry about what they'd do when it was gone by the time they heard the home opening one day and some more Bigs came.

They didn't bring food, though. And they didn't want to be part of the pack. They put their paws over their noses and made loud noises with their mouths and when they found Packleader those noises got so loud they hurt his ears.

Then one of them rushed at him and his sister and even though he'd never seen a Big in fighting posture he could tell instantly that's what it was. His sister told him to run and got in between him and the Big.  The home was still open and he'd run for the outside. Before he got there he looked back to make sure his sister was following him and just as he did the Big lifted one foot and brought it down hard on her.  There was a crunching noise.

He'd learned that day you don't need teeth to bite someone on the back of the neck.

He ran, and kept running, until the Big stopped chasing him and longer, until his paws were so sore he couldn't bear to put them on the ground, and then he crawled into the smallest place he could find and curled up and cried, for his sister, who was now food, for Packleader, and for himself, who was Wrong, and Badboy, and alone.

The next morning was the first time he was hunted by another pack.

No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't find a pack that would let him be part of them.  If he'd been younger, maybe, or older, the Packleaders wouldn't have cared. Or if he'd been stronger and large, he could have fought a Packleader and taken their pack for himself. But he wasn't strong, or large. He was the right size to sit on a Big's legs when they were resting, which had been just the right size for his old Packleader, but was just the wrong size now.  And no Bigs wanted to be his Packleader, even when he showed them how he could chase his tail as if it was a scurry-food, and pretend to be surprised when he caught it, which had always made his old Packleader happy.

It didn't make the other Bigs happy. One even kicked him, hard, but he remembered what happened to his sister and when he saw the Big's paw go up he dodged, and the kick only hit his side and leg.  It still hurt, even though it didn't turn him into food, and it never stopped hurting, so he couldn't run much anymore.

After than he stayed away from all the Bigs.

So he was hungry, all the time. And hunted. And alone, which was worst of all.

Right now, though, he could smell food.

He crept out of the hole where he'd been hiding from the other packs and tried to work out where the smell was coming from.  His nose told him it was somewhere in the Bigs that hurried by, near the big fast metal things, and he wanted to cry.  He couldn't go out there, among all of them, with their kicking paws and loud noises, especially not near the big fast metal things. He'd seen others get too close to those things and suddenly become flat and food.

He was so hungry, though.

And what if they did kick him? What if he did turn into food? He was alone, and Badboy, and Wrong.

And hungry.

He crept out, just a little way, to see and smell better, belly low to the ground. None of the Bigs paid any attention.  The food smell moved away and he followed it, carefully, as fast as he could.  He couldn't walk very fast, since the Big had kicked him, and the smell got further away, and he wanted to cry again, but then it got much closer really quickly and he realized that the Big carrying the food had stopped.

He looked at it. It wasn't a very big Big, the same size as his old Packleader, and it was with another little Big who was part of its pack.  They made noises with their mouths at each other while he watched them. The smallest Big smelled sad, but the Packleader smelled like it was in fighting posture, even though its paws were on the ground.

He couldn't see any food, but it was there all right. Sometimes Bigs carried food in the outside-fur they had to make up for not having much proper fur. He guessed this one was doing that.

He really, really, didn't want to be kicked again.

He really, really wanted something to eat.

He crept forward, watching the Big's paws, and nosed it the way he used to nose his old Packleader to tell it he wanted food.

The Big looked at him. It didn't kick him.

It didn't give him any food, either.

He nosed it again, and even though Bigs couldn't talk, he tried explaining to it that he was very hungry, and Goodboy, and could he please have some food?

Both Bigs looked at him and made more noises with their mouths, not loud noises, though, and their paws stayed on the ground. While they were looking at him he showed them how he could chase his tail and pretend to catch it, except his side and his leg hurt too much and he fell over on his rump.  It was horribly humiliating, but he got up and tried again. He even pretended he'd meant to fall over, and did it again on purpose, even though it really hurt.

The Bigs made more noises. They didn't kick him.

They didn't give him any food, either.

He started to cry. He couldn't help it. He put his nose against the Big who was the Packleader and tried not to make any noises with his crying.

The Packleader Big put its paw inside its outside-fur and then it was holding food. It gave the food to the other Big and the other Big got down close to him on the ground and held it out in a paw.

It was real food, fresh, food that tasted of food. He tried to eat it politely, but he was too hungry.  When he was finished he headbutted the Big's hand the way he'd used to with his old Packleader, to show he was grateful.  The Big smelled sad again, when he did that, but it rubbed his head with its paw and gave him more food, and made noises to the Packleader.

The Packleader made noises back.

The Packleader didn't smell sad. It didn't smell happy, either.

It didn't smell angry, though. Just ... a little bit like it was thinking about whether to dig a hole and hide, or get in fighting posture and bite someone on the back of the neck.

Not him, though, he didn't think.

He nosed it again.

This time the Packleader got down close to him and made more food appear in its paw. He took it and ate it the very politest way he knew how. This was a good pack, he could tell, even if the smaller Big was sad.  There wasn't any kicking.  The noises they made to each other weren't loud.

And they had a lot of food.

The little Big did something to its outside-fur, and took it apart. The Packleader took the piece, and tied it to his neck.  It held on to the other end.

It held on to the other end.

He stopped being alone, and Wrong. He had a pack.

He butted his Packleader's paw with his head and waited for it to tell him what to do.

Then something terrible happened.

One of the fast metal things came very very close and stopped and his pack went right up next to it.

He tried to tell them how dangerous it was, but they were Bigs, and he couldn't make them understand. The little Big climbed inside it, and then his Packleader did, and they ignored him, even when he danced the Danger Dance right there next to the metal thing.

His Packleader pulled the thing tied around his neck and made noises at him.

He wanted to run, more than anything. The metal things were dangerous and Wrong and even being this close to one made him want to dig a hole and hide.

But his pack was inside it. He couldn't run away and leave them in danger.

He had to at least try to protect them.

His Packleader pulled the thing around his neck again.

He closed his eyes and jumped.

Human

"No," Capitaine Elienne Desorlay said flatly. She opened the drawer of her desk and for an instant her hand hovered over her sidearm before she reached past it for the crumpled pack of cigarettes. "No fucking way."

"They'll dock you," Lieutenant Charles Etay reminded her mildly, "If you get another citation for smoking in the squadroom."

"My business," Elienne said, patting her pockets for a lighter. Shit. It's always in that one pocket ... She hoisted herself up to fit her fingers in the front pocket of pants that had been shrinking in the wash more and more lately. Got you, you putain de merde. "Not yours."

"Partners," Etay said. "What's yours is mine, remember? And I can't afford the fine. I'm going to be - "

"So you fucking said," Elienne snapped, flicked the lighter and saw their supervisor heading towards them. "Merde."

"Have an orange instead," Etay said, producing another of his increasingly-frequent fruit miracles from a jacket pocket.

"Gift from your fucking podder?" Elienne asked sourly.

Etay smiled at her, sunny and unperturbed. "From the podder I'm fucking, yes."

Elienne stuffed the unlit cigarette and lighter in her pocket. "And didn't anybody ever tell you not to wade without your waterproofs?"

"Mmm, well," Etay said, turning the orange slowly between his hands. "Everybody knows pod pilots can't be natural parents."

"So you just assumed..." Words failed her for a moment, and then returned in a string of obscenities that turned heads even in the squadroom.

Etay didn't try to interrupt, peeling the skin from the orange as Elienne gave him the full force of her opinion of his intelligence, parenthood, upbringing and general character. By the time she'd run down into fuming silence, he had a neat pile of peel on the edge of her desk and a heap of translucent crescents in the palm of one pale, long-fingered hand.  He offered one to her, the sweet, sharp scent stirring some dim image in Elienne's mind, a feeling like memory but one that connected to no place or time she'd ever known.  She took the fruit without conscious thought, a broken fingernail ripping the thin membrane and sending a trickle of juice running down her wrist.

"I assumed, oui," Etay said as Elienne stuffed the piece of orange in her mouth and licked the last trace of juice from her hand before it could disappear up her shirtsleeve. "I know. When you assume you make an 'ass' out of 'u' and - "

Elienne cut him off. "You made an ass out of you, farmboy, leave me the fuck out of it.  I wouldn't fuck a podder with my worst enemy's dick, let alone get her en cloque. And you think she was assuming she wouldn't end up avec un polichinel dans le tirrior?"

That got her another sunny smile. "Do you think it's a plan to sue me for child support?"

She snorted. "Be serious." Even with the worst will in the world it was hard to see how a capsuleer could be out for Charlie's money. He makes less than I do, for Fortune's sake, and I make two fifths of one tenth of fuck-all.

Charlie ate another crescent of orange. "I am serious," he said. "I'm serious about everything. You know that."

"Yeah, everything and nothing," Elienne said. "Charlie. This has gone far enough.  She's a podder."

"She is a podder, yes," he conceded. "And she's going to be the mother of my child."

"Mother?" Elienne closed her eyes, decided The Super can go fuck himself, and fumbled the now-crumpled cigarette out of her pocket. "Look, farmboy.  Whatever the fuck a podder turns into when it reproduces, it isn't a mother. A mother is a human thing, it's ... " She lit the cigarette and burned it a quarter down with one ferocious draw. "Take it from me. I've had three. Stretch-marks and hemorrhoids and tit-rot and all the rest of it. Waking up at one in the morning, and again at two thirty, and again at four, all of you hurting like poison from how tired you are, and still loving that little, screaming, stinking creature more than you ever knew there was love in you, even while you want to put a pillow over its face so you can get some sleep. Human, all of it, hard and ugly as it is. That's not something that belongs in a podder's world."  She ashed the cigarette into Etay's pile of orange peel and drew on it again. "You've been fooling yourself that this podder feels for you like you feel for her, and now tu l'as mise en cloque and you're talking about the  mother of your child but Charlie, she's a fucking starship, not a mother, and whatever comes out of her in nine month's time - "

"Six months," Etay corrected her mildly.

"Whenever the fuck, she won't be a mother and it won't be your child. If it's even a child."

His expression was grave, and for a moment Elienne thought she'd finally got through to him.  Then he quirked one eyebrow. "You think it'll be a shuttle?"

No such fucking luck.

She shook her head, and stubbed out  her cigarette on the sole of her shoe. "Charlie.  This isn't a joke. It isn't a crush, anymore, yours or hers."

He offered her another piece of orange, and when she made no move to take it, set it carefully on the edge of her desk, ends upright like Tomas had used to make the smiles in his drawings. "I know that."

Elienne shook her head. A podder gets a pretty plaything, stops taking his calls when she gets bored, never thinks about the wreck she makes of a man's heart. That's a heartbreak.

A podder gets a pretty plaything and takes a fancy to breed another. What does she do when she gets bored with her toys and her poor pretty boy's fantasy that he's got something to do with her life and her child?

More than a heart's going to get broken, here.

She picked up the piece of orange and bit into it, sweet and tart at the same time, and sighed. "What am I going to do with you, farmboy?"

Etay studied the heap of peel and cigarette ash for a moment, apparently giving her question serious thought, and then reached out and swept it all into the trash bin by the desk and gave her his sweetest, sunniest smile. "Tell me more about your hemorrhoids?" he suggested.

Elienne tried to glare at him, but as always, she couldn't keep it up. No wonder that Fortune forsaken podder picked him for a diversion.

Sweet, pretty, silly farmboy. Thinking about a little voice calling him 'Papa', about first steps and milk teeth and all the rest of the holvertisements. 

Poor stupid fool.

This is How It Is Not

This is how it is not.

You can forget.

Whole minutes, hours, sometimes almost the whole day, you can forget.

Things are very much as they used to be, after all.  Your quarters with the gaily colored blanket knit your mother's youngest brother knit for you when you first left home spread carefully over the bed, your office with all the books you've been meaning to read for about two years now on the shelves and the familiar copy of Iuenan's famous holo of the Salaajo dancer on the wall, the hangar with the perpetual faint tang of machine oil and freeze-burned metal, the mess with bowls of apples on every table ...

Things are so very much as they used to be, you can forget that they aren't how they used to be, won't ever be how they used to be, not ever again.

You even look the same, no suddenly grey hair or new lines showing in the mirror.  No dark shadows beneath your eyes telling the world of nightmares, because you're a professional and you're not about to ignore what you know is best practice.  Exercise, healthy food, meditation, plenty of water, sometimes pills, mild ones only, when absolutely necessary, scrupulously logged with two of your colleagues from Pilot Roth's medical staff.  Your eyes are bright, your skin clear, your clothes no tighter or looser than they were a year ago.

You look perfectly healthy, in the mirror, so perfectly healthy that you can forget that you aren't perfectly healthy, won't ever be perfectly healthy, not ever again.

This is how it is not.

You do your job as well as you used to, listen and question and follow the thread of the half-hinted revelation, offer a glass of water or a box of tissues when they're needed but not when they'd break the flow words from the patient sitting across from you. You ask how they feel about what they've told you, offer patience and kindness and at just the right moment the gentle nudge that steers them towards why they're really there. Never judging, never shocked, you're the calm face that makes it possible to put words around what's unspeakable, giving them the confidence that whatever it is that gnaws away at their heart in the darkest hours of the night, it can be faced and tamed and brought to heel. They don't know that it's a lie, and so for them it isn't one.

You lie so well that for hours at a time you can forget that you know the truth now: that some beasts can never be defeated and some dark hours never end.

This is how it is not.

You can let a door close behind you without running through a calming exercise to keep your shrieking nerves from flooding your system with enough adrenaline to drop you hard into dark so black I can't tell if my eyes are open and someone screaming and they can't, they can't, they can't do this, it's a mistake, a mistake ...

You can glance casually around a room without bracing yourself in case you see a slightly-above average height man with a stocky build and light brown hair, a man just close enough to memory for your treacherous subconscious to do the rest and put you on my back and the hangar floor is cold and the weight of him is making it hard to breathe and there's nowhere that I still belong to myself now, not a single place, not even inside myself ...

You can go out without double checking the watch with the alarm that lets you know when you have to be back to take the needle from the box and stick it into the vein in your forearm, the vein pocked and pitted now with the only external marks of the constant battle between the poison and the nanites in your blood.

This is how it is not.

You can unwrap the neat package of words you've put around what happened and how you feel about it, the shiny coating that proves to the colleagues whose patient you are just how well you're dealing with what happened, how professional you've been, how much insight you have into your own case.

You don't find yourself kneeling on the shower floor with the warm water sluicing tears and snot from your face, sobbing Mumma, mumma until your throat is so sore and swollen a wave of panic breaks over you the vitoxin, the nanites have stopped working ...

You don't wake to sodden, stinking sheets, and sneak out to haul them to the 'cycler yourself so the ensign assigned to linen duty on your floor won't know that the crew's psychologist wets her bed every night.

This is how it is not.

You can see a way for you to live through this, imagine a future, not necessarily a good one but some sort of future, at least, with you in it.

This is how it is not.

You can forget.

Impossible Situations

You did your job.


Right, left, right-right, the heavy dummy jerking and rocking with each blow despite the weights at its base.

You were in an impossible situation.


Elbow, knee, fist. Left hook, right jab, right again and a kick.  Sweat burned her eyes, her breath coming short and fast as she pushed past her implants' ability to compensate, a blur of movement an untrained eye would have trouble tracking.  Hell, even a trained, unaugmented one.


Helmi is very well trained and she's packed full up to her back teeth with some of the best wiring money can buy.

All of it so there'll never be a situation that's impossible when it comes to Pilot's safety.

No matter what Pilot's sister says.


There's good enough, and not good enough, and a gap in between wide as the space between the stars, but no situation is impossible, if you're good enough, if you train hard enough, if you get it right.

Helmi got it wrong, there's no question of that.

Got herself good and dead, for one thing. Clear sign of a fuck-up.

Let Pilot get hurt. A little, Invelen had said. Before I realized.


The dummy jerks and dances, the casing beginning to split. Helmi hits it again, and again, leaving smears of blood despite the wraps over her knuckles. Her arms ache, her vision blurs, the bruises on her elbows and forearms and knees and shins are bad enough now for their dull warning ache to get past the pain suppression implant with each impact.

There's a limit, that's what Pilot's sister had said, making excuses Helmi didn't need made, offering forgiveness she hadn't asked for. There wasn't anything else you could have done.


But Helmi's not interested in forgiveness, and she's never been any better with limits than she is with excuses.  Not as a cadet, not in basic, not when Pilot's people hauled her off her crippled transport and the first face she saw as the marines snapped open their helmets was Sarge's.


You again, he'd said, even though they'd only met the once.

Me again.

Home Guard and Peace and Order, court-martial offence for either of them. Sergeant and Private on the same crew, same result. Lines that don't get crossed.

But Helmi and Sarge cross a lot of lines these days. After all, they live in a world where you come back to work two days after a bullet shatters your skull or a steel hand snaps your neck.  That's a pretty big fucking line, right there. 


Death used to be a limit.


Not any more.

Sarge forgave her for killing him. Helmi's still working on forgiving him for his forgiveness.

Not your fault, Alpassi, he'd said. Nothing you could have done.

But Helmi's not interested in excuses.

There's always something you can do.

If you try hard enough, work long enough. 


No situation is impossible.

Not even mine.

The Worst Of It: Two

You can hold onto pain, like it's a physical thing, curl yourself around it like the little sister you'd die to protect, if you want to.

Put your faith in it like the ancestors you don't have and the spirits you only pray to in foxholes.

Hold it close, so you can't feel shame or guilt past the fire of your cramping muscles, can't see the endless chain of sleepless nights ahead past the jangling colors spiraling across your field of vision, can't taste the copper coin of despair past the sour bile burning in your throat. Fill yourself with it until the hum of it in your veins drowns out everything else, until it coils through your body like smoke through a crematorium.

Amieta clung to the pain, clenched her fists on it until the servos whined and the joints grated in protest.

No more than I deserve.

There were voices, sometimes. Sometimes they were voices she knew. A woman's, soft and tender as the hands that smoothed her hair, that wiped her face. Ami? Can you hear me? Ami?

More often they were harsh, Amarr-accented, voices that went with blood and screaming and everyone dead, every single one of them but me.

The voice she thought she knew, her sister's voice, told her It isn't real, Ami, what you see, it isn't real. You're safe, with me, I'm here, Ami. Gentle fingers tried to prise open her fists, but flesh-and-blood was no match for Zainou's finest work. Cia gave up and wrapped her own hands around Amieta's, fingers tucked against the crook of rigid metal joints. I'm here, Ami. You're safe.

That might be true.

It might not be.

From moment to moment Amieta wasn't sure which of those was the worst of it.

The pain was true, the jagged edges of it in her gut, the burning cold that washed over her in waves, the hot ache in her bones.

The pain was real.

She wrapped herself in the pain like a blanket, drew it over her head and curled under it, fists clenched in its edges.

You can hold onto pain, like it's the most precious thing you have.

If you want to.

Drown yourself in it, let it wash away the knowledge that you've hurt the ones who love you, the fear you'll hurt them again, let the acid bath of it etch away the lies you told. You can let the pain eat away the shame.

And the reasons for it.

If you want to.

Even through the pain Amieta could feel Cia's hands curled around hers. She cracked an eyelid to see her sister's honey blonde head leaning on her arm, the edge of her face, one closed eye.

You can hold onto pain.

If you want to.

A new pain, different, signals firing from the machinery of her hands. Metal ground on metal, joints abused past tolerance.

The blonde head lifted. Cia blinked, eyes still cloudy with sleep. "Ami?"

Voice rusty with disuse, Amieta cleared her throat and then again, croaked, "I'm here."

Gritting her teeth against the pain, Amieta opened her hands.

Conversations on the Fortune's Firefly: Twenty Six

The instruments were laid out on the tray.

The needles and the knives.

Cia tried not look at them, but they were there, glinting in the corner of her eye.

"Are you ready, Captain Roth?" Dr Sanik asked.

No. No. Never, not ever.

"Yes," Cia said. She looked away from the tray and sat down on the examination table. "I'm ready. I think."

Metal clinked against metal. "This will only take a few moments."

"Thank you, doctor," Cia said politely. Something cold touched the skin behind her ear and she was -

falling away as fast as she can from

                                                               needles and

                  knives

and -

"Captain Roth."

Dr Sanik was on the other side of the room.

No, Cia realized. I'm on the other side of the room. Crouched in the corner, back pressed to the wall.

"Captain Night said you wanted this procedure," Dr Sanik said.

Want. Wrong word.

"I have to have it," Cia told her knees. "I have to."

Metal clinked on metal again. Cia stole a glance at Dr Sanik and saw her hands empty, the needles and the knives on the tray. "Did he explain to you that it is nothing like - the surgery you had before?"

"Yes. He said - " Cia closed her eyes and tried to make Silver's voice real, tried to make it sound as if he were there and not the other side of the cluster. A fairly minor operation, Cia. Very safe. "He said it was safe."

"It is safe," Dr Sanik said.

Cia nodded, and told her knees "I know."

"We can give you something to make it easier. A mild sedative, if you want."

"I want - " Not to have to do this. "To have -" Silver here, really here, not just a memory of a voice. "I could, if -" Ami were here, holding my hand.

"Captain Roth," Dr Sanik said. "I understand that you may feel some anxiety. I did, after all, perform the reconstructive surgery, after the ... incident."

"I know," Cia said. "I am sorry about that. I mean, I'm sorry about the - the fuss I made. I know, I knew, you weren't ... I did know. It was just the -"

              Needles

                                                                 and the

                           knives

                                                                                   and the dark.

"I understand from Captain Night there are some time constraints," Dr Sanik said.

"Yes." Cia took a deep breath, and forced herself to get up. The room spun, and then steadied. "Yes, there are. I can't afford to - I'll need to be sharp, later. I don't think, a sedative, I don't think it's a good idea."

"Then if you'll take a seat?" Dr Sanik indicated the examination table again. "We can begin."

It was a long way across the room to the table. Cia took a step, then another, keeping her gaze away from the tray, from what it held.

The last time Dr Sanik had held a scalpel and touched its blade to her scalp, Cia had held tight to Ami's cool metal hand, held on even in the dark, through the needles and the knives, until it was over.

Cia opened her mouth to say Wait, wait until Ami gets here, I'll be all right when Ami gets here.

Closed it again. If Ami was here, it wouldn't be necessary.

She heard metal scratch against metal, felt the cool touch of it on her skin. Someone was whimpering. Cia was too frightened to open her eyes to see who it was. Please, no, she thought, please, stop. Please.

The words stayed unspoken in her throat.

For family, you do anything.

Go anywhere.

Even into the dark.

Not Quite The End of The Universe

The station smelt.

Even in the hangar, Cia could taste the tang in the air: oil and grease, metal glowing under the heat of welding torches, something unrecognizable cooking at a food stall nearby.

Out in the corridors, the smells were stronger. A sickly blend of perfumes drifting from a gaggle of girls clattering and chattering past with their gazes sliding over the off-shift deckhands and dockhands slouching towards the bars and clubs on Recreation Row; a warm wave of fetid stench from the waste-cans as they were dragged through the access alleys; the thick simmer of spices poured over food protein to give it some illusion of flavor.

There was no reason the station cyclers should be weaker in Syndicate than in Heimatar. No reason at all, Cia told herself.

The station still smelt.

She swallowed hard and tried to ignore it. "Anything, M'ser Burke?"

Tanith Burke, dressed in a faded jacket with the shoulder patch that marked him as a Mordu's veteran, shook his head. "Couldn't find anyone who said they'd seen her."

"But that's just Mordu's Legion, isn't it?" Cia asked. "I mean, Ami was with the, the ... 'Bunnies'. Did you ask them?"

"It's not," Burke said, "Quite so simple."

"That's not a good enough answer, M'ser Burke." Cia turned on her heel so fast her head spun and she had to stop for a moment.

"Maybe we should go back to the hangar," Helmi said quietly.

"I'm not going anywhere until we find - " A gust of air carried the smell of sweat and onions and beer from a couple wandering past with their arms entwined and Cia stopped, gagging.

"They're not going to be faster with watching over you at the same time," Helmi said.

"You mean I'm in the way," Cia said. "Am I in the way, M'ser Burke?"

"I wouldn't put it precisely that way," Burke said.

"Well, how would you put it?" Cia felt her eyes sting with tears and blinked hard. "She's my sister, M'ser Burke, my sister and I can't just sit around and - " A sob escaped, despite her best efforts, and she covered her face with her hands.

"Perhaps you should get some rest," Burke suggested. "We are professionals, Captain Roth. Do you know the old saying about the man who buys a dog and barks himself?"

Wiping her eyes, Cia shook her head. "But I think I take your point. I'm sorry, Tanith. I didn't mean to shout at you."

"I'm sure it's been a very trying time for you," Burke said noncomittally.

Cia sighed. "Do you think you'll find her soon?"

"We know she's on this station," Burke said. "But things aren't quite as straightforward here as you might be used to. People are very wary of strangers, especially strangers asking questions." He offered his arm, and when Cia took it, tactfully turned her in the direction of the hangars. "It may take some time to build up the neccessary contacts and trust."

"How much time?"

"I won't mislead you, Captain. Months, rather than weeks."

"Oh."

They walked in silence a moment, and then Burke cleared his throat. "Of course, there is an alternative."

"Oh?"

"You could hire the local knowledge. In the person of a local operative, of some description. Of course, that would mean expanding the group of people aware of the situation, by one, at least."

"Oh," Cia said. "I don't want to ... but, months?"

"At least, Captain."

"Oh." She looked up at him. "Do you think that's what I should do? Hire someone?"

"I do," Burke said.

"Oh. Then, will you find someone for me to hire?"

They reached the hangar entrance and Burke stopped. "I'll look into it, Captain."

"Quickly, please," Cia said, having to blink back tears again. "I don't ... I don't like it here." She made herself smile, made her voice light. "It smells terrible. Like ..." Welded metal and cheap perfume, bulk spices and liquor and sweat. "Like the end of the universe."

One of Burke's eyebrows went up at that. "Sydnicate is not quite the end of the universe, Captain," he said. "There is still Solitude. And the Outer Ring."

"Well," Cia said. "We'd better hurry, then. I don't think - " She bit her lip. "I don't think it's a good idea."

To let her get any further away.