Black Hull (12 page)

“Got Husson and our plastic,” she said.
She started sealing the floor again.

“Release him immediately,” called the
woman again in a panic.

Mick looked over to Sera. She shook her
head; the man, her husband, was dead.

“My husband is on that ship!” screamed
the com.

“Grab his body,” Mick whispered to Sera.

“I’ve just sealed the hull,” she said.

“I’ve got an idea.”

She reopened the floor and dropped in
again.

“You’re going to have to board to get
him back. He’s a hostage now. But we can trade. Your light-class for him and
this cruiser,” Mick said.

Sera returned, hauling the bandit’s body
on her shoulder. She threw him to the floor beside Husson and resealed the
floor.

“Alright—permission to dock.”

“He’s in our ship. Don’t try anything.”

“Nothing,” she said.

“Poor Cozon, she was a good ship,” XJ whined.

“She was,” GR agreed.

“Their light-class doesn’t appear in
very good condition either,” Sera said.

She brought the cruiser on top of the
Fogstar, latched on, and opened the floor.

Mick beheld a goddess: clinging
spacesuit wrapped her like candy, beauty apparent on each inch of her face and
form, except for her expression, which hinted at weakness, sadness. Sera spoke
to her:

“Do you have any idea whose ship you’ve
stolen?”

No reply. XJ worked coordinates into the
Fogstar’s nav. Destination: the green popsicle.

“Go ahead. You’ll find your husband
strapped to the bay door. And if you don’t want to get blasted out of the sky,
don’t follow us back.”

“There’s no other planet in cruiser
ranger,” she said, her perfection warped by despair.

“That’s a consequence. Nothing more,”
Sera said, raising her pistol to the woman’s face. “Off.”

She left through the ceiling hatch, back
into the cruiser.

“Release us XJ,” Sera said. She closed
the hatch.

A scream came through the com.

She’s seen the body.

Thumping sounds came from above, the
rapping of fists upon plastisteel. The Fogstar detached and raced away from the
refugee cruiser.

She’s alone. Drifting in the void.
Waiting for rescue. Who will come for her, to save her, a cosmic masterpiece of
flesh? No one.

“She’ll die out here,” Mick said.

Sera glared at him.

No words from her—cold hard Sera. These
situations and cares—they won’t matter later. An old voice:
There is no
later
. A strange impulse grew in Mick. He recalled Karen in gold, young and
floating upon melody, brave enough to tempt love. A row of knuckles collided
with Sera’s forehead. She writhed, struggled to fight back. Mick struck again,
and her eyes rolled into her head.

XJ and GR whirred, unsure how to react.
Mick assured them she was fine, just unconscious. He turned the Fogstar around.

“What’s your name?” Mick asked.

The widow’s delicate frame squirmed
maniacally, the nylon straps binding her unyielding to her thrashing rage.

“You killed him! You’re going to die for
this,” she went on, the same as she’d done for fifteen minutes.

“Mick, we should be back to Melbot’s in
just under an hour,” XJ said, motoring into the Fogstar’s bay where Mick had
strapped his captive to a hull beam.

“Right, thanks,” he said, watching the
young girl in front of him.

“Mick, Sera is still unconscious. Are
you certain she’s okay?” he asked.

“She’s fine.”

“Okay Mick. I’ll let you know when we’re
entering atmosphere.”

“Right.”

XJ returned to GR in the cockpit.

“Listen, he’s dead—I’m sorry about that.
He robbed us, almost killed Sera. It was a risk he took. But the crew on this
ship is heading to Utopia. Maybe you can go with them,” Mick said, trying to
subdue her horrible sobbing.

“You fucking idiot,” she wailed. He
watched her, confounded by the symmetry of her features.

“I’ll let you get over it then,” Mick
said. “If Sera doesn’t kill me for saving your life, she’ll certainly kill you
for crying like that.”

Mick walked away, leaving her to her
tears.

“We just came from there,” she moaned.
“They turned us away.”

“What—why?” Mick stopped.

“They’re almost at maximum capacity.
They tripled the entrance fee. And in a month, no one will ever get in
again—it’s closing.”

Maybe I should kill her. If Sera finds
out, why would she keep helping me? She won’t be able to get in, not if it’s
going to cost 140,000 UCD.

“Is that why you’re robbing way
stations?” Mick asked.

“You’ve ruined everything,” she whined,
dropping to the floor by the beam.

A flash of yellow and blue pierced
Mick’s vision. A sharp pain ripped through his brain. He slumped to the ground,
Sera’s boots stepping past him toward his hostage. His vision faded to black.

“Mick, please listen,” Karen said
calmly.

“No, I’m almost up for Director of
Fleet. I can’t stay home. It’s not a discussion,” he coldly answered.

A bottle of wine split their dinner
table. A waiter interrupted their conversation, cutting through them with
awkwardness.

“Have you two decided yet, or do you
need more time?”

“Yea, we’re ready.”

“I’ll have the chicken marsala entrée,
thanks,” Karen said, staring at Mick.

“Filet mignon, rare,” Mick grunted.

The waiter penned their requests and
left abruptly.

“That was obnoxious,” she said.

“What?”

“Your tone. It was rude.”

“You know what’s rude? Your incessant
nagging. How is this paid for? All of this?” he started.

“Oh my god, are you serious? You’re
going to bring up money? This has nothing to do with money,” she said, her
voice thin and tired.

“You knew what it would mean to marry a
FRINGE man, that I’d be away on missions,” he said. “You think I like floating
in dead space for three years at a time? Dead weight for most of it, in cryo,
losing time I could be spending with you, Christopher and Mickey?”

“Then stop, work planetside—stop leaving
us.”

“I can’t Karen, you know this is my
dream, it has been my whole life—to see space, to explore, to do big things.”

“And you have, you’ve seen space. And
you’ve done big things. You married me. Started a family with me. Things have
changed. Your dream isn’t yours alone anymore.”

“Nothing’s changed. My father was always
in space. I turned out fine.”

“You’re angry all the time. The precious
moments we have with you, you’re always angry, wasting the time we should be
cherishing.”

“I supported you with your poetry,
didn’t I? Gave you free license, let you follow your dream, even though I knew
you’d never bring home a cent.”

“I can’t believe you’re bringing that
into this. I told you I’d get a job. You don’t listen to me. You never listen
anymore.”

Mick emptied his glass in one gulp,
grabbed the bottle and refilled it.

“And you’re drunk when you’re home. It’s
like you don’t even enjoy being around us.”

“You’re fucking right I’m drunk when I’m
home, because this is what I have to hear!” he yelled, slamming his glass down.
Glass shattered onto the table and floor. Wine spilled. Eyes turned to behold
the spectacle and a waitress signaled for assistance.

“Please calm down,” Karen said, her hand
reaching across the table to grasp his.

“Do you have any idea how stressful
FRINGE detail is? I didn’t think so. You don’t think it eats at me that I’m
missing my kids’ birthdays? You think I’m cold now, heartless? That I
want
to
come home for a few months at a
time and leave for years?”

“Of course not. I don’t understand why
you have to keep leaving us though. We have more than enough money to get by.
You can find something—”

“But I don’t listen you said, so why are
you still talking? I just told you I’m on the verge of becoming a director, and
all you have for me is this guilt shit, you selfish bitch.”

A tuxedoed man strode quickly to their
table.

“Excuse me sir, I’m going to have to ask
you to leave,” the manager said.

“My wife and I haven’t eaten yet,” Mick
said, grabbing Karen’s glass of wine and drinking.

“Sir, you’re causing our guests to feel
uncomfortable. Now if you won’t come, I’ll have to call the police,” he said.

“The police? Do you have any idea who I
am?” Mick said under his breath.

“Mick, let’s go. C’mon,” she said,
rising and taking his arm.
“Get off me,” he said, shoving her back.

“Hey, you better not try anything,” said
a young, muscular onlooker who’d taken a keen interest in the drama. He arched
his back and walked close to assist the manager.

“Are you kidding me boy?” Mick rose from
the table and threw his wine glass at the wall. Splinters of glass rained on
the screaming patrons as they covered their heads.

“Calm down,” the young man replied. Two
other men rose and walked toward them.

“My wife and I haven’t eaten yet. Is
this a fucking restaurant? Where is our food? What kind of place is this for a
guest?” Mick roared.

The young man made the mistake of moving
closer and placing his hand on Mick’s shoulder in an attempt to calm him.

Mick snapped back in revulsion at the
man’s touch, thrust his hips around and drew his powerful arm in a line,
smashing through the man’s jaw. An audible crack caused the manager to shiver
and back away. Someone in the back of the restaurant dialed for the police.

“Let’s go Karen,” Mick said. She was
sobbing uncontrollably, backed into a corner. “I said let’s go!” he screamed,
lunging toward her. He grabbed her wrist roughly and tugged her up. The growing
crowd backed away as they zipped out of the restaurant, no one daring to follow
them.

Mick’s Cobra pulled out of the parking
lot, turned onto Interstate 495 and accelerated to 80 miles per hour.

“Please slow down Mick,” Karen said.

“You know what, you wanted things to
change. Good, they will. I’m going into space. For three years. Maybe in that
time you can start to appreciate what the hell I do for you and the kids.”

She vomited coughs, crying hysterically.

“Hey, shut up, you hear me?” he said. He
pressed hard with his left foot and shifted into sixth gear.

“Slow down Mick! Mick! Slow down!” she
screamed, her confusion clearing, transforming into a singular emotion, that of
fear for her life.

The blue Cobra sped down I-495, weaving
in and out of traffic.

“I’m a fucking pilot. This is what I do.
Do you want to know why I make what I make? Why I go for three years at a time?
Do you want to understand?”

The speedometer of the Cobra inched
toward 100 and Karen’s screams subverted from words into high-pitched squeals
of fright, as she manically beat upon his shoulders.

“Stop it bitch, do you want to kill us?”
he said, stitching a fine thread on the highway, narrowly escaping cars
travelling half their speed. “You see this? I’m a FRINGE pilot. I’m the best
there is. No one gives a damn though. No one cares what Mick does for three
years in space. Well I do this. You see Karen?” The Cobra’s needle ticked past
120 miles per hour.