by Sarah Fine
Race looks at the plans and nods. “Does Black Box have these schematics?”
“No idea.”
“Perhaps we should take them.”
I smile grimly. “Definitely.”
He glances around us. “Any idea where your dad kept the actual wreckage? He wouldn’t have placed it in storage elsewhere, would he?”
“Unlikely,” mutters Leo before I can say the same thing. My dad didn’t trust anyone but himself.
“But we don’t know whether we’re looking for plane-sized wreckage or shoe-box-type wreckage,” I say. “Mom, did he ever talk about it?”
She wraps her arms around her slender body and stares at his desk, the only place in the room that’s even a little bit cluttered. And by “cluttered,” I mean there are three pencils, a ream of printer paper, and his old black Princeton Tigers mug sitting on its otherwise clean surface. “No,” she says quietly. “He showed me files, but never the artifacts themselves.” And I can tell it hurts her.
Leo looks back and forth from my mom to the desk. He walks slowly across the room and looks down into the mug. I shake my head—I didn’t really see it, because it’s always been there. I join him as he squats in front of it. “He didn’t drink tea,” Leo says quietly.
“Or coffee,” I add, glancing at my mom.
She frowns, and I can tell she’s realizing how odd it is, too. Now that I really think about it, I’ve never seen him with it upstairs, never seen it in the dishwasher, never seen it anywhere but right there. “Maybe we should—”
Before I can finish my thought, Leo snatches it from the desk. As soon as he does, there’s a soft click that I hear like cannon fire. I brace, expecting some kind of lethal onslaught . . . but all I feel is a hum beneath the soles of my shoes.
A panel in the floor slides away smoothly, forcing Leo—who’s holding the mug and grinning like an idiot—to jump aside. What’s revealed is a small chamber beneath the lab, with a set of rungs set into the wall. White cloths cover several irregularly shaped objects sitting on the floor. I stare at Leo for a moment, trying to suppress a smile and failing because his is contagious. “You could have gotten us all killed, dude.”
He bounces on his heels. “But I didn’t.”
I catch Race’s eye. He’s shown respect, and it’s time for me to do the same. “Let’s take a look.”
He looks mildly surprised at the invitation. I descend the rungs and wait for him at the bottom while my mom and the others watch from above. With my heart thumping heavily, I slowly pull the cloth off the largest object, which is about the size of a bicycle. It’s a twisted, charred jumble of metal and wire and circuitry, with smooth panels and cracked display screens. And it happens to be over four hundred years old. It’s traveled countless light-years. It came from another planet. Another galaxy.
“Where did he get this?” Congers asks in a hushed voice, leaning over the edge.
“His ancestor witnessed the crash. It’s been in the Archer family for centuries. But my dad was the one to figure out the technology, and he used it to make the scanner.”
Race tears his gaze away from the wreckage. For the first time, I see true regret in his eyes. “I’m sorry he’s not here. I’m sorry for the part I played in that. If I could bring him back, I would.”
“Me too,” I say. Because I played a part in it, too. I haven’t forgiven myself, and I probably never will. “He’d want us to focus on the task at hand, though.”
Race nods. “Let’s do it, then.”
“Hey, Tate?” Christina calls in an oddly quavering voice. “Sorry to interrupt, but I think you should see this.”
Race and I climb out of the chamber to see her staring at the screen that a minute ago contained the plans for the satellite shield. Now it’s back to the screen saver—the population counter. Except now the numbers read:
2,943,287,962
4,122,239,896
16 (?)
Sometime in the last ten minutes, four more Sicarii have arrived on our planet.
NINE
WE CAREFULLY PACK THE WRECKAGE WHILE CONGERS and Race call for additional security. By seven a.m., the block is crowded with black SUVs and dark-suited agents. A small group of them, including Agent Sung, gather in a cluster near Congers as he loads the box containing the scanner into the back of his SUV. Congers actually cracks a smile when one of his subordinates, a muscular dude named Devon with a weak chin and jug ears, jokes about finally discovering where the mythic Black Box factory is hidden.
I can’t help but notice Graham standing near the back of the truck where the H2 spaceship wreckage is being stowed, a few vehicles down from his dad and the entourage around him. The younger Congers wipes sweat from his brow as he tosses furtive glances toward his dad, like he wants to be in that group. Like he wants his dad to see him, working hard while the others slack off. For a second, I’m actually tempted to go over there and talk to Graham, but then Sung beats me to it. He hands Graham a bottle of water, and the two of them get to work loading the final crates of wreckage into the truck.
By the time we pull away from the curb and head for the highway, the sun is hanging over the rooftops and we’ve got a convoy of over a dozen vehicles weaving through mercifully light Manhattan traffic. When we get on the thruway, we pick up another several dozen, transforming into a jointed black caterpillar, following close as we move along the road toward the Catskills. It’s not like we’re keeping a low profile, but seeing as the Sicarii somehow knew where to find our one SUV last night, I think Congers is hoping to find safety in numbers—and decoys. Every few exits, chunks of the convoy peel off, each with a truck that looks exactly like the one that holds the wreckage. And when we exit, heading west toward the mountains with at least thirty vehicles trailing us, another part of the convoy continues, heading north.
In our vehicle, Leo, Christina, and I ride in the middle row. My mom’s in the back, with armed agents on either side, scanning the sky for Sicarii scout ships. Daniel Sung’s driving, and Graham’s looking sullen in the front passenger seat, his collar pulled high in a failed attempt to conceal the bruising I left on his throat. His eyes are on the clouds, as if one of them might be a threat. Our vehicle is armored and we’ve got ridiculous amounts of ammo in the back, but we’re vulnerable, and anyone who witnessed what happened last night knows it full well. Sung’s been pushing ninety miles per hour, and the other SUVs are keeping up.
As we take another turn and begin to trundle along the two-lane road that will take us deep into the Catskills, I’m tempted to drift, to pretend I’m here with just Christina, and we’re going camping or something stupid and normal like that. She’s nestled against my shoulder. Every time I think about what Willetts was trying to do to her—or, correction, what the Sicarii inside Willetts was trying to do—I have to muscle down a shudder.
I put my arm around her and hold her head to my chest as I watch fields and distant mountains pass in a blur of green. “My parents are so pissed,” she says quietly.
I bow my head. “Why did you come after me? You were supposed to stay with them.”
“Tate . . .” She looks up at me. “I knew you were in trouble. And when you didn’t come out of our apartment . . .” She shakes her head. “Don’t tell me you expected me to walk away from that.”
“You used my dad’s phone to call my mom, didn’t you?”
She nods. “She’d just gotten into the city. She’d gotten your message.”
“But you could have just told her what had happened.”
She bites her lip. “I know. It wasn’t enough.”
She wanted to save me. The feeling is so huge that it can’t fit inside me. It squeezes my lungs, making it hard to breathe. “You could have been killed. She shouldn’t have let you go with her.”
“I wouldn’t tell her what had happened until she agreed to let me go.”
“But your parents—”
“I’m an adult,” she says firmly. “They couldn’t stop me. Oh, and your mom told them she’d keep me safe. Tate, don’t you think what we’ve been through in the past week goes beyond whether we can get a hotel room for prom or whether I can pass a stupid chemistry exam? All of that feels petty and stupid now. All I care about is going through this with you.” She presses her cheek to my shoulder. “If those Core agents are right, it might be the only time we have left, and I’m not going to give that up.”
I want to promise her we’ll be okay, but she’s too smart for those words to give her comfort. So I kiss the top of her head and let my lips linger there as we reach a single-lane road marked with a simple “Authorized Personnel Only” sign. We’re entering a heavily wooded area, the foliage so dense that the late-morning sunshine barely pokes through. There’s no sign of buildings or any kind of development.
“This is the entrance to the grounds of Black Box,” my mother says to Sung. “They know you’re here, so proceed slowly.”
Graham peers through the trees.
“You won’t see the cameras,” Leo says. “Don’t bother.”
Graham rolls his eyes. “I’ve been to secure facilities before. You expect me to be impressed?” He squints as we roll along at ten miles per hour, and his jaw tenses as we pass another set of signs.
“DANGER: No Trespassing”
I look behind us to see dozens of vehicles snaking along the narrow road, so many that I can’t see the end of the convoy even though we’re headed down a long hill, giving me a good view of each SUV as it crests the peak. Congers and Race are near the rear, surrounded by even more heavily armed vehicles, with the scanner and the truck transporting the wreckage.
I meet my mom’s gaze. There’s something in her expression that catches me, but I can’t quite read it. Maybe it’s just being here again, for the first time since my dad’s death. He’s certainly on my mind, too. I face forward again, taking Christina’s hand as she sits up and tucks a lock of her dark blond hair behind her ear. The trees are sparser now, and we’re approaching a sheer cliff face, a gigantic wall of stone that juts up a few hundred feet above the trees and has a smooth, even rim. It looks like a man-made plateau with a perfectly flat top. The signs around this spot are a little more specific.
“Trespassers Beyond This Point Will Be Met with Lethal Force”
“That’s it,” says my mom.
Christina leans forward, her gaze skimming up the gray and craggy cliff. “Black Box is inside a mountain?”
Graham and Sung stare at the rocky fortress. It’s so huge that we can’t see around or over it. We can’t even see where it ends on either side. Neither agent looks eager to go in.
Congers’s voice splits the silence. There’s desperation in every word as he shouts over the radio: “Clear the road; bogie at our six—”
His voice cuts off abruptly as a deep boom echoes behind us. Leo, who’s squinting out the back, yelps, “The Sicarii!” at the same time Graham shouts, “How did they know?”
Probably out of reflex and panic, Sung slams on the brakes, bringing us to a grinding halt about a hundred yards from the cliff face. The vehicle behind us nearly slams into our bumper. The rest of the convoy is pulling to the side of the road, making way for the rear vehicle and the truck containing the wreckage, which are racing down the hill, honking nonstop—right as a Sicarii scout ship rises above the peak of the hill.
Mom shouts, “Go! The tunnel’s right in front of you!”
Sung’s gaze is riveted on his rearview mirror as he tries to see the threat, but Graham punches at the steering wheel and roars, “Sung, just go!”
Sung curses and stomps on the gas. We barrel toward the vertical rock face until we’re close enough to see the massive, camouflage-painted metal doors set into its surface. “Will it open?” Sung shouts as we speed within a dozen yards of the cliff. But even as he says it, the doors swing inward, revealing a tunnel leading into the mountain. It’s just wide enough to fit two SUVs side by side, but it’s high enough to accommodate almost any kind of load.
“Congers has the scanner in his vehicle,” my mom says loudly, peering out the back window, where we can see his SUV barreling toward us. “He needs to get into the tun—”
Her words are drowned out by another explosion. One of the Core vehicles behind us spins into the air like a toy, flames shooting from the windows. It comes down with a crash onto the road, blocking the progress of Congers’s vehicle and the truck carrying the wreckage. With SUVs clustered on either side of the road, Congers and Race are boxed in and won’t be able to get to the tunnel. They’re caught out in the open, and the obelisk-shaped Sicarii ship is right on top of them. I shout for Sung to stop and let me out, but he shoots into the tunnel with single-minded purpose. He goes about a hundred yards and ignores at least five of my commands to halt before he applies the brakes. By that time, I’m made of adrenaline, every muscle jacked. The scanner. They’re going to get the scanner. As soon as we’ve slowed, I throw the door open. Christina grabs my wrist, but I tear my arm away.
“I won’t let them have it,” I snap as the passenger door sends sparks off the stone wall of the tunnel. Sung notices that I’m getting out and finally lurches to a complete stop, but before he does, I’m gone, sprinting back toward the fiery glow that makes my stomach twist.
About a dozen vehicles have made it into the tunnel, and agents are pouring out of them, pulling grenade launchers and firing questions at one another as they make their way back toward the tunnel entrance. “Don’t let that ship land!” I shout as I shove into their midst. If the Sicarii get the wreckage or the scanner, we could be doomed. My legs propel me past at least four SUVs, but the press of agents on either side slows me down, so I jump on top of one of the SUVs and go right down the row, leaping from roof to roof, desperate to get to my dad’s invention, to do anything I can to stop these alien bastards from killing our chances of saving ourselves and our planet.
The explosions from outside shake rocky debris loose from the roof of the tunnel, pelting my shoulders and head with shards of stone. That Sicarii ship is taking out the SUVs one by one as the agents try to respond with fire of their own, everything from sidearms to grenade launchers. From behind me, someone calls my name, maybe my mom, but I keep going. There’s a wrecked SUV in the middle of the road about twenty yards from the tunnel entrance, flames eating it alive. I swear, I can see a black silhouette inside, human and helpless. Or maybe H2. It doesn’t seem to matter as the fire turns flesh to sooty carbon nothing. But just beyond it is my destination—through the smoke, I can see Congers’s heat-warped silhouette as he leaps from his vehicle.
“Tate!” It’s my mom, only a few cars behind me. I glance over my shoulder as I jump from the roof of the final SUV in the line. My mom pushes her dark hair out of her eyes and points upward. “The Black Box defenses will be triggered if the scout ship flies above the edge of the crater rim! The ship is too low and too close to the mountainside right now!”
“I got it, Mom. Get deeper inside the tunnel.” Without waiting to see if she listens to me, I scramble to the metal doors that mark the entrance of the tunnel. Heat bathes my face as I peer up the steep hill. At least two hundred feet above me, the rock gives way to sky. If Mom’s right, reinforcements are available—as long as I can get the Sicarii to fly a little higher.
The obelisk ship is just above the leafy branches, spinning this way and that to avoid the rocket-propelled grenades that are going off like fireworks, setting fire to the forest. Congers and Race are beside their vehicle, shielding their eyes from the explosions all around them as they try to direct a group of agents—including Devon, the weak-chinned guy who was dying to know where Black Box was—who are pinned down near a cluster of trees nearby. Devon makes like he wants to run toward Race and Congers, but they shout at him and the others to get to the tunnel.
That’s going to work to our advantage. I sprint for Race’s vehicle as the agents at the tunnel entrance fire a furious volley at the hovering ship. It spins gracefully, dodging the projectiles, but doesn’t move lower. Its spiraling hatch slowly opens, and Race shouts and waves to his men, all urgency and noise. As I run toward him, I catch the desperation in his eyes. He cares for his agents. He doesn’t want them to die.
But when the Sicarii ship lets loose, there’s not a thing he can do. The hellish ball of bright yellow fire shoots from that hatch and roars over my head, hitting right at the tunnel entrance. Agonized screams fill the air as I’m thrown forward by the blast wave. I push myself off the soft, leaf-strewn dirt, my ears ringing, my heart pounding, and stumble around SUV wreckage to get to Congers and Race, whose brow furrows when he sees me. “Get away from here,” he roars.
“They want the scanner!”
“And we’re defending it!” Congers shouts, even as he hefts a grenade launcher onto his shoulder.
Not enough. It’s only a matter of time before the Core can’t hold that ship back. “Diversion,” I say to Race, right in his ear, shielding my mouth just in case the Sicarii can somehow read lips. Hell, they found us here and they know where the scanner is, so I wouldn’t put it past them. “When I go, get the device up your shirt and run for the tunnel.”
