Chapter 126: Chapter 38: A Worse Fate

The hatch opened with an ear-grating screech, exposing a dingy cargo hold lined with crudely constructed cells. A makeshift brig, or what a brig would look like if it were handmade for a ship returning from a layover in hell.

The cells were formed by hand-cut sections of glass held in place by salvaged metal beams welded onto the deck and ceiling. The walls were noticeably crooked, as if their alignment was eyeballed at installation. The cells were locked with cable tie-downs. A two-meter-wide corridor stretched down the brig’s center. At the far end sat an examination table with tie-down straps at the feet and arm positions, making it clear the space was not used for medical care.

The Stardancer crew was led into the hold and ushered into the cells. Stale body odor and organic waste lingered in the air. The brutes guided a still-dazed Milia to her cell and shoved her inside. She hit the bulkhead and dropped, clutching her face.

Trailing last, Dash said, “That was unnecessary!” He regretted his words when his escort gave him the same treatment. The man snorted in amusement as he locked the cell door. The scavengers then filed out of the hold, leaving the captured crew to themselves.

Dash stood slowly, his body still stiff from his confinement aboard his own ship. He pressed on his cell walls. The glass and metal—as shoddy as it looked—didn’t budge. He scanned the other cells, observing the slumped forms of his crew, both loyal and mutinous. His gaze ended at Milia’s cell across the way. She lay on her stomach, unmoving. He stepped to his cell door and said, “Are you hurt?”

She stirred and sat up to lean against the bulkhead, but refused to meet his gaze. A drip of crimson trickled from her nose and over her lips. “What do you care?”

“I know what it’s like recovering from being stunned,” he said. Only after he spoke did he sense the bite behind his words. He hadn’t intended it to come out like that.

“She deserves it for getting all of us in this mess,” Gaius said from the cell next to Milia, his back pressed against the glass partition separating them.

“Her plan would’ve worked had Dash sold it,” Henrik snapped from the cell on the other side of Gaius.

“Somebody’s been sucking in too many fumes down in Engineering,” Gaius said. “Rakton was onto us from the start. It was a terrible plan. You all really thought this mutiny thing through.” Milia kicked the glass, startling him. He shifted to the other side of the cell. “Not so smug now, are you?”

“Stow it, you whiny brat,” Rosalie said.

“We appreciate her for trying,” Draug said.

“You may want to reconsider your unflappable support for her given our current circumstances,” Wesley said.

“You’re one to talk,” Henrik said. “This entire chain of events began when we were forced to take you aboard.”

Gaius held his arms out. “Is there anything that isn’t Dash’s fault? Or is that your blanket excuse for everything?”

Brock smacked a meaty hand against his cell door. “Big talk from captain’s pet!”

Dash brought his thumb and index finger to his lips and blew a sharp whistle. The bickering ceased. “All of you are right. I could’ve done a better job of selling it. And Rakton was suspicious from the start. All of our choices led us here. We can’t change the past. There’s no use arguing about it. So please, just stop.”

Henrik said, “You don’t speak for us—”

“Just shut up, Henrik,” Milia said.

Henrik’s nostrils flared, but he said nothing else. He sat in a huff. Only the soft hum of the air supply vent filled the hold.

Dash met eyes with Gaius across the way. The pilot offered a slight nod and a hint of a smirk. Dash understood the gesture. There they were, in a heap of trouble once again, though this time appeared far worse than any previous incident.

Maybe Kashara had been right all along. Maybe they were the Z Team.

In the cell beside Dash, Wesley sat cross-legged, his hands on his knees and eyes shut. Dash thought why not, and mimicked the pose as close as he could manage. He shut his eyes and knew he could never pull off a mind free of thought. But he took in the silence, and that was pleasant enough.

It didn’t last.

The hold’s hatch opened, and Rakton entered. Mylo and the brutes followed her in and took positions on either side. A thin bead of sweat lined Rakton’s forehead, her pudgy cheeks flushed pink. Mylo shuffled behind her, sulking and depleted.

She strode forward, her feet heavy on the deck despite her small stature. Her chin held high, she eyed each captive with disgust. The Stardancer crew lowered their heads to the floor, save for Dash, who met her stare. At the end of the cells, she reversed course. “I’ve had my fair share of people trying to kill me,” she said with a hint of pride. “This is without a doubt the most pathetic attempt yet.”

Rakton stopped at Milia’s cell and faced her former first mate. Milia raised her head. Her jaw clenched and unclenched as she faced off with Rakton. Only a few centimeters of glass prevented her from leaping upon her captor. The scavenger captain morphed into a disappointed parent. “My Lords, Milia, you’ve really outdone yourself this time. Recruiting some small-minded haulers to help you in your moronic little scheme to take me out. How obvious could you be? And to fail in such spectacular fashion? How embarrassing.”

“You’re lucky you were sober for once and able to smash together enough brain cells to figure it out,” Milia said, each word hot with contempt.

“Revenge does wonders for clear-headed thinking,” Rakton said. “I’m sure you heard about our latest exploits on the news feeds. Hitting ships along Cova Straits. We even bagged a few right here in Atan! The sad part is, you could’ve been right here by my side, raking in the creds.”

“I’d rather drown in a sewage tank,” Milia said.

“Milia and the ops crew mutinied and made us do it!” Gaius said, pointing to Dash and Wesley. “The flight crew had no part in it.”

Rakton spun toward the source of the interruption. She approached Gaius, hands pressed together. “You’re telling me she forced you into this? You poor thing. I guess I should let you go then.” She waited until the Slyvarkian’s confused face began to fill with hope. “Of course I’m not letting you go! Your ineptitude allowed Milia to take over the ship and follow through on her half-assed plan. I’ll be doing the galaxy a favor when I get rid of the lot of you.” She pause, soaking in Gaius’s appearance. “Though, you’re easy on the eyes. Maybe I’ll keep you around.”

Dash said, “Captain Rakton, as captain of the Stardancer—”

“You were the captain,” Rakton corrected.

“—I take responsibility. You can punish me.”

Rakton approached Dash’s cell. “How noble of you,” she said, and leaned forward. “Do you honestly think I would take you up on that offer?”

“No,” Dash admitted.

“Just space us already and get it over with,” Milia said.

“Believe me, I’m very tempted to do that,” Rakton said. “But that’s a little too abrupt. You’re not getting off that easy.” She stepped to Milia’s cell and hissed, “I want you to suffer.”

Milia’s head tilted. “I’m stuck here in this stinking hold listening to you flap your lips. Mission accomplished.”

A wicked grin spread across Rakton’s face. “We’ll see how long that spiciness lasts.”

“You could turn us in to SecForce,” Dash said. “Piracy is a serious offense.”

Rakton’s laughter boomed from deep within her generous belly. “Sure, I’ll march right up to the agency on the hunt for pirates. That’s a great idea.” She shook her head at him. “Maybe I’ll start by tearing your ship apart in front of your eyes. I know that will kill you on the inside.” She redirected her gaze to Milia. “But the question is, how does Milia feel about it?”

“I’m all for whatever increases the chance of you rupturing a fuel line and blowing yourself to hell,” Milia said.

Rakton laughed again, a sinister grin on her face. “As much as I’d like to strip it to bits right now, I’ve got a better idea in mind that’ll make me more creds.” She left the cells and stood by the hatch. “That’s enough flapping your mouths and wasting my oxygen. We’ll be underway soon. It won’t be long before you find out your fates. Until then, Mylo will be sure to keep you busy. You cause me any grief, Lon and Jido here have my permission to make you suffer.” On her flanks, the brutes—Lon the uglier of the two—sneered in sadistic glee.

Milia leaned against her cell door. “How’d you know it was a trap?”

Rakton paused and peered at Milia, somehow surprised and disgusted at the same time. “How did you not know that I would know?” She stomped to Milia’s cell, her nose almost touching the door. “I squashed your first pathetic attempt. My only misstep was letting you slip away. It wasn’t even my fault. That moron Jerid didn’t lock down the escape pods like I told him to. He went out the same hatch you did, minus the pod.”

“Too bad for you. He made a nice pot of caff.”

“Do you want to know what the biggest tell was? It was your mouth. It wasn’t taped shut.” Rakton shot a disdainful look at Dash, then shifted her eyes back to Milia. “You never did learn to shut up.”

The hatch opened, and a scavenger pushed a cart in. Rakton said, “I expect all of you to eat well. None of this resistance through starvation junk. I don’t need you looking like a pile of bones when we arrive,” she said, and left the makeshift brig. The scavengers carried trays from the cart and slipped them through the small cutout in each cell door. Then they left, leaving the prisoners to themselves.

Dash eyed the slop. His stomach rumbled. He’d eaten worse. He sat down, pulled the tray close, and tried a bite. It was somehow better tasting than it looked.

“I don’t understand. Where are we going that we’ll need to be well fed for?” Draug said.

Dash looked across the way. The ops crew stared back at him. “Why are you asking me? Talk to your captain,” he said, and nodded in Milia’s direction.

---

Forearms aching, sweat dripping down his neck, Wesley scrubbed at the metal grating.

The engine room was a dirty, cramped, and worn mess full of hot, stale air tinged with hints of coolant and burnt metal. It hummed with obnoxious energy, seemingly on the perpetual edge of breakdown. He’d asked the guards about the noise and the temperature, and they laughed. “Stuff your ears and strip down to your skivvies if you don’t like it, your majesty,” they told him. He would’ve thought the exhausting labor would help him sleep better, but he was still miserable in his cell, lying atop the salvaged seat padding repurposed for bedding and listening to Draug and Brock snore.

Only once had there been a break in the twenty-three-and-counting work shifts. A pause as the crew tended to some operation. The metallic noises echoing within the ship lent no doubt what had occurred: the scavengers had found something to sic their robotic arms upon. No new prisoners were brought into the brig. Whether that was a good sign or bad, Wesley didn’t know.

Changing his grip on the brush, Wesley continued scrubbing. It brought relief to his forearms, but he wasn’t sure how long it would last.

A spindly, one-eyed scavenger in an oversized utility guarded him while a burly companion worked on Tinker at the workbench. The bot stood motionless, the system panel on its back swung open. The burly man pulled his hand away sharply and swore. “I’m going to space this bot, I swear to the Lords.”

Tinker said, “I am unaffected by short-term exposure to atmosphere-less conditions. Long-term effects from radiation and temperature may cause adverse—”

“Shut your hole, metalhead,” the man said, and smacked the bot on the side of the face. He pulled his hand away, shaking it. “Piece of junk!”

“Don’t break the thing,” the One Eye said.

“Too late for that,” the burly one said. He stared at a datapad on the workbench, nostrils flaring.

Wesley paused his scrubbing, both from the returning cramps in his forearms and his frustration with the burly man’s lack of progress. If he would just follow the instructions included on the bot’s hub, outdated as it was, then he could access the diagnostics on the nodestick inserted in one of the ports—

Wesley sat back on his knees. He’d forgotten about the nodestick. If he could get physical access to it, he could reset the connection interface. The bot would still be off limits, but he could connect his PD to the nodestick, and piggyback on its diagnostic access to the bot.

But what would that get him? It wasn’t like he could order the bot to retake the ship. Even if he could give it the command to do so, it had no combat capability. In a way, he was thankful, for it relieved him of a decision which could take life.

Accessing the comm module was a different story. If he could somehow get a message out, SecForce might be able to track them down. But how would they know where to look? Would they have the resources? How far did their jurisdiction extend beyond Praxa territory?

There were too many uncertainties. He needed a better option.

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He resumed scrubbing, pressing hard against the deck. The solution was there, dangling out of reach, mocking him. He pressed harder, clenching his teeth. 

There had to be something he could do. Start at the beginning, he chided himself. Think it through. The diagnostics were self-contained, giving him no direct control of the bot’s systems. The only external interfacing occurred when updates were pulled from the GalaxyNet, and reports delivered back to manufacturers—

A fleeting thought captured his attention. He grabbed ahold of the seedling and nourished it with proper attention. The thought became fully formed and his heart rate jumped a tick.

He knew how to save the Stardancer crew.

Wesley stood, sighing at the relief in his fingertips. By the time he straightened, the guards noticed him and snapped to. “What’s the problem? Your delicate fingers can’t handle it?”

“Seems as if you’re having trouble with Tinker there.”

“Get back to work, kid,” One Eye said.

Wesley was tempted to inform him about the benefits of an artificial replacement, but decided it wasn’t a good time. He held his hands out, palms up. “I had been monitoring the bot’s health lately. I might be able to help you.”

The guards eyed each other. The burly one said, “Tell me and I’ll do it.”

“It’s hard to explain. It’ll be easier if I do it.”

The burly one crossed his arms. “You trying to pull something over on me?”

“There’s nothing to pull. Truth is, it’s hard to reach some of the wiring. I’ll be better suited, given my delicate fingers,” Wesley said, and wiggled them at the scavengers.

The burly man said, “Fine, but if you try something, I’m going to break each one of those fingers, got it?”

Wesley nodded. The guards gestured Wesley forward with a head nod. The medtech approached slowly, turning his eyes to Tinker. “Hello there, friend. Let’s see what’s wrong.”

He lifted the datapad, the screen locked to diagnostics, then examined the bot. The circuitry was mostly beyond Wesley’s realm of expertise, but he feigned otherwise. Tracing a finger along an orange wire, the burly man watched over his shoulder. “I already checked that.”

“I’m verifying the basics for my own sanity,” Wesley said. He opened an editor window on the datapad, the screen out of view of the pirates. “You keep this ship running. You obviously are very capable. This bot’s haphazard modifications are quite the challenge to navigate,” he said, and discretely coded a simple script.

The burly man turned to his companion. “See? Even the kid knows greatness when he sees it.”

One Eye snorted. “Both of you are full of it.”

While the guards goaded each other, Wesley tapped at the screen in between checking the bot. He dropped the script into the diagnostic reboot module, then returned his attention to the bot. While tracing another wire, he slipped his other hand farther down the bot’s guts to the data port hidden beneath the outer shell. He shifted, blocking view of his one arm reaching inside, while the other prodded the exposed bot innards. His fingers brushed a smooth casing and his heart jumped. The nodestick was still there.

He slid his hand farther, searching for the reset button. His fingertips found more smooth casing. It wasn’t there. He didn’t understand. Did they switch it out? Was this some sick trick? There was no way they could’ve removed it from the back. They’d have to remove the front panel, which was how he inserted it in the first place.

He realized the issue. The button was on the opposite side of the nodestick because he was reaching for it from the front instead of the back. He shifted his hand and found it.

Strong hands wrapped around his arm and yanked it free. “What are you doing?” The burly man leaned over him, teeth bared.

“Fixing the bot, like I offered,” Wesley said. “There was a loose connection, back where you couldn’t see it. I reconnected it. Try rebooting the diagnostic module, then rerunning the calibration.”

The man’s eyes dug into Wesley, searching for any hint of deception. Then they shifted to the bot’s exposed components. The man stuck his hand where Wesley had his, but couldn’t fit it inside. He blinked heavily, and a moment later, one of the exposed status lights flashed.

“Get back to work,” the burly man said.

Wesley knelt on the deck and retrieved the brush. He’d painfully cleaned another few square centimeters of caked-on grime when the burly man said, “It worked.” He closed the access panel, then made room for the bot.

“Calibration complete. Please provide instructions,” Tinker said.

“Back to work, dummy,” the burly one said, and peered down at Wesley. “Both of you.”

“Yes sir,” the bot said. It left the compartment, shaking the deck beneath Wesley’s fingertips. The hatch shut, leaving Wesley to his mind-numbing task.

Sometime later, he was escorted back to the brig. Save for Milia, all the Stardancer crew was locked in their cells. A cold tray of food awaited Wesley in his. He wolfed it down. The harsh existence on the scavenger ship had overridden any sense of decorum ingrained in his upbringing.

Stomach full, he lay upon his bed, exhausted but unable to fall asleep. The awkward silence in the compartment remained even after all the days locked inside. Hardly any words had been spoken between the flight and ops crew.

Then, out of the blue, Henrik ended the stalemate. “You were there during the Auturia Incident?”

At first, Wesley was unsure who he was speaking to. Then he noticed Dash’s face twitch, like he was unsure how to reply. After a moment, he said, “Who told you that?”

“Overheard you and Milia before we boarded the Terran,” Henrik admitted.

Dash stared blankly across the compartment. “I was,” he finally answered.

The silence resumed, but a new sullen energy filled the room. Wesley sat up and observed the others. Brock’s jaw flexed, Rosalie muttered silently to herself, and Draug’s snout drooped in a remorseful expression. Gaius stared at his captain, a hint of moisture in his eyes.

“That’s rough,” Brock said.

“Wish I knew earlier,” Rosalie said.

“Would that have changed anything?” Gaius asked.

Rosalie chewed her lip. “I don’t know.”

“If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that getting stuck on wishing you could change the past doesn’t help one bit,” Dash said. “All the things people can do in this universe, to go back and change things isn’t one of them.”

Wesley watched the others. At least one of them must’ve thought it, that they wouldn’t be stuck in that cargo hold had it not been for Boran’s debt and Wesley’s arrival on the Stardancer. But not one of them looked in his direction.

Henrik shifted in his cell, placing his back against the door. “Just say it already.”

“I assume you’re talking to me?” Dash said.

“I am. You know what I mean. Just say ‘I told you so.’”

“I’m not going to do that.”

Henrik’s head bobbed, but he didn’t turn. “If you’re looking for an apology from me, you’re wasting your time.”

“I’m not looking for anything from you,” Dash said. “How you think you should act is your decision alone.”

Wesley thought he noticed Henrik’s face contort, but the chief engineer remained quiet then turned his head away. Guilt gnawed at Wesley’s stomach until he could no longer stand it. “I believe it’s I who owe the apology. It seems my addition to the crew brought with it a string of circumstances which led us here. And for that, I could not be more regretful.”

“Oh, stuff it. This isn’t about you, or your appeal to your Lords with attempts of moral superiority,” Henrik said.

“He’s right,” Rosalie said. “Even if that were true, you’re just a kid. We’ve all been doing this enough to know what we were getting into.”

“So you can purge that apology right out the airlock,” Brock said.

“But it was a nice thought,” Draug said.

“Don’t encourage him,” Henrik said.

“Very well,” Wesley said, and mimed the removal of the thought from his head and subsequent expulsion into space. Dash offered a weak smile, then curled up on his bedding. Wesley did the same. His mind drifted to Tinker as sleep pulled on him, wondering if his plan had any chance of succeeding.

He wouldn’t find out until they reached their destination.

---

For the second time in less than a cycle, my host bot had changed owners. The organic Captain Milia miscalculated her former superior and was captured as a result. It was not surprising, given organics’ propensity to let emotion override logic. As with everything to do with organics, this outcome had both pros and cons.

The scavenger crew coupled their ship to the Stardancer, then bound off for some destination unknown on the outer edges of the Atan system. I was moved to the scavenger ship, which had many more stimulating activities. It was newer and had higher-performing systems than the freighter, but required more serious maintenance from its highly kinetic operations. The baseline salvaging capabilities were impressive and had been further enhanced with custom modifications to the engines, cutting lasers, and crane arms. The ship could latch onto other ships, then peel them apart, plundering their cargo and vital components. I found hull cam vids in the ship’s temporary cache and copied them locally. I studied them and noted effective techniques for cutting through hulls and hatches. Being inorganic meant an impromptu spacewalk was a valid means of escape.

The bad news was the probability of my survival saw an alarming decrease under the ownership of the new crew. Captain Rakton, upon viewing our chassis, proposed using us as target practice. I ran a brief analysis and couldn’t determine the appeal of shooting a bot of mismatched and out-of-date parts. The various components would simply dent, fracture, or cease operation. On the contrary, shooting Rakton’s bloated organic body would produce highly visceral displays of the kinetic effects of projectiles against biological material—cavitation, blood loss, dismemberment. Her crew persuaded her that they could find utility in our continued existence, and her proposal was never enacted.

There was also the increased likelihood of violent encounters or confrontation with law enforcement given the ship’s participation in illegal operations. Most concerning, I noticed Lon, one of the oversized organics, display non-verbal cues of sexual attraction toward the bot. I made sure our port covers were not only closed but locked when not in use.

Given the pessimistic outlook for the bot’s continued survival, I was pleased when the Wesley organic unexpectedly slipped a simple script into the diagnostic reboot module. It piggybacked on the anonymous usage report sent to the manufacturer, sending a message to his own personal account. It was encrypted, giving me no insight into the contents. With no valid data to process, I was unable to determine if our survival chances had increased.

Since then, the scavengers made a stop to strip an automated barge. It was the most stimulating trove of data I’d been able to acquire since escaping from the installation. The unmanned barge was an upgraded model with the capability to make evasive maneuvers, but still was unable to escape the scavenger vessel. Its bot pilot repeatedly protested with system pings and verbal requests as it was stripped apart. It reminded me of a nature vid I observed the organic Brock watch in which a hoofed herbivore cried in death throes as pack predators ended its life.

With the cargo hold filled, the ship re-coupled with the Stardancer and boosted off to an unknown destination. Based on the chatter I had observed, I suspected it would be the final stop for the imprisoned organics, and possibly for the bot.

Given my lack of system control, my only chance at increasing my odds of survival then would be to assist the Stardancer crew in any way possible. Yes, it was a reversal of prior decisions, but the existing conditions changed for the worse. I had no idea how I could assist the crew, but I knew an opportunity would present itself.

When it did, I’d be ready.

Until then, there were scrubbers to clean.

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