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It’s Javi who spots him first and not the other way around. Which isn’t as strange as it ought to be, really: the last thing Xabi’s expecting to see is a familar face this far out in the system. Besides which, he supposes he stands out. It’s the harvest season in this hemisphere, and as he makes his way towards Javi’s table he has to move carefully to avoid the revelers milling around him, eye-searingly colorful in festival clothing from a hundred different cultures.
“Didn’t think Ataraxia was your scene, Alonso,” Javi calls as he nears. “Come to enjoy the festivities?”
“Something like that,” says Xabi. “What does a man have to do to get a drink around here?”
“Traditionally, seduce someone,” says a voice, “but the barman takes credits. Seeing as most of this lot would die of thirst otherwise.”
Xabi glances across at the speaker. Draped over a chair is a skinny rake of a man in an astonishingly old-Earth getup: a red and white checkered shirt, a stiff grey jacket that might be genuine wool, and dusty brown trousers cut short at the knee.
“Speak for yourself, Bazi,” says Javi, and the man grins, raises his mug in cheerful salute. “Never mind Thomas, Xabi, he’s harmless. What are you doing out here? Are you on a job?”
“Looking for one, actually,” says Xabi. He pauses, considering the men arranged around Javi in various stages of inebriation. “I take it this is the crew you’re running with now.”
“Until they kick me out.” Javi makes a gesture at the waiter with his free hand. Meanwhile everyone else shuffles around vaguely, grumbling a little, until there’s enough room for Xabi at the table. “You know how hard it is to find a ship that even wants a cultural liaison, let alone pays them?”
“How long?”
“Coming up on three cycles now, like most of these guys--I know, right,” adds Javi, at Xabi’s expression. “What can I say? It’s a good crew.” A beat. “Thomas isn’t bad, either.”
“Says the man whose sole purpose in life is to eat our food and wait for first contact,” says Thomas.
“If it’s a job you want, you could do worse than this lot,” says Javi, ignoring him. “We’ve got one lined up, and we’re bound to need a fixer sooner or later.”
The waiter sets a glass down by Xabi, and he takes advantage of the pause in the conversation to try it. It’s only mid-shelf arak, tasting faintly of fair trade turpentine and nowhere near the stuff he prefers, but if Javi’s buying, Xabi’s content to let him.
It’s not a bad idea, joining up. Out here in the border systems, most people prefer to drift from ship to ship, Xabi included. To have nearly the same crew for more than a cycle or two is nearly unheard of. And if they’ve taken the job he thinks they have--well. He can’t deny he finds it intriguing.
“And you, Thomas,” says Xabi. “What do you do?”
Thomas flashes him a crooked grin. “I’m a recruiter, me,” he says. “I get the right kind of people on board.”
“Do I look like the right kind of people?”
Thomas cocks his head. For just an instant his gaze sharpens and Xabi has the oddest feeling he’s being read: not in the usual sense, not the way he’d usually take the measure of a mark. Then the moment’s gone, and Thomas flaps a hand.
“You are if Javi says you are,” he drawls. “And if you aren’t, we’ll take it out of his pay, eh, Javi?”
Javi tosses a coaster at Thomas’s head, and Thomas ducks, laughing.
“The pay’s good, by the way,” says Javi. “Equal split across the board. Though I know you don’t care about that.”
“You’d be surprised. Equal split speaks well of a captain.”
It must be one of the reasons this crew has stayed together for so long. Xabi sets the glass down. He doesn’t consider himself an impulsive man, but some niggling part of him had known his decision the instant he’d sat down.
“Tell me about the job,” he says.
---
It goes a little like this:
There’s a path through hyperspace from the border system to the Core. It turns a six-month journey into one that takes a week, and it bypasses all the usual reasons why the journey takes six months: the asteroid fields, the radiation sinks.
Their target’s a salvage job--some wreck of a freighter that got knocked out of the slipstream by debris. That had been bad luck to begin with. Worse luck that they’d ended up in an asteroid field known for its unpredictable magnetic fields. Evidently the crew had managed to make it out alive, but they’d had to leave behind all their cargo.
“Ship’s captain gave us the coordinates,” says Javi, passing Xabi a datapad. “At least, we’re pretty sure it’s the captain. Smugglers, you know.”
“All they want is a data drive, if you can believe it,” says Thomas. “We can keep any other cargo we recover as part of the contract. I’d be suspicious, but lucky for them they’re paying us just enough not to ask any questions.”
The datapad contains the basics and not much else: the aforementioned coordinates, a shipping manifest, a point of contact. Xabi scrolls through it a few times, then passes the datapad back.
“I know the area,” he says. “That’s a lot of trouble to go through for a single data drive. You’re sure your ship can make it through the field?”
“She’s got the best defense network in the system,” says Javi. “Our captain saw to that.”
Xabi smiles wryly. “How can I say no to that kind of confidence?”
“You’re in?” says Thomas, leaning forward.
Xabi glances at him. He’s not sure why: recruiter or not, it isn’t as if Thomas has the final say in whether or not he’s accepted. But it’s suddenly clear that if Xabi wants to be part of this job, he needs to both get into Thomas’s good graces and stay there.
“I’m in,” he says.
---
Xabi, truth be told, has never really approved of Ursus-class ships. For all that there’s no such thing as wind resistance in space he has always appreciated it when a ship at least makes an effort to look streamlined. In stark contrast, whoever designed the Stern des Südens had clearly only cared about functionality. As he steps off the orbital elevator, the ship looms over him, dark angles jutting everywhere like a belligerent pinecone.
There’s a hundred places to hide contraband in a ship like that, he allows grudgingly, but it doesn’t mean he has to like it.
“Gorgeous, isn’t she?” says Thomas from behind him, and laughs like a drain at Xabi’s noncommittal sound.
“Your first ship, I take it,” says Xabi, in lieu of giving an actual answer.
Thomas waves a hand. “You’re asking because it’s obvious. Well, I don’t mind. Say what you like, there are worse ships to serve on, and few better. Seen a lot of people come and go.”
“But you stayed.”
“I stayed,” says Thomas, and winks at Xabi. “Space is big, Mr. Alonso. A man’s got to feel like he belongs somewhere.”
Xabi smiles politely back.
Inside, it’s surprisingly warm. Here and there Xabi can see the telltale signs of a crew that’s settled in, made itself at home. Someone’s hung rugs over the ship’s bare metal walls and strung soft amber lights along the corridors. Someone else has hung up a dartboard next to the galley door with a haphazard list of chores, in what Xabi is pretty sure is Javi’s handwriting, pinned to the sections. Thomas’s dart, he notices, is stuck on “rotate the composters,” and from the thin layer of dust looks like it has been for some time.
The net effect isn’t quite enough to fool him--there’s still a smuggler’s ship under it all, and, if the rumors are to be believed, a damn good one at that--but the show of coziness makes him relax a little anyway.
“Come on,” says Thomas. His hobnailed boots clomp down the corridor. “Crew meeting in five. Fips gets fussy if we’re late.”
---
“First order of business,” says Captain Lahm, looking down at his datapad. “I’ve been receiving complaints about music being played in the oxygen forest during nightshift. David?”
“The plants like it,” says a young man perched on a cargo crate. “It makes them happy.”
“Your neighbors would beg to differ. Turn it down after curfew, please.”
David grins and shrugs. “Okay, well, don’t come looking for me or Rafinha when your algae converters are operating at seventy percent.”
“Fips always says that,” Thomas informs Xabi in a stage whisper. “It’s his cabin next to the oxygen forest and he doesn’t like synthfunk.”
“I heard that, Thomas,” says Lahm mildly. “Next up: new crew. We’re taking on a navigator for this job. Per Thomas and Javi, he’s been to this part of the system before, and he’ll be helping us get to the coordinates once we drop out of hyperspace. Mr. Alonso?”
“Pleased to be working with all of you,” says Xabi. He accepts the nods and waves with a small smile, and leans back as Lahm goes through the rest of his datapad. There’s another new crewmember, a kid named Kimmich who looks like he’s barely out of university. He gradually tunes out as Lahm gets into the particulars of fuel rationing--it’s nothing he hasn’t heard before, and in any case it isn’t going to be his responsibility on this trip--and turns his attention to the rest of the crew.
Even in the vastness of the cargo bay they’re gathered close together, sprawled on top of crates and leaning comfortably against each other. Javi aside, he doesn’t know most of them: one or two look familiar, in that vague way all spacers look after a while, but not so much that he remembers them or, with any luck, they remember him.
And yet there’s something a little disappointing at the thought: by Javi’s reckoning this crew has operated more or less unchanged for eight or nine jobs already. He’s operating as a newcomer on this ship, and while it’s never much bothered him before, it’s still something that has the potential to play havoc with his plans.
A soft pressure at his elbow, and Xabi looks up into Thomas’s snaggletoothed grin. Thomas waggles his eyebrows and indicates, via some truly impressive facial gymnastics, the crate directly across from them, where David and a man with a scar on his temple are endeavoring to slide an overripe tomato down the back of Kimmich’s collar while he nods off.
Well. It’s good to know he won’t be the designated hazing target on the ship.
---
He must have forgotten to set his internals to ship time while boarding, because by the time he rises the next morning the bunks are mostly deserted. In the distance he can hear the distant murmur of voices and the low, steady rumble of machinery. When he peers inside the galley in search of coffee, only Thomas is there, wearing an absurd chef’s toque and tending to something bubbling in a pot.
“Ah, the sleeping princess graces us with her presence,” he declaims, as Xabi slides blearily into the nearest seat. “Lucky for you there’s still a crumb or two of breakfast left. Unusual, that. Some of our esteemed crew must’ve hit the arak too hard last night and decided it was better to suffer the aftereffects on an empty stomach. Not that I recommend it, mind.”
“I didn’t realize this was part of your job description,” says Xabi.
“I wear a lot of hats,” Thomas says, and doffs the toque, as if the pun weren’t already immediately obvious. “How do you like your eggs: underdone or overdone?”
“Underdone,” says Xabi, and accepts the mug of coffee Thomas slides down the counter.
Thomas laughs as he turns back to the tiny stove. “Javi said you’re a fixer,” he says, stirring briskly. “I’m guessing you didn’t spring fully formed out of the aether, and you have to know him from somewhere. Your last job?”
Xabi suppresses a grimace. “A few before that. The less said about my last job, the better.”
“Hmm. Can’t say I relate.”
The coffee is good: no sense in dipping into the instant stuff with the coordinates only a week away. There’s a red duck with a floppy hat painted on the mug. Xabi turns it this way and that, amused.
"You're from Earth, aren't you?" asks Thomas, after a while. "Or one of the colonies. Most of the guys think you're a spacer but personally I'm not convinced."
"I'm glad to hear I'm the subject of so much intrigue," says Xabi.
Thomas shrugs. "It's not too often we get new crew. Can't blame a man for being interested."
"And Kimmich isn't interesting?"
"Jo's an open book and you know it. Fresh out of university, dreams of the stars? That kid doesn't have a past worth wondering about. Now--" Thomas waves his spatula-- "a future, maybe, sure. But that doesn’t make for nearly as good gossip."
Xabi laughs. "You're right, in any case. I hopped from colony to colony, but I spent the most time on Anfield Station."
Thomas brightens, which is a surprise: Xabi didn't think he'd recognize the name. It's been a long time since it's been famous for anything. "You play football?"
Xabi smiles wryly. Doesn't think about the answer too hard. "I used to. When I was a kid."
"Fips'll be glad to hear that," says Thomas. "We play sometimes. Five-a-sides. He says it encourages team bonding and collaborative thinking. I say it's funny putting seven past Manu."
"How did you know, by the way?" says Xabi. "About the colonies."
Thomas gives him a look. "You're a drifter," he says. "Drifters always are. A man can't leave home unless he knows he's found it before."
---
Thomas talks. He talks a lot. Mostly Xabi thinks it’s to fill in the natural quiet that settles in on a ship during long hauls. Space is big, as Thomas said. More than that, it’s empty. Even in hyperspace the gaps between systems are enormous. Think too much about the endless crushing vastness a couple layers of metal away, and a man starts to go funny in the head. It’s normal for spacers to be talkative. But Thomas talks around other people’s conversations, too, and through them, in a uniquely, unapologetically madcap way, and after a while, Xabi even starts to listen to what he’s saying, and whom he’s saying it to.
Jo, the new hire, for example--and it’s easy for Xabi to think of him as the new hire, despite Xabi’s not being any less new. Halfway through the week he gets a little stir-crazy and picks a fight with Lewandowski, the Stern ’s hotshot pilot. When Xabi gets to the mess hall what seems like the entire crew is there, either taking sides or egging the two of them on.
He spots Philipp hovering near the entrance and half expects him to step in, but the little captain only catches his eye, nods, and slips away. By the time Xabi turns back around, Thomas has navigated his way through the crowd and slipped effortlessly between the squabbling pair. As far as Xabi can tell, Jo and Lewy are still arguing, but Thomas is unavoidably there in a way neither of them can ignore for long, one arm slung around either of their shoulders, keeping up a running stream of commentary.
Xabi’s not sure how it happens: only that it happens gradually, and without either Jo or Lewy realizing that it does. Five minutes later they’ve shaken hands, Lewy is headed back to the cockpit looking mollified, and Thomas has arranged some kind of internship for Jo in the oxygen forest.
“It’ll keep him busy, and David and Rafinha will be good for him,” Thomas tells Xabi later. “And there’s nothing like plants to calm a man down. Anyway Lewy threatens to leave the ship every other job and he hasn’t done it yet, so it’s not like we were in any real danger.”
“That was quick thinking on your part,” says Xabi.
When Thomas laughs he does it with his whole face, his eyes screwed shut and his mouth wide open, all his teeth flashing. “Of course it was! I’m a quick thinker. That’s my job on board the ship, didn’t you know?”
“Along with chef,” says Xabi, smiling. “And recruiter.”
“Those too,” says Thomas. He nudges Xabi in the side. “I play a lot of positions, me.”
---
Xabi wakes up on the fourth day to the sound of banging on his door, and opens it to find Thomas grinning unrepentantly at him.
“Hey,” says Thomas. “You said you used to play.”
Xabi stares at him for a moment at first, uncomprehending, before his gaze lands on the tattered ball tucked under Thomas’s arm.
“Here?” he manages, utterly devoid of eloquence at what must be four in the morning. “Now?”
Müller huffs at him. “Not now. It’ll take Manu and Boa another fifteen minutes to lock down all the crates in the cargo bay. On the hour?”
Xabi rubs the sleep from his eyes, or tries to. It must be earlier than four: none of what Thomas is saying makes any sense, or else he’s gone mad and is actually proposing they play football in a cramped Ursus-class ship with no room for a pitch. “Mrgh,” he says.
It’s astonishing how Thomas’s grin lights up his entire face. “Super,” he says, and slaps the wall with his free hand encouragingly. “Cargo bay, remember. Don’t be late, I want you on my team.”
---
Thomas, Xabi decides halfway through the match, must only have wanted him on his team to make up for his many and varied shortcomings. The man plays like an overexcited child, with no apparent regard for tactics or technique. He’s never onside when Xabi needs him, and when he is onside the ball is on the other side of the cargo bay. Which isn't to say he isn't fun to watch; there's something vastly entertaining about watching him miss an easy cross from David and pinwheel into the distance, arms and legs waving frantically.
It's nothing like the football Xabi used to play back in the colonies, where the artificial gravity had always stayed on and everyone’s feet had been in contact with the ground at all times. The entire crew of the Stern des Südens floats around him, apparently perfectly at home with shouting instructions and encouragement at each other while upside down and sideways. The cargo they’re transporting was strapped down when the artificial gravity was turned off for obvious safety purposes, but even with the entirety of the cargo bay opened up for the game, they still present significant hazards to play. Xabi's shin is already beginning to smart from a poorly timed challenge which had ended with his colliding with a crate of nutrient bars instead of Javi.
Just ahead, Thomas careens into another crate with a faint oof and, in accordance with Newton, sails back the way he came. A shout from behind them: Xabi spins, instinctively grabbing the nearest cargo hook to help his pivot, and catches Philipp's pass in the crook of his foot.
As he comes back around on the cargo hook he lifts the ball in the air, a quick easy motion, and sends it hurtling forward. By sheer improbable chance, Thomas has managed to flail past both defenders, and one bony knee pokes the ball past Manu’s outstretched hands and into the makeshift netting that serves as a goal.
In the ensuing ruckus Thomas crows his triumph directly into Manu’s face, even as Manu appeals in vain for offside from a stony-faced Jerome, and spins back into the open center of the cargo bay, arms akimbo.
"How do you like that!" he demands of Xabi, as he sails overhead. "Bet you don't get goals like that on Anfield Station!"
"We don't," allows Xabi. "That was some luck."
Thomas looks at him with an expression unnervingly close to pity, then grins and winks. Even as everyone floats slowly back to their sides so play can reset, he's still talking, reenacting his collision with the crate with relentless enthusiasm, until Jerome rolls his eyes affectionately and blows the whistle.
Thomas scores two more after that, knock-kneed clumsy affairs that again come out of nowhere, and assists another. It's an unpredictable sport, decides Xabi: the elimination of gravity introduces just enough chaos and random chance to appeal to a bunch of rowdy spacers, Thomas most of all. But he has to admit it's a great deal of fun, and after the final whistle is blown several of the crew drift over to him, impressed by the assist he provided. Someone--Holger, he thinks, the medic--claps him on the back, offers him a drink, and in the hubbub he loses sight of Thomas altogether.
He turns for one last look back at the cargo bay anyway, just on the off-chance he’ll see Thomas there, drifting into open space, precisely where he needs to be.
---
Two days later they drop out of hyperspace, a few clicks from the asteroid field.
From this distance it doesn’t look that impressive: a lot of rocks hanging more-or-less motionless in the black, far as the eye can see. Thomas says as much, and Philipp glances at him.
“For now,” he says drily. “Xabi, you said you’ve come this way before.”
Xabi recognizes the informal order for what it is. “The magnetic fields in this area have a tendency to shift in unpredictable patterns. One minute everything’s calm, the next everything’s suddenly moving in the opposite direction.”
A low whistle from Jerome. “And our salvage got caught in that? We’re lucky if anything’s left.”
“Our contact gave us a tracker,” says Philipp. “We’ll activate it once we’re in the field. With any luck, we’ll know for sure within a day or two.”
In the end it takes less than six hours to locate the ship, or in any case the half of the ship that matters. It must have been beautiful, once: an old Regius-class frigate, sleek and polished in the way Xabi appreciates, long since converted for civilian use. It looks like it must have been shorn in two, a clean break that separated the bridge and living quarters from the cargo bay.
The crew is oddly subdued as Lewy drifts them closer. There’s always something equal parts somber and terrifying about seeing a wreck.
“Anyone here ever seen the inside of one of these before?” says Philipp.
When Xabi raises his hand he almost thinks Philipp will say something. But Philipp only tilts his head slightly, as if considering, before he smiles.
Xabi suits up without much fanfare, and in well-drilled silence he rappels down to the ship.Time is of the essence now; just because the asteroid field’s been quiet these past few hours doesn’t mean it’ll stay that way.
He feels the magnets in his boots lock onto the hull as he lands, feels the metal underneath him shudder, even though he can’t hear it in the vacuum of space. He’s always found that disconnect weirdly appealing.
Steven used to say he was strange in the head. Steven used to say a lot of things.
Focus, Xabi.
“Right,” says Thomas’s voice. Xabi looks up, and a figure in a bright red hardsuit, gangling even underneath all the padding, waves cheerfully at him. “Let’s find that drive.”
“This is part of your job description, too?” says Xabi, and regrets it immediately as Thomas cackles directly into his ear.
---
They split up once they’re inside: Thomas makes immediately for the bridge, leaving Xabi to hunt through the wreckage of the crew quarters. It’s hard going; with the ship dead and the artificial gravity off, he finds himself having to push all manner of personal belongings out of his way, only to have them ricochet back in his face once they’ve found something to bounce off.
“Any more information about where the drive might be?” says Xabi, as much to drown out the sound of Thomas muttering quietly to himself as anything else.
“Sorry,” says Philipp, over comms. “Message only said fore half of the ship. I guess it’s hard to remember where you left your things when everything around you is blowing up.”
“Fair point,” says Xabi. An intricately carved box drifts into his vision, and as it spins past he recognizes the vintage on the seal. It isn’t what he came here for, but he snags it with one hand and tucks it into his bag anyway.
He makes it through two more rooms--both cluttered, both missing the drive--before Javi’s voice crackles suddenly into his ear.
“Gentlemen--” he says, and Xabi knows from his tone of voice exactly what he’s about to say next-- “we have incoming.”
“What?” demands Thomas, immediately. In the background Xabi can hear muddled feedback from the rest of the crew. “Incoming what, Javi?”
“A ship,” says Javi hurriedly, “might be a rental, I don’t recognize the registration. Just dropped out of hyperspace and made straight for us.”
“Or,” says Philipp, “straight for the wreck.”
Xabi says nothing. He feels oddly calm. So this is it, he thinks. This is as far as he’s going to make it.
Well, it was a good attempt.
"The captain must have given the coordinates to multiple crews," says Philipp, interrupting his train of thought.
A snort from Thomas. "Where's the sense in that?"
"The wreck's in an asteroid field," says Philipp. "Why hire one crew when you're not even sure they'll make it out alive? Better to hire several. Whoever delivers the cargo first gets paid. When the rest get there, they'll assume the ship was already hit by scavengers or the cargo was lost in the field and the captain pays them a nominal fee for their time. Everyone leaves happy."
Xabi pauses. "That's quick thinking," he says.
He can almost hear Philipp’s smile, quick and bright. "That's what I would have done."
Xabi pushes his way to a window. In the distance he thinks he can see a flicker of light, rapidly approaching.
“They’re not responding to hailing,” says Javi, after a moment. “Should I have Boa and Manu man the guns?”
“I’m not about to fire on them,” says Philipp. “Not when we haven’t found out what they want. We might be able to come to some sort of arrangement.”
“You’re really gonna bet on that, huh,” says Thomas, sounding supremely unbothered. “Xabi, how’s everything on your end?”
Xabi grimaces. He’d almost forgotten to keep searching. “Nothing yet.”
“Hah, well. If they want to try anything funny, we have the advantage. These bridge seats are damn comfortable, by the way. You think we can bring them aboard?”
“No,” says Philipp, before Xabi can respond.
The flicker of light is larger now. Now that it’s approaching the wreck he can see it is a rental, like Javi had guessed. Of course. They wouldn’t have had time to get anything better. Xabi allows himself a tight smile. It must be killing them.
He turns from the window, fights his way back to the main hallway. Thomas meets him halfway, holding something small and octagonal in one gloved hand.
“Found this floating near the communications hub,” he says. “Fits the description we got. Think it’s what we’re looking for?”
“It’s certainly some kind of drive,” Xabi says neutrally, staring down at it. He resists the urge to snatch it out of Thomas’s hands. Not now. Not yet.
“Well, it’s all we’ve got. You find anything else you want? Let’s get out of here before--”
It happens before either of them can react. One moment the other ship is still a good ten minutes away. The next, it’s blinked out of existence. And then, with a terrifying non-sound, like the sucking of an invisible vaccuum, it blinks back into existence, its outer hull inches away from the window.
A controlled hop, thinks Xabi. Dangerous even when not performed in an asteroid field. They must be very angry.
“Thomas,” says Philipp. His voice is even; he sounds surprised but not shocked. “Xabi. We’re bringing up the guns. Stay put.”
“Don’t,” says Xabi, before he can stop himself. Around them, the wreck shudders as someone lands on the outer hull, just over their heads.
“Excuse me?” says Philipp.
“Don’t,” repeats Xabi. “I know who it is.”
The wreck shudders again. Two people on the outer hull--no, Xabi corrects himself, three. And he’d put money on one of them being--
"Alonso! " bellows Ramos.
Well, it isn’t as if they were on a closed frequency. Thomas winces theatrically, clapping his free hand to the side of his head, and Xabi almost laughs.
"Someone we ought to be worried about?" says Philipp.
"We used to work together," says Xabi. "In a manner of speaking."
“Alonso!” Ramos again. Xabi can feel the ship vibrating with each step. "I know that's you, you son of a whore!"
Xabi doesn't look up. He can feel Thomas’s eyes on him.
“Ah,” says Thomas. “Your last job?”
“I think,” says Xabi, “it’s best if we get back to the ship.”
It’s easier said than done. The only exit is the gaping hole where the aft half of the ship used to be. As they swing out onto the hull they meet Ramos and his men trying to get in, and only the lack of gravity keeps them from turning the collision into an immediate brawl.
He hasn’t changed, notes Xabi critically. And he came spoiling for a fight; he brought Pepe and Casemiro with him. He really did know it was Xabi, after all.
Careless. Xabi must be getting soft in his old age.
“All right, all right,” Thomas is saying, prodding Ramos in the chest with a finger until he backs up, more out of confusion than anything else. “We get it. We took the same job. Bad luck on the captain’s part, he didn’t expect two crews to get here at the same time. But really, we were here first, so worse luck for you.”
Ramos pauses. Genuine puzzlement spreads, slowly, across his features.
“What are you talking about?” he says.
"We’ve got dibs," says Thomas. "Sorry to say it, but you lot are going home empty-handed. Now, I'm sure you'd love to catch up with Xabi here, but we're a bit short for time, and frankly I don't think we have time to put the kettle on. If you'd just step aside--"
"The hell should we for?" says Ramos incredulously. "It’s our ship."
---
Which, of course, is when the magnetic field shifts.
---
The thing about asteroids is they don’t move fast, comparatively speaking. You can see them coming and they’re not ordinarily a problem, not when you’re sitting in anything with an engine. It’s different when you’re stuck on the surface of a dead wreck and have no way of moving in time.
The first asteroid is about the size of a football, and it punches clean through the bridge as glass and steel blossom in its wake. A moment later, the shockwave reaches Xabi. The magnets in Xabi’s boots hold, but the impact rattles his teeth in his head and shakes him to the bone. There’ll be bruises later, at the very least.
“Everyone off!” yells Ramos. Behind him, Casemiro and Pepe are already clipping themselves onto the cables running back to their ship. Xabi turns slowly--the problem with boots like these is you can never really sprint in them.
He’s about to head for his own cable when the second asteroid hits.
---
Awareness comes back to him slowly.
He’s holding onto his cable. That’s important. And his cable’s still connected to the Stern, because he can feel it shaking as the ship is bombarded. His boots are still locked onto a piece of hull, but that’s less of a problem, because the piece of hull isn’t connected to anything else.
“-shields holding well,” Philipp is saying. “Boa’s on his way to assist. Try and get closer to the ship if you can.”
“Xabi!”
Xabi looks up. Thomas is clinging to a bookshelf that might have been part of someone’s cabin once. Maybe Xabi’s own. There’s no sign of his cable. He looks like he’s about to say something else, and then a piece of debris collides with his bookshelf.
He goes flying. The data drive spins out of his stunned fingers.
Later, Xabi will tell himself that he was merely considering all the options. That regardless of whether or not they recovered any cargo, Philipp would have been unlikely to tolerate anyone who'd let Thomas Müller die on a job. That it would at the very least have been an awkward ride back to Ataraxia, if he even made it that far. No doubt Philipp would have arranged something quiet and efficient--the airlock, probably, or a knife between the ribs.
The truth of it is that he sees Thomas's fingers slip, just a little, on the bookshelf, and he forgets to think entirely.
"The drive!" shouts Thomas.
"Fuck the drive, you idiot, come on!"
He closes his eyes. Takes a deep breath. Unlocks his boots. Lunges for Thomas. Catches the fingertips of one flailing hand--
That’s when the third asteroid hits.
---
Awareness comes back to him slowly. Again.
He’s lying on a hard metal table. Someone’s peeled him out of the hardsuit, because there’s a drip in his arm and EKG tape on his chest. That someone is probably Holger, the medic, whose unsmiling face is currently looming over his.
He smiles weakly up at Holger, who makes a face like he’s tasted sour milk and slouches off, presumably to aggressively rearrange his dispensary.
“I’d tell you to ignore him,” says Philipp, “but in this case I think his annoyance is justified.”
Xabi tries to turn his head to look at him. It hurts. He suspects that was Philipp’s intention.
“Thomas,” he says. His mouth is dry.
“Fared better than you,” said Philipp, and Xabi lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. Philipp’s expression doesn’t change.
"Ramos’s crew didn't hire us," says Philipp. "You did."
The only sound in the medbay is the steady beep of Xabi's heart monitor. Leave it to Philipp, he thinks wryly, to interrogate a man when he's barely conscious and hooked up to telemetry.
"I did," says Xabi.
"You tried to use us," says Philipp.
Xabi exhales. "I did."
“What was in the drive?”
“Information. I’ve worked for a lot of people over the years. I’ve collected a lot of data on them. Employees, rivals, useful contacts.” He tries not to think about how all of it has slipped out of his reach forever. How he, Xabi Alonso, has let it slip out of his reach forever, to save a man he hardly knows. He tries not to think about what that means. “I would have shared it with you, given the chance--”
“No, you wouldn’t have,” says Philipp, and Xabi shuts his mouth.
Philipp leans back in his seat. Strangely enough, he seems more pleased than angry. "In the days to come," he says, "I'm going to have to think long and hard about your role on this ship moving forward. For now, I'm going to leave you to Holger's tender mercies, which may be punishment enough."
After he’s gone, Xabi tries to make himself comfortable on the table. These things usually have sheets, don’t they? He hasn’t really spoken to Holger, aside from that time after the football match. He supposes he’s well and thoroughly used up whatever goodwill that assist had netted him by now.
Something warm and soft settles over him. Xabi looks down, touches the worn fringes of the blanket, looks up.
"Cold in here," says Thomas, and grins encouragingly at him.
“How much of that did you hear?”
“Enough to be appreciative, I think.” Thomas plops down, kicks his feet up on the table. “And impressed. Almost as impressed as Fips.”
Xabi frowns. This isn’t how he expected the conversation to go. “Impressed?”
“Of course,” says Thomas happily. “Definitely the most interesting job application I’ve ever been a part of. I don’t think Fips was sure you’d go for me, in the end, but he’s very glad you did. So am I, come to think of it.”
Xabi resists the urge to rub his temples, not least because moving his arms would hurt. Nothing Thomas is saying is making sense again.
“I told you, didn’t I?” says Thomas. “I’m a recruiter. I’d be a pretty terrible one if I didn’t do a background check on you first.”
“You knew,” says Xabi slowly.
“Oh, yes. So did Fips. We didn’t know why you were after the drive, but we figured from your track record it was something good. You’ve pissed off a lot of people, Mr. Alonso. We thought it might be worth our while to play along.” He grins. “Of course, we appreciate any chance we get to tweak the Galácticos’ noses while we’re at it.”
Xabi stares at him. A week, he thinks. An entire week he waited. For this.
Strangely, the thought of it doesn’t make him angry.
“Do you do this for all your crew?” he says, after a moment.
“Oh, no,” says Thomas. “Most of them had the good manners to submit their resumes at the start.”
Xabi smiles a little. “I guess I deserved that.” He shifts under the blanket. There’s something else bothering him. “So when you dropped the drive--”
Thomas’s grin widens. “I never do anything by accident,” he says, and presses something small and flat into Xabi’s hand.
Xabi stills.
“So what do you say?” says Thomas, continuing on as if he’s done nothing at all. “You’ve passed the interview process, you know. I think our ship would be a pretty good fit, if you don’t try to pull one over on us again. Fancy sticking around?”
This, Xabi realizes, is what Thomas does. It’s what he’s always done: find a place for himself and draw the edges of his words around him like camouflage, until his chatter and his gangly limbs fade into the background, until one day you blink and he’s right in front of you, like he’s been there all this time.
And me? he doesn’t ask. Where do I fit in, around you?
There’s only one way to find out.
“I might,” he says, slowly, and Thomas laughs.