The Celestial Seas

Call me Ishara
Aegis Station, Halo System

“Call me Ishara.” I shake my head, walking down the outer corridor of the station. That sounded too forward. “My name is Ishara.” Better, but a bit formal, especially in this part of Halo System. “Name’s Isha—­”

“Your mic’s still on,” Quinn’s lyrical voice interrupts in my earpiece.

I cringe and cuss, attracting the glances of a couple station techies passing by. Hunching my shoulders, I tug on the right sleeve of my shore jacket and continue down the overpass connecting the station’s recreational ring to the docking bays. At least I’m on the private line. Stars know the Dorado’s crew wouldn’t have let me hear the end of this, fussing over a simple introduction.

“But do go on,” my first mate continues. Her Halo accent rises and falls like a siren’s song. Quinn claims it’s because the first celestial whalers originated from the Halo System, where songs of the hunt—­shanties—­used to fill every spaceship, every household, until every Haloite grew up speaking in that lilting rhythm, whether they were conversing in Universal Spoken Language or one of the system’s regional dialects. A melodic accent I can never quite mimic, no matter how hard I try. And I’ve been trying ever since I arrived in this system seven years ago.

“What were you practicing?” Quinn asks. “The speech you’ll give before blowing up the Ballena’s biocore?”

I scoff, the metallic joints of my right hand humming as it curls into a fist. “Porfavo, that cash-­in is enough for the whole crew to retire on, why would I waste it by obliterating the core?”

“Because you hate that bleeding whale so much you left our last crew to go murder it.”

“Destroy it,” I correct. The sharp smell of machine oil and chemicals stings my nose as I enter the bays. “Murder implies taking a life.”

“Mm-­hmm.”

I can easily picture the amused half grin that’s no doubt tugging at Quinn’s lips.

“Where are you, anyway?” she asks. “Your candidate is already here for the interview. This guy has potential—­worked in the HS Vigilancia’s engine room and was directly trained by the ship’s lead mech.”

“Right.” I catch sight of her halfway across the spacious bay, pacing on an unoccupied air-­dock while winding the end of her umber braid around a finger. A young man wearing stained coveralls stands beside her on the metal platform. I study him as I thread a path over. “Potential, huh? That’s what you said about the other eight candidates. If this guy doesn’t make the cut, I say it’s time to move on.” I sweep my gaze over my shoulder and lock eyes with a dock worker wearing Aegis Station’s patch on his jacket.

He calls out, “When are you going to bring that whaler of yours over, herma? The hull shielding is in a sorry—­”

I tug on my sleeve and pivot away, jogging over to the air-­dock. Yep, definitely time to move on if the station regulars are starting to recognize my face. I double-­click my tongue, muting my mic, and hop onto the raised platform. The height offers a better vantage of Aegis’ bays: a circular arena packed with travelers looking for a ride beyond the Astilla Belt, trawler crews returning from nebula-­raking trips, and asteroid miners looking for a place to kill time before heading back out to the rocks.

Quinn and the mechanic hurry over as I scan the latter. He stretches out a grimy hand. “Donavan Wells. Pleasure to meet you.”

I offer a brisk nod. “Ishara.”

An awkward beat passes. Eventually, Donavan drops his arm and glances at Quinn, as if confirming this type of reception is normal.

She sighs, pins me with a why can’t you act nice for once? look, and says, “I’ve already gone over his responsibilities on the Dorado, payment, et cetera.”

I turn to Donavan. “Aside from the Vigilancia, what other ships have you worked on?”

“Racers, cruisers, transporters—­”

“Whalers? Darts? You have experience with those?”

His mouth slackens. He snaps his jaw shut and shakes his head, releasing a nervous chuckle. “Nala. Can’t remember the last time I’ve seen a whaler. Why, did you pick one up from a junkyard and want to refurbish it?”

I cast Quinn a side-­eye. “Apparently, my first mate left out a couple important details. The Dorado is a whaling crew. Best in the Seven Systems.”

He stares at me a little longer, as if trying to decide whether I’m messing with him. Then: “You guys still exist?”

My eyes narrow.

“ ‘Best in the Seven Systems.’ ” He snorts, polite pretense dropping away like gull shit. Oh, great. He’s one of those snobs who think they’re too good for a whaling crew. “More like ‘only one in the Seven Systems.’ Get with the times, herma—­it’s been over fifty years since the government declared open season on the MOBIS. You’re fishing in an empty sea now.” He waves a hand toward a curved window looking out into the infinite depth of space. The Astilla Belt slashes a blurry streak across the view. “Asteroid mining or nebula raking. That’s where the money is, not those autonomous spacecrafts still floating around.”

He strides away and pauses at the edge of the platform. Quinn opens her mouth, then presses her lips together, as if fighting the urge to call him back.

He nods at me, almost pityingly.

That makes me bristle.

Donavon swings off the air-­dock and shakes his head. “You’re delusional if you think your crew will be in business for much longer.”

I hide a wince, his words harpooning too close to the truth for comfort. I avert my gaze from Quinn, knowing she would see straight through my mask to the guilt hooking onto my rib cage. I never keep secrets from her. Except this one.

Donavon flashes me a sarcastic salute, then proceeds to rub salt into the wound by muttering, “Chasing dumb metal fish can’t net much.”

I glare down at him and cross my arms. “Dumb metal fish? MOBIS are dangerous. A couple shots from an armed Levi and this entire station would be space dust.”

Just like how a couple well-­placed blows from a malicious Mech-­Operated Bio-­Integrated Spacecraft can take down a Class III whaler, murdering everyone on board. I know this only too well.

Donavan cocks a brow. “Well, I suppose it’s a good thing there aren’t Leviathans out there anymore.”

“And you can thank whalers for that,” I snap.

“Graza.” He tips an imaginary hat, served with a mocking grin.

My fingers itch to carve that arrogant smirk off his blubbery lips. Instead, I force myself to uncurl my fists. He’s not worth my energy. “Let’s go, Quinn.”

I jump off the platform and shove past Donavan. He catches me by the shoulder. “Wait, herma—­”

I fling the offending hand off and hiss, “Don’t you dare ‘herma’ me.”

“You’re Ishara.”

I follow his line of sight down to my right arm, where the sleeve’s ridden up to my elbow, exposing the metal plating making up my forearm.

Shit.

I yank down my sleeve, checking to see if anyone else noticed.

“Ishara Ming.” Donavan draws out my name like it’s saltwater taffy. “I’ve heard about you. Sole survivor of the Essex.” He leans forward, fascination dancing across his face. “Bleeding stars, you are cracked if you’re actually leading a crew after the Ballena.”

My spine stiffens. I can already hear his next words before they leave his mouth. Words I’ve heard over and over and goddamn over.

“It’s not real, Ming. You’re wasting time chasing after a whale that doesn’t exist.”

Each word is a barb to my chest. A painful twist to my right arm, a constant reminder of everything I’ve lost to the Ballena.

Quinn moves beside me, dark eyes flashing. “The interview is over. Get lost.”

Chuckling under his breath, Donavan walks away.

I stare after him, watching him melt into the crowd. “Bet you five tarjas he’s heading to the nearest bar and telling everyone about his encounter with the crazy girl who hallucinated that a mythical whale sank her ship.”

Despite attempting to keep my hunt for the Ballena on the down-low, word had quickly spread within the whaling community. The ridicule came shortly after. But they won’t be laughing once I capture the Ballena and prove them all wrong.

Quinn falls in step as I march toward the outer docks, where the Dorado is parked. She slides over a worried look, a furrow pinching between her brows.

A wave of annoyance surges within me. I’m not the same broken girl she found three years ago. She doesn’t need to treat me like something fragile.

Tamping down my irritation, I ask, “Why didn’t you tell Donavan we were a whaling crew from the get-go?”

“Most people bail when they learn the Dorado’s a whaler. I figured if he got to meet the crew, see that it’s not all that bad, he would stay.”

I aim a doubtful glance at her, then double-­click my tongue, reconnecting to the crew comms. “Stag,” I call for my pilot, “start prepping a flight path for the whaling zone Quinn marked out yesterday.”

“About time,” Stag responds in his trademark polished voice. “Please tell me our new mech isn’t a slob like the last one.”

I grimace. “The candidate was a bust.”

“Cap! We need a—­”

“We’ve gotten by this long without a mech.” I quicken my strides, eager to get off this station and back into the celestial seas as soon as possible. “We’ll survive another whaling run without one.”

“That last MOBIS nearly took out our main engines,” Stag protests. “My patch jobs aren’t going to hold forever.”

“Have a little more faith in yourself.” I skirt around a shop selling fuel-­enhancing additives that’d just as likely blow up the engines as double their efficiency, and the Dorado finally comes into view.

The mag shield generator still sits crooked, three months after a Shark-­class MOBIS rammed into it, and the hull desperately needs a fresh coat of astro-­glaze. Neither of which we can afford. A little radiation seepage can’t cause too much harm, right?

I grin as I enter the Dorado’s indigo shadow. I run my left hand along the hull’s scarred metal plates, relishing the familiar sensation beneath my fingertips.

Compared to the sleek racing vessels, armored mercenary ships, and hulking miners parked in the nearby berths, the Dorado’s a barnacle-­crusted rust bucket. But she’s mine, purchased from a scrapyard, with the last of my savings six months ago. Quinn tried to lend me tarjas, but I refused. It wouldn’t properly feel like my ship otherwise.

A black hole opens in my stomach at the reminder of my bank account sitting in the red. I’d taken out a large loan three months ago to cover the crew’s payroll. Unfortunately, our hauls barely generate enough to maintain the whaler’s overhead costs, and loan repayment is coming up soon.

The fear of the Dorado being impounded constantly looms like an anchor waiting to be dropped. Without the Dorado, how will I hunt down the Ballena and avenge my old crew? Not to mention losing the Dorado will be a huge blow to my current crew and further prove I’m not good enough to rank among the system’s celestial whalers, that I’ve failed my attempt at a new life in Halo, and that I’ve lost the closest thing I’ve come to think of as home in a long time.

I shake my head and tighten my jaw. Once we find the Ballena, the cash-­in from the legendary whale’s biocore will easily repay the loan a hundred times over. So for now, this remains my guilty little secret. No need to cause undue stress among the crew.

“Stag’s right, you know,” Quinn sighs. “I admit, Donavan turned out to be an asshole, but we still need a mechanic. Kind of the whole point of this detour, in case you forgot.”

I flinch, my hand involuntarily reaching up to touch the raised scar sitting behind my ear, the only hint of a broken memory chip resting underneath.

Quinn winces. “Lo sien. Bad choice of words.”

“It’s fine.” My response comes out sharper than intended, and I don’t miss the hurt flitting across her face. Softening my voice, I repeat, “It’s fine, vera. And no, I haven’t forgotten. We’ll get our mechanic.”

“When?”

“Account’s running low on tarjas. We need to dart a whale and make a cash-­in, or else—­”

“When, Ish? Answer my question.”

If any other crew member had talked back like this, they would’ve been booted off by now. But this is Quinn, so all I say is “Soon.”

“We can’t afford soon; we need now.” A pause, and then she adds under her breath, “They’re moving farther and farther out-­system. If some MOBIS gives theDorado one good hit, we’re screwed, belly-­up in deep space.”

I release a dry laugh and jog toward the ramp up to the whaler’s airlock. “It’s like they’re taunting us with their self-­sustaining designs, venturing as far into the unknown as they wish without tethers holding them back.”

Quinn purses her lips. “They’re machines that run on code. Don’t anthropomorphize them—­that’s how the Naturalistas get you.”

I snort at the mention of the zealous faction lobbying for MOBIS to be treated as sentient beings. All MOBIS have been hard-­coded not to exceed a 35% biomass to ensure they won’t ever become more than 50% biological, which would automatically make them a living creature by law. Even after MOBIS developed methods of circumventing programmed limitations—­the very same reason why they became banned in the Halo System—­none of the whales I’ve encountered had a biomass greater than 40%. None except one.

I shut my eyes. The Ballena swims against my closed lids. Its unnaturally pale outer shell makes the entire ship glow.

A weight drops onto my shoulder. I snap my eyes open to find Quinn peering at me.

She gives my shoulder a quick squeeze, concern in her expression. I want to tell her not to worry, that it’s not her fault I’m missing parts of my memory. She thumbs away a strand of my hair and asks, “You okay?”

“Yeah.” I blink to clear my blurry vision, drawing several breaths to steady myself. Exhale for five seconds, inhale for three.

Resisting the urge to touch the scar behind my ear, I force my legs to move up the ramp and do my best to ignore Quinn’s stare burning between my shoulder blades. I pause at the airlock’s threshold and say, “We won’t go beyond charted space until the Dorado’s fully repaired and crewed. Vera, I promise.”

At this reassurance, some of the tension smooths from Quinn’s face, and my chest loosens a bit. Not for the first time, I can’t help but wonder if she regrets having followed me when I left our old crew. If she thinks trading a steady job for a gamble, chasing the ghost of a whale across the system, is worth it. Especially when I’m such a shitty friend.

“Your pronunciation is still off,” Quinn says abruptly.

I blink and arch a brow.

“Softer on the e and harder on the a.”

“Vera?” I attempt the regional slang again.

“Better. That’ll almost pass for a drunk Haloite native.”

I chuckle, and she grins. I turn to punch in the code to the airlock when a voice calls out from behind.

“Ishara!”

I freeze, fingers hovering over the keypad.

“Ishara!” Same person again. “Ishara Ming!”

I tense. Word must’ve spread that the “delusional girl chasing after a mythical whale” was on this station, no doubt thanks to Donavan. I swallow hard and glance over my shoulder. A lanky guy is shoving his way over, drawing unwanted attention. Seriously, could he have possibly been less discreet?

Quinn remains at the bottom of the ramp, arms crossed, blocking his path. The young man skids to a stop, palms pressed against his thighs as he catches his breath. Looks to be a couple years older than me. Tousled blond hair paired with keen blue eyes, and a mouth that begs to be kissed. Or punched. Especially when he comments in a wry tone, “For someone with a mechanical arm and notorious reputation, you are incredibly hard to find.”

A small crowd of bystanders looks on with unmasked curiosity, exchanging whispers with each other.

“It’s that outsider from the other system, isn’t it?”

“She’s the sole survivor of the Essex.”

“I thought she went raving mad.”

“What’s she doing here?”

It’s always the same wherever I go. A constant reminder I’m unwanted, I don’t belong, I’m chasing ghosts that can’t be caught.

I flash the young man a smile sweet as poisoned honey. I hope a supernova incinerates you. “Yes?”

His eyes widen as he straightens. “It’s me. Augustus.”

I appraise him coolly even though my mind’s whirling. Am I supposed to know him? Is my faulty memory acting up again?

He repeats, louder, “Augustus.”

Something about his voice makes me pause. Frowning, I shake off my hesitation and glance at Quinn, wondering if she knows him. Judging from her unamused expression, she doesn’t.

“You’re going after the Ballena, aren’t you?” Augustus presses.

The mutterings from the audience swell.

I stalk down the ramp. The idiot’s face brightens as I approach, and I pray to the stars that he’s not going to mention the Ballena again, because there’s a good chance I’ll punch him in the face if he does. What’s the point of keeping a low profile anymore when half the station knows who I am?

Quinn moves aside, and I take her place in front of the guy. Tilting my head back to look him in the eyes, I demand, “What do you want?”

He blinks, studying me, then clears his throat to answer, “I want to join your crew.”

“Are you doing this as some kind of dare? A bet with your buddies?”

“What? No!” He steps back, both hands raised. “I heard you were hiring, and I need a job. I’ve got experience on a whaler and can fly one—­”

“Already got a pilot.”

“I fly a nimble dart,” Augustus plows on, undeterred.

“Already have enough harpooners.”

“I can track—­”

“Already have a tracker.” My gaze flits to Quinn, who’s aiming a death stare at Augustus. No doubt she’s also irritated with the commotion he’s caused, and him offering to track for the Dorado can’t have won him any favors. Not that I would ever consider replacing Quinn.

“I can trace the Ballena,” Augustus says in a rush.

My jaw slackens. Did I hear him right? “You believe in the Ballena too.”

“And I know how to find it,” he confirms.

Quinn’s glare intensifies. Not surprising, considering her superb tracking skills are her pride and joy—­and the Ballena is the only target that’s eluded her. I’m pretty sure the challenge of tracking down the elusive whale is the main reason why she followed me to the Dorado. Her name would become legendary, cementing her status as the system’s best tracker. And while I have faith Quinn is fully capable of finding the Ballena, having two trackers is better than one, right?

Augustus leans in, lowering his voice. “I believe in the Ballena as much as I believe the stars exist.” He searches my face, and something akin to resignation passes behind his gaze. “I want the whale dead too.”

His words resonate deep inside me, driving the breath from my lungs. He understands.

Quinn barks out a sharp laugh. “We’re not looking for a tracker, so please remove yourself from this general vicinity.” She turns to me and updates, “Stag says the flight path has been plotted, and we’re good to go once Aegis controls gives us the all clear.”

I nod once. “Thank you, Quinn.” When it becomes obvious that’s a dismissal, she presses her lips into a tight line and strides up the ramp, vanishing into the Dorado. I revert my attention to Augustus. He also believes in the Ballena.

“Your ship could use repairs.” Augustus raises his chin toward the Dorado. “Let me help with that.”

“So you just happen to be a pilot, harpooner, tracker, and ship mech?” I arch a brow and step toward the hatch. “You can’t be older than, what, early twenties, am I right?”

“Twenty, actually.”

“And I’m supposed to believe you have proficient experience in all those skill sets?”

“You can’t be older than me yet clearly have the experience to captain a ship. What makes my case any different?”

I grasp for a response, unwilling to admit to him that, no, as a matter of fact, I am not qualified to captain a ship. But that won’t stop me from trying my damn hardest to take down the Ballena, no matter the cost.

He huffs out a breath and shoves a hand through his hair. “I’m a harpooner first and foremost, so it wasn’t hard to transition from piloting a dart to a whaler. I can’t say I fly a whaler well, but I can get you from point A to point B. My tracking skills are very specific, tailored to hunt down the Ballena.”

The back of my neck prickles, though whether from excitement or nerves, I can’t tell.

Augustus’s mouth curves into a half grin. He knows he has hooked my interest now. “I took a crash course in vessel repairs a couple years ago. It’s good knowledge to have when you’re flying solo in deep space.”

I tap my fingers against my leg as I silently appraise him. Everything seems a bittoo good to be true. “What do you want for pay?”

His smile widens. “Whatever you deem fair.”

“Be real.”

“I’m serious. I miss working on a whaler is all.” His eyes flash as he raises his chin and states in a quiet but clear voice, “And I need that whale dead.”

“Destroyed. Annihilated. Obliterated. Not dead.”

Confusion twists across his face. I repress a sigh, impressed I haven’t scared him away yet.

“ ‘Dead’ implies it’s alive.” I bite the inside of my cheek and consider him. Having another crew member who believes in the Ballena—­truly believes in the legendary whale—­would be nice for a change. And if he manages to find the Ballena, well, all the better. “Why, though? What do you have against the whale?”

When he speaks, his words are low, like the distant shh-­shh of ocean waves. “When the whale took down the Essex, it wasn’t just lives that were taken, but friends, family, and loved ones . . .”

“Did you know someone on the whaler?”

“Yeah.”

“Who?” I ask, despite the fact I probably won’t know—­won’t remember—­whoever it is Augustus knew.

“Garcia.”

Ricardo Garcia. My old dart leader. I clench my hands, trying to remember more about him. Something. Anything.

Nothing.

“He was a good man,” I say. So cliché and empty. Words someone would say at the funeral of a long-­lost relative. I rub my thumb over my knuckles, scrambling for something meaningful, something that’ll prove the only survivor of the Essex isn’t forgetting the people she’s sworn to avenge—­this is just as much for Augustus as for me.

“He . . .” My jaw tightens as my brain struggles to think up something. Dammit, why can’t I think of anything? “Garcia was . . . a brave man.”

Better, but still too generic. Too lacking.

Augustus nods, giving me a strange look.

The back of my throat constricts. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Me too.” A hardened glint flashes in his eyes. “Will you give me the chance to right a wrong? I can’t hunt down the Ballena by myself, but with a crew . . .”

Pulse racing, I gesture for Augustus to follow me into the Dorado. “Welcome aboard.”