skin, too. When he tried to discuss this with anybody, they’d only say how much safer it was, and couldn’t see why Anders didn’t care about that. He wanted to escape the person he’d become, and to kill salamanders, and the ship didn’t let him do either. Instead it was driving him around the universe and would deposit him safely back home, and he could see exactly how that would play out. How Service would do a spit and polish on their growth narratives and give the audience the closure they craved. They killed his brothers and he went out there and killed a million of them back. Now, at last, Paul Anders is at peace. He could feel that future closing in on him like a box.
It had felt good to drill it. Real good.
He eyed his film, which lay a foot or so away. Sooner or later he would have to put that back on and face the consequences of his actions. But not just yet. He turned to the left, then the right, then looked straight ahead. Right in this moment, he was okay. He had options.
* * *
—
A minute later he felt a kick through the floor. It was unlike anything he’d felt in the ship before, and he pressed his palms against the cool metal to see if it would repeat. There was something else now, a kind of juddering rumble. Also new.
He reached for his film.
As soon as he got it on, Jackson squawked in his ear. “Status. Status.”
Gilly, his voice strangled: “Beanfield’s hurt. I can’t get her out.”
“Can you reach station?”
“Everything’s . . . we took damage. I can’t see.”
Anders said, “What’s happening?”
Jackson: “Anders, get your ass back here. Intel, I need you at station.”
“I can’t reach her!”
He got up and moving. He fixed Gilly’s location on ping and saw Beanfield in the same location. “I’m coming.”
“Intel, you need to leave.”
“I can’t. I can’t. She’s hurt.”
Shit, he thought. He had done it again. Gotten wrapped up in himself and let other people get hurt. He spun a hatch and began to ascend the ladder. The rungs didn’t move. Apparently he would have to do this manually. He loathed ladder shafts so much. Couldn’t see the bottom of them. Couldn’t help thinking he’d never reach the end. He would climb and climb and the walls would inch closer behind his back.
Jackson: “Intel, I can’t do this by myself.”
“I won’t leave her.”
“I’m almost at you,” Anders said, although that wasn’t true.
“Intel, we have six hostiles and they’re tearing us apart because we can’t control Armor or Weapons. The survival of this ship depends on you restoring basic function.”
Six? He couldn’t imagine the ship being taken down by six salamanders. That was ridiculous. He said, “Gilly, I’ll deal with Beanfield. Go do your job.”
Gilly: “Do my job? Do my job?”
Jackson: “Gilly.”
“She’s not responding!”
“I don’t care,” Jackson said. “Get to station.”
He broached A Deck and the relative space of a long corridor. “I’m here.”
“Where?” Gilly said, and then: “You’re half the deck away!”
“Gilly, we need you, buddy.”
“Why don’t you shut the fuck up?!”
“Hostiles have ceased firing,” said Jackson.
“You left me in the core room,” Gilly said. “I don’t want you. I’ll do this myself.”
“Physical contact in three minutes,” said Jackson. “Prepare to be boarded.”
“Did you say boarded?” Anders said.
“They’re approaching; not sure what else they’d have in mind.”
Gilly said, “Wait . . . do you have Sensors?”
“Yes. Correction. I have Ring 2 Sensors. I can’t make sense of anything else as it’s coming through as raw data.”