His eyes widened. He tried to pull away, but she got her fists curled around the collar of his suit and shoved. In the low-g, his stumble took him all the way across the room, his back slammed into the wall.
“Hey—hey!” But she was on him already, her hands on his wrists, trying to twist his arms up and back to force him into a tucked hold. He was stronger. But she was very, very, angry.
“Sanda, please, give me a cha—”
“Who the fuck are you?” she yelled against his ear.
“Yeah, about that—” He jerked his wrists free. She stumbled against him and he propped her up, an annoyingly polite gesture considering the circumstances. Before she could adjust, he spun her around so that her back was against his chest again, snagged one hand under her chin, and jerked her head up.
The window had changed. Where the smear of light that had once been Ada Prime drifted, two faintly glowing spheres circled each other. She’d know them anywhere. Had dreamed of them every night since she’d awoken to this fresh hell.
Ada. And the Casimir Gate.
She went limp in his grasp, all the fight seeping out of her, and would have dropped to her knees if he hadn’t been holding her. His hand slid away from her chin, went to coil about her torso to help her stay on her feet. A coldsleep-borne headache burgeoned in the back of her skull.
“It’s a simulation,” she said, breathless.
“No,” he said, and toed a helmet that had fallen nearby in the struggle. “But that was.”
“It can’t—”
“Sanda. Sergeant Greeve.” His breath gusted against her cheek. She shivered. “You know that’s a window. It’s not a smartscreen. It can’t be faked.”
“But, on EVAs…”
She trailed off, staring at the helmet at her feet. The helmet with the smartscreen visor. “Dios.”
“Easy,” he said. She’d swayed without realizing it, her body trembling with rage and shock. Pain surged from the back of her head to her toes. She reached up to rub the ache, then cringed away.
“Are you okay? Sanda? Answer me, please.”
“Yes, I… I get headaches. From the coldsleep.”
He turned her, gently, and stared down into her eyes. His expression twisted into a grimace. “Maybe.”
She realized she was little more than a wet noodle in his arms and pushed him away with disgust at herself for cracking. Tugging her suit’s collar straight, she stepped to the window and gripped its sill to hide the shaking in her hands.
“What,” she said, warm breath misting against the cold window, “in the ever-loving fuck is going on?”
“We can’t talk long.” He stepped to her side, that device still clutched in one hand. “Bero may panic if we’re out of contact too long, and we don’t want that. Shit.” He shifted his weight, dragged his fingers through his hair, then put his empty hand on her shoulder and turned her to face him.
“I am who I say I am, more or less. I am Nazca, but I’ve been working for the Primes for the last five years. They recruited me directly—but the specifics don’t matter. I’m on your side, Sergeant Greeve. I’ve been looking for you for a long time.”
“Looking for me?”
“When your pod disappeared after the Battle of Dralee, your brother pulled every string in the ’verse to get you back. Eventually one of those strings was the Nazca. I’m told your father Graham facilitated the contract. I’ve been left all over the fucking place, hoping to get picked up by whatever Icarion ship had imprisoned you, or at least one that could give me a sniff of your whereabouts. Icarion’s got the Keepers by the balls, between the bombardment—that happened, unfortunately—and holding a sergeant hostage.”
“But they’re not—”
He held up the device and slammed a battery pack into it, then jabbed at the number pad lightning fast. “I know you won’t listen to me. Not after what you’ve been through,” he spoke while dialing into what she now realized was a sat phone. “We don’t have time, this must be brief, but there’s someone who’s been waiting a long time to talk to you.”
Before she could respond, Tomas brought the phone to his ear, rattled off a string of letters and numbers, and then said, “I’ve got her. We’re on board The Light of Berossus, currently stationed outside Farion-X2 Station. Situation is critical. The AI is hostile. Time is limited. Here she is.”
He pressed the phone against her head, and she brought up one hand to take it, but ended up just covering his hand with her own. Apparently he didn’t trust her not to drop the thing, which was fair enough, because she didn’t trust herself, either.
“This is Sergeant Greeve,” she said into the faint breathing sounds on the other line.
“Sanda?” Biran’s voice, hesitant, slammed her straight in the chest. She doubled over, caught herself on the windowsill. Tomas was there, holding her up, keeping the phone in place.
“Biran?”
“I can’t believe it. It’s good to hear your voice, S. Don’t worry. Cepko will keep you safe. We’ve got your location. We’re coming for you. I love you.”
“I love you, too,” she stammered.
Tomas extracted the phone from her fingers, rattled off a few more commands, then cut the line and pulled the battery.
“What in the hell!”
“Look,” he dropped the phone to the ground, grabbed her by the shoulders, and made her face him. She shrugged him off and stood straight, adopting a hard stare. Her world may be coming apart at the seams, but like hell was she going to let Tomas treat her like a panicky child. Biran was out there, somewhere. She’d know his voice anywhere. And she wanted some real clear answers.
“Explain,” she put command into her voice. An appreciative smile ghosted across his features.
“Short version: Prime lost your location after Dralee. Biran arranged for a diplomatic convoy to negotiate your return, but Icarion attacked the convoy and initiated the bombardment. The threat Bero’s told you that came to pass—the Protocol—it hasn’t happened. Prime lost a lot of lives in the bombardment, but it’s not over yet.”
“Then why the fuck has Bero been telling me this?”
He grimaced. “I don’t know. But I have a primary guess. I’ve been all over that ship’s schematics, and though he’s locked me out of a lot, there’s nothing that precludes his engine system from being a weapon. I believe Bero performed the bombardment of Ada, and he was so traumatized by the experience he dumped his crew and ran. I also believe he’s convinced himself of his story, and—”
She held up a hand. She was getting her feet back. Ingrained training steeled her, forced her to think tactically even while her heart thumped away to the speed of Biran’s voice. Pieces clicked into place, sinking her spirits like lead. “Let me guess. Icarion has been making threats about initiating a bigger bombardment, but is stalling, and Ada Prime hasn’t been able to detect anything in their ability to follow through?”
He nodded. They said in unison, “Bero is the Protocol.”
“And I don’t think he’d like us to know that,” Tomas said.
CHAPTER 36
PRIME STANDARD YEAR 3543
TWO DAYS TO HOPE
Biran hit the ground. Hadn’t even realized he’d fallen. The lost line undercut his strength and his knees jarred against the floor, teeth clenching. If the wristpad hadn’t been strapped to him, he would have dropped it.
Sanda’s situation was dire. He needed to get up. Had to get up.
The door dilated behind him and the medi stepped out, almost tripping over him. “Are you all right?” She took a knee beside him, her chilly fingers connecting with the side of his neck to check his pulse.
“She’s alive,” he said, stupidly, struggling through the shock to get all his thoughts in a row. The medi’s brows pinched, and she glanced over his shoulder at the shut medibay door.
“That man is dead, Speaker.”
“But she’s not.” He grinned at her, which was very much the wrong thing to do. She grimaced and r
ocked back on her heels, pulling a small penlight from her pocket.
“Can you look at me, please? The stress… Well. Why don’t you come with me? Some nice tea and a lie-down may help.”
He gently removed her hand from his pulse and pushed to his feet. Her worry had crystallized something within him. Now wasn’t the time to dwell on emotion. To crack. He shunted his shock and his mingled joy and fear aside.
“I’m fine, thank you.”
Before she could stick him with some kind of sedative, Biran took off at a brisk pace down the hall, then broke into a run the second he was out of her sight. He sprinted with all he had, panting heavily, until the door to the deck just barely dilated fast enough to let him through. He stumbled a second, the switch in floor textures catching his shoes, and spun around, looking for Lavaux. Anaia was there already, leaning against the forward console as she watched the navigators at work. That girl would die of curiosity someday.
Every head turned to him. Lavaux stood near the navigation console, his hand on the table and his body half-turned to regard Biran’s clumsy entrance.
“Am I going to have to instigate a no-running rule?” he asked, amused.
“She’s alive. Sanda. She called me.”
Lavaux stood stalk-straight. All the quiet murmurs of conversation on the deck ceased. Anaia turned to him, eyes bulging, and clasped her hands over her mouth.
“Where?” Lavaux asked.
“She’s on a ship in orbit around Farion-X2. An Icarion ship called The Light of Berossus. My contact says the situation is hostile.”
Hunger flashed across Lavaux’s face, an expression so profound it took Biran by surprise and unsettled him. Lavaux was usually so calm—even when he was angry, the man was poised. He was the only person alive Biran was convinced could shout down you and your entire family while placidly enjoying a high tea. But there was something in his face—something raw and primal—that screamed a warning Biran couldn’t quite understand. Lavaux was a political creature. Maybe he saw heroism in his future, another lever to pull to catapult him up the chain. Maybe.
“Pilli, check the course.” He waved Biran over and turned back to his navigator. Pilli pulled up the coordinates Biran conveyed to her and splashed a screen of black across the major display, a graphical representation of the region.
“Do we have cameras there?” Lavaux asked.
Pilli smirked. “We don’t, but…”
The image switched to a satellite view—slightly grainy by modern standards, but Biran wouldn’t complain. There was the spy station Cepko had indicated they were on—a meager tube construction orbiting the scanty moon. The resolution wasn’t clear enough for Biran to make out fine details, but he squinted anyway, trying to catch any glimpse of his sister.
“Cepko said they had to return to The Light before the ship became suspicious.”
“Cepko?”
Biran grimaced. “Nazca.”
Lavaux chuckled. “Money well paid. Pilli, can you pan the area?”
The camera turned in jerks at first but eventually smoothed out, panning slowly to the left of the station—away from the moon. Biran gasped. Anaia let out a strangled sound. The intake of breath from all those on deck, collected, sounded like a soft hiss.
“What is that?” Pilli asked.
Cylindrical, massive. A beast of a torus spinning two grav-habs, its ramjet rear pointed away from the station, but only just. The largest ship Biran had ever laid eyes upon, in life or on screens. Sanda’s ship. Sanda’s captor. The Light of Berossus.
“The weapon,” Lavaux breathed the words. “How long to that location, burning at full power?”
“Thirty-three hours if we follow proper breaking procedures. Twenty-one hours if we don’t.”
“We have to get her out,” Biran said, heart pounding in his throat. “The AI controlling that ship is hostile.”
“Sir,” Pilli interjected, “there’s another ship on our sensors. Out of current camera range.”
“Show me.”
The camera view switched back to the graphical—the station and The Light now marked with red triangles. In the distance, a grey shape closed upon them both. Slithering through the dark after its prey.
“One of ours?” Biran asked.
“Icarion,” Pilli said. “General Negassi’s ship, the Empedocles.”
“They’ve lost it,” Lavaux said, barely able to contain his jubilation. “They’ve lost control of the weapon. Pilli, set course for The Light. Burn everything we’ve got. Negassi’s about to have a very bad day.”
CHAPTER 37
PRIME STANDARD YEAR 3541
IN A SYSTEM FAR, FAR AWAY
They cleaned out their valuables and scrammed. The tracker, the one she’d dropped in the wraith crate that had led them to that warehouse, she’d found resting in the center of her pillow, like a hotel mint. Nox had told her to leave it. That they had to go. That to stick around would only get them dead—or worse, arrested. What she’d wanted to say was, that was fine. That they could come for her. She’d be waiting. And ready.
But he’d seen that in her eyes, too, though they would never talk of it. That suicidal urge to burn the world down because there was nothing good left in it. He’d gripped her shoulder. Squeezed. Said: “You want to hurt them, it can’t be here. Gotta prepare. Gotta make it count.”
She could wait, if it meant doing more damage. She could sit here, and drink coffee so hot it scalded her tongue, so long as it meant she could spread that pain. And soon.
“They took the boards,” Nox said.
Her world snapped back into immediate focus. Jettisoned the lingering images of blood and chaos, of Harlan’s eyes growing dim, glassy, his body slack as every muscle in it gave up for the last time.
She didn’t quite know where she was. Some diner deep into the grimier parts of the Grotta, the parts Nox liked to prowl when the crew was off-op. A mug of something was in her hand, the white ceramic-like material chipped along the rim and the creases stained with old grime that would never quite wash out. She sipped it. Coffee, hot. Right. She had known that. So scalding hot it burned her tongue and singed her soft palate. Shot through with bourbon, sweet and boozy. Nox’s suggestion—a shot straight from his flask.
What had happened could be revisited and dwelled upon later—she’d have a whole lifetime for that, never mind it would be considerably shorter now. Some waitress was watching her, squinting at her through the kitchen’s pass-through. Jules forced a smile, and the woman huffed and turned away. Probably she’d never seen Nox with company before. Maybe she was jealous. Idiot.
“Not all of them,” she said, her mouth and mind finally catching up together on the same track.
“You find one?” Nox had forgone his coffee and was pulling straight from his flask now.
“Come on. You think I gave Harlan everything I had?”
Nox blinked, slowly. He hadn’t been home last night, either, and she wondered just how long he’d been awake, up “carousing,” as he’d said. She hadn’t slept herself, but she didn’t feel the weight of it pulling her down. In fact, when the tracks of her mind lined up again and she could think clearly, she was thinking faster than ever before. No wonder wraith mother cost so damn much. It was a wonder drug.
“All right,” Nox said. “So where is it?”
“Dropped it with Arden to have them pull the data. They said they had a contact, some forum-jumper going by Silverfang who was looking for data on the Keepers. They were going to contact them to see if they wanted to buy, if the data was good.”
“And cut the crew out of things.”
“Don’t. I had every intention of using that to secure bigger and better ops for us.”
“Any chance they contacted this Silverfang last night?”
“I don’t know.” A knot constricted her throat. “You think Silverfang targeted the crew?”
“How the fuck should I know?”
“That tracker from the wraith crate was left on my pi
llow like a damned calling card, Nox. I’m pretty sure we know who hit us.”
“Yeah. I guess. It’s just… Never trusted Arden.”
“One way to find out.”
“How’s that?”
“If Silverfang hit the crew, Arden is already dead.”
She pushed her mug back and dialed in Arden’s ident on her wristpad. It loaded a moment, then Arden’s face popped into screen, highly cropped. This time she really had woken them up. Over their shoulder, blackout curtains had been pulled against the single window.
“What the fuck, Jules?”
“Harlan’s dead.” The words pushed past her lips like buckshot, a scatter-blast of deadly proportion. She didn’t even feel the words, couldn’t just yet. They were just facts. But seeing them reflected in Arden’s widening eyes made her heart jump, a sob threaten. She thought of her goal and clenched down on that sob with the strength of her rage. “Lolla’s missing. Nox is with me now, but we got hit hard, Arden. Are you safe?”
“Shit. Shit.” The camera twisted away as a rustle of cloth muted the speakers. Lights snapped on and she could hear them check the locks of their front door. “Yeah. I’m secure. You think they’re coming for me?”
“I’m not thinking shit. I don’t know what they want. They only took the two boards Harlan had.” And the wraith mother vial she’d stashed in the crate, but she wasn’t telling Nox that. Not yet.
Arden rubbed the side of their face. “Does anyone know I got the third?”
“You told Silverfang?”
Their face went the color of whitewashed stone, all the answer she needed.
“Then yeah. Someone knows you got it.”
“Fuck, fuck, fuck—”
Nox grabbed her arm and pulled it over so that he filled the face of the call. “Got a bugout bag?”
“I mean, yeah, but—”
“Grab it. Hunker down. We’re coming for you.”
“Then what?”
Nox sighed heavily. “I know a place we can lie low and regroup.”
“This is so going to cost you extra.”
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