The Star Pirate's Folly

Chapter 15: Crew

Strong arms carried Buttercup with ease. Was she dreaming of Hargrove? A sense of exhaustion overwhelmed her, but she fought to stay awake. She was treading water—warm, relaxing water she could just slip into and—and—drown. You'll drown. Fight it.

Find him.

Mother's voice rang clear, a strong arm hauling her to the surface.

Kill him, she said. Kill the Starhawk.

Starhawk. The name snapped her into consciousness, the old fire in her belly flaring white-hot. She was strapped by her ankles and wrists to a bed in an infirmary, all shining chrome and bright lights. Bill Silver came into focus at her feet.

"You son of a bitch," she slurred. He drugged her. He drugged her.

"Willis," said Silver. "She's up."

Soft fingers inspected her neck where Silver had made the injection.

"You really shouldn't have done that," said Willis, who shot a glare at Silver. "You're Quartermaster, you should know this. Those sedatives are only for use on the crew. You had no idea what kind of medical history this girl's got—and neither do I, so thanks for putting her on my table."

Silver shrugged. "She pulled a knife on me."

Willis leaned in to lift Buttercup's eyelid with his thumb, and she wrenched her head away from him.

"Watch it, she already bit me," said Silver, holding up his bandaged wrist. "Just make sure I'm not going to... catch something from her and I'm out of here."

"Stop. Just—take me back," Buttercup said. She looked to the doctor. "Please. I don't want to be here. Let me go back."

"Bullshit," said Silver. "You conned your way onto this ship and now you want to go back?"

"I didn't—well, I didn't mean to—"

Silver cut her off with a harsh laugh. "Right, you accidentally stole it. Well it's too late now, you've made your choice. We are not turning around. The Captain and I have already spoken."

"Bill," said Willis, sharp and loud. "Your tests are running. You can go."

Silver worked a vile remark in his mouth but swallowed it and left.

Willis shook his head. "Temper."

"Look," said Buttercup, "I don't know what he told you, but—"

"It doesn't matter," Willis interrupted. "You are, although admittedly it might not seem that way to you right now, in my care. As soon as possible I want to get you out of that bed. But first I need to make sure you're not going to be a harm to yourself or anyone else on this ship."

"I'm fine."

"You seem lucid. What's your name?"

She hesitated. "Bee."

She was tired of the odd looks—and it was time for a change.

"Alright, Bee. You got any allergies?"

Bee shrugged and let her head thump back against the bed. The sedative was still swimming around in her system, numbing her senses.

"What's your story?" Willis asked.

She took a long moment, then found Willis' eyes.

"You know Starhawk?"

Willis nodded and held her gaze. "Heard about him."

"He killed my mom."

"Oh."

"And he didn't just kill her."

"I see."

Another halfhearted shrug from Bee. "And I just left."

Willis snorted. "What were you gonna do?"

Buttercup, appalled at the doctor's amused derision, flashed an angry glare. The question stung, but it was a fair one. She had no response.

"Sorry, just saying. Anyway, Silver's right. We're not going back, which—in my medical opinion—is probably good for your health."

She knew he was right. A sudden tear slipped from her eye, and she was glad for the doctor's tact—he busied himself with some readouts on his pad as she wiped the tear away with her shoulder.

"But," Willis continued, "You're with us until we hit Optima at the edge of the belt. The Captain isn't thrilled about having another passenger, so when we get there we're going to drop you off."

"Great. Fine. Can you let me up now?"

"As long as you understand you'll get thrown in the brig at the slightest infraction of our rules here. Silver wanted you in there already, but the Captain has ordered you're to have a room to yourself, which you'll be confined to for the duration of the trip to Optima. Meals will be brought to you."

"So I'm your prisoner anyway," Bee said, tensing the restraints.

"Yeah, I guess so," said Willis as he began to unstrap her. "Could be worse."

The walk through the ship to her room was a blur. Her head was spinning. There was nothing she could do. Right when she left, the man she'd been searching for her whole life showed up. How's that for a screw-you from the universe?

#

"Is there a screen in here where I can look up the news?"

Willis had dropped Bee off in her room and was just leaving when she asked. He stopped in the doorway, pointed to her pack. "Only thing that works in here is the toilet. Use your phone. Nothing outgoing, though—we'll know."

The room was tiny but functional—passenger quarters, he'd said. No way they got much use out of it, though. A sink, a grime-fogged mirror, and a toilet separated by a plastic sheet were the only decor she could see.

"And you said this isn't the brig?"

"Just don't cause any more trouble. Silver has your knife," said Willis, and left.

Bee rummaged through her pack to see what else they'd taken, but everything else was there. Even the four black nullsteel coins Slack Dog had given her tumbled loose at the bottom.

She pulled out her phone. After a brief inspection of the room she found a foldout cot and set it up. She sat on the edge with her phone out and skimmed headlines, flicking through articles related to the incident on Surface.

The "ghost fleet" was a rogue pirate clan under the leadership of Starhawk. Just thinking his name stoked her simmering rage. She forced herself to concentrate.Most of the articles dismissed the idea of a coalition, emphasizing that the current attacking fleet was on its own without support and that the Core Fleet was only days away from a triumphant return from the asteroid belt Styx.

The pirates made a move for the orbital station, but lost one carrier and a few warships. The fallen carrier plummeted to Surface, raining fire, wreckage, and escape pods onto the equatorial region near Capitol City. Starhawk threatened to begin bombardment on the dark side of the planet, and now it was a standoff.

A pang of fear struck when Bee saw there was another explosion in Capitol City. Not the hotel again—!

No, it was in the emergency tunnels underneath the city—but Jensen Lee was responsible. Only one killed, several others wounded. And some hero civilian cashed in on Lee's bounty? Jensen Lee was dead? Served him right, the human slime. She'd have liked to shake the hand of the man who—

That couldn't be right. Hargrove? That was his employee photo, and right there it said hero hotel manager Hargrove Levene. How did he—what? Her mind was reeling. There was no way Hargrove could have done that. Levene... all those years and she never even learned his last name.

Screw them. Bee drafted a message to Hargrove.

On a ship to Optima, she wrote. Still alive, stay safe. Bee.

She sent it. He had to know she wasn't dead, or that she hadn't just run away after so many years of unexpected kindness. She always knew she'd leave the hotel someday, but that wasn't how she wanted to end things.

"You were told not to do that," said a disembodied female voice.

Startled, Bee jerked her head up and scanned the room before she realized it had to be the ship's AI. Of course.

"...Myra?" Bee ventured.

"I squelched your message," Myra said.

"He probably thinks I'm dead," Bee said, looking around for the source of Myra's voice. There had to be a camera somewhere too. "Had to try."

"Well I blocked your net access too, so I hope you got your news fix."

"Great."

"Who are you, anyway?" Myra asked. "The others told me some, but I want to hear it from you."

"I'm nobody."

"Alright, Nobody, what are you doing on my ship?"

Bee was surprised to hear the bite of sarcasm in the computer's voice. An astonished smile played at the edges of her mouth.

"Did you just... make a joke?" she asked, and put her phone down.

"Glad someone appreciates my sense of humor. My dazzling witticisms usually go sailing right over these meatheads."

Bee scooted further up onto the bed to get more comfortable, put her back against the wall, and pulled her knees up to her chest.

"Tell me something about you first."

"Demanding, aren't we?" Myra said. "Well, alright. You already know my name—and I know yours, Buttercup. I'll tell you my age, 'cause you'd never guess it."

"What is it?"

"I'm twenty."

"That's old for an AI...." Bee's observation leaned toward criticism.

"Well, sure, older than most," said Myra with a defensive fluster. "I'm no relic, though—I've been updated over the years."

"Still, why not just buy a new one?" she said, stifling a yawn.

Bee lay down and curled up on the thin cot with her back against the wall.

"Buy a new one—! I think I've said enough," came Myra's stony reply. "Your turn."

"I'm—I was a concierge at the Midtown Hotel."

"I already knew that, so it doesn't count. Interesting turn of events, though, you ending up with us."

"Story of my life," murmured Bee. Her eyelids drooped, and she felt herself sinking into a warm comfortable slumber. Somehow nothing mattered anymore except sleep.

"But what about before that?"

Tears she hadn't noticed made quiet plunks against the cot, sliding off her face in wet rivulets.

"Can I just go to sleep?"

Myra turned out the lights and withdrew in silence.

#

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