Wanderlust by Ann Aguirre Page B

an infant on board on interstellar voyages—too much liability involved. As far as I know, they deny children under the age of two, and even transporting children older than that requires a special ship outfitted with miniature jump gear.

    With a sigh, I glance around the commissary, seeking anything we can use. I spot a box of uncracked torch-tubes. Though decidedly unglamorous, I’m glad I’m wearing this baggy jumpsuit because it has six pockets. I stuff them full, a total of ten.

    Vel’s stick won’t last forever. When the chemicals burn out, we’ll be left flailing in the dark. So here’s a little insurance against that eventuality. We can ration them. I don’t know what I’ll do when the lights go out.

    Can’t think about that.

    A little more rummaging unearths eight packets of paste. I hope we won’t be here long enough to need them, but I snag the food nonetheless. Nothing else catches my eye as immediately useful. There are spare parts and fuel cells for weapons we don’t possess. They wouldn’t carry charge packs for the disruptor March carries, given that it counts as contraband.

    Going forward seems like our only option, even if it’s into the trackless dark. I shudder a little. It was dark when the Sargasso went down, and I spent twelve hours pinned. My scars flare with phantom pain.

    Wish I’d stayed on the ship, even if it meant changing Sirina.

    “It seems obvious that something happened to the original station crew,” March says. “We have to figure out what, or it might take us, too.”

    I feel Vel at my shoulder, oddly reassuring. “If we can get to a terminal, I can patch into their security cams and see what went on before our arrival. Knowing our enemy will help us formulate the best course of action.”

    “Sounds like a plan.” March leads the way.

    Shadows play hell with my peripheral vision as we move out of the commissary. We’ll worry about supplies once we have a way to get them off station. I try to focus on that—we will get out of this.

    “Watch for webs.” Jael sounds cold and collected, not the pretty, useless ornament I initially took him for. I suspect he’s seen something, noticed something, that slipped right past me.

    Webs. As I process that, Vel adds, “And cocoons.”

    Does everyone know what’s on this station except me? In the distance, I register a skittering sound, oddly familiar. Where have I heard that before?

    I’ve almost got it when Vel tackles me, and we hit the floor hard. I lose my grip on the shockstick, not that I’m in any shape to fight. It clatters along the floor, throwing tiny sparks of light. Ahead, March and Jael scatter to opposite sides of the hallway. A sweet stench hits me on a breeze that shouldn’t be, which means—

    Movement.

    Something white and filmy rebounds down the hall, passing between the four of us. A trap? It looks like a web, just as Jael said.

    “They may have set venom mines as well,” Vel murmurs near my ear. “If it spatters on your skin, the rest of you will be immobilized.”

    Not him, though. His physiology renders him poisonous to them. Now I know what we’re facing—the Morgut. That’s human slang, because they’re more gut than anything else. The last time I saw some of these fuckers, they tried to eat me.

    Then again, I was asking for it.

    I start to suggest turning back and then I remember they’ve sealed us in with them. Nothing like playing with your food a bit before you eat it.

    “Noted,” March says from a few feet up. “You mentioned you’ve been through something like this before,” he adds to Jael. “So tell us what you know.”

    Call it paranoia, a quality I possess in spades, but I don’t think we should stand here talking. Maybe stumbling blindly ahead isn’t the best idea either, but they may be monitoring these hallways. Homing in on their prey. Us. So the longer we hang around, the easier they catch us.

    I’ve never been hunted before, and I don’t much