“Am I hallucinating?” she asked.
“If you are, it’s spreading.” Tomas gave her a quick side hug and burst forward into the cargo bay, slapping a tablet to bring up the manifest. A list of equipment she didn’t recognize scrolled by.
“Sweet.” He looked over his shoulder at her. “Found the batteries.”
“They still good?”
“Only one way to find out.” He tugged himself up the side of the pallet, easy as a cat up a tree, and pulled back a tightly sealed tarp. After a moment’s rummaging, he popped his head over the side and gave her two thumbs-up. “They’re golden. Absolutely pristine. I can’t believe it.”
“Our lucky day,” she said, hurrying over to the next pallet. Food—canned stuff, not even a sniff of nutriblock anywhere in the mix. “Oh man, we’re gonna feast tonight. You getting all this, Bero?” She swept her vision over the cargo hold slowly so he could make out the wealth of pallets.
“Very encouraging,” Bero agreed. “Though I confess canned pears don’t have quite the same appeal to me.”
“But the batteries!” Tomas called.
“Yes, that will help. May I suggest you undertake shifting all these out to my arm now? We can sort them later. Time is tight.”
“Roger that,” Sanda said.
After thirty minutes fiddling with the cargo bay door lock, they figured out it couldn’t be opened unless at least one of two conditions were met.
One: The dock must be sealed to another ship, and Bero lacked the fittings.
Two: The ship must not be under spin.
All perfectly normal safety procedures, but under the circumstances she’d rather just jettison the lot and let Bero pick up the spillage. His arm was agile enough for crates this size. The ship, however, could take days to power down from its spin. Days they didn’t have.
“Ideas, comms man?”
Tomas tapped on his wristpad and brought up their map of the station. After a moment’s pause, he jabbed a finger at the third spoke over. “There’s a lot of maintenance panels here, I may be able to use some of the equipment I found to override the safety features. And anyway, we need to finish our sweep. Those crates are good for general supplies, but I’d still like to find an evac pod or two.”
“Agreed. Bero, do you think you can help him with the override?”
“I need to see the system before I can be sure.”
“Affirmative.”
The next few habs passed by in a flash: mess hall, medibay, water recycling. Each time their search for an evac pod came up empty, her stomach sank a little. But there was still the rest of the ship, still those pallets loaded with goods, and she knew full well that these Icarion wankers wouldn’t risk their hides out here without a life jacket.
The door to the maintenance room slid open, and Sanda stopped cold.
There was a real window there. A two-meter pane of plex, pointed straight toward the little smear of light that Ada had become. Her throat ached. Her hands clenched. The Icarions here had indulged in one hell of a luxury, just to get the occasional glimpse at their target.
“Sanda?” Tomas’s voice was soft.
“Your heart rate is elevated,” Bero said with an equal amount of concern.
“I’m fine,” she lied. “Just startled, that’s all.”
Tomas skimmed across the metal floor toward her. Sometime while she’d been staring at her dead homeworld, he’d already crossed the room and popped a panel. A device dangled in one hand, but he rested the other on her shoulder. Squeezed.
“I can’t understand what it’s like,” he murmured.
She thought of the tears she’d seen tangled in his lashes, and thought to contradict him, to call him out on his pain, but decided against it. He was trying to be kind. Trying to be a friend. And while he’d lost everything, just as she had, Ada Prime was not his home. It was not a beacon to him, calling out for grief, as it was to her.
She drifted forward, pressed one gloved hand against the window. They were ahead of schedule. She had a moment to mourn.
Tomas’s arm looped her shoulders from behind, held her gently at his side. He said nothing, but the soft press of his fingers against her communicated enough—he was rubbing the tension out, gently, even through the heavy resistance of the suit. Something within her eased back into that touch, and she didn’t resist it.
His hand slipped up the back of her neck and ripped the plug from her lifepack.
CHAPTER 34
PRIME STANDARD YEAR 3543
TWO DAYS A FUGITIVE
How long?” Biran asked the ship’s AI. He paced what was considered the “forward” viewing room. Anaia leaned against the wall alongside the window, arms crossed loosely over her chest, an amused smile on her face as she watched him wear a path through the floor. Nothing but a sea of black shot through with white pinpricks of stars could be seen through that window. Stars, and the faint curve of the moon Dralee. Its grey-green surface was too far away to see the details as it rose from the bottom of Biran’s current horizon.
“The Taso is entering the known debris field now.” The ship answered in the same helpful, friendly voice it always used.
“We won’t see anything,” Anaia said.
“I know, I know.” Biran squinted through the window, straining every muscle in his body, as he tried to see what was left of his sister’s battle. He couldn’t make out anything. Not even a spec. He’d known that would be true, but the disappointment grated at him. Some secret, boyhood desire had harbored a hope that he’d see a green light out there, winking in the dark, waving him in. Saying: Hello, I’ve been waiting.
“Speaker Greeve,” Lavaux said over the ship’s intercom. “Please strap in. In the viewing room, if you must, but this is an active DMZ. The border of which we are currently breaching. And we are here to look for a weapon. Evasive maneuvers may become necessary, and I’d hate to bruise that pretty face of yours. The cameras do love it so much.”
Biran clenched his jaw. “Permission to join on deck?”
“Granted.”
He spun around and shoved through the door, almost running chest-first into Vladsen. The dark-haired man put a hand on Biran’s shoulder to steady him and arched both bushy brows. Biran forced a smile, embarrassed, and brushed off the front of his shirt.
“Sorry, didn’t hear you coming.”
“He’s a mess,” Anaia quipped, drawing a scowl out of Biran.
“Good evening, Keeper Lionetti.” Vladsen nodded over Biran’s shoulder to Anaia, then turned his attention back to Biran. “You’re allowed to be excitable at the moment.” Vladsen smiled, slowly, and Biran blinked. He’d never been this close to Vladsen before. Never noticed how young the Keeper looked, despite being of the older generation of the Protectorate. A quiet man, Vladsen had never really stood out to Biran as anything more than a steady presence.
He recognized the feel of that hand on his shoulder—the light touch, the short and narrow fingers. It had been Vladsen that day, on the podium, when the sky filled with fire and the newscasters told him that the second he’d achieved his dream—become a Keeper—his sister had died. He’d never really thought about it, but the realization shook something within him. The Protectorate maybe weren’t out for themselves all the time, after all.
“Thank you,” he said, fidgeting with his sleeve, unsure what to say, but wanting to ask a barrage of questions that the quiet Vladsen would no doubt find rude.
Vladsen must have picked up on this, for he chuckled and patted Biran on the shoulder. “So young. I was only a few years older than you when I was elected to the Protectorate.” He winked, knowing he’d answered one of Biran’s silent questions. “Have there been any sightings yet of evac pods in the area?”
“No.” Biran’s spiral of questions was dashed away in an instant. “Though I’m on my way to the deck to keep an eye on what’s happening. The Taso has informed me that we are, officially, inside the rubble field. Not that you could tell from looking out the wi
ndow. And Icarion may have already recovered the pods. We don’t know.”
He had to keep telling himself that. Reminding himself that this mission was not about his sister. That they were here to find the weapon so they wouldn’t have to abandon their home, and the fact that Lavaux was looking in the rubble where his sister’s coffin may float was incidental. His heart didn’t believe it, though. That damned thing kept speeding up every time the ship’s AI spit out a status report.
“I will walk with you, then, if the window is truly useless. Tell me, do you believe in Lavaux’s weapon theory?”
Biran nearly missed a step. Anaia’s hand shot out to steady him. “I… haven’t thought about it too much. Icarion has something they’ve been threatening us with, so it seems likely, and they did bombard us. Whether that device is near Dralee or not, I can’t say. I suppose he has his sources. Lavaux doesn’t strike me as the type of man to act without certainty.”
“He doesn’t, does he? I’m not so sure myself.”
Biran frowned at him, but Vladsen just gave him a sly smile. “Forgive my asking, but if you’re not convinced that Lavaux is correct, then why did you come along on this mission? Your name wasn’t on the list of those to stay behind. You would have been transferred to safety the morning we left if you hadn’t boarded this ship.”
“Oh, that.” Vladsen flicked a hand, brushing away the implications of being stranded thousands of light-years from a nonhostile civilization with a little shake of the wrist. “Lavaux and I go way back.”
That, apparently, was explanation enough as far as Vladsen was concerned. “Are you also from Lavaux’s home system? Ordinal, I think it was?”
“Hm? No, I am from here, more or less, but we crossed paths early on—and seem to keep on crossing them.”
Anaia asked, “Do you trust him?”
“Heavens, no. Wouldn’t dream of it. Here we are.”
The door dilated to the deck, and Vladsen threw Biran a wink. “Now let’s see what our fearless leader is up to.”
“I heard that, Vladsen,” Lavaux called over his shoulder without looking up. “All of you, strap in. Sensors are picking up a larger-than-usual object in the area and we know we’re dealing with advanced cloaking out here. I’ve brought the best, but…” He trailed off, squinting at a screen, and Biran had to bite down an urge to shake him and demand to know what he was worried about.
Twisted metal, smeared with both Ada Prime cyan blue and scorch marks drifted onto the screen, highlights of raw metal framed against a sea of black. Biran’s heart skipped a beat.
A little green light winked at them all.
Silence squeezed the deck, everyone holding their breath. Raw terror warred with elation in Biran’s mind. It could be anyone. It might be no one. It wasn’t even, technically, what they were here for. This was Lavaux’s ship. Stopping here, now, to scoop up that pod would make them vulnerable to attack, less maneuverable.
Lavaux spoke first. “Recovery stations, everyone, and wind the engines down. That’s one of ours out there. We’re taking them in.”
Biran wanted to shout for joy but found he had no words. No ability to speak at all, his heart had lodged so thoroughly in his throat. Anaia grabbed his arm and pulled him toward the door.
“Come on,” she said.
Biran found his voice. “Lavaux.” The white-headed man turned to him. “Thank you.”
He nodded and went back to his screens—to monitoring his ship, and the recovery of the pod. He cut a regal figure up there on his captain’s chair, presented himself as a real leader, and had even stopped his all-consuming goal and passion to, maybe, save just one. That was the stuff of myth building, of legends and heroes.
Biran had been played. The truth dug into him, needled at his ribs, prodded his mind. Lavaux had, with this simple action, wrapped Biran around his finger. No matter what happened next, Biran would always remember this moment—the moment Lavaux didn’t hesitate. The moment that, after years of struggling and arguing with the Protectorate that his sister was worth the risk, was worth saving, Lavaux hadn’t required so much as a push.
Some deep-seated aspect of his personality wanted to rebel against that. Wanted to write off Lavaux as a political playboy, a manipulator of the highest order. A politician on the rise. But he couldn’t do it. Gratitude suffused every fiber of his being. He’d just been handed the only thing he’d ever wanted—a chance. He wasn’t about to resent the man who handed it to him because his motives were self-serving.
Biran shook himself, and ran for the airlock that was lining up for the rescue, Anaia’s boots stomping after him.
Behind him, Vladsen laughed.
Dead. The occupant—Gunner Wilcox Raismith—had been dead before the evacuation pod had enclosed him in preserving foam. A piece of shrapnel, as wide across as Biran’s palm, stood straight up from the dead man’s chest—a white flag of surrender.
“There might be others,” the medi—a woman with dark blue eyes and bleach-blond hair said. Biran would have thought her cute if he had any ability to think beyond the unfamiliar face on the exam table.
“There might be,” he agreed, not even feeling the words, just responding by rote. This was what you did when someone tried to comfort you after a tragedy. You comforted them back by keeping to the script, the agreed upon give-and-take established as early as human civilization. She wasn’t wrong. The existence of Raismith was proof that Icarion had never recovered the evac pods left over after the battle. Others might be out there. Drifting. Waiting. Sanda’s might be one of them.
Staring down at the empty face of Raismith, it was difficult to convince himself of that.
She fiddled with a forceps. “I need to complete the autopsy.”
Translation: Please leave, you’re distracting me. “Right. Sorry.”
Biran stared at the corpse a few beats longer, unwilling to tear his gaze away just yet. What had this man seen before he died? Had he seen Sanda get into a pod? Or had he seen her torn to bits by the rest of the shrapnel that pierced his chest?
Before he could say something remarkably stupid—like, let’s try a séance—Biran let himself out of the medibay. Anaia was there, waiting. Of course she was. Probably had her ear pressed to the door the whole time they’d been in there. She clasped her hands in front of her stomach and wrung them together, her eyes wide with hope.
He didn’t want to tell her. He had to tell her.
“It’s not her,” he whispered, and the moment the words passed his lips, they became truth. Crystalized his pain. He closed his eyes and pressed his back against the wall for support.
“Oh, Biran… We—we found one. There will be others.”
Damned near the same thing the doctor had said. The same thing he had thought. Funny how that worked. Almost like comfort took the same shape everywhere you looked, stamped out like a mass-produced panacea.
“Is there anything I can do…?” She reached for him, her fingertips brushing his arm, hesitant, like the slightest touch would cause him to dissolve on the spot. Maybe it would. He’d never felt this brittle before.
“No. I need a moment alone, please.”
She nodded, swallowing hard, and drew her hand back. “Call for me if you need anything.”
“I will,” he agreed. “I will.”
She gave him a look that said she didn’t believe him, but was willing to accept the lie for the time being, and took off at a slow stroll down the hall, giving him time to call her back if he wanted to. He didn’t.
He just stood there, in the middle of the hall on an unfamiliar ship, numb from tip to toe. He reached for his wristpad, flicked through the usual series of clicks to bring up a direct line to Graham, before he remembered that Keep Station was doing everything they could to jam communication signals coming in from the Taso. The “failure to connect” button popped up—a sad emoji. Biran grimaced and swiped the app away.
It came right back, the sad face turned upside down. An incoming call—from an ide
nt tag he didn’t recognize. Biran’s finger was a millimeter from the reject button when he froze. Something about that number tickled the back of his numb mind. It wasn’t anyone he knew, but… He swiped accept and was greeted by the greyed-out screen of a voice-only call, no video feed.
“Mission number: alpha-five-zebra-three-seven-beta. This is Nazca Cepko. I’ve got her. We’re on board The Light of Berossus, currently stationed outside Farion-X2 Station. Situation is critical. The AI is hostile. Time is limited. Here she is.”
I’ve got her.
CHAPTER 35
PRIME STANDARD YEAR 3771
DAY THIRTY-EIGHT IS A TERRIBLE DAY TO DIE
Sanda gasped as alarms blared in her helmet, in her head. Her HUD lit up with warnings, flooding her with too many failures to keep track of. Bero screamed something, but she couldn’t hear him through the pounding in her ears. She lurched backward, reaching for the plug.
Tomas’s arm tightened around her, pinned her back to his chest, and anchored her arm in place. She jerked, spasming, as panic used up the air left in the suit. Some analytical part of her mind began counting down the seconds until she gave in to CO2 poisoning.
Her head jerked back, trying to smash Tomas’s helmet with the back of hers to at least take him out with her. The bubble of her helmet bounced off his cheek. He’d already disconnected.
Oxygen-deprived brain cells raced to figure out a reason, a solution, but she was feeling slow, her arms heavy. A dull slap echoed against her helmet, her torso twisted, and then her helmet was gone, the many flashing lights whisked away. She gasped instinctively, heaved herself forward and squirmed.
“Whoa,” Tomas’s voice was far away, fuzzy, but getting closer. “I’m sorry about that, I didn’t think you’d put up such a fight. Shoulda known, eh?”
“You fucker.” She found strength in her leg again, huffed down lungfuls of stale air, and twisted in his grip so that they were chest-to-chest.
Velocity Weapon Page 25