by CJ Birch
I catch my reflection in the glass and notice the beginnings of a black eye. Awesome.
“I underestimated you.” Sarka pauses studying me. His hand glides along the stubble on his jaw. “Or maybe I overestimated Everette.”
Everette shifts, keeping his hand on his gun hilt. His eyes stare with equal hatred into mine.
There’s a lot of quiet contemplation and staring going on before Sarka finally speaks again. “This must all be a little confusing for you.”
I cross my arms. “Not especially, no.” There’s a pear tree set in the corner of this room as well, or maybe it’s the same one from his cabin, and he just carts it around.
He follows my gaze, and I see it, the moment it clicks, and he realizes I remember. He leans over and whispers something to Everette, who leaves, but not before giving me a look that says he’s not done with me yet. Great, now I’m going to regret not killing him.
“Have a seat.” Sarka points to a chair in front of his desk.
“So I’m a guest now?” I lift my arms slightly to emphasize my dishevelment. I don’t feel like a guest. “This all feels so spurious.” My tone is formal as I lower myself into the chair. “After all, I’m not here by choice.”
“Would you rather I left you in your little pod to suffocate and die?”
“Yes,” I say without hesitation. “I’m going to die anyway. I’d rather it be on my own terms.” And without casualties, but I don’t add that part. I’ve been saved from imploding, alone in space, only to land in front of this death squad, who are, no doubt, shepherding me to the Posterus, where I will take my place in history as the first person to blow up an entire ship with her own body.
He circles his desk and takes a seat across from me. This feels different than my memories. He seems different than I remember, less tightly wound than last time. He’s calmer, as if everything he’s planned so far has gone his way, and the completion of his mission is inevitable.
“I don’t understand why you care so much if we leave. Are you mad they didn’t invite you?”
His laughter coats the room like a blanket covering every surface. “What a childish thing to say. You think I’m holding a grudge against the Union? Sulking like a baby because I wasn’t invited to your tea party?” His face sobers, and he pulls two glasses down from a cupboard beside his desk. “Have you ever heard of an agave plant?”
I shake my head.
“It used to grow in the southern regions of Earth, Mexico and some parts of South America. It requires lots of sun and an arid climate to thrive, and so naturally doesn’t do so well up here. The sap, when it’s fermented and distilled, makes a beverage that is known as liquid gold.” Sarka opens a drawer and pulls a glass bottle filled with a soft amber liquid and sets it on the desk in front of me. “Do you know why it’s called liquid gold?”
Again, I shake my head.
“Because there is very little of it left in the known universe.” He pours a couple fingers in each glass, and when he sets the bottle down, the label is facing me: tequila.
The same stuff Jordan gave me that first night. Now I wonder more than ever where she got her hands on this stuff, liquid gold.
“We are our history. A shared history. And as much as the Union would like to deny it, that history is also our future,” says Sarka, taking a slow sip. “It may seem inconsequential to you, but if we leave, if even some of us leave, we are abandoning our history, abandoning who we are as a species.”
“I think that’s backward and ignorant,” I say. “Change has always been feared by those who are too afraid to push forward, to make a sacrifice for the greater good. If we didn’t have people like Erikson, or Gagarin or Kita, we wouldn’t have progressed as a species. If Erikson hadn’t ventured into the unknown, Europeans wouldn’t have settled North America. If Gagarin, or any of the early astronauts, hadn’t donned spacesuits and blasted into space on a glorified bottle rocket to explore space, we might not have thought it possible. And if Kita hadn’t guided that first mission to Mars, we as a species would probably still be stuck on Earth. Extinct. All because it was better to play it safe and stick close to home.” I pause, wishing words would get through to him. “This is no different. We’re taking the bold step to move into the next phase of human existence, and that requires interstellar travel.”
“No. We don’t belong out there. Just like this tequila, once the last bottle is drunk, nothing we do will ever bring it back. If we disperse as a species, there is no bringing us back.” He pushes a glass toward me.
I shake my head. “Once was enough.”
“I assure you, you’ve not tried tequila before.”
I lean forward and inhale. Even that burns my throat. I hack a few times to clear my lungs.
A quick rap on the door halts my impulse to heave the glass of tequila in Sarka’s fabricated face. When I turn, the wrinkled woman with a small tablet tucked under her arm slips into the office. She glides silently toward Sarka and hands him the tablet. It’s evident he doesn’t understand anything on it. He shoves it back into the woman’s hands.
“I thought you said she wouldn’t remember anything.”
The woman’s head whips around and her whole body goes rigid. She stalks over to me and pulls me to my feet. I tower over her. She extends weathered hands and cups my face, tugging me lower so she can peer into my eyes. I hover in a half-standing, half-seated position as she assesses me. I feel like a child who’s been summoned to the dinner table and made to prove I’ve washed my hands. “She isn’t supposed to remember any of it. The knot releases…a chemical that suppresses her…memories.” I have a feeling she’s dumbing down much of what she’s saying so Sarka understands.
I guess it makes sense that they would want me to forget. They erased all traces of the plasma pulse from the database. The only clue to its theft would be my memories.
“Then how is it she remembers?”
The old woman tilts my head from side to side. Her hands are rough against my skin like she’s got tiny burrs on the ends, grappling my cheeks. I’m not exactly sure what she’s looking for. Her ebony eyes are very close now, piercing in their intensity. “Did you take anything?”
I nod. “I did.” I don’t think I could lie to those inky eyes even if I wanted to.
She releases my face and pulls from one of her many pockets a small blade. Before I even know what she’s doing or can stop her, she’s grabbed my hand and sliced the tip of my index finger, drawing blood. She places a small smudge of it on another contraption pulled from yet another pocket. She’s holding a small flat rectangle with a screen on one side and a dash of my blood on a dark black pad on the other.
“It put you to sleep?”
I pause because I wouldn’t call what happened to me sleeping.
“You relived it?”
“Yes.” My voice is very quiet, but even so, it appears to reverberate around the room, as if throwing it back in my face. As if the act of admitting it means I belong here; I deserve this. I let it all happen.
She nods, satisfied with my answers and the reading on her device. “Your medical personnel are intelligent.” Her fingers run over the tablet in a rhythm that is both hypnotic and soothing. “They shut down your hippocampus while stimulating your frontal lobe. It allowed your unconscious mind access to them. In a way, reliving the memories as if in a dream state.”
“That sounds nicer than it was,” I say, sucking the blood off my index finger.
Sarka’s eyes droop to the table, and when they come back, there’s a sadness there I can’t explain, edged with anger. “Why would you do that?”
I snort. If I’d known what it was I was remembering, I wouldn’t have bothered. No. That’s not true, I know I would have risked it. Yet I would give anything to forget again.
The old woman leads me to a chair and pushes me down. “Sit,” she says. I wonder how she came to be on this ship, serving the Burrs. Did she volunteer, or was she one of their conquests, taken off a cargo ship
in the early years of the Burrs’ piracy.
She lifts the hair at the back of my head and prods at the cut. I wince and try to pull away, but she strengthens her grip. “Not infected.”
I wonder, and not for the first time, why that should matter. It’s as if they’re tidying me up for my death. Like the ancient Egyptians who prepared their tombs with bowls of fruit and concubines for their journey to the afterlife.
The intercom buzzes and Everette’s breathless voice comes over the speaker. “It’s done.”
“Excellent.” Sarka swipes his hand over his desk and brings up a set of coordinates and energy readouts I don’t understand at first. “Have we docked yet?”
“Almost, just need to align with the clamps.”
“Is there going to be a problem with that?”
I can hear the sneer in Everette’s voice as he says, “No, sir. The new clamps were perfectly aligned.”
My stomach drops.
As strong fingers rub a foul-smelling gel on the gash at the back of my head, my mind runs through the sequence of events. A contingency plan. He knew if I found out I would run, and he made sure he’d be able get me back on board, to get his mission back on track. He had me rig our docking clamp for his ship. I want to laugh and cry at the same time. He’s brought me back to the Persephone.
Sarka turns dark eyes on me. “Time for Plan B.”
Chapter Twenty-one
A quick scan of the consoles on the bridge shows me what I already know; Sarka used the plasma pulse to take out the electronics on the Persephone. The ship is essentially a dead piece of metal, floating through space until Hartley and his people can get it back up and running again. The red emergency lights cast everything in an ominous glow.
By the time we’ve taken the bridge, Sarka’s crew have infiltrated the ship, taking control of all the key systems, all personnel. The Persephone is now under their control.
Several Burrs stand guard, guns raised, watching over the bridge crew. My gaze immediately finds Jordan, who’s watching the scene with barely controlled rage.
“Which one of you is the captain?” says Sarka.
Without hesitation, Jordan unfurls from her spot next to Vasa. Her jaw is clamped in anger, her eyes dark slits of fury. There’s a bloody gash on the side of her temple, probably from resisting.
Beside me, Sarka’s body jerks straight up and becomes stiff. His eyes are the only thing that moves as he traces Jordan’s path across the bridge. I wonder if he’s had the same reaction I did. She’s magnificent in her indignation, and despite my best efforts to remain calm and neutral, my heart picks up a thrilling rhythm as she stalks toward us.
Sarka’s voice is oddly dull as he asks her to escort him to her office—which also doubles as her bedroom.
I step between them and say, “Watch him, Captain. He’s dangerous.”
She crosses her arms and regards him with a bored expression. “I’m well aware of what he’s capable of, Ash. I’ll be fine.”
Jesus, is she trying to intimidate him? If possible, I think this is the one person I’ve ever met who can’t be intimidated. Even my father has had his moments. He usually backed it up with bravado, but I’d seen him waver.
She motions Sarka to lead the way, and I clamp a hand on her wrist and hold her back. “I don’t think you should be alone with him.”
Her eyes skim over my matted hair, shiner, and the blood on my undershirt visible through the tear in my sweater. There’s a brief register of sympathy before she turns back to Sarka, furious. “Seeing as how I’m your commanding officer, I don’t really see how you can stop me.”
I tighten my grip. “You think I’m worried about rank or a court martial right now?”
Sarka’s lips curl in on themselves. “By all means, the more, the merrier. Please lead the way, Alison.”
I feel ready to tear into him and rip that smug look from his overly smooth face, but Jordan takes hold of my upper arm and propels me forward. I mentally inventory Jordan’s room before we reach it, but since her purge, there’s nothing even remotely usable as a weapon. Maybe the globe of Earth could be used to brain him. It’s two against one. We might have a chance.
As soon as we reach her office, I have an urge to pull Jordan to me, to make sure she’s okay and never let her go. I want to protect her from this, keep her from Sarka and everything that’s about to happen. If I had the power, I would send her back to Alpha where she would be safe. But one look at the two of them and I wrap my fists around the extra-long arms of my sweater, keeping my hands to myself. They’ve staked out separate corners, Sarka behind Jordan’s desk, taking the position of power, and Jordan against the wall on the other side of her desk, wary and on edge. There’s a familiarity to it that I can’t place.
“How noble of you, Alison, to want to protect your captain. But I assure you, I’m not going to hurt her.”
“It’s not noble. It’s my job. I’m expendable. She’s not,” I say from my corner by the door.
“Ash, I’d hardly call you expendable. No one on this crew is.” She folds her arms and casually repositions herself against the wall addressing Sarka, who is eyeing her like she’s a caged beast, angry and all claws, capable of anything. “Isn’t that right? Everyone serves a purpose.”
“And sometimes that purpose is sacrifice.”
“You son of a bitch.” Jordan’s voice is so low and full of menace that it sounds like a growl from deep in her chest.
I cross the room to Jordan. “Hey.” I don’t really know what else to say. Her breath is strangled in her throat, and she looks like she’s ready to lunge across the table and tackle Sarka. I want to comfort her, but I have no idea how. I lay a gentle hand on her arm. There’s something else besides anger in her expression; there’s a hatred I can’t explain. She’s always been a defender of the Burrs, so much so that I’ve often wondered how she can see them as human and not the monsters everyone else does.
“It’s okay,” I say. Our eyes meet, and all the fear and uncertainty I’m feeling fades away. There’s just those dark blue eyes locked on mine. I have an urge to take her face in my hands, to soothe her fears, ease all her hurt.
Too soon she breaks contact. She laughs. It’s not the usual musical sound that fills the room and my mind, it’s bitter and flat. “He’s going to force you, one way or another, to kill forty-five thousand people and destroy decades of work and ‘it’s okay’?” She rips her arm from my grasp. “He’s going to kill you, Ash! He’s going to kill all of us, and for what purpose? An ideal.” She faces Sarka, her hands planted on her desk, leaning toward him, practically spitting with fury. “An ideal that should’ve died decades ago with you and your kind.” She turns, addressing this next part to me. “Do you know what he thinks will happen if we leave the solar system? He actually thinks we will cease to be human, that our humanity is wrapped up in these particular stars and this particular sun. He thinks that we will no longer be a unified species.” Her fists clench and the knuckles become white, then a blotchy red. “And to think that you,” she points to Sarka, “you of all people believe that what you do can be called unity or humane. It’s for this very reason we should leave. Leave your antiquated ideals behind.”
There’s a flash, just a brief scowl, on Sarka’s face, then his lips turn up at the end, and the amusement is back. He plops down in her chair, noticing something behind me. Our eyes meet, and there’s a twinkle there. I’m not entirely sure what it means. He turns his attention back to Jordan. “You won’t mind dying for the cause, will you, sweetheart? After all, you’ve already died once for it.”
Before I can even begin to guess what he means by that, he’s up again, angling across the desk, reaching for something on the shelf next to me. “And Alison here, well, she understands. I’m sure she’ll give her life for the cause.” He pulls down the bottle of tequila. “She’s already given so much of herself to it already.”
I anticipate Jordan’s dive, snaking my arm around her waist before sh
e’s able to reach for Sarka. He’s just trying to get a rise out of us, or more specifically, Jordan. I shouldn’t be so calm, but I am.
“Always a temper, but then, you didn’t get that from me. You should take lessons from Alison here; she’s been a model guest. Although Everette might not agree. He lost two fingers.”
“It should’ve been more.” I fold my arms across my breasts, not sorry in the least. “He has problems keeping them to himself.”
I scrunch my eyes as the image of Everette charging at me comes back. My nostrils flare, and the scent of apricots is replaced by the stench of soil and fish and dung. And suddenly I’m back in that cell, throttling Everette with my chains. The odor of our sweat, the sound of his fingers popping like sausages between the chains, it all crowds into my mind.
I need distance, from the pity on Jordan’s face and the barrage of emotions sluicing through me at this moment. I retreat to Jordan’s bed, collapsing on the firm mattress to watch the duel between Sarka and Jordan. I hear raised voices, a mixture of baritone and alto ascending from across the desk. And it hits me, what’s so familiar about this. They remind me of my father and me, a thousand arguments combined as one. My own petulant, headstrong, stubborn ego fighting against the bravado of someone who’s held his own against the Commons and Union fleet leaders. In truth, my father and I will always butt heads; we’re too similar not to. The phrase my mom used to use was that we were cut from the same cloth. I’d like to think that if it was the same cloth, mine had a bolder design.
And then the tail end of their argument filters through.
“Mom’s dead, leave it be.” Jordan’s voice is low, only a rasp; the threat is unmistakable.
“Just like you were? I think I’ll take the chance and see for myself.” His gaze falls on the sweatshirt strewn on the bed next to me. “Delta Academy? That’s a good place to start.”
“If you go anywhere near Delta, I’ll hunt you down and—”
“And what? Pout at me? Jordan, sit down. Let’s talk about this like grownups.” And just like that, I’m gutted. I can see it so plainly. I don’t know how I missed it before. Davis Sarka is Jordan’s father. Even with all Sarka’s surgeries, there’s no mistaking the eyes and nose and jut of their stubborn jaws.
