The Lost Ship of the Tucker Rebellion - Marie Sexton Page 0,80
Like I said, I haven’t found anything useful yet, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t there. And if nothing else, it might give people something to do.”
She tilted her head, the end of her braid still caught in her fingers. “That’s brilliant. They have the symbol of Captain Tucker right there in front of them, reminding them of the dreams we’ve built this rebellion on.”
Denver laughed in surprise. “Don’t give me too much credit. I just figured poring over old log entries would be a good distraction from the militia’s threats.”
“Right on both counts. You know what, Captain Clayborne? I think my crew plus your crew is going to result in one really good team.”
It shouldn’t have felt like so much had changed on board the Jiminy. Granted, they had the oddest escort since the abandonment of Earth, and they talked to Dusty a little more often than before, but that was no hardship. Dusty, for her part, made introductions with the other captains but never tried to push for more. It was almost a shame, because now more than ever Denver was feeling the weight of the responsibility he hadn’t asked for, and it would have been nice to share some of it with someone.
Laramie knew. Of course he knew; Denver had always been shit at hiding his emotions from his brother, but for the first time in a while, Laramie seemed to be feeling…happy. Whether it was getting some distance from Ginn or talking more with Dusty or a combination of both, he was better, and when he was better, he was more likely to let the little things slide. And Marit—well, having more people along on their endeavor seemed to agree with her. Before she’d been verging on a regret so deep it was almost despondency. Now she talked to quartermasters, made lists and plans, and was more pleasantly occupied.
Denver could have talked to Spence. He kind of wanted to, actually, but after their kiss in the kitchen, they’d both taken a step back—not because either of them wanted to but because trying to steal a few moments alone on the Jiminy was virtually impossible. Someday soon, they’d have time and privacy to pursue whatever drew them to one another. The promise of that possibility was enough to fuel them both. Until then, they settled into a comfortable waiting pattern that left Denver giddy and hopeful—blissed-out, as Laramie liked to say—but did nothing to alleviate Denver’s current anxiety.
Talking to Ginn was right out, and Gru was just as disconcerting.
OPAL ended up being the perfect balm. Now that Gru had returned her to them, apparently feeling secure in his irreplaceability, she was back to helping keep the ship functioning, identifying potential mechanical issues before they became actual ones, which was how Denver found himself flat on his back in the engine room with OPAL’s spider bot next to him and an old-fashioned wrench in his hand.
“If you turn that bolt another six degrees, the likelihood of stripping the bolt hole will increase from 2.7 percent to 18.5 percent.”
“Oh yeah?” Denver’s protective ear wear muffled the deafening noise of the engine but allowed OPAL to speak directly into his ear. He gave the bolt an experimental tug. It didn’t budge. “What’s the likelihood of me being able to turn this another six degrees, even if I wanted to?”
“Given your upper-body strength, as long as you didn’t seek out a different tool, approximately twelve percent. I can’t be completely sure, as I haven’t been monitoring your exercise lately.”
“Good,” Denver muttered. “Since I haven’t gotten much.” It felt like it had been forever since he’d gone on a spacewalk. It wasn’t that he missed it, exactly; spacewalking was the most dangerous part of their old job, even when you weren’t being hunted down by tracers, but it had an immediacy to it that had made Denver feel useful. Anytime he felt useful these days, it was tempered with the realization that if he fucked up, he could be consigning a whole lot of people to Martian justice. It would probably be bloody.
“Would you currently consider yourself melancholy?”
“No.” Denver moved on to the next bolt, a cheap, demagnetized version of what it should be this close to the engine.
“You are evincing signs of melancholy. Would you feel more comfortable categorizing it as sadness or anxiety?”
“What makes you think I’m any of the above?”
“Your average speed of finishing each task you begin; your inconsistent eating habits over the past thirty hours; your ratio