They still don't have a plan of attack, not really.
York is out for the count, sprawled across a line of jumpseats in the Pelican's hold. Tex is sitting on the floor across from him, idly digging through their new armory; the bartender, when Tex had gone back to retrieve York, had been more than happy to hook them up with all the spike grenades they could carry. Apparently her girlfriend was in the weapons-smuggling business and had good reason to appreciate the two mysterious heroes who'd saved the day. Small world.
So there you are, Agent Texas. You got guns, you got allies, you got a target. More sadness than anger, but fuck it, the anger's gonna be there when you call, Omega will make sure of that. This is you. This isn't Allison. Never was. This is what you do. You kill the fuckers who did this to you, and you get the other poor bastards out alive, and you look damn good doing it.
She exhales, slowly. Across from her, York mumbles something in his sleep and rolls to face her, and for a second she freezes, taken by the way he looks right now, unconscious, exhausted, out of armor. Alive. Only one chance, there. No ambiguities. No identity crises. When that's all you've got, you're only as good as who you make yourself out to be.
Tex puts her armor back on over her civvies, slowly, piece by piece, checking each strap for weakness or signs of wear. The cut along her ribs hurts, but the hurt's good, sharp, dragging her attention from the abyss of panic, from the slow burn along her synapses of Omega's reawakening. When she puts the helmet on, the seal tightens, and she breathes recirculated air that's all her own.
She walks into the cockpit, sits at the pilot's chair. With the engine repaired, the stars are no longer wheeling in dizzying circles across the viewport; right now, they're static, almost serene. She knows that they're actually moving, that the whole damn galaxy's spinning together once you pull back far enough, but for now she's happy with the illusion.
A flicker of green light draws her attention to the pilot's readouts. She smiles at Delta, even though he can't see her face under her helmet. "Hey, Delta. How's he doing?"
"York is healing well," Delta says. "His healing unit will have repaired the damage long before we reenter the Mother of Invention's sphere of detection. If that is the course of action we choose."
"Sounds good," Tex says, leaning back in her chair. "I get the sense that you don't think this is the wisest thing to do."
"Not exactly," Delta says. "I appreciate the need for closure, for... revenge. But I also believe we are too late to save anyone."
"Probably," Tex says.
"And that doesn't bother you?"
Tex breathes, looks out at the stars. "'Course it bothers me. Think it'd actually kill me, if I let it. But we have a chance. We gotta take it. Not taking that chance would kill me faster."
"Reckless," Delta says, softly. "I understand. It's only logical."
Tex sighs, leans back in her chair, watches the stars. It takes her a moment to realize that Delta's been lending a very deliberate weight to his words. She straightens. She feels a chill. "Delta," she says.
"Yes, Agent Texas?"
"What did you mean by, 'it's only logical'."
For the first time, Delta's holographic avatar doesn't look away; he stares at her directly. "Recklessness. That is how Allison died," he says.
She stands up, paces back a couple steps, remembers York's sleeping in the hold, and paces back. "What the fuck," she snarls. "I told you not to dig through Connie's files. Did you do that while we were off-ship?"
"You did not tell me not to dig through Connie's files," Delta says, with irritating calm. "You told me that York and I already knew what we needed to know. I disagreed with that assessment."
Tex balls her hand into a fist, feels Omega crackling down her spine. "That was mine," she says, and isn't sure why she says it. "You understand? That was mine to know."
"I operated out of concern for York's safety. And yours."
Tex inhales, shakily, then breathes out her anger on the exhale. "Yeah," she says. "Everyone knows what's best for Tex."
When she slumps back into the pilot's seat, Delta's light is a little dimmer, almost subdued. "I did find something," he says. "I did some cross-referencing with classified personnel files. I... I believe I have discovered exactly how Allison died. In return for the data I gathered, I thought you might like to see it. I've downloaded it to the Pelican's database. The files are on your screen."
Tex slams her eyes shut in an attempt to blot out the roaring in her ears, breathes softly. Thinks of the taste of blood in her mouth, never experienced but remembered all the same. Thinks of explosive decompression and pinwheeling stars.
"No," she says. "Delta, it's okay. Delete the files. Destroy the source, if you can. Let her rest. She's long gone."
"I understand," Delta says, again. After a moment, he adds, "Files deleted. The information is no longer accessible."
"Go check on York, huh?"
"Agent Texas, I feel I should apologize for—"
"It's fine, Delta. Just go check on York."
When Tex opens her eyes, she's alone in the cockpit.
Agent Texas, she thinks, like she's trying the name on for the first time, like she's drawing it over all the empty places, patching the holes. Tex.
She cracks her knuckles, then inputs a slow, meandering course to the Mother of Invention's last known coordinates. They aren't gonna expect them back. Not so soon.
Coordinates set, she leans back in her chair, watches the starscape tilt and wheel as the ship makes corrections. So the truth's gone, she thinks. Nothing left of it but a name that's not yours. No records, no proof, no life story to anchor you.
Her smile behind her helmet is fierce and secret, hers and hers alone. So what? That means you've only got one job left to do.
Her heart, false clockwork, is racing. The stars yawn out endlessly in front of her.
Okay, Tex. Your turn to tell a better story.