dropped on purpose or by accident. Drop cans could withstand the fall, but the G-forces were brutal to anyone stowing away inside. Most Breaches preferred to hitch a ride just before the empty cans were strung on the lifter’s downward cable, hoping the cans’ shielding would protect them from Santee’s Van Allen belts. Either was a tough way to jump ship.
I pulled alongside the closest can and tossed cane rubber fenders over the side to keep the boat from smashing on the can’s hull. Proper protocol for Recovery involved a lot of decontamination and quarantine, but I was in a hurry. I grabbed the biggest wrench I could find on the launch and banged three times on the can. The thick steel rang, hollow like a cave.
Then there was an answer: a furious pounding from inside, and the unmistakable cry of “Get us the hell out of here!” Us . Oh, that was a sweet sound. I scooted the launch up to an access hatch, and, despite the poor condition of the tools on board, managed to crack the seal and open. “Anyone in there injured?”
“Yes!” came a chorus of voices. Excellent. I knew those How to Breach pamphlets had been a good investment.
“Good,” I said, tugging on the hatch as hard I could. “Then, on behalf of the Santee Anchorage Local of the Universal Freelancer’s Union and the Ward of Brushhead, I’d like to offer you assist–”
The hatch gave, and I tumbled back on my ass. When I stood up, five pasty people in damp WalWa coveralls looked up at me.
“OK,” I said, wiping the rust off my hands. “Get on board, and tell everyone else to step lively.”
“There’s just us,” said one of them, a woman with a ruined smoker’s voice. She was all muscle and had a patch over her right eye. Her face was bright red and wealed by burn scars, crinkling what looked like a tattoo of crossed wrenches. For the briefest of moments, I thought I knew her. No, I knew I knew her, even though I had never met a one-eyed ship’s engineer in my life. Was she someone from my days in the Life Corporate? No, that was impossible. No one from my previous life had ever Breached.
I held out a hand, and she took it with a grunt. I shuddered as she squeezed so hard I felt my fingers pop. I may not have known her, but I was sure I wouldn’t like her.
The others followed her: a pair of old ladies whose ink had faded, a gaunt white guy whose coveralls were three sizes too big, and a middle-aged woman dragging a body by the shoulders. They all huddled on the deck like sheep, glancing up at the sky, as if they expected a WalWa security boat to smash down on them.
“Good,” I said. “Now, let’s get the others.”
“What others?” said the gaunt man. BANKS was stitched over his left breast pocket, and he had scales tattooed on his cheek. A lawyer. Great.
“There are supposed to be forty of you,” I said.
Banks shook his head. “Just six. Well, I guess that’s if you want to include Thanh.” He nodded at the body.
I looked at him, then climbed over the lot of them to the hatch of the fuel can. There was nothing but the smell of rank seawater. The only pings I got were from these six, and one had no lifesigns. I looked back at him. “My source told me that me that forty of you were going to Breach.”
Banks shrugged. “There were just the six of us awake. I mean, unless some of those fishsticks were thinking about it, but it’s not like they could tell us–”
I grabbed him by the front of his coveralls. “THERE WERE SUPPOSED TO BE FORTY OF YOU.”
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” he said, and the way his eyes went wide and watery told me enough. There were only five Breaches, six with the corpse. I was short of meeting my obligation. Vytai Bloombeck had lied to me, and, worst of all, I’d fallen for it.
I thumped the side of the can, and it rang back, hollow. I could hear The Fear laughing, its chainsaw voice bouncing around my skull. I rubbed my temples, pushed back the tingling paralysis creeping up my
I pulled alongside the closest can and tossed cane rubber fenders over the side to keep the boat from smashing on the can’s hull. Proper protocol for Recovery involved a lot of decontamination and quarantine, but I was in a hurry. I grabbed the biggest wrench I could find on the launch and banged three times on the can. The thick steel rang, hollow like a cave.
Then there was an answer: a furious pounding from inside, and the unmistakable cry of “Get us the hell out of here!” Us . Oh, that was a sweet sound. I scooted the launch up to an access hatch, and, despite the poor condition of the tools on board, managed to crack the seal and open. “Anyone in there injured?”
“Yes!” came a chorus of voices. Excellent. I knew those How to Breach pamphlets had been a good investment.
“Good,” I said, tugging on the hatch as hard I could. “Then, on behalf of the Santee Anchorage Local of the Universal Freelancer’s Union and the Ward of Brushhead, I’d like to offer you assist–”
The hatch gave, and I tumbled back on my ass. When I stood up, five pasty people in damp WalWa coveralls looked up at me.
“OK,” I said, wiping the rust off my hands. “Get on board, and tell everyone else to step lively.”
“There’s just us,” said one of them, a woman with a ruined smoker’s voice. She was all muscle and had a patch over her right eye. Her face was bright red and wealed by burn scars, crinkling what looked like a tattoo of crossed wrenches. For the briefest of moments, I thought I knew her. No, I knew I knew her, even though I had never met a one-eyed ship’s engineer in my life. Was she someone from my days in the Life Corporate? No, that was impossible. No one from my previous life had ever Breached.
I held out a hand, and she took it with a grunt. I shuddered as she squeezed so hard I felt my fingers pop. I may not have known her, but I was sure I wouldn’t like her.
The others followed her: a pair of old ladies whose ink had faded, a gaunt white guy whose coveralls were three sizes too big, and a middle-aged woman dragging a body by the shoulders. They all huddled on the deck like sheep, glancing up at the sky, as if they expected a WalWa security boat to smash down on them.
“Good,” I said. “Now, let’s get the others.”
“What others?” said the gaunt man. BANKS was stitched over his left breast pocket, and he had scales tattooed on his cheek. A lawyer. Great.
“There are supposed to be forty of you,” I said.
Banks shook his head. “Just six. Well, I guess that’s if you want to include Thanh.” He nodded at the body.
I looked at him, then climbed over the lot of them to the hatch of the fuel can. There was nothing but the smell of rank seawater. The only pings I got were from these six, and one had no lifesigns. I looked back at him. “My source told me that me that forty of you were going to Breach.”
Banks shrugged. “There were just the six of us awake. I mean, unless some of those fishsticks were thinking about it, but it’s not like they could tell us–”
I grabbed him by the front of his coveralls. “THERE WERE SUPPOSED TO BE FORTY OF YOU.”
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” he said, and the way his eyes went wide and watery told me enough. There were only five Breaches, six with the corpse. I was short of meeting my obligation. Vytai Bloombeck had lied to me, and, worst of all, I’d fallen for it.
I thumped the side of the can, and it rang back, hollow. I could hear The Fear laughing, its chainsaw voice bouncing around my skull. I rubbed my temples, pushed back the tingling paralysis creeping up my
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