by Camilla Monk
The final air lock whirs open, and they push me through. Or rather I tumble into the ring, betrayed by the very gravity I wished for. For a second, I see myself smashing into the wall ahead of me and destroying equipment that’s worth more than my life, but arms catch me just in time. I register the door hissing shut behind me and look up. The dark-skinned guy gripping my arms . . . he’s wearing a white space suit with a US flag, and he wasn’t in the ship with us. There’s a second guy, with graying hair and angry blue eyes.
The rotation team. It took NASA fifteen years, mission after mission, to assemble the ring and there’re always at least a few astronauts watching over the US government’s baby. Did Anies corrupt them too? All of them? There must be what, at least five or six people up here and—
“We’re ready, sir,” the blue-eyed astronaut barks while, around me, everyone starts to remove their helmets. I fumble with mine, and it’s Anies who unclasps it, with a benevolent smile that makes my skin crawl. I hate having to, but I accept the arm he holds out to me because that spinning ring messes up my senses. My internal ear and I try to come to terms with the fact that we’re standing . . . horizontally, in a wheel that completes roughly 5.5 rotations per minute.
Claire leads us down a white hallway lined with pipes, valves, and electronic equipment. Through rectangular windows, I see the darkness of space, studded with stars, unreal. We pass two air locks whose iris-scan systems get defeated by Bahjin’s laptop. As Bahjin is getting ready to open the massive security door barring the way to the command center, I notice a reddish smear on a series of switches on the wall to my right. Blood.
I glance at the two men who awaited us inside the station. There’s another stain on the sleeve of the black guy’s space suit. We’re ready, sir . . . I inhale slowly to keep my fear under control. I don’t think Anies managed to convince the rest of the rotation crew to destroy the world for him . . . and that’s why they’re nowhere in sight.
When the final air lock slides open, Bahjin raps on the scan lens with his forefinger and says in an exaggeratedly deep voice, “Nothing can catch up with a Steed!”
I wince and glance at Anies’s impassible features. Shortsighted tycoon Reginald Steed probably never expected that his regular meetings with “Aidan Keasler” would result in his space program being used against him—and with his favorite slogan, no less.
Oh my God, this is like Star Trek. We’re standing in Odysseus’s vast command center, facing a giant screen on which Earth can be seen rotating peacefully, unaware that a bunch of dangerous douchebags threaten it. More screens line the brand-new helm and launch consoles behind which the captain’s seat stands empty on a central platform, like a white throne in the middle of this orgy of cutting-edge technology.
Claire walks to the helm console and trails a reverent hand over the black glass top and its integrated tactile dashboard whose keys glow a soft, snowy white. She presses her palm to a fingerprint lock on the glass, and the dashboard flashes green before a multitude of keys and buttons starts lighting up. She turns to look at Anies as he settles in the captain’s seat, flanked by his faithful Lions. For the first time, a radiant, poignant smile illuminates her face. His lips curve in response, and she’s staring directly into the sun, burning before my eyes. What did he tell her? What did he promise that makes her beam with pride and gratitude like that? It must have been exactly what she wanted to hear, what she needed. Because that’s what he does, how he controls people . . .
Next to her, Bahjin sits behind the launch console and is now busy removing the plastic film from his new screens with a delighted sigh.
“Come here, Island,” Anies orders.
My eyes dart to the brawny guy standing at my side and the ones guarding Anies. A third one guards the air lock, but the rest of them left the command center along with the two traitors from the rotation team to go check the first missile, which now awaits inside the launching ramp. I decide to play along until I can come up with a plan that would allow me to defeat nine overtrained killing machines, one Indian nerd, and one dying supervillain who could still force-choke me in his sleep.
Anies’s goon hovers behind me as I cover the distance to the captain’s seat and climb onto the platform to stand at his side. I don’t look at him; I stare straight ahead at the control screen, on which data is now flashing. They’re targeting something in Alaska . . .
“What do you think will happen once you strike?” I ask, reining in the tremors in my voice.
His gloved fingers rap on the armrest slowly. “For the rest of mankind? Nothing they’ll notice.”
I spin on my heels, anger burning in my cheeks. “Are you fucking serious? You really think you can murder millions of people—”
“Seven hundred at most,” he corrects.
“What’s there?”
“Only Fort Greely,” Bahjin answers with a sigh of annoyance, like he’s watching a kid relentlessly try to shove the cube in the circle hole. “It’s the US’s main interception base. That’s where they test their antiballistic missiles. They have like thirty interceptors ready for launch, crazy stuff . . .”
“Soon they’ll have none,” Claire says quietly.
Anies’s gaze sets on the red dot blinking in the middle of Alaska. “We’re not declaring war, Island, and there will be no unnecessary violence. All we’re doing here is establishing a new balance in the equation of nuclear dissuasion, one that will ensure our voice is heard and our word followed.”
I shake my head, a fear I can’t contain washing over me and paralyzing my body. “Please stop . . . You’re never going to rule the world.”
A laugh rises from his throat, which he coughs out, along with blood that stains his lips. “Is that what you imagined? That I’m here to proclaim some sort of global takeover?” I stay silent and let him continue, because, well . . . yeah. “I don’t care what kind of idiot or dictator holds the leash, as long as he makes the right choices. Choices that drive mankind forward and preserve our resources and civilizations. Choices that aren’t being made as we speak.” His jaw sets in determination. “Someone needs to tip the balance of the world in the right direction or else we might not even survive as a species.”
“Blackmail,” I grind out. “You’re hanging a sword of Damocles over their heads to get them to do whatever you want.”
His lips quirk. “I do intend to provide some amount of counseling . . .”
On the screen, the single red dot still blinks steadily at the center of a series of orange circles, delimiting the potential impact radius. Thirty-five miles. A blast that will not only obliterate the base but the nearest town as well. Outside, Odysseus is locking down on its target. Estimated time to cover the 218 miles of space and atmosphere separating us from Fort Greely: 43.9 seconds. Not even long enough for them to detect the missile and launch one of their interceptors.
“Fort Greely will be a simple warning,” Anies says, ice enveloping each word. “An invitation to discuss our options.”
Blood roars in my ears, and I consider begging, screaming, but I’m petrified as outside, the end of the launching ramp slides open. With small, controlled releases, Odysseus’s lateral boosters rotate us into position to face the target, like the eye of a Cyclops staring down at Earth.
Quivering with excitement, Bahjin announces that all systems are clear to launch. Claire’s fingers tremble over the keyboard. She turns to look at Anies, her gaze seeking not just his authorization, but more: reassurance . . . love, maybe. “We’re ready, sir,” she says, steadying her voice.
I’m looking at her, unaware that it’s Anies I should be looking at: when I turn around, I see his hand hovering above a touch screen integrated into the captain’s seat’s armrest. A red circle pulses steadily on the dark glass. My heart hammers against my rib cage in tune with it, each beat a deafening bang in my ears. I need to do something. I need . . . Like Odysseus’s formidable thruster, adrenaline explodes in my veins and propels my legs. It’s like the whole ship is
shaking around me as I leap, so fast, so high I never thought it possible.
No, wait . . . Oh God . . . Oh shit!
I take off and fly right above Anies as the ring stalls and stops spinning, sending us all floating around like goldfish in a zero-gravity bowl. All lights go out in the command center, and the red glow of the emergency lighting bathes our weightless bodies. Anies secures his seat belt just in time, even as his legs lift effortlessly. Taken by surprise, his men float away but manage to latch onto the handles running along the walls. The Lion closest to me grabs my leg when I fly past him, his fingers crushing my ankle. I gasp in pain while, under me, Bahjin and Claire struggle to buckle up too. I vaguely register Bahjin’s voice, yelling that something went wrong with the power cells in section five of the ring and that we’re switching to auxiliary.
Within seconds, an electric hum revs up, and the lights come back. The ring resumes spinning with a low, lazy moan, and my heart plops straight into my stomach when gravity claims me again. I fall on top of one of Anies’s Lions and immediately roll away from him when the guy groans under me. He doesn’t look okay. He’s pale, and his eyebrows pinch and quiver as he struggles up. I blink at the spectacle of his agony and realize with a dash of hope that I literally busted his balls. One down, ten more to go!
“What happened? Can you fire?” Anies asks Bahjin when everyone is more or less back in place.
He doesn’t answer immediately, his fingers flying fast on his tactile keyboard as he tries to evaluate the situation. “I don’t know. It looks like a power failure in section five. Power has been restored in sections one to four and seven to twelve, but we’re disconnected from sections five to six . . . No, seven . . . seven is out too!”
“Can we fire?”
“We . . . Not yet, sir!”
Next to him, Claire orders Anies’s men to head to the damaged sections. A snarl twists her lips, and the warm brown of her skin seems to be turning gray under the artificial lights.
“What’s going on?” Anies barks. “Give me a visual.”
On the main screen, several windows pop up. External cameras: something happened to the ring in the three sections connecting to the launching ramp. The lights are out in there, and there’s a little smoke escaping section five. Holy shit, the hull is compromised!
It takes Bahjin a little while to reconnect some of the cameras. He can’t access any of those in sections five and six, but after some effort, we get a live feed from the cargo units in section seven.
Bahjin goes silent, his mouth working in vain as he takes in the scene filmed by the cameras. Anies’s fingers curl around his armrests until they turn white, and I’m thinking his bones might snap. Hope and terror lace in my chest and constrict my lungs. Three of the Lions who had been overseeing the launch in section five lie on the ground and blood is everywhere, pooling on the floor, splattered on the missile containers, staining the walls in long carmine trails.
“W-what the fuck?” Bahjin asks, typing—punching, really—on the keyboard to collect data. That’s when section eight goes dark.
Claire yells in her headset, “Omega Six, Omega Nine? Answer me!”
But those men aren’t answering either, and whoever—or whatever—killed them and just took another section of the ring offline is now progressing toward us. The command center is section twelve; we don’t have much time left.
Sweat runs in cool beads down my nape. None of this makes sense, but honestly, considering the day I’ve been having so far, I half expect to see the glistening black exoskeleton of a Xenomorph dash across section nine. But it goes dark, and I see nothing. Outside, the windows turn pitch black, as does our camera feed. I swallow hard. Maybe one of Anies’s men turned on him. Maybe he realized decent people don’t start nuclear wars with the first world power, and he said, “That ain’t right. I’m gonna eat everyone in here to stop this.” Oh God, I’m making no sense, and I don’t want to die up here, in the dark, without March.
When section ten goes dark, and Bahjin has nothing to offer but furious typing and a sweaty brow, Claire undoes her seat belt and pulls out a black gun from the holster around her thigh that looks like some prop straight from Blade Runner, with a strangely bulky barrel. “We need power in section five to fire. I’m going there,” she says, her delicate features set in a grim mask.
Anies nods for her to go, and she’s halfway to the door when the lights go out. In front of his screens, Bahjin switches from one camera to another feverishly. Section nine, section ten, nothing, nothing. Section eleven . . . on the other side of the air lock isolating the command center. His hands freeze over the keyboard as the main screen displays the silhouette of a ghost in the darkened hallway, ten feet away from the door. A shadow among shadows, revealed more clearly only when he switches to night mode. Blurred lines become a man in a pressure suit, holding two guns and standing perfectly still.
Anies’s men and Claire get in position on each side of the door while Bahjin intensifies the image to identify the newcomer. It’s weird because my heart is still thumping so hard I can hear it in my ears, but I’m no longer scared. I know before the computer is even done filtering the camera’s feed. No one else could be obstinate enough to destroy a fricking spaceship. There’s another beast onboard Odysseus, one much more dangerous than any Lion, and Anies, who gazes at the screen in fascination, a muscle twitching at the corner of his mouth, knows it.
“Who’s that?” Bahjin gasps, when the camera reveals a square, blood-soaked jaw and icy eyes staring at us.
“March,” I tell him.
THIRTY-SIX
BLACK PEARLS
I have no rational explanation. He wasn’t with us inside the cockpit; I’m sure of that. The cargo unit wasn’t pressurized, but he’s wearing a suit too, so . . . maybe? Hope rushes through me and, with it, renewed energy. We can find a way out of this.
For now, we’re in a pinch though: Anies isn’t stupid; he’s probably calculating that if he opens the air lock, he gets a chance to get rid of March, but mostly he’ll trigger a massacre. I wait, every single muscle in my body tensing the longer he stares at that screen.
“Bahjin,” he says. “Can you stop the ring?”
A slight wince flashes across Bahjin’s face. “Are you sure . . . sir?”
“Yes. On my command, stop the ring, and depressurize section eleven.”
I check the screen. March isn’t wearing a helmet, and I see none around. Oh no, no . . . anything but that. Anies’s gaze meets mine; he reads my distress, plain as day. There’s not a single trace of regret to be found in his eyes as he says, “I’m sorry, Island.”
I have no time left to think and certainly none to cry. Loud cracking outside the room makes me whirl around with a start. March is trying to shoot the lock.
Bahjin shakes his head. “All beef . . . no brain. Everyone buckle up; stopping ring auxiliary engine in twenty seconds.”
I’m out of time; I act on instinct. The Lion whose balls I inadvertently crushed is still standing close behind me, ready to block any escape. I fall to my knees and grip his leg desperately. “Oh God, no! No, please, don’t let them do this!” I scrunch up my face, summoning some waterworks—something regrettably easy to accomplish given the level of stress I’ve been under these past few hours. I sense him startle. I bawl harder. “We love each other! Don’t depressurize my boyfriend, please!”
“Island!”
Anies’s angry shout is the final distraction I need. I grit my teeth and punch the guy with all my strength. My fist hits something soft and a little squishy under his suit. Air instantly escapes his lungs in a loud huff, and he folds inward with a muffled groan. The other Lions lunge at me but not before I manage to elbow my victim in the side of the knee. There’re kneepads integrated in our suits though, and for that reason there’s a distinct possibility that the move hurts me more than it does him. Agony pulses in my arm, but he drops to his knees in surprise at this exotic self-defense combo.
I have half
a second to either flee or fight back before two six-foot Lions pounce on me. It could be the adrenaline blazing through my system, but I think I’m starting to understand how March does it. The trick is to trade self-preservation for efficiency. I roll over and grab the Blade Runner gun strapped to Busted-nuts’s thigh. Self-preservation: aim and hope to hold them with the threat alone. Efficiency . . . my thumb finds the safety, and my eyes screw shut as I press the trigger blindly over and over.
I register a grunt. Did I hit one of them? I need to hold them back. I need more time for March, just a little more . . .
My vision blurs and goes black when the man closest to me knees me hard in the stomach and rips the gun from my hands in one quick move. Stars dance under my eyelids, and I gasp for oxygen in vain when his free hand grips my throat to immobilize me fully. I see the sweat on his brow, his dark eyes narrowing at me, daring me to move.
Steps echo somewhere behind him. Black boots appear, integrated to a suit. Anies looms above me. The Lion lets go, and I feel Anies’s hand glide in my hair before he pulls hard. Pain lashes at my scalp and I let out a broken howl.
“I don’t have time for this, Island. And I warned you there would be consequences.” His sighs fan over my face, carrying the mephitic breath of a dying man. “Her hand,” he tells his goon.
I jerk in panic when the guard grabs my right wrist and forces it still, crushing it to the floor. Someone separates my suit’s glove and pulls it off, and I see the black blade in Anies’s hand that the third Lion just handed him. I scream and thrash in vain. Claire and Bahjin watch, their gazes blank, unfeeling. Anies trails the blade across my palm and nicks the skin, drawing a drop of blood. “You’re going to tell me which finger,” he asks, his tone eerily calm, almost tender.
I writhe, arch until I’m sure my spine is going to snap from the effort to free myself. “Uh . . . no . . . no! Let me go!”
“Which. Finger. Island.”