The Thoughts of Many Hearts

Like most arguments, it started over something trivial. The Chancer V needed to stay on Venezia a week longer than anticipated. Fuel prices were nova-high, a fact Gavin’s contact hadn’t bothered to bring up until the Chancer had docked and unloaded its cargo. Jul ‘Mdama’s raiders were stirring up trouble in a nearby system; more importantly, Redmond Venter and his Second Vanguard had hit several UNSC outposts in the past month. Earth was eyeballing Venezia and its black-market economy once more. The usual UNSC navy pickets were doubled, deterring all but the most reckless smuggling convoys. Now the Chancer V and her little crew were stuck here in New Tyne until Gavin’s local friends could line up an affordable fuel deal.
It was a small inconvenience. Certainly not the end of the universe. But Simon was in one of his strange moods again. A casual discussion of how to spend the unexpected down time got heated. Before long voices were raised, insults exchanged, and then Simon was storming down the boarding ramp and out into the winter snows buffeting the New Tyne spaceport.
Gavin Dunn stared out from the Chancer’s cockpit and stifled a groan. The gentle snowfall draped his ship in a frosty blanket, obscuring his view of the other ships docked in the spaceport. He’d known Simon long enough now that he shouldn’t have been surprised by the sudden flashes of temper. He couldn’t help feeling somewhat annoyed at the Office of Naval Intelligence; after all the credits they sucked out of the colonies, couldn’t they have reared their illegal supersoldiers a bit better? As usual, Earth messed something up—in this case the mind of an augmented young man—and left it to honest working men like Gavin to clean things up.
“What’s his problem?” Zoey Hunsinger, her mop of messy red hair still damp from a much-needed shower, leaned back in the copilot’s chair. 
“Government-issue brain muddlin’, abandonment issues, permanent case of grinchiness—take your pick,” said Gavin sourly. Then he squeezed his eyes shut with a regretful wince. He didn’t want to be mad at Simon, but the kid knew how to poke at sore spots when he wanted to be left alone. He was more like a feral cat than a stray dog, sometimes.
Zoey folded her arms and tried to mimic his look of exasperation. She was secretly quite pleased. Stray rowing with the captain meant he’d be off her case for a few weeks. Maybe even a month if she was lucky. Stray didn’t have the moral authority to bully her when he was in hot water with Gavin. “We’re stuck here for a week. So what? I don’t know why he’s being such a baby about it.”
Gavin rubbed his face and pushed his cap further back on his head. Venter’s name was what set the kid off, he knew. Even after all this time bringing up Red was a surefire way to set Simon’s blood boiling. Gavin would need to be careful moving forward. He’d assumed the Syndicate was keeping Venter and his Innie friends on a short leash. He should have known better. Red was never one to stay docile for long. That could be trouble in the future—trouble Gavin would worry about later. Right now he was exhausted. Here it was, Christmas Eve—at least by the Earth standard calendar even rogue colonies like Venezia operated by—and he’d spent most of it arguing with spaceport officials, smuggling contacts, and now his own crew.
Zoey watched him expectantly. When the hoped-for condemnation of Stray failed to materialize, she rolled her eyes and propped her boots up on the cockpit dashboard. As if a moody, unpredictable Spartan weren’t enough trouble, Gavin’s cabin girl was transforming into a teenager right before his eyes.
No one warned me it would be this hard, Gavin thought wearily.
“He’ll come back when he feels like it,” he said aloud, pushing Zoey’s feet off the controls. He tried to crack a wry smile. “Maybe when he gets hungry. Scratch the hull when he wants to be let in.”
That got a laugh from Zoey. Good. He could still get through to her. “So,” Gavin continued conversationally. “How would you like to spend our time here?”
Zoey’s expression darkened. She stared up at the snow piling up on the cockpit viewport. “Nothing, really. There never was anything to do around here.”
Gavin sighed. Venezia was Zoey’s homeworld, the planet where she’d grown up—and the planet where her parents had died, gunned down by Syndicate thugs. New Tyne didn’t hold many good memories for her. It was a terrible thing to feel so alienated from your own homeworld. Gavin couldn’t help getting misty-eyed whenever anyone brought up Reach. Even a spacer ought to love their homeworld.
“In that case, as captain I guess it’s my duty as your captain to keep you from dying of boredom down here. And if I remember right, you’re still having trouble with those engine diagnostics. I’ve got a few drills in mind that ought to sharpen you on that count.” Gavin laughed as Zoey’s face crumpled into a look of severe displeasure. “But not tonight. Or tomorrow, for that matter. It’s Christmas, after all. I owe you some fun. We’ll have five days to kill after that.”
“Christmas?” Zoey made a face. “You celebrate that.”
“Course I do. Why wouldn’t I?”
“No one celebrates Christmas,” Zoey said, rolling her eyes. She was certainly nailing the whole teen angle.
“Plenty of people celebrate Christmas,” Gavin protested. He was pretty sure she’d just discovered a new way of calling him old. “I know for a fact your friend Cassandra loves this time of year.”
“Cassandra’s weird. Just like Stray. Just nice weird, not psycho weird.”
“Well, on this ship we celebrate Christmas,” Gavin insisted, hoping Zoey wouldn’t point out that the Chancer V had passed at least two Christmases without any celebration. He’d forgotten about it today, until sight of snow on the ship’s viewport jogged vague memories of old cultural videos touting Earth customs to bored colonial children. “So wash up and get something warm on. We need to go find some real food.”
That perked Zoey up. The prospect of fresh food after month’s worth of freeze-dried ship rations was enough to put anyone in the holiday spirit. Gavin’s spirits lifted at the sight of Zoey’s smile. He smiled back, refusing to let his worries about Simon dim his spirits. Simon could look after himself.
Christmas spirit or no, Gavin Dunn wasn’t much of a praying man. Still, he could only pray that one angry rogue Spartan couldn’t cause too much trouble in a spaceport full of criminals, mercenaries, and revolutionaries. He’d left the ship without his armor or usual arsenal of weapons. That was a good thing, right?
Please don’t do anything stupid, Simon.
***
It didn’t take Stray long to realize just how stupid the argument had been. Unfortunately, the realization took long enough for him to snap out a few insults—the kind that felt very satisfying at the time but now felt so trivial he couldn’t quite remember what they’d been—and go storming out of the Chancer V. Now as he trudged down New Tyne’s snowy streets, head bowed against the cold, his hands plunged deep into the pockets of a thick, military-style jacket, Stray faced the unpleasant dilemma of sorting out just how long he ought to stay away from the ship before slipping back into its stifling warmth.
He'd clashed with Gavin before, of course. Gavin Dunn wasn’t the kind to hold grudges but he did have a stubborn patronizing streak that made Stray want to put his fist through the nearest wall. Coming back too early was as good as admitting defeat. He’d need to deal with a few weeks of sidelong glances and pointed comments. There was also Zoey to consider. That little brat was always looking to get a leg up on him when she sensed he was at odds with their captain. No, heading back now wasn’t an option. The best way to deal with Gavin was to let him stew a while. Before long he’d convince himself that the argument was his own fault. When Stray returned—perhaps with some sort of peace offering—Gavin would feel so bad he’d just want to pretend nothing had ever happened. That would give Stray the opening he needed to make sure Zoey knew not to test her luck with him.
He wandered down the street, mind awash in these calculations even while his eyes kept an eye on Venezia’s usual population of thugs and street scum. The cold kept New Tyne’s most dangerous denizens—the richer enforcers and especially the Sangheili—inside, leaving only a few low-level thugs and panhandlers interrupting the cool white snow like blisters erupting from the city’s dark veins. None of them seemed interested in causing trouble and without his armor Stray was just one more spacer, indistinguishable from a thousand other mercs trawling the streets for work or a quick fix. He kept one hand close to the M6C sidearm holstered inside his jacket. The local Syndicate toughs might not have it out for him today and after that business on Mars the UNSC wouldn’t have any active operations open on him but on Venezia you never knew how many ONI sleepers might be prowling around.
New Tyne hadn’t changed at all since the days when Stray rolled up and down these streets as one of Min Ai’s armored enforcers. He’d slipped away into the stars and life had simply gone on without him, just like it did everywhere else. It was almost depressing. New Tyne had been Stray’s first real taste of freedom after Philadelphia—the first place for him to run wild, to start fresh, to become something better. Everything had seemed so new and exciting back then. Now he saw this place for what it was: another miserable little port town full of small, miserable people. The foolish boy he’d been had thought the world beyond the UNSC’s confines would be vast and wonderous. Now he knew the truth and was no better for it.
Another year shambled to a close and Stray slouched along with it, adrift in a cold universe that cared as little for him as he cared for it. No wonder he’d needed to get off the Chancer V, away from the daily reminder of just how insignificant he’d become. He’d been angry at Gavin, sure—another client screwed them over and the captain couldn’t be bothered to stand up for his ship or his crew. But he’d been even angrier at himself. Because in the end he couldn’t do any better than Gavin. A few broken arms or shotgun blasts wouldn’t get the fuel here any quicker. All his skill, equipment, and augmentations didn’t amount to anything at the end of the day. He might as well just be another irritating brat like Zoey.
Even Venter was still out there, making his mark on the universe. The thought of that one-eyed bastard made Stray’s blood boil against the cold wind.
Should have known it would end up like this. Always the loser. Always the failure. Worst Gamma.
Stavros’s Bar was still open and as good a place as any to escape the cold and feel sorry for himself. Stray slipped inside the welcome heat. A few militia punks lounged just inside the entryway, moonlighting as security. They went through the motions of checking him. Their leader glared at Stray’s sidearm—he missed the boot knife and a roll of miniature explosives—but let him through with a cursory growl about not causing trouble. Stavros’s usual crowd of militia toughs and enforcer scumbags lounged around the establishment. A pair of Sangheili crammed into a shadowy booth shot dirty looks at the other clientele. A few bullet holes and scorch marks marked spots of recent trouble, but no one looked rowdy or inebriated enough to start anything tonight. Cold was a wonderful sedative.
Stray’s old, faded stool in the bar’s far corner was gone. Stavros must have done some remodeling; all the stools looked new. Stray settled into an empty seat and waved a few credits at the Jiralhanae and human duo working tonight’s shift. Before long he was glowering into the amber surface of a Kropotkin whiskey—Stray wasn’t risking anything creative tonight, not with an alien behind the bar. Even his reinforced innards couldn’t handle the battery acid Jiralhanae tortured themselves with.
“Do I know you?” An aged Kig-Yar, her fangs and quills dulled by needlerot, squinted at Stray from a few seats away. Her voice sounded tinny through the cheap translation device clipped to Stray’s ear. She dipped her beak thoughtfully into a small glass full of thin, watery substance.
Stray bought himself time by dipping his fingers into the whiskey, inspecting the glass’s contents while he thought back to the old Venezia days. “Reh’til,” he said finally, recognizing the burn scars running down the Kig-Yar’s neck. “From the Isbanola Collective.”
“Not anymore. Not since all the recent troubles. Got my crew working the shipyards over in…” The Kig-Yar trailed off, still squinting in the dim light. Her eyes brightened with sudden recognition. “Ah yes, Stray. Min Ai’s attack dog. I thought you went offworld.”
“I did.” Stray relaxed a little bit. Reh’til was friendly enough, at least as far as Kig-Yar went. “Just stopping in on a job.”
“And that little chick that used to follow you everywhere, is she well?”
“Zoey?” Stray downed a gulp of whiskey. A strong burn soothed his throat. “Yeah, she’s fine.”
“Good, good. She’s a decent sort, for a human. And good you’re still alive. So many good killers dead these days, what with ONI and the Syndicate cracking down.” Reh’til took another sip through her beak. Her eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “You saved my life a few seasons back. When the Misriah deal went south. I don’t think I ever thanked you for that.”
Stray nodded. He couldn’t admit that he didn’t remember whatever he’d done to save Reh’til’s life. “Misriah deal” could be any dozen of botched jobs. Whatever had happened, he and Reh’til had walked away and a few other people hadn’t. A few lives ended and the planet spun on. The thought soured the rest of the whiskey in Stray’s mouth.
Whatever gratitude Reh’til felt didn’t extend to paying for Stray’s drink. Kig-Yar despised such magnanimous gestures. Thoughtless spending was practically blasphemy for them. Stray finished his drink, muttered a final pleasantry to Reh’til, and left the bar. If he came in here a year from now he’d probably find Reh’til sitting on that same stool drinking that same watery drink. Either that or he’d find some crook from her nest to tell him how she’d bought it on some two-credit heist. No matter where he went, only the names changed. The cold darkness waiting for him outside Stavros’s felt even bleaker than before.
It was still far too early to return to the Chancer V. Stray regretted not donning his armor before storming out. The SPI gear might attract more attention but at least it might insulate him against this cold. He pulled his coat even tighter around him and trudged down New Tyne’s deserted streets.
So many memories shadowed these streets and alleys. He’d walked these paths so often during his time in Min Ai’s employ, trudging from one job to the next with a shotgun slung over his armored shoulder and Zoey trailing behind him like a mangy little puppy. The beat had become a part of him, at least for a time. Min Ai had probably replaced him mere hours after he left the planet. The Syndicate’s brutal work was never done and there was always some new thug lined up to do it.
There hadn’t been much snow on Onyx outside of the simulated biomes the drill techs had set up. Mamore hadn’t had any snow either. Venezia had been Stray’s first real taste of winter. He’d once found snowy nights like this beautiful and mysterious. The snow drew a white curtain over grim reality and made even a slum like New Tyne seem strange and mysterious. He’d grown to know better, of course. He always did.
Stray knew exactly where his feet were taking him. He didn’t like it, yet he couldn’t stop himself either. He trudged on through the darkness until he reached a snowy side street utterly indistinguishable from a dozen others to all but the trained eye. A Warthog packed full of militia fighters rolled lazily on past him, leaving dark tracks in the snow. A few of the occupants eyeballed him from behind thick balaclavas. Normally a lone pedestrian catching militia attention this late was a recipe for trouble, but tonight was too cold for that kind of mischief. The Warthog trundled on, leaving Stray alone on the street corner.
He forced himself to look at the building just across the street, a squat pre-fab colonial building identical to the rest of New Tyne’s weary architecture. The discrete signs advertising family medicine and emergency medical care had long since vanished, but Stray could never have mistaken this shack for any other. He’d spent many nights inside that building or out here standing watch. He remembered vividly one particular night, a cold Christmas like this one; he remembered standing in this very spot, sharing a poncho with a warm familiar figure. He remembered pulling them close and shivering through the snowy night.
Cassandra was long gone from this planet. The Insurrectionists had driven her and her clinic offworld. The rebels loved destroying anything good and beautiful in this galaxy. Stray had learned that the hard way a long time ago. He stared into the snowy darkness, a part of him yearning for Cassandra to stride out between the snowflakes to lecture him on being nicer to Zoey or not fighting with Gavin or whatever else he’d done wrong today.
But Cassandra was far from here, safe on Talitsa, doing all sorts of good works together with Dyne and…
Stray’s jaw ached as he ground his teeth. A child had played on this sidewalk not too long ago. A small snow family clustered around a tiny snow house, two parents and two children, stick arms outstretched towards what might have been a little snow baby. Stray kicked the house over and crushed the little family beneath his boot. He was possessed by a sudden urge to destroy anything innocent or hopeful in this bleak, wretched little town. He was no different from the Innies in that regard. Why bother hiding it?
Something moved in the darkness. Stray stiffened, reaching for his M6C as two Sangheili figures approached. The two aliens paused, perhaps realizing the folly of pressing in on any stranger in a town like this. Neither appeared armed, not that that was any cause for letting down one’s guard. Stray watched them closely. The taller of the pair was a male, skinny by Sangheili standards. He wore a shabby overcoat and held a thick blanket over the shoulders of his companion, a short female.
“I beg your pardon,” the Sangheili male said, his voice sounding oddly formal through the translation device. “We were told our people had a refuge here in this city, but the warrior who was supposed to guide us was not at the spaceport. You wouldn’t happen to know…?” He trailed off cautiously. His companion pressed herself closer against him, peering out at Stray from beneath the blanket.
Offworlders. Refugees, probably. Too new to the planet to know better than to ask directions from armed strangers. These two were lucky it was cold. Otherwise they’d have been robbed five times by now.
“The Sangheili enclave?” Stray gestured back the way he’d come. He wanted these strangers out of his hair as quickly as possible. He hadn’t come here to be harassed by dumbass hinge-heads. “Just walk down this street as far as you can go. You’ll know it when you see some signs in old Covenant script. The enclave should have a patrol out to pick you up.”
He paused, then added, “And don’t go talking to anyone else unless you know they’re with the enclave. These streets aren’t safe.”
The Sangheili both bowed obsequiously. They hurried away, murmuring their thanks. Stray watched them leave. He’d spent the entire encounter with one hand close to his pistol. He only turned aside once he was certain the Sangheili wouldn’t toss back the blanket to reveal hidden weapons. Glad to be rid of them, he turned back to the wrecked clinic and its bittersweet memories. It was steadily dawning on him that he’d chosen the absolute worst night to abandon the Chancer V. Another brilliant move in the story of Simon-G294, one more bad decision in the never-ending history of bad decisions…
“You were right kind to those two.”
Only years of trigger discipline kept the pistol holstered and unfired. Stray found himself staring down a heavyset older woman clothed in a thick, patchy overcoat. Her straggly grey hair hung in unkempt strands over a wizened face that peered out at him from the darkness. She stared at him expectantly, utterly unaware just how close she’d come to a bullet through the head.
“I was listening to you,” the old woman continued. “Nice young man like yourself helping out the aliens. Made me happy. You look like a decent sort. Better than this town. I watched you. Nice young man. I mean that. Nice young man. So few angels these days.”
Stray’s jaw hurt again. He took his hand off the pistol’s hilt. There was a familiarly off-beat cadence to this woman’s words. He’d spent enough time in the gutter to recognize someone who wasn’t all there in the head. Harmless enough—usually. And right now the last thing he wanted was to indulge some vagrant’s ramblings.
He waved the woman off and turned to go. She wasn’t quite so easily deterred.
“A nice young man,” she rasped, pawing at Stray’s arm. He resisted the urge to send her sprawling into the gutter. “I prayed to God, you know. I’m a praying woman. I prayed to God to send help and he did. A nice young man to help us.”
She gestured to the shadows alongside the abandoned clinic. Stray squinted, only just making out the low profile of a Spade truck. The flatbed was switched off, its lights cut so as not to attract attention. Perhaps this woman wasn’t as touched as Stray had assumed. He stiffened, eyeing all possible means of escape. His mind buzzed with the terrible possibilities. Perfect ambush spot. I walked right into it. Predictable for me to come here. And of course I’ve had drinks. Stupid, stupid, stupid…
But no shots tore through his jacket. No ambushers materialized from the back of the truck. Only two figures, far too hunched and skinny to fit the usual profile of assassins, stepped out from the shadows to wait beside the Spade. The old woman crossed the street to meet them, beckoning for Stray to follow while rambling on about angels and answered prayers.
“I tell people. I testify. There’s a hell on the other side, even if they won’t believe in it. But there’s a better place, too. Better than this planet. Such a nice young man. You’ll help us. I know it.”
Stray should have turned on his heel and strode off in the opposite direction. Instead he surreptitiously wrapped a hand around the M6C and followed the woman to the Spade. The two figures turned out to be a young man and woman, younger even than Stray, barely more than kids. A skinny boy, shivering in tattered working clothes, and a dark-haired girl clutching a small bundle. The girl might have been the crone’s daughter or even granddaughter. They shared the same wood-colored skin and dark eyes. The boy was pale and gaunt. He wrapped an arm around the girl’s shoulder and watched Stray warily.
“The Spade’s busted, you see,” the old woman continued. She waved vaguely at the truck. “Been waiting and praying for someone to help us fix it. We’ve a ways to go yet. We all have a ways to go. On this trail we’re on…”
She just kept on talking, that same mixture of lucid statements and odd non sequiturs. She might have been crazy or simply mildly high. It was always hard to tell in New Tyne. Stray kept an eye on her while he circled around the Spade to check for any possible traps or hidden gang members. The longer they went without someone trying to jump him the more he wondered if this woman might actually be telling the truth.
That just irritated him more. Nice young man, indeed. If this woman wasn’t a con or a decoy than she was a fool. There were no nice young men in New Tyne. These people were lucky that militia Warthog had passed them by. Stray had watched the local rebel heroes give more than a few families a lesson in what “free colony” life was really like. The boy and the girl flinched whenever he looked their way. They refused to meet his gaze. Maybe they were frightened of him or simply embarrassed by their companion’s rambling.
The Spade’s engine trouble was easy enough to spot. Stray had done more than his share of time dealing with the Chancer V’s own run-down flatbed. That would be a quick enough fix, provided the Spade’s manufacturer-issue maintenance kit was where it ought to be. Confident he wouldn’t find any traps or ambushes Stray ignored the woman’s latest tangent about Hell or Bethlehem or whatever and clambered onto the flatbed to look over what this little family was hauling around.
He was almost disappointed not to find a Syndicate drug run or arms crates loaded onto the Spade. A few meager boxes of kitchenware and cheap plastic furniture told him they’d probably moved—or more likely been evicted. Only one item seemed of any interest: a small crate packed tight with old, faded books. Stray resisted the urge to crack the lid and paw through the books. Older books had interested him ever since he’d discovered the extent of the UEG’s extensive efforts to revise and edit older literature. Pre-twenty second century books were free from the censors’ revisions. Something here might be worth something after all—but probably not. The Spade was the most impressive thing these people owned.
This was a waste of his time. This droning woman and her meek, helpless children were nothing in this grim city. Even the boy was useless or else he’d be back here trying to fix the Spade. Zoey could have clobbered his skinny ass with one hand tied behind her back. Stray shivered and brushed snow off his shoulder. Helping these fools wouldn’t be worth the effort. One good jump would send Stray clear of the Spade and out into the snowy darkness, off to somewhere warm, away from these miserable people and the old woman’s vapid jabbering.
Or he could just rob them. All he had to do was fix the Spade and drive off. These people couldn’t do a thing to stop him. Even on a night like this, some chop shop would be open and ready to strip this piece of junk for parts. They’d pay a few thousand credits, no questions asked. Easy money, the easiest Stray had made in months. Enough to appease Gavin and remind him just who he really had to thank for bringing in the money around here.
The old woman was still watching him. She must have noticed how long he’d been up there on the flatbed. “A nice young man,” she repeated. “An angel.”
I’ll show you an angel, you old fool.
The notion of such cruelty came easily to Stray’s mind. It was the natural thing for him to do. He was no different from any of the scumbags holed up in this dark, wretched city. He locked eyes with the woman. She saw the idea growing in his mind like a twisted weed. He was so utterly transparent to a woman like her. There was no fear or even outrage in those faded eyes, just a weary acceptance.
Stray had crossed the line beyond shame a long time ago. The thought of robbing these fools blind made him feel depressed. But he’d depressed himself before. And it was easy money. Easy money was worth feeling a bit down for a few days. A month from now and he’d forget all about these people. His hand slipped into his jacket, fingers curling around the pistol holster.
The bundle in the girl’s arms started squalling. A baby. This girl was holding a baby. Stray’s teeth ground audibly in the cold night air. The old woman kept staring at him, daring him to take the plunge. He hated her and those tired, triumphant eyes.
The repairs to the Spade took him less than five minutes. Stray made a point of collaring the young man and forcing him to watch the work on the engine. It was a simple fix. This idiot had no right not knowing how to do it, especially not out here in a town like this alongside a girl who was probably holding his child in her arms. The old woman muttered under her breath the entire time, lips quirked in a triumphant smile. Stray did his best not to look her way. The Spade shuddered to life and then they were off, rolling through the snow and vanishing into the darkness. Stray knew he’d never see them again. Just as well.
He couldn’t stand people like that. But the baby’s crying was stuck in his head, a pulsing, unpleasant reminder that maybe he was wrong. Maybe people were more than just meat—even in a city like New Tyne. He didn’t know where those people were headed in this cold, uneasy night, light-years from the galaxy’s grand and important goings on. He didn’t know how that particular story would end and he didn’t really care. He was suddenly aware that he was cold and tired and hungry and no longer particularly concerned with how to smooth things over with Gavin. He couldn’t really remember what they’d argued about in the first place.
Stray didn’t walk away entirely empty handed. His payment consisted of one book plucked out of that little crate. Stray found himself staring at the collected works of a man named Mark Twain. The print information inside the book’s faded cover claimed that this book had been printed in the twenty-first century. It felt strange, holding something over four centuries old. Stray tucked the hefty volume inside his jacket. He risked one last look at the abandoned clinic and the memories it held.
Then he turned and trudged off into the snow, back to the Chancer V and whatever reception awaited in that rusty old home.