Out of place though Lin’s reaction seemed, the fact that she, at least, didn’t seem frightened had its effect on Elissa, too. The tightness in her throat eased.
It was Bryn who answered her. “God knows who they are. Well, God and IPL, we guess, but no one’s telling us. And as for why . . .” He shrugged. “If it weren’t for Spares, we wouldn’t be in this mess, would we?”
“If it wasn’t for SFI, you wouldn’t be in this mess!” Elissa burst out, but Miguel interrupted. “There’s no time for this now. We have to get underground. Even if you”—he nodded toward Cadan—“get away immediately, if you’ve been tracked, if someone thinks you’ve left the clones with us, thinks we’re harboring them, we’re dead ourselves.”
His voice was urgent, and something close to panic showed in his face. In that one moment, Elissa saw clearly what she hadn’t picked up on before. She’d gotten it wrong: Miguel wasn’t accustomed to exercising authority. He’d taken authority, maybe because he was the most competent, but he had no practice in it. And now he was trying to handle a situation for which he not only had no experience, but also no skills that had prepared him for dealing with it.
But he said they had SFI people here. If there are other SFI personnel around, then how come it’s him acting as leader? Okay, so SFI doesn’t exist anymore, but still—where are the officers? Where’s the structure all gone to? If any of these people are SFI, they’ll have been working there for years—all that organization can’t just melt into chaos like that, not this quickly. They need to take responsibility for what’s been done to Spares—they need to make sure it doesn’t happen again!
Cadan’s voice remained calm. “Okay, so there’re groups—several groups—targeting Spares? Because they blame them for the current situation. And those sheltering them too?”
Bryn gave him a bitter look. “Should have stayed off-planet, right?”
When Cadan glanced at him, his eyes were like blue steel. “Cut the posturing. You’re saying we’re in danger here—and we’ve put you in danger too?” His gaze swept the crowd. “Then what are they doing standing here? This is an SFI base—it’s equipped with underground shelters. Get these people into them!”
As if that was all it took, Miguel jerked into action. He snapped an order to Bryn, who swung away to relay instructions to a handful of official-looking people—mostly the ones, Elissa realized, who were holding weapons.
Had been holding weapons. They weren’t bothering now, tucking guns back into belt holsters and inside jackets, focusing instead on shepherding sections of the crowds in different directions, back inside the buildings.
Miguel looked back at Cadan. “You need to go,” he said. “They’ll have clocked the ship entering the atmosphere—it’s likely they’ll have tracked it here. You could come in the shelters with us, but if they break through this time . . .” There was despair in his face. “Captain, listen to me. I have to keep these people alive. If they break into our shelter but neither you nor the clones are with us, at least—”
Cadan interrupted him. “This time? The base has been attacked before? How many times?”
“Since I got here? Six. Not all from the same group, though, as far as we can work out.”
“You can tell? How?”
Miguel shrugged. “Firepower. Some of them are using SFI craft. Some of them have nothing more than target-practice guns strapped to souped-up beetle-cars.”
Markus gave an unexpected choke of laughter. “Seriously?”
Miguel looked at him, bleak. “It’s funny when you’re not living it. We’ve got the shelters, and the aboveground buildings are pretty well fortified, but if they get a direct hit on our solar cells, or the purifier . . .” He nodded toward the familiar shape of the half-buried water-recycling station.
Up until this point Elissa hadn’t thought about that—she was still struggling to deal with the impact of finding out that people were killing Spares—but of course. This far out in the desert, the base would have to operate independently of the city’s resources: power, water, medical supplies. When things had been running normally, they’d have been able to rely on deliveries, but now, out here, more than a day’s walk from the city, if they ran out of water, or the power that kept their perishable food and medicines refrigerated—how long would they last?
And then, selfishly: If we end up stuck out here, how long will we last? I knew we were taking a risk coming back to Sekoia, but I didn’t plan on not surviving my first day back!
“Why are they attacking you, though?” Cadan was saying. “If you think they’re after Spares, why have you come under attack anyway?”
“We’ve got ex-SFI personnel with us,” said Miguel. “And some government officials who swear they never knew what was going on but who got chased from their homes anyway, and a few immigrant families—legal ones, but people are saying if we’d closed to immigration years ago, Sekoia would never have come under so much pressure that the government was forced into using clones—”
“Spares,” snapped Elissa, shock and fear making her careless, almost before she was aware she’d opened her mouth to speak. “They’re not clones, they’re Spares.”
Miguel shrugged without looking at her. “Whatever. The mood in the city . . . it’s not a good place to stay for anyone who could take any of the blame. A connection with SFI, or the government, or Spares . . . People are here because they were afraid to stay, Captain. And if we can manage to go even farther away, we’ll take it. Right now we’re stuck within easy attack range. We haven’t come under serious fire, not so far. It’s more of a harassment—angry people looking for scapegoats. I don’t think anyone is intent on actually destroying our camp—no one here is liked, but we’re not hated like the clones.”
“Spares.” Heat rose behind Elissa’s eyes, momentarily erasing the fear.
This time Miguel did throw her a glance. “Do I look like I have time to argue semantics? Whatever you and she are, you’re hated. And you’re in danger.”
Calling them clones isn’t just semantics! If everyone keeps calling them clones then everyone keeps seeing them as nonhuman and when people attack them it won’t be a big deal because it won’t matter like the way an attack against ordinary people matters. It does matter. It matters what you call them.
“You must have some SFI craft here, though?” Cadan said. “When I was last here, we had flyers, and small amphibious craft for practicing air/space maneuvers. They weren’t cleared out at the takeover?”
“No. IPL requisitioned most of the pilots, but only to fly large craft, not the little two-mans. They’re still here.”
“Fueled?”
“Yes.”
“IPL took the pilots. Do you have anyone who can pilot them, then?”
“Ten qualified pilots—they arrived well after the takeover, and IPL haven’t come back yet to recruit more. And yes, Captain, we’re not completely inept. We’ve been using them to defend the base as best we can. They’ll be suiting up now.”
“Any cadets? Once they’re past their first year, they’ll be good enough to defend the base. I can vouch for that, if you need—”
“No.” Miguel’s voice sounded wry. “Trust me, we can’t afford to fetishize rank right now—we’d use them if we had them. All the SFI personnel here are mostly maintenance—it’s pure luck we’ve ended up with any pilots at all.” His mouth twisted. “We have a hundred people who can fix the ships, just hardly anyone who can fly them.”
“The ships, are they armed? Last time we were using blanks.”
“We fixed that, first thing. We’ve got real firepower.”
“Okay. I can take one ship. If you’d introduce me to the pilot in charge, he can get me up to speed on his defense plan?”
Miguel stared at Cadan. “You’re staying? You’re joining our defense crew?”
“Well, not permanently. But yes. We brought this trouble on you. I can’t offer to evacuate you all—well, at least not until I’ve spoken to IPL—but I can
help you defend against any attack that follows us.”
Miguel stared at him a moment longer. “Okay. I get you. I’ll take you to the docking bays.”
“Thanks.”
“You’re thanking me? ” There was dry amusement in Miguel’s voice. “And what about those kids? Was getting them caught up in this part of your plan?”
Next to Elissa, Lin quivered, indignant. “We’re not kids. And we can help—”
“No,” said Cadan.
“I can! I don’t want to go in the shelters—”
“You’re not. The base shelters are good, but I defy any air- or ground-based attack to get through the Phoenix’s defenses.” His glance swept from Lin over Elissa and the rest of the crew. “You—all of you—you’re getting back on board now.”
It was his crisis-management voice, one of automatic command, and Elissa responded to it, turning back toward the Phoenix, fear making her cold all over again, a little clumsy, her feet numb enough that they didn’t seem to be quite connecting with the ground.
All around her, the crew were doing the same, albeit a whole lot more smoothly. If I end up staying with the ship as long as some of them have trained, will I ever learn to be that calm in the face of danger—more danger, yet again?
She forced her breathing to slow down. A million years ago, at school, she’d been taught yoga, and Felicia had encouraged her and Lin to join in her daily routine on board ship, but right now Elissa had no hope of gaining the steady, focused breathing she should be able to achieve in any situation. The best she could do was to not completely freak out and hyperventilate.
If they’re not freaking out, I don’t need to. The Phoenix is super-safe. And Cadan’s in charge. . . .
She didn’t want to be feeble enough to reach for his hand, to need him to reassure her before she left him out here. She’d done without it before they were dating, for goodness’ sake; she wasn’t going to collapse into a stupid needy girlfriend now. But all the same, she couldn’t help wishing he’d, just quickly, give her a look that wasn’t the look of a captain speaking to his crew.
Of course he didn’t. She was looking at Cadan in full crisis-management mode, triaging the whole situation in his head. Irrelevantly, she wondered if it was pure SFI training coming to the fore. Faced with this, would Bruce, too, react with the same steel-cold efficiency?
As if in proof that this version of Cadan could scan all the complications before they entered anyone else’s thoughts, he glanced toward Markus. “I won’t be there to activate the Phoenix’s shields. You and Lin know how to run the codes. The moment you’re on board, get them up to full strength.”
“Yes sir.”
Ivan was already standing by the open door of the ship, waiting for the others to go through, and even as Markus answered Cadan, he turned too, to go on board.
Felicia held back for a second. “Captain?” she said. “Am I best used on the Phoenix? Do you want me to stay on the ground?”
Cadan hesitated. “No. I need you on the Phoenix too. If you’re left without anyone who can fly her, you’ll need to find a way of getting the girls to the city. They’ll have to seek sanctuary from IPL, and they’ll need your protection to get them there.”
Cold sank through Elissa. He hadn’t said it in so many words, but she’d have to be stupid not to know what if you’re left without anyone who can fly her meant. Cadan was making contingency plans. Plans for . . . She’d known he was staying out here, known he was going to fly one of the defense ships, but now all at once it washed through her, a multitude of horrible images flashing into her brain. The little ship he was planning to fly coming under fire, the windscreen cracking to pieces, the ship falling in a ball of flames. Cadan . . .
Don’t. Don’t do it. Come to safety. Don’t make me leave you out here.
But she couldn’t say it. He was right: By coming here, they had unknowingly brought danger—even more danger—on the refugees living in the base. They owed them anything they could offer in terms of protection.
Unbidden, her hand went out to him, a movement as if she would hold on to his arm. A stupid movement, given that he was out of reach, and that she’d already told herself she couldn’t expect anything from him.
But he saw, and looked at her. Their eyes met. For a moment there was no one else there. “I know,” he said. “But I have to.”
“Yes.” Surprisingly, her voice stayed steady. She let her arm drop. “We’re going.”
He smiled at her, the moment stretching out, holding them both.
Then Elissa set her teeth and walked past him to where Ivan waited. Her legs felt numb now as well, as if her body were shrinking in on itself, trying to avoid awareness of the approaching danger.
Behind her, Cadan said, “Markus, I’ll keep in touch.” He twisted the little com-unit on his wrist. “Keep my channel open, okay?”
“Got you, Captain. Lin, you coming?”
Elissa was at the door, a step behind Markus, before she realized Lin hadn’t followed her.
She turned. Lin wasn’t moving. She stood still, arms folded, eyes fixed on Cadan.
“Lin,” said Elissa, “we have to go.”
Lin didn’t glance at her. “What am I supposed to be doing?” she said to Cadan. “You know I can be useful. You know I can do stuff. You don’t mean for me to go sit in the Phoenix as well?”
“Lin, there’s nothing for you to do out here. Go in the Phoenix, get the shields up—”
“Markus can do that. You already said so. I could do a million better things.”
“No.” Cadan’s voice had a no-argument tone in it. But Lin had never been good at picking up that sort of cue.
“Why not? We came back to help, didn’t we? You know what I can do. I can fly ships too—”
“Not by yourself. Not safely. Not yet. Lin, no one has time for this. Get on board.”
“I don’t need to do it by myself! I can come as your copilot. You know I can do that! You know I can.”
“Lin.” The word came out with a snap like the crack of a whip. “I’m not using a copilot. I don’t need you.” Lin opened her mouth and he cut across her, not letting her get a word in. “And I don’t want you. You’re not up to this kind of fight, if that’s what it comes to, and I don’t need the distraction. What I need”—she started to speak and he raised his voice, speaking over her—“what I need is for you to keep out of the way and keep your sister safe. Now go and do it instead of delaying me and keeping her here in danger.”
Lin shut her mouth, then marched over to where Elissa waited. Her face was flushed, her eyes glinting and narrowed. When she unfolded her arms to shove her hands into her pockets, Elissa saw her hands were balled into fists.
But at least she wasn’t resisting, or arguing. She followed Elissa through the door and into the coolness of the air lock in silence, then up the stairs and into the flight cabin.
ELISSA FLICKERED a look at Lin as the door snapped shut behind them. Her twin’s face was still flushed, her jaw set. Despite the terror flaring in her mind whenever she thought of Lin being caught, hurt . . . imprisoned again, impatience prickled at Elissa. Oh, for God’s sake. All those people we’re leaving in danger, and you’re angry because you want to be in danger too? It’s not like we came back to Sekoia to fight off attacks—that’s not the help we wanted to offer.
Was that what it was, just Lin wanting to be involved, or was there something else going on? Elissa’s shoulders slumped. Just as there were so many finer points of normal social interaction that Lin didn’t get, there were probably a whole bunch of things about Lin that Elissa didn’t get. Sometimes you got tired of trying to work them out.
“Lin,” said Markus, in the pilot’s seat, flipping up switches one after another. “We’re getting the shields up, okay?”
Lin marched across to the front seats. “You don’t need me for that. You can do it yourself.”
Lights sprang awake along the control panel. Screens woke, flashing code. Markus
’s voice remained steady. “I can, but I’m not as conversant with the code as the captain is. If you double-check it for me—”
Lin flung herself into the seat next to him. “You don’t need to call him the captain when he’s not even here.”
Elissa’s chest clenched. That wasn’t just anger in Lin’s voice, it sounded like . . . but no, it couldn’t be hatred, not for Cadan.
“You’re right.” Markus tapped out a sequence on the keyboard, hesitated, backspaced, then tapped out the rest. He nodded toward one of the screens. “Check that for me, would you?” Then, in the same steady tone, “I don’t need to call him that. But nonetheless, we do.”
Lin scrolled through the code. “It’s fine. First shield ready.” The words were bland, but her voice was still dark with anger. “I don’t see why. It was one thing when he was in charge, when you were all being paid to do what he said. . . .”
“Second sequence coming through. He’s still in charge. The SFI going down—it doesn’t affect anything. This is his ship.”
“Oh it’s so not. He was only put in charge of it temporarily—”
“It is. He was given charge of it. That makes it his. That’s not a pleasant fiction to make the pilots feel good, Lin, it’s legal fact. It was meant to be a fixed-term ownership, sure, but now SFI’s gone, and it’s only IPL who has the authority to terminate his ownership. If they do . . . well, they do. But unless—and until—that happens, it’s Cadan’s word that matters on board the Phoenix. And the crew—either we obey his orders or we resign.” He nodded at the screen again. “And that’s why he gets called captain whether he’s present or not.”
“Code’s fine.” Now Lin’s voice sounded more sulky than anything. “Second shield ready.”
“Third sequence.”
“I just . . .” She shot a sideways look at Markus. “He’s been teaching me how to be his copilot. He knows I can do more than this, and he’s all rules and ‘you’re not up to it’ and ‘look after your sister.’ Like I need him to tell me to look after Lissa!”
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