Sanctuary

by Caryn Lix

  “Cage,” said Alexei quietly.

  He blinked, as if realizing what he was doing, and released her. Tears spilled over Rune’s lashes. After scrubbing them away with her fists, she glared at Cage and spun on the console. Her fingers dipped below the surface. A moment later a large red circle rose on one of the screens. “There,” she said, her voice unsteady. “There’s your damn button!”

  “Rune . . .” Cage reached for her, but she leaped back, her eyes flashing rage.

  “Enough!” I stepped between them. I’d never seen Rune and Cage at odds like this, and the betrayal sketched across her face reminded me painfully of how my mother had turned her back on me. “There’s a better solution here. Let’s get all the survivors together and vote on this. Where are they now?”

  Cage ran both hands through his hair and dragged them across his face. “Imani got almost everyone down, and Reed’s doing his best. He has anyone who can move bandaging and stitching. Survival seems to depend on how long people have been in stasis, and how susceptible they were to begin with. Some people died as soon as we disconnected them. Some are going to pull through. For most, it’s too soon to tell.”

  “We should vote on this,” I insisted.

  “Are you serious? Have you tried getting these people to agree on anything? They’ve spent half their lives on an orbital prison. They aren’t exactly open to dialogue.”

  “Kenzie’s right!” Rune interjected, her hands clenched into fists. “This isn’t a decision we can make on our own.”

  A shrill beep cut through our argument. We spun to find Mia hunched over the console, barely on her feet. “Mia,” I gasped. “What did you do?”

  She twisted to glare at me, one hand holding her abdomen closed, the other still clamped over Rune’s button. “What needed to be done.”

  I ran for the console, Rune at my side. She closed her eyes and plunged in while I frantically fumbled through the alien text. Even the short time that had passed since I’d interacted with the system had eroded my hard-won familiarity with the language, though—before I began to grasp the meaning of each scrolling symbol, Rune was already stepping back, shaking her head. “It’s done,” she said, her gaze drilling through Mia. Her voice caught. “We just sent a hundred sleeping creatures to their deaths.”

  Mia shrugged. “Not you, sweetheart. Me. Let me worry about the consequences.” She tried to straighten up, grimaced, and collapsed to her knees.

  Alexei swooped in, lifting her again. “Where did you say Reed was?”

  “Through there,” said Cage.

  Without another word, Alexei carried Mia away.

  Cage reached for Rune. “Meimei . . .”

  She recoiled from his touch. “Don’t even talk to me.” Shoving away from the console, she ran for the exit. I chased after her as best I could on my injured foot, catching up as she entered the aliens’ stasis chamber.

  We shone a flashlight into the nearest cubicle. Empty. The creature who’d slept there was gone. We made our way through both rings, but they were completely deserted. I checked cubicles randomly, finding only traces of slimy gel, empty coffins.

  Once we reached the inner airlock, we stood in silence, staring at one another. And it was silent. I hadn’t realized it before, but the chambers used to emit a slight hum. Now . . .

  “It might be for the best,” I acknowledged at last. “Cage had a point. What were we going to do with them?”

  Rune shook her head. “I don’t know. But I can’t shake the feeling this is going to come back to haunt us.”

  Maybe she was right. But a tiny part of me—maybe the Omnistellar guard, the one who understood my parents’ actions—breathed a silent thanks to Mia for doing what I couldn’t.

  THIRTY-NINE

  RUNE AND I HUDDLED ALONE in the console room a few hours later, working out the computer. We had a difficult task in front of us: find the weapons on this ship and destroy Sanctuary. Because if we didn’t, if there were any more aliens, we might not have saved Earth at all, and the next people to visit the station would get a nasty surprise.

  And the next people would probably be Dad and my friends. Besides, the station was a vivid clue regarding our whereabouts—the missing prisoners, the empty shuttle bay, the cameras.

  We managed to pull up a viewscreen, which gave me an immense sense of relief, alleviating some of the alien ship’s claustrophobia. The computer hadn’t been designed to show us anything outside—after all, the aliens couldn’t see. But between us, Rune and I were finding it easier and easier to manipulate the AI into doing exactly what we wanted.

  I stared at Sanctuary. It seemed so peaceful, drifting in space. You couldn’t see any of the damage on the screen, smell the blood, hear the screams. If any aliens remained, they prowled in silence, making no further effort to return home. Maybe they didn’t realize we’d gone—or maybe there really weren’t any left. I choked on unshed tears and, stupidly, thought of freeze-dried strawberries and my poster of Yumiko. Those were about to disappear forever. Stupid things to worry about, given everything that had happened, but there it was. “Okay,” I whispered to Rune, my hands trembling on the console. “I’m ready. Let’s . . .”

  Something shimmered on the screen, and Sanctuary exploded in a silent but vivid display of fireworks. My jaw dropped as it burst in on itself, flames and lights and debris winking in and out of existence in a heartbeat. “Rune, did you . . . ?”

  “I didn’t do anything! I barely found the ship’s weapons, let alone figured out how to work them.” She joined me at the screen and we watched pieces of my home drift away. “Maybe there were aliens left on board?” she suggested dubiously. “Maybe they triggered something?”

  “Maybe.” Or maybe enough damage had been done and Sanctuary couldn’t sustain itself anymore under the pressure. I didn’t know. Either way, its destruction left a gaping hole in my heart, as if I’d lost another friend.

  And yet . . . part of me felt something like relief. Destroying Sanctuary meant—at least in my mind, if not in reality—that I was really and truly done as a guard. I couldn’t go back.

  And of course, it meant no questions about the gaping wound in Matt’s chest.

  Matt. The aliens. How many deaths would land on my conscience? “Rune,” I said softly. “When Cage was yelling at you—why’d you give him the button? Mia couldn’t have vented the ship if you hadn’t.”

  I spoke hesitantly, afraid of hurting Rune’s feelings. But she looked more angry than sad. “Believe me, I’ve thought of that,” she said, her gaze fixed on the console. “In a lot of ways, what happened was my fault. I didn’t think Cage would really do it, though. And I was . . . I don’t know. Overwhelmed. He was yelling at me.” She blinked at me, a bewildered expression in her wide eyes. “Cage never yells at me. I’ve never seen him so angry. I just didn’t know what to do.” A bitter laugh escaped her throat. “I wish I was strong like you, Kenzie. I wish I knew the right thing to do and just did it. Things would be so much simpler.”

  There was so much wrong with her perception of me, I didn’t even know where to begin correcting her. Instead I took her hand, and she squeezed before turning to the console and saying with obviously forced cheer, “So, what should we work on next?”

  I let the moment pass. After all, Rune didn’t deserve me trying to unload my own guilt on her shoulders. I had to live with what I’d done.

  * * *

  By the time we separated the dead from the wounded, twenty-three prisoners survived Sanctuary. Imani’s sister, Aliya, was not one of them, and Imani’s grief—so raw in its power and fury—ripped my own heart to pieces. Mom. Rita. Tyler. And God help me, Matt. So many deaths to carry.

  We buried the bodies at space, so to speak. We tried to find something to say about each person, but it wasn’t easy. None of the prisoners from sectors 2 through 4 had survived, obviously excepting Imani and Anya, meaning I was the only person with a chance of recognizing their faces and names from distantly remembered files.
I spent hours chewing my lip, racking my memory for any tidbit of information to turn them from nameless prisoners into people. Most of the time, I failed. Some of the time, I lied. Names and stories seemed to bring everyone comfort, and if I could give them that, I would.

  We held a private service for Tyler and Matt, just the prisoners from sector 5 and me. I hadn’t wanted to attend, but Cage insisted. Matt had been Catholic, and Rune said Tyler was Jewish, so we said a few prayers before committing their spirits to wherever they had gone.

  Of course, everything we said about Matt’s death was a lie.

  Rune stood beside me through Matt’s service, her chin held high and her lips trembling, her eyes wet but resolute. Halfway through, she reached out and took my hand, clinging to me like a lifeline. I squeezed back, remembering Matt’s rueful grin, the blank look on his face when he died. What would she say if she knew the truth? I hadn’t wanted to lie about it. I hadn’t meant any of this to happen. But now the lie was out there, and I didn’t dare tell anyone the truth. Even if they didn’t blame me for Matt’s death—and how could they not, given the circumstances?—they would hate me for lying.

  At last, a few tears spilled over Rune’s cheeks. She wiped them away almost angrily, and I squeezed her hand more tightly. Cage stared at both of us, his expression a mask of misery. He alone knew what I was going through, and I could see the urge to comfort his sister like an itch he just couldn’t scratch. But he knew she’d only push him away.

  I lingered after the service, where Cage stood against the airlock, his body taut, one arm propped against the wall. “We didn’t even have a body to launch,” he said shortly. I couldn’t read his expression with his forehead resting on his arm, and I didn’t know if I dared reach out to him. Would he even want my comfort? “I just wish we’d . . .”

  “I’m sorry,” I said softly. It felt miserably inadequate, but what else could I say?

  At last he looked at me, his eyes bright with unshed tears, his face pale and drawn. “No one’s blaming you. You were trying to save his life. I know that.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s not how it worked out, is it?”

  “No,” he said flatly, and my heart sank. “I guess it isn’t.” He stared at the wall another moment, then seemed to shake off his grief. I sighed, raising my hand and tracing the lines of his face. Cage always wore a mask. I guess I was grateful he trusted me enough to let it down for even a short time, but I wished he’d give himself time to grieve properly.

  “Look who’s talking,” he said dryly, and I realized I’d murmured the thought out loud. I blushed. I was more exhausted than I’d imagined. But then Cage drew me into his arms and gripped me a little tighter than usual. I pulled him in as close as I could and held him there. He didn’t speak or cry or tremble, but he clung to me like I was a life preserver, and for a long time we just stood like that, two people afloat in the midst of an ocean of grief.

  I buried Mom and Rita separately too, not wanting it to become a spectacle. Alexei and Cage carried their bodies, wrapped in some loose tarps we’d taken from Sanctuary, and laid them carefully in the airlock. Rune stood by my side, clutching my hand again, this time offering support instead of seeking it. “You want to say anything, Kenz?” Cage asked.

  I hesitated. I’d never attended a funeral. My family wasn’t religious, and I couldn’t just list names and powers as I had for the prisoners. I glanced helplessly between them—Cage crouched by the bodies, Alexei on my left, Rune on my right, as far from Cage as she could get.

  She stepped forward, careful to avoid her brother’s eyes. “What’s your mom’s name?”

  I blinked. “Angela. Angela Cord.” The words twisted in my throat, threatening to choke me. Cage appeared at my side and took my arm, steadying me.

  Rune smiled. “Angela Cord,” she said, “and Rita . . . Hernandez?” I nodded, and she continued: “. . . were officers on board Sanctuary. They were hard-working, loyal, brave women. They weren’t always perfect. They made mistakes. But when it came down to it, they met their end with courage and strength. And they had this in common: they loved Kenzie, and she loved them. We didn’t know these women, but we see a piece of them every time we look at Kenzie, reflected in her determination and conviction. We may have been on opposite sides while they lived, but I think that if we’d known each other better, we would have liked each other. Because in the end, what side you’re on doesn’t really matter. All that matters is who you are inside—and we know, I know, that if Kenzie loved someone, they must have been good at their core.”

  Tears stung my eyes. I reached for Rune, pulling her into my arms, and we hugged tightly.

  Someone cleared their throat. I swiped at my tears and turned to see Mia lurking in the corridor. She inclined her head at me and limped to stand beside Alexei, awkward and uncomfortable, never holding the same position for longer than a couple of seconds, until he laid his hands on her shoulders, stilling her. In a moment of insanity or grief or something, I almost reached out to her. Somewhere along the way, I’d come to value Mia. It meant a lot that she’d dragged herself here—stumbling, in pain, uncertain, but still, she’d come.

  “Kenz?” Cage asked again, his voice so gentle it almost retriggered my tears.

  I closed my eyes, tensed my muscles, and nodded, stepping back from the airlock. He followed, allowing it to seal. Rune crossed to a console, plunged her arms inside, and gave the computer a command. The thick walls prevented us from hearing anything, but a moment later the door slid open to reveal . . . nothing.

  Mom and Rita were truly gone.

  I stumbled blindly from the room, terrified with every step that someone would call my name and my composure would break before I could escape and find the privacy I so desperately needed. No one did, though. They had the good sense to let me go. I barely cleared the room before the tears started, a deluge of the agonizing grief that had clawed at me from the moment I saw my mother’s body. I wedged myself into a crevice in an abandoned area of the ship, wrapped my arms around my legs, and buried my face in my knees, the tears flowing freely now and soaking through the legs of my uniform.

  Everything was so wrong. Omnistellar was at best misguided and at worst evil. My mom had tried to kill me, and she’d died before I could so much as ask for an explanation. Hundreds of prisoners had died, including Tyler and, of course, Matt. And the stain of that blood wouldn’t be fading from my hands or my heart any time soon.

  I huddled in the darkness, alone and silent, and cried for what felt like hours, until everything inside me was drained and exhausted and dull. Then I wiped my face with the back of my hand, rearranged my hair, and set my mask back in place.

  There was still work to be done.

  * * *

  We gathered in the control room: Cage, Rune, Mia, Alexei, Imani, Reed, and me. Reed looked almost as exhausted as I felt—he’d been run off his feet getting everyone healthy and mobile, and his brown skin seemed ashy and sallow under the emergency lights. Imani had found a scrap of cloth somewhere and fashioned it into a hijab. She lounged against a console, shadows of grief still lining her face.

  Reed had done what he could, but Mia, Cage, and I still bore our own injuries. My ankle throbbed whenever I moved too quickly, and I caught Alexei threatening to tie Mia down after she tore her stitches a second time running around the ship, barking orders.

  The seven of us had become the ship’s de facto leaders. The other kids brought us their problems—and they had problems all the time, ranging from “this food is gross” (so don’t eat it) to “where should we go to the bathroom?” (We found a drainage room at the end of the hall where the kids had been chained. It seemed to function as a large shower and waste recycling system, so for now, everyone used that. No one was happy about it.)

  “What now?” Rune asked the question on everyone’s minds. She stayed on the opposite side of the room from Cage and Mia, and I knew Cage felt it from the way he kept glancing to her, his jaw working as though considering
and rejecting explanations. I’d overheard a conversation between them outside the command center the night before, and I’d picked up enough Mandarin to understand it.

  “Would you give me a chance to explain?” Cage had demanded.

  “Explain what?” Rune’s voice had been high and shrill, on the edge of hysterics. “You killed those creatures!”

  “I didn’t—” He’d sputtered, sucking in a deep breath. “You know, it’s not the first time I’ve had to kill someone to keep you safe. It’s just the first time you had to see it.”

  “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

  I wondered that myself. Who had Cage killed—and why? I stared at my folded hands. Maybe that was why he wasn’t blaming me for Matt’s death. Had Cage killed similarly, by mistake? Or was it something more? I realized again how little I knew about these people I’d been thrown in with. If I transferred blind trust from Omnistellar to the prisoners, had I really made any progress?

  Cage’s angry voice countered, “You rely on me to protect you, but only if I keep you in the dark, is that it?”

  “So stop protecting me!” she shouted. “Just leave me alone!”

  Cage’s voice dropped dangerously. “That’s not going to happen.”

  “It will if I have anything to say about it.” She’d stormed into the command center so quickly I’d stumbled over a console, frantic to look busy. Guilt had assailed me—I’d really had no right to eavesdrop on their conversation—but Rune had been too furious to notice. And after a moment, Cage had sighed and stomped away.

  Now, I casually stepped between them, breaking the angry tension. “The way I see it, we have two options. We can contact Earth and head home. If we’re lucky, we might get some leniency from Omnistellar—and yes, I mean we,” I added, catching Mia’s glare. “I helped you escape. I had that chip cut out of my arm. I’m one of you. Whatever happens to you, I’m in the same boat.”