Anders stood by one of the belts, holding something flat and shiny. “Check this out.” In his hand was a shuriken, a throwing disc with vicious points. “Ninja stars.”
“You had the ship make ninja stars?” To keep themselves amused, he and Anders had invented a variety of games to play in their downtime, like stalking each other around the ship, armed with rubber balls. Whoever hit the other person first won. The last time they’d played, Anders had said, You know what this game needs? Ninja stars. Gilly hadn’t thought anything of it.
“They’re super-sharp.” Anders touched the point of a star to his palm and blood welled at the spot. “Yikes. Look at that.” He sucked at it.
“You’re not suggesting we throw these at each other.”
Anders nodded. “I am suggesting that.”
“Uh,” Gilly said.
“You do not want to get hit by one of these bad boys.”
“No, I get that,” he said. “It’s just, it looks genuinely dangerous.”
Anders nodded. “It is. It is genuinely dangerous.” He peered at his hand. “Look at that. Still bleeding.”
“I mean, it’s one thing to get injured.” Medical could fix almost anything. “But I’m thinking, what if somebody takes one in the neck?”
“There are first-aid stations. Apply a patch, take a quick trip to Medical, you’d be fine.”
“Or the eye?”
“Bah,” Anders said. He had let his hair grow longer and his stubble had become a beard. “That’s not going to happen. But I tell you what. No head shots. That can be a rule. What about that?”
“I think you’re assuming a level of control neither of us possesses. What’s wrong with the rubber balls?”
Anders sighed. The crate behind him was full of ninja stars, Gilly saw. There were hundreds. “The balls are boring, Gilly. They’re played out.”
“I don’t think they’re boring.”
“That’s because you’re low-sensate.” This was a reference to a psych metric of sensation-seeking behavior. Gilly’s score was so low that the evaluator had wanted him to re-sit the test. But the officer who had been assigned to steer Gilly through a year of Service assured her that that wasn’t necessary; from his observation, Isiah Gilligan was indeed perfectly content to sit motionless in a darkened environment for four hours with nothing but his thoughts. Gilly hadn’t seen Anders’s scores, but he presumed they were high. Very high. “We’re two years into a four-year tour, Gilly. We can’t use those little pussy balls forever.”
“Isn’t the fun part the stealth? Not the hurting.”
“It can be both,” Anders said.
Gilly’s film said:
□ [01800 HRS / -00020 HRS] ALL-HANDS BRIEFING (REC-1)
“You get that?” Anders said.
Gilly nodded. “I’ll think about the stars.”
Anders grinned and clapped him on the shoulder. “You’re a good man, Gilligan.”
“I said I’ll think about it.” But Anders was right; he would probably do it. He usually did what Anders wanted. They were different people, but Service had good reasons for putting them together. They were complements, making each other better.
“I’ll see you at briefing,” Anders said, clutching his wrist. His hand dripped. “I need to go to Medical.”
* * *
—
Gilly arrived early and took a seat. The ship had five rooms like this, which could be used for meeting or briefing purposes, or as temporary bunkers in the event of an emergency while the ship vented air or suppressed fires or whatever. All were spacious, with room for four people to sit comfortably around a small table. One had a three-person sofa where Gilly could lean right back and stick out his legs. It was luxurious.
Beanfield appeared in the doorway, nursing a steaming coffee. She had spent a lot of time working out over the last two years, becoming long and lean. She smiled at him. “Hey, G. You see we had a sync window?”
“I did.”
“I have a bunch of new interviews.” She levered herself into a seat and set down her coffee. Her elbows splayed. “You did one with Good Morning America last sync, right? How did that go?”
“Fine, although we were interrupted by an engagement. I don’t know if they want to redo it.”
She shook her head. “That’s a great finish for them. That’s like gold.”
He hadn’t considered that, but she was right. Beanfield was much more aware of public relations than he cared to be.
“I haven’t opened my personal messages yet. Every sync, I tell myself I’m going to save them. I’ll open, you know, ten a day, so I won’t run out before next sync. But then I start thinking, what if we sync again tomorrow? So I open everything and have nothing left. Sorry, did you want coffee?”
“No, I’m good.”
She smiled. Beanfield wore her Service jacket unzipped most of the way down the front, a standard white tee beneath. “You need to get yourself a vice, Gilligan. You’re too perfect. It makes me suspicious.”
Jackson entered and took her usual seat, the one farthest from the door. If Gilly or Anders tried to sit in the same place more than three times, Beanfield would camp out in it before they arrived. Anything that looked like a rut, Beanfield was all over. But there was a captain’s exemption, apparently.
“Captain,” said Beanfield, which Gilly echoed. Jackson nodded. Sometimes Gilly thought Jackson was reading something on her film when she wasn’t. She was still inscrutable to him, even after two years. “We synced.”
“We did,” Jackson said. “And there’s news.”
“Oh?”
“I’ll fill you in when Anders gets here. Where is he?”
“Medical,” Gilly said. “He might be a few minutes.”
Jackson looked at Beanfield. Gilly wasn’t totally across everyone’s roles and duties, but he had figured out that whenever Anders did something bad, Beanfield was in trouble. “I’ll ping him,” Beanfield said.
“While we’re here,” Gilly said, “can we pull up the last engagement? There was an interesting attack pattern variation.” Jackson shrugged, so he spun up a projection of their last battle. Points of light and stats coalesced on their films, appearing to play across the table. “You see the ripple here?” The salamanders closed in an arc, as usual, but their line wobbled, with sections moving in and out. “I’d love to know whether any other crews have seen that.”