Salvation Day

by Kali Wallace

  “Tell me what you are going to do, Zahra,” Adam said.

  There was only one answer I could give. “We’ll make the ship safe. We’ll be ready by the time Homestead gets here.”

  “Everybody understands,” Adam said. His voice softened fractionally, and I felt sickly and cold. “Everybody is ready for hard work. But we cannot begin that work if you fail.”

  “I won’t. We won’t.”

  It was as though he didn’t hear me. “The consequences will be terrible if you fail. For all of us. So terrible. We must carry this burden. We cannot go back.”

  My throat was tight and aching. “I know. Are the—”

  Are the twins okay? The question was there, on the tip of my tongue, but I dared not ask. It was better to keep Anwar and Nadra far from Adam’s mind when he was angry with me. Some days he praised me for caring for them so deeply; other times he raged because it was forbidden to love anybody, even children, more than we loved him.

  “Is the family well?” I asked.

  “We have encountered no complications,” Adam said. “There is the matter of the vessel Malachi believes he saw. We must keep them at bay.”

  “I know,” I said. “I have four hostages.”

  “The Bhattacharya boy is among them?”

  “Yes. He is. We can use him—”

  “We will use him to warn SPEC to keep their distance.”

  I pressed my lips together. It was easier to let Adam claim ideas for his own when he was suggesting what I had planned to do anyway.

  He went on, “I will assure Councilor Bhattacharya that if they do not stay away, we shall consider her nephew’s life forfeit. That will keep them occupied for a while.”

  There was a quiet sound over the radio, a gasp of fear. From the corner of my eye I saw Henke raise his weapon. I had forgotten the hostages were listening. I should never have let them listen. They had been so quiet I had fallen into the rhythm of a private conversation. It was the mistake of an amateur, a child. I felt sick with shame.

  “I can’t wait for you to join us,” I said. I tried to sound eager, but in truth I wanted Adam to take command so the burden of every decision was no longer on my shoulders. He wore the mantle of leadership so easily, and I so poorly.

  “Do your duty, Zahra,” he said. “You cannot fail me now.”

  “I won’t.”

  “Our fate is in your hands,” he said.

  I strained to hear reassurance in his voice, to hear any hint of warmth, to let myself be bolstered by Adam’s belief in me. But his tone was cold. There was no comfort to be had, only warning.

  * * *

  • • •

  Orvar said, “He’s left the bridge. He’s spending a lot of time soothing the family.”

  I blinked rapidly and struggled to control my breathing. “Is there something wrong?” I asked.

  “Only cramped quarters, stale food, and bad tempers.” There was an unconvincing lightness in Orvar’s words. “We’ve endured worse. Knowing that you’ve made it to House of Wisdom will lift everybody’s spirits. But it will help even more when we get word you’ve got the ship under your control.”

  “We’ll work as fast as we can,” Malachi said. “Keep an eye on what Orbital Control is doing, okay? Until we get the system fully functional, I’m not comfortable with sending or receiving any open transmissions.”

  “Understood,” Orvar said. “Best of luck.”

  Malachi tapped the comm screen to break contact, then looked up at me. “I didn’t want to worry them, but I honestly have no idea how long it will take me to get the skeleton key into the computer system, and even less of an idea how long it will take to clear even one level of the virus.”

  I touched his shoulder. That was not what I wanted to hear, but Malachi needed to focus. “Do what you can. Homestead is safe for now.”

  “Okay. Right. I can start with lifting the medical quarantine, so we can get around the ship faster.”

  “Do that.” I nodded quickly. I should have thought of that. I would have thought of that, if I did not have Adam’s words still ringing in my ears. The survival of the family rested on my shoulders. I had accepted that burden when I accepted this mission. But my body ached, and with every passing minute I could feel the SPEC shadow ship drawing closer. Did they have missiles? Was there more than one ship? Did they care who they harmed in their desire to stop us? Adam believed Councilor Bhattacharya could stay their hand to save her nephew, but I was not so sure.

  I moved away to let Malachi work. Before we left Earth, I had imagined our first hours aboard House of Wisdom would be filled with ceaseless toil and vital industry, all the welcome tasks of waking a ten-years-abandoned ship from its long quiescence. The work was part of the dream. We were not afraid of the labor before us. We never had been. So many people in the Councils worked their entire lives for the benefit of people they would never know, places they would never see. Adam often reminded us that life in a desert homestead was harder, yes, but it was more honest. When we tilled the land, we knew who would eat the food that grew from it. When we dug a foundation, we knew who would live in the house built over it. It was supposed to be the same aboard House of Wisdom. We were ready to work, for ourselves and for our families, if only we could.

  I had never once imagined we would not even be able to open the doors on our own, or turn on the lights, or raise the temperature above freezing.

  The hostages were pressed against the outer wall of the control room, exactly where Henke had directed them to stand. I looked them over one by one and wished I knew how dangerous they could be. Both women met my eyes with angry glares before looking away. Nassar was watching Malachi work. Bhattacharya was looking right at me.

  “Who was that man?” he asked mildly, as though we hadn’t been discussing his death.

  “Shut up,” Henke said. “You don’t need to—”

  Panya interrupted him. “His name is Adam Light. He is our leader. He is the one who protected us when your masters tormented us in the desert. He is the one who has lifted us from the oppression of the earthbound liars and deceivers you serve.”

  “What the fuck does that even mean?” one of the women said. The short one with the colorful hair, the one who had been crying before.

  And the other woman, the fat one, muttered, “Who we serve?”

  “Where do you come from?” the first woman asked. “From the wasteland?”

  “The wasteland?” Panya said, whirling to face her. She moved too fast and had to catch herself with one hand on a console. “Is that what you think of us? We’re nothing more than waste, because we do not subject ourselves to a life under the heel of your Councils?”

  “No, but you are from the North American desert, aren’t you?” the woman said. “You’ve got the same accent as Baqir.”

  “The Inyo desert,” Nassar said. “Right? The northern part?”

  “You don’t know anything about us,” Panya said.

  There was anger in her voice, but also sadness, a sadness so familiar it tugged at my heart. Panya had lived her entire life in the desert, moving from one encampment to another, one community to the next, never finding a home until she met Adam. She had worked her fingers bloody to build the homestead, and she had wept when it became clear we could not stay. She knew better than most what it was to dream so hard for a better life that the dream became an enduring ache in the center of your chest.

  “Then tell us,” Nassar said. “Who are you? What do you want?”

  “Don’t pretend you care for us, simply because you have dust in your veins,” Panya said. On her pretty face a sneer was little more than a crease, like a single cloud marring a summer day. “You left the desert. You surrendered your freedom to become one of them, even though they will never see you as more than a desert rat. You don’t understand anything. We know we’re no more than wa
ste to you and all the other spoiled Councils brats. But that man—our Adam of Light—he is greater than all of your leaders, greater than all of your citizens. He is bolder and braver than any person you have ever known. Do not think for one second we will let you get in his way.”

  There was pride in her voice, ringing as clear as a bell, but I did not like the way she smiled. We did not want to push the hostages into a place beyond fear. We needed them to be obedient, not reckless.

  “We’re not trying to get in your way,” Bhattacharya said. “We’ll do what you say. Do you need me to record a message for my aunt? Do you want me to tell her to make SPEC stay away? I’ll do it. Just tell me what to do.”

  There was something unnerving about the way he stared at me as he spoke. I had the foolish urge to snap at him, tell him to avert his eyes. I didn’t know if it would help or hurt to have Councilor Bhattacharya receive a message from her nephew. I could not risk undermining whatever Adam would say in his own contact with SPEC and the Councils.

  “Not yet,” I said. “And until we have use for you, you are to stay quiet.”

  “Okay. We can do that.” But Bhattacharya was still looking at me as though he were trying to see what lay beneath my skin.

  I turned away from him to speak to Dag. “We need to secure—”

  “Ow.” One of the women spoke suddenly, but I did not know which one it was until she moved one gloved hand to touch her opposite arm. It was the short woman, the one who had called the desert a wasteland. She pressed her fingers into her forearm.

  “Are you hurt?” the other woman asked.

  “No. It just feels weird.”

  “Weird how?”

  “It’s feels like . . .” The first woman shook her head. “I don’t know. Just weird.”

  “Did you hurt yourself?” Nassar said. “When you tore your suit?”

  “It sealed over.” The woman plucked at the tight material of the space suit. “It was only a tiny puncture. But I think there’s something in here.”

  The other woman reached for her hand. “So take your glove off—”

  “Get away from her.” Bhattacharya’s voice was stern and sharp, so unlike the soft tone he had been using before.

  “But she’s hurt—Jas, what the fuck?”

  Bhattacharya grabbed his friend by the arm and pulled him away from the women, shoving him backward toward the far end of the room. The friend flailed and grasped, stopping his momentum only when he caught the back of a chair. Bhattacharya took hold of the other woman next and pushed her away as well.

  Henke swung his weapon back and forth, aiming for one, then the other. “For fuck’s sake, I told you to stay still!”

  The woman slapped at Bhattacharya’s hands, but she only managed to spin herself around so that she was grasping for something to hold. “Stop that! What are you doing? I’m just trying to help Ariana.”

  “Stay away from her,” Bhattacharya said.

  “I really think there’s something in my suit,” the short woman—Ariana—said. She began to slap and tug at her own arm, twisting around and around as she grew more frantic. The suit was pressurized and taut; she couldn’t get a handle on the slick fabric. “There’s something in there! What the fuck? Help me get it out!”

  “Henke, Dag. Restrain her,” I said. They approached the woman with their weapons drawn. “Malachi, keep an eye on the others.”

  He hesitated, then rose from his chair, fumbling his gun from its holster.

  “Ari, calm down so we can help you,” the other woman said. She was trying to push away from Bhattacharya, but he held tight to her wrist. “Jas, let me go. We have to help her.”

  “We can’t,” Bhattacharya said. “She’s infected.”

  There was a short silence, no longer than the space between one heartbeat and the next.

  “What? How is that possible?” Malachi said, his voice rising sharply with alarm.

  “She tore her suit,” Bhattacharya said. “That’s how it got in.”

  “It was only a pinprick,” Panya said doubtfully.

  “He’s lying,” Henke declared. “He’s trying to bullshit us again. The virus is airborne.”

  “We don’t know for sure how it spreads,” Malachi said.

  “I swear, there’s something in my suit. I can feel it, okay? You have to help me!” Ariana was grasping at her arm again and again, turning in a circle. Then her eyes widened suddenly, and she fell silent with a quick, sharp intake of breath.

  “Ariana?” the other woman said. “What’s wrong?”

  Ariana’s answer was a ragged whisper. “It’s moving.”

  “She’s hallucinating,” Dag said. He pushed away from the machine console, one hand on the crew chairs to guide him, floating toward the girl. “Help me grab her.”

  Henke rolled his eyes, but he holstered his gun and moved toward Ariana.

  “Ari, there’s nothing there,” Nassar said. “It’s making you think there’s something there, but there isn’t. Don’t hurt her. Please, she’s sick. Don’t—”

  “Get it out!” Ariana shouted. With both hands she unsnapped the clamps on her helmet and broke the seal. She pulled it off and sent it spinning away from her, then grabbed at the neck of her suit, tugging frantically at the collar. There were tears on her cheeks and snot glistening at the end of her nose, and her hair was stringy with sweat. “Get it out! Get it out, it’s moving, it’s here, I can feel it! Get it out!”

  “Henke! Dag!” I snapped. “Stop fucking around!”

  Henke caught Ariana’s arm and yanked her toward him, trying to seize both of her wrists behind her back. But before he could, Ariana shrieked and began batting at his arm and shoulder and face with her free hand. Dag reached for her flailing arm, but she kicked out with both legs and struck him square in the chest. He caught himself on a chair and pushed himself back toward her and Henke. Together they got her under control, Henke holding both arms behind her, and Dag catching her feet. She arched her back and kicked a few more times, making tight, scared animal noises. She was breathing heavily and shivering as the cold sapped her strength. A fine sheen of frost formed on her sweat-damp hair.

  “You’re going to stop making a fuss now,” Henke said. “Okay?”

  Ariana dropped her chin to her chest. The muscles of her arms were tense, the tendons in her neck standing out. Her jaw clenched and unclenched. Her breath was quick and ragged. I could not see her face.

  “Okay,” she said. Her voice was flat, all the hysteria drained away. “Okay.”

  Dag let go of her feet, and a second later Henke released her wrists to grab her upper arm. “You’re going to do what we say, okay?”

  Ariana relaxed into his grip. “Okay,” she said.

  Then, moving so swiftly I could barely track her motion, she spun around and lunged into Henke.

  “Shit!” he shouted, bending away as she struck his helmet.

  Ariana ducked when he grabbed for her, down and to the left, dodging under one of his arms, the motion so smooth it was as though she had practiced it a thousand times.

  When she spun away from him, she had his gun. She had plucked it from his holster.

  She leveled it at him and said, “You’re going to stop making a fuss now.”

  And she fired.

  The bullet hit him square in the chest. It penetrated his suit and exploded with a wet, gruesome sound: the bones of his rib cage cracking outward, his lungs sucking in, a wheeze of shock. He flew backward and struck the glass wall of the computer core with a thump. He blinked rapidly behind his faceplate. A red flood spread from the gaping cavern of his chest.

  Firing the gun had sent Ariana backward, too, but she used the momentum to propel herself gracefully toward the door. She hit the control panel without pausing and grabbed the frame to pull herself into the corridor. She hit the panel on the outside
, and the door slid shut.

  It happened so fast. A matter of seconds.

  “She’s fucking playing us,” Dag said, and he went after her at once, without waiting for a response. Panya followed only a second later. They both had their weapons drawn for the chase. Malachi launched himself across the room to Henke, but already it was obvious there was nothing he could do.

  Their shouts blended together, an ear-stinging cacophony, and I could not move. Henke’s chest had been exploded from the inside. That’s what the guns were designed to do. Stop the target, but don’t pass through. Don’t endanger the hull of the ship. She had moved so quickly, so gracefully, after panic that had seemed so very real. Henke was dead.

  “Malachi,” I said, too softly.

  I turned slowly, looking over the room, casting my headlamp into every corner. My heart was thumping, my blood racing. A roar filled my mind. In the corridor, Panya and Dag were arguing about which way to go.

  “She’s been planning this,” Dag said. “It was a trick. She has an escape route.”

  They had lost the woman already. Their shadows moved in the low red light, bending through the door in a distorted dance.

  “She must be a SPEC infiltrator,” Panya said. There was uncertainty in her voice, but not as much as I expected, and it faded as she went on, convincing herself as she sought to convince Dag. “She must be. It was all an act. She isn’t who she claims to be. She sabotaged the shuttle.”

  I choked back a sudden laugh, although there was nothing funny about it. A trick. An infiltrator. It was a ridiculous idea. She was a postgraduate student. The names and backgrounds of all the Leung fellows were public knowledge. There was no way she could be SPEC—but I knew nothing about her, nothing about her background. If her fear had been an act, it was a convincing one. She was not the one I had expected to try to flee.

  My heart thumping rapidly, I looked around again.

  There were no side rooms. There were no floor or ceiling hatches. The door to the corridor was on one side. The door to the computer core was on the other—closed now.