by Deva Fagan
"Ask him if it involves disguises," pipes Britannica. I ignore her and stick out my hand.
"I say welcome to the Nola Liberation Army. So, tell me about your plan..."
CHAPTER 20
Escape
BY THE TIME we do dock at the Jorlax Nexus, I'm feeling almost chipper. Jom's plan is ... innovative ... but it's better than nothing. I'd feel better with a few ninjas, but I'll take what we've got.
The Ringmaster never does come calling, at least not in person. Britannica takes a couple of short voice messages, and then one long one. They're all variations on a theme: Please stay here. Stay safe. Diplomatic channels. Time. I delete them before they make me chicken out.
A half-hour after we dock, the Ringmaster is deep into negotiations with his contacts, and it's time for Jom and me to make our move. We head for the airlock that links ship to station.
"Looks clear," I say.
We make it about three steps when a ghostly figure shimmers into focus, barring the way.
"Miss Ling, I've been expecting you," says Miss Three. "The Ringmaster suspected you would not listen."
"Trix," says Jom in a low voice, "we need to get to the distribution center by twenty-one hundred hours or this won't work."
"Get out of our way, Three." I step forward. "Or I swear I'll find your motherboard and stomp it into itty-bitty pieces."
She arches a perfect brow at me, then glides to one side. "You mistake me. I'm not here to stop you. Go. This ship is better off without you. He is better of without you." Then she's gone, winked out.
"Let's go!" Jom pulls me out the door.
After the Hasoo-Pashtung Bazaar, the Jorlax Nexus station is a little disappointing. It reminds me of an airport, or one of those old indoor shopping malls, with stands selling JoJoPop and Supulu's Scoops every fifty feet and bubbly, inoffensive music piped in. The people look like regular sorts, out for a stroll, on business, shopping. The view, though—that's pretty freaking amazing. If I survive the next six hours, I am definitely coming back here. The outer walls are clear, floor to ceiling. On the other side is a Hubble image come to life. Not as colorful, maybe, but much, much bigger. Swirls of bronze and gold filter the light of a dying star. It's a sight to hold on to.
We hit our first roadblock, literally, when we're about halfway to our destination. A security checkpoint chokes the flow of traffic to a standstill. There's a single archway that I take to be a high-tech metal detector, and the line waiting to pass through it must be a hundred people deep.
"Gotta love the Core Governance in action," says Jom, grimacing. "We've got ten minutes."
"You think we should jump it?"
"I'm sure you'd love another chance to show off," says a voice beside me. "But if you're serious about saving Nola, you're probably better off without the attention."
"Sirra?" Jom asks. "What are you doing here? Taking tea with the Wazeer of Deneb?"
He's right. She looks ready for a state event. The marshmallow cast has been replaced by a close-fitting brace that blends into her dark velvety pants. Her tall boots shine as if daring one speck of dust to land on them. Golden insignias glitter with gems, decorating her fitted scarlet coat. She's even wearing something that, I kid you not, looks like a tiara.
"You two clearly need help," she says. "And I need an unprotected netlink upload site." She holds up Nola's datastore.
"So you want to come with us?" I say. "Risk everything?"
"I've got everything to lose if I don't do something," she says, clenching the datastore in her fist. "So, do you want to stand here all day or what?"
"I'll take the 'what' option," says Jom.
"Follow me, then, and keep your mouths shut." Sirra marches forward, limping slightly. Jom and I look at each other and abandon our spot in line.
Sirra's not even halfway to the checkpoint when the flurry of activity starts. The guards look as if someone set loose a swarm of bees on them, rushing back and forth, waving hands in the air. I spot one guy ducking behind a potted plant to tuck in his shirt and straighten his jacket. The excitement spreads to the people waiting in line, who point and watch open-mouthed.
By the time we reach the checkpoint, there's a line of uniformed guards standing at attention. They even salute. I'm starting to see how Sirra turned out the way she did, if this is the kind of treatment she's used to.
"Lady Centaurus," says a guard with a silver star on her cap, saluting again. "This is a great honor. We had no word that one of your family would be visiting the Nexus. Is the President traveling with you?"
"No, my mother isn't here. But I'm sure she would be glad to know the security of Nexus is in such capable hands."
The guard looks so happy at this you'd think Sirra had handed her the winning lottery ticket and a puppy. Sirra continues on, "But I do have some rather urgent family business to attend to, if you understand."
"Oh, yes, of course, Lady Centaurus. You, there, clear a path. Quickly, now, let's not keep the lady waiting."
Sirra slips a coy look back at Jom and me, then resumes her regal coolness. Within a minute we're being waved past the checkpoint. Jom and I get some odd looks, mostly focused on our ... unusual ... hair. But one sweet little smile from Sirra and an "Oh, these are my assistants," and we're free and clear.
Sirra keeps up the empress-of-the-universe act until we round the next bend in the main walkway. Then she ducks into an alcove beside a potted palm. She pulls off the dozens of gold emblems and tiara and stuffs them into a pouch, then shakes the elaborate hairstyle down and ties it back in a simple ponytail.
"Please tell me you have a plan to get to Vargalo-5," Sirra says, fiddling with a tiny dial on the sleeve of her coat. As she spins it, the color of the jacket darkens from the brilliant scarlet to a muted burgundy. The empress is gone, replaced by a polished but not particularly eye-catching young woman.
"Can't you snap your fingers and get your minions to help?" I say as we head off down the walkway.
"Even I can't just walk into a high-security military research facility."
"Don't worry," says Jom, careening around a corner and leading us down a side hall. "I've got us our ticket to Vargalo-5 right here." He points ahead to the doorway emblazoned with the image of a gigantic ice cream cone and the words SUPULU'S SCOOPS DISTRIBUTION CENTER. Jom presses one hand across the identification panel. The door slides open with a cheery "Welcome, Master Supulu!"
We follow Jom into the chilly maze of shelves packed with tubs labeled Tachyon Toffee Swirl and Cosmic Crunch to a loading bay. A stubby shuttlecraft emblazoned with the Supulu logo and the words DELIVERY SERVICE sits proudly on the flight deck, being prepped by a crew of robotic loaders. As we watch, one of the mechanicals deposits a final pallet stacked with tubs into the delivery shuttle. Everything, from the tubs to the robots to the shuttle, is striped in pale green and lavender.
Jom comes out from the cockpit with a bundle of lavender and green fabric in his hands. "Um ... I hope you guys like stripes."
***
I squirm in my seat, looking out the window at the Vargalo-5 station below. The white domes bubble up from the blasted lunarscape of the small moon.
"Don't worry," says Jom from his spot at the controls. "There's another two transports ahead of us. We'll get our clearance eventually."
I blow out my breath, but it doesn't help with the tight feeling in my chest. The air in here is too thin. And this uniform isn't helping. "How do they expect you to work with this—this thing flopping into your face every time you turn around?" I try for the umpteenth time to reposition the peaked lavender and green cap so the pompom on the end isn't tickling my nose.
"Oh, it's not that bad," says Jom, giving the fluffy tip of his own hat a practiced flick to send it back over one shoulder. "My grandfather designed the uniforms, you know. The cap's supposed to look like an ice cream cone. Get it?"
"Enough of this," I mutter. Pulling off my cap, I give the pompom a good yank. It pops free. I toss it into the aisl
e.
In the seat across from me, Sirra's been waging her own war against the hat. She stops to watch the de-pomming. Catching my eye, she grins. A moment later her own cap is pompom free.
"And listen," says Jom, "I know this is a deadly dangerous mission and all that, but my uncle's going to kill me if anything happens to this stuff. So try to keep the uniforms clean, if you can. What? Why are you both giggling?"
Sirra slaps a hand over her mouth, but her shoulders keep shaking. I sweep the two discarded pompoms off the floor and make a show of dusting them off, which only makes Sirra laugh harder.
It's a weird, weird world. A week ago Sirra and I hated each other, and honestly, we probably still do. But right now I'm just glad to have someone to laugh with, to loosen the bands of fear that clamp me down whenever I think about what's coming.
Jom leans forward, taking the manual controls as a voice crackles from the comlink. "Supulu Shuttle 8552, please hold your position. We have an incoming flight that has priority."
I sink lower into my seat. Wonderful. More waiting.
"Copy that, Vargalo-5," replies Jom cheerfully. Then he lets a note of doubt into his voice. "I sure hope I don't lose any cargo, though. Freezers won't last much longer."
There's a pause. Then the same voice, but less clipped and formal. "You got any of that Limited Edition Love Among the Starberries on board?"
"Sure do!" says Jom. "Tell you what, if you can get us down sooner rather than later, I'll even set aside a pint for you."
There's another, longer pause, then "Supulu Shuttle 8552, you are cleared for descent to platform North Gamma-5. Please report to the deck officer upon landing."
"Thank you, Vargalo-5 Control," says Jom. He clicks off the comlink and winks back at Sirra and me. "Ice cream: better than a universal lockpick."
Jom works more of his magic on the deck officer after we land, distracting him with a tub that's "exceeded optimal storage temperatures" and can't be refrozen without violating some Supulu taboo. While the officer takes an ice cream break, we get to supervise the unpacking of the remaining tubs.
The moment the guard is out of sight, I head for the nearest com station. Sirra beats me to it, only to slam a fist into the wall. "Internal only! No netlink. It's not enough."
"It's enough for me." I edge around her and flick on my know-it-all. "Britannica? You in?"
"Of course. Bringing up schematics now."
The screen blinks on, showing the now-way-too-familiar layout of the station.
"There," says my know-it-all over the shared com channel. "Miss Ogala is in the detention wing, as expected. Records indicate she has been subjected to only minimal processing."
"Thank the First Tinker," says Jom, jogging over to join us, having finished with the unloading.
Britannica goes on, "You should be able to proceed with the original plan of making your way around the outer maintenance passages and then ... Oh, dear."
"What's wrong?"
"I'm afraid Miss Ogala is scheduled to be transferred to a treatment chamber in approximately thirty-three minutes."
"What kind of treatment?" asks Sirra.
"Full-scale genetic cleansing."
"Even in a best-case scenario, our planned route will take forty," says Jom. He pulls off his cap and twists it so roughly I hear a rip. "And the backup plan isn't much better."
"Then we'd better find a backup for the backup." I glare into the sea of thin green lines that stand between me and Nola. I point to the schematics. "Look here, there's a passage that runs almost straight from where we are to the detention block. It's the only way."
"That's the passage with the Vuolu scent hounds," says Jom, continuing to mangle his hat.
"You said you had a way to get past them."
"I said I had an idea. That's not the same thing. And I can't do anything about the variable gravimetric fields."
"Good thing we've got Gravity Girl with us, then." I point to a spot near the blinking light that marks Nola's cell. "And look, Sirra, you're in luck: There's a full netlink station right here."
Sirra doesn't move. For a moment I think I might have to come up with an inspiring speech. Then she shakes herself, gives a tight nod, and heads for the wall panel that leads to our backup backup route.
The first part is tense and boring, not a good combination. All we find are seemingly endless tubelike passages that make me feel like a gerbil. We scuttle along the Habitrail, hunched and ready for attack, for sirens and wailing alarms. It's a dangerous feeling when you start hoping for something to happen to relieve the numb fear slowly paralyzing your thoughts.
I notice the tube widening, feel an odd heaviness in one foot. Britannica starts to say something, but it's too late. Suddenly my entire body has turned to lead. I slam down onto the floor. A hum of power buzzes in my bones.
"Graphimephric ... m-field," says Jom, the translator barely un-garbling the words. With great effort I twist my head a fraction of an inch so I can see him splattered flat as a pancake against the floor.
"Sirra," I gasp out. "Your ... cue."
The field shifts sickeningly. Is this how the ocean feels in a storm? Whipped by waves that shift it and slop it around until up is down and inside is out? I grit my teeth, my entire focus boiling down to one thought: Don't hurl.
When it stops, I'm on the ceiling. My lead bones have become clouds. Jom careens into me and grunts. "Sirra! Do something!"
I twist so the momentum of the jolt from Jom spins me around to face Sirra. She's floating, arms outstretched, her dark hair coiling in a halo around her frightened—yes, frightened—face. "Sirra, can't you stop it?"
"No ... I mean, I don't know. It's too much. Changing too fast."
On cue, I slam back down to the floor. Jom bellows in pain.
"If I get it wrong, it might backlash. It could tear us all into pieces."
"If it's a choice between that and getting beaten to a bloody pulp, I'll take the chance," calls Jom.
"I don't think I can do it."
"Come on, Sirra, you're the star of the Circus Galacticus. You perform for bazillions of people. You're the definition of overachiever. Everything you do is perfect. Believe me; I noticed. So do this! Get another gold star for your collection."
Nothing. I think I hear her breathing, fast and desperate.
"I'm afraid Lady Centaurus won't be able to be of further assistance," pipes my know-it-all. "I don't suppose you can reach that control panel on the far end of the chamber?"
I'd laugh, but there's no air in my chest. I can barely move an inch, let alone cross the ten feet to the panel. But I try. Not much else to do. "I guess I finally found one thing I can do better, though," I say. "At least I'm not giving up without a fight."
Sirra's voice is faint. "You're trying to make me angry."
"Well, yeah," I admit.
"It's working." The words are sharper, stronger.
I can't see what's happening, but suddenly my body feels cloudlike again. Jom groans. "Hold on," says Sirra. "Don't move."
The clouds turn to marshmallows, then to solid flesh. My heels sink onto the floor. I catch myself against the wall. Don't hurl, don't hurl, chants my brain. Sirra flies past and taps something into the control panel. The humming stops.
"Good work," I say, once I find my lips. "Remind me to give you that gold star."
Sirra smiles. "If we get out of here, it's gold stars all around."
"Ah, isn't it wonderful how a little adversity can make bosom friends out of former enemies?" says my know-it-all in a dreamy voice.
I snort. "Bosom friends?"
"Hardly," says Sirra, dropping her smile like a hot coal. "Let's call it allies for now."
"Sounds good to me." I move to join Jom over at the hatch that will take us out into the detention wing.
"I'll go first," he says. "If there are Vuolu hounds, I'll distract them. You two get Nola out. Okay?"
"As long as distracting them doesn't mean letting them chew on you."
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"No." Jom cracks the hatch, peering out. "But it does involve a bit of acrobatics and making myself smell like a fresh Denebian sausage. Nothing a Clown can't handle. All right, it's clear." He ducks out of the hatch.
Sirra and I follow, emerging into a gray corridor lined with narrow doors that remind me uncomfortably of tombstones. It takes me a moment to get oriented. "It should be this way," I say, pointing to the right.
"Shhh!" Jom raises a warning hand. In the silence that follows, the click-click-click of claws echoes from somewhere around the corner to the left. "Go! Find her!"
Then he's gone, slipping off down the left-hand hall, trailing a faint whiff of smoked meat. I hesitate. It feels wrong, but we're running out of time.
"You heard him," Sirra says.
We move on. I'm listening so hard for growling and screaming in the distance, I miss the cell. Sirra catches my elbow and points to the number glowing from the keypad beside the nearest door. "This is it."
"And there's the netlink." I point up the hall. "Go do your thing." Leaning closer to the door, I call out, "Nola?"
A long moment ticks by, and I swear I lose about a year of my life before I catch the faint "Trix? Is that really you?"
"Pink hair and all. I've got Jom and Sirra here, too. Don't ask; I can't explain it, either. We're here to rescue you, but we're going to need help. Can you get this door open? You know, with your Tech mojo?"
"I can try. But everything keeps spinning. Whooa, one step in front of the other." There's a muffled thump from inside the cell. "Hello, there, Mr. Door. How do you feel about opening? Good? Oh, do you really have to? Well, okay, then..."
The next moment the door slides open, Nola falls out, and sirens start blaring.
Sirra rejoins me, her face sharp with fear. "They're coming!" The thud of running footsteps pounds toward us.
Jom rounds the corner, running like he's got a pack of Vuolu hounds on his trail. Relief breaks over his face like a sunrise when he sees us. "You found her! Is she okay?"
