Starfish

"Karl, it's okay." She leans toward his ear, one hand on his shoulder. "It'll fix itself. Just put your inhibitors back up to normal; demand goes down, supply keeps up. No harm done."

He shakes his head again. "Won't work."

"Karl, look at the readout. You're going to be fine."

"Please don't touch me," he says, not moving at all.

Critical Mass

She catches a glimpse of fist before it hits her eye. She staggers back against the bulkhead, feels some protruding rivet or valve catch the back of her head. The world drowns in explosions of afterlight.

He's lost control, she thinks dully. I win. Her knees collapse under her; she slides down the wall, sits with a heavy thud on the deck. She considers it a matter of some pride that she's kept utterly silent through all this.

I wonder what I did to set him off. She can't remember. Acton's fist seems to have knocked the past few minutes out of her head. Doesn't matter anyway. Same old dance.

But this time there seems to be someone on her side. She can hear shouts, sounds of a scuffle. She hears the sick jarring thud of flesh against bone against metal, and for once, none of it seems to be hers.

"You cocksucker! I'll rip your fucking balls off!"

Brander's voice. Brander is sticking up for her. He always was the gallant one. Clarke smiles, tastes salt. Of course, he never quite forgave Acton for that tiff over the gulper, either…

Her vision is starting to clear, in one eye at least. There's a leg right in front of her, another to one side. She looks up; the legs meet at Caraco's crotch. Acton and Brander are in her cubby too; Clarke's amazed that they can all fit.

Acton, his mouth bloody, is under siege. Brander's hand is at his throat. Acton has the wrist of that hand caught in a grip of his own; while Clarke watches, his other arm lashes out and glances off Brander's jaw.

"Stop it," she mumbles.

Caraco hits Acton's temple twice in rapid succession. Acton's head snaps sideways, snarls, but he doesn't release his grip on Brander.

"I said stop it!"

This time they hear her. The struggle slows, pauses; fists remain poised, no holds break, but they're all looking at her now.

Even Acton. Clarke looks up into his eyes, looks behind them. She can see nothing staring back but Acton himself. You were there before, she remembers. I'm almost sure of it. Count on you to get Acton into a losing fight and then bugger off…

She braces herself against the bulkhead and pushes slowly erect. Caraco moves aside, helps her up.

"I'm flattered by all the attention, folks," Clarke says, "and I want to thank you for stopping by, but I think we can handle this on our own from here on in."

Caraco puts a protective hand on her shoulder. "You don't have to put up with this shit." Her eyes, somehow venomous through the shielding, are still locked on Acton. "None of us do."

One corner of Acton's mouth pulls back in a small, bloody sneer.

Clarke endures Caraco's touch without flinching. "I know that. And thanks for stepping in. But please, just leave us alone for a while."

Brander doesn't loosen his grip on Acton's throat. "I don't think that a very good —»

"Will you get your fucking hands off him and leave us alone!"

They back off. Clarke glares after them, dogs the hatch to keep them out. "Goddamned nosy neighbors," she grumbles, turning back to Acton.

His body sags in the sudden privacy, all the anger and bravado evaporating as she watches.

"Want to tell me why you're being such an asshole?" she says.

Acton collapses on her pallet. He stares at the deck, avoiding her eyes. "Don't you know when you're being fucked over?"

Clarke sits down beside him. "Sure. Getting punched out is pretty much a giveaway."

"I'm trying to help you. I'm trying to help all of you." He turns and hugs her, body shaking, cheek pressed against hers, face aimed at the bulkhead behind her shoulder. "Oh God Lenie I'm so sorry you're the last person in the whole fucking world I want to hurt —»

She strokes him without speaking. She knows he means it. They always do. She still can't bring herself to blame any of them.

He thinks he's alone in there. He thinks it's all his own doing.

Briefly, an impossible thought: Maybe it is…

"I can't go on with this," he says. "Staying inside."

"It'll get better, Karl. It's always hard at first."

"Oh God, Len. You don't have a clue. You still think I'm some sort of junkie."

"Karl —»

"You think I don't know what addiction is? You think I can't tell the difference?"

She doesn't answer.