by Hugh Howey
He looked around quickly for a locker or a storage bin as the alarm continued to blare, signaling the garage door was about to open. He squeezed between two of the parked skimmers, then caught a glimpse of a pair of goggles resting on the dash of the nearest skimmer, inside the closed canopy.
With a loud groan, the garage door at the bottom of the ramp began to open. Its chain ratcheted up with a staccato noise, letting in a harsh stream of unrelenting, blinding, photons.
Cole grimaced in pain at the brief exposure. He shut his eyes and folded the crook of his arm over his face. He’d only caught a glimpse of the light, but it was enough to spot the darkness behind his lids. Reaching to the side, he groped for the fender of the nearby skimmer and found it, then patted along the hull until he reached the canopy. Cole fumbled for the release. He felt it and pulled the lever as the departing skimmer whined high and roared out into hyperspace.
Picturing the location of the goggles behind his shut eyelids, Cole leaned far over the edge of the open canopy and brushed his hand across the dash, feeling for them. He hit them with the side of his hand and knocked them off and onto the floorboard. Cursing again, Cole stretched out and fumbled for them across the skimmer’s floor. Suddenly, his feet slipped off the deck and he went head-first into the passenger seat, landing awkwardly.
Cole kept his eyes squeezed tight as he untangled himself. He reached down by his feet and patted for the goggles. Finally, he found them. He brought the cups to his eyes as he righted himself in the skimmer’s seat. Working the rubber strap into place, Cole peered ahead for his quarry, but the other skimmer was gone. He looked to the door, wondering why someone wasn’t coming along to help, to give chase. Then he saw the pale glow of a red light flashing above the door. A door that would remain locked for safety reasons until the garage was shut tight against the photons.
“Damnit!” Cole looked to the skimmer dash, trying to recall which switch opened and closed the garage door. He traced his finger over the canopy release, remembered which one had operated the docking claws at the Seer’s cabin, saw the wiper knob, then came to the ignition switch.
Cole’s brain spun with more bad ideas, his poor judgment clicking along in defiance of the alarms and flashing lights. He thought about the time it would take to close and open the garage door, how long to explain what was going on, how much longer to organize pursuit. The idiotic plan hadn’t even made a full circuit through his boyish glands before his finger depressed the ignition switch, powering the grav cells in the rear of the skimmer. Cole keyed the canopy shut and adjusted himself in the seat, familiarizing himself with the control stick and taking the time to finally locate the garage door controls.
As soon as the canopy clicked into place, Cole pushed forward on the stick, jolting the sleek vehicle toward the ramp. The sudden burst of speed nearly made the back end of the skimmer whip around. Rather than let up and correct, he gave it even more juice and rocketed forward, the craft briefly leaving the deck as it raced over the edge of the ramp and down. Cole yelped. He dug one hand into the dash as he piloted with the other. He only barely remembered to hit the garage door controls as he raced out into the wet world and driving rain.
Sliding across the film of water outside, Cole’s skimmer kicked up low walls of spray as he scanned the horizon for his prey. Behind him, the metal door to the lumbering headquarters slammed shut, sealing out the light. Inside, alarms would be falling silent, the light above the door ceasing its steady flashes. Cole could imagine the stairwell door bursting open, an annoyed and confused group of freedom fighters stumbling through and wondering what in hyperspace was going on.
He tried not to think of that. It was too late to go back. He peered ahead at the spray from the other skimmer, standing out on the featureless landscape. It rose in a watery bloom and shivered against the ash-white sky, easy to pick out. Cole pushed forward on the control stick and raced off after it, two walls of water forming on either side of him as he gained speed.
As his craft moved up to the surface of the muddy water, the back end of his skimmer swayed side to side. Cole fought to keep it under control. The steering was much more sensitive to overcorrection than a Firehawk’s. The vehicle’s foils seemed to carve through the water like skis: biting, sliding, and weaving. Each movement begged for a countering one, and it took several moments before he figured out the timing, how to go with the flow rather than fight it. He found large, smooth motions worked better than the fast-twitch variety suited for spacecraft. As he gained some semblance of control, Cole looked up and saw he’d fallen off course. He veered to the side, lining up with the speeding skimmer in the distance. With the accelerator pinned, he chased off after it, steadily gaining.
As he got closer, he saw why he was able to catch up: trailing off the fleeing craft was a tight plume of gray smoke, his furious wrench toss obviously having hit something important. Cole activated the windshield wipers. Even though he traveled the same direction as the rain, his skimmer was going much faster, so the sideways droplets smacked the canopy as surely as if they were falling straight down.
Cole hardly breathed as he powered down the smooth wake created by the other skimmer. He pulled within a dozen meters, and still the wounded craft ahead maintained its unwavering course. Cole glanced over his shoulder at his own limited visibility. A wall of kicked-up water loomed to either side and a haze of spray occluded what little glass lay behind him. The vehicles were fast, but driven in near blindness. Only a narrow chute of visibility lay ahead, and even that was filled with nonstop rain.
Cole looked to the dash. An array of sensors, chart plotters, and readouts reminded him of the hyperskimmer’s primary function: to find body heat and pull people out of the snow. For all he knew, the things drove like a dream on the ice-covered portions of hyperspace for which they’d been designed. He matched the speed of the craft ahead and scanned the dash once more, wondering if there was anything he could use to stop them—perhaps a radio to alert HQ—but none of the controls were labeled, and he’d only seen a few used during his trip to see the Seer.
The Seer!
Cole looked over the switches again, finding the one he recognized. He focused on the tail of the other skimmer and powered his own craft forward, deep into the plume of gray smoke and the shower of watery spray. Piloting with one hand, Cole kept his other one poised on the switch while he visualized the maneuver. He took a few deep breaths before pulling to within a mere meter of the racing craft, the world outside disappearing in a wall of kicked-up and solid white foam. He had a brief moment of terror that the pilot ahead might suddenly slow down, but shook such thoughts aside.
Cole whipped out of the craft’s wake, moving into clear air and uncut water. He gave the skimmer everything it had, his shoulders pressing back into his chair as he jolted forward. Pulling up beside the other craft, Cole looked to the side, but saw nothing through the wall of water kicked up from the forward foil. He swerved that direction anyway, his finger on the switch tense with anticipation. As soon as he heard the crunch of metal-on-metal, he hit the button, sending the docking arms out through the wall of water. He heard another crunch as the grippers found something solid to bite into.
Cole pulled back on his throttle, powering his own skimmer down and hoping to bring the other craft to a halt. The locked ships veered to one side as the other craft, clearly wounded, tried to keep running. Cole corrected for the drag as the neighboring engine whined loudly in complaint. He could practically feel the vibrations as the other pilot attempted to flee, but the weight and power of his craft were far too much for it.
As their speed fell, the two ships sank deeper into the water, and the wall of spray between them fell like a dropped sheet. Cole peered through his canopy, expecting to see a shocked expression on the passenger’s face—a look of resigned defeat.
What he found instead, as the hydrofoils ceased kicking up so much spray, was an open canopy next to his own. One of the saboteurs knelt in his seat, leaning out over
the side of his skimmer toward Cole. He had his hands up, as if holding something, but they looked perfectly empty.
It wasn’t until the man swung his arms down in a perfect angle two that Cole realized what he was holding.
42
After Molly helped Saunders recover from his collapse in the cargo bay, she watched him return to his inner circle to think about what she had divulged. She spent her time likewise, resting in her cabin and dwelling on the possibility that Lucin had been more than just a turncoat to her. Had he been a Bern as well? If so, what did that explain? When he said he meant to end the war, had he ever stated what side he imagined as the victor? Or even which war he meant?
She listened to the washer in the bathroom thud rhythmically as it attempted to get the blood out of a dozen flightsuits. It sounded like her ship had grown a pulse. It even had the double beat of one: thud-thud. Thud-thud.
If Lucin had been a traitor to them all, what a wonderful post for him to have infiltrated. He always said the Naval Academies on either side were the true front lines for any war, lines the enemy could never attack. But what didn’t make sense was how effective he was at producing capable fighters. Or how he never tried to stoke up anti-Drenard rage the way Saunders had. More disguises, perhaps?
Molly tried to put a stop to the cycle of her thoughts. The questions went round and round, tormenting her, never making any sense. She forced herself to sit up, fearing her attempt at rest was simply winding her up more tightly. Instead, she went outside to find Saunders, to see if he was doing any better than she at coming to grips with these slippery issues.
She found him by one of the many small campfires flickering beyond the tangle of wiry, Lokian trees. His group seemed to be in the middle of an animated conversation as she approached, but they quickly fell silent as she stepped into the fire’s wavering pool of light. Saunders rose from the blanket to meet her. He squeezed her shoulder and pulled her away from the cluster of staff members.
“How’re you feeling?” she whispered.
Saunders shook his head. “I’m dancing a fine line, I think. It’s… just too much all at once.” He stopped and patted his flightsuit. Another of the survivors had given him a rare clean one, but it didn’t quite fit. The zipper remained open almost to his waist, revealing a sweat-stained undershirt beneath. “Before I forget—” Saunders pulled out a credit chip and passed it to Molly. “It draws from a Navy account. Use it for the supplies tomorrow and put a deposit on some place for us to stay.”
Molly took the chip and slid it into a pocket, zipping it up afterwards. “You sure you don’t want to come with us?” she asked. “It would be nice to have you there to throw your weight around.”
Saunders looked down at himself, then peered up at Molly, the barest of smirks visible in the wan light of the campfires.
“I totally didn’t mean it like that,” she said.
Saunders laughed, or tried to. The strain and tiredness in him were more evident as he fought to hide them. “Sure you didn’t,” he said. “And I don’t think you need my help to pick up some food and water. You’ve got plenty of capable hands. I’d rather be with my crew.”
“How about one of your staff?” Molly asked. “It’d be nice to have a badge to wave around in order to secure some rooms. Bekkie is packed, what with the elections.”
“Damn. I forgot about the elections. They’re still gonna be held with all this going on?”
“Are you kidding?” Molly nodded up at the sky. “They absolutely love the chaos those ships are creating. It gives them something to promise they can fix. I guarantee you your fleet is a plank in a platform right now. The Liberty party is probably saying the Freedom party shot down the Firehawks on purpose, making their war platform more enticing.”
Saunders shook his head. “I wish I could accuse you of exaggerating, but politics back at the GN haven’t been much better. As for taking one of my staff with you, who do you trust?”
Molly glanced back to his group by the fire. The problem of who to trust seemed intractable—it haunted her at every turn. “Alright, I see your point. I’ll try and find whatever lodging I can, and I’ll pick up some more comfortable clothes. Hopefully we can shuttle you guys to town later in the day, even if it takes a few shifts.”
“Sounds good. We were just discussing amongst ourselves the best course of action—”
“Wait. You didn’t tell them—?”
“No.” Saunders shook his head. “I just said we can be sure it isn’t Drenards, but that we know little else about them. A few officers want to call in reinforcements, but the rest of us point out how futile a defense our fleet had put up. Whatever they hit us with, it controlled local gravity, and we were powerless to overcome it. So the general consensus is that our position and numbers have turned us into an intelligence gathering force, not a fighting one. We’ll set up something permanent here on Lok—”
“Permanent?” Molly looked around at the spread of blankets and huddling groups of survivors. “No offense, but you don’t really think this is a force of any kind, do you? These people are refugees. A crew without a fleet. I think you guys should hunker down until whatever happens blows over, maybe try and contact their families—”
“Families? Refugees? These people are still serving in the Navy, Molly. And Cristine—Lieutenant Daniels—her family was on Osis, which has already been ravaged. Hell, we might be at ground zero for what’s to come. We need to make a plan—” Saunders pulled her further into the woods and lowered his voice. “You might be the only person I can trust right now.”
“Yeah, but—”
“It’ll eventually be up to us, you and me, to decide if we risk calling this in.” Saunders looked back toward the campfire. “I’m using a ton of doublespeak with my staff. Hell, you’ve got me so paranoid, every cough and whisper from them has me doubting who I can trust.”
“I’m sorry. And you’re right. The thing is, I can’t stick around and help. I was kinda working on something when—well, before you showed up.” She only barely stopped herself from saying crashed the party, thereby sticking her foot in her mouth a second time.
“I’m sorry, but whatever it was, it’ll have to wait. We need your ship until we can secure some of our own.”
Molly took a step back. “I can’t do that.” She shook her head.
Saunders held up both hands. “Hey, I’m not going to force you. We called a truce, remember?”
“So don’t tell me it’ll have to wait.”
Saunders glanced up at the straggly canopy overhead. He spread his arms to indicate the hasty encampment. “What could possibly be more important than this?”
“It’s… personal,” Molly said.
“Well, maybe I can help. Once this blows over, of course.”
“I don’t think so. Besides, I’m gonna have to do some illegal stuff to get it done.”
“What kind of illegal stuff?” Saunders asked stiffly.
“Wouldn’t you rather not know?”
“No, I’d rather you not do it. Now, what is it?”
“Out the airlock,” Molly said.
“Absolutely.”
She took a step closer and glanced around before she spoke. “My dad might be alive.”
“Mortimor?”
Molly took another step closer, shushing him.
“Mortimor Fyde?” Saunders hissed.
“Yeah. He’s… well, trapped in hyperspace. That’s where his ship—this ship—has been all these years. I’ve been trying to track some people down for a few weeks, and as soon as I found them, you guys showed up. I need to get back on track, if they’ll help me after what happened to Urg.”
“Urg. That’s the guy the pilots were talking about? The one that helped find and rescue them?”
“Yeah. He’s—he’s with a group of illicit fusion fuelers. They have a blend that supposedly can get me to hyperspace and back. The drive in my ship isn’t normal, it seems. That’s what my parents were working on.”
>
Saunders rubbed his chin. “That fits with your parents’ file. They were sent here to track down a source of fuel, and then supposedly uncovered the Drenard Underground. Once they learned what you’ve told me about the rift, not to mention the real nature of the war, they must’ve thrown in with them.”
“Boy, I’d like to see that file,” Molly said.
“I’d like to take another look at it myself. I bet everything in there reads completely different to me, now.” Saunders looked at her for a moment, frowning. “So when were you planning on taking this jaunt to hyperspace? And what does that even entail? What would this place be like? A vacuum, or something?”
“No. It’s not like that. It’s more like a planet, only weirder. My mo— a friend tried to explain it to me, but I can’t make sense of it.”
“You’re going soon?”
“I don’t know. I have to get some of this fuel first, and it sounds like there’s not much to go around. To everyone else, it’s just workable fusion that you guys don’t control. I need to really sit down and speak with Scottie about it.”
“I’d like to speak to him as well,” Saunders said, his eyes narrowing.
“You said you’d take this out the airlock!”
“Okay. Fine. But no leaving until we get these people supplied and settled—”
“Of course. I’ll handle that in the morning. And if I have my way, I’ll be jumping out of here around this time tomorrow night.”
Saunders scratched his chin. “I don’t suppose I can demand any more than that. Just so you know, though, I think the Bern threat is more important than your haste to find your father. If we could get rid of them, it would also put an end to the attacks from the Drenards. The entire pretense for their offensive, their drive to stop the Bern attack, it would no longer make any sense. Billions of lives would be saved.”
