by Amie Kaufman
“Request permission to bring the ****ing popcorn, sir,” Karpadia spits.
Lindstrom marches past the reception area and kicks open the door to Grant’s supply closet with a crash. She groans, trying to speak as he smashes around inside, finally returning with a battered palmpad in his hand.
“N-no,” Grant moans. “No…”
Lindstrom tosses the device to his lieutenant.
“There should be more data on that,” he says. “Names of other insurgents at least. Everything they’re planning. It’s got encryption on it I’m not equipped to crack down here, but the techheads on Churchill live for this ****. Shoot it up to Cordova and she’ll have it busted wide open in ten minutes.”
“I’ll send it up now on a shuttle,” Christie says, glancing at the still-groaning girl. “Get that little ***** on her feet.”
Markham drags Grant up by the hair as she shrieks, clamping one metal fist on the back of her neck and squeezing. Her face twists in pain, dark hair tangled over her eyes. Christie looks her up and down, ice in his stare.
“Get her in the APC. I want her locked down in an interrogation cell at the LZ by the time I get back from dropping this palmpad to the flyboys.”
“My pleasure,” Markham growls, dragging Grant toward the door.
The girl looks to Lindstrom, rage in her glare now. She thrashes momentarily in Markham’s grip, aims a mouthful of spit at Lindstrom that falls well short of the mark. “You *******!” she shrieks. “YOU ****ING TRAITOR!”
Lindstrom stares, eight glowing optics in his helmet burning blood red.
The kid doesn’t say a word.
Christie spins on his heel, palmpad in hand, and marches back to the APC. Markham hurls Grant into the rear of the vehicle as hard as he can without breaking her completely, bundling in behind her. The rest of Oshiro’s squad follow, Karpadia taking the wheel, Christie sitting beside her. Oshiro watches Lindstrom lean down slow, pick up the Duke’s dog tags in an armored fist. He hands the sergeant the tags, then stomps to the APC and climbs into the back with his bleeding, semiconscious former girlfriend. No doubt hoping for a front-row seat at her interrogation and eventual execution.
The APC’s engines roar to life, and the vehicle vanishes into the night.
Yup.
I told you it was never gonna end well for those two.
The ward hums with its usual soft symphony of beeps as Isaac Grant makes his way in. He shouldn’t be out of bed yet, but if he can’t answer some of the captain’s more urgent questions about the Mao, his long-term health isn’t really going to be an issue one way or another. Still, he moves slowly and warily, protecting the bandages hidden under his clothes, keeping his gestures small and careful.
Ella Malikova looks considerably worse than him. She’s white as a sheet, a fact thrown into stark relief by the black shadows under her eyes. Her skin looks dull, wrong, like if you pushed your finger against it, you might leave a bruise just by touching her. Most of her face is hidden by the makeshift breather the docs have worked out for her, but her eyes land on Grant just a moment after he walks in. She wiggles the fingers on one hand in greeting but doesn’t bother lifting them from the keyboard in her lap.
The equipment she’s hooked up to now compares to her old setup about as favorably as a dumpy Shetland pony stacks up alongside a Thoroughbred. And slowly but surely, despite her sass in online chats, her strength’s been ebbing away. Now she doesn’t do much more than move her fingers across the keyboard, eyes almost closed.
Grant weaves his way through the beds, sinks down into the chair beside hers with a groan and turns his head to look up at the screen suspended from the ceiling above her. His daughter’s been through to optimize Ella’s computer rig for her, but he’s here to see about the medical equipment.
“Let’s have a look at all this,” he murmurs, taking in her mask and the machines it’s hooked to with a wave of his hand.
She flutters her fingers at him again, this time in a fending-off gesture, avoiding the effort of reaching up to draw down the mask and actually speak. Either she trusts him to take her meaning or she knows he wouldn’t listen anyway.
He nods, understands and ignores, gaze resting on the monitor beside her bed. Its readouts are jagged lines, signifying that all sorts of functions in her body aren’t as they should be, but her blood oxygen reading is simply a digit in the top right-hand corner. It flickers every few seconds, displaying a new number.
77
79
81
77
“Not good enough, young lady,” he says, mock stern. “That needs to be up close to one hundred. Let’s see if we can’t squeeze a little more efficiency out of all this, and then out of you in turn. I read up on how the lung support works.”
Ella lifts her brows, eloquent in her cynicism.
He huffs a soft breath of laughter. “What’s the worst thing that could happen? Actually, don’t answer that. Knowing our luck, it will.”
She tries to fix him with a Look, but the corners of her eyes are creasing in a tired, reluctant smile.
He takes this as permission, pulling himself to his feet, digging into the tool belt at his waist and carefully levering the back off a blue machine whose purpose I can’t identify, though it’s definitely connected to her somehow.
Hey, I’m here for my charm and insight, not my medical degree, okay?
Grant speaks quietly as he works, his voice a low, steady stream. She has her eyes closed, and it’s hard to tell if she’s listening. “I was speaking to young Niklas,” he says. “I’m so sorry about your father, Ella. I didn’t know. I’m afraid I haven’t had time to think about it one way or another, but I should have asked.”
He reaches down to rest a large hand over her skinny one, enveloping it for a moment, then gets back to work. “My wife and I used to joke that we were going to have a whole passel of children, and she used to tease me that I’d end up surrounded by daughters and outvoted at every turn, not that I’d have minded.”
He’s forced to pause a moment and press his lips together at the mention of Helena Grant, drawing in a quick, steadying breath through his nose. [Note: Grant had been informed by his daughter of the loss of his wife. Footage has not been included in the file, because, chum, there are some things you just don’t need to see.] “Then we used to joke that once we got Kady, we figured out our limits pretty fast,” he continues. “She was more than enough for us to handle.”
The back snaps onto the machine once more, and he frowns at the readouts. “Do you mind if I take your mask off for a moment? I think I can get a much better seal around your face, which should help with those O2 numbers.”
She nods just a fraction, and with infinitely gentle hands he cradles her head and removes the strap, careful not to tangle it in her hair. He lifts the mask away from her face, and her quick, shallow breaths are audible as he pulls a tube from his belt and runs a line of what looks like putty around the rubber edges of the mask in one efficient movement. It’s built for someone much larger than her, which makes sense—she’s far smaller than anyone on Falk’s crew was.
“Just a moment longer, I’ve got you,” he promises in a whisper, testing the new seal with his finger, then strapping the mask back into place.
Her blood oxygen level has plummeted to 71 percent in the thirty seconds she was left to breathe on her own, and he lays his hand over hers once more, his voice low and gentle. “Breathe as slowly as you can, just listen to me while I ramble on, your breath’ll come easier in a minute. So I was saying, we realized we’d met our match in Kady. But after a few years on Kerenza, we had her cousin Asha come to join us. She stayed with us at first, and once she finished school, she had a place right near ours. She and Kady saw each other almost every day. I got a glimpse of what it would have been like to have more than one daug
hter.”
Ella’s eyes are fixed on his face, her chest still rising and falling quickly as her body compensates for the momentary loss of the mask.
“I said it to Hanna, and I’ll say it to you and your cousin Nik,” he says quietly. “You still have people who care about you. I know being stuck here must be beyond frustrating. Nik told me about the chair you had on Heimdall, and it sounds like a wonder. And I know some of the med staff here treat you like an idiot because you can’t talk back. So I want you to know as well that we know exactly who you are, Ella. We know you’re quick, you’re funny, you’re unquestionably smarter than I am. I would never presume to take your father’s place, but I know he loved you, and I’ll do my best to stand in his shoes while we get through this—and longer, if you want. You still have a family, is what I’m saying.”
His gaze flicks up to the monitor again, and he breaks into a slow smile at the number in the top right-hand corner.
95
96
95
“Better,” he approves. “You should start to feel a little stronger after an hour or two of that. I’m going to pick up some more tools from Engineering, and I’ll be back tonight to work on the bed’s hydraulics for you. For now—”
He breaks off, frowning—he’s spotted something on the shelf behind her monitor. “Who put him where you couldn’t see him?”
He stretches up, carefully lifts down the large beaker currently housing Mr. Biggles II and sets him on a shelf within Ella’s line of sight. “Clearly they don’t understand he’s integral to your creative process,” he says. “We’re surrounded by idiots.”
He reaches down to gently squeeze her hand once more. “I’ll be back tonight, and young Ezra’s going to drop through on his next meal break in case you need anything. Try not to cause any riots here until then.”
The corners of her eyes crease properly now, and her fingers squeeze his, then flick, bidding him go.
He stands a moment longer, as though he’d prefer to stay, then nods. “Keep an eye on her,” he says to the fish, and takes his leave.
She watches him until he’s gone from view.
Her hand shakes as she wipes her face—it’s clearly a huge effort, but it’s well spent, as far as Ella Malikova’s concerned. Though no doubt her eyes are just watering as a result of the improved oxygen flow or something, she wouldn’t want anyone to mistake that moisture for anything else.
Footage of this meeting is from the security camera mounted in the brig, where Ben Garver, former head of security at Jump Station Heimdall, is in solitary confinement. Garver’s sitting against the wall farthest from the door, elbows on his knees, eyes closed. It’s been an hour or so since he last moved.
The doors slide open to reveal Hanna Donnelly. Her hair’s pulled back in a braid, she’s in a utilitarian jumpsuit and—key piece of information here—she has a Benden M-6 handgun in her right hand.
Garver’s eyes open, and he lowers his chin to get a look at the visitor. Registers her identity. He doesn’t stand, but he breathes deep. Eyes locked on that gun. Readying himself for what’s coming.
Donnelly’s the one to break the silence. “We’re nearly at Kerenza IV.”
“Yes,” he says quietly.
“We have a plan,” she continues, soft and even, no emotion. “The odds aren’t good, but they’ll be better if we’re all working off the same playbook.”
“Yes.”
“You know why I’m here,” she says simply. “You know what’s at stake.”
Finally, he looks away from the gun. Meets her eyes. “Yes.”
“You have training. We need everyone. But I need to trust you’ll follow orders, whether or not you agree with the plan.”
“Yes.”
“You killed our captain,” she continues, as if she hasn’t heard him.
“Yes.”
“Now we have a soldier in charge. You probably think it was all worth it.”
Silence.
“Well? Are you glad you did it?”
“…No.”
The silence stretches between them as she gazes down at him, trying to take his measure. He looks up in return, his face unreadable.
“You can trust me,” he eventually says. “My people. We all have something to fight for. It’s why we did what we did. Now the only thing that makes sense is to fight together. You know that, or you wouldn’t be here. And I give you my word, I know it too.”
The silence stretches one more time, and then Donnelly inclines her head in a slow nod. Needs must when the devil drives. He’s one more trained body for a fighting force that could desperately use it. He knows it. She knows it.
“Two things, Hanna,” he says, pushing to his feet. They’re of a height when they stand eye to eye.
She watches him move but doesn’t raise her weapon. Waiting instead.
“I’ve never told you properly, respectfully, how sorry I am about your father,” he says, meeting her gaze without flinching. “He was a fine man.”
Donnelly simply stares, obviously uninterested in this man’s opinions of her old man. Garver nods, accepting the dismissal.
“Second. Did you know Shane Pangburn? Grav-train engineer at Heimdall?”
Her brow creases at this unexpected turn. “A little.”
“His wife, Cara, and his son, my godson, are aboard. I’d like to see them before…before. And make provisions for them. If they make it through this but I don’t. Will you let me do that?”
Donnelly stares at him a long moment, then glances at the door behind her. The pistol in her hand. And making her decision, she tucks the gun back into her belt.
“Yes,” she says simply.
She turns on her heel and strides out the door.
Leaving it open behind her.
All over the Mao, goodbyes are under way. Spouses, or siblings, or parents and children, or new lovers found as the ship’s occupants creep toward the valley of the shadow of death.
They cry, they embrace, they pray, they wait with grim determination. They whisper their instructions to themselves over and over again, or pore over manuals for jobs they’re not qualified to do.
They close their eyes tight, or stare into space.
And in case this is the end—because this probably is the end—they say goodbye.
Winifred McCall is among those readying themselves to join the boarding parties, and just now she is whispering to herself, practicing the words of the speech she must soon make to those who will go to war with her.
Kady Grant, unimaginably, will command the bridge of the Mao. There will be so few of the crew left there, and of those who remain, she understands the systems best. And most important, she’s the only one AIDAN will answer to.
But now her captain has given her a few minutes’ leave to find Ezra Mason.
The two of them stand in a corner of the crowded launch bay, where crews are readying fighters, mechanics are shouting, pilots are running checks and making their farewells.
Amid all the noise, Kady and Ezra don’t say a word.
They don’t need to.
She’s such a little thing in his arms. But their bodies fit together perfectly, like they were made to just the right measurements. Up on her toes, her arms wrapped around him.
Her fingers creep across the nape of his neck, curl up into his hair, as she presses her cheek to the rough fabric of his flight suit, eyes squeezed tight shut.
His big hand splays across her back, keeping her close.
Time slows, their breath in sync. Still amid the chaos all around them. Ignoring the shouts, the slamming doors and screeching wheels. They could be alone, for all the mind they pay any of it.
Slowly, she eases away just enough to look up at him, solemn. No quick wit, no e
asy joke. He gazes back down, letting her drink her fill. He doesn’t offer her false reassurances. He simply lets her look at him. He gives her that.
She lifts one hand to press her palm to his cheek, and he tilts his head into her touch, just a fraction.
Breathe in.
Breathe out.
And then she’s stepping up onto the toes of his boots for the tiny bit of extra height it gives her, pulling him down for a kiss, fierce and sudden.
They move with perfect ease, practiced a thousand times. She launches herself up, legs wrapping around his hips, and he turns toward the wall. His arms protect her from the impact as he lets himself crash into it, as their lips meet again.
Her tears are soaking her cheeks, salting their lips, and he lifts one hand to tangle it through her hair, to press it to the nape of her neck, to squeeze her arm, as if somehow, without words—he was never one for words anyway—he can bring her comfort.
And eventually, somehow, they silently know it’s time.
Their lips slowly part. His cheeks are flushed, hers pale.
His mouth twists into the ghost of a smile, and he leans down one more time to kiss her nose. He helps her down from where he held her against the wall, and smooths her hair, and holds still one more moment so she can gaze at him one last time.
They’ve said the things they need to without talking at all. So now they can speak again, using words for lesser things.
“Back to work,” he murmurs. “Game face on.”
“You know it,” she whispers. “Let’s kick some ***. I’ll talk to you from the bridge. Love you, Ez.”
“Love you right back. And I’ll see you when this is done.”
They hesitate a long moment—neither wanting to be the one to step back—and then she forces herself to do it. She blows him a kiss and turns for the exit, making sure her face doesn’t crumple until he can’t see.
He watches her until she’s out of sight, standing exactly where she left him. Then it’s his turn to walk away. As he heads for his cockpit, he digs in his pocket for the picture of her he’ll tuck into his display. He kisses it once, for luck.