Galaxy's End: Book One LeRoy Clary (dark books to read TXT) 📖

for my response. He was always the more careful of the pair of us. I was the risk-taker, he the follower.

He said confidentially, “The people here on the ship eat when they get hungry and sleep in warm beds when tired. Every day. Can you imagine if we can be like them and work on a ship?”

Bill had placed his finger on the precise thought that had been niggling at the back of my mind. He often did that. Only a few days ago, we had attended the gladiator match at the coliseum. The days before that, we had fought for scraps of food, wore rags, and understood our future lay in a workcamp where we’d be beaten if we didn’t perform to expectations. Perhaps we’d dig in the ground for minerals, or work on a farm that grew food. Whatever, it didn’t matter. We would eat a minimal amount, but probably more than when we were free. Freedom sometimes means you have the freedom to starve. They would provide a place to sleep and we’d die young. Not an opinion. A fact. It had happened to all our friends and acquaintances who were a year or two older than us. We simply accepted our fate.

We had no other choice.

The conversations always got around to food, as they had since we were children. I scooped up more soup and waited for Bill to talk. He was acting reserved and hesitant. Something serious was on his mind.

I sensed and anticipated where he was going. He wanted to be on a ship—with or without me. We had never been apart. Yet, he was contemplating us separating for the first time. He would work for McL, who had undoubtedly offered him a job. Well, the idea was about to be broached.

He finally said as a way of breaking the ice, “What if we have to return to Roma and our old lives?”

“Not going to happen,” I said bluntly.

“Why not?”

That was a good question. I set the spoon down and sipped the tan-colored beverage to cover for my hesitation while thinking of a satisfactory answer that didn’t come. A sandwich rested on a plate, waiting for me to take a bite. I said, “We’ve tasted the good life. I’ll die before returning to Roma and resuming our old lives. Listen, you and I have skills and we’re smart. You have already managed to impress McL and I’ll bet he would either hire you to work in his engine room or give you a recommendation that will get you hired on another ship.”

Yes, I’d decided to get it all out in the open for him. He was like a brother that was being held back by a sister. I would not let that happen. I’d kick and scream and scheme to go where he did—but if it came to him having a better life and me staying behind, there was no question of what I’d do.

He nodded. Finally, he said, “Maybe you could get a job as a steward or something?”

My scowl made him chuckle. The idea of me standing aside and rushing to help people order their meals with a pleasant smile on my face was more distasteful than going back to Roma. I answered, “There are other jobs. But you realize Captain Stone wants both of us to work on her ship, right?”

He said, “A ship we have yet to see. And we are heading directly into a hostile military camp that is supposed to be secret. We might get blown up, thrown into prison, or sent to a work crew that was building ships.”

Bert pinged softly. “Do I have a say in this?”

Bill, who had always been closer to Bert in many ways, said, “Of course. But you have to promise that whatever happens to us, you’ll do what’s best for yourself.”

Bert pinged again. “Thank you. However, unlike you, I have the utmost confidence in Captain Stone. I have the same in Fang. Both are survivors and fighters. I have seen their preparations and listened to their plans and I approve of them. Assuming this ship is not destroyed within the first few heartbeats of emerging into normal space, I’d calculate extremely high odds of our continued good luck.”

“Thanks,” I grunted when Bill didn’t respond.

Bert continued, “As for your doubt about the ship she owns, I have researched it and verified its existence, past business dealings, and the backgrounds of each of the crew. It is all as she has indicated. Actually, it is far better than she has led us to believe.”

There had never been any doubt for me.

Bill finished his sandwich, eating as if it had no taste. He was still worried.

Bert pinged again. “Your conversation with Chance was illuminating yet contained little documented information. Your assessment?”

He was addressing me, but Bill was sitting at the table and I still didn’t want to spill out items only half-known or suspected. No sense in getting Bill worried over what was probably nothing. Bert’s words had been well chosen and vague, which led me to believe he felt much the same. I said, “I learned a few things but need time to think them through.”

“I don’t like him,” Bill stated.

“You don’t know him,” I defended reflexively because I didn’t either. That defense of the man bothered me instantly. Where had it come from? Why? Just because he was also an empath? Maybe.

I chewed my sandwich as if it was as tasteless as Bill’s. A creamy yellow concoction was between two slices of bread that hadn’t been burned and tossed into a waste can. The center was not stale. All that, and I barely tasted or appreciated it.

Chance was heavy on my mind. Not because of what he’d said, I realized. It was what was not said. A thin sheen of sweat formed on my forehead and