Immunity

by Erin Bowman

  Oh, Coen said, noticing it now as well. You always did have the better hearing.

  Thea looked at Burke, staring past the gun and into his eyes. “There’s a saying,” she said, “about getting what you deserve.”

  Something caught the lieutenant’s attention—a noise in the hall. His gaze jerked toward the door just as the first infected body stormed through. Burke turned, adjusting his aim. He wasn’t quick enough. An infected crew member tackled him to the ground before he could loose a shot. A dozen other infected followed, jumping on Burke, on Vasteneur. The sounds they made were inhuman.

  Thea leaned over Coen, unable to watch.

  When the struggle ended, she risked a glance. The infected crowd stood over the men they’d just attacked, glancing around the room. Their eyes skirted over the cryostasis pod holding Decklan Powell, but he hadn’t been revived yet. His pulse was still too low, making him look like an incapable host to the infected. Their gazes shifted to Thea and Coen and drifted away, uninterested. They turned and staggered out of the room.

  Burke and Vasteneur groaned where they’d fallen. The lieutenant’s leg was bent at an unnatural angle. Vasteneur clutched his head. Rivers of blood marred both their faces and necks. They had five minutes, no more.

  Thea lowered Coen from her lap, then ran for the stasis pod. She threw the switches Vasteneur had yet to initiate and heaved open Powell’s door. He flopped forward into her arms and she lowered him onto the floor.

  “Come on,” she said, slapping the pilot’s cheek. “Wake up.”

  He blinked his eyes, groggy, and searched Thea’s face. When he looked behind her, finding Coen, his eyes widened. “I remember you,” he managed.

  “Black Quarry,” Coen grunted out.

  “Where are we?”

  “I’ll explain when you land us on Eutheria,” Thea said. “Right now we need to get to a shuttle. Can you walk?”

  He nodded and pushed himself wearily to his feet. Good. She’d have to carry Coen. His face was pale behind his visor, and if Thea was being honest with herself, it didn’t look like he’d last long. Dr. Tarlow had been shot in the stomach. Maybe a bullet to the pelvis was better. And he’d had all those layers of the enviro-suit as added protection. Was she lying to herself?

  She grabbed Burke’s gun from the floor, then scooped Coen up in her arms. He seemed to weigh nothing. His head lolled against her chest.

  I wasn’t worth it.

  You were. You are, he managed. I’d do it again.

  She turned back toward Burke and Vasteneur. Blood was beginning to drip from the lieutenant’s nose. She raised his gun, her aim perfect.

  “I will shoot if I have to,” she said, throwing the lieutenant’s words back at him. “But I won’t miss.”

  A primal fear spread across his face.

  A blink. Blood-filled eyes.

  “I guess I have to,” she said, and squeezed the trigger twice.

  As Amber staggered toward cryostasis, exhausted but no longer coughing up blood, two figures appeared farther up the hall. One had a hand on the wall for support. The other was bulky and awkward, too wide at the middle. As they drew nearer, Amber realized the oddly shaped figure was actually Thea, carrying Coen.

  Bullet to the hip, the girl explained.

  Amber tried to hide her worries. Blood loss in that area would be high. There were all the organs that could be compromised, too.

  Help Powell? Thea went on, nodding to the man leaning into the wall for support. He’s queasy and slow from stasis.

  Amber slung the man’s arm behind her shoulder. He was significantly taller, perhaps forty kilograms heavier as well. They leaned into each other, keeping one another upright as they followed Thea through the ship.

  A muted thrum of heartbeats reached Amber’s ears.

  They’re coming back, Thea said.

  Infected?

  A nod. They left after attacking Burke and Vasteneur. They didn’t sense any other potential hosts. But now that Powell’s out of stasis . . .

  Amber could put the rest together. They went as fast as they could manage, making their way toward the hold and boarding one of Paramount’s short-range military shuttles. Not a second after they safely boarded the the shuttle did the infected horde begin climbing Paramount’s gangplank.

  “Get us out of here,” Amber barked.

  Powell jumped to action, tearing for the cockpit.

  Amber turned back to Thea. She’d set Coen on the floor and had stripped off his suit. His pants were soaked with blood at the hip. “You have to do something. Please, Amber.”

  She knelt beside him, touching his forehead. His skin was clammy and cold. Pulling at the waistband of his pants, she couldn’t see the bullet. The wound had seemingly vanished. “He’s healing himself, but the bullet must be lodged somewhere. And if it hit something vital . . .” She glanced around the military shuttle. “That medical kit on the wall. Bring it to me.”

  The shuttle rumbled to life and barreled forward. Amber could hear the bodies in Paramount’s hold getting pushed and struck aside as the shuttle rolled down the gangplank and into Xenia’s docking bay. Then there was a surge of acceleration, the undeniable sensation of flight as Decklan guided them for the stars.

  Thea reappeared with the kit and dropped it before Amber. Inside was everything needed for tending to field wounds. She willed herself to focus, tried to ignore the exhaustion that troubled her limbs. If she closed her eyes now, she would sleep for hours.

  She’d start with the bullet, Amber decided, assuming she could get to it. Please don’t let your healing abilities be what kills you, she thought, and grabbed a pair of medical pliers and scissors.

  Behind her, Thea spoke on the shared intercom channel. “Nova, we’re off Xenia. We’re in Paramount’s short-range shuttle. It probably has Trios military markings. Make sure they don’t shoot us!”

  Nova passed the information up the chain of command, although she couldn’t do much more than hope it was heard.

  She banked her fighter hard and began to chase a new drop pod. They’d been detaching in droves. If Xenia Station was a boat, the drop pods were the life rafts, and there were thousands—enough for every visitor.

  Nova had already taken care of nine. The first had been the hardest, but each one grew a bit easier. It helped that she couldn’t see the faces inside. She could tell herself they were all infected or already showing symptoms. It was easiest that way. Later, she’d have to live with what she was doing, but right now she focused on her crosshairs.

  The pod she was chasing was finally within range and she fired off another missile. Brilliance exploded outside the cockpit window and she banked aside again.

  “What’s that make, ten?” Lawson said in her ear. “You’re putting me to shame, Singh.”

  “You know, you probably shouldn’t treat this like a game. It’s a shit situation.”

  “Go suck the fun out of everything, why don’t you.”

  “I’m not kidding, Lawson.”

  “Maybe you should. Lighten up a little and—”

  Her voice cut off with a crackle.

  “Lawson? Lawson!”

  Nova brought the fighter around, scanning in all directions. They’d been working together, watching out for one another. With so many drop pods falling, and so many being shot from the sky, it was impossible to keep your eyes everywhere. Too many blind spots.

  Remnants of a blast lingered in Nova’s peripherals.

  “Lawson?” she tried again, already knowing what had happened. Cross fire. Or maybe a collision with another fighter or pod.

  This was Nova’s fault. She was shooting potentially innocent lives from the sky and she’d managed to let another one die on her watch, too. She shouldn’t be in this situation. Maybe the Academy was right. Maybe her eye condition was too much of a risk.

  “Nova, did you give them the order?!” Thea screamed through the intercoms.

  “Yes. Why?”

  “We’ve been hit and�
��SHIT!”

  “Where are you?”

  “I have no idea. Powell’s saying it was cross fire.”

  “Who the hell is Powell?”

  “Decklan Powell, from Black Quarry. Our pilot.”

  Nova fired on another drop pod, blasting it to pieces before turning the fighter back toward the action. Streaks of light filled the darkness beyond her windshield, fighters and pods cutting across the black canvas like shooting stars. Explosions peppered the expanse. And there, gunning toward Eutheria with smoke billowing from the tail, was a short-range shuttle with Trios military markings plastered on the hull.

  “I see you. I’ll trail you guys, be your outside eyes. Tell Powell to join my channel.”

  She gave Thea the channel number and engaged the thrusters for the hundredth time. Zipping after the shuttle, she dodged cross fire and rolled away from other fighters as she gave chase.

  “Powell here,” a deep voice crackled in her ear.

  “Good to meet you, Powell. Your tail’s smoking pretty bad, but with both wings and a decent amount of power, you should make it down fine.”

  “I’m feeling like shit, just warning you. The girls mentioned something about radiation. I keep thinking I’m gonna puke.”

  “Just do what I say. I’m watching your back and—BANK LEFT!”

  Nova watched as the shuttle tilted to the side, narrowly avoiding a blow with cross fire.

  “Orders are to shoot drop pods, not the military shuttle!” Nova screamed on the open channels.

  There was no response except another series of missiles coming in at the ship. Nova wondered briefly if Sol and Casey’s general had even given an order to avoid the Paramount shuttle. Maybe they’d agreed to shoot down everything—containment to the fullest degree.

  She watched the missiles coming in, stomach filling with dread.

  “You’ve got a series coming after you,” she said to Powell. “Three, it looks like.”

  “I’ve got alerts they’re locked on.”

  Nova checked her peripherals, pushing her eyes as far as she could. “Here they come. Do what I say exactly as I say it.” Nova pulled to the side, getting a better view. “SPIN LEFT. Keep spinning.” One missile soared past. “Okay, stop. Hold true. BANK RIGHT!” Another missile passed. “BANK LEFT.” A third.

  The sky was suddenly dark, the streaking missiles gone. The shuttle was still smoking, but they’d be entering Eutheria’s atmo in a matter of seconds. Nova let out an exhale. “You’re good. I’m gonna pull off now.”

  “There’s a fourth,” Powell replied.

  “What?”

  “Four missiles! There’s a fourth locked on.”

  “I didn’t see a fourth. There were only three. Three miss—” Something bright flashed overhead, streaking past Nova’s fighter, coming into view too late, and Nova knew with sickening dread that it was her less-than-perfect peripheral vision that had just damned them.

  “SPIN RIGHT!” she shouted. “SPIN.”

  Powell spun, but not fast enough, not soon enough.

  The missile clipped the shuttle’s left wing, and Nova watched in horror as Powell lost control, the shuttle corkscrewing as it entered atmo and plummeted toward Eutheria.

  Standing on the observation deck of Paradox’s battlecarrier, the programmer could barely breathe.

  She hadn’t been able to sit behind on Casey, not when Thea was in jeopardy, and certainly not when Sol was jumping his crew right to her. She’d known she wouldn’t be able to see Thea until it was over, but she’d wanted to be there. She’d pleaded her case and Sol had listened. He was beginning to do that more lately. A part of her wondered if maybe he could change, or if this was just another way to appease her temporarily.

  Then word had come in from Xenia.

  There was no hope of containing things. Infected people were escaping. Drop pods were to be shot. The station would likely be destroyed. And Thea was on it.

  The programmer had felt her daughter’s death again, just as real as when she’d been reported dead at Northwood Point. How many times would she need to live through a moment like this—fearing it was over, that there was no hope?

  And then word had come in that Thea was on a shuttle. They were going to land on Eutheria. Everything was fine.

  She’d run to the observation deck, desperate for a view. The updates in the war room didn’t matter anymore. The only update she needed was something she could see.

  Now she wished she could unsee it.

  Someone hadn’t listened to the orders Sol had given. Or maybe they’d simply missed them in the heat of the fight.

  She’d come all this way to see her daughter again. They’d been separated for thirteen years, and after jumping back to her in the blink of an eye, all her effort had done was get her there in time to see Althea’s funeral. Because with the way the ship was spiraling, with the smoke billowing off it like a bonfire, Naree Sadik didn’t see how anyone aboard would survive.

  X

  The Cure

  Hearth City

  Eutheria, Trios System

  POWELL HAD TOLD THEM OVER the shuttle’s intercoms that the crash was coming, and even though Thea had strapped into one of the shuttle’s rear harnesses, nothing could have prepared her for the full force of impact.

  She was holding Coen because he was too limp to wrestle into a harness of his own. Amber was buckled in across the way, but on impact, Thea lost sight of her. Her head whipped forward, forehead cracking against the top of Coen’s skull. White pain roared behind her eyes. Something lanced her arm and she felt burning agony, followed by the immediate relief of her body healing.

  All the while, she whispered to Coen. Hang in there. Hold on just a minute longer. We’re nearly there. I’ll get you to a hospital. Just hold on.

  Amber had managed to get some of the bullet out before the first missile struck the shuttle’s tail. She’d had to literally cut Coen open to get to it. His body had kept trying to heal, but the bullet had struck his pelvis, shattering bone before deflecting into part of his intestines. Amber had removed what she could of the bullet, and his skin had healed back up, but inside, he needed attention. If they didn’t get to a doctor, he would die. Within an hour, if the internal bleeding was bad enough. There was also the surgery he’d need for his intestines. Dr. Tarlow’s death on Achlys had proved that while a host could heal many injuries, reversing major organ damage was impossible.

  When the shuttle sagged still, Thea opened her eyes. A piece of jagged metal protruded into the ship to her right. It must have been what lanced her shoulder through her suit. Amber unclipped from her harness and staggered for the cockpit, medkit in hand.

  Thea unclipped as well and stood. Everything hurt, but she was whole. She’d only lived because of the contagion in her veins, this she was sure of. Even Coen, weak and fading in her arms, had lived only because of it.

  “Powell’s dead,” Amber said, reappearing. “We have to go. The shuttle’s corrarium reactor was probably damaged. I’m surprised it didn’t blow when we crashed.”

  Thea dragged Coen toward the exit, every limb in her body aching. The ship was ungodly hot—she could feel it even through her suit—and Coen’s skin was beaded with sweat.

  Hang in there. Please don’t leave me. Please don’t go.

  He remained silent. His pulse was shallow and weak, but she could feel his drive to live, a stubborn refusal to quit.

  She fought her way through the rippling air and into the hold. The gangplank was ruined, crushed in the weight of the crash and buckled partially into the hold. There’d be no lowering it. Where the seams had warped, a gap of sunlight bled through.

  Thea passed Coen to Amber and went to work with her hands. The metal was scorching. Beneath the lining of her suit, her hands began to blister, then heal, then blister again. But the insane heat meant the hull had softened slightly, and if she could just widen the gap . . . Thea ignored the pain and pulled back with all her might, bending the metal toward her. />
  Light plunged into the hold, blinding, foreign. She winced. It had been forever since she’d seen anything so naturally brilliant. Thea tugged again, and the metal snapped, a section of the gangplank clattering to the floor. The gap was now just wide enough to climb through.

  She gasped, breathless, then turned back to Amber. “I’ll climb through. You lower him to me.”

  After some awkward maneuvering, Coen was back in Thea’s arms and she was staggering away from the wrecked ship, Amber on her heels. Thea ran, squinting in the brilliant light.

  They’d landed in a grassy field, the ship creating a crater in the otherwise manicured earth. There was a children’s park in the distance, a familiar skyline beyond.

  Hearth City.

  Of all the places they could have crashed, she was just kilometers from home.

  Behind her, the shuttle exploded without warning. Thea was propelled forward, falling to her knees and buckling over Coen as scrap metal rained down. Pain flared across her back, then quickly faded. Thank goodness for her suit.

  She risked a glance at Amber—whole, and staggering to her feet beside Thea—then back to Coen. His eyes were fluttering, his heart beating too fast. Much faster than her own. They’d been in sync since bonding. Even with entire systems between them, they’d beat as one.

  Thea tore off her helmet and ripped her arms from the suit. She pressed her bare palm to Coen’s forehead, finding it cold and clammy despite how profusely he was sweating.

  “Thea . . . ,” he managed. “I can’t . . . I feel . . .”

  “He’s lost too much blood, is probably bleeding internally. I’m a universal donor. I can give him a blood transfusion.”

  “We need to get him to a hospital,” Amber said.

  “He’s not going to make it to the hospital! I need to do this. To keep him with us until they get here.”

  Sirens sounded in the distance. Help was coming and they had a giant plume of smoke to follow, but Thea knew what she’d have to say when they arrived. Coen would need to be quarantined for all of Eutheria’s protection. Any doctors working on him would need to be fully suited. As soon as she mentioned these things, they’d lose precious time. She needed to buy more.