Clara found herself running faster than she ever had. In her hand was Blake’s hand and she had never been gladder to hold a man’s hand. Jace, the drunk, joined her on the other side, and said, “All right, beautiful?”

“I didn’t know you felt that way, Jace,” said Blake. Clara secretly smiled.

They ran until they reached a disused building site on the edge of town. Inside, the smaller man was dragging a tarpaulin off a bulky shape with the help of several Enfant Robots. He looked up, saw them and smiled.

“You found him!” he said gleefully.

“Oh, it’s not so hard,” said Jace. “Look for the nearest fight. He’s bound to be there.”

Clara stared in wonder at the ship that the removed tarp revealed. It glittered red, like the heart of a bonfire. The hatch opened; Jace gestured towards it and smiled at her.

“Brains before beauty,” he said.

Blake gave him a withering glare and helped Clara inside. Clara just about saw the small man clap Jace on the shoulder and say, “Can’t say you didn’t try,” before Blake ushered her through the hallway.

“Hey Blake,” Jace called after them, “did you tell her I’m a doctor?”

She didn’t hear him again after that.

In a surveillance room on a ship much larger than Wyvern, a crew of twenty manned a wall of screens that showed all kinds of things – fights on the edge of the galaxy, entrances to warehouses, radars and thermal imaging. Behind them all stood Poena, hands on her hips, her long black hair half-obscuring one cruel eye.

She had dressed for the occasion, as she always did. Tight, leather-like trousers that showed off her considerable curves, an open sleeveless shirt, and a pair of long gloves that had no fingers on the right hand. Her knee-high boots had heels that would cripple a lesser woman. But she was a captain, and she could hold her own.

She knew what she was looking for. Nobody else in the room did. They had their assignments and mostly that was to let her do whatever she wanted. One screen showed the interior of a bar. Another, the back door of a place where nothing seemed to be going on. A bedroom.

Finally, she saw the one she liked the looked of, and her lips curled into a cruel smile.

“Screen twelve,” she said. “Scan.”

A man at a desk typed furiously to fulfil her request. Screen twelve zoomed into a sleek scout ship in a bird’s eye view. Four figures entered.

“Get me the ship details.”

It was silent while they worked.

“It’s Wyvern, mi’lady,” said someone.

She smiled even more. “Excellent. Ready The Siren.”

“Mi’lady.”

The man standing by her side left. Poena stalked forwards and pressed a button on a console.

“Tell King I’ve found the stray,” she said, her eyes still on the screen. “And tell him I’ve found the right bait.”

It was cold, in Wyvern’s bridge. Clara had always known space was cold, but experiencing it was something else. Endless miles of stars spanned ahead of and around her. The only thing she had left that was real, that grounded her, was her notebook, clutched to her chest.

Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.

What had she done?

“Arrr!”

She jumped. At her feet was the little Enfant Robot – Miki, Blake had said – and he seemed pleased to see her. She smiled, relieved.

“Hello.”

When she looked up, Blake was at the door, watching her. She smiled at him, too, but he did not return the gesture.

“It’s a lovely view,” she said.

Blake said and did nothing. There was something sad in his eyes, on his face. She couldn’t pinpoint it. Seeing his sadness, she felt her own. She had been so scared, so uncertain, and everything had happened so fast.

“They didn’t even say what they wanted -” she started, feeling the tears in her eyes.

“You’re safe,” said Blake. “For now.”

Confused, she did not reply. Blake approached her and reached into his jacket and, to her surprise, pulled out Songs of Innocence and Experience and Lost Civilisations of the Known Systems. She smiled tearfully. They looked undamaged from their adventure.

“The late fees for those are going to be ridiculous,” she said, trying to laugh, but all that came out were the tears she had been holding for so long.

Her tears seemed to worry Blake. Awkwardly, he reached out for her shoulder and rubbed it. Clara knew she must look ridiculous, so she dried her eyes and shook her head.

“I’m so sorry -”

“No, it’s... it’s okay.”

He removed his hand like her skin had shocked him and instead clutched the books tight. Clara sniffed, looked at the stars. She did not know how long she would be on this ship, away from home. She was scared to ask.

“I... I read some.”

Clara turned, looked at Blake curiously.

“Some what?”

He offered her, again, the books. The poetry was on top. Clara smiled a little, a more genuine smile.

“Did you like it? The Blake?”

A cloudy sort of look came across his face.

“It’s almost like... like I knew it when I read it,” he said quietly. “Like it was something I’d forgotten.”

The turmoil in his eyes stirred her to action. She took the books. Blake sat on a stool and stared at the ground as if he was trying to see something else, further away.

“As if... as if...” But the words did not come. Instead, he took a deep breath and said, “What’s a ‘tyger’?”

Clara blinked. “Sorry?”

“A ‘tyger’.” He cleared his throat. “’Tyger, tyger, burning bright...’”

“’In the forests of the night,’” she finished. “A Tyger. I see.”

She sat beside him and pulled out her tatty notebook, lovingly unwrapped the ribbons from around it and flipped through. Eventually she reached the page with the picture she had drawn of a tiger. It was crude and hand-copied from a book, with scribbly writing beneath, but she figured it was as fair a picture there was of the animal.

“It’s a mammal. A predator. It’s...”

But she did not finish, because she saw the look in Blake’s eyes as he absorbed the picture, the fascination, the sheer adoration.

“It’s beautiful,” he whispered.

“They’re all gone now,” said Clara. “Or so the history books say.”

“It looks like the words. Like how he writes it.”

“Blake was a wonderful poet. William Blake, I mean.”

Miki clambered up on Blake’s knee and poked his head over the picture. His pixel eyes grew wide and he issued an impressed, long ‘boooooop’ sound. Then, he jumped onto the pilot’s panel and began interacting with the screen.

“Archive sound,” the computer’s voice said, and a deep, rumbling roar issued

through the bridge. Clara jumped, laughed, put her hands to her ears, and Blake finally cracked a smile.

Once the roar subsided, Blake looked up at her.

“Would you read us some?” he said. His cheeks burned pink and he twisted his mouth.

“Us?” said Clara.

“Me and Miki.” Miki plopped himself down into a seated position back on Blake’s lap, like a sentient doll, and gazed up at her. She smiled. “That’s what we came to ask you. I can’t get the rhythm right when I say them and, well, Miki can’t read out loud.”

Clara knew what he was really asking. Something in the poet’s words moved him and he wanted to experience them fully, subconsciously, to feel the meaning instead of ponder it.

“In that case,” she said, opening the book, “of course. How about ‘Little Girl Lost’?”

It felt fitting to her, and Blake nodded. Clara cleared her throat and read.

In futurity I prophetic see

That the earth from sleep (Grave the sentence deep)

Shall arise, and seek from her Maker meek

And the desert wild become a garden mild.

Miki booped again, and Blake whispered, “Miki, be quiet.”

They read poetry all night.