“Whatever you’re doing, I need you to stop it.”
“Gil,” Talia said. “Gilly.” They couldn’t abandon ship. They couldn’t abandon the ship, either. They’d had their differences, it and she, but she didn’t want to leave it. Not really. Not like this. What she’d said earlier, Please get me off this ship, those were just words.
He peered at her. “Beanfield’s trying to talk.”
“She can talk once she’s strapped in.”
Gilly bent and put his ear close to her mouth.
She whispered, “No jetpod.”
“It’s all right,” he said. “It’s just a precaution. We won’t detach unless we have to.”
“What did she say?” said Jackson.
“‘No jetpod.’”
“There are a thousand incoming hostiles,” Jackson called over her shoulder. “If the ship doesn’t restore function before they arrive, it’s toast.”
They reached a hatch, which Jackson spun open. Gilly set Talia down and climbed into the shaft. Jackson shoved her toward him. Jackson was wearing a very un-Jacksonlike expression, Talia noticed, now that she saw it up close. She searched for a label and landed on concerned. Yes. That was it. Jackson was exhibiting concern for her. That was alarming.
She felt herself toppling. Gilly caught her. “It’s okay. I’ve got you. I’m not leaving you.” This last part, she guessed, was because her face was registering some concern of her own. She was glad for his words but she did feel very anxious. Even if it was a precaution, they should not board the jet. Nothing good could happen there.
They began to make their way aft, Jackson periodically barking at Anders. At first, Talia assumed Anders was ignoring her, because she couldn’t hear his replies, then she realized she wasn’t wearing her film. From half the conversation, though, she could infer the rest: Anders was off somewhere doing his own thing. She actually didn’t need to hear anything for that. That was what she would have assumed in the absence of contrary evidence. It sounded as though he’d managed to get his hands on a weapon. That was alarming, too.
They stopped. Jackson cranked a manual release. A door jerked apart, and what was behind it lit up. And there it was. The jetpod. Two harnesses up front, facing actual manual controls. Two at the rear. Lots of padding. A whole bunch of lockers, with reliable heavy-weight fonts designating which piece of impractical equipment they contained: beacons, medkits, material converters. Everywhere were handles. She could trace the inspiration of this design back to bright, plastic toys for babies, with levers and keys that made clicking sounds.
“Begin prep,” said Jackson.
Gilly ducked into the jetpod and lowered Talia into a harness at the rear, looping straps over her bulging medbag. She kicked and shook her head. He bent and peered into her eyes.
“No,” she said.
“Beanfield’s agitated,” Gilly said.
“It’s the medbag,” Jackson said, breaking off an argument with Anders, wherever he was. “She’s under sedation. Ignore her.”
He looked back at Talia. “What’s wrong with the jet?”
She rolled her eyes. Look at it, Gilly. Just look at it.
“Gilly,” Jackson barked.
“Here.” He moved to the front of the jet and began dialing up systems. “Where’s Anders?”
“Deck F. He’s killed one.”
“One what?” Gilly said, and then: “A salamander?”
“That’s what he says.”
She saw him hesitate. His eyes roved around the jet. He wasn’t stupid. He was seeing the bright handles. The padding, which would prevent injury only if they encountered improbably small forces. His expertise was in software but he could surely realize what he was seeing. He was good at puzzles.
Gilly said, “Maybe . . .”
Jackson glanced at him. “What?”
He pointed to a screen. “There’s a path from here to Eng-1. I could use its board to manage systems until the AI is able to take over. Then we could try to repel the boarders with small arms.”
Jackson eyed him. “Now you think you can run Weapons and Armor manually?”
“Not well. But maybe well enough to buy us some time.”
Jackson was silent. Then she shook her head. “No. This is