Under Strange Suns (43 page)

“They made it,” he said. “But what a cost.”

“A village, they can rebuild,” said McAvoy. “You saved their lives, Carson.”

“I suppose. Still, we owe them; we owe Checkok.”

“Twenty years and an entire village. A hell of a bill I’ve rung up,” Yuschenkov said.

“We’ve rung up, Doc. You’re not getting stuck with this tab.”

“Fair enough. We’ll pay them back. We have a ship. We have the freedom to travel, to trade. We’ll come back here soon and we’ll bring the foundation of a new civilization. You’ve bought them time, Aidan. You’ve bought them at least a generation. The Lhakovi cannot recover from a loss like this soon. No Lhakovi soldier will set foot over the Wall for decades. By that time, we’ll have established the beginning of a technological revolution that will put Checkok’s people a light year ahead of the Lhakovi. Then they won’t need you to win their battles.”

Aidan let himself slump against the restraints holding him to the jump seat. His body was mottled with bruises, his skin lacerated and punctured. His legs were rapidly stiffening up, though the weightlessness at least provided some relief. The pain he had held at bay was setting in. And yet he felt good. He’d won. He’d won a victory of lasting consequence.

Worth the pain.

“Nice post-match recap, gents,” McAvoy said. “But don’t you think it’s about time we called the ship?”

* * *

Brennan Yuschenkov watched his eponymous ship fill the narrow aperture that served as the main viewing port of the mining craft’s cockpit. The
Yuschenkov
: An older design, not far removed from that crashed on the surface of Ghark below. A practical starship built along his design specifications. And owned and piloted by his own niece. He felt a stirring of pride at the sight. Not to mention a certain relief. He had not wanted to risk a Y-Drive pulse that would put them far out in the system, out of easy radio contact or sensor range of the ship. So perhaps he overcompensated slightly; the mining craft was already spiraling about Ghark in a slowly decaying orbit. Without fuel for much more than a minor attitude correction, there wasn’t much he could do about it without risking use of the Y-Drive again. But the ship had responded to his hail promptly, the approach maneuver displaying expert piloting.

A welcoming committee awaited beyond the airlock. He recognized only one of them, but he only had attention for her anyway and he doubted anyone would fault his manners.

“Little Brooklynn,” he said and stepped toward her. The push off of his left foot propelled him through the bay, above the waiting crew–who, he now noticed, all had a foot anchored through a floor loop or had a hand about a stanchion or rail.

“Uncle Brennan, you’ve been in a gravity well too long,” said Brooklynn, and she rose in a graceful intercepting arc to catch him in an embrace and arrest his motion before he collided with a bulkhead. “I think I’ve rescued you just in time.”

“That you have. I am so very proud of you.”

Yuschenkov held her tightly, trying to hold back a flood of conflicting feelings. Emotions held in check for twenty years rose to the surface, encountering fresh sensations of relief, hope, and freedom.

“You did all of this for me?” he asked, moisture from his tear ducts beading and drifting away.

“We all did,” Brooklynn said, guiding them to the notional “floor.” “The entire crew signed on to find and rescue you–in addition to prospecting.”

“Then my thanks to you all,” Yuschenkov said, while finding a floor loop to tuck a toe beneath. “And–for whatever it is worth–my thanks to those who died in doing: my thanks to Michael Thorson and Quentin Burge.”

“Hear, hear,” Sam McAvoy said. “That calls for a drink. This whole touching reunion calls for at least a couple rounds.”

One of the women Yuschenkov didn’t recognize spoke. “Mr. McAvoy, I’m afraid you and these other two are due for an examination on my table before you’re cleared to consume any alcohol. In fact, by rights, the three of you ought to be in quarantine right now. But Captain Vance figured that if Doctor Yuschenkov’s twenty years of exposure to the local microorganisms failed to yield any exotic maladies, then a couple more weeks are unlikely to. I’m a poor excuse for a doctor, I suppose. I yielded.”

“What are your plans now?” Yuschenkov asked Brooklynn, ignoring McAvoy’s spluttered protests.

“I do have contracts, Uncle Brennan. This is a working ship. It’s also my home. I plan to see the stars, explore, make a living. So if what I’ve heard about fixing the Y-Drive is correct...”

“It
is
correct. Suppression of that knowledge is one more tally in Azziz’s book of malfeasance. The galaxy is yours. The thing is, I’d like to shake the dust off my feet for a while. Do you mind if I come with you?”

* * *

Aidan Carson winced as he slipped into his Vance Aerospace jacket. Doctor Roberts’ ministrations had seen him coated with precautionary antibiotics, repaired with nearly two dozen stitches, and swathed with bandages. Despite a local anesthetic and some moderately powerful analgesics, he still felt like warmed-over shit. But he could move around and he didn’t feel like sleep quite yet. He could feel it summoning him from his bunk, but he wasn’t ready to yield. It had been an amazingly eventful day and he was reluctant to see it come to an end.

He left
his quarters, intending to rustle up a sandwich in the galley. He was famished for any non-joon cuisine. He imagined he would find Yuschenkov there, elbow-deep in chow.

Brooklynn Vance stood across the way, arms crossed, as if she’d been waiting for him. And he realized that is exactly what he hoped she’d been doing.

She cocked her head, looking him up and down.

“Doctor Roberts told me you were doing pretty well for a man who thought he was d’Artagnan,” she said. “I don’t know if I’m buying it. You look like hell.”

“You should see the other guys. In fact, if you want we can scoop a few of them up before they burn up on re-entry, get you a good look.”

“The mouth still works. That’s promising.”

“Yeah. Speaking of work...Brooklynn, now that we’ve found your uncle, my job is done. You don’t really need a security officer with a crew this small. The thing is, I kind of like it here. I suppose you could drop me off at the nearest planet. But if you’re shorthanded, if you think there’s anything I’m qualified to do...”

Brooklynn crossed the hall in two deliberate strides. She wrapped both arms around him and pulled herself in close. “I think we can find a berth for you. Uncle Brennan tells me you are a useful fellow to have around. Now, if you’ve no objection to fraternizing with a superior officer, kiss me.”

“Yes, Captain,” Aidan said, and obliged.

The End

Ken Lizzi is an attorney and the author of an assortment of published short stories. When not traveling–and he’d rather be traveling–he lives in Portland, Oregon with his lovely wife Isa and his daughter Victoria. He enjoys reading, homebrewing, exercise, and visiting new places. He loathes writing about himself in the third person.
Under Strange Suns
is his second novel.

http://www.kenlizzi.net