Sanda licked her lips. “Bero. This ring true?”
Silence stretched as the AI considered possibilities. “I have no record of such a project, but that does not mean it doesn’t exist. What he says regarding the orbit time periods is verifiable, and true.”
Tomas opened his mouth, but Sanda glared him silent. He’d said his piece. What she did next was entirely up to whatever consensus she and Bero arrived at. “And Farion? Is orbit around that moon a reasonable deviation from our slingshot to Atrux?”
Hesitation. “It is not ideal. But it can be done. Would you like me to begin the adjusted calculations?”
“Do that. If we’re within the window, set course to Farion.”
Tomas visibly slackened, his eyelids hooding just a touch. That, more than anything, made her trust that at the very least, he believed what he had to say. Tomas believed that whatever awaited them on Farion, it was his best shot at survival. She was not naive enough to think that’d mean it would aid her survival, too.
“I will alert you when my calculations are complete.”
“Thanks, Bero.”
Sanda drained the dregs of her coffee and pushed to shaky feet. Tomas stayed silent, somehow intuiting that she didn’t want to hear from him right now. Probably his damned spy training. She wondered how much of their camaraderie last night was real, and how much was designed to manipulate her into liking him. Could spy training include cute cheek dimples?
“I hope you’re not bullshitting me, Tomas.”
“I’m not.”
“We’ll see. My head and leg are killing me. I’m going to go lie down. Don’t do anything stupid enough to get me woken up for at least three hours, got it?”
“I could find some medication to help with—”
“Just. Don’t. Touch. Anything.”
She felt him staring at her back as she tromped out into the hall but decided not to give a fuck.
CHAPTER 25
PRIME STANDARD YEAR 3541
IT TOOK TWO WEEKS TO FALL APART
Biran walked from a war zone into an actual hell. The usually sedate halls of the Cannery were filled with shouting, and not just from those trying to force order into the chaos. Keepers, students, staff—everyone was running, and most had their faces buried in the screens of their wristpads, relaying or receiving information in volumes all north of ten.
He hesitated in the doorway, wondering if he should just say fuck it, turn around, and go back planetside to stay with his fathers for a while. But this was his chaos—or a part of it was, at any rate—and somebody needed to account for it.
The people of Ada counted on him, as Speaker, to explain what happened. To assuage their fears. Lavaux may have handed him this job as a poisoned chalice, but he would take it seriously. People counted on him to do so.
Biran ran a hand through his dusty, bloody hair and started off down the hall at a brisk but calm pace. The guardcore woman followed, and he didn’t send her away, even as he flashed his wristpad at ident scanners to get deeper and deeper through the security layers of the Cannery. He’d only known the woman a few hours, and most of those had been spent in silence, but to wade into battle without her at his side seemed foolish.
And it was, most definitely, a battle he was wading into.
A door burst open to his right and out strode Jessa, her usually perfect hair flying out around her cheeks from the gust caused by the door opening.
“Greeve. Finally. Get in here.”
The war room was awash in glowing, projected screens. Schematics played out across the walls in brilliant blues and golds, an endless variety of views of the station—and the dome protecting the city on Ada—turned on illustrated axes. Figures splashed alongside them, pinpoints of light in hues varying all across the spectrum, moving in sync as if they were an insect swarm.
Each light represented a Prime ship—gunner, dropship, unmanned planetary defense orbiters—each one doing its small part to keep Ada and the station safe from bombardment. Though the colors swarmed in hurricanes of brightness, Biran’s heart sank. They weren’t enough. Couldn’t ever be enough to track and defend against all possible trajectories.
Space had never felt unsafe to him before. He’d been born on Ada, spent most of his childhood up-station, but the raw physics of it dizzied him now. What a foolish thing, to think something as small as humanity could defend something as large as a planet.
“Mealy-mouthed bastards,” Jessa said. Biran peeled his gaze away from the war game playing out in real time and watched as she stomped over to a triptych of monitors at the head of the conference table.
“Icarion has responded,” Director Olver elaborated. “Some cryptic nonsense about this demonstration being our first warning. As if Dralee never happened.”
Biran had never seen the director so tired. His cheeks sagged, giving him the appearance of jowls. An espresso-brown straw hat shaded his eyes, and grass stained his pale blue sleeves—that sweet, herbal aroma clung to him. The director had been gardening when the bombardment hit. That fact, more than anything, filled Biran with dread. Not even the head of their order—the station and planet’s de facto leader—had known what was coming. If there had been any hint by intelligence that Icarion was gearing up for something like this, the director wouldn’t have been whiling the hours away tending to his garden.
“We had no clue this was imminent.” Biran sagged into a chair next to the director.
“No,” Olver admitted. “After the destruction of the convoy, we suspected they might mount an attack, but at those speeds, there was no time to prepare a response.”
“And where is the weapon now?”
Jessa grunted. “We lost it. Icarion must have cloaking we can’t get around yet. My people are working on it.” Her fingers flew over the keyboard, gaze tracking a half dozen elements in play at once. Biran hoped Icarion didn’t have anyone like Jessa on their side.
Lavaux sauntered in, his manicured insouciance locked in place. Not even a smudge of dirt marred the sides of his shoes. No one should look so calm, so together, as the world was falling apart.
“General,” he said, inclining his head to Jessa, though she didn’t bother to respond, and took a seat alongside her.
“What’s the situation?” Lavaux asked the open air.
“Ratfucked,” Jessa muttered, then tapped her earpiece as she listened to a voice far away, ignoring those in the room.
“Not so bad as that,” the director interjected smoothly. He pushed back his hat and rubbed his forehead. “General Anford has deployed all our forces”—he gestured to the gleaming wall—“to ensure the security of the station and the planet. We were taken unawares, and that is a tragedy, but no lasting damage was done to the station or Ada’s domes. Repair bots have already reached the impact locations on the shielding and assessed the damage as severe but repairable. There is no damage to the breathability of our climate, though I have issued an edict that all nonessential personnel are to remain in their homes with the windows and doors shut, and to test their backup life-support systems, for the time being.”
“Lovely.” Lavaux steepled his fingers on the tabletop. “That sounds like a nice story for the Speaker here to tell the populace. But what’s really going on?”
“The information about the dome and atmosphere is correct and current. As far as Icarion is concerned, the truth is we have no idea. Their so-called president will not talk to us. Their generals have issued vague threats. I fear they may be undergoing internal power struggles that have made their movements unstable at best.”
“A coup. You think Icarion President Bollar is being ousted by another faction.”
The director spread his hands. “I can’t know.”
“You have spies crawling all over their government like ants on a sugar pie. Don’t tell me you don’t know.”
“I suspect. Communication channels have broken down over the past few weeks, as you might imagine.”
Lavaux quirked a smile. “Rea
lly? My people have had no problem.”
The director’s eyes narrowed. “If you have information you’re not sharing, Lavaux, I will have you court-martialed.”
“Gentlemen,” Jessa interrupted, “you have a call.”
One of the glowing screens on the wall blinked out. Watching the simulation of Ada and the station sweep away left a bitter taste in Biran’s mouth, as if the disappearance of the image was a prophecy of what was to come. A face Biran had only ever seen on the news channels replaced it instead. Biran froze, awestruck.
Black, tightly curled hair cut close to the scalp. Bruise-purple lips and green eyes—genehacked, of course—set in an angular face black as her hair. Raw power. Raw ambition: achieved. Prime Director of the Keepers, Malkia Rehema Okonkwo. Her face, in profile, was embossed on the front of his Keeper diploma.
“Keeper Protectorate of Ada Prime, are you assembled?”
The director sat ramrod straight. “Prime Director, it is an honor. We are still gathering. The attack has sent many of us away to see to family.”
The corner of her lips twitched disapproval. “Unfortunate. I have assessed your situation, with the assistance of the High Protectorate, and we have come to a decision we wish to discuss with your planet’s Protectorate.”
Biran almost laughed as Jessa made a face out of view of the camera. She then turned to face Okonkwo. “With respect, Prime Director, I am the commanding general of this station and its ancillary planet. I have not yet fully assessed the situation. Things are still developing here.”
“General Anford, we are well aware of the situation up until this point, and have based our decision on past experiences and—with respect—have conferred with the commanding generals of Prime’s entire forces. Icarion’s dissent to our command of the Casimir Gate at Ada is a problem that affects all of Prime.”
Translation: Your bosses have decided and expect you to accept it without complaint.
Jessa nodded. “Understood,” she said, and ducked back behind the shielding of her monitors to continue working on the problem that was rapidly unfolding, never mind that Okonkwo thought the resolution a done deal.
“What is it you have decided?” the director asked.
“The isolation of Icarion.”
Biran blinked, not understanding. “Pardon me, Prime Director, but the planet is already isolated. We are two months of travel from them, and their planet is too large and too close to this system’s star to support the construction of a gate, even if there were a Keeper government installed. They’re as isolated as you can get.”
“Not exactly.”
“She wants to abandon Ada,” the director said, drawing out each word as if it pained him. The slow peeling away of a bandage. “This planet has always been a backwater. A dead-end system, with only one gate possible.”
“You understand,” she said. “Good. I had thought there would be an argument. I know we can sometimes develop a soft spot for the planets and stations we live on, but the bigger picture must prevail. Ada has no future, aside from war with Icarion. Their response to your convoy—a valiant effort—made that quite clear. Prime has no time for wars. To allow another planet to engage us in prolonged combat would set an unhealthy precedent.”
“You’re going to kill us,” Lavaux said in such a matter-of-fact way that Biran didn’t comprehend him at first. “There’s no other way. If you want to isolate Icarion, you’ll have to break the gate. That can only be done from this side to ensure complete destruction, otherwise rubble might survive that the Icarions could examine and reverse engineer.”
“Yes. I will not mince with you, Lavaux. You have served Prime well for decades. But the fact that Icarion attempted FTL research cannot be ignored. The gate must be obliterated. The young Keepers, those with decades left, will pass through with the civilians to be reassigned to other stations and gates. We do have a few possible new construction sites in mind. For the elders—volunteers will stay to ensure the complete dissolution of the gate. Or a lottery, if necessary. It will not require all of them.”
The director stared at his hands, the nails half-moons caked in the soil from his garden. Lavaux surged to his feet, eyes bright with outrage.
“You would kill us for no reason! Icarion’s anger is directed at us because we keep the technology of the gates from them and charge them for their use. If you think, even for a second, that removing the gate from their vicinity will stunt them, you’re a fool. Their civilization will not cease. They are a settlement three million strong already. They will keep on, their resentment burning through the generations as their research advances. Prime already made its fatal mistake by allowing homesteaders to colonize non-Prime planets within systems and to set up their own governments on those settlements.
“Already Icarion can cloak their ships from us. How long do you think it will be until future generations of Primes find Icarion ships at their doorsteps—more advanced, more powerful than anything we could ever build—because we relied on the ease and safety of our gates? We are advanced in one way, Prime Director. One. They will not rest until they match, or excel, us.”
“He’s right,” Jessa said, glancing up from her screens but not bothering to come into the view of the camera. “Their grievances won’t go away just because we—and the gate—do. It’s postponing the problem for future generations, and by that time it will be unsolvable.”
Okonkwo’s expression did not flinch a centimeter. “I will relay your objections to the council. But for now, my edict stands. Make your preparations quietly, there is no reason to upset the populace until the moment all is ready. In the meantime, make your personal arrangements. I understand this undertaking will take a great deal of time to orchestrate properly. The High Protectorate will assist you in any way possible in the forming of these plans.”
“Will they assist us by telling us who is to die?” Lavaux snapped.
Okonkwo’s gaze shifted to him, heavy and level. “Yes. If you require it.”
“We do not,” the director said, his firm voice sailing over Lavaux’s objections. With a derisive shake of the head, Lavaux sat back down and folded his arms over his chest.
“Thank you for your wisdom, Prime Director. We will be in touch.”
The director, in the most grievous breach of protocol Biran had ever seen, cut the connection before she could respond. The screen winked out, leaving nothing at all on that wall—a blank space surrounded by the glittering mechanics of war.
“She cannot make us abandon this place,” Lavaux said.
“She’s right.”
Biran craned his head around to find Keeper Hitton hovering in the door, her face sallow in the low light. Blood stained her pants in a splash reaching up to her knee, and her arms were streaked with dirt and dark, caking liquid.
“You say that only because your dear cousin Okonkwo would ensure you’re brought through,” Lavaux shot back.
“She could try,” Hitton said, “but she’d have to drag me through herself. I’m staying.” Hitton cocked her head, as if listening to something, then nodded to herself. “The other Protectorate members are almost here. Hash it out with them. You know my stance, Director. If you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.”
“Where?” Biran asked.
Hitton startled, already half-turned to leave, and squinted at him. “The lower levels are having trouble transporting all the victims.”
“I’m coming with you.”
“I didn’t ask,” Hitton growled, her tired eyes narrowing.
“Neither did I.” He stood, the guardcore at his side standing with him.
“Speaker,” the director said, “you should be preparing for a broadcast. The people will want to hear from us. From you.”
“Send what you want said to Callie Mera, she’ll put the word out. I’ll prepare something for later this evening, but not now. Now, the people need me face-to-face, hand-to-hand. Good luck, Director.”
Biran followed Hitton back into the destructio
n. There was nothing else he could do in that room. Whatever decisions were made next would be done outside his control.
But this? The hurt and the anguish lining the streets? He couldn’t control that, either. But he could help, for a little while.
CHAPTER 26
PRIME STANDARD YEAR 3771
NAPS ARE NEVER LONG ENOUGH
Bero was much gentler in waking her from her nap this time around. The lights went up smooth and steady, a leaking of false starlight massaging her eyelids open. Stifling a yawn, she pushed up to her elbows and glared down at her legs. She’d flopped onto the bed, mentally and physically drained, and hadn’t even bothered to pop off the prosthetic. Her skin itched like she’d been to an unlicensed FleshHouse.
“Are you feeling better?” Bero asked.
“More human, no offense. What’d you find out?”
“Tomas’s transit calculations were short by only a few hours. To attempt orbit around Farion, complete with an EVA of six hours, and rewarming of the engines to begin the gravity assist, would put us at the edge of our window of best passage to Atrux.”
“But not out.”
“Technically, no.”
She ruffled her hair, flinched at a twinge in the back of her head, and swung her feet to the ground. “Be straight with me, Big B. How fine is this line?”
“Thirty-seven minutes.”
She whistled. “That’s really, really tight.”
“If you believe you can perform the EVA in five hours, then that adds an hour to the window.”
“Right. No problem. Just shave an hour off an EVA into an unknown space station to collect equipment that might be fuck knows where.” She sighed. “What happens if we push the window too hard?”
“Uncertain. My calculations of transit time assumed certain orbital placements. I can adjust the equations for different miss scenarios. An hour over, two, or—”
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