by Mary Weber
The strange fog was getting closer by the second, slipping down past the trees, through the fence, and over the first barrack, then the second, the third—Is this why the guards hurried inside? By the time the yellow cloud hit the fourth row of barracks, she was out of breath and her legs were aching. She reached the side of the wide, four-story main hangar and went for a rounded service door, only to see three blue lights on her handscreen indicating Delonese were on the other side.
She scrambled for another door on a smaller hangar, arriving just as the creamy sheets of mist were licking her heels. Whether it was poison or not, that chemical smell reminded her of things that made her stomach cringe with the terrors she’d seen it cause. She waved her handheld over the door’s scanner and watched in relief as it slid up and open. Some of her tech still worked.
The door zipped shut as the fog crashed against the side of the building. She crouched, breathing and blinking in the bright lights. It took a moment to feel the prick of air on her left heel. When she looked down she found the bootie material still intact, but her skin felt as though it had been eaten away.
Ignoring it, Sofi zeroed in on the space that smelled of metal and sanitizer and was mostly taken up by a giant ship that looked clean on the outside, but something told her the inside was far more well used. The room looked vaguely familiar too.
The cargo hold she and Shilo had sat in for two days. Seven years ago.
She swallowed and refused to let the memory surface—the memory of that trip and those tears. And turned to move into a tiny, thin hall of more white walls and ceilings.
She checked the map. She’d been right—the surface was going to be far easier to navigate than the space station below. Now she just needed to find a guestroom to use. Then start at square one to reach Vic and Ranger, her friend and one of Earth’s top techies. Both had helped her hack this station once. They could do it again.
After slipping to the far side of the room, she exited via an open door and entered a hall that was the same as those she’d seen earlier. Metallic walls and gray flooring beneath her feet. She pressed against the side and shuffled along it until she reached the first corner where she stopped and listened.
“Sofi, the door on your right,” her earcom blared. “Can you see it?”
She frowned and slowed as her handheld lit up with red bubbles.
The kids were on the other side of that wall. But where were the Delonese?
There wasn’t a blue light in sight.
Before she could decide whether to enter or keep going, the sensor on the door picked up her presence and abruptly opened to reveal a small hangar. It indeed contained the shuttle of Claudius, Danya, and the kids.
No guards in sight.
With caution she slipped in and kept one eye on her handscreen as she inched forward. No blue dots.
The ship sat in the white space with no movement and no metal clicking or parts opening.
She paused.
A door swished and the shuttle let out a rush of steam, and Sofi about dropped her handscreen as she jumped.
Ambassador Claudius’s blond hair, magically still gelled into a peak, popped out and his nice eyes peered around. Sofi blinked. Claudius whispered, “Hello?”
Sofi eyed the perpetually aloof countenance that made the twenty-four-year-old, Euro-born, three-year ambassador one of Earth’s preferred when dealing with Delon—due to the ease at which he set everyone. As well as his taste in clothing.
Sofi lowered her suit’s ghosting function enough to make her body visible.
“Oh good—you’re not murdered. I take it Miguel’s with you?” Claudius peered around while straightening his shirt and dusting his cuffs. Then quirked a smile at her. “So, you two biddies going to chat all day, or are we going to figure out how to get off this bloody planet?”
A soft rustle caught Sofi’s ear at the same time something behind her caught Claudius’s eye. His gaze widened as someone grabbed her and the lights went out.
9
MIGUEL
Lead ambassador ethos looked up from the enormous monitor he was in front of just as the guards ushered Miguel into the small room draped in shadows. The dim was so thick, the telescreen made an actual halo surrounding Ethos as he paced in front of an online audience.
The door slid shut with a swish, and the guards resumed their silent positions beside Miguel. “Looks like we caught him in the middle of a call with his madre,” he murmured.
Apparently neither found it funny.
Lord Ethos’s long silver robe rustled with each step as he paced in the plain gray room. “CEOs Hart and Inola, VP Gaines, and Earth scientists, it’s a surprise to see such confident faces. It makes me almost believe the fallout from your Earth drama is being adequately handled.”
“We can assure you that it is, Lord Ethos,” someone said. Miguel frowned. It sounded like CEO Hart.
“Oh, I highly doubt it’s being handled as well as we’d like.” Ethos brandished an arm, which was the most expressive aspect of him, seeing as his tan, thin, perfectly smooth face stayed perfectly in place. “Considering I have multiple of your Earth politicians on my planet who are behaving rather badly, as you humans call it.”
“Ambassador Lord Ethos,” Miguel heard Gaines say. “I’ve seen to the cleanup myself—”
“Yes, the bombing. Although, pardon me, Ms. Gaines, but from my perspective, that explosion only seems to have raised more questions.”
“Questions we have put at the feet of Corp 24 and Inola’s daughter. Again, we can reassure you it is contained.”
“Which brings me to Madam Inola.” Ethos stopped to face the screen. It gave his large eyes and skin an eerie green glow. “Allow me to extend my condolences. What a shock and tragedy for you. One child dead. The other a mass murderer who has currently taken refuge on my planet.”
“Perhaps we should cut the courtesies, Ambassador. You and I both know she’s innocent.”
Miguel’s brow went up. He was used to CEO Inola sounding angry, but this—this was odd. He edged closer—enough to catch a section of the screen with her face on it. She looked calm as ever, except for the eyes. The glint there . . .
She was afraid. Interesante.
A tele to the right of the one holding their faces caught his gaze. It appeared to be measuring Delonese stats against Earth’s. ¿Qué diablos? He squinted and studied the calculations and research diagrams that made little sense to him other than something about them looked odd. He shifted uncomfortably as CEO Inola demanded, “Where are my children, Lord Ethos?”
The lead Delonese’s tone dripped with graciousness. Miguel could practically feel it oozing off his short tongue. “If it’s the unfairness of the accusation to your child, then I’ll admit that’s none of my concern. But if you’re referring to our business side of things—well then, yes, let’s discuss that. It has come to my attention in recent weeks that there appears to be an unusual matter regarding your children, CEO Inola. One we now suspect you’ve known about for quite some time.”
Miguel had inched close enough to the second telescreen that he could also see the expressions on all the faces spanning the monitor. Inola’s looked frozen in time.
“It appears . . .” Lord Ethos’s unblinking eyes narrowed. “That your children house a very unique brain pattern that’s developed over the course of the past seven years—following the one and only time when they were in our care on this planet.” He paused and waited. Miguel could practically see the alien’s gaze boring into Inola, sucking up every reaction. She gave none as far as he could tell.
“So let me make things very clear. With your daughter’s arrival here, we now have in our possession what we believe to be the key we’ve been looking for. And we will be accessing that brain pattern to apply it immediately.”
Miguel froze. An image pressed into his mind of Sofi’s fingers connecting with the vat down below holding the lifeless body.
It’d reacted to her. It’d flinched.
His blood flared as Inola’s face turned red on the monitor. “You have no right to do such a thing.” Her voice was dangerous now. “We see this as a huge breach in trust, Lord Ethos. Add to that recent reports that you’ve broken our agreement over the past two years by taking more children than discussed and failing to return them.”
“And we will continue to do so. Considering it’s taken you this long to notice, one can fairly surmise we have greater need for them than your people do.” He lifted his hand to stay her interruption. “Plus”—he actually cracked a smile—“I very much doubt you or your politicians will like the alternative.”
“Are you threatening us?”
“We will do what we need in order to restart our race. As nearly every individual on Earth has the natural ability to do at any time. It will be a long process to birth a new generation, so I can only ask you to continue to bear with us as you have already committed.”
Miguel peered again at the stat pictures on that second screen. If he didn’t know better, he’d say it looked like ones the UWC put together whenever assessing repopulating a new territory as they continued to reclaim Earth’s wilder territories.
Except these diagrams looked remarkably like Earth.
He slowed. What if they were Earth? If Delon was a planet, it made sense they’d be satisfied living on it. But the new knowledge that it was a space station, inside where the near entirety of their population resided . . .
That changed everything.
Why else had they come to Earth? And where would they go afterward?
A flicker of disgust ignited. Carving up a ten-year-old memory of coming home and finding his family dead after he’d been unable to save them.
He firmed his jaw. And without further thought, took a quick step forward, leaned in, and blurted out, “Madam Inola, he’s lying. There are—”
The guards were on him, yanking him back away from the screen and sliding their cold, thin fingers over his mouth.
“Lord Ethos, Inola, please.” CEO Hart was interrupting on-screen. “Now, let’s just all calm down. I’m sure none of us intended it to go this far. No one here wants to break trust or talk of threats. We’re all reasonable sorts, and I think we can understand that some, er, allowances must be made for us to enjoy the Delonese continued good relations with Earth. I think we can all agree that’s what’s best. Why don’t we put this all behind us and just forget—”
“He has my children, Hart. He’s taking Earth’s children and using them far beyond taking simple cells—”
“Madam Inola is correct,” Ethos said smoothly. “Her children are ours, and we will use them and any others as we see necessary. And yes, this is a threat, if you’d prefer to call it such. We will proceed as we see best with your support, or we will proceed in spite of you. But hear this. If your people find out, they will come after you first. Then us. And we are quite capable of defending ourselves—even as we have striven for peace. Thus, my recommendation is that we ‘stay the course,’ as you humans say. If you do not continue to comply, we will be forced to move against you and, eventually, Earth. Therefore, do not interfere and live. Or resist and lose your freedom. Either way, you may consider yourselves at our mercy.”
Ethos clicked the screen off, then turned. And put his unusually long fingers together in a triangle to rest beneath his wide chin. “Ambassador Miguel, now that we’ve recovered you, what shall we do with you?”
10
INOLA
“Either way, you may consider yourselves at our mercy.”
Inola couldn’t get Ethos’s face or words out of her head. Those cold, unblinking eyes that dared to threaten her and everything they’d accomplished together—after the agreement they’d had, the agreement she’d had the foresight to set in place.
And the glimpse she caught of Ambassador Miguel in the background—the brief interruption and expression she swore was trying to tell her something before he was yanked off camera.
She tightened her palms into fists and stood tall on the dais in the middle of the round, thirteen story Fantasy Fighting Games coliseum already packed full of spectators. Lord Ethos’s decision went beyond providing for his people. It was dishonorable. More than that—it was impossible.
CEO Hart’s and VP Gaines’s blatant disregard had been one thing, expected even. But she’d assumed Ethos would be a voice of at least some reason. Instead, the leader of a race supposedly centuries ahead in the qualities she’d admired—those of wisdom, unity, and the value of community—had just wielded positional abuse without even flinching.
The human race had just become servants of amoral masters. And she’d helped it happen.
“Figure it out, Sofi,” Inola whispered.
“Madam Inola, they’re about to begin,” Jerrad said in her earcom.
She blinked. Yes. Right. Focus.
Her attention moved back to the crowds just as they broke into a wave, rippling their bodies up and down around the entirety of the ringed amphitheater situated as the energetic heartbeat of Manhattan. Massive. Like an open-air temple to olden-day gods. The audience voices frothed along the thirteen circular stories that rose up like rungs on a ladder toward the heavens, blanketed with golden cabanas, floating eateries, and—from the higher-up cheap seats—epic music pouring through the enormous overhead telescreens.
Her throat went sour at the looks on some of their faces . . .
If the glorified white marble event center sat like a tribute to the great Roman coliseums and their divinities, then, for whatever reason, today the throngs felt like an homage to Rome’s bloodlust.
The place was thirsty. As if Friday’s bombing had incited excitement instead of fear. A week ago the scene would’ve made her proud. Now it simply felt frail and frivolous after the vid conference with Ethos. Earth was walking a delicate tightrope, and only a few of them had a clue.
The guests screamed. The music soared. And giant red banners spun in long sheets amid the humid breeze, trailing, like blood spilling, past the rows of cabanas, floating eateries, and smoothie cafés down toward the focal point—the arena.
“Corp leaders and highly respected Delonese friends!” The announcer’s voice broke through the noise. “As well as friends of friends, friends of mine, and friends with benefits!”
On cue, the audience laughed at the introduction that had become the standard for every round since day one. The announcer’s small, wiry build and now red permed hair somehow matched his sport shorts and loose tank top, and he buzzed back and forth on a platform hovering halfway up and midair among the encircling chaos. He looked like the version of himself she’d seen printed on the athlete playing cards the kids still collected.
“Please settle in for a speciaaalll game—in which seven players and their teams from Corps 1, 2, 10, 13, 19, 25, and 27 will battle in one explosive episode!” He flashed his charmingly crooked smile across the telescreens and let the excitement build. Then uttered a fake gasp and covered his mouth with a hand that at one time held a personal medal in every extreme skate and snow sport. “Oh—hold on. Did I just use the word explosive?”
The crowd hooted as the air sizzled with instant tension.
“So offensive of me. But you know what I say? I say it’s offensive that someone set off an explosion here and tried to depress our spiiiiirits! Can I get a witness?”
The laughter instantly transformed into thunderous approva
l. Inola shook her head and tapped her nails on the railing of the small, square dais she’d bribed private use of for the occasion. Nice way of outing the elephant, Favio. She straightened her spine and lifted her head high. And waited.
“And as proof that our spirits will not be kept down—we have our very own FanFight constituent, mother to a victim of the explosion as well as to one of the possible perpetrators, cancer-curing CEO of Corp 30, Madam Inola! To show the world and its terrorists that we have not been depressed by the attack. Rather, we have been strengthened by our unwavering humanity!”
Inola released her brazen smile as he pointed to her standing on the platform beside the UWC CEOs-only cabana. And listened as the crowd roared at a deafening volume. After a moment, she waved, clear-eyed and with that continued smile that said she had nothing to hide other than a mother’s grief. Let the crowd feed on that.
They ate it up, rising to their feet to cheer the woman who’d come despite the fact that, as far as they knew, she’d permanently lost both her children through no fault of her own, other than perhaps bad parenting.
But who could judge her? Who hadn’t been a bad parent? She could almost sense them asking themselves and simultaneously justifying her as she played her part with the confidence of a woman who knew what the people loved and needed. A broken woman who could still stand here in support of others. A mother. A humanitarian who’d gone on to cure cancer after the loss of her first child thirteen years ago. And would go on to help them after this loss of her son and betrayal of her daughter.
She leaned forward farther to wave her gratitude to the announcer and extend love to the tens of thousands of faces circling the playing field. Then stepped back into the shadows of the cabana and allowed the rabid cheering to settle and fade.
Inola’s earcom clicked. “I stand corrected,” Jerrad said. “Nicely played.”
“Thank you, Jerrad. Hopefully that solidifies me even stronger in their minds and buys another level of trust and protection. Please make sure to send Favio the athletic collection of old Olympic medals I committed.”