Immunity

by Erin Bowman

  The corner of his mouth quirked upward, amused. “Very funny, Naree.”

  When she blinked, he was gone.

  II

  The Testing

  Unknown Research Base

  Presumably in the Trios

  NOVA SINGH HAD REPAIRED THE space station to its fullest functionality. It was rotating around its axis again, supplying artificial gravity to her crew of two. No, her crew of one. Because even though it was easy to think of Dylan as another occupant, Nova knew the captain wasn’t truly there. She even flickered sometimes—a recent development—like a hologram experiencing interference.

  Based on the station’s number of rotations a minute, Nova had been able to calculate the approximate rotations per hour, and from there, rotations per day. It gave her a grasp on time. Since the artificial gravity had resumed, fifty-four days had passed—enough time for the Paramount to return to the Trios. Maybe when she heard Amber again, Nova would finally be home.

  She’d stayed busy by cleaning. She scrubbed and polished and shined, the work giving her purpose. She ran system checks daily, confirmed that things were operating smoothly. Debris from a passing asteroid storm took out a solar panel one afternoon, and Nova had the pleasure of donning an EVA suit and spacewalking out to the solar array wing to make repairs. Dylan whispered in her ear via a helmet comm the whole time.

  Be careful. Steady there. Take your time.

  Nova had never seen this cautious side of the captain, and it made her smile.

  There was nothing to eat on the station, and yet Nova felt fine. If hunger ever twanged her belly or thirst coated her tongue, it faded within the hour. When she felt the need to find a restroom, the sensation always passed. She wondered if this was the work of the med-droid Amber’s father had mentioned; if somewhere else, IVs and catheters were being seen to. Imagining the droid completing these tasks helped Nova envision the room she was being cared for in. She found herself wanting to truly see it, not just imagine it. And Amber. Nova replayed their short-lived conversation. The medic’s voice had been so reassuring, and it looped in Nova’s mind like a distress beacon, providing a type of human interaction even Dylan couldn’t supply.

  And finally, in the twenty-third hour of that fifty-fourth day, Nova heard Amber’s voice again.

  Right where I left you. How are you doing? Please tell me you can still hear me.

  Nova was in engineering, about as far as she could be from central command, but on a whim, she blinked her eyes.

  Thank goodness, came Amber’s reply. I’m sorry about before. They didn’t give me an option. Your vitals look good, though. Not much has changed in transit. We’re docking now and will be able to move you to a nicer room soon.

  A room Nova couldn’t even see.

  I’m not sure if I’ll still be overseeing you when we leave the Paramount. I hope so, though. If not, now would be a good time to wake up. You know, so we could say hello and good-bye at the same time.

  Nova wanted to. God, did she want to wake up.

  She peered out the nearest window and froze.

  Instead of the endless expanse that had surrounded her for the past two months, a blue-green planet the size of her fist sat among the stars.

  The station suddenly dimmed and a siren whooped. Nova spun from the window to find Dylan hunched over the emergency self-destruction box. The system was armed and her hand hovered over the final lever.

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  The captain looked at her sadly. “It’s like she said, Nova. It’s time to wake up.” Dylan threw the lever.

  T-minus five minutes to self-destruct, the intercoms announced. All personnel must evacuate via drop pod immediately.

  “What drop pod?” Nova roared. “I’ve been on this damn station for almost two months and I’ve never seen a drop pod!”

  “That’s the idea. It didn’t appear until it was time to take it. Follow me.”

  Nova raced after Dylan, following her to a docking port for visiting shuttles where a drop pod waited, door open. “It will only hold one.” Dylan’s hair had lost some of its shine, and her nose didn’t seem quite sharp enough. She flickered.

  Nova pulled the captain into a hug. “Thanks for everything, Dyl.”

  “It was never me, Nova. It was you. You were everything you needed to get through this, and you will continue to be everything you need moving forward. You are enough. Don’t forget that on the other side.”

  The woman flickered, and for a heartbeat, Nova could have sworn she was looking in a mirror. It wasn’t Dylan standing there, but Nova herself. Then Dylan reappeared, smiling. Even now, after hundreds of smiles on this station, Nova still wasn’t used to the expression. The captain didn’t look like Dylan unless she was scowling.

  Nova wanted to say, “I’ll see you on the other side,” or “Until next time,” or basically anything that meant this wasn’t good-bye. But it was. She’d said good-bye to Dylan Lowe weeks ago, in that shuttle air lock just beyond Achlys. Everything on this space station had been stolen time.

  “Thanks again for the bracelet.” Nova raised her wrist, flashing the silver, thread-thin piece of jewelry that Dylan had gifted her. Then she stepped into the drop pod and sealed the door. When she looked back through the small window, Dylan was gone. The hall was empty. The station had only ever held a crew of one.

  Thea felt the officers moving her from cryo and into the new facility. Fighting the fog of sedation, she tried to memorize the route but quickly lost track of the numerous turns. When she finally regained enough of her senses to open her eyes, she found operating lights overhead. She attempted to sit, only to find her ankles and wrists in cuffs.

  “I wouldn’t struggle,” said Dr. Farraday, appearing in her peripherals. He wore a full hazmat suit as he drew blood from her arm. The needle felt like the prick of a pin, nothing more. What bothered her more was his pulse—calm and steady, almost indifferent. He wasn’t afraid of her. “They’ll give you a good zap if you misbehave.”

  It was then that she felt the strap beneath her chin and the subtle pressure over her skull.

  “It’s called a hot cap,” he went on. “They sound even less fashionable than they are.”

  Thea turned her head, searching the room. On the far end was a mirror, where she could make out the gear now fastened to her head. The cap itself was a cobweb of woven metal threads. Several of these threads made contact with her skin at her temples and along her forehead. She guessed the they Farraday had mentioned were watching on the other side of the mirror, ready to send a wave of electricity through the hot cap if needed.

  Glancing the other direction, Thea found a long, narrow window. Light filtered through, warm and yellow. There was a tree in the distance, the green so vibrant it took her breath away. She hadn’t seen anything so green in . . . months. A breeze drifted by, rustling the leaves on the branches. Tall grass, golden like wheat, danced at the base of the trunk.

  “Where are we?”

  “That’s confidential.” Dr. Farraday kept his eyes on the syringe.

  “We’re back in the Trios,” Thea said, feeling it in her bones. “And when Coen and I break out of here, you’ll never catch us. Do you know how fast we can probably run in an open field? How we’ll hear you coming kilometers away?”

  The doctor set the syringe aside and followed Thea’s gaze. “That’s simulated natural light and some pretty visuals,” he said lazily. “There’s no field outside this facility.”

  “City, then? Even better. More places to hide.”

  “The window’s not real, Thea, because there’s nothing to see outside it. This facility doesn’t have real windows.”

  They were underground, then, deep in some Radical-operated complex. It would be hell to get out, depending on how many floors down they were, but she’d manage.

  “Type O negative,” Dr. Farraday said, applying labels to the tubes of blood. “A universal donor.”

  “Do you know how dangerous those samples a
re?”

  Before he could answer, the door whooshed open near Thea’s feet. “Burke and the others are ready for her,” a suited officer said.

  Dr. Farraday waved him in, and two other men entered on his heels. One held a palm-sized device in hand.

  “Where’s Coen?” Thea said, searching the room. “I want to see Coen.”

  “We’re taking you to him,” the man with the device said. “But if you don’t behave . . .” He glanced at her hot cap and shook the handheld device in her direction.

  The threat was clear. If Thea put one toe out of line, this man could fry her brain.

  Coen was collared like a dog.

  The metal encircling his neck was cold and thick enough that his head was more or less immobile. Beneath each of his ears, metal rods attached to the collar and allowed the guards to steer him forward like meat headed for slaughter.

  “Keep moving,” one of the guards said, shoving the lead. Coen stumbled forward, only to feel the collar pinch from the other side, where the second guard hadn’t assisted in the thrust.

  There was no use trying to overpower them. When he’d come out of a fog, he’d already been collared, and a strange cap had been strapped over his head. He’d been told it could produce enough electric shock to kill him, and the guard had made the threat confidently. Even now, the pair at Coen’s side had steady pulses and relaxed postures.

  Coen wasn’t about to test them.

  The room they led him to was spacious, with a shiny floor and immaculate white walls, one of which housed a long, slender mirror. Part gym, part medical room, Coen wasn’t sure what to make of the assortment of gear throughout. There were weights and pull-up bars and a boxing ring. Eye charts and regenerative beds and a low table lined with tools that could be used for torture as much as care. At least there were no operating tables. He’d been poked and prodded enough.

  He heard footsteps approaching, followed by a swarm of heartbeats.

  “Ah, you’re here already. Good.” Dr. Farraday strode into the room. “Let’s get started.”

  A pair of medics entered on his heels, and then three additional guards, guiding Thea. Like him, she wore a metal cap, but no collar. Perhaps the guards didn’t think she had the strength to overpower anyone. Ironic, really, seeing as she was the only one to have broken free of her cell so far.

  You okay? he asked her.

  Oh, yeah. I’m great.

  He’d never heard Thea crack a joke before, and sarcasm sounded wrong on her.

  “Let’s start in the gym,” Dr. Farraday said, motioning toward the area. “Go ahead and unlock the boy.”

  The guards twisted the metal leads they were holding, guiding them free of the collar. One of the men edged forward, his pulse picking up slightly, and flicked a switch behind Coen’s neck. The collar swung open and clattered to the floor. Coen rolled his head with relief.

  “The gym,” Dr. Farraday said again.

  They just want to know what we’re good for, Coen said to Thea, the room suddenly making sense. How much we can lift. How well we can see. He glanced at the boxing ring. How well we fight.

  They already know the answers are good enough to try to replicate us, Thea responded. “I’m not doing anything,” she announced, and crossed her arms over her chest.

  Dr. Farraday gave one of the guards a nod, and Coen felt a burst of heat at his temples, followed by a surge of pain that brought him writhing to the ground.

  “Coen!” Thea wheeled on the doctor. “What the hell did you do to him?”

  “What I will continue to do unless you cooperate,” Dr. Farraday said. “When one of you fails to follow orders, the other will feel the consequences.”

  Thea hooked a hand behind Coen’s back and helped him sit. His stomach surged, and he feared he might be sick.

  “That was simply a warning shock. We can provide worse ones without risking any serious damage.”

  I’m so sorry, Thea muttered in his mind. I’m sorry. I didn’t know he’d—

  “Let’s go,” Coen said aloud, pushing to his feet. He glanced at the doctor. “Study away.”

  Farraday ran them through a series of drills, barking out orders and then recording results in his Tab. How much they could bench press, how fast they could scale a climbing wall, how quickly they could run a kilometer. Thea outran Coen by a solid seven seconds—a surprise that made him smile. On Achlys he’d needed to remind himself to slow down so she could follow his lead, and now she was faster.

  They moved on to the eye chart, reading from the display with the lights on, off, and in a state akin to twilight. His vision was better than Thea’s in the dark, but then she bested him again on a hearing test, where they were asked to point to the speaker in the room that was producing a beeping tone. He’d been certain the test had ended, and then Thea had raised an arm, pointing to the speaker that had made a high-pitched whistle just moments earlier.

  “Incredible,” Dr. Farraday had muttered.

  All the while, the guards lingered along the room’s perimeter, ready to zap Coen and Thea into submission. Eventually, they were shown to the boxing ring, and after stepping under the ropes, each supplied with a shock rod.

  They’re dumber than they look, Thea said.

  Coen scanned the room. The medics had left, and only a few of the guards remained. Notably missing were the pair that had the ability to shock either Thea or Coen. But then Coen caught Farraday giving a thumbs-up to the wall with the slender mirror.

  They’re still watching. Coen nodded at the mirror. They’ll drop us before we’re even out of the ring. Still, he turned the shock rod over in his hand, wishing he could use it on their captors.

  “Disarm your opponent and deliver a knockout blow. Via fist or shock rod,” Dr. Farraday said. “We’re mostly interested in your technique here.”

  Coen glanced at Thea. She was half his weight, easily. “I’m not fighting her,” he said.

  “Same,” she spat out quickly, and he realized he’d nearly subjected her to a shock for his unwillingness to follow orders.

  Dr. Farraday put a hand to his ear, listening to something on a comm. Coen could only make out the first few words before Dr. Farraday moved out of earshot. Thea’s brows, however, dipped.

  Can you still hear him? Coen asked.

  “Fight,” Dr. Farraday said, lowering his hand from his ear, “and the winner will be granted contact—”

  Thea lurched to action, arm swinging.

  “—with a family member back home.”

  She had most certainly heard the conversation between Farraday and Burke.

  Coen’s body reacted instinctively, leaping back, but her shock rod skimmed his side. A slice of heat curled through him. He breathed out hard, fighting the pain.

  It’s not personal, she said, angling toward him. They’d force us one way or another and I need that call.

  She came at him again, swinging wildly. He sidestepped her easily. She lashed out again. He danced away.

  Coen laughed and she glared.

  What’s funny?

  You don’t know how to use it, he said.

  Use what? Another swipe of her shock rod. This time he used his own to deflect it, like a sword.

  Any of it. The weapon. Your body.

  He understood suddenly why he’d been so unstoppable on Achlys. It wasn’t just that the contagion had turned him into a supercharged version of himself. He’d had the skills to begin with. A variety of martial arts training and self-defense lessons since the age of five, ending just two years ago, when Gina had fallen ill and money had to be spent elsewhere. He could fight with his hands, feet, a bow staff, a blade. When he’d become infected with Psychrobacter achli, it had merely enhanced everything—more strength, better instincts, eyesight like no other.

  Thea had all these things, too, but she’d never been in a fight. It was obvious in her uneven stance, the way she planted all her weight through one foot, how she didn’t keep a hand up to protect her face.


  Then how’d I manage to hit you once already? she asked.

  Luck. And a head start. You heard the offer before I did.

  He struck out with the shock rod. Her eyes went wide, surprised to see him fighting back instead of just deflecting. Her improved instincts allowed her to block his first attack, and his second, but his third caught her in the side.

  As she buckled from the pain, he dropped low, swiping out her legs. She fell back, and he caught her, softening the fall and straddling her in the same moment. He batted her shock rod away, threw his away, too.

  Thea squirmed beneath him, the strength of her own limbs returning to her now that the electric shock had died out. He wound up. As she flung her hands up in an X to protect her face, he threw a punch into the mat just beside her head.

  She froze, slack-jawed and stunned beneath him.

  Coen turned toward Dr. Farraday. “That would have knocked her out, but like I said, I don’t want to fight her.” He looked down at Thea, still panting, her mouth caught in a shape of surprise. It’s nothing personal, he told her, but I also want that call.

  After hitting eject, Nova watched the space station shrink through the pod’s lone window until it was no bigger than a silver grain of rice among the stars. The pod jostled violently as it entered atmo, and she clenched the straps of her harness, head braced against the seat and eyes squeezed shut. She wanted a yoke in her hands. She wanted to fly herself to a landing pad, not fall aimlessly.

  Something expelled from the pod’s rear. A parachute, perhaps.

  The computer announced: Impact in three, two, one . . .

  Nova lurched against the harness.

  Water landing. Moderate damage to hull. Evacuate immediately.

  She heard the waves next, and the floatation devices expanding from the side of the pod. Nova released the latches on her harness. Something wet lapped at her feet. Water. The pod was flooding.

  Pulling her arms from the straps, Nova scrambled onto the chair’s headrest and crouched beneath the curved shape of the pod as she grappled with the overhead hatch. The locks slid free, releasing with a hiss of decompression. She stood, using her back to open the hatch as she straightened her legs.