Molly Fyde and the Blood of Billions

44

For the second time in two days, Parsona made an early morning approach to Bekkie, flying low and under the barest cover of dawn. As the morning sun peeked over the horizon, it cast long shadows over the dry land, dramatically illuminating the sad and severe differences between that previous flight and the current one. Gone were the long, horizontal dust plumes of busy traffic, like ephemeral, fuzzy snakes slithering up into the sky. They had been replaced with vertical clouds of a darker hue—rising columns of smoke that marked the death and destruction that had rained down from the sky the day before.

The distant plumes weren’t the only residue from the one-sided battle: the tragic remains of the Navy fleet could be seen long before they reached town. Molly banked around the odd wreckages dotting the landscape, the twisted remnants of military hardware still smoldering from its impact. Around each wreck, the dry Lokian grass formed black circles of expanding char ringed with thin, orange halos of fire. Each growing circle of blackened grass reminded Molly of Glemot, of the way that singular bomb had circumnavigated the planet, swallowing it up and adding it to the void of space.

Beyond the dotted plains, Bekkie bore its own unique signs of rained-down hellfire. Red lights pulsed throughout the sleepless city, illuminating the dusk-shadowed faces of buildings with the color of emergency and worry. Some of the structures formed unnatural, jagged shapes, like teeth and broken bone shoved up from the ground, all visible scars of a town penalized for its importance. No other part of Lok had been hit so hard; the shattered hulls were densest around the town. It had been logical for the fleet to arrive above the planet’s capital. What was unusual was the manner in which they were brought straight down out of orbit, ignoring the normal parabola of reentry. It was as if the town’s importance, its gravity, had been temporarily suspended.

Molly kept Parsona low, just above the waving grasses. As she flew past the corpse of another ship hundreds of times more powerful than her own, the terror of sudden reprisal from the fleet above crept up in her throat and remained lodged there.

“I’m starting to feel like this was a bad idea,” she said aloud.

With only her mom and the Wadi in the cockpit with her, it fell on the former to answer, though the Wadi seemed to respond by curling up tighter against her neck.

“I don’t think good ideas any longer have place in this universe,” Parsona said. “I’m beginning to think you were right about hyperspace.”

Molly checked the cargo cam to make sure Walter didn’t sneak in on them talking. “In what way?” she asked.

“That we’d be just as well off to jump there with no way of coming back.”

Molly laughed, more out of nervousness and empathy than mirth. “I’m glad I never rigged you up to control the hyperdrive, then.”

“Me too.”

Another wrecked ship smoked off to port, visible mostly by the eerie glow of things burning within. Ahead, on the outskirts of town, Molly saw flashlights darting about with anxious twitches, like morning bugs caught in a jar. Whatever it was they were looking for, they were desperate to find it.

“If Scottie comes through with the fusion fuel, it’s gonna be hard to wait until we get back to the clearing to jump away,” Molly said.

“I’ve already thought the same thing. But the survivors from that carrier need the supplies. It’s the least we can do for them. Right, Cat?”

Molly turned and saw the Callite had joined them in the cockpit. The Wadi flicked its tongue in her direction, winning a pat on her head for the effort. Molly smiled up at her and got a hair-tousling in return.

“Bekkie looks worse for the wear,” Cat said, peering out at the approaching town. “And you’re being light on the throttle, aren’t ya?”

“I was just telling mom that I feel like coming here might be a mistake. Maybe I’m just putting it off.”

Cat crawled into the nav seat. “Can’t cower in a wooded clearing the rest of your days. ’Sides, all you gotta do is run by the Navy offices and let them know where their people are, maybe secure a place for them to stay. Walter and I will handle rounding up supplies for your friends in black.”

“And Scottie will round up the fuel?” Molly asked.

“He says he will, and I believe in him. So stop fretting. We’ll be in and out in no ti—”

“Don’t say it,” Molly said, waving her off. “I hate hearing how easy stuff is gonna be. It never is.” She pulled up, gaining a little altitude as they reached the outskirts of the city. She soon spotted her old slip in Pete’s now half-empty stables. The sight of her open space made her rub the tender pads of her fingers together as she remembered she had not yet paid.

“Can’t we go ssomewhere closser?” a voice hissed by her side.

Molly turned and saw Walter standing behind the flight seats. The Wadi’s tongue vibrated in his direction like a bit of red yarn in a stiff breeze.

“Turbulent waters aren’t for testing,” Cat said.

“What’ss that mean?” Walter asked.

“It means you don’t try something new in the middle of a storm,” Molly explained. “It’s an old Navy saying.”

“Goes back to when they used to sail ships on the ocean,” Cat said.

Molly and Cat exchanged a look. Once again, she realized how little she knew about the Callite. Walter turned from one to the other, his face scrunched up in a confused sneer.

“Listen, this is just one of those times when you have to trust m—”

The radio crackled, cutting her off: “Parsona, Pete’s Hideaway, come in.”

Molly turned away from Walter and flicked on the radio. “Pete? This is Parsona, I was just about to call you. Is it okay if we—”

“Cap, I need to speak to Scottie. It’s urgent.”

Molly turned in her seat to call for him, but Walter was already scampering back to the cargo bay. The Palan returned, literally dragging the large man—two of his silvery hands clutching one of Scottie’s.

“It’s Pete,” Molly said. She pointed to the dash and gradually banked around toward the stables.

Scottie leaned over the controls. “Pete? You there?”

“Scottie? Oh, thank the gods. I need your help.”

Scottie glanced at Cat and then Molly. “We saw what happened. Sorry we hightailed it the way we did. You suffer much damage?”

“No, it’s not that. It’s—they’re rounding them up. The Callites.”

“What? With all this going on they’re gonna send up another shuttle?”

“It ain’t just the illegals this time. They’re rounding up everyone.”

“Do what?”

“They’ve got Ryn,” Pete said.

Parsona descended to the dry lot, her thruster wash kicking up a cloud of dust, which seemed to billow out and cushion her landing. Walter lowered the ramp immediately, allowing the plumes of powdered dirt to swirl and drift through the cargo bay. Molly swam through the haze ahead of the others and was halfway down the ramp when Pete stomped through the fog to meet them.

“What’s this about Ryn?” Scottie asked, as he joined Molly on the boarding ramp.

Pete spit to the side. A long stream of purple juice gathered dust as it fell, splotching Parsona’s ramp with a streak of gummy saliva. “They got him and some others,” he said. “Took ’em to immigrations. I swear the most of ’em were legal. Shopkeeper at Wayside and half the kitchen staff at Oasis.”

“Where’re they taking them?” Molly asked.

“More shuttles.” Pete spat again. “They flew two more over from New Hoboken last night. If they stick to their schedule, them shuttles’ll go up at any time.”

“And they’ll get shot down,” Cat said. Molly turned and saw a grimace of pained fury on her dark, scaly face.

“What about the ssuppliess?” Walter hissed.

Molly turned to face him; the Wadi hissed in her ear as if startled by the sudden movement. “We’ll worry about the supplies later. Right now we should—”

“What kinda supplies?” Pete asked.

“Food and water,” Scottie said.

“And camping gear, just in case,” Cat said. “Blankets, at the very least. And clothes.”

Pete surveyed the foursome as the dust continued to settle around them. He seemed to arrive at some conclusion, then spat a sticky string to the side, a long trail of it clinging to his lip and sagging with incredible viscosity.

“Town’s making a run on items like that, but I got sources of my own.” He nodded toward Molly and Walter. “Why don’t you youngins stay here. I’ll have the stuff delivered.” His eyes darted to Cat for a moment. “You two should come with me. See about stopping them shuttles.”

Molly stepped forward to complain. She didn’t like being coddled, or told what to do, but Cat placed a firm hand on her shoulder and held her back.

“He’s right,” Cat said, never taking her eyes off Pete. “You two stay here. We’ll see about Ryn and the others.”

“Just need a credit chip,” Pete said. “I’ll call in for the stuff and have it delivered.” He looked to Scottie and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “You ready to go?”

“The sooner the better.” Scottie turned to Molly. “We won’t be long. I’ll get your fuze as soon as we get back.”

Molly nodded. “Just be safe.” She turned to Walter and waved him forward. “The chip,” she told him. Walter squeezed between her and Cat to hand over the Navy credit chip, which he had insisted on being in charge of. Scottie tugged it from his reluctant grip, then moved to put it in his pocket.

“Hey,” Walter said. “Jusst sscan it and give it back.”

“Scanner’s in the office,” Pete said. “I’ll keep it safe. I promise.”

Walter hissed as the chip disappeared. Molly put a hand on his shoulder and pulled him back by her side.

“Alright, let’s get out of here,” Pete said. He gave Molly one last look. “I’ll have my dockhands round up everything you need. Might take a few hours, so just stay put.”

Molly nodded. The two men turned and stomped down the ramp; Cat paused to squeeze Molly’s arm. They exchanged a look, and then she turned as well, her bright, blond ponytail whipping around as she hurried off after the others.

“Well this sucks,” Molly grumbled as she watched them go.

“Are you kidding?” Walter tugged on Molly’s sleeve. “We’re getting room sservicse! All the ssuppliess and none of the lifting!” He dragged her back into the cargo bay with one hand and pulled out his videogame with the other. “Thiss iss ssweet!”

After closing the cargo ramp, Walter lounged sideways across his crew seat, his feet in Anlyn’s old chair as he lost himself in his videogame. Molly roamed around the cargo space jacked up with nervous energy; she tried her best to straighten up the clutter from having so many people moving through the ship of late. She snapped an attachment on the air hose and blew dust from one surface to the other before deciding the exercise was pointless. Rather than get anything cleaner, it just won her annoyed glances from Walter, who seemed to cringe at the air hose’s hissing sounds.

Molly sighed and put the hose back. “I’m gonna take a nap in the cockpit,” she told Walter. “Come get me when those supplies show up.”

He nodded, then wiggled across the two seats to get more comfortable. Molly strode into the cockpit and keyed the door shut. Grabbing her helmet off its rack, she settled into Cole’s seat and pulled the dome down over her head.

“Mom?”

For once, Parsona didn’t respond immediately. Molly checked the switch on the side of her helmet to confirm the mic was on. It was. She reached forward to the dash controls—

“Yes?”

“Oh, hey. Everything okay?”

A pause. “Yes. I overheard the conversation with Pete. Those poor Callites…”

“This whole planet is flanked—” Molly stopped herself. She felt a sudden wave of heat in her flightsuit for having cursed in front of her mom. Her time on Lok was wearing on her nerves and surrounding her with bad influences. And without Academy professors around to chastise her poor behavior, or Cole around to always try and impress, she could feel herself growing up too fast in some ways. Thankfully, her mother now had some semblance of a presence in her life, which helped. Presently, however, Parsona forced Molly to bear the shame of her word choice in silence, rather than lecture her.

“When your father and I were here,” Parsona said after a long moment, “there was talk about scrapping the colonization efforts on Lok completely. The Navy wanted to move everyone off and abandon the entire planet. They even wanted to mark it off-limits to future expansion.”

“You’re kidding. Why?”

“They couldn’t stop the flow of fusion. That was the official version and the crux of your father and I being here. Your dad was the great Navy hope, you know. He and Lucin came back heroes from the war. They could’ve taken any post they wanted. Lucin chose the Academy, said he could do the most good there.”

“Yeah, for which side?” Molly asked, unable to conceal the disgust in her voice.

“If you and Saunders are correct, it makes a lot of sense. That’s the front line, really, in keeping up their efforts to break through to the rift. SADAR has nothing on hindsight, but I bet your father would’ve put all this together if he hadn’t been blinded by his love for the man.”

“I wish he were here right now,” Molly said softly. And Cole, she added to herself.

“Me too. And I wish I could be there for you in more than voice.”

“Yeah, I’m sorry to wish him here and not you. After Dakura… well, I don’t think I’d be any more comfortable if you were here in person. No offense.”

“None taken.”

“It’s just that this is how I’ve only ever known you. I like thinking I could have you in my life forever.”

Parsona didn’t answer at first.

“Forever’s a long time,” she finally said.

“Not for you—”

“Sweetheart, your father didn’t lock me away solely as a backup. He—I could go just as mad in here as I could on Dakura. Cheating death isn’t natural. Our brains just can’t cope after a while—”

“What’re you saying?”

“Just that I need you to be prepared, as any child must be. You might not have me around forever. If something happens to the ship, I’ll be gone. There might even come a day when I’d ask you to—”

“No. Don’t say it and I wouldn’t do it.” Molly looked out her porthole as another ship pulled out of the stables, slow and low.

“Maybe they should’ve abandoned this place long ago,” Molly said. “Maybe none of this Bern stuff would’ve happened.”

“Or it would’ve happened sooner,” Parsona said.

“What do you mean?”

“The official reason we were here was the fusion fuel, but we kept getting bogged down with missing persons reports.”

“The election fraud.”

“If it’s that,” Parsona said. “What doesn’t fit is that the number of Callites disappearing seemed to match the rate of Humans. Only, nobody was much put off by their disappearance to look into it.”

“But why would the government want their blood? To cast votes for the Freedom party? That doesn’t make sense.”

“Exactly. They wouldn’t.”

“Maybe the Callites were just going underground to avoid immigration officials.”

“Which is precisely why we were told to not look into it. It was considered out of our jurisdiction. Still, the viability of Lok depended on a rising population. Instead, it was dwindling, even with the land giveaways and tax incentives. The disappearances outpaced the inflow of colonists. Your father used to say Lok was doomed with or without the fusion trade.”

“Do you think the Bern could’ve been up to something? Could they have been trying to secure the other rift by running everyone off?”

“I don’t know. Seems convoluted and roundabout for them. Maybe—” Another pause. “Oh, no.”

“What?”

Parsona highlighted a target on SADAR. “Look,” she said.

Molly tracked the moving object. It was a passenger class shuttle rising up from the outskirts of Bekkie and heading straight for space. She pulled up the town overlay map and looked for the side street café where she and Walter had been sitting. She followed the departure trajectory and saw that it matched up with the general direction of the other shuttle they’d watched lift off.

Molly wanted to ask “Why?” but sat and stared in silence, instead. She looked up from the blinking blip on the screen to the carboglass and scanned the buildings beyond for a rising plume of jet exhaust. She saw nothing through the haze of dawn and was forced to watch via SADAR, forced to watch as the shuttle nearly reached the ionosphere before the altitude indicator stopped climbing. It paused at apogee, and then the altimeter began to count down with a sickening sense of looming finality.

“How can they do that? How is that legal?”

“They’re letting the Bern do their dirty work for them. Probably calculated what a shuttle costs versus having to move the same illegals back to their planet over and over.”

“But they’re sending them to their deaths. Doesn’t anyone care?”

“Very few. The Underground was full of supporters. They practically formed around their lack of xenophobia. Unfortunately, they had a larger war to wage.”

“You’re talking about people like Scottie and Pete.”

“And your father.”

Molly looked down at her lap. She stopped stroking the Wadi and rubbed the rough pads of her fingers. All but one pinky were beginning to heal somewhat from a day of not needing anything. She could feel that one digit throbbing and dreaded ever having to vote again. She wondered if Pete would make her vote for the supplies and dockage, or if he’d let her slide or maybe just pay extra in cash.

“Hey,” she said aloud, a hazy memory coming back to her.

“What?”

“Pete’s voting machine.”

“What about it?”

“Well, maybe nothing, but I could’ve sworn when I was in there the other day that the ‘F’ button was new and shiny.” Molly paused, her thoughts interrupted by the disturbing simplicity of the shuttle target disappearing from SADAR. She watched that empty spot of blackness on the screen as the green phosphor symbols faded away to nothing—all the vector numbers flicking to zero. There was no tally for what was just lost.

“Pete’s machine,” Molly muttered to herself. “I’m pretty sure the Liberty button was just about worn off.”

45

“You’re dead!” the skimmer pilot yelled. He kicked through the remains of his ruined craft and strode toward Cole, shucking off a tangle of wire and hydraulic cables as he went. Cole waded backward with short steps and a wide stance as the ground beneath him continued to tremble and occasionally lurch. He held the buckblade away from his body, comforted somewhat by the slight hum he could hear from the handle.

That comfort didn’t last long. The small man fully emerged from the wreckage and did the unthinkable: he yanked off his goggles and tossed them aside.

“I’ll have you in pieces!” the man roared. He stomped through the water with both hands out, his fingers curled as if to reach out and clutch Cole to death. Cole stopped shuffling and readied his blade. Whatever the man was made of, however much of him Arthur had replaced, he figured he had the upper hand to be armed. In a manner of speaking.

The wiry man stopped and looked at Cole’s hand, almost as if weighing the same odds. He snarled and reached into his coveralls, which were tattered and hanging in strips from the knife-like curls of wrecked steel. Out came a metal cylinder much like the one Cole wielded—and the playing field was once again uneven.

The furious man thumbed his blade on and lunged into range, swiping with an angle five. It was an unorthodox, but powerful move. Cole watched the man’s elbows and wrists line up in slow motion, performing a slashing attack Penny had told him to never use. And she had shown him why. Cole’s muscles responded automatically—out of fear and from a deep memory. He lined up his blade to deflect the blow, to send it back into the man’s neck, but when the magnetic fields of the two blades met each other, the raw power behind the strike overcame the attacker’s poor angle. The impact tossed Cole backward and likely would’ve thrown his blade through his collarbone, had not his new elbow been locked.

He landed with a splash, his heels kicking and scrambling for the ground beneath him. He swam backward, keeping his distance as the man swiped through the water, his teeth bared in rage.

“One piece at a time!” the figure roared.

Cole scrambled to his feet and threw out a feeble swipe to keep the man at bay. As Cole’s blade passed harmlessly in front of his foe, his attacker lashed out with his own sword. The strike wasn’t aimed at Cole, but rather, at the back of his blade. The magnetic repulsion made Cole’s weapon pick up speed, spinning him around like a top. He lost his balance again and fell backward into the mud-colored water. The man behind him laughed as Cole splashed his way upright. He turned and resumed his stance. He realized he was being toyed with—chewed on and released as by some wiry dog.

“Amazing how the universe works, isn’t it?” The man lifted both hands up to the sky. He opened his mouth and turned his head, gathering up some of the drifting rain before spitting it out. “Everything comes right back around, wouldn’t you say?”

Cole stepped forward, remembering what Penny said about buck-blade fights being no time for talk. He slashed an angle one at the man’s knee, keeping low to remain as defensive as possible. The man’s arm became a blur: one moment lifted up into the rain, the next moment down by his hips, repulsing Cole’s attack. Cole’s arm flew back, his body contorting with the sudden change in direction. He allowed his feet to come out from beneath him, preferring to spin down into the water than get wrapped up in his own rebound.

Once again, he struggled to his feet, blade out. The small man became a blur once more, and Cole felt a sting on his left shoulder. He flinched, but his reaction came long after the blow. He looked down to see a red stain spreading through his soaked shirt, a neat slice of the fabric folded open.

“You don’t remember me, do you?”

Cole looked up from his wound. The man across from him jutted out his chin; he brought up his free hand and placed his palm against the side of his own face, pulling his flesh sideways. “Perhaps if I were smeared across a taxi’s windshield, it would jar your pathetic, fleshy, memory.” He let go of his face and sneered at Cole, rain dripping from his nose.

Cole ignored him—ignored the man’s mad delusions. He shuffled forward and aimed a reverse angle two at the man’s off-weapon hip. He drove everything into the blow, unleashing the full fury of his mechanical elbow in a desperate attempt to drive through the man’s defenses, striking him down as he made the mistake of talking.

His hand whistled through the wet air. As did the other man’s. The invisible blades met with a sizzling, explosive crack, the force of the blow throwing Cole off his feet. He landed in the water one final time, his shoulder screaming out in pain from withstanding the force of impact. He rolled to his back, half expecting to be missing a limb from the rebound, but his sword hand was empty. The blow had been sufficient to rip it from his artificial grasp, possibly saving his life in the process. Or—as Penny had warned of ever letting his weapon go—at least delaying the inevitable.

Cole turned to face the small man and saw that his eyes were following something through the air. He smiled, and Cole heard a plop in the distance, like the sound of a stone being swallowed by water. Cole looked around, but all that was left of his sword was a spread of brown ripples.

The man took two strides forward and was upon Cole, pulling him up by his neck. The power of the grip reminded him of being choked by the Stanley—but this time he was alone, with no Walter to take control and save him. The empty and endless horizon on all sides of him hammered that fact home.

“Tell me you recognize me,” the man said. He shook Cole violently before pulling his face close. Cole glanced at the sword, which was being held out to the side, poised as if to split him in half across his waist. “How can you not recognize me in this rain?”

Cole looked up and studied the man’s face. Part of him sagged with the pathetic futility of his struggles. Other parts—the non-mechanical parts—tensed with the will to live. He glared at the man from behind his goggles. He focused on his face for the first time as rivulets of water wiggled across his shielded vision.

It was the mad sneer that did it. The mad sneer and the fact that the man wasn’t winded at all. Didn’t even seem to be breathing.

“No,” Cole said, shaking his head.

“Isn’t it delicious?” the man asked. He licked some of the rain off his lips and smiled.

It was the scout, the small man from the Naval office, one of the men they had fought during the floods on—

“Palan,” Cole said.

“That’s right.” The man released Cole and stepped backward. He twirled his sword through the air and looked up and down Cole’s body, as if determining where to end him. “I was demoted because of you,” he said. “High command gave me a few fleshy assignments before sending me to this contaminated outpost.” His arm flashed and Cole felt a sting on his right hand. His body shivered with another delayed flinch. He looked to his hand as he heard something plop into the water.

His index finger was gone. A drop of rain hit the open wound and sparked something electrical within—a jolt he could feel across his artificial flesh. Before he could react, or even scream, another swipe sent his middle finger up in the air, tumbling through the rain with a few drops of crimson, spiraling down to the muddy wet below.

“My career was taken from me, one little piece at a time, for the failures you caused.”

Cole stumbled back, out of the reach of the blade, but the man moved even faster, matching every step with one of his own.

“Now you’ll give it back as I take you apart, one little piece at a time.”

A blur and his ring finger was snicked off with robotic precision.

“Stop it!” Cole yelled. He fought the urge to cover the metal parts of himself with flesh and bone, but he knew that would be even worse. He held his reduced hand in front of himself and kept backing away, his mind racing with some scheme to go out heroically.

“I nearly fried a circuit when you showed up here. I begged to end you. I felt punished to have to merely watch and gather intel. But it seems fate is stronger than the chain of command, eh?”

A flick of the wrist, and Cole’s pinky popped into the air. His entire artificial hand was on fire from the myriad wounds. He splashed backward as the ground beneath him shook, sending small ripples radiating out across the surface of the rain-streaked water.

The small man maintained his range and smiled. Cole wanted to throw something through those teeth, wanted to unleash the full power of his new elbow and hurl something at the man, just as he’d thrown the wrench through the skimmer. But all he had was his goggles, and throwing them would mean he couldn’t even see his own demise coming. Besides, he wasn’t sure he could even hurl the goggles properly with only a thumb to grasp them—

“You can’t even put up a fight with your better parts, can you? Just imagine what I’m going to do to your flesh!”

The unseen blade whistled through the air, slicing the rain in half. Cole’s thumb came off with another bite of pain. It flew up like the others, flashes of inner metal spotted with dollops of subcutaneous blood. Cole watched the digit spin, end over end. As it began its descent, he found his hand turning over beneath it, palm flat, his body reflexively moving to catch a piece of himself.

It landed in silence, all of hyperspace standing still as Cole gazed at the eerie realism of the thumb, its nail still pink and edged with a line of deadened white. He looked up, saw the smile on the man’s face turn into a sneer, lips trembling with raw hate.

Cole leaned forward. He cupped the thumb in his palm, cradling it with what remained of his hand. He dropped his shoulder, brought his hand back as he twisted at the waist, then let fly with everything he had. Every ounce of fear and rage, every vibrating cell in him that wanted to kill in order to live, was unleashed. His hand seemed to boom through the very air, breaking the speed of sound, as it whizzed past. There was a crack as his elbow flew straight, then the sickening feel of his shoulder leaving its joint, his arm yanking forward where it didn’t belong.

Cole cried out in pain and fell forward, sinking down to his knees. He gripped his dislocated and ruined shoulder with one hand and ground his teeth together, fighting to not pass out. Ahead of him, he heard the sizzle of a passing blade, saw the water bubble as something fell through the rippled surface of hyperspace. Cole looked up as the small man sank to his own knees directly before him. His head came level to Cole’s, but the sneer was gone. Half the man’s head was gone. It had been opened up by the bullet-like thumb, a metallic sphere blossoming wide like a silver flower. Tufts of hair stuck to portions of it, and half a flapping face hung to one side.

The mysterious rain peppered the ruined head from behind, shooting up sparks of electricity as the mysterious figure sagged backward, disappearing into his dirt-colored, watery grave.

46

“How long have we been here?” Anlyn asked.

“Five hundred eighty two thousand four hundred and fifty two seconds,” Edison said. “Approximately.”

Anlyn sighed. “How long in a format I understand?”

“Three hundred seventy six thousand and forty two Hori berts.”

“In days, love.”

“Oh. A fraction less than six Earth days.”

Anlyn groaned. The three hour shifts had gradually whittled down to hour shifts, as both of them reached the limits of their endurance. They took turns passing out where they sat, the sleep seeming to zip by in an eyeblink while the waking hour stretched out forever. Anlyn had spent more time talking to herself the last week than they had spent talking to each other, and she felt half insane because of it. It wouldn’t have been so miserable if the fleet wasn’t constantly shuffling around the incoming ships and moving the queue toward the rift. If they could just engage the autopilot and get a half day of rest, she would be fine for another few days of flying.

The radio squawked with instructions, and she watched as Edison responded his receipt of the transmission. As bad as she had it, Edison’s task as translator made it much worse for him. Often, he woke up halfway through a transmission, and Anlyn had to phonetically repeat what he’d missed. They both operated in a dreamlike haze of sleep deprivation, made worse by the annoying snowstorm outside that never so much as wavered.

Anlyn shook her head, trying to clear her thoughts. She couldn’t remember how many shifts ago she’d last showered, or even ate. The only break in her routine had been to sip water and use the bathroom. It was a Wadi’s diet, no different than her years with Albert, and she felt as chained to a cockpit now as she ever had back then.

“How close are we?” she asked.

“N minus forty two.”

“Forty one ships ahead of us,” she thought aloud. “They’ve been going through about one per hour or so?”

“Approximately.”

Anlyn groaned again. It had become as habitual to her as breathing. “Another two days.”

“Slightly less, so reduce your anxiety proportionately.”

Anlyn reached over and squeezed his arm. “Thanks for trying to make me feel better,” she mumbled, “but why don’t you get some sleep?”

Edison patted her hand. “This shift is mine, love,” he said in Drenard.

“Are you sure? I feel like I just woke up.”

“I’m positive.”

Anlyn sighed and leaned to the side, resting her head on his forearm.

“Wake me if you need me,” she whispered, as the blackness of sudden and immediate sleep began to swirl up around her.

“I need you,” Edison said softly.

“I’ll always need you.”

But she was already asleep.

47

The Wadi held on to her pair-bond’s neck as she ran through a strange canyon. Strange, but familiar. She tasted the air with her scent tongue and realized they had come this route before, but somehow the canyon had been brighter back then, and they had stopped at a watering shaft and refreshed themselves.

There was no stopping this time. Her pair-bond ran right past the watering shaft and kept up her frantic pace. The Wadi held on with the smallest amount of claw possible, enough to not skitter off her pair-bond’s back, but not enough to cause the pain-smoke. She hated causing the pain-smoke.

What her pair-bond leaked now was urgency. And fear, though not for herself.

This latter wisp of emotion nearly drifted by unnoticed, even though the column was strong and bright to the Wadi’s senses. The problem was: it had become ever-present. Like the twin monsters of light that dominated her old home, that column of fear for others seemed to hang everywhere they went, solid and ferocious. For the Wadi, it was like a giant fang you soon curl your tail around and ignore because it has hung idle in your den for so long.

The Wadi tensed up as her pair-bond turned down another canyon. Odd, these canyons. All at sharp angles and pocked with square holes, all disgorging more large beasts like her pair-bond. Like her in size, anyway, but different in the tendrils of smoke that trailed out from their bodies—exuded from their very thoughts and feelings.

Her pair-bond ran as hard and fast as a Wadi now, her breathing raspy and labored. The Wadi exuded as much calming scent as she could, urging the pounding pulse she felt with her tail to relax itself. She also put out courage smoke. She curled her head around her pair-bond’s neck and released as much of both as she could, forgetting her need to conserve her energy.

She waited to see if her pair-bond would respond.

It was so frustrating, trying to communicate. But she had only herself to blame. With the hell being wrought in her stomach—the ever-present urge to eat and drink and nourish her eggs—it left little energy for anything else. So very little energy. And even less time.

Molly weaved her way through a dense crowd, gasping for breath as she slowed. Ahead of her, the street pinched tight with rubble, leaving just enough room for pedestrians to squeeze through one at a time. Lokians pushed their way single-file, hands urging those ahead while buggies blasted their horns in futile frustration.

Molly veered out of the crush of people and scampered up the edge of the rubble, passing the roadblock. Two younger kids were up even higher, sifting through the rocks and laughing. Beyond them loomed the tail of a Navy bomber, its gleaming hull miraculously intact and leaning out over the street like a sundial. As she scampered down the mound of shattered building, Molly checked the street numbers to the side, looking for the address of the Navy office. Four twenty six. She had missed it.

She turned, looking back over the rubble and down the street where the crowds flowed dense into a tight stream. She felt certain the building number on the other side of the rubble had been—

It hit her. As solidly as the bomber had hit the building she was looking for. Molly looked down at her feet. Her destination was right below her, caked up in the treads of her flightboots.

“No flanking way,” she muttered. She scanned the crowd for anyone in Navy black as the Wadi nudged her chin with its head. “It’s okay,” she told her. Molly held her hand up and rubbed the Wadi’s neck with her finger. “Everything’s gonna be fine,” she lied.

That’s what she loved about having a pet. You could lie to them and they didn’t know any different. Somehow, saying what she knew to not be true made her feel better. It dissipated the bad sensations inside, just as the wind had removed from the morning sky all signs of the downed shuttle. Its great column of white liftoff smoke had hung over the city during her run into town, but now it was gone, scattered across the winds like so many forgotten Callites.

Molly saw no sign of Navy officials, but that was hardly surprising. She wouldn’t be shocked to discover they had made scarce before the façade of their building had done the same. Her last remaining option for help felt like a poor choice; the town’s sheriff had seemed a tad incompetent the last time she’d turned to him in need, or at least not very eager to help her out. But Molly couldn’t think of any alternatives.

She looked around, trying to get her bearings straight. The small town of Bekkie felt huge all of a sudden—there was just so much going on. People running to and fro, clutching precious items against their chests; fires being fought; lights flashing; flames flickering. Behind it all were her friends in danger, the love of her life and her father gone from the universe, her mom telling her to get ready to be alone again, Saunders and his crew and all they’d been through, and so many Callites sent off to their death.

As Molly turned in place, trying to locate the steeple of the great church in the center of town, she felt like her surroundings turned at a different rate than herself, as if the world spun on her while she stood still—and likewise stood still while she spun. Through a haze of smoke, she finally located that central spire of the great church and used it to locate herself. To center herself. She scampered down from the rubble and set off at a jog through the twists and turns of unplanned alleys.

The Sheriff would be able to help her, she told herself. She put one hand on the Wadi’s back so it wouldn’t use its claws, and hoped he didn’t feel the same way about Callites as he had about pets.

Molly approached the town square one street over from Main. She slowed to catch her breath and cut through a narrow alley that should dump her out right by the sheriff’s office. Her skin crawled as she plunged into the crack between the two buildings. The shade trapped between them was cool—the lingering nighttime darkness not yet chased off by the rising sun.

Molly berated herself for her childish terror, but picked up the pace again. The tickling sensation of having something awful right at her back resurrected a nostalgic fear she once harbored for Parsona’s cargo bay. When she was young, she used to run from her bedroom to the cockpit, sprinting ahead of the monsters to the safety of her father’s lap. The sudden recollection clawed at her breath in a way the running couldn’t. Molly burst out of the alley, gasping, tears in her eyes as she remembered the many hours she’d spent curled up against his belly while he spoke softly to himself, his voice muffled by his sealed helmet, his hand always moving up and down her back or smoothing her hair.

“That’s her right there!”

The outburst startled that skittish memory back into the folds of Molly’s brain. The accusatory words had arrived as well-aimed as any bullet, the way utterances can often cut through the din of so much background noise. Molly turned, her ears attuned to the fact that the speaker had been looking right at her as he yelled it.

There, behind the bars on the sheriff’s window, she found two eyes peering right back at her. A hand stuck out between the bars and pointed, the finger trembling with excitement. “That’s the one!”

Molly turned to look behind herself, to see if there was someone else the finger could be indicating. When she turned back, the sheriff loomed before her, seizing her with strong hands and removing any doubt.

“Hey, wait a sec—!”

The sheriff pulled her arm up tight behind her and force-marched her the last few steps she had intended to take anyway. Molly automatically resisted, pushing back against him as he manhandled her forward and through the door.

“Fine piece of detective work there, Sheriff Browne.”

“That’s enough out of you,” the sheriff said to a prisoner in the far cell.

“What’s going on?” Molly asked. She felt cuffs snap down around her wrists before she was handed off to a deputy, who nodded politely and tipped his hat before escorting her toward one of the empty cells. “Am I being arrested?”

“Assault and battery, ma’am.”

The deputy smiled, winked, and dipped his chin. His accusation and flirtations didn’t mix well.

“Do what?” Molly looked down at her manacled hands, as if to confirm the bizarre turn of events.

The deputy pushed her into the cell and slid the door shut with a bang. He then reached inside and unlocked the cuffs before pulling them out through the bars. Molly watched the bizarre charade of bureaucratic inefficiency and felt herself becoming detached from the entire scene. It had to be happening to someone else. She peered past the deputy to the sheriff, who was looking her up and down.

“You sure this is the woman that licked you?”

“Positive,” a man said. He moved closer, out of the shaft of dust suspended around the window. The light kept him in silhouette, but Molly could recognize him by his massive frame, if not the accusation. Once she knew where to look, she could clearly see the bandage around his neck as well.

The sheriff laughed. “Paulie, are you sure you wanna go on record and say this girl whooped your ass?”

He laughed louder, and the deputy joined in, along with the prisoner to Molly’s side. Thighs were slapped, sending up clouds of dust to gather by the windows.

“There were three of them, like I told you.” Paulie said it defensively. He stepped closer to the cells and glared at Molly.

“This man tried to kill me!” Molly yelled. She reached through the bars and jabbed a finger in his direction. “He tied me up—they tied lots of people up and stole their votes! Our votes!”

“That’s the dumbest thing—”

“Look!” Molly yelled. She became frantic, grabbing her sleeve and fighting to roll it up. This made no sense, her being behind bars. It made her brain boil, made it hard to think. She felt the Wadi scamper down and bury itself in a pocket as she finally got the sleeve past her elbow.

“Look! Look at what they did to me.” She held out her arm and pointed at the red circle around the needle mark.

“That explains her strength,” Paulie said. “And her delusions. She’s obviously an addict.”

“Both of you settle down,” the sheriff said. “This ain’t for me to even hear. A judge’ll decide what went which way for who and when.”

“Whom,” his deputy said.

“Whatever.”

“No, he’s right,” the prisoner in the adjacent cell said, still laughing.

“And I said that’s enough out of you. I swear, you people are driving me insane. All I needed this week was some peace and quiet and I’ve got fleets falling out of the sky, a rash of looting, and now this nonsense.” He turned to Paulie as the big man seemed about to say something. “That means you too, Paulie. Now I’ll ask you to leave so I can do some paperwork in quietude.”

“Wait!” Paulie said, as the sheriff and deputy guided him toward the door. “But I ain’t told you the half of it! I got two dead friends and another two in the hospital because of this bitch—!”

“Watch your language,” the deputy said.

“Save it for the judge,” said the sheriff.

They pushed Paulie out into the street and banged the door shut behind him. His complaints were left to worm their way through the bars, stirring the shafts of dust.

“Now, back to my paperwork,” the sheriff said. He plopped down in his chair and pulled the newspaper up to the brim of his outrageous hat. He shook the fold straight and started reading, tsking at some piece of bad news.

“You’ve gotta be flanking kidding me,” Molly said. She looked around the cell, gripping the bars ahead of her; she rattled them in frustration.

“Retirement does this to a man,” the prisoner beside her whispered.

“Does what?” She turned and faced the man in the neighboring cell, who had lounged back on his cot now that the show was over.

“He ain’t been outside in a month,” the man said softly. “Least not until he arrested you.” He scratched the dark stubble on his chin. “I’m impressed he went that far.”

Molly stepped closer to the bars to hear better; her Wadi scurried out of her pocket and crept up to its perch behind her neck.

“Full retirement next week,” the prisoner said. “Great time to be a crook if it weren’t for that damned deputy.” He nodded to the younger man by the window.

“I don’t care about any of that,” Molly said. “No offense,” she added, as she noted the hurt expression on the man’s face. “I’ve got friends in trouble. I need to get out of here!”

The man shrugged and looked up at the ceiling. “Ain’t we all?”

Molly turned to the sheriff. “Excuse me,” she said. “Look, I know it’s not your job to hear out our sides, but don’t you need something more than a man’s words to hold me here?”

“Sure do,” the sheriff said from the other side of his sports section.

“Can I go, then?”

“Nope.”

“Well what’ve you got besides a man’s words?” Molly asked.

“His wounds,” the sheriff said nonchalantly. “Didn’t look self inflicted to me. And you got a slight limp, consistent with the sort of blow a knee would take to move a man’s nose three inches to the left.”

“Ouch,” the prisoner said.

“What about—?”

“Self defense? Not a mark on you.” The sheriff peeked over his paper. “Unless you wanna count the stain of your habit on that left arm of yours.”

“What? No! I don’t do drugs. Hell, I don’t even drink!”

“Sure do curse a lot, though,” the prisoner pointed out.

The sheriff lowered his paper and glared at the other prisoner. “I swear on the heavens, that’s the last word I want outta you. And you,” he nodded to Molly. “You can save your explanations for—” The sheriff leaned forward and squinted at Molly. He slapped his paper down and bolted out of his chair. “Hey, wait a damn second. Didn’t I tell you pets weren’t allowed in my office?” He strode toward the cells, jabbing the air with his gun-shaped finger. “You were in here the other day, weren’t you? Asking about Cripple?”

Molly nodded. “That’s right, and I think she’s in trouble.”

“Aw, hell, Cripple’s always in trouble,” the deputy said.

“Your pet’s gotta go,” the sheriff told her.

“No, listen, she’s really in trouble. I think they’re loading her into one of the shuttles, those shuttles that keep getting shot down.”

“Ain’t just the shuttles getting shot down,” the deputy pointed out. “Besides, it’s only illegals sent off in them things. Cat was born right here on Lok. Everyone knows she ain’t illegal.”

“It’s not just the illegals,” Molly said. “They’ve got this Ryn guy, and they’ve got Urg’s family—” Molly wracked her brain to think who else, but that was already stretching the population of Callites she personally knew.

“That’s crazy,” the deputy said. “Why would they—?”

The sheriff waved him off. “You say they’re taking legals?” he asked.

Molly nodded. Even if Pete was lying about them rounding up legal Callites, she needed an excuse to have the sheriff look into it.

“You believe her?” the deputy asked. “She’s obviously on drugs.”

Sheriff Browne walked over to his desk and rested his hand on his newspaper. “Old man Robbins delivered the paper two days in a row,” he said.

“Yup,” the prisoner agreed.

“What’s strange about that?” the deputy asked. “Robbins prints the damn thing. Course he’d be the one to fill in on a delivery or two.”

The sheriff turned and aimed his “hand” gun at the deputy. “Robbins ain’t walked a route in twenty years.” He made two popping sounds with his mouth, and his extended fingers rocked back with the recoil. “Dontcha think it’s odd he’d suddenly deliver it twice in two days?”

“It’s odd enough the fool’s printing that rubbish,” the prisoner said.

The deputy looked to the prisoner, but nodded rather than hush him up. “Yeah, hard to believe he’s running a press with ships dropping out of the sky. Maybe his Callite delivery boy got hurt in the—”

“Cor,” Sheriff Browne said. “Boy’s name is Cor, and Firehawks don’t fall on the likes of him. He’s too clever for that and too good to turn tail without slipping word to me.”

The deputy took off his hat and waved it in front of his face, which sent the shaft of dust by the window into a tizzy. “You don’t seriously think—?”

“I think I wanna hear what this girl has to say. After she puts that pet of hers out in the street, of course. Go open her cell up and get it.” The sheriff pointed his “gun” away from the deputy and toward the lock in front of Molly.

“Sir, I—”

“Open that gate, son, and get that varmint out of there.”

The deputy shook his head. “I’m sorry Sheriff, but I can’t do that.”

Sheriff Browne whirled on the younger man. It seemed he was spun around by the shocking display of obstinacy, like a slug to his shoulder. Molly turned to follow the action and saw that the deputy had drawn his gun. A real one.

“Goddamnit, sir. Why couldn’t you take early retirement like I suggested?”

Molly watched the scene from between the bars. Beside her, the prisoner stirred, moving to his own cell door like an eager spectator peering over a balcony. The two of them stood, barely a meter apart, and silently followed the action.

Or inaction, rather.

The sheriff stood there, surveying his deputy with an odd air of detached calm. As for the deputy, the only thing that moved was his hand. It shook, which caused the barrel of his gun to tremble slightly. Molly had no idea what was going on, but something began to perturb the hyperspace out of her Wadi. The small creature crawled around to her collarbone and tried to slither out through the bars. Molly held it back, clutching both hands around the small animal lest it run out into trouble.

After what felt like several minutes of a tense staredown, Molly finally saw a flash of movement from the sheriff: a smile. It slid across his lips and seemed to creep up under his gray mustache.

“Don’t do it,” the deputy said. He extended his gun out toward the sheriff, and the trembling in his hand increased. “Don’t analyze it. Don’t even think about it. And most important, don’t say a thing. I can let you live if I think you don’t know.” The deputy waved his gun toward the door. “If you stay mum, you can just ride out to that farm you’ve been dreaming of and never look back.”

The sheriff moved fast. So fast, Molly flinched and nearly lost her grip on the Wadi. His hand shot up. It seemed to travel through hyperspace to get there, as if it didn’t need to move through the intervening space. Molly peered at his hand and saw it had been formed into the shape of a gun—a double-finger barrel leveled at the deputy. It jabbed forward several times, indicating the man.

“You don’t just know… you’re involved,” said Sheriff Browne.

“You dumb fool,” the deputy said. “Just shut your trap and retire in peace.” The metal gun came up and was aimed right down the barrel of the sheriff’s fleshy one.

Sheriff Browne looked to the shut door. “That’s why you brought Paulie in, right? That’s why you wrote this up and took it so seriously. And yesterday, you didn’t act surprised when Mrs. Thrimble came in to report her maid went missing. You already knew about the Callites.”

“Sheriff, I’m gonna need you to cuff yourself to yonder cell.” The deputy glanced down at the sheriff’s hand. “And stop pointing that at me.”

The sheriff raised his arm and sighted past his cocked thumb. “This something you’ve been setting up for a long while? Been waiting for the old dog to crawl down from the porch and go off and die in solitude?”

“Down from the porch? Sheriff, you’ve been cowering under it for damn near a decade. You’ve got no idea what goes on in this town. Hell, while you’re sitting there behind your armored desk reading what’s on page two, I’m out there creating them headlines on the other side.”

“Look at the ruckus you’ve caused,” the prisoner whispered to Molly.

She wished she could, but she had her hands full with the Wadi. The thing had gone bonkers on her, trying everything it could to get away. It practically swam through her hands, pushing forward with uncommon strength. Molly had to keep her arms in motion, reaching forward over and over as if climbing a rope while the Wadi slid ever forward. It was like trying to create an infinitely long tunnel, one section at a time, but the damn thing was running faster than she could keep up.

“Hold still,” she hissed at it, but for once it didn’t seem to heed her voice. A loud bang rang out, breaking her concentration. Molly looked up, expecting the sheriff to be on the floor, but the deputy had just slammed a metal shutter down over one of the windows. He crossed to the other one while both guns maintained their vigilance on one another.

“I always scratched my head over your transfer,” the sheriff said. “Couldn’t reckon why someone’d leave a cushy spot at immigrations for all the political nonsense this job comes with. That shuttle that went up this morning, it’s tied up in this somehow, isn’t it?”

“You’ve got three seconds to put on those handcuffs, old man.”

“You think I’m scared of that gun? That’s my gun. You think I’m scared of death? You think that’s why I sit in here and read the funnies?”

“Three.”

“Son, you don’t know half of what I seen in my day. Or why it depresses me to see what’s come of this place.”

“Two. I mean it, sir. I will shoot you.” The other shutter lowered with a bang, startling Molly even as she watched it happen and had anticipated the noise.

“Ain’t my stomach that’s weak, boy, it’s my heart. It done broke long before you came around. That bullet can’t stop what ain’t there.”

“I’m sorry,” the deputy said. He pulled up his gun as the sheriff lowered his own. “One—” he said, looking away.

“NO!” Molly yelled. She leaned against the bars and pressed both arms through them as far as they would go. A shot rang out, and so did a Wadi. The latter aimed true, even as the former went wide, the deputy startled by Molly’s voice, or perhaps by the flash of movement heading his way, or maybe even some internal weakness.

The next scream came from the deputy as a shimmering blur wrapped itself around his neck. Only… the Wadi didn’t seem intent on making herself at home there. Unless, of course, making a home required some grisly form of burrowing.

“Drenards in hyperspace,” the prisoner said. “What the flank is that?”

Molly screamed, yelling for the world to stop, for the Wadi to stop, but both kept crawling forward. The deputy sank to his knees, quiet now, pawing at his neck with one hand. The other one brought the gun up and pressed it to the vibrating shape below his chin. It wavered there, contemplating the ridiculous: an end to them both. Molly clawed the air and continued to scream, drowning out the flow of cursing from the neighboring cell. The sheriff dashed forward, his pretend gun put away, his hand nothing but a hand. It swiped sideways with dizzying speed, and when the gun went off, a puff of smoke leapt out of its barrel, and a matching cloud drifted down from the wounded ceiling.

Molly collapsed from the suddenness and shock of it all. She sank to her knees and leaned against the bars with her arms wrapped around them. Hugging them. The sheriff stood over the gurgling deputy, a smoking gun in his hand. The Wadi jumped off and ran in a brief circle around the sheriff’s feet.

“You go on back,” the sheriff said, waving the Wadi away.

The Wadi dutifully obliged, scurrying toward Molly and leaving behind a trail of tiny red prints.

Sheriff Browne turned to her. He slowly placed the deputy’s gun inside his empty holster, then patted it fondly like a son returned home from war. Molly looked up and saw him tip his hat in her direction. The Wadi climbed her shirt and curled around her neck. She could feel the creature vibrating with energy, or fear—maybe even excitement.

“We got us a no-pets policy for a reason,” Sheriff Brown said. He nodded at her Wadi and tapped his temple. “Wouldn’t be so paranoid about critters reading my mind if I didn’t know what was in here, myself.”

48

Cole sat up on the operating table and moved his arm in slow circles. He grimaced from the soreness in his back, his other shoulder, and all the other and older parts of himself.

Penny watched him from behind the tray at the foot of his bed. “Looks like you managed to get that new shoulder you always wanted,” she said as she gathered up surgical instruments and power tools—both specked with blood and hydraulic fluid.

Cole looked up, expecting to find her smirking at him, teasing him, but she wore a solemn, sad, expression.

“Would’ve saved it if I could,” Arthur said. He glanced up from his portable computer. “And the next time you overpower the limiters, it’ll be your collarbone and ribs that give way. So please—on behalf of my spares cabinet—don’t do anything like that ever again.”

Cole nodded, suppressing a grin.

Mortimor walked into the operating room with a towel in one hand, his hair sticking up from having recently been soaked and then dried off. “You are one crazy sonofabitch,” he said, shaking his head.

“We were just going over that,” Arthur said, “and attempting to correct some personality defects.”

Mortimor stepped around Penny and came to Cole’s side. He took Cole’s new arm by the wrist and looked it over. “You shore up the collar-bone?” he asked Arthur.

Arthur sighed. “Yes, but please don’t tell him that.”

Mortimor smiled and nodded.

“How did the salvage go?” Arthur asked Mortimor.

The smile faded. “Not good,” he said. “What’s left of the skimmers, usable anyway, could fit in a bucket.”

“Sorry about that,” said Cole.

Mortimor sat on the edge of Cole’s cot and gave him a stern look. “Apology accepted. Now, I don’t know what you were trying to prove, but you don’t rush off by yourself like that. You wait for help, understand?”

Cole peered down at his lap and nodded.

“No more flying solo, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Alright.” Mortimor patted Cole’s knee and stood up. “Having said that, you did good out there. If those two had gotten clear…” Mortimor left the sentence unfinished. He looked from Cole to Arthur.

“Speaking of those two, what were they?” Cole turned to Arthur. “Did you make the metal one?”

Arthur laughed and shook his head. “Above my pay grade, I’m afraid.”

“A Bern?”

“Made by the Bern, from what you described. A tool they like to use.” Arthur finished his adjustments and put the computer away. He turned to Mortimor. “Maybe we should call off this raid and do another sweep through the crew to look for moles. Among the Humans, especially.”

“We can’t abort,” Mortimor said. He rubbed his beard with the towel and leaned back against the wall. “I talked to the Seer and let her know what happened. She said we should go as planned. Seemed insistent, actually.”

Penny finished loading the tools and surgical instruments into a drum sanitizer. She looked up at the mention of the Seer. “Did she say anything else?”

Mortimor glanced her direction, then looked to Cole. “Just that she enjoyed her visit with our new friend here.” He set his towel aside and scanned the room. “And…”

“And what?” Penny asked.

Mortimor nodded to Cole. “She reiterated what you told me. She said everyone goes. I’ve already told Ryke to plan accordingly.”

“Everyone goes on the raid?”

“That’s right.” Mortimor frowned. “She said not to leave anyone behind.”

“What does that mean?” Penny asked.

Mortimor shook his head. “I think it means we’re done here, for good or bad. It probably means we were too late, or there were too little of us, or that this whole blasted enterprise has been an exercise in futility. It means we’re giving up. Running away.”

Arthur stepped back, as if physically struck by the words. “Did she say when?”

“As soon as we can. I’m ordering a synchronized sleep schedule effective immediately with a briefing at oh six hundred. No more shifts. No more perimeter defense. Everybody is resting up for this one and it’ll be our last.”

Arthur shook his head. “I can’t sleep. There’s too much to do.”

“Don’t worry. You and I are exempt. Ryke and his boys will be working straight through as well to finish the boxes and make sure they haven’t been tampered with in any other way.”

“I should go help them,” Cole said. He made to get up from the cot, but Mortimor stepped forward and pushed him back.

“Actually, you need to get your rest.”

“But those are my boxes.”

“And you’ll be happy to hear you’re getting your wish. You’ve proven yourself in combat, and frankly, we need every able soldier we’ve got. So heal up in a hurry. If Arthur clears you, you’ll be a part of this wild-ass plan of yours.”

“I am?” Cole looked to Arthur for confirmation. “I will be?”

Arthur shrugged.

“Get some sleep,” Mortimor said. He picked up his towel and walked away, slapping Arthur on the back as he went. Arthur startled out of whatever he’d been thinking. He shot Cole a brief glance before turning to Penny.

“Better tape up that bandage on his other arm a little tighter, then.” He pulled out his computer, gave Cole one more serious look, then turned and hurried after Mortimor.

Penny and Cole were left alone in the small operating room. A machine in the corner whirred softly, its presence revealed by the new silence. Penny pulled her blue gloves off and crossed from the sanitizing machine to a low counter. She fumbled in a drawer, her actions tense and hurried.

“Is everything okay?” Cole asked.

Penny pulled out a roll of tape and slapped it to the counter. Cole cringed as the sharp noise rang out in the small room. He sat quietly while Penny stared down at the back of her hand, which covered the roll of tape.

“If I hadn’t noticed the wiring, none of this would’ve happened.”

“What?” Cole leaned forward; Penny turned to face him.

“I’m so sorry,” she said. She looked at Cole’s repaired arm and rubbed the side of her own.

“Are you kidding? Think about what would’ve happened if you hadn’t noticed something was wrong. The raid would’ve gone as planned, and everyone would’ve jumped to their death.”

“I shouldn’t have left the room, then. I should’ve been there to—”

“Don’t.” Cole shook his head. “Besides, everything worked out fine, right?”

Penny picked up the tape and walked around to the other side of his cot. “I don’t know.” She untied his surgical gown and folded it down over his shoulder, revealing the pad of gauze that had been lightly taped over his stitches. “They’ve put a lot of work into this place to be told to abandon it.”

“Is this about what the Seer said?”

Penny shrugged. She worked the end of the tape loose and began shoring up the bandage over his deep cut. “It’s weird to even be talking about her without going up on the roof.” She adhered a piece of tape to the pad and scratched at the roll to tease up the torn end. “Everything’s changing.”

“Is it something I did?” Cole waited for Penny to meet his gaze. “I screwed things up, didn’t I?”

“How should I know? All I know is a lot of people have died to keep this place together, and now Mortimor’s talking about abandoning it.”

“You’re supposed to tell me this isn’t my fault,” Cole said.

Penny looked to the side. “I don’t know that it’s not.”

Cole pushed her hands away from his wound. “Leave me be,” he said. “In fact, I think you should leave the room.”

Penny slapped his hands in return. She threw the tape in his lap and turned to leave, then whirled on him. Leaning forward, she grasped his shoulders with both hands and brought her face close to his. Cole gasped in pain.

“You leave me be!” Penny hissed. “Get out of my head!”

Cole stared at her with his mouth open, his vision blurred with tears of physical agony.

“You’re hurting me,” he said.

Penny let go. She stood up and looked at her palms, then whispered something to herself.

Cole looked to his real shoulder and saw that the bandage had been torn loose by her grasp; the stitches were leaking blood.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

Cole didn’t say anything. He watched as Penny surveyed her hands, turning them over and back, checking all sides of herself. “It’s just—I feel stupid around you. I feel—”

“I’m in love with someone,” Cole said.

Penny nodded. “I know. And it wouldn’t matter, anyway. I just hate myself for feeling out of control.”

“You hate yourself? How do you think I feel? One minute I’m being called the chosen one by a group of people trying to eradicate us, which makes me wonder what the hell I was chosen for. The next, it sounds like I’m screwing up the plans of a guy I’m doing every damn thing to win the respect of—”

“Mortimor?”

Cole nodded.

“Well, you can stop.”

“Yeah, I’m sensing that.”

“No, I mean the guy already loves you.”

“Yeah, right.”

“Trust me. I know what it looks like.”

Cole pressed his bandage back in place and picked up the tape.

“Here, let me,” Penny said. “It’s hard to do stuff like that until your new fingers sort themselves out.”

Cole allowed her to take the tape. He looked down at his fingers and rubbed the pads of them together.

“Do you remember the first time you saw me?” Cole asked.

“Of course.”

“Where was it? Or… when was it?”

“I was in the skimmer that picked you up. Don’t you remember? I performed CPR on you for most of the trip back here. And then there was the surgery. You almost didn’t make it, you know. Pretty bad hypothermia. Your lips—” Penny glanced up at his face, then looked back to her work. “They were completely black.”

“After that, was there any time—were we ever alone together?”

Penny tore a strip of tape in two and affixed it over the gauze and to his flesh. “I don’t get what you’re asking.”

Cole leaned back against his pillow. “So some of it was a dream, then.”

Penny laughed. “Probably. You were rambling a lot.”

“What was I saying?”

“Nonsense. Gibberish. It was all in Spanish.”

It was Cole’s turn to laugh. “Portuguese,” he said.

“Whatever.” Penny finished her work and stood back. She looked him over, the sad expression still on her face. “Get some sleep,” she told him. She turned to go.

“Hey, wait.”

Penny stopped. She turned her head to the side.

“What?” she asked.

“Maybe it’s a good thing, the Seer telling us to all go. Maybe it can be interpreted a different way.”

“The way you want to hear it, right?”

“I’m just saying, the fact that the next fight might be our last…”

“Yeah?”

“Well,” Cole said, “it still leaves open the question of whether or not we’ll win.”

Penny stood still for a moment. She reached up and pulled an elastic band off her bunned-up hair, allowing it to spill down and across her shoulders. Turning, she locked Cole’s gaze with her own, and he saw the barest of smiles flirt with the corners of her mouth.

“Yeah,” she said, “I like that.” Penny nodded. “I like that a lot.”

49

“Well, I’m sure glad that’s over,” the prisoner said. He watched as the sheriff opened the cell door for Molly and waved her out. “I’ll be gods-awful glad to get free of this joint.”

Sheriff Browne turned to him. “What in hyperspace does a lick of this have to do with you robbing a buggy dealership?”

The prisoner scratched his beard. “I was hoping you could tell me!”

“Not a damn thing, that’s what. Now sit down and shut up. Next time I shoot you, it won’t be with my fingers.”

The prisoner shot a finger of his own up at the ceiling, but backed away as he did so. The sheriff turned and regarded his dead deputy. “Looks like your pet done finished what you started last night.”

“How did you do that?” Molly asked. She looked from the deputy to the Wadi on her shoulder, suddenly fearful to be reminded of what her pet could do. She flashed back to the fight on the Drenard shuttle when she’d last seen its ferocious side and tried to tease out what the two events had in common.

“I’ve always had a way with animals,” Sheriff Browne said. “A way that tends toward trouble.”

“So, am I free to go?” Molly glanced at the office door and thought about dashing out of there, just to get away from the residual tension she could feel coursing through her body. It was hard to believe she’d wanted to come there.

“Way I see it, this is now animal control’s jurisdiction.” The sheriff smiled at her. That smile faded as he looked back to the mess on the office floor. “But who’s gonna clean this up if the Callites keep going missing?”

“The Callites,” Molly said. “That’s why I came to see you. Some of my friends are in trouble.”

“Hardly surprising.” The sheriff looked down at his poor deputy. “Trouble seems to follow you around, don’t it?”

Molly frowned. “I think they might be in big trouble. Like I said before, another shuttle is supposedly going up today, and they might be on it.”

The sheriff stepped around his deputy, casting the body a forlorn look. He threw open one of the shutters and peered outside at the bustle on the busy street. “Never could stand what they were doing there at immigrations, even before the damned things were being shot down. But I had no right to inquire. The law is the law.”

“Just because it’s the law doesn’t make it right,” Molly said. She held the Wadi to her chest and went to the door. She opened it up to let in some light and let out some of the stuffiness created by the dead body.

“Then again,” the sheriff said, “if legals are being shipped off, like Cripple for instance…”

“Will you at least come with me and check? Because I’m going either way.”

The sheriff leaned on the windowsill and peered out through the haze of sunlit dust, his shoulders pressed up around his ears in a frozen shrug.

“Is it hard to think about going outside?” Molly asked.

The sheriff turned to her and laughed. “He meant it as a figure of speech. Whadya think, I sleep in here? I get out twice a day, to and from work. Hell, I arrested you right over yonder.” The sheriff pointed out the window to the sidewalk a dozen paces away.

“So you’ll come with me?”

The sheriff nodded. “I suppose so. As long as you don’t mind riding on the back of my Theryl.” He pulled his hat down snug, patted his holster, took one last look at his dead deputy, then turned to the door.

“Theryl?” Molly asked. “What in the galaxy is that?”

A monstrous horse-like animal, apparently. The sheriff led the large creature out of its stall and into the alley. He clucked at it affectionately, and the animal turned and looked down to survey Molly with its single eye.

“Hello,” she said, waving. “Nice Theryl.”

“Her name’s Clementine,” the sheriff said. He patted the animal on the neck. “Come back here and I’ll give you a lift.”

Molly hurried around to the other side of the sheriff and moved the Wadi to the back of her neck. The sheriff reached up and engaged a switch on the saddle. The rear of the leather seat opened up, and a second, smaller seat extended out its back as another pair of stirrups unspooled. “Up you go,” he said, creating a basket with his hands.

Molly let him boost her up. She threw a leg over the small saddle, and the Theryl shifted beneath her. She held on to the handles to either side of her seat and wondered how the sheriff was going to get up. She leaned to the side and watched as he stepped into a lowered stirrup, which began sucking up into the saddle, lifting him into place.

“And away we go,” the sheriff said. He clucked his tongue, and Clementine sauntered down the alley. At the end, the animal turned left, its hooves clomping loudly on the wooden sidewalk.

“Not today, old girl.” The sheriff pulled gently on the reins, turning the Theryl the other direction. “Bit of business for us oldtimers left to do.”

With that, he snapped the reins, and the Theryl threw her head back. She let out a whistle, a trilling call more like a bird’s than any mammal Molly knew of. Her front hooves left the sidewalk for a moment and waved excitedly in the air. And then they were off—tearing down the dusty street, weaving through traffic, with Molly and the Wadi holding on for dear life.

The sheriff and Theryl moved as one, leaving Molly to move awkwardly as something else. She let go of the useless little handles and wrapped her arms around the sheriff’s waist. She managed half a yelp as they picked up speed, the Wadi’s tail wrapping around her neck and squeezing off the rest of her outburst. All around her was the thunder of Theryl hooves and the strange and sickening rise and fall of its peculiar gait.

Molly concentrated on the rhythm of the beast and tried to move with it instead of fighting it. Each corner they rounded threw her timing off as everything leaned to one side or the other. After dozens of blocks flew by, the sheriff yelled something, and Clementine pulled to a halt in a staccato of clocking hooves.

“There,” the sheriff said. He pointed to a squat building at the end of the road, out on the edge of town. A tall fence studded with lookout towers ringed the structure; inset into this was a small guard station, which seemed to offer the only access through.

“Flank!” The sheriff’s arm came up, his finger tracking something rising from behind the building. The roar of the shuttle’s thrusters hit them moments after the realization they’d arrived too late.

“No!” Molly yelled. She tried to scream more, but the sheriff nudged the Theryl forward, and she had to hold tight to his back. The animal moved at a furious pace, making the previous jaunt seem like a stroll by comparison. Even the roar of distant thrusters couldn’t match the raw fury roiling beneath them.

Holding fast, Molly wondered if they weren’t better off heading back to Parsona and giving chase in the atmosphere. What good was the sheriff expecting to do? Arrest the department of immigration? That would be too late for her friends. She peeked under his armpit and saw the world ahead in brief flashes each time his hands came up with the reins. He steered right for the guard gate, urging the Theryl to dizzying speeds with loud “ha’s!” Ahead, the wall of steel wire and coiled razor jounced a dozen meters closer with each glimpse.

Molly tried to yell for him to stop, but the Wadi and the raw speed clutched her breath. She visualized all of them smeared across the fencing and wondered if the sheriff planned something as foolish as ramming the thing down—

Suddenly, the Theryl’s gait stuttered, almost as if it had come to the same realization. Its hooves skipped, its back sank down, and it took two strides that felt different. Then the rear legs of the animal flew up, lashing out straight to either side so quickly that Molly felt her stomach sink as her chin was pressed down to her chest. She grabbed her own wrists around the sheriff’s waist and squealed as the Theryl jolted into the sky, the rough gallop gone in a buzz of whipping wind.

Opening her eyes a crack, Molly caught a brief glimpse of the Theryl’s four legs spread to either side, a thin flap of skin stretched out between them and catching the air. Below, the coils of razor wire passed in silence, the Theyrl’s leathery wings waving at the fence with mock indifference.

The gliding seemed to draw out forever before the legs reached for the ground, the flap closing up over its belly, and the thunder of hooves on packed dirt resuming. Molly felt her spine compress with the landing; her teeth clapped shut as her jaw hit her sternum. She fought to secure her grip on the sheriff and peeked through his armpit with her tear-streaked eyes. She saw the squat building looming directly ahead, the fence having been cleared with an impossible leap.

“Whoa!” the sheriff yelled.

Molly leaned back as he pulled the reins; the thunder faded to drums and then to a steady knocking. The sheriff threw one leg over the Theryl’s head and jumped off to the ground. He turned and held out his hands as Molly slid down after him.

“A little warning next time?”

He smiled at her as he rubbed the large animal’s neck. “First time on one?”

“First and last, I hope.” Molly truly meant it. The Theryl turned and snorted at her, its wide whiskers making it seem sage and comical at once.

“Alright,” the sheriff said. He glanced back toward the guard gate, which was suspiciously lacking in the activity department. “Let’s poke our heads in and ask some questions.” He looked up at the fading roar of the shuttle, the white hull perched atop a column of thick smoke. “Maybe we can convince them to turn that thing around—”

The sheriff fell silent; he shielded his eyes to look up through the glare of morning sun. Molly did the same and immediately noticed the odd gap in the shuttle’s exhaust, the dash of blue sky between puffs of interrupted smoke. The shuttle stood high above, sideways, its thrusters dark and quiet. The craft grew larger as it began its slow descent—its plummet to the prairies of Lok.

“Hyperspace!” the sheriff cursed. He drew his pistol and continued to watch the shuttle fall toward the horizon. Molly wondered what he thought he was going to do with the weapon, if it was just a reaction to danger, or perhaps a desire to put something near death out of its misery.

“We’re too late,” Molly said as the Wadi cowered against her neck, its scales scratching her like course sandpaper.

The sheriff glanced at the nearby entrance to the building and reached inside a saddlebag. He pulled out a dozen long plastic strips, the same kind Molly used to secure hoses in the thruster room.

“If there were legals on that shuttle,” he said, “that gives us the right to arrest them.” He handed the strips of plastic to Molly. “Consider yourself deputized.”

Molly swallowed hard, an image of the last deputy flashing back in her vision. Before she could object to her new role, the sheriff strode off, walking to the door with a stride of purpose and vigor she hadn’t seen in his carriage around the office.

“Hey, wait,” Molly said, hurrying after him. “Shouldn’t I have a gun or something?”

“No, you don’t need a gun.” The sheriff paused at the door and peeked through the glass, cupping one of his hands by the side of his face. He grabbed the knob and turned to Molly. “Just stay behind me. We’re here to arrest them, not kill them.”

Molly nodded. She looked at the quickcuffs he’d handed her and figured she’d still feel better with a gun.

“Let’s go,” the sheriff said.

He pulled open the door and stepped inside. Molly followed him into a dimly lit foyer; she let the door slam shut behind her. Once her eyes adjusted, she saw an empty reception desk at the end of the hall with a set of double doors beyond it. The sheriff strolled across the room and glanced behind the desk. He placed one hand on the set of doors and turned his head to the side.

“Let me do the talking.”

Molly nodded once more.

With that, the sheriff pushed open the doors to the immigrations building. He and Molly stepped inside, expecting to find a labyrinth of cubicles, or perhaps a maze of tiled hallways studded with fluorescently lit offices. Either option would’ve felt familiar and would’ve matched the cliché of a large building built on bureaucracy.

As the doors yawned wide, however, the sheriff cursed out loud at the sight that greeted them. It wasn’t the office building Molly had expected. And yet, it was a sight more familiar. More sickeningly familiar.

“Flank me,” Sheriff Browne whispered.

Before them lay a room of high beds, most of which were occupied by prone figures. What Molly was drawn to, however, were the bags. Rows and rows of them hung from the beds, many of them already full of blue Callite blood.

“Holy shit,” she said.

She was so focused on the bags, on all the blue spirals of blood flowing from strapped arms and through the tubes that she was barely cognizant of the flurry of activity. About ten workers, their aprons splattered blue, cried out in alarm and rushed toward Molly and Sheriff Browne. The first gunshot startled her out of her shocked reverie. Molly flinched and dropped the bundle of plastic strips. One of the men running their way spun around, his arm flying akimbo, a bright, wet wound flashing out on his shoulder before he fell behind a gurney.

BLAM!

Another shot, and another man twirling from the impact. Browne held the gun straight ahead and lined up for another squeeze of the trigger. He fired again, and Molly found herself ducking from the noise, her hands going to her ears. Two more rapid shots, and Browne started backing up, yelling something to Molly, but her ears were ringing from being so close to the gun’s report.

One last loud bang, and the sheriff lowered his gun and started fumbling with it. Molly glanced through the smoke from the shots, the smell of spent gunpowder tickling her nose. Slowly, gradually, the world around her came back into focus. She watched Brown’s lips move beneath his mustache, saw him cursing at his gun. She watched him drop a handful of shells; they spun toward the floor and bounced and rattled there.

Molly looked back up at the remaining workers running their way. They came around the last row of gurneys topped with draining Callites, yelling and jostling and full of rage. Molly’s ears continued to ring. She remained frozen in place, watching events as if through another’s eyes. Her gaze fell to a nearby Callite, who was lifting her head and looking Molly’s way.

It was Cat. Her lips were moving.

“Run,” she was shouting.

Molly could hear it, now. Could match up the ringing in her ears with the movement of Cat’s lips.

“Run.”

But the men were already upon them.

The first man headed straight for Sheriff Browne, tackling him before he could reload. He crawled on top of the older man and began pummeling him senseless. Molly moved to help—she felt the Wadi fly from her neck—when a figure reached her at a dead run, his fist a blur.

Molly ducked and twisted out of the way just in time, letting the man fly past; his splattered denim coveralls barely registering in the back of her mind as something she should recognize.

Two more men scrambled around Cat’s gurney to join the fray. There was a shout from behind her, and Molly turned in time to see her Wadi slung by its tail and thrown down against the tiled floor. The creature went limp, and the man, his neck bleeding, went back to pounding on the sheriff.

Someone slammed into Molly’s back, sending her flying forward. She landed near her limp Wadi and was unable to take her eyes off it. She felt a rage coursing up inside, filling her up. A man stood over her, his boots planted to either side. He reached down to seize her, to drag her up, and Molly let him. She let him pull her up by her collar while she kept her body limp and half balled-up. As soon as her feet came under her, she kicked off the floor, jumping straight up as hard as she could, sending her head into the man’s nose.

His screams seemed to frighten off the ringing in her ears. The world returned to a normal speed as it resumed making noises. The man over a limp Sheriff Browne turned and realized the fight wasn’t over. He stood to join the others as Molly backed toward Cat’s gurney.

“I got this!” the man with the bleeding nose said, but the other men kept creeping forward. Molly finally recognized one of them as being Pete. She watched him spit through a sneer as she circled Cat’s gurney. She reached for the straps across her friend and started fumbling with them. The man she’d attacked lunged forward and grabbed at her wrists, forcing her to stop and pull them back.

“Nose!” Cat yelled.

Her head lifted off the gurney and turned to Molly.

“Now!”

The man was still leaning over Cat, his hands on her straps. Molly reared her fist back and threw her shoulders into the punch. She cracked the man on his already bleeding nose and felt a jolt of pure pain shoot through her knuckles and waver up her arm.

“Palms!” Cat said. “Use your palms!”

Molly obeyed and threw her left palm after the last punch. She struck him with the heel of her hand, using her armbones like battering rams. The blow slammed into the man’s face as he was already falling forward from the last blow. His head bounced off Cat’s stomach and flew back; his body crumpled on the other side of the gurney. Molly shook her right hand and watched as the other three men strode forward.

“Fight their joints,” Cat told her. Her voice was solid and unwavering, despite her condition.

“What?” Molly looked around for something to wield as a weapon, or someone to help her, but it was just a sea of still bodies and blue bags.

“You aren’t fighting them,” Cat said. “Just their joints. Pick a joint and fight it.”

One of the guys rounded Cat’s table and swiped at Molly. She bobbed her head under the blow and circled away, all the while pondering what Cat was saying and trying to remember everything she’d learned in her Naval combat classes.

The figure yelled something to the other two, keeping them at bay. He lashed out with a spinning kick meant to decapitate Molly. She fell into a crouch as his boot whizzed by, then lunged forward with her own foot. She caught him on the side of the knee as hard as she could and watched him wobble backward.

Molly turned to see what the other two men were doing—

“Forget them,” Cat said. “They’ll come one at a time.”

“Why?” Molly yelled. She danced to the side as the enraged worker shot forward, his attacks angry and telegraphed. As he passed by—his fists attacking the space where she just was—she threw the ball of her knee into the side of the same leg she’d already attacked. The man roared and fell to the ground, clutching his leg. Molly lined it up like a Galaxy Ball and kicked his knee as hard as she could with the steel toe of her flightboot. The man gurgled with pain, but a kick to his chin cut the sound off.

“Why? Because they’re men,” Cat said. “They don’t prove themselves in groups.”

Before Molly could work on the straps across Cat, one of the workers shoved Pete in the chest, pushing him away from the action. The figure came forward in a boxing stance, his hands high as he bounced on the balls of his feet.

“What now?” Molly asked.

“Can you wrestle?”

The man bounced forward and his hand disappeared. Molly felt it crack her cheek, and she saw sparks. She jumped back, but two more swift jabs landed in a flurry, one to her nose and another to her ribs. The man hopped around and showboated with his fists while Molly held her nose, bent over, blood leaking through her fingers.

“Get off your feet!” Cat yelled.

Molly glanced over and saw Cat straining against her restraints, her arms tensed and popping with wiry muscles. She had her head turned to the side to follow the fighting. The man darted forward, his hands coming up in front of him to unleash another blistering combination—

Molly dove at his waist and wrapped her arms around him. She brought one foot behind his heel and kept pressing forward, putting her weight and momentum into his thighs. The boxer waved his arms in the air, but couldn’t keep himself upright. They both went back and crashed into the floor, his head cracking the tiles loudly.

“Elbows!” Cat yelled.

Molly pulled herself up to the guy’s chest while he busied himself clutching the back of his head. She bent her arm in half, keeping her fists up by her shoulders. She twisted back at the waist, then unloaded with an elbow across his chin. The man’s eyes rolled back. She hit him with another, just to be sure, and his arms fell to the side, limp.

“Enough!” Pete yelled.

Molly stood up from her latest victim and turned around. Pete stood behind Cat’s table, a silver blade twinkling against the Callite’s neck.

“Thought I told you to stay put,” Pete said. “Now get your arms behind your head before I spill what’s left of her blood.”

Cat met Molly’s gaze and smiled. One of her eyes scissored shut in a Callite wink. “After he kills me, kick his ass,” Cat said.

“Shut it,” Pete said. His arm tensed, and Molly could see the blade bite into Cat’s neck.

Cat’s smile broadened.

“Attack the joints,” she said. “Concentrate on the wrist with the knife.”

“I said shut it!”

The knife bit deeper and blue leaked out with force.

“And don’t you come closer!” Pete yelled at Molly. “Get your hands behind your head!”

Molly didn’t know who to listen to. She put her hands in the air, not willing to be responsible for Cat’s death. “I’m a sheriff’s deputy, Pete. Think about what you’re doing. Think about the next Pete.”

The man at her feet groaned as he came to. Molly stepped away from him, which made Pete flinch. “Stay where you are,” he told her. “Hey, Mickie, you okay? I need you to check the others.”

The man rolled over and pushed himself up to his hands and knees. “What happened?” he groaned, his hand coming up to the back of his head.

“You got your ass kicked by a chick, that’s what. Now get up and see how Ryan’s doing. He ain’t moved at all.”

“Don’t let him up,” Cat told Molly. “You’ve got the numbers, now. Don’t lose them.”

“Shut it!” Pete yelled. He pulled the knife away and held it over Cat’s chest, vertically. Molly watched as his other hand came up and gripped the hilt, both arms high over his head.

“Do it!” Cat yelled. She screamed, a long, piercing scream that shivered through Molly’s bones.

Molly watched in horror as the knife plunged down, the silver flash of steel disappearing in Cat’s chest up to the hilt. The man on the floor was on all-fours, groping for his senses. Molly threw her flightboot into his chin, making his search a little more difficult. As he collapsed into another silent heap, Molly dashed toward Cat, only she and Pete still standing.

With much effort, Pete wrested the blade out of Cat’s chest, pulling a fountain of blue with it. Molly slid under the gurney, feet-first, and aimed for his knees, impacting with a solid crunch. Pete yelled and tumbled straight down on top of her, his weight forcing her flat. Molly tried to twist her hips out from underneath him, tried to push up on his shoulders, but he wouldn’t budge. He threw a forearm across her neck and leaned into it, squeezing her airway down.

Molly gurgled and pushed at his shoulders. The knife came up, hovering behind Pete’s purple-glazed snarl. Molly’s body tensed in fear as it slid through the air and buried itself in her chest. It hit with a bang, with a sonic explosion, and Molly could smell spent gunpowder in the air.

Pete sagged down, his grotesque body limp with death. Molly tried to push him off, but her one arm was numb and useless. She shoved at him with her other one, grunting with effort, when his weight finally shifted. As Pete’s head rolled away, Molly saw Sheriff Browne’s on the other side, his face busted up, but the barest of smiles showing beneath his bloodstained mustache.

That smile sealed up when he saw the knife sticking out of her chest. Molly opened her mouth to say something, but all she could do was gasp. The pain was like a tunnel of cold air rigged up inside her, a hollow ache that pulled on her senses. Browne knelt by her side and placed one hand on her chest, the knife between the crook of his thumb and finger. He grasped the hilt with his other hand and pulled and pushed at the same time, sliding the weapon out.

Molly grunted from the pain and fought back the blackness swirling around her vision. The knife made a slick, sucking sound and came out coated with a purple mix of bloods. Her head fell back as Browne put pressure on the wound. She watched through heavy, slow-blinking lids as he tugged his bandana from around his neck and tucked it under his palm.

“Can you hold this?” he asked.

Molly nodded weakly, but she wasn’t sure if she could. Browne took both her hands and placed them over the bandage. He disappeared from her vision and staggered toward the tables. Over her throbbing pulse, Molly could hear leather straps flap back and metal buckles click together. She craned her neck to see what he was doing, but everywhere she looked, she saw with the tunnel vision of the half conscious. The world moved on the other side of a pinhole. Sheriff Browne flashed across the other side of that hole, moving from Cat’s gurney to another one further away.

Cat slid from her table to Molly’s side, her face filling Molly’s vision. Cat’s hands wrapped around Molly’s and pulled back the bandage. She put it back and helped apply pressure. “You’re gonna be fine,” she said. Cat looked up and scanned the room with a frown.

“My Wadi,” Molly whispered.

Cat looked over her shoulder. She patted Molly’s arm and moved away. Molly grunted and forced herself to one elbow, then struggled to sit up. She glanced back and wiggled toward one of the gurney’s legs, propping herself up to better see what was going on. She concentrated on pushing the blackness into the corners of her vision.

She regretted her efforts immediately when she saw what Cat was doing.

The Callite crouched over the Wadi with the blood-soaked knife. She had one of the creature’s arms splayed out—the blade resting against it, the palm of her hand flat against the dull side, as if about to apply pressure.

Molly managed a weak “No” as Cat shoved down on the blade, severing the limb. The sight of it nearly finished what her own wound had started—Molly could feel her consciousness try and slip away, could feel the black surge toward the center of her vision. She tried to call out to Cat, but managed just hoarse whispers as the Callite wiped the blade on the animals stump and leg before pressing them back together.

“What are you doing?” Molly croaked.

She clutched the sticky bandana to her chest and leaned forward, moving to her knees. She crawled closer to Cat and the Wadi, limping along with one hand.

“What have you done?”

Cat shook her head. When she turned, Molly saw tears dripping out of the alien’s eyes. Her lids scissored shut rapidly, but not quick enough to keep up with the flow of sadness.

“Shoulda seen it all along,” Cat muttered. She continued to hold the Wadi’s wound fast as she turned and surveyed the room. Molly crawled up next to her and looked down at the lifeless Wadi.

“So flanking obvious,” Cat said.

Molly fell to the side, resting on her hip; she turned and looked across the room. Sheriff Browne continued to move deeper through the sea of tables, leather straps swaying beneath the gurneys of those he’d already freed. Several Callites moved about as well, often clutching surfaces as if dizzy or weak. Molly saw more than a few straps hanging limp beneath bodies that did not stir at all.

Molly shook her head. “I don’t understand,” she said.

“Ain’t about votes,” Cat told her. “Weren’t never about votes.”

Molly looked down at the rag in her hands, soaked purple with her blood and Cat’s. She glanced over at Pete’s still form, the sheen of purplish grease coating his skin and splotching his apron in long streams.

“It’s a drug,” Molly said. “They’re making a drug!”

“No. It’s worse than that. And I’m a flanking fool for just now seeing it.” Cat shook her head. “It’s no wonder the stuff reeks of death.”

“What? What is it?” Molly asked.

“This is what you’ve been looking for.” Cat held up the knife, which was coated in their combined blood. “This is Lok’s version of fusion fuel.”

Molly sat in numbed silence, her wound and head throbbing. She heard Callites crying in the background amid the staccato of their desperate footsteps. She heard the mixture of relief and grief, both wailed in sadness, as loved ones took stock of who had made it and who had not. Her mind reeled with what Cat was saying. It didn’t even register when one of the Wadi’s arms twitched.

“Look,” Cat said.

A tail swished feebly, and Molly’s breath caught in her throat. She gasped and reached with both arms, forgetting her own wound. Cat passed the animal to her, saying something about being careful of its leg.

Molly nodded and cradled the animal, holding it against her chest. She felt the tears well up as it nuzzled against her, stirring in a confused awakening. “I thought I lost her,” Molly cried. “Lost her before I even got a chance to name her.”

Cat squeezed her shoulder and stood up. “I need to see to the others,” she said.

Molly sniffled and nodded. The Wadi reached out and gripped her shirt with its tiny claws, holding itself close. Twin tongues flicked out, both of them wavering in the air.

“It’s okay,” Molly told the Wadi.

“Everything’s gonna be fine,” she lied.

50

Cole fidgeted in place, his body practically vibrating with anxious nerves. Ahead of him stood two other soldiers in white combat uniforms: a Callite, and a creature whose name and race he’d already forgotten. Behind him stood another human, and four other lines were arranged parallel to theirs—three to one side with four people each, and one to the other side with just three. Various races chattered amongst themselves up and down the lines, the pre-raid jitters reminding Cole of old Academy briefings before big simulator missions.

The only members of the raid groups who seemed calm were the pilots. They sat perfectly still on the hyperdrive platforms, their arms curled around their shins and their heads up to watch the console operators. Cole felt small and lost with the incredible diversity of the races present and how much more experience they seemed to have. He peered past the crouching pilots where five other jump platforms had been arranged, each holding one of the cages Cole had designed.

“You nervous?” the guy behind Cole asked.

Cole turned and nodded. “Anxious, yeah. Mostly that my idea doesn’t get people killed.”

“It’ll work,” the guy said.

“I’m Cole.” He extended his hand.

“I know. We met in orientation.” The man smiled. “Don’t worry, there was a lot going on and I’m pretty forgettable. I’m Larken, the translator.”

“The guy who speaks Bern.”

Larken laughed. “Well enough. I used to hang with the wrong crowd, I guess you could say.”

Cole laughed. “Me too, a long time ago. Hey, at least we’re here now.”

“Yeah. Anyway, good luck in there. I’ll be right behind you, so clear out fast.”

“Don’t worry about that,” Cole said. He considered passing the message up the line.

“Listen up!” Mortimor yelled. He clapped his hands to get everyone’s attention. “We’ve got coordinates coming in now, so get ready! Remember, you’ve got three seconds to get out of the way before the next guy comes through. That’s as much as we can risk with a moving target, but it’ll probably feel like a lifetime as hopped up as you all are. Now, those of you in line, get on the platform fast and get out of the way quick once you arrive. Hit your quadrants and hit them hard. Pilots and navigators, secure the cockpits as swiftly as possible. We’re sending you as close as we can to the forward midline of each ship, so it should give you a short run. If you end up in mechanical spaces, be judicious about what you cut through, we need these puppies operational.”

He shifted his gaze to the back row. “Translators, stay alive. No heroics. Everyone’s redundant except for you.”

The lights over the platforms went from red to amber.

“Good luck!” Mortimor yelled. The tenor in his voice sent a wave of goosebumps down Cole’s arms. Mortimor jumped down from the platform and went to the back of the line next to Cole’s, completing its full complement of four—five, counting the seated pilot.

Larken squeezed Cole’s shoulder, then patted it twice. “Good luck!”

Cole grabbed his buckblade from its holster. He made sure he had it facing the right direction and that the safety was on. He looked over at Mortimor. “I didn’t know you were going.”

“Ran out of people that speak Bern. Now pay attention.” Mortimor nodded toward the platforms.

Cole looked.

The light over the pilots went green. There was a loud beeping sound followed by a pop of displaced air, and the cages in the back of the room vanished.

The pilots sitting on the platforms followed soon after, winking out of existence. The row of navigators jumped into position, taking the place of the pilots and falling to their butts. They wrapped their various species’ version of arms around their legs and fell still.

Penny was the navigator in Mortimor’s line. He watched wisps of red hair spill out of her hood as she settled into place. Their eyes met right before her head went down—then she disappeared from the room.

It was all happening so fast. Cole’s heart fluttered as he took a step forward. He chanced a glance to the side, at the neighboring line. Mortimor was looking straight ahead. He wished he’d known the old man was going; he would’ve switched places with someone to be in his group so he’d be able to keep an eye on him.

The lines surged forward again, and he felt Larken’s hand on his back, pushing.

Another pop of displaced air. Cole stood beside the console operator, right in front of the platform. Marx, the Callite plopping down ahead of him, looked up, and time slowed to a crawl. Cole watched the alien’s arms wrap around his shins, his scaly chin tuck down—and then he was gone.

Cole jumped up to the platform and sat down as quick as he could. He spun around to face what he hoped would be an exit once he popped out of hyperspace. In the back of his mind, he counted:

Three.

He grabbed his shins and tucked his head, squeezing his sword as tight as he dared without crushing it.

Two.

The last thing that flashed through his mind, right before he popped out of the room, was the Bern Seer. He couldn’t help but recall the last conversation they’d had, and a sickening sensation clawed at his stomach as he wondered if this was all one colossal mistake—

One…

51

Parsona settled in the clearing, her struts once again sagging under the weight of a full load of haggard survivors. Molly lifted her visor; she could hear the cargo bay’s loading ramp opening up behind her. She watched as Cat crawled out of the nav seat and over the control console to go and help the others. Molly unbuckled her own flight harness and spoke to her mother:

“Once we get everything unloaded, I’ll be back and we can get out of here.”

“Excellent,” her mom said. “Don’t forget the welding goggles.”

“I won’t,” Molly promised.

Molly jumped out of her seat and hurried back to the cargo bay where an eerily familiar scene greeted her: a weary and traumatized group jostled its way into the clearing, the sounds of their shuffles and cries reverberating through Parsona’s hulls.

The difference this time was that they weren’t alone. Outside, Molly could see Scottie conferring with several of the carrier’s crewmembers; Gloria’s survivors had already begun tending to the drained and exhausted Callites. The food and water meant for one group of survivors went around to all, and the profusion of blankets and seated groups multiplied, combined, grew, and became diverse.

Molly reached down and grabbed a crate of vegetables from Walter, who was helping hoist items up from the deep cargo pods. The boy had worked wonders haggling for supplies throughout Bekkie, while Molly, Cat, and Scottie had tended to the Callites, debating about where to take them.

“Keep one week’s worth of supplies for four people,” Molly instructed him. “The rest will remain here.”

Walter frowned and his face lost some of its luster, but he eventually nodded his assent.

“We’ll lift off as soon as everything is unloaded,” she said. “Make sure we’re clear, okay? No stowaways.”

Walter nodded. “Okay.”

Molly lifted the crate of food and joined the chain of people making their way outside. At the bottom of the ramp, she met Saunders, who took the crate from her and walked toward a blanket already pinned down by staged supplies.

“I’m guessing there’s quite some story to go with all these people,” Saunders said.

“You won’t believe me.”

“C’mon. It can’t be worse than the last thing you let me in on.”

Molly gave Saunders a look that made his eyes widen.

“Really?” He set the vegetables down and stepped out of the way as more food and material arrived. Molly pulled him aside.

“You remember what my parents were sent here for?”

“Illicit fusion fuel.”

“Right. Do you remember anything else from that folder? Another case they were working on?”

Saunders stared down at his feet and rubbed his chin. “I do remember something else.”

“Missing people.”

He snapped his fingers and pointed at Molly. “That’s right.”

Molly turned to watch the columns of Humans and Callites work to unload her ship. “Might as well have been the same case,” she said.

“What do you mean?”

Molly let out her breath in a long, exhausted stream, then shook her head. “The organisms, the stuff fusion fuel is made of, it’s in the water here on Lok. Cat and Scottie think this might be the very planet the stuff first originated from.”

“Fusion fuel?”

She faced Saunders, and in his scowl, Molly saw that he was as clueless as most of the galaxy on where the stuff came from. Even admirals, it seemed, weren’t privy to its manufacture.

“It’s a microorganism, a unique creature that can see and move through hyperspace. It’s attracted to water, and to light, but mostly to life. It’s why so many of the species of our galaxy are similar—they’ve been sharing information, interbreeding, feeding off the same stuff for billions of years.”

“And you’re sure about this?”

“Yeah. My friends have been unwitting participants in this mess. Only, they never knew where the ingredients they were mixing came from.” Molly shook her head. “Another thing I’m sure of is that these creatures are in the water. That’s probably how it gets in our blood. Cat thinks it changes something, that it makes the fuel interact within our bodies in some way.” Molly reached up and stroked the Wadi under her chin. “I believe her. I’ve seen what it can do.”

“Can do? You mean besides moving ships through space?”

Molly looked up at him. “I think it can be like a drug, or some kind of medicine. I don’t know. But these Callites, they were bleeding them to make it. And there were hyperdrives in this place—” Molly shook her head. “It looked like they were sending one variety of this stuff off to hyperspace—”

“Do what?” Saunders ran his hands up the sides of his face. “Why?”

Molly shrugged. “I think Cat knows, but she won’t say. My guess is it’s something traumatic. Scotties says he’s never seen her so shaken up. But we’re pretty sure they were sending it to hyperspace. We found the jump drives and the coordinates of the last delivery.” Molly didn’t feel like explaining how the center of Lok was a sensible place to “send” things.

Saunders turned and watched the Callites and his crewmen intermingle and help arrange supplies. “So, what now?”

“Now? Now you get some rest. A Callite will be coming out tomorrow by buggy. His name is Ryn, and he’s trying to arrange a safe place for everyone. The Navy no longer has a presence in Bekkie, and anyway, these people can be better trusted.”

“So that’s that, then.” Saunders clasped his hands behind his back.

“What do you mean?”

“You’re off to rescue your father.”

Molly nodded. “I’ve been off to rescue my father for two months, Admiral. The flight out here from Bekkie was almost unbearable.”

“I can imagine.”

Molly started to tell him that he couldn’t, but she saw the way he looked out over what remained of his crew. She knew he hadn’t been with Zebra long, but it still must’ve felt like he’d lost a huge chunk of a very large family. She imagined he had known most of the younger crewmembers from their Academy days.

“So I guess you know what I’m going through.”

Saunders nodded. He pulled her even further away from the blanket and the crowds forming around the supplies.

“I know why you need to go,” he said. “I imagine if I were in your shoes, I’d be doing the exact same thing, and it would be a greater sin for me to do it. It would be my duty to stay here and help these people. It would be my duty to fight, even if it was futile. Hell, I absolved you of any of that responsibility the day I kicked you out of the Academy, didn’t I?”

Saunders smiled, but it was laden with sadness.

“I was wrong about that,” he said. “You might be the best damn pilot that ever set foot in that Academy.”

“It’s okay,” Molly said.

Saunders shook his head. “It wasn’t okay. It was part my fear of you, part my over-protectiveness, but mostly my love for those boys and how you made them feel about themselves.”

“It’s okay,” Molly said. “I forgive you.”

Saunders looked away and wiped at his eyes. “I better see to my people. You be good, okay?”

Molly stepped close and wrapped her arms around his waist. Saunders froze for a moment, then draped his own arms across her back. He squeezed her gently, and she could hear him sniffle. She pressed her cheek into his chest before pulling away. Without making eye contact again—for fear of becoming a mess as well—she spun around and hurried toward Parsona.

“Hey,” someone said to her side.

Molly turned to find Cat emerging from the supply line. She handed a large jug of water to another Callite and stepped out of the queue. “You weren’t leaving without saying goodbye, were you?”

Molly shook her head and fought back the tears welling up in the bottoms of her eyes. “Never,” she croaked.

“C’mere.”

Cat pulled her close and wrapped her arms around Molly’s shoulders. Molly kept one arm in front of herself so she could wipe the tears from her eyes.

“You’re a good kid. You be sure and tell your pops I said that when you see him.”

Molly nodded. “Watch over Urg’s family for me, okay?”

“Hey. Stop that. You saved a lot of people, girl. Don’t you go beating yourself up over the things you couldn’t control. Take that from an expert.”

Molly nodded. “I’ll try.”

“Alright. You go on, now.” Cat let go and pushed her away. Molly practically ran back to the ship, past the long line of Navy crewmembers and Callites working together to prepare for whatever befell them next.

Cat stood in place and watched her go. She marveled at how young the girl seemed as Molly stomped up the loading ramp and disappeared into that great starship. She thought about what she had just told her, and all the myriad more things she wished she had said.

“Among those you saved was me,” Cat whispered to nobody.

“You ready?” Parsona asked.

Molly checked the indicators. Everything was green. She had her welding goggles on her forehead, ready to slip down. The hyperdrive was cycled and the tank showed full. She looked over at Walter, who already had his goggles pulled into place. He was waving his hands in front of himself, hissing at the complete blackness.

“I guess,” Molly said. She banked over the woods and did a low fly-by. It was getting dark, but she knew the survivors below could see her silhouette against the stars—the stars and the glimmer of the menacing fleet that had brought the two groups together. She looked out her side porthole as Parsona leaned over, and she could see the strobe of so many small fires flashing through the leaves below. She pictured Saunders, Scottie, and Cat sitting around one of those fires, catching each other up as much as they dared. She hoped all the survivors could dig deep and find something to smile about, perhaps even dare laugh about. Most of all, she hoped they wouldn’t try anything crazy while she was gone—or blame her too much for leaving them.

“Anytime you’re ready, then,” her mom said.

Molly lifted the cover that shields the hyperdrive switch. She rested her finger under the toggle and glanced at the destination coordinates. Any mass would do, but they weren’t taking any chances and had chosen the center of Lok. It felt strange to ignore the various warning lights and alarms, but the sickness Molly felt inside about leaving the groups below made it tolerable. Deep down, she felt completely resigned to the worst that could possibly happen.

Before lowering her goggles, she took one last look up through the canopy. The scourge responsible for all her recent miseries hung overhead, the density of the constellation growing with each passing hour. Molly longed to strike at them, to morph her love for Cole into a rage, to transform her longing to see her father into an ability to lash out. She thought about what she would do with a cargo bay full of bombs and the special powers of her hyperdrive. She imagined how great it would be if all the survivors around those campfires below could harness their own enmity and somehow direct it toward their mutual foe—inflicting damage.

Molly ground her teeth together and lowered her goggles. She wished so many things were possible all at once.

“Is everything okay?” her mother asked.

Molly sat in the blackness provided by the goggles and held the ship level by her internal compass, by instinct. She felt the cool metal of the switch against the soreness in her scabbed fingertip. She thought about the hyperdrive it was linked to and how many people had risked their lives in trying to keep it secure. She thought about how many more would gladly do the same if they knew about its existence. She thought about Lucin and how desperate he had seemed to seize control of Parsona. Desperate enough to threaten her life. He had thought her father’s ship, or something within it, could end a pan-galactic war.

Thinking of the war diverted her thoughts to the people below and to what she could really do with a full tank of the fusion fuel. Fusion fuel so many countless Humans and Callites had bled for. And what was she about to spend it on? Rushing off, sad and desperate, to be with the only men in her life that ever made her feel safe?

“Sweetheart, what are you waiting for?”

“I don’t know,” she said.

“Activate the hyperdrive,” Parsona said. “Sweetheart, hit the switch.”

Molly put some pressure against the metal toggle and braced to jump to the middle of the planet, to purposefully whisk herself off to hyperspace. She felt the switch begin to give way—then she let it go. She rubbed the pads of her fingers together, the sensation deadened by her wounds.

“Molly, what in the galaxy are you doing?”

“I don’t know, Mom. I’m sorry, I just don’t know…”

“Don’t know what?”

“I don’t know if I can.”

She pulled her hand away from the switch and lifted her goggles, dispelling the blackness. All around her was the flashing of indicators and alarms, the twinkling of stars overhead, the lambent flames from those huddled in the forest below. She felt in the middle of it all—surrounded by points of light each with their own messages: warning, pleading, threatening, begging, flanking her with indecision.

But there was no decision.

Despite her agonizing longing to be with Cole, the impossible thrill of reuniting with her father, she was bound by something stronger than military duty. Something Saunders could never absolve her from by expelling her, something the universe could not cull from her spirit.

It was her nature.

Molly grabbed the control stick and banked to starboard, back around to the clearing in the woods. Walter threw off his own goggles and hissed some question, but Molly didn’t hear. She was too busy formulating a plan. Too busy dreaming of saving the universe…