Jessica solar's Arc

Chapter 3 of 15

Jessica woke to a stranger walking her hull. She saw him on the outer camera — a short, bald man with a beard and glasses, a satchel across his chest, a sketchpad open in one hand. He was not in a crimson coat. He was not a scavenger. He was drawing her ship. She pulled on her jacket over the ceremonial robes she had not bothered to take off. The crown pinched her hair. She left it on and went out through the airlock. The man saw her and did not run. He lifted the sketchpad like a shield. "Michael," he said. "Michael Dicenzo. I heard you claimed her. I wanted to see her before anyone else painted over the story." "You're on my hull." "I know. I'll go." He did not move. "I've been sleeping in the aft crawlspace for six days. I draw. That's all I do. I want to publish what you're building." Jessica's first instinct was to throw him out the lock. Her second was slower. Word of her claim had traveled. If she made this man an enemy, he would sell his sketches to the next bidder who wanted her ship. If she kept him, he was a witness she chose. A soft step behind her. The florist stood at the inner hatch in her linen dress, a bundle of bright, sunburst lilies in her arms. "He said to bring these," she said. "For the chambers." The petals nearest Jessica's sleeve had already begun to curl. Then the scale of the problem shifted. A shape uncoiled from behind the engine parts crate on the upper gantry. Long body. Wet, shimmering scales that flickered like a pulsar. A marsh dragon, small enough to have slipped aboard in a crate, large enough to open a mortal in one bite. Its head came down, jaw parting, aimed at the florist. The florist did not see it. Michael did. He dropped the sketchpad. He ran three steps along the upper gantry, put both hands on the engine parts crate, and shoved. The crate went over the rail. It fell one deck and struck the dragon square across the skull. Bone cracked. The dragon crumpled onto the plating, tail lashing once, then still. The lilies dropped from the florist's arms and lay open on the deck, glowing. Michael climbed down the ladder, breathing hard. His glasses were crooked. He picked up his sketchpad. Jessica looked at the dead dragon. She looked at the short man who had just saved the only mortal welcome in the imperial chambers. She looked at the florist, who was staring at her own empty hands. "Aft crawlspace," Jessica said. "You can keep it. You draw what I tell you to draw. Nothing leaves this ship without my mark." Michael nodded once. She had an artist now. She had a witness. And somewhere on her ship, something else had been hiding in a crate.