by Tammy Salyer
The rest of the crew nod, but I know at least a few of us are sharing a thought: there are no innocents in this. We—and by we I mean everyone—have lost the luxury of staying neutral and not picking sides. It’s gone too far, too much is at stake, to think in any other terms but black and white.
David picks up the thread. “The biggest problem we have is the fact that the Orika, even if we get to it, is low on supplies. We won’t make it home.”
“The Nebula is fully powered and stocked. Enough for us all,” Zeta comments.
“Good.” Karl nods excitedly. “Then if we can just get control of it, we can get out of here. Venus is just one person, so it may be easy enough for her to slip clear of the Orika without being seen and meet us there.”
“And then what? Run back to KL and wait for Medina to show up with shackles and bullets?”
At the sound of Quantum’s voice, all eleven of us turn our heads toward the door so fast we must appear to be a single remote-operated unit. We’ve been so involved in our discussion, no one saw or heard him enter. He stands at the door, now closed behind him, arms held out, palms up, showing us he’s empty-handed. Yet if I’ve learned anything from Quantum, it’s that everything about him is a threat, from his mind to his intent to his schemes.
“What are you doing here?” Hoogs says, the first to break through the stunned silence.
“I ask again: And then what?” Quantum says, ignoring Hoogs. He takes a couple of steps forward, gauging the group to be too frozen in surprise to impede him. “If I’ve learned one thing from this war, it’s that those who want to win never stop fighting, and those who just want to live end up doing little more than dying. So your crew has to ask yourselves, who do you want to be? The winners?” His thick eyebrows arch in a way that makes his always-smug expression that much more antagonizing. “Or not.”
“Are you trying to make us think you want to help us, Quantum?” I watch Desto, wondering what he’s going to do. For the moment, he remains standing behind Zeta, his hands resting on her shoulders, the muscles of his jaw straining against his skin.
“Think what you want. If Medina isn’t stopped, the system just fought a war for nothing. The Cabinets of Directorates may as well still be in charge of deciding who is free and who isn’t, and Kurosawa T’Kai may as well still be treating soldiers and non-cits like lab rats. I started this war because I wanted to change things, improve humanity. Maybe I’m too ambitious, but at least I have the balls to try.”
“And now Medina is just trying to reinstate the status quo,” Brady says flatly. “That it?”
For the first time, Quantum shows something like an emotion. But it’s not anger or resentment, which wouldn’t have made me think twice; it’s the look of a puppy that has been smacked unexpectedly by its owner. He glances around at the crew, uncertainty and hesitancy making him drop his eyes to the floor more than once, and he has to clear his throat. But when he speaks, he’s back to normal: cold, calculating, deadly sincere.
He puts his hands down slowly, and lets his stare rest on Jeremy. “And you, La Mer, when you were still Axone and part of the network that almost brought the Admin down in the first Rebellion, I remember you from that time. And I remember all the high ideals you had. Are you still that person? Or did you stop standing for anything when you fell for that loopy pilot?”
Is this his idea of a rallying cry? A glance at La Mer tells me he’s on the verge of doing something brash, but he’s not a fighter, so it’s a guess as to what. I step in to cut it off. “How did you get in here?”
Quantum responds, “Not everyone in this city is behind Medina. In fact, most aren’t, but they’re too afraid of her to stand up against her. They originally resisted any Admin—former or not—months ago and tried to keep her out. But they failed.” Thoughts of the partially destroyed landing-field wall and Zabriskie’s earlier statement—“Turns out things aren’t as simple as good-guys–bad-guys anymore”—run through my head, finally making sense. “Even former citizens are smart enough to know when they are outgunned and outsmarted. I have allies, others who think Medina is taking things to places they don’t want to go. Who think she is just the seed of a new Admin. Few want that. They will help us put a stop to this.”
Brady, ever the pragmatist, says, “Get to the point.”
With a dip of his chin, Quantum steps amid the group and continues, “Medina is only part of the problem. She still commands the Celestial, and while a ship that war-ready still flies, it will always be a threat. We need to take Medina down—cut the head off this particular snake—and make the cruiser obsolete so no one can step in to take her place.”
“And you have a proposal on how to do that,” Karl says.
“I always have a plan,” Quantum responds, implying that we are too incompetent to think beyond anything more complex than our next meal, and not caring in the least that every word that comes out of his mouth makes everyone in this room detest him more. “Medina will be coming soon to collect those she wants to take back to Keum Libre to recruit the rest of the settlers for her rebuilt Admin. You’ll tell Venus to create a diversion at the landing field, during which time you’ll board the Nebula and escape.”
I start at his mention of Venus—how could he know she’s there?—then realize he must have known she was still aboard the Orika all along. If she’s not with us, where else would she be? His shrewdness, as misdirected as it always seems to be, still never fails to catch me off guard. But the fact that he hasn’t already given up Venus to Medina or her echelons, more than anything else, tells me he’s not playing us. At least, not any more than he’s playing Medina. But that doesn’t mean we can trust him or count on him as an ally, as loyal. Not for a second.
“We’ve already gotten that far, Quantum,” Karl says. “Have anything better to suggest?” His sneer doesn’t hide his loathing, but then, Quantum is used to that.
“Then Aly and I will get aboard Medina’s landing ship and take it back to the Celestial—which she will obviously marshal to destroy you and make dispatching the rest of the colonists easier—where I will disable the ship and stop her.”
“Wait, what?” I blurt. “Why me?” It’s not fear that makes every cell in my body resist his plan; it’s the idea of being alone with Quantum on a fleet cruiser, forced to follow whatever scheming lead he takes. Not fear at all. Just pure survival instinct.
“Because you’re the only one small enough to be hidden inside a cargo box and taken aboard undetected who also has the training to use a bugsuit.” He looks around slowly at the rest of the crew, then brings his eyes back to mine. “And you’re the only one I trust.”
It’s at this point that my brain stops engaging and goes into a tailspin while pondering the full implications of the words “small enough to be hidden inside a cargo box.” He might as well have said “small enough to count worms in a corpse condo.” As I consider the reasons to protest, each less convincing sounding than the last—I’m not a coward, I just feel like I’m choking to death on my own heart when stuck in small places—the conversation swirls around me…Medina still considers Quantum an asset and confederate…he’ll have free rein of her ship…when it’s time to put the plan in operation, he’ll vent a nerve agent throughout that will knock most of Medina’s troops inert…I’ll take control of the bridge, using the Goldblum to go on the offense and deal with any remaining alert troops, then he’ll put the ship in stasis long enough to give the rest of us time to rally more help from KL and get back to take control of the cruiser, its arsenal, and its multitude of adjunct attack ships…if the plan fails, we can blow the rigged compound from inside and destroy the cruiser completely, while Quantum and I escape in evac pods—overhearing this part sends me into a shuddering spasm—and the crew can track our emergency transmissions and pick us up before emergency life support gives out.
As the conversation advances, arguments and counterarguments from the group dwindle until none remain. There is no other way to stop Medina, o
r to ensure the fatal compound is never deployed. And whether the crew believes Quantum is being honest or not, his plan is our best chance for at least getting back to KL and warning the rest of the settlers about what’s coming.
My attention comes back to the moment when I feel Karl tug gently on my arm. “You don’t have to do this, Aly.” His voice, crackling with emotion, carries throughout the room.
I turn to look into his eyes first, then around at the others. Finally, turning back to Quantum, I ask, “Isn’t there another way of getting me on her landing ship?”
He stares blankly at me, not answering. Answer enough.
I take a deep inhale, then let it out, hoping no one notices the slight hitch and tremble as the breath leaves my lungs. “Then I’m in…I guess.”
Quantum reaches into his jacket, pulls out a radio, and places it on the nearest bunk. “Call your pilot and tell her to be prepared to distract Medina’s crew and get herself to the Nebula. I’ll get prepped to leave.”
“Hey Quantum,” Desto says and steps from behind the bunk Zeta still sits on.
The wire-rat stands his ground as Desto approaches, and to his credit he barely flinches when he intuits the bone-crushing swing Desto aims at his jaw. No one tries to stop the father-to-be this time. After a moment, Quantum picks himself up off the floor, spits a puddle of blood at his feet, and makes for the door, wobbling slightly. He turns before leaving and says simply, “Be ready. This will happen fast.”
Vitruzzi shakes free of Brady’s hand and hurries up to the wire-rat. This time, he narrows his eyes and his face tenses, preparing for anything. Instead of striking him, Vitruzzi leans close to his ear and says something, but I can’t make it out. Quantum nods his head, then exits.
Of all the questions yet to be answered, the one my mind keeps going back to is: Why would Quantum say he trusts me?
* * *
Brady and La Mer transmit to Venus, knowing she’ll be monitoring all frequencies. When they reach her, they fill her in on everything that’s already happened and is about to happen. While they discuss possible methods of distraction, the rest of the crew settles in, the tension and stress of waiting for something to go down already growing unbearable within an hour of Quantum’s departure. The hardest thing about a plan, any plan, is the time that elapses before it can be put into motion, the questions that arise, the fears that worm into your guts and take root, feeding and growing fatter on every uncertainty and doubt that fractures your equilibrium. With no outlet to bleed off the infection of nervous energy but sitting and waiting, the situation is even worse.
Karl and I sit side by side on one bunk, enjoying the closeness of being together. We’ve been talking about every detail we can remember of the Celestial’s layout from the fourteen months we were aboard, calling out potential advantages or potential weaknesses of Quantum’s plan. Neither of us brings up what might come next, all of the what-ifs: What if I or Quantum is caught before I can take the bridge? What if the plan fails and we have to implement the soil compound backup plan? What if that fails? What if it doesn’t but I can’t get to an evac pod and escape in time? What if I do, but the crew can’t find me in all that vastness of empty space? And worst of all, what if this whole plan is a lie cooked up by Quantum for some ulterior motive?
What if these are the last moments Karl and I will ever spend together?
As the night progresses, our ideas and voices slowly fade, most of the crew grasping at the potential for a brief, though guaranteed to be restless, sleep. I’m stretched out on my side on the bunk, one of my hands lightly rubbing Karl’s lower back as he sits and stares absently at the door. Seeming to realize how quiet it’s become, he glances around him, then reaches into the inside pocket of his jacket and turns his body to the side, facing me.
“Aly, there’s something I want to…um…I want you to have.” He reaches behind him and pulls my hand from his back, then drops something into it.
I open my fingers and see a ring like the one Venus had been wearing, the one La Mer had given her.
Before I say anything, Karl continues, “I had Jeremy make one for us. I want you to know how much you mean to me, how much I love you.”
As the full meaning of what he’s saying hits me, a shiv of fear pierces the center of my chest. My voice barely squeezes past it. “Karl, what—? We…we don’t have time for this kind of thing.” I know it’s not the right thing to say, but the fear—fear of losing him, fear of losing everything that matters to me—short-circuits my ability to think clearly or to say what I mean.
But he knows me, and he can hear the truth of my feelings in my heartbeat. Calmly, he says, “Aly, this may be the only time we have.” And he lies down beside me on the tiny military cot and wraps his body around mine while I place the ring on a loop of utility cord and hang it around my neck.
TWENTY-FOUR
Medina doesn’t make us wait for long. Only for a few hours after Brady, Zeta, and La Mer arrive, in fact. The inside of the gymnasium is like a vacuum where no noise or outside light penetrates, and when she opens the door and steps inside, we’re like newborns that must reacclimate to a world outside our insulated one. Now after so many long hours cooped up—some of us in this holding cell, the rest aboard the Nebula—we embrace the knowledge that we’ll be leaving Bogotan soon. Alive or dead.
Whitmore and a retinue of eight armed guards, including my favorites, Van Heusen and Blondie, come inside with her. Quantum lingers at the back of the group, scowling. No one seems to be paying him any attention.
Without ceremony, she says, “By now you’ve all had the time you need to discuss your options.”
She flicks a quick nod to the gunmen assembled in a single line along the far wall, and each draws their sidearm of choice. I feel cold sweat break inside my armpits, though I know at this point we’re not going to put up any resistance. Karl stands on one side of me, his shoulder touching mine, and David stands on my other. Between the two of them, I feel almost invincible, but I’ve heard the ticking of enough battle countdowns to know it’s only an illusion. The dead aren’t winners, just losers who don’t have to care anymore.
No one has spoken, but Medina continues as if she already knows the answer. “Dr. Vitruzzi, Brady, and Desto will travel with us to Keum Libre. Takeoff is in one hour. Come with me, please.”
She spins around, preparing to leave, but my eyes go to Quantum, anxious for a signal to put this grand plan of his under way. What I see doesn’t reassure me. He raises a hand to his chest, pressing it there with one finger lifted in a stay put gesture. Easy for him to fucking say.
What happens next is more of a surprise than anything I’ve seen so far. Whitmore reaches out and puts a firm hand on Medina’s shoulder as she takes a step toward the door. He looms over her by at least a head, but his gangly form is still somehow less than her stocky, erect military persona.
“Wait, Medina. I won’t let you do this.”
Medina comes to a standstill, but she doesn’t turn around. Van Heusen’s feral blue eyes stare at Whitmore, and the muzzle of his raised pistol targets Whitmore center mass.
“We talked about this, Jim,” Medina says.
“No. No, goddammit. I will not allow you to…to make yourself the leader of a new Admin, not after what—”
Medina turns around quickly, knocking Whitmore’s hand off of her shoulder and following through with a short chop to his midsection. Whitmore’s eyes bulge comically as he doubles over, gasping. For the first time since I’d met her, Medina’s face shows something new, a side of her I’d hardly have believed existed if I weren’t witnessing it. The animal rage of a pit viper about to strike transforms her usually benign but hard features into something too shocking to be feared, too horrible to be ignored.
As Whitmore clutches his stomach and tries to catch his breath, Medina looks Van Heusen in the eyes and says laconically, “Shoot this bastard. In the face.”
“No—!” I yell, beginning to step forward before David a
nd Karl both stop me.
Van Heusen doesn’t hesitate. Whitmore is dead before he hits the floor.
Medina faces us once more, but my gaze goes back to Quantum, desperate. He remains as he was, his gesture to wait firm, his eyes meeting mine with a ferocious command to follow his lead. I almost don’t listen, almost rush into them, throwing my life away over disbelief that the woman who had started this never-ending war had merely done it out of insanity, not idealism, not something more pure, more rational.
But with Karl and my brother next to me, I’m not ready to die. Not today.
Medina’s features are smooth and stern once again, no sign of the monster coiled beneath her skin. “If you had any questions about how far I’m willing to go to ensure humankind’s continuity, I hope they have been answered. Follow.” The command, meant for Vitruzzi, Brady, and Desto, is incontestable.
The three of them look around at the rest of us, then begin walking to the door. Vitruzzi kneels down and puts her fingertips to Whitmore’s wrist before passing by. She knows he’s dead, but I read something in the action that gives me a tiny jolt of hope. Vitruzzi isn’t too far gone. She still cares, she’s still her underneath the trauma that’s been scrambling her circuits. She is still strong beneath the damaged exterior. I hope it lasts long enough for us to see the end of this.
Two of the security detail grab Whitmore’s legs and drag his body out behind the rest of them, leaving a repulsive smear along the floor. As soon as the door closes, Karl grabs the radio.
“Venus, it’s Karl, come in.”
“Karlie,” she answers immediately, “time?”
“Yes. Medina is heading to the landing field with Brady, V, and Desto. When they get there, light up the Venus show.”
