The Lost Ship of the Tucker Rebellion - Marie Sexton Page 0,2
increase the magnification of his visor, bringing it in as close as he could. “Whatever it is, it’s covered in debris.” Strange debris, that clung somehow to whatever was beneath it. Even as he watched, the first of the tracers to reach it latched onto the cluster, and then slowly, the brightness of their lights began to dim. Draining their power?
“I’m going over there.”
“Are you crazy? The tracers are still there. They could explode any minute now. Besides, you don’t have enough oxygen to make it there and back. Just come back to the ship already! We’ll figure out our next move from here.”
She was right. Curiosity may have killed the proverbial cat, but it wasn’t going to kill Denver Clayborne.
Not today, at any rate.
“Roger that,” he said. He turned and headed back to the safety of his ship.
It took ninety seconds for the airlock to cycle. Ninety seconds of nothing but silence, and Denver closed his eyes, trying not to think about tracers, or the mysterious object in space, or why cats were killed by curiosity. He tried not to think about how angry Laramie would be, or about going back out there, looking for more copper wire and the occasional bit of platinum, gambling each little danger against the moments of his brother’s life.
The inner door popped open. Denver stepped inside and pulled off his helmet, bracing himself for what he knew was coming. Sure enough, the weight of Laramie’s concern slammed into him via the psychic connection they’d always shared, knocking him back a step.
Laramie said, the words seeming to come from some hidden mental speaker, deep in Denver’s mind.
“I’m fine.” He spoke the words out loud. Laramie had long ago learned to speak directly into Denver’s head, sometimes even flashing specific images into his brain, like a flicker on a vid monitor. But Denver had never mastered the skill. All he could do was talk to the wall, knowing Laramie heard him. “I’m fine,” he said again, although his hands still shook from the near miss.
Denver chuckled. “I’ll check in with Marit first. That’ll give you time to make up your mind.”
The connection ended instantly—something else only Laramie could do—leaving Denver feeling strangely incomplete. It was one thing losing that connection when he left the ship. It was another knowing they were this close but that Laramie had shut him out.
It wouldn’t last. It never did. As soon as Laramie quit thinking about deliberately keeping them separated, the connection would be back without either of them trying. Without either of them necessarily even noticing it, until Laramie wanted to shout into Denver’s head again.
Denver sighed and began stripping out of his space suit, wondering again what the tracers had clustered around.
He found Marit still sitting at her station in the cockpit, her booted feet on the control panel. She shook her head without turning to face him. “That was too close.”
“Tell me about it. You’re not the one who fouled up a space suit.”
“That isn’t funny.”
“You want that moonshine now?”
She held up the tin cup in her left hand. “I’m way ahead of you.”
Denver leaned against the doorframe. “Is OPAL back?”
“She docked the spider while you were in the airlock.” OPAL, or On-Board Portable All-Systems Liaison, was an AI, not tied to any particular piece of hardware. On board, she stored herself in the ship’s mainframe, but she had several robotic bodies she could occupy when the need arose, like during a salvage. The spider was her favorite.
“We should see what she brought back,” he said.
“Just as soon as I think my knees will work.”
“And the tracers?”
“Still swarming over whatever that is out there.”
“But they haven’t exploded yet?”
“No. I have no idea why they’d cluster but then fail to go off.”
“What do you propose?” He had his own ideas, but he’d learned over the four years they’d been a team that it was better to let Marit speak first, and to only argue if it was one hundred percent necessary.
“We move in closer. Get a better look. See if we can determine anything from its energy signature, because we don’t want to get too close if it’s housing something toxic. Maybe send OPAL to check it out.” She finally spun the chair around to face him. She was dark-skinned and stormy-eyed, in her midthirties, but could easily pass for the twenty-nine she claimed when