by Erin Bowman
“This group behind me is equipped with the same fighting skills you saw in that video,” Burke went on. “They are all hosts, just like that boy with the orange backpack.” He paused dramatically. “This can go smoothly, in that the Union recognizes the Trios as an independent system and we renegotiate all trade agreements to the Radicals’ approval right here and now. Or you will be dealing with this new breed of Radical soldier. The choice is yours.” Burke glanced over the room, speaking to the Cradle as much as he was to any Union loyalist.
“Is there a cure?” a woman said, standing in the middle of the stands.
“There is a cure in the works, but only my people know of it,” Burke said.
Amber had heard nothing of a cure during her time on Kanna7. She’d even stressed how dangerous it was to play with the contagion without being able to rein it in, but the scientists from Hevetz Industries had seemed more interested in re-creating hosts than curing infection.
“So you would risk all our lives, including your own, and that of every civilian in the Union for your own agenda?”
Burke turned to the host directly behind him—a pale-skinned boy of roughly fifteen—and snapped his fingers. The boy reacted robotically, pulling a weapon from behind his back and firing. His aim was impeccable, and it took only one shot. The woman fell to the ground, and tension in the room came to a blistering edge. The pulses heightened, beating angrily in Amber’s ear.
Come on, Coen, Thea. Hurry up.
But of course they couldn’t hear her. She wished for a bullet-shooting weapon of her own, but she had only the stun gun and shock rod from Docking, which would do no serious damage. Worse still, she felt suddenly heavy and clumsy. Exhausted, even. The fight in Docking had caught up to her, the severity of the situation in the hall chilling her to the bone. There was nothing she could do for these ambassadors. Amber searched the crowd, praying a member of the hall might find the nerve to fire back at Burke, but they sat trembling, their fear so rancid Amber could taste it in the back of her mouth. They’d probably been forced to check all their weapons before entering the meeting hall. It was Burke who had muscled his way in.
When everyone else abided by the rules, it didn’t take much to get the upper hand.
“Does anyone else want to challenge me?” Burke roared, gaze sweeping over the stands. It settled on Amber for the briefest instant, recognition gleaming in his eyes. He opened his mouth to give an order to the hosts—and the meeting hall’s main doors burst open.
Finally, Amber thought.
But when she turned, it wasn’t Thea or Coen bursting into the hall. It was an infected medic wearing a uniform that matched the ones Amber was used to seeing on Paramount. The man dove at the nearest official, dragging him from his seat as dozens of infected poured in behind him.
Thea descended the ladder to the engine room’s first level, Coen following her lead. She hated that she’d hid. That she’d been useless. That this was all her fault.
It’s Burke’s fault, Coen said. That’s what you told me once in the thick of our testing. Remember? That we couldn’t get mad at each other or even ourselves. This is on him. On the Radicals.
Thea understood the concept perfectly, but it didn’t remove the guilt she felt for what had just unfolded.
She pushed off the ladder, skipping the last few steps in favor of jumping. Her feet hit the floor, and after hearing Coen land behind her, she jogged toward an alcove labeled Auxiliary Power. The logic unit was the size of a compact rover, rectangular in shape, with a series of cables running from the rear and plugging into Paramount’s supplementary drives. The face of the unit blipped with lights.
Thea had never expected to stand before the unit without Dr. Farraday. It had always been a cautious alliance she’d formed with the doctor, but it was Amber who’d made Thea’s trust in Farraday solidify. He’d been willing to risk everything for her. Thea’s own mother working for Sol all those years suddenly made a little more sense.
She pulled up before the logic unit. On both ends, set behind a panel of glass, were two dials and a single lever.
We have to do it at exactly the same time, she said, sliding one of the glass panels open. One dial, then the next, and finally the lever.
He nodded at her from across the unit. First dial in three, two . . .
As he said one, Thea turned the first dial, clicking it to off.
Second dial in three, two, one.
Another dial turned together.
Thea grabbed the lever and glanced across the logic unit at Coen. Not that long ago they’d been standing on Celestial Envoy, a similar lever beneath Thea’s palm. He’d put his hand over hers, helping her to initiate the self-destruct sequence. She needed his help again now. Not because this was a difficult choice. This was perhaps one of the rare instances she’d faced over the last few months that was easy. But she was not surprised that she still needed him to make it, that they could only do it together. They were two halves of a whole. She could barely remember her life before he was in her head, before he knew her heart better than she knew it herself.
Ready? she asked.
Ready, he said.
They didn’t need to count. They simply looked at each other and knew. When Thea was ready to push the lever up, Coen pushed as well.
They clicked in perfect unison, and the lights on the unit’s front fell off in a cascading wave.
“Logic unit is off!” Thea said, joining the channel Coen was using to communicate with Nova.
“Good to hear you, Thea,” came the pilot’s reply. “I need to jump back to Xenia in about thirty seconds. Any word from Amber?”
“Not yet,” Coen answered. “But we’ll need your crew to secure the station regardless.”
Confusion laced the pilot’s voice when she replied. “You guys just freed the hosts’ minds. Xenia security can probably de-escalate everything from here, right?”
“Yeah, about that . . . ,” Thea began. She couldn’t bring herself to state the truth.
“We couldn’t contain things to the Paramount,” Coen explained. “The infected have most likely spread into the station.”
“What?!”
“You have to tell Sol,” he went on. “Maybe he can radio Xenia’s commanding officers. They could lower security clearance on the force fields, and you guys can help us evacuate the civilians and crew.”
“There’s no other way to contain it?”
Thea said, “Beyond separating the already infected from the uninfected, and getting those healthy people off Xenia, no.” Admitting it made her stomach twist with guilt. “We’ll find Amber in the meantime. Do what we can to keep the uninfected safe.”
“And I’ll do what I can with Sol,” Nova said. There was a subtle beeping in the background. “That’s my countdown. Time to jump.”
The intercom fell silent, and Thea again took Coen’s hand.
The hall descended into chaos. Amber watched in horror as the meeting chambers became a blur of flesh, a wave of screams. There had to be at least three dozen infected Paramount members present and more kept forcing their way through the doors. They attacked like rabid animals, and without weapons, the summit officials didn’t stand a chance.
Amber knew she should do something—anything—but she felt glued to the spot, her limbs like rubber, her body weighted down. She coughed into her elbow, praying she wouldn’t be sick from the carnage.
Desperate, she looked to the only other exit in the hall: the one at the stage’s rear, where Burke and the other top officials were now fleeing for their lives. The hosts still stood in a line on the stage, but their postures had suddenly relaxed. They blinked, coming out of a daze, and glanced to one another frantically. The buzz of static they’d previously given off was gone, replaced with panicked thoughts. Where the hell are we?—What are those things?—Why can I hear everyone’s thoughts?
Amber reached out to them, trying to ignore the way her limbs seemed to tremble. Hello? Back here, near the rear of t
he hall. She raised a hand. Dozens of eyes slid to her. The Radicals injected you with a contagion you can host, which means the infected won’t be interested in you. They’re looking for new hosts. You have to help me move the uninfected to a secure area.
The responses came at her in a defensive wave. How did you get here?—Where the hell were you when we were infected?—Why didn’t you help then?
But then one that was promising: Move them where? The exit is blocked by the infected, and I swear I can hear more of them coming from farther down the hall.
There’s an exit to your rear, Amber said. Burke left that way with some of the other officials. If you get up here and help me fight, we can probably save about half these people.
Don’t listen to her.—Yeah, she didn’t help us earlier. We can’t trust her—I’m leaving now.
If you don’t help me, Galactic Disease Control will destroy this entire station. But if we separate the healthy from the sick, we can evacuate. Being subjected to quarantine procedures once the GDC arrives sounds a lot better than being blown to stardust, doesn’t it?
Murmurs of consideration rippled through the hosts while others argued to run.
Burke barricaded the door! came a shout from the stage exit.
Amber wasn’t sure if this host was intent on helping move summit attendees through it or simply saving their own hide, but in the moment she didn’t care. Get it open! she ordered. The rest of you, come help me. I’m begging you.
No need to beg, a familiar voice said. Amber spun toward the main doors, her heart practically leaping. Coen was forcing his way into the hall. He drove something into the side of an infected Paramount crew member, then pulled it free. A standard butcher’s knife, likely swiped from Paramount’s kitchen. Amber looked away, feeling sick. She coughed again, practically gagging. When she glanced back up, Thea was at Coen’s side, lashing out with a shock rod. It did little to slow the infected, but it did give Coen an opening to attack with the blade.
About time you guys got here! Amber called.
We would have been faster, Thea said, if you’d been able to tell us how bad things were.
But someone decided they absolutely had to ditch their suit. We had to follow blood trails. Coen shot her a smile, then struck down another infected crew member.
How were they joking at a time like this?
Amber lurched to action, scrambling clumsily over seats and making her way down the rows. “This way!” she shouted to the diplomats. “There’s an exit in the front.”
Most of the panicked crowd was already headed in that direction, but they were fighting even among themselves, shoving each other, climbing over the weaker, slower officials. Anything to stay as far away from the infected as possible.
“Do it in an orderly fashion!” Amber shouted.
“Go on!” said a dark-skinned boy to the crowd. One of the hosts. He had four other teens with him. “Listen to her. We’ll help hold the infected back.”
Thank you, Amber said breathlessly.
He gave a curt nod and raced up the stairs, the other teen hosts trailing after him. Back on the stage, the second set of exit doors now hung open. The hosts who had not come to the crowd’s aid had forced their way through Burke’s barricade and fled.
That meant Amber, Coen, Thea, and five hosts against several dozen infected.
She didn’t know if it was enough, especially not with how winded she felt. But it would have to be. She prayed no one else was tiring as quickly as she was.
Nova blinked back to existence with Xenia in the distance, just as Paradox’s and Casey’s ships glided into position against the stars.
She didn’t think she’d ever get used to the sensation of jumping. How for a moment you were everything and nothing. She also didn’t think her heart could beat any faster, because if what Thea and Coen had said was true, things had just escalated from dangerous and risky to goddamn disaster.
Accelerating hard, she flew toward Paradox’s battlecarrier. Pythons were dropping out of the ship and cruising to various positions around the station.
“This is Nova Singh requesting a private channel with Solomon Weet,” she said over the open comms.
A new channel number flashed on her dash a moment later and she switched to it, syncing up with Sol.
“You have to hail Xenia and get security measures lowered. We need to enter Docking and evacuate people.”
“Whoa, whoa,” Sol said. “We need to stay calm and hold firm until Eutherian forces arrive—forces we can confirm are loyal to the Union and will help rein Burke in.”
“The contagion is loose. Thea and Coen just confirmed it.”
There was a brief pause. Nova could almost see the anger rimming Weet’s eyes. “How would they know something like that?”
She spilled it all. How Thea had devised the plan to shut down the logic unit but needed Coen’s help. How Nova had jumped him directly into Xenia’s docking bay.
“Do you have any idea how dangerous that was?”
“I plotted everything perfectly,” she said, leaving out the bit about how she’d nearly crashed into a wall.
“I don’t care. The issue is you still jumped inside a contained location. We have no clue what the consequences will be. After today I never want to see you on my premises, let alone near them. This is the last Paradox-owned fighter you will ever fly!”
It was like being back at the Academy, hearing she was barred for life. No matter what she did, no matter the impossible feats she pulled off, it was never good enough.
“I made the jump nearly an hour ago,” she snarled, “and the only consequence is that the contagion is loose, and not at my doing. If you still want to save lives today, hail the damn station.”
Coen fought methodically, the bright walls of the meeting hall morphing into deep purple skies. Seats became craggy rocks. Each row in the hall a crevice or ravine.
He was back on Achlys, a feral instinct taking over him, only this time, he wasn’t alone.
Thea was in his head, letting him know where to turn and strike. For each blow of her shock rod, he’d follow it with a slash of his knife. The blade was nothing compared to the weapons he’d fashioned on Achlys. It had no reach, and while he pined for a longer handle, it still did the job. If anything, the fighting was easier because he had Thea on his side. Together, they were invincible.
It was the diplomats he needed to worry about. Despite how efficient he and Thea had become, they still weren’t fast enough. There were too many infected, and too many summit attendees were being marred and attacked as they tried to escape. Bloody noses and hemorrhaged eyes filled the hall. Everywhere Coen turned, he saw the people he was supposed to be saving buckling over with spasms.
We can’t keep this up much longer, Thea said. We need to get the healthy people out of here—now!
Coen slashed out with the blade, leaping over the nearest infected. Using the handrails of seats like stairs, he darted down to the stage, Thea on his heels.
Of course, as soon as they weren’t actively engaged in a fight, the infected horde sharpened its focus on the people escaping through the stage exit.
How many did you get through? Coen asked Amber.
Fifty, maybe?
It wasn’t enough. The hall could hold close to a thousand, and it had been nearly full with diplomats.
Coen leapt onto the stage and raced through the exit, finding himself in a corridor that ran parallel to the stage and presumably joined back up with the main hallway. He could make out the footsteps of fleeing summit attendees far ahead.
“Attention Xenia staff and station guests,” a surly voice said over the station’s intercom system. “This is the acting station commander. It has come to our attention that we’ve suffered a massive security breach. For your own health and safety, please make your way to Docking Bay Three in a calm and orderly fashion. Ships will be waiting to evacuate you. Again, that is Docking Bay Three. Make your way to Docking Bay Three in a calm and orderl
y fashion for immediate evacuation.”
Nova must have made contact with Sol, Coen said.
It was about the only thing that had gone right. Even turning off the logic unit hadn’t panned out the way they’d hoped. Nearly all the hosts had bolted once free, not helped to fight off the infected.
But if they were still loyal to Burke, Thea said, things might be even worse. She slipped through the door, giving Coen’s arm a quick squeeze. Her gaze trailed to a toppled pile of supply crates in the corridor. Is that what Burke used to barricade the door?
I think so, Amber said. Which means the infected will force their way through in seconds if we use them to barricade it again.
Don’t bother with it then, said a foreign voice. We’ll hold them off as long as possible. It was the dark-skinned host who’d been fighting alongside him earlier. From where Coen stood in the stage exit’s doorway, he could see the other boy halfway up the aisle, waving them off enthusiastically. Beyond him, his host friends were fighting back the growing crowd of infected. Get the healthy people to Docking!
Coen didn’t need to be told twice.
He tore down the corridor with Amber and Thea. It fed back to the level’s main hallway. Running hard, they caught up to the diplomats they’d just helped escape the meeting chambers. The spooked bunch was packed in front of the elevator, frantically hitting the call button.
“Stairwells!” Coen shouted to them, pointing to the doorway opposite the elevator. He shouldered through it, staggering onto a landing. The emergency stairwell looked nothing like the rest of Xenia Station. Plain cement replaced gleaming tile floors. Industrial piping ran along the walls and bare metal handrails snaked downward. A strip of reflective tape marked each step.
Coen led the way with Thea while Amber brought up the rear, the survivors packed between them like a herd of sheep. They’d gone only four flights when the stairwell flashed with red warning lights. This time, it wasn’t the station commander’s voice that projected over the intercoms but an automated message.
Warning: Radiation detected inside shields. Air locks and seals malfunctioning. Station failure imminent.