be back?’ ‘Dunno. It’s not normal to meet them this far from the Rust Belt. I’d almost say…’ Clavain raised an eyebrow. ‘What — that I might have something to do with it?’ ‘It’s just a thought.’ ‘Here’s another. You were doing something unusual and dangerous: traversing hostile space. From the banshees’ point of view it might have meant you had valuable cargo, something worthy of their interest.’ ‘I suppose so.’ ‘I swear I had nothing to do with it.’ ‘I didn’t think you did, Clavain — I mean, not intentionally. But there’s a lot of weird shit going down these days.’ He took another sip from the bulb. ‘Tell me about it.’ They let him out of the airlock eight hours later. That was when Clavain had his first decent look at the man Antoinette had called Xavier. Xavier was a rangy individual with a pleasing, cheerful face and a bowl-shaped mop of shiny black hair that gleamed blue under Storm Bird’s interior lighting. In Clavain’s estimation he was perhaps ten or fifteen years older than Antoinette, but he was prepared to believe that his guess might be seriously wrong and that she might be the older one of the partnership. That said, he was certain that neither of them had been born more than a few decades ago. When the lock opened he saw that Xavier and Antoinette were still wearing their suits, with their helmets hitched to their belts. Xavier stood between the posts of the lock’s doorframe and pointed at Clavain. ‘Take your suit off. Then you can come into the rest of the ship.’ Clavain nodded and did as he was told. Removing the suit was awkward in the confined space of the lock — it was awkward enough anywhere — but he managed it within five minutes, stripping down to the skintight thermal layer. ‘I take it I can stop now?’ ‘Yes.’ Xavier stood aside and let him move into the main body of the ship. They were under thrust, so he was able to walk. His socked feet padded against the cleated metal flooring. ‘Thank you,’ Clavain said. ‘Don’t thank me. Thank her.’ Antoinette said, ‘Xavier thinks you should stay in the lock until we get to the Rust Belt.’ ‘I don’t blame him for that.’ ‘But if you try anything…’ Xavier started. ‘I understand. You’ll depressurise the entire ship. I’ll die, since I’m not suited-up. That makes a lot of sense, Xavier. It’s exactly what I would have done in your situation. But can I show you something?’ They looked at each other. ‘Show us what?’ Antoinette asked. ‘Put me back in the airlock, then close the door.’ They did as he asked. Clavain waited until their faces appeared in the window, then sidled closer to the door itself, until his head was only a few inches from the locking mechanism and its associated control panel. He narrowed his eyes and concentrated, dredging up neural routines that he had not used in many years. His implants detected the electrical field generated by the lock circuitry, superimposing a neon maze of flowing pathways on to his view of the panel. He understood the lock’s logic and saw what needed to be done. His implants began to generate a stronger field of their own, suppressing certain current flows and enhancing others. He was talking to the lock, interfacing with its control system. He was a little out of practice, but even so it was almost childishly simple to achieve what he wanted. The lock clicked. The door slid open, revealing Antoinette and Xavier. They stood there wearing horrified expressions. ‘Space him,’ Xavier said. ‘Space him now.’ ‘Wait,’ Clavain said, holding up his hands. ‘I did that for one reason only: to show you how easy it would have been for me to do it before. I could have escaped at any time. But I didn’t. That means you can trust me.’ ‘It means we should kill you now, before you try something worse,’ Xavier said. ‘If you kill me you’ll be making a terrible mistake, I assure you. This is about more than just me.’ ‘And that’s the best defence you can offer?’ Xavier asked. ‘If you really feel you can’t trust me, weld me into a box,’ Clavain said reasonably. ‘Give me a means to breathe and some water and I’ll survive until we reach the Rust Belt. But please don’t kill me.’ ‘He sounds like he means it, Xave,’ Antoinette said. Xavier was breathing heavily. Clavain realised that the man was still desperately afraid of what he might do. ‘You can’t mess with our heads, you know. Neither of us has any implants.’ ‘It’s not something I had in mind.’ ‘Or the ship,’ Antoinette added. ‘You were lucky with that airlock, but a lot of the mission-critical systems are opto-electronic’ ‘You’re right,’ he said, offering his palms. I can’t touch those.‘ ‘I think we have to trust him,’ Antoinette said. ‘Yes, but if he so much…’ Xavier halted and looked at Antoinette. He had heard something. Clavain had heard it too: a chime from somewhere else in the ship, harsh and repetitious. ‘Proximity alert,’ Antoinette breathed. ‘Banshees,’ Xavier said. Clavain followed them through the clattering metal innards of the ship until they reached a flight deck. The two suited figures slipped ahead of him, buckling into massive antique-looking acceleration couches. While he searched for somewhere to anchor himself, Clavain appraised the flight deck, or bridge, or whatever Antoinette called it. Though it was about as far from a corvette or Nightshade as a space vessel could be in terms of capability, function and technological elegance, he had no difficulty orientating himself. It was easy when you had lived through so many centuries of ship design, seen so many cycles of technological boom-and-bust. It was simply a question of dusting off the right set of memories.
