Free Beacon 23: The Complete Novel by Hugh Howey Page B

and my lifeboat ain’t moving, you two should clear out. I’ll beam all the scans and logs I have to the lot of you, and to anyone else who shows up.”
    Vlad shrugs. He seems to be okay with this. O’Shea grimaces at me. As we pass back through the ship, O’Shea pulls me aside. He’s holding a few bills of Federation money out to me. “Give me a thirty-minute head start,” he whispers.
    I turn to study him. He adds: “For getting here first. And saving you a trip to your radio.”
    I take the money and pocket it. O’Shea smiles. The boy in the cell is watching us through his long black bangs, but he returns his gaze to the floor when I glare at him. We follow Vlad back to the beacon, where the two colleagues exchange thin frowns and disappear into their respective ships. Using the keypads by the doors, I close the airlocks on both of them.
    ••••
    After the two bounty hunters decouple and pull away, I watch through the porthole as the black hull of the third craft comes into view. There’s no seeing inside it, as its canopy and all its portholes are tinted. The ship quickly fills my porthole, and the pilot docks with a very capable nine on the bump-o-meter. I wait for the light to go green, key open the airlock, and find a ninja standing on the other side.
    A bit of a derail here to say what a huge fan I was of Urban Ninja Detroit growing up. All I ever wanted to be was an urban ninja. My parents got me a costume for Halloween when I was seven or eight, and I kept wearing that getup until the split-toe shoes would barely squeeze onto my feet and the pants rode up above my calves. Because of me, everything in my neighborhood was peppered with holes from throwing stars and blowdarts. Hell, I probably joined the military instead of going to college because of the overdeveloped sense of honor that damn TV show gave me. I’ll also say here that I like to pretend Urban Ninja L.A. never existed. Urban Ninja Chicago wasn’t so bad. But I digress.
    “Lemme guess,” I say to the ninja. “Looking for a certain fugitive?”
    The bounty hunter, who is dressed from head to toe in all black, with cowl and goggles and everything, nods. I see that most of the black attire is a mix and match of official navy reg gear. I recognize much of it, and even know the decade some of it was in service and the field of action in which it was assigned. Someone hit up the surplus store and found a sale.
    “Haven’t seen her,” I say.
    The bounty hunter pulls out a small tablet and keys something in, I assume to show me the text or to make the tablet speak out loud. I’m sensing that this person can’t speak, rather than that she chooses not to.
    “You want the scans,” I say.
    She nods and wipes the screen with the side of her hand. Starts writing something else.
    “And radio logs.”
    Another nod. And I think I can tell from the movement of shadows across her cowled cheeks that she’s smiling.
    “No problem,” I say. “I’ve got a quarantine situation here from NASA, so you’ve got to stay on your ship. I’ll beam you the data. You need anything else?”
    For some reason, I’ve always felt the urge to go out of my way for those who ask for the least , rather than those who ask the loudest. But she shakes her head.
    “Okay. If you’ll pull away, I’ll go up and get you and your two buddies what you need.” I say this, even though I kinda don’t want her to go. But I’m embarrassed about how I look and how the beacon looks. My life is all about miserable timing.
    Instead of turning back to her ship, the bounty hunter hesitates, like there’s something else.
    I hazard a guess: “You want a head start, don’t you?”
    She nods.
    I think of all those mornings sitting in front of my TV watching masterless warriors scale glass towers and fight back the hordes of shoguns sent by the evil Tao-Lin Corporation. I have a soft spot for ladies in all black. Probably the real reason I joined the navy.
    “You’ve got