Well, no. Io reached under her uniform and pulled her sternum strap tight, straightening her back and smiling flatly.
"Whoever did it, we've got Geminis looking for them," she said matter-of-factly. "We're told to move as planned until further information is available."
A very small girl next to her turned deathly pale. Well, what was she supposed to say, other than the truth?
"A-And where do you think you're going, class prez? We're setting off towards the comms dish, no?" Fredda shifted awkwardly in the Z-cradle, her suited limbs waddling against nothing. The boffin's eyes gravitated to the brickish oxygen set hanging from Io's neck.
Io flexed her arms in the quilted shrug, and cracked her neck. "Not too far—I'm flying rendezvous with the Vestan wing that'll take us halfway there, keep you guys safe as you move." That's good, right?
A whole wing? What are they expecting us to run into? Whispering sprung up around her like gentle rain. Apparently, there were situations where taking visible precautions put people on edge. Why?
Anyway, it's not my fault things turned out that way at the Council. They're playing us for absolute fools, this is a suicide mission, and so on—
That's what she wanted to say, but even Io could feel the air blowing colder from the north and thought better of it. She would lead by example, not words. She turned to leave with a small 'peace' on her fingers, hoping the girls would sort their morale out by the time she docked for dinner.
Thinking glumly of the Zeb lunch lady's hot pepper rice, she hoped to eat something that wasn't beige. Maybe even... fish?
Io practically fell asleep as she led the craft in lazy circles above the science frigate. Solitude, that's what she needed: No one staring, no one talking, just the dusty heat from the climate control and the gentle rumble of the Arrowhead's airframe—the venerable, lumbering mkI, the same as Ema's fighter.
Because for all it had done, the FX had been a total write-off.
It was yesterday when Francesca led her back through the darkened hangar on the Academy. The striated elastics of her gray tank top opened to bulging limbs and a hard white stomach: an opposite to Io, despite occupying about the same space. The two girls stood in the four-pronged shadow of the totaled FX, which was shrouded in quilted lead blankets as if for burial. Hints of a charred and pitted hull peeked out between the overlocked edges, in places flayed to reveal copper wires blown up like oxidized lightning.
"...Eh not much of a loss, to be fair," Chess said with a high lilt of relief, scratching her head. "If you didn't mind the 8-way thrust vectoring, we can see about getting you a cute little Satori. I think it'll more than keep up with the way you fly."
You're right, but... Io's eyes lingered on the exit wounds where the Feds' ace had come close to ending her. Something pulled her throat tight, and she swallowed hard.
"Can you fix it?"
"W... Why?" Chess's eyes widened and she palmed her temples wearily. "I mean, it's just a bad compromise on the Arrowhead frame, which we all wanted to replace anyway. Thinner armor than the mkI, plus it's got that fatal flaw where it bleeds speed when the stability control is released. Why are you so hung up on this thing?"
Io closed her eyes and breathed. Whenever she was on the verge of sleep, she'd see katas winding through the black behind her eyelids. She kept circling back to that one approach, the FX's Achilles' heel and how it dallied when the nose came unstuck. Had there been a way through the darkness, or was it fated to fall for the coiling serpent?
"I nearly beat him with it," she said. "I just need to practice more."
Chess sighed. "You're asking the impossible here. If you want it rebuilt to the original specifications, we'll need some engineering plastics that aren't in stores. It's those flexible exhaust ducts, plus the sheathing on the thrust vectoring myomer muscles—both made of Huoflex-1,4. Do you even know what that is?"
"I'm well aware." Io clicked her tongue. She'd been rifling through the manuals posthumously, as if the ship were a celebrated author now passed. "Auspicious Polymers trading name for PPDE. Poly(pyromellitimide-1,4-diphenyl ether). One of the so-called 'flex-ceramics'."
"Yeah. For our purposes it may as well be unicorn tears." Chess placed her hands on her hips and frowned. "Nothing else will contain an engine like that, it runs too fucking hot. H-Hey, are you even listening to me?"
Io stepped around to the back of the ship, her eyes settling on what remained of the gauzy, milk-white sheeting between the joints. No particular source came to mind, and she was incredulous that anyone in her class could work out a way to synthesize it in the field. But with 1-Epiphyllum gone, it's not like they were strapped for hangar space. And, well...
"Good night," Io said, tugging one of the lead blankets low over her old ship. "Get better soon."
A ring of flattened cattails marked the marshaling yard around the science frigate below. One final literary core trundled up the ramp as its cargo spiders perched themselves below the hull.
Flocks of quadcopters streamed into the marshalling yard with white foam crates; the first crop from the array of long thin tents radiating from the Academy like plastic bolts of light. What sort of crop came true in just a week, Io had an awful feeling—a more permanent supply route was in the works once the others matured, but until then, this was what they had.
It was clear even from here that Mica had coordinated a move like this before. That girl was humble about her background, but she had every reason to be proud of her skills. The distinct, looping tracks of felled grass were visible from the sky, different from the amulets' work. Apparently, she'd set something up where the cargo spiders would pass charge to one another to free up slots on the umbilicals, and that had enabled 1-H to slam their quota of farms and pack up before the others.
Still good on fuel, Io cut the holding pattern and tailed the frigate as it tacked north across the wetlands. A flight of seven twin-hulled Geminis fell into formation behind them above the mesa. The wing of bulky, well-armed forks gave off a muscular impression that wasn't for nothing; their huge intakes drank hungrily and beat any other ship on the Academy in straight line performance. She shuddered at the thought of facing off against one; Vineta had her back, but who knew for how long?
A few hours passed, and the equatorial sea of grass that had looked infinite from the ground ended in a clearly defined shore, beyond which lay a balding taiga peppered with low scrub. Io's latest prerecorded lecture had told her to look out for aerial signs of ruins; apparently plants would grow thin on top of buried structures because the roots wouldn't run as deep, a phenomenon known as a 'crop mark'. She wondered, groaning, if the wing of gorillas tailing her would've paid nearly as much attention.
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The radio chirped. The back of her neck pulsed with fatigue; the long flight or the student ID on the display, she didn't know which.
"You should feel privileged, drifter," Diane squawked from the fighter at the front. "It's not every day that the descendant of the former Admiral Levenger chooses to renege on more productive pursuits to assist with a petty errand like this."
"Diane—" Io covered her own mouth and shook her head violently. Steady, steady... Breathe!
Phewww... she exhaled, the irritation subsiding. She waited a second for the coarsest replies to age out of her tongue before pushing to talk.
"...I dunno, I'd say finding the comms dish is pretty productive," she said. "Don't you wanna talk to your grandpa?"
"W-Well—"
Diane inhaled sharply. It sounded like that question caught her off guard.
"...Yes, indeed. I do worry about him." Diane spoke in an uncharacteristically low voice, almost a whisper. "I hope he has not been called to the front line. I should imagine the Navy recognizes the contributions he has already made to the River Huang."
Io shrugged in her harness. "I don't know. Diane, people like you and I..."
She wondered if she should finish that thought. The way Diane hung everything on her grandpa's name pointed to a fairly specific type of guy, even if the girl herself was a massive loser.
"We're called to protect the people we love. It's not something we can resist, even if we know it's not the best thing for ourselves. So..."
"You're honest. I like that about you, but..." Diane's words trailed off. "No, that's all I wanted to say."
The radio beeped from the science frigate up ahead. Its square hull, sloped at the front and back evoked a huge rubber eraser silhouetted against the darkening skies ahead. Io let the call through.
Fredda spoke quickly. "Sorry to break up your little girl talk, but there's some kinda weather cell coming up."
Io looked lower on the cocoon of displays, at the thinning grass below. There was another border, hazier this time, where patchy, ragged ice became the dominant form of ground cover. She could feel it getting colder in the cockpit, the PIDs of the climate control struggling to shield her from the frigid wind.
Further, past the ice, beyond a ridge of low, eroded hills, there loomed a colossal black spout that stretched from the earth to the depths of space; so large that at this distance, there was effectively no looking away from it. The ground around its path seemed to fracture and tumble upwards into the sky.
Her skin broke out in goosebumps as lightning flashed around its base. She'd heard vaguely that things like this happened planetside, but she was still a spacer in the end. The sight filled her with something that wasn't quite fear... a begrudging respect for people who lived at the mercy of the elements.
"Io, I'm dropping the ramp. I'm gonna need you to come back on," Fredda scolded. "And it might be best if our Vestan friends turned back a little earlier than planned."
"Close enough, binoclarde." Diane huffed. "What's so special about this latitude, do you know?"
"Shit, you're asking me?" Io scratched her head and tried to remember the explanation. "The boffins set like a... maximum level of technological development for our Seeder killers. Since the equator's already pretty cold, they're thinking it's impossible for them to survive past the 30th parallel."
"Good for them. Or, I'm sorry to hear that."
That was probably a self-deprecating joke. Io wasn't especially charmed.
"Drifter... Something's going on. I'm going to keep an eye on Vinny for you."
"Don't get yourself in trouble," Io warned her. "She's dangerous, isn't she?"
Diane chuckled lightly as she turned the Gemini around.
"That is what they say."
Still unsteady and bogged in her flight uniform, Io hopped down the stairs at the rim of the bridge and made her way to the helm, where the storm on the monitor reflected off Fredda's glasses and ghostly cheeks. Her coffee rumbled in its cup.
"I think that spout's kicking up ironsand beneath the ice." Fredda's fingers played across the suspended keyboards. "We're getting all kinds of signal interference from the cell. If we move past it, there's not gonna be any supplies, or communications, until the satellites go up. We were thinking we could grow something in an emergency, but... Probably blocks out most of the incident sunlight too."
The suited boffin twisted her body fully around in the cradle, the urethane cables winding themselves around her shoulders. Her brow furrowed with worry.
"I'm gonna need a go/no go. We could tough out the cell, or we could stage in warmer climes before we move."
"Guess." Io snapped her fingers.
"Fuck off. What're you going to do if we run into something out there?"
Io blinked and lowered her gaze. "That's the thing: I'm pretty sure something's gonna kick off down south, and I don't want my classmates around when it happens."
"You... you trust that analysis?" Fredda clenched her teeth.
"Weren't you involved with it? Have some more confidence in yourself." Io patted her on the shoulder. "Dinner?"
The atmosphere in the mess was warlike and solemn. The lights had been dimmed and small candles had been lit along the long dining table of veneered chipboard, giving it the impression of a palace under siege. The low rumble of thunder and occasional bumps from turbulence maybe didn't help.
From the slightly more plump pleather chair at the head of the table, Io surveyed the faces of 1-Heliotrope. Ema had brought her plush robot to the table and hid behind it awkwardly. Her eyes were unfocused and her brow creased with uncharacteristic melancholy. The plump girl paid no attention to Io's gaze; she didn't look particularly hungry, either.
To either side of the fruit bowl was Fredda's serious, four-eyed mug and and Remy's rather placid smile. Her large, aerodynamic-looking wheelchair edged both of her neighbors to the side. If they were at all upset with Io, it did not show on their faces.
After too long, Mica appeared from behind in a long, flowing robe, bearing a small bamboo bucket filled with rice. There was a saying about too many cooks. From the clattering of woks and the sound of arguing from the kitchen, there'd been two: Mica herself, and an annoyingly pretty Vesta named Nouri.
Nouri came elegantly round the other side bearing a brass censer that dangled by a chain.
For each student, the two girls served in all:
- a single poached panfish,
- a little fistful of rice from the stores,
- one (1) button mushroom,
- a huge, glistening mountain of pea sprouts fried in sago worm tallow.
Yeah, that makes sense. Microgreens were about the only thing that could've been harvested in that amount of time, but it hardly counted as farming, did it? Red flecks of chili ornamented the fried sprouts. The argument had been about exactly how hot to make them; the Vestan palate was not accustomed to piquant Tian Lung cuisine.
Mica clacked the rice bowl with her spatula. "So, seeing as there are both Tian Lung and Vestan students in this class, Nouri and I have opted to do both of the harvest rituals at once."
She thumped her chest and began to pray: "To my parents, my grandparents, and my great-grandparents too. Though your bones are dry, I hope to grant you eternal life through my body."
At the same time, the raven-haired Nouri swung the smouldering censer past her face and curtsied in her gauzy toga.
"To my children," she started in a soft voice, "My childrens' children, and my brothers' and sisters' children too. Though you may be unborn, I will this world to you who inherit it!"
Mica raised her face to the sky. "Only heaven will tell if I am a good daughter, but I hope my deeds do not dishonor your memory."
Nouri stood straight and saluted. "I hope to live a tale that gives you strength in times of need!"
"To filiality!" "To posterity!"
"Huat ah!" "L'chaim!"
Most of 1-H seemed to think of the display as an ingratiating delay on their meal—a trunk family's imposition on the bottom of the pecking order—but as soon as the forks hit the plate, there was an outpouring of praise for the two cooks. Io slurped her plate clean. If this was the kind of cooking they could expect, she didn't care whose dead mother she'd have to bow to.
It was around then that she noticed Ema hadn't touched her food at all. Io felt awful seeing her hide behind her plushie and hawkishly test the mountain of bean sprouts with a fork, particularly since—she begged the Serpent's pardon for thinking this—Ema did seem like the type of person who would be stuffing her face. But whatever it was, she figured the choleric Ema wasn't too far away. This didn't seem like her.
Io got up from her chair and placed her hand on Ema's shoulder, and that's when it started.
The mousy-haired girl pressed her face into the back of her plushie and bawled unceasingly. Io had never heard anybody cry like that. The temperature in the room seemed to drop as other students dropped their utensils in concern.
"Hug!" Remy bumped Ema's chair and opened her arms, her brow creased with sympathy. "Mec, tell me everything! There are no secrets between sisters!"
Ema tumbled into Remy's arms so hard that her wheelchair tipped back precariously.
"Uwehhhhh!" She screamed into Remy's shoulder, nearly forgetting to breathe. "Seeding Unit 30, I didn't even have time to give you a friendly-name...!"
What?
Are you serious right now? Of course Io didn't say it out loud, but also, really?
No—Io tented her fingers and breathed—she could've more or less predicted how Ema would react to a robot being destroyed—or perhaps to her mind, murdered. Different people cared about different things, and some people cared about certain things a disproportionate amount.
Remy stroked Ema's hair, her face plastered with a smile of awkward realization. She looked to the others plaintively as if begging for backup.
Ema's reaction wasn't normal, but it was, in every way, authentically herself.