Free Boneyards by Kristine Kathryn Rusch Page A

privacy tiles on her ceiling, so that she could see the labs and rings above her. The idea of others looking down on her unnerved her, so she kept the ceiling privacy tiles closed, even though she didn't plan to keep her work hidden from anyone here.
    Her mission was twofold: she had to gain everyone's trust, and she had to destroy the station. The whole station, not a part of it, not a wing. Everything had to be obliterated.
    And she had to do it by herself, without losing a single life.
    Sometimes that felt impossible, and sometimes she thought she was the only person in the entire universe who could pull it off.
    She was thinking it was all impossible on her second day, as she unpacked what meager belongings she had brought with her—mostly her medical tchotchkes and some artwork she had kept from the children in Vallevu. She initially put the art out, but it made her sad, so she was in the process of repacking it when a man ducked his head into her office.
    “Bet you never expected to see me again.”
    She turned, and her breath caught. Quint. She hadn't seen him in twenty years. Those years had aged him. He had thickened. His face had worry lines that accented his cheekbones and made him traditionally handsome. His hair remained black, and his eyes, while tired, were still just as dark and just as mysterious.
    She hadn't expected to see him again. She didn't want to ever see him again. And apparently he knew that, or he wouldn't have made that statement.
    Still, she wasn't going to take the bait. He wanted her off balance, scared or angry. She was off balance, but she had been off balance before he arrived.
    She wasn't scared or angry. She had bested Quint more than once. She could do it again.
    “If I had expected to see you again, it wouldn't have been here,” she said.
    “I hadn't expected to see you here either,” he said, then stepped farther into the room.
    She wanted to remind him that she hadn't invited him in, and then tell him that he wasn't welcome. But she didn't do that.
    Instead she quietly watched him as he made his way around the room, glancing at the other chairs, the view, and the personal items she had just started to put out.
    He used to hate silence. She wondered if he still did.
    After a moment, she got her answer. He returned to his spot near the door. He pushed it so that it closed most of the way. Anyone who passed in the hall would understand that they were having a semi-private conversation and wouldn't listen in.
    Since all of the chairs had something on them, he crossed his arms and leaned against the wall.
    “So,” he said, “how do we play this? As the friendly exes who occasionally share a beer or as the exes who can't stand the sight of each other and avoid each other at all costs?”
    She let her gaze sweep over him as she assessed him. Even though he had thickened up, he hadn't let himself get out of shape. If anything, he looked more muscular than he ever had. He also looked like he had lost his sense of humor somewhere and hadn't bothered to retrieve it. His words could have been construed as light and flirtatious if his tone had matched.
    It hadn't.
    He meant the question, and he wanted to hear her answer.
    “Is there something between beer and hatred?” she asked.
    He leaned his head back so that his skull brushed the wall. He was leaning against the last privacy panel before the wall opened into her spectacular view. The clear panels reflected him over and over again, see-through versions of Quint lining one side of the room.
    “You don't hate me, then?” Somehow he didn't sound vulnerable when he asked the question. “The last time we saw each other, I got the impression that you did.”
    “We last saw each other twenty years ago, Quint,” she said. “I don't know you anymore. I have no idea who you are now.”
    “Really?” he asked. “Do you think people can change so much they're unrecognizable to each other?”
    She studied him for a long moment. He still had