Beyond our star

I have to get it working. Four hours without life support and we'll all be dead, but that's not the main thing. I mean, it is. Obviously. None of us want to die out here, least of all me. But we've also got a point to prove. 

They said we weren't ready. The Council fought us every inch of the way, and I know it was only Ethan's intervention that got our expedition over the line. Ethan's name, really. There's only so much can be denied to the crown prince, even by the Council. 

And the reason Ethan fought them so hard? Me.

So we're out here now, lightyears from home, hours from death, all because of me. All the exhileration of the launch, the adrenaline of the crew, the bombast and the posturing and the talk of guts and glory has splintered into stardust. Hundreds of accusing eyes burn into me as I pass through the ship. There might only be a dozen of us on board but the weight of those souls threatens to crush me. Their shading tells me louder than words that it's the guts rather than the glory that currently occupy their thoughts.

I've heard what they say about me, too. I'd have to be deaf not to, it's not like anyone has the energy to spare my feelings right now. I've heard it all before, how I'm over-rated, over-promoted, a mad scientist that no one sane would let out of the lab. Usually it rolls off me, but usually I'm not holding my accusers' lives in my tentacles. Nepo baby. Sycophant. Catamite is a new one; I’m actually faintly impressed by the erudition of the insult. 

None of it serves to divert me for long. Because not only is the mission my baby, the ship herself is too. The hull, the engines. The life support system. I'm her inventor and her chief engineer, and while Ethan is her captain and pilot everyone knows she's mine to her wiring. 

I don't want to die. We have a point to prove to the Council. But I have a promise to keep to Ethan which is written in more than blood. 

“Are you sure?” His tentacles played over mine as we lay entwined in his bed. “I trust you, Tam, you know I do, but...”

“I know. It's a big ask.” I couldn't hide the waves of colour that swirled across my scales, hope and excitement laced with the deep burgundy of avarice. To be first, to be the one to break the barriers of the edge of our star system, for it to be my ship, my engine, my innovations that cradled my people out into the unknown? A shiver of anticipation rippled over me, ruffling my frills. “I won't let you down, Eth, I won’t embarrass you.”

He'd shaken his head, a hint of hurt staining his cheekbones emerald. “It's not that, Tam.” I waited, confused, as he coloured with anxiety. “Is it safe?”

“Of course it's safe! You think I'd risk my own skin if it wasn't?”

He'd frowned at me, knowing me a little too well, his look all that was needed to conjour the memories of boyish expoits and youthful innovations that blew up in my face, often literally. Sheepish, I'd conceded the point. “This time. This one is safe, Eth, I swear.”

“You'll bring them all back? The crew? Every one of them?”

“I swear.” I was under no illusions about the kinds of folks who I'd be given for the voyage. Those with too little to lose, too much to run from. Or those servicing a debt so great that it could propel them beyond the limits of our atmosphere. But a life is a life, and even though Eth is a much better person than I am I was happy to promise him this. “On my life, Eth.” Quite literally, actually, since there was no question of the ship leaving the planet without me.

He'd nodded, apparently satisfied, and golden exhileration flooded my body. To be replaced by a chilling sense of horror at his next words. “I'll captain her, then.”

More than blood, then. Instead, a vow to which I'm tied by the soul bond between me and him. Oh, there's no deep magic here, no arcane link that compels me to obey, nothing like that. Just the fact that this man is half of my whole, and my entire heart, and nothing in this universe matters if he is not at my side. I'd be a hell of a lot happier right now, though, if he wasn't literally at my side, but instead safely ensconced in the royal chambers in Selmat. 

Is this what he expected? Is this what his family anticipated when they appointed a royal engineer to their court? It was a fancy of his father's, I'm sure, a conceit inspired by visitors from abroad who displayed their own scientists and mathematicians like a florist bedecking a ballroom. He'd requested a physicist and a cosmologist as well and the univeristy had been only too happy to offload me, the troublesome thorn in the administration’s side, to complete the trio.

Aretha and Silas didn't last long, their tempraments far better suited to the dusty, theoretical towers of academia than the whims of a court which demands flair and novelty more than rigour and punctiliousness. But I was in my element. Every harebrained idea I'd ever had suddenly had an audience. Nothing I could say was too out-there, nothing too outlandish to delight my avid fans. 

I wasn't expecting anyone to take me seriously.

It had never happened before, after all. Oh, I knew my ideas would work, but I'd never persuaded anyone else. Or, at least, anyone who had the wherewithal to actually get them beyond the point of theory. Not until Ethan.

Ethan listened. Not in the delighted, vapid way of the rest of the court but with actual interest. He asked questions. Intelligent ones.

It was my engine design that fascinated him the most. His father quickly lost interest in the scheme once Ethan's questions become more detailed and my explanations less about showmanship and more about satisfying the insatiable curiosity of the crown prince. And about proving myself, of course. But that was fine, because in the face of his father's impatience Ethan began to ask for ‘personal briefings' on my ideas. They became increasingly ‘personal' as we got to know each other, and for a while the whole space exploration programme risked being derailed entirely as we discovered just how much exploration we could undertake within the four walls of the prince's bedroom. 

The scene in the engineering bay, when I get there, is a horror show. A pall of smoke hangs in the air, choking the handful of crew who know one end of an induction manifold from the other and have hurried in here in a forlorn attempt to help. There's little they can – or dare – attempt without my instruction, but they'll stand there and broadcast their resentment in neon blue streaks nonetheless.

My orders echo around the cavernous space, chillingly unimpeded by the engine's usual hum. Suddenly six tentacles don't feel like nearly enough as I press reset buttons and hammer overrides and make absolutely no difference to the silently accusing power gauges. 

It's the fuel. Of course it's the fuel. I know it, even the underqualified grunts hovering at my back know it. But none of us have dared say it yet because to go in there and deal with it, to pass beyond the containment field, is only fractionally less of a death sentence than sitting around here waiting for the air to run out. 

We're out of time, and I'm out of delaying tactics, and I've known for a while – since the instant the explosion rippled through the ship and the alarms began to scream and the crew was painted lime green in terror – that it would come to this. Muttering ripples round the room but I can't spare the attention, not right now. There are supplies in the emergency locker for this, and I snag the tub of gel that I've never found the opportunity – or perhaps never been sufficiently suicidal – to test and start to smear it across my body. 

A commotion by the containment hatch catches my attention just in time, and my panicked screech stops the youngster's tentacle just before he overrides the security lock. “What the hell do you think you're doing?!”

He freezes, glares, steps into the shadows to try and hide the shade of his scales which are now so dazzlingly viridescent that they almost glow. “I'm the most junior. Sir. You don't have to order me.”

“Order you to what?!” Panic and confusion is making my voice shrill and a couple of the onlookers wince and cover their sensitive earholes. 

The youth – Derran, I recall, belatedly – looks faintly uncertain. “To go beyond the door. You... you do realise it's the fuel, don't you? Sir?” The honorific is tacked on tentatively, like he's increasingly unsure it's merited. Not that I can really blame him at this point. “That the lines are clogged?”

“Of course I do, I designed the bloody thing.” I've finished slicking myself with goo now and I'm feeling unpleasantly tacky and more than a little nervous, and my temper is fraying. “What makes you think I'm sending you in there?”

His expression goes flat, confusion and scorn and faint hope swirling across his scales. “Because someone has to unclog them, and it's a death sentence, and I'm the most junior.” He doesn't even bother with the ‘sir' this time. 

I can't help myself. I scan the room. Half of them are staring at the floor, the rest meeting my eyes with a degree of defiant condemnation and the words are out in a jumble of hurt before I can stop them. “That's what you think of me? Seriously?”

I'm at the door before the first of them realises my intention, and the shock as the rest catch on is almost palpable. “Don't follow me. If I can't do this, no one can.” It's not hubris, it's the bare facts from the one who designed the engine, built it from scratch, nursed it through these first dozen light years and beyond the edge of the Relean system. “Give me 20 minutes then evacuate.”

It's an order they might or might not obey. There's an escape pod, of course, but who will find it out here? They can jump ship, but they'll be drifting in the void for the rest of their natural lives unless we've woefully underestimated the population density of this section of the galaxy. That’s not my problem, not right now. Not with the containment door looming imposingly above me and the handle suddenly heavy under my hand with the weight of what's riding on this. 

It's a tiny comfort, as I take a final breath and step into the airlock, that Derran's scales are shining with relief and gratitude. (A little adoration and hero-worship wouldn't go amiss too, I'm putting my life on the line here, but beggars can't be choosers.)

If the engineering bay was a horror show, the containment pod is a hellscape. There are no alarms blaring in here, because there isn't supposed to be anyone to hear them. But the heat and vapour and the smell assaults me and it's all I can do to focus on what I need to do. The goop on my scales will protect them, and I grabbed a respirator as a bit of defence for my eyes and gills, but both will falter when confronted with the scale of this catastrophe. 

As soon as it happened, as soon as we felt the ship rock and heard the alarms blare, I knew what must have happened. No one is ever meant to come in here, because I built backups for the backups and the only way they could all fail was through a series of events so unlikely that designing it out seemed a waste of time. (I'm reconsidering that assessment now, you will understand.) A blockage, an explosion, the failsafe systems taken out neatly in precise succession with split-second timing; I couldn't have done it intentionally if I'd practised for a month. 

In the vanishingly unlikely event we all get out of this alive there's a hell of a repair job and plenty of redesigning to do, but now is not the time. We can send the cleaner bots in later, but for now it's down to me and my tentacle-tips and the rising temperature is doing little to make them any more dextrous. The ringing noise in my head and the blurring of my vision tells me the muck is already seeping into my system, and choking clouds of fog are still blocking my view of the critical parts. 

In the end I have to just go for it, forge forwards into the choking miasma and rely on my instincts to guide me to the right place. Like I said to Derran: if I can't do this, no one can. 

The next minutes are a blur. Afterwards, only fractured impressions remain. The shriek of pressurised steam escaping from another rupture. The heat of the metal under my tips as I wrench at the valves. The choking stench of leaking exhaust and singed scales. 

The sound fades away. Finally I realise I've done all I can, and there's a protesting gurgle that sends a flood of hope through me as the fuel reluctantly starts to flow again. I stumble back to the hatchway, yank it closed behind me, and collapse in a heap on the blissfully cool deck. 

Ethan is there. Of course Ethan is there. He's there because he's the captain, and because he's the closest thing we have to a medic on this forsaken tin can, but mainly because he's my... because he's mine. I can feel the fluttering of his limbs on my body, the respirator replaced with medical masks, something sharp breaching my scales below my frill. His tentacles are everywhere, his touches reassuring and tender and a shade too intimate for a public setting but it's not like anyone's going to begrudge him those in my last moments. 

The ringing noise in my head fades and I realise that this must be the end. Oddly, I’m no longer scared. I've kept my promise, after all: our ragtag little band of explorers are safe. I've not failed Ethan. I've not failed my ship. I expect to see Ethan's scales swirling with the deep black of grief but to my shock it's the faint crimson of irritation that I see, not deep enough to truly be called anger, but hurtful nontheless as my... my Ethan's reaction to my last seconds. (It has occured to me more than once that we really ought to get round to naming this thing that's between us. I guess we're out of time, now.)

Without the ringing noise I can hear snatches of words, and their unexpectedness tugs my brain closer to consciousness. Idiot. Stupid, bone-headed, self-sacrificing... And then it occurs to me that the scene is getting clearer rather than fuzzier, and the pain is starting to recede, and the realisation that I'm not actually on the verge of death hits me like a shockwave.

“Ethan?”

There's relief marbled through the crimson as he locks some of his eyes with mine. “Tam. Of all the stupid—”

“I kept them safe. I promised you, Eth. I kept them safe.”

Ethan glares at me and then scoops me up in his tentacles with an ease that I usually find incredibly hot but for which I am just overwhelmingly grateful right now, and bears me off to bed and healing rest. As we approach the door I'm shocked to hear the approving sussuration of frills from the others in the room, and see the shades of gratutide and loyalty, if no little surprise, that adorn their bodies. 

I don't know what we'll find out here, beyond the edges of our home system and out in the depths of the galaxy, but it looks like one thing has changed. Our little group of court sycophants and university spies and futureless outcasts has changed into something else today. I get the hopeful sense we're doing this as a comrades, now; teammates. And Ethan is here, and he's holding me close, and despite the utter carnage of this morning I can't help but feel that a lot of good has come out of today.

I settle against his chest and let sleep wash over me as his insults fade into endearments. There's time enough to rake over today's debacle and make sure it never happens again; for now I can rest. I need my strength back - we've a universe to explore together, after all.