by Rob Boffard
Corey’s mom is staring into the middle distance, which means she’s working on her briefings. Again.
His dad notices, too. “We’re supposed to be on vacation, ’Nita. We talked about this.”
“What difference does it make?” she says, blinking. “You heard the captain. We’re waiting.”
“All the same. We’re here to relax.”
“I’m just catching up on my reading,” she says, not noticing as Corey mouths the words along with her.
He doesn’t blame his dad for being annoyed. It’s not like Mom is going to be able to beam back her notes to the office – even if she could, it’d take years and years and years for anybody to get them.
Usually, her lens is direct-connect to the Frontier government servers. Won’t work all the way out here, though, so she had to download everything before she came. Like always, she has her handbag with her: a giant tote made of shiny green fabric that she takes pretty much everywhere. Corey snuck a look in there once; all it has are weird creams and bottles of painkillers and four or five pairs of sunglasses, plus a few boring political books that she could easily get on her lens but which she claims to prefer reading in her hands.
He can’t remember a trip they’d been on where she wasn’t reading, or writing memos, or drafting policy. The only time she’s even looked remotely guilty about it was when Corey saw her doing it in a restaurant on Titan, eyes flicking left and right while Mal and his dad talked basketball. Or movies. He can’t remember.
Anita Livingstone works for a Frontier senator. She’s a deputy legislator, which Corey knows is pretty high up. He sometimes wonders how she got together with his dad, whose office is in an industrial area in Austin and who spends most of his time driving from place to place, installing home fusion reactors. He’d asked them once, and they given each other the strangest look, as if both remembering something slightly different. “Just in college,” his dad had said, which was kind of a boring answer.
He kicks his legs, drumming them against the chair support as the captain drones on, glancing at the holo display floating above his brother’s hand cam. Malik tweaks the tracker with his thumb, adding in some special effects: a cartoon explosion from Everett’s feet as he leaves the diving board.
There’s a clunk from the airlock below them, then the sound of running feet. Seconds later, a woman pops out of the stairwell like a cork from a bottle.
She’s young, early twenties, with arms and legs that remind Corey of the thin arms on space construction bots, and she looks harassed. She’s wearing a red T-shirt that’s too big for her, the tour company’s bright white logo across the back – a weirdly shaped silhouette of a ship, zooming across the words SIGMA DESTINATION TOURS. In one hand she clutches a crumpled tab. Corey blinks. Mal’s holo might be old, but actual tabs are prehistoric.
Captain Volkova’s voice booms through the main deck. “OK, I see the guide has arrived, so we can begin the tour.”
With a clunking shudder, the ship disengages from its dock. The view outside the dome begins to change, sliding to the right. The tour guide drops her tab. She bends down, flustered, trying to scoop it up, and has to dodge back as she almost bumps heads with the male half of the couple at the front. Malik already has his holo up, filming the encounter.
Corey looks back up at the dome. The red ship is gone.
“All right,” says the tour guide. A tiny mic clipped to her T-shirt collar broadcasts her voice through the ship’s speakers, the sound crackly and distorted. “Sorry I was a little late, ladies and gentlemen, but we can get started now. My name is Hannah, and I’ll be your guide for this tour around Sigma Station. As you probably know already, the station is not only a luxury hotel, but an active mining centre, processing at least twenty mil—”
She stops, looking down at her tab, tapping at it experimentally. Idly, Corey wonders why she doesn’t just use her lens. “Yes. Twenty million tons of helium-3 a year, although it is also a popular tourist destination which … I guess you also know already, and you’ve probably had a good look at the Horsehead Nebula, which around here we call the ‘Neb’.”
She gives an awkward laugh. Every sentence she speaks rises in pitch until, in the middle, it drops again, coming to rest on a low note. It makes Corey want to put his hands over his ears.
“And if you take a look through the dome now,” Hannah says, “the station itself should just be coming into view.”
Corey glances up and his mouth falls open.
They’d seen the station from the outside once before, when they were coming in on their transport ship (Diablo F400, needle nose, twin fusion engines). But that was a fleeting glimpse, and the station was just a dark shape, shadowy and indistinct. From here, it’s silhouetted against the glowing expanse of the Horsehead Nebula, and Corey can’t believe how big it is. Dozens of cylindrical modules, each the size of a city block, with what must be a million twinkling lights. The giant command sector hovers above the station like an umbrella. A dozen ships are in view, slowly coasting through space, moving in and out of the cavernous station dock.
Corey isn’t the only one staring. Every other passenger, even not-Terio-Smith, is craning their necks to look.
At that moment, Corey spots the red ship again. Only, it’s not red. The light from the Neb made it look that way from a distance, but it’s actually painted a dull orange. He doesn’t recognise the silhouette – it’s sharper and more streamlined than the Vectors or the Antares, and it’s still not close enough for him to pick out the details.
Whatever it is, it’s moving crazy fast. It must have been a hundred miles away when he first saw it, and now it’s almost on them.
“So when the war ended ten years ago,” Hannah is saying, reading from her notes, “the Belarus Treaty allowed the Colonies to keep ten planets around the Talos core, with the remaining ninety-six occupied planets and outposts being ceded to the Frontier – including this station.”
She taps at something on her tab. “The station holds around ten thousand people full-time, plus there are usually anywhere between fifty and a hundred mining ships docked or in orbit. They arrive using the Sigma jump gate, which is too far away for us to see from here but which you’ve probably … Yes?”
The old woman with the grey hair is holding up a shaky hand. “I read the Frontier got a raw deal out of the treaty?” she asks.
“Oh no, ma’am,” Hannah says, smiling. This time, she doesn’t have to refer to her notes. “That’s a common misconception. It’s true that the Colonies got to keep some valuable mining outposts, but the Frontier got a much larger chunk of territory, plus control of the jump gate network. And when you consider that the war only started because the Colonies decided to keep the resources they were sent out for instead of firing them back through the gates like they were supposed to, I’d say it’s a good compromise. Everybody got what they wanted. Mostly. Does that sort of answer your question, ma’am?”
“Oh, please don’t call me ma’am,” the old woman says, returning Hannah’s smile. “And yes, thank you.”
Corey glances at his mom – Anita Livingstone is staring daggers at Hannah, and he can understand why. She’s spent the past two years trying to get the treaty changed, arguing that the Frontier did get a raw deal out of it. Please don’t let her start arguing with the tour guide …
The Red Panda starts to turn, and the orange ship slips out of sight. They’re heading further out from the station, coming past the loading docks, giving the incoming ships a wide berth. D6 cruisers shine in the light from the Neb.
“So here’s a little factoid about the station you might not have heard,” the guide says, leaning on the word factoid. “When we first set out to build permanent gates – ones we could actually send humans through – this was one of the first completed. It meant we had a lot more volunteers prepared to leave Earth, which, as you know, was a pretty crucial issue after the sea levels rose. So when you jumped through the gate on your journey to Sigma, you were jum
ping through history!”
She beams at her audience, and gets precisely zero reaction back.
“OK, ladies and gentlemen,” says the pilot. “There will be a slight acceleration now, so please hold onto your seats and do not walk around, thank you.”
There’s a rumble as the Red Panda’s engines take the strain. As it does, the orange ship comes into view again.
It’s much closer now – close enough for Corey to finally pick out the details. The ship is huge, easily as big as an Antares, with an aggressive, pointed nose and thin, almost needle-like fins. It’s slowing down, its thrusters pointed forward, ejecting white puffs of gas as it comes to a slow cruise above the station.
A shiver sneaks up Corey’s spine. He thought he knew just about every type of ship there was, but this one? He’s never seen it before.
The other passengers have seen it, too. His dad catches the old woman’s eye and shrugs, smiling. The couple near the front are asking Hannah about the ship. “I’m not sure,” the guide says. “It’s probably just another mining vessel.”
A tiny opening appears on the side of the orange ship. Small metal spheres begin to pop out, dispersing into the vacuum. Each looks to be about the size of a small hovercar.
Two spheres become three, then a dozen, then two dozen, drifting like a cloud of flies. Thrusters on the spheres activate, one after the other, sending them on a curving trajectory towards the station.
“What are those?” his dad says, pointing up at the spheres. The rest of the passengers are just as confused, craning their necks to look up through the dome.
Corey can’t move. He can’t tear his eyes away from the cloud of spheres. One changes course, zipping away from the pack, colliding with one of the cruisers near the station dock.
A ball of silent, swirling flame erupts, the cruiser’s body cracking in two. Corey’s eyes go wide, and the old woman sucks in a horrified breath.
“Um …” Hannah says.
Then the rest of the spheres reach their targets, and, without a sound, Sigma Station explodes.
Chapter 3
Hannah Elliott’s mind shuts down.
The station is being torn apart in front of them, silent bursts of fire shredding the modules, the command centre ripping in half. Cargo cruisers are coming about, trying to flee, chased down by the metal spheres. One particularly large ship splits down the belly, its cargo spinning out into the void, tiny silver particles glinting. Food containers, probably destined for the station restaurants.
She’s still in the sim. She has to be. She’s fallen asleep, and her jump-lagged brain is in the middle of a horrible lucid dream. She’s definitely not here, on a tourist vessel shaped like an upside-down turd, watching an entire station get blown to pieces.
Atsuke’s still on there. So’s Donnie. The tattooed guy in the VR room. And the little girl on the bench in the dock. Everybody.
The people on the tour ship’s main deck are screaming.
The family at the back are going nuts, the two parents pulling their boys in, trying to shield them as if one of those spheres is about to come hurtling through the viewing dome. The old woman is still seated – she’s pulled herself into a tight ball, like a centipede curling in on itself, fingers clutching her fanny pack. Her mouth is moving, whispering something rapid and panicked – a prayer, maybe. The man in the suit jacket and polo shirt is on his feet. He’s shouting, and every word is a horrible wail: “Hooohmygod! Hoooh! Hoooooohno!” To Hannah, it sounds like he’s gasping for air, barely pausing for breath between each one. His eyes are enormous, locked on the chaos outside the ship.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” says a stunned voice to Hannah’s right. It’s the man in the leather jacket. He’s got an Irish accent, and he too is on his feet. The woman with him has her hand over her mouth, staring in horror.
Hannah can’t move. Can’t think. The orange ship is still just visible, the hole in its belly is still shooting out those spheres. Hundreds of them, whirling away, heading for different parts of the station.
“We gotta get out of here,” says the man in the suit jacket. When Hannah doesn’t respond, he bellows at her. “You hear me? We gotta go now!”
Hannah opens her mouth, but can’t get the words out. She swallows, tries again. “If everybody could just stay calm—”
The captain’s voice booms over the speakers, clear and urgent. “OK, everybody on the main deck stay sitting, and hold on!”
Hannah nearly loses her footing as the Red Panda turns, the inertial dampeners straining. The thrum of the engines increases, the dampeners fighting to keep them stable as the pilot banks hard. Hannah grabs one of the plastic chairs for support, but her fingers are slimy with sweat. She can’t get a grip. Her right knee bangs against the deck, hands splayed out in front of her. There’s a curious metallic taste in her mouth.
A shadow crosses the viewing dome. Hannah looks up, and there’s a ship heading right towards them.
It’s a tugboat, its cabin destroyed, its back half shorn almost clean off. Someone – the father of the two boys, she thinks – gives an angry roar, as if to scare the thing off. As it gets closer, Hannah sees a burned, human-looking shape in one of the pilot seats.
The Red Panda banks again, sending the destroyed tugboat sliding to the left, only just missing them. Hannah’s shoulders are trembling under her oversized T-shirt. A sphere rockets past the dome as she gets to her feet, making her flinch. Her own words echo back at her in her mind: The station holds around ten thousand people full time.
“What do we do?” It’s the boys’ mother. Her face is white, and her voice almost a shriek. The old woman’s prayer is audible now, her voice hitching, reeling off something in Spanish. All the passengers, even the old woman, are looking at Hannah. She can feel the stunned terror radiating off them – it reminds her of the waft of dry heat you get when you open an oven that’s been on for a long time.
They’re staring at her because she’s the one in charge. She’s the one standing at the front, the one with the notes and the official T-shirt, and they want her to tell them what they have to do.
“Um,” Hannah says, barely aware that she’s speaking. “Just …”
Then she turns and runs.
In seconds, she’s in the tiny corridor leading to the cockpit, pushing through the grimy door. The passengers are screaming in startled fury behind her. Somewhere, deep in her chest, there’s a tiny beat of horrified shame. She doesn’t care. She can no more face the passengers right now than she can breathe in space.
The first thing she sees through the cockpit glass is another station module erupting in a massive gout of flame. It’s close, less than a mile away, and it’s happening in absolute, perfect, horrid silence. Hannah flinches, banging her head on a ceiling strut, sending darts of light shooting through her vision. This isn’t happening.
The cockpit is small, with a horseshoe-shaped control deck surrounding a single battered chair. Hannah can just see the back of the occupant’s head, greying hair pulled into a severe bun.
“Captain, we have a proximity alert,” says the cheerful voice of the Red Panda.
“I know!” The pilot changes from English to Russian, spitting a torrent of abuse as she reaches out, hammering on the control panel.
She’s an older woman – fifty, at least – with a heavily lined face and a receding hairline. She wears a short-sleeved white pilot’s shirt with epaulettes, and her wrists are heavy with gold bangles. A cigarette – a homemade one, not a NicoStick – hangs from one corner of her mouth. Hannah can’t remember the last time she even smelled tobacco.
The pilot turns, twisting in her seat, bloodshot eyes landing on Hannah. “Guide? What are you doing here? Get back! Get to the cabin! Deal with the passen—”
She cuts off mid-sentence to yank the control stick to the right, twisting the Panda around to avoid a chunk of debris the size of Hannah’s parents’ house. Hannah screams, and ducks. A dim, unfocused thought crosses her mind: why is
there an actual control stick in the cockpit, when the pilot could easily control the ship with her lens?
Volkova flips a switch and starts speaking again. “Mayday, mayday, station control, this is the Red Panda, XT560 dash T1, requesting instructions, do you – pizdets!”
Hannah is almost knocked off her feet as the Red Panda shudders from an impact. She’s almost certain one of the spheres has found its mark, that she’s about to be sucked right through the wall as the ship undergoes explosive decompression. Then a car-shaped chunk of metal appears in the viewport, spinning away from them, torn wires sprouting from its edge. The Red Panda smacked right into it, hard enough to shake the ship.
They’re above the station’s command module now. Hannah can see right through it, right down to the main station modules below. The wreckage is spitting gouts of purple-blue flame, twisting and coiling like snakes.
We should be shooting back. Hannah might not know Sigma Station well, but she knows that it has some defences – long-range torpedo batteries, designed to intercept threats before they get close. That kind of thing. And yet the attacking ship is still there, hanging above the chaos like a malevolent god, untouched. It doesn’t make sense.
“What’s going on in here?” It’s the man in the suit jacket, slamming through the cockpit door, bracing himself on the wall as Volkova pulls out of the roll. The drumbeat of shame in Hannah’s chest gets louder, thumping in time with her heart.
With a grunt, the man thrusts himself into the cockpit, propelling himself along. Something inside Hannah, some nugget she retained from the guide orientation sessions, reasserts itself. She steps in front of him, hands raised. “Sir, if you could just return to the main cabin …”
“Are you out of your mind?” the man screams at her. He tries to push past her, reaching out and putting a hand on the captain’s shoulder. “We have a right to know what’s—”
