The avatar smiled. “Then, we’ll see.”

“See what?”

The smile broadened. There was something feral about it.

“Whether,” the Trouble Dog said, drawing out the word, “I’m half as clever as I think I am.”

* * *

The Trouble Dog lingered until we were in real danger of roasting in our own waste heat, and I could actually hear the cooling fans labouring to keep the cabin temperature within acceptable bounds. Then, suddenly, she exploded from the murk. Coming up on the crest of an infernal plume, she burst into clear space with her hull glowing like an ember and scattered chunks of plasma radiating out around her like molten shrapnel.

Immediately, everything on the tactical display went red. We were being targeted.

Fast work, I thought, cursing the Fenrir and all who sailed in her—especially Parris. A quick browse of the Trouble Dog’s files had given me all I needed to know about the man. A career officer, he’d served on the Fenrir during some of the more questionable actions of the war. He was loyal, unimaginative, and almost completely devoid of scruples. His hair was fair and thinning, a pale beard clung to his chin, and his eyes were a blue so pale and washed out that they bordered on grey. I couldn’t guess why he’d been ordered to destroy two civilian vessels, but got the distinct impression he was just the kind of small-minded, ruthless bastard to follow those orders without hesitation or compunction.

“Torpedoes incoming,” the ship informed me. “Taking evasive action.”

The view flipped. My stomach did a cartwheel, and we began to accelerate back towards the sun’s churning surface. The torpedoes—three of them in a wide spread—raced towards us, trying to close a fifteen-hundred-kilometre gap. Each carried a hundred-megaton antimatter warhead. But, before they’d covered half the distance, we were already diving back into the burning ocean.

Fifty: Nod

FIFTY

NOD

Pushed through crawlspaces between inner and outer hull. Heat intense. Wished for shelter of World Tree’s branches.

Breathing gloves on all six of my faces.

During battle, ship rang like gong.

Used torch to weld loose seams, did what could be done to straighten buckled hull plates.

Ship like World Tree after a storm; so much damage to fix.

Replaced a half-melted plate, then moved on.

Picked shrapnel from a bulkhead, then moved on.

Sorted tangle of broken wires. Replaced damaged circuits.

Then moved on.

Repaired leaking hole moments before Hound of Difficulty hurled itself back into the face of the sun.

If hadn’t fixed it, ship would have been lost. All crew would have been dead. Burnt to nothing by invading plasma.

Nobody ever says thank you.

Nobody notices.

I just fix things, and move on.

In battle, I do my job, just as, during winter storms, ancestors kept the World Tree intact and functioning.

I wield tools.

I save the ship and move on.