by Boffard, Rob
I see Amira, holding her hand out to me. Again, nothing but a creeping numbness.
“I am so proud of you,” he says, and the sadness in his voice bubbles over. He’s crying openly now, the tears streaming down his face. “Riley, I wish …”
“No.” The hardness in my voice startles me. But I grasp that tiny thread of steel, hold it close. “It’s over. We’re done.”
My legs give out, and I collapse to the ground, leaning up against the console. Behind me, the man on the screen tries to talk, pleading with me. I shut my eyes. Maybe if I keep them closed for long enough, I won’t even feel it when the ship hits.
But something tugs at the edge of my mind. It takes me a minute to find it.
Iapetus.
Slowly, I pull myself up. My father has gone silent, but he’s still there, staring at me, leaning back in his chair. He opens his mouth to say something, but I cut him off.
“There’s something you’re not telling me,” I begin, struggling to find the words. “Marshall Foster’s dead. He was killed a few days ago. But there was something he wanted to keep secret, something he locked away. A word. Iapetus.”
His face, which darkened at the mention of Foster’s name, creases with puzzlement. “Iapetus?” he says – then surprise turns to recognition, a brief flash across his face. He tries to hide it, but I catch him too soon.
“You know what it means, don’t you?” I say.
He shakes his head. “A safe-word, that’s all. Something to secure communications.” But he avoids my eyes.
“Dad,” I say. The word feels strange in my mouth. “You have to tell me what it means.”
“It’s nothing.”
“You’re lying,” I say. “Is this what Mom would have wanted? For you to lie to your daughter?”
“Don’t you talk about her.”
“Why, Dad? She’s gone. She’s been gone for a long time. It’s just me, and I’m asking you. What does it mean?”
He looks as if he’s about to smash his camera, cutting off communications all together. But then he takes a deep breath. “It’s an override. One half of a dual fail-safe.”
“Overriding what?”
He seems to weigh up the question, deciding how to answer. When he does, his voice is resigned. “On every mission, the station command and the ship’s captain choose code words. You can’t use one without the other. Foster chose his, I chose mine. In the event of … in the event of an accident, when a ship malfunctions or looks like it might damage the station, both code words can be entered into the system.”
I wait for him to continue, but he seems to be searching for the words. “What happens then?” I ask.
He seems to take an age to form the words. “It sends a signal which causes a reactor override. Detonation.”
Detonation.
Before I’m even aware I’m doing it, my fingers are navigating through the on-screen controls. I catch the look of alarm on his face as understanding dawns. “Riley,” he says, his voice thick. “What are you doing?”
“Whatever I can,” I mutter. My fingers seem to work of their own accord, flying through the menus, flicking through Capacitor Control and Reactor Data and Network Variance until it alights on Ship Communications, and then – Override.
“Riley, please,” comes the voice from the speakers. His eyes are serious now, hunting mine down, until eventually I’m forced to look at them. “I have to finish the mission.”
Something snaps. We both start screaming at each other at the same time, our voices cut with anger and fear. It takes me some time to understand the words coming out of my mouth. “You want to kill us all!” I yell. “You say you love me, but you’re going to destroy us. Destroy me. Is this what you want? What Mom would have wanted?”
In a rage, I stab the screen, activating the Override option. The computer begins flashing up data on the Akua: ship reactor temperature, rate of rotation – and trajectory. On the bottom left of the screen, a little icon appears: an exclamation mark, surrounded by a small triangle, blinking on and off. Somewhere in the control room, a calm voice quietly says: “Warning: proximity alert.”
Outer Earth, it seems, has finally worked out that it’s in danger.
Next to the icon are the words: Transmit override command. With my father still yelling in the background, I activate the option. Every bit of text on the screen vanishes, replaced by an on-screen keyboard, and the words: Confirmation Code 1.
I don’t think. I enter the word Iapetus and hit the confirm option, wanting everything to be over, wanting the world to go away. Not wanting to face the man on the screen.
The word on the screen turns green, blinks for a moment, and vanishes, replaced by a text box labelled Confirmation Code 2.
Foster chose his, I chose mine.
No.
“You’re like your mother,” he says. The words are a shard of ice, and the chill that sweeps through me is so intense that I find I can’t move my fingers. I can’t move anything. “She was strong. Stronger than I ever was. She would never have wanted this. Any of it. I’m sorry. Oh gods, Riley, I’m sorry.”
I want to say something. Anything. But nothing will come. Every last bit of emotion is dried up, gone, as empty as space itself.
Eventually, he says, “It’s asking you for a second code, isn’t it?”
I whisper, “Yes.”
“I waited so long,” he says, as if he’s speaking to himself. “And all this time, you were right there. You were alive.”
It takes me more than one try to get the words out, but as I do, I’m surprised by the strength in my voice. “Whatever you left behind, it’s not like that any more. There are things on this station worth saving. Things I could show you if …” The words catch in my throat. “Things that I love. People that I love. You have to tell me the second code, Dad. Please.”
“Riley, no.”
“I am your daughter, and I am begging you not to do this. You wanted to die? This is your chance. You were lied to for so long. You were controlled and manipulated. Both of us were. But you can choose, Dad. You can choose.”
The agony pulsing in my heart is reflected on his face. “I love you,” I say again, my voice tiny, almost buried in the thrum of the electronics.
Finally, his hand touches the camera, a single finger pressing against it. It has to be soon. It has to be soon, or every ounce of me will turn to dust.
“The second code is Riley,” he says, holding back the words, as if trying to keep them from escaping. “You need to enter your own name.”
What?
“Why, Dad?”
“Because I thought that if everything went wrong, the last thing I wanted to say was your name.”
It takes me a few tries to punch the letters into the display, but in what seems like no time at all, my name is on the screen, glowing in orange text over his face. Below the word blinks the option: Confirm?
His hand is on the monitor again. “Riley … I love y—”
My finger touches the screen for the last time.
77
Riley
I don’t know how long I lie there. Time passes, but I don’t know how much. I feel tears streaming down my face, and I desperately want to cry out, but nothing comes.
After a while, there are strong hands lifting me up. It occurs to me that I might be dead. The thought is vague, distant, like a shape at the end of a dark corridor. I find I don’t care all that much.
I’m not aware of opening my eyes, or even of focusing on my surroundings. There are shapes, and light, but it’s a long time before they resolve into something I recognise. Janice Okwembu is sitting in a chair opposite me, her hands in her lap. She looks expectant, as if I’m supposed to say something.
Hate. That seems to be the appropriate response. But there’s nothing there. The numbness I felt earlier is total. My wounds don’t hurt. My stomach is a hollow drum. My mind is blank. It’s not that I can’t hold on to any feeling; it’s as if there’s nothing the
re to hold on to.
“Can you hear me, Ms Hale?” Okwembu asks, her head tilted slightly to one side. “I want you to listen very closely to what I’m about to say.”
My eyes fix on hers. Her words stir something deep in my gut, and slowly, ever so slowly, hate begins to uncoil.
If she sees it in my gaze, she ignores it. “You’ll want to hurt me. That’s understandable. But I can’t let you do that.” She raises her hand, and I see she’s holding a stinger.
“Now, I could simply kill you, right here and now,” she says. “But I think you deserve better than that. You’ve performed brilliantly. Better than I ever could have hoped. And so, I’m going to give you a choice.”
I have to will my lips to form the words. “A choice?”
She nods, and throws something at my feet. A knife. Polished steel, with a black handle. It clatters on the steel floor, spinning in place. I reach down to pick it up, keeping my eyes on her the whole time.
“You’re going to die, Ms Hale. Whether you die a hero or a traitor is up to you. That’s your choice. If you try to attack me, I’ll put a bullet right through you. You’ll die, and I’ll make sure everyone knows that you were working with Darnell, that you were part of the Sons of Earth, that you brought back the Akua to destroy us. The name Hale will come to mean traitor. You’ll be the daughter who betrayed her own father. Your friends will be too scared to speak your name. I will destroy everything you stood for.”
“They won’t believe you,” I whisper.
“They’ll believe what I tell them. They always do. But if you take your own life – I’d suggest cutting your wrists – then I’ll make sure that you’re remembered as a hero. You’ll be the one who made the ultimate sacrifice to save Outer Earth. And while you couldn’t live with yourself afterwards, your name will be written into history. When we return to Earth, they will build cities dedicated to you.”
When we return?
She dips her head slightly. “I’m offering you this choice because I respect you, and I respect what you have gone through. I’m going to lead Outer Earth into a new era of peace, but for that to happen, you have to die. Your only choice is how you are remembered.”
I touch the blade to the skin of my left wrist. It’s sharp. The cuts will be clean.
I can’t possibly do this. I can’t do what she says.
But then that quiet voice whispers, Keep her talking. Buy some time.
I think about attacking her, or diving away. But I know that I won’t be able to move fast enough. There’s only one way this can end.
In two quick movements, I cut shallow slashes across my left wrist. There’s pain, but it’s not the stinging agony I expected. It’s a distant ache, like something felt by someone else. The blood blooms instantly, a steady, pulsing flow, running into my palm and dripping downwards. The drops drip gently onto the floor.
I try to transfer the blade to my left hand to cut my other wrist, but it too falls to the floor, the clang echoing around the control room.
Okwembu nods. One wrist seems to be enough for her. “You’re going to be a hero,” she says. Incredibly, she smiles.
“Why?” I ask, and it’s then that the pain really comes, a stinging so intense that I have to bite my lip to keep from crying out.
“Because sometimes the only way to restore order is to create chaos,” she replies, speaking slowly, as if to someone very young.
The realisation dawns gradually. “This was never about saving the Earth from humans, was it?”
“The Earth is none of my concern – not yet. I wanted to save this station.”
“Save it? From what?”
“From us.” She’s quiet for a moment. Then she says, “The council had been losing control of Outer Earth for a long time. Gangs. Crime. One riot. Two. Then war. The station would destroy itself, and I knew that if we left things as they were, it would fall away from us. When that happened, there’d be no hope.”
“So you decided to rescue Outer Earth by trying to kill everyone on it? Help me out here.”
She continues as if I hadn’t spoken. “So I created the Sons of Earth. A terrorist group, hell bent on wiping out humanity. When I defeated them – or helped defeat them – then the entire station would unite under me. My power would be absolute. I could fix it all. Get rid of the gangs, empower the protection officers, control the tracers. I could rule, and not as a council member, not as someone held back by others, having to put every decision to a committee of fools.”
“You’re insane.”
“It might seem that way, but only because you don’t yet understand. I’ve learned a few things about power.”
“Like?”
“Nothing unifies people like a common enemy, and fighting through hardship which can be blamed on that enemy will forge them in steel. And Darnell did have such useful ideas about human extinction. It was so easy to let him believe that I wanted the Akua Maru to collide with us, for the good of the Earth.”
There’s a lot of blood now. It forms a dark pool at my feet, draining into the seams of the plating. The blankness has been replaced by a faint dizziness.
“Foster hid your father’s beacon transmission deep in the system,” she says. “It didn’t show up in the logs. Until one day, I saw something in the sub-routines, deep in the code. When I realised that the Akua wasn’t only intact but potentially still functioning, I saw the opportunity.”
Another stab of pain shoots up my arm, and without thinking, I clutch my wrist. I cry out, and let go of the wrist as if it’s on fire.
“Did you hear me, Ms Hale?” she says. When I look up at her, she seems to flutter in and out of existence in front of me. “I managed to keep my communications with your father private, and with the information I gave him two years ago, we were able to plot his course exactly.”
“But Foster …”
Okwembu leans forward slightly, and looks right into my eyes, like she badly needs me to understand. “For every ship mission,” she says, “an override code is locked away behind a retinal scanner. The only person who has access to it is the mission commander. Standard procedure, in case a ship malfunctions and endangers the station. Foster could hide the Akua’s beacon transmission, but to try and erase the override code would have invited suspicion, so he just left it there. I don’t believe he ever thought it would need to be used.”
She smooths out a crease in the leg of her jumpsuit, picking at an invisible speck of lint.
“I knew he’d never tell me the override code. I asked anyway. He claimed he didn’t remember, which was a lie. He was suspicious, of course, but he would never do anything to dig up the past. Same old Foster – always hoarding information, like little stores of food he could put away for when he needed them most. He was a real politician, that one.”
“And you’re not?”
She just smiles, totally serene.
It’s an effort to get the words out now. “Why not just hack it?”
She shakes her head. “That’s the point of a retinal scanner. It’s completely isolated from the rest of the network. It can’t be hacked.” Okwembu smiles to herself. “Not by digital means, anyway. In any event, for everything to go as planned, I had to make Darnell believe that we had to unlock the scanner, and destroy the code.”
She leans back in her chair, the gun resting in her lap. “You will never know the terror I felt when I heard how Darnell had botched the retrieval of Foster’s eye – by the time I found out, the protection officers had recorded it, and incinerated it.” She exhales slowly. “I should have got that eye a lot sooner.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Darnell. If he’d had Foster killed too soon, the stompers might have had time to investigate, and link it back to him. He’d never allow that. It had to happen when everything had been set in motion. At any rate, it didn’t matter. Garner saved us all. You saved us all.”
“You used me.”
It takes a long time for her to answer. When she does,
there’s something in her voice – not regret, but sadness. “If I’d had my way, you’d have survived along with everyone else, and never been a part of this. But I came to suspect that you knew where Garner was. If only you’d told me, all of this would have been easier. But you would never have given in. You’re stubborn. Like your father.”
“Don’t you dare talk about him.” I’m stunned to hear a version of my father’s words fall so easily from my mouth. The pain in my wrists flares again.
“Once Foster’s eye was found and destroyed, so was every hope of us accessing the retinal scanner,” she says. “Garner was our only hope, and it would have taken too long to search the entire station”
“Amira.”
“A shame,” she replies, and my coil of hate seems to tighten. “She believed that fiction of Darnell’s far too easily. If she’d shown a little vision, then she would have made an excellent second-in-command. Darnell wanted me to torture the whereabouts of Grace Garner out of you, but I preferred a more subtle approach. Amira provided it.”
The dark place I’ve put Amira, Yao and Garner into is threatening to blow open, to spill its terrible memories into my mind. I push it back.
“I should have known that she wouldn’t have the strength to kill you,” Okwembu says. “It seems I’m not as good a judge of character as I thought. Still, every desperate situation will have an opportunity hidden in it. And you – oh, you – when you survived Amira, you provided the greatest opportunity yet. Because what better way to preserve order than to create not just an enemy, but a martyr to destroy it?”
I catch sight of one of the screens behind Okwembu. I can just make out the message on it. Temperature equalised. Sector access granted.
Doesn’t matter. They’ll never get here in time. And even if they do, they’ll never believe me.
“When we realised that you were running through the Core to get to Apex, I knew how the sequence of events would have to play out,” Okwembu says. “Darnell, of course, still wanted the Akua to destroy us. He was convinced you needed to die, and went into the Core to kill you.”
