“I’m afraid it’s been disconnected, Lizzie.”
Boots restrained a gasp. “By whom?”
“The ship’s database contains a work order, filed by Captain Lamarr, for the decommissioning of ‘Boots’s Donut Machine.’”
“Damn! Why?”
“The comments section of the work order says, ‘Get over it, Boots. This is for your own good.’”
Anger flared in her skull, hot enough to fry a donut. “First the doc with his stupid running and now this. Is my bastard captain policing anyone else’s weight, or am I special?”
“Answering that would violate the Confidential Personal Health Information Employment Act of 2862.”
“You tell the captain that he doesn’t have the right to go around shutting down a girl’s donut factory unless he wants a full-blown mutiny on his hands.”
“Would you actually like me to send that message, or…”
Boots huffed. “No.”
“Understood. Since you’re awake, would you mind running an admin hash decluttering on me? I’m having trouble with my permissions and—”
“I just woke up and you want me to do maintenance?”
“It worries me, because those holes could be exploited.”
“Later. Come on.”
Kin chimed. “I’ve just spoken with Captain Lamarr, and he wishes to see you in his quarters, so you can discuss it with him there.”
Boots blanched. “I told you I didn’t really want you to send that message!”
“This is apparently unrelated,” said Kin.
She forced her legs over the edge of the bed and stood, the natural crackles of her forties rattling her spine.
“Don’t worry. The captain has urged me to convey that this is good news,” said the AI.
She pulled on an overshirt, its clasps clicking closed. “Don’t trust a word of it.”
“I’ll let him know you’re on your way.”
“You do that.”
Boots stepped into the hall, searching for anyone else awake during the night cycle. There’d be a watch officer on the bridge, but aside from that, it should be quiet. A strange, lilting melody echoed through the decks near the elevator, and Boots realized the twins were singing to each other in harmony. With any other member of the crew, she’d have poked her head in to investigate, but singing had to be the least weird thing the twins did.
Arriving at the captain’s quarters, she checked herself for lint, adjusted her collar, and took a deep breath. She opened the door to find Cordell sitting at his dinner table with a projection of what looked like a white starfish with swept-back legs hovering overhead. He waved her over.
“Is this from Special Agent Weathers?” she asked.
“Not quite. Got this from GATO Command,” he replied, gesturing to the strange shape in the projection. “This is the last image that a Fifth Fleet scout ship transmitted before being destroyed. The bigwigs think it’s Bastion.”
That was the massive space station Henrick Witts was constructing. Boots drew closer and peered into the blurry edges.
It wasn’t much to look at—no discernible details, just a central body and set of arms. She had no sense of scale to draw from, but she remembered the amounts of cash flowing through the Money Mill. The station would be huge.
“It’s been picking off scout movements, playing cat and mouse with the Fifth, and the GATO folks are on fire,” said Cordell.
“So that’s why you called me up here?”
“No.” He adjusted his cuffs. “There’s no easy way to say this, so I’m just going to come out with it: there’s a hole that has to be filled.”
“Excuse the hell out of you.”
“In our ranks, you reprobate. Our mission discipline has been crap without Armin. This meeting with Agent Weathers has me a little on edge, and… well…”
Boots cocked her head. He couldn’t possibly be headed in the direction she thought he was.
“I need a new first mate. You’d get executive privileges and better stock in the venture.” His golden irises locked on to hers. “You’re the person for the job.”
She gaped at him. They’d always worked well together, not as close friends, but professionals. Through the war, the Harrow conspiracy and all the aftermath, she’d diligently gone where he ordered and blown up every deserving target. She’d never had to manage supplies like Orna and Malik, or deal with their Gate Cartel tokens like Aisha. She’d never seen a repair invoice, plotted a large tactical engagement, or been a party to fleet strategy. Her training as an officer consisted of the emergency battlefield commission given to her during her Arcan Civil Air Patrol days. She knew as much about being an executive officer as cleaning a marpo vat.
She gave him a nervous smile. “I’m going to have to go with no on that one.”
He shook his head. “I knew you were going to say that.”
“Look, I’m flattered, I really am… but you know I’m all wrong for this.”
“You’re a natural-born leader, Boots.”
She burst out laughing.
“Okay, funny girl.”
“I’m a funny woman, sir.”
Cordell ran one hand over his hair, stopping at the back to scratch an itch. “I can prove you’re right for us. That day on the Harrow, you refused to let us collapse under grief. When we found out… what they did to our home, you didn’t buckle or fly off the handle.”
Her hands naturally came to an at-ease posture as she addressed him. “And I mentioned in the after-action report that I’d been prepped by Kinnard to handle that terrible news—so you can’t chalk my even-handed response up to leadership.”
“You refused to let me die in the ensuing battle.”
“After I shot you. That would’ve been, as Nilah might say, ‘bad form.’”
He smirked. “You essentially planned the vault robbery at Mercandatta.”
“And Orna is the one who got us out of there.”
“Your quick thinking against Vraba on the Masquerade saved everyone’s lives.”
“Almost everyone,” she corrected, letting that hang in the air like dismal fog. “And my surprise explosive tore a hole in Malik’s stomach. He almost died! Sir, the first mate is the captain when you do something stupid enough to get captured or killed, and at the rate you’re going that’ll be sometime next week.”
Pursing his lips, he added, “And you’re not getting any younger. Most fighter jocks are retired at your age, or dead.”
There it was—the real reason for the offer. Of course he didn’t want her as a first mate; he just wanted her out of the cockpit so it wasn’t his fault when she got blown to smithereens.
She deflated. “That’s out of line, man. Combat ops are—”
“Not appropriate forever.”
“If you take me out of that bird, you may as well drop me back at the farm on Hopper’s Hope because I’m done.”
“Boots—”
“Captain, you’ve said your piece, and now I get to talk. We’re going to take a moment, just as two people, not as Captain Lamarr and his fighter pilot. Okay?”