by Page Morgan
I rush through the hospital doors, which have been shoved open manually. If I’m going into the city, I’ll need a few things. Food and water, and maybe a jacket for when the sun goes down and it starts getting cold again—if I last that long.
There’s an empty security guard office, the door open, and slung around the back of a roller chair is a black duffle bag. I dump out the defibrillator paddles and latex gloves that are inside and stuff in two bottles of water from the minifridge, an extra Security Staff fleece pullover, a flashlight that still works, and a bruised apple before making a pit stop in the bathroom. The water isn’t working, and I’m not the only one who hasn’t flushed lately. It makes me think back to the water treatment plant. And Rowan. There’s a sudden, hollow and aching sensation in my stomach. I pin it on hunger and homesickness. I can’t think about what else it could be.
Outside, I shoulder the duffle bag straps and hop on the borrowed bicycle. The expressway ramp isn’t too far from the hospital, and from there I can enter the Lincoln Tunnel. The initial exhilaration at knowing exactly where my mom has been tapers off after about ten minutes of pedaling; my thighs burn, and the sinking memory of those transports bombing the city sets in.
I shove the worry away when I come up to the toll booths, just before the arched tunnel entrances. There are lines of cars and trucks, all of them abandoned, but people are streaming out of the tunnels. They’re crossing out of Manhattan, probably thinking it’s safer over here. Maybe they think they can get away from the spaceship if they just leave the city. Some carry bags and suitcases filled with their belongings. A few people pull kids in Radio Flyer wagons or push them in strollers. One guy carries a cello. A lot of them have flashlights and are clicking them off as they exit. I’m the only one heading into the tunnel, rather than out of it.
I get stares as I steer past one of the toll booths. I want to tell them to turn around, to go back inside, underground. But I know they won’t listen to me, just like I’m not listening to the two women waving their arms at me, telling me to turn around and stay out of the city. They want to get as far away as they can, and they won’t stay in the tunnels just because one girl on a bike says it’s a good idea.
The three gaping black mouths into the tunnels wait for me to choose. I go with the left tunnel, thinking it might exit north onto the parkway. I stop my bike just inside the entrance and rummage through the duffle bag for my flashlight. The battery rattles around inside. The beam of light is weak, but it’s all I have.
I’m just about to start pedaling when someone behind me screams. It triggers another scream, and then more. The trampling of feet pounds the ground, and a chorus of shouts and swearing rises up. When I look back toward the toll booths, people are fleeing—and there’s a Volkranian transport in sight.
Just one. It’s not an attack. There hadn’t been a warning blare. But the transport is still descending at a high rate of speed, like the one that had picked up Rowan in the cemetery.
And it’s heading right toward us.
Chapter Sixteen
I push off into the tunnel. I haven’t biked in years, and as I pump my legs, the burning in my thighs isn’t pleasant, but my body absorbs the pain and keeps working.
The flashlight rattles where it’s clamped between my palm and the handlebar, the beam jiggling and shifting and generally making it almost impossible to see anything except flashes of pavement and solid white lines, shiny bumpers and darkened windows of abandoned cars. People leap out of my path and swear at me. Reflectors, adhered to the tiled walkway that runs along the side of the tunnel, wink back the flashlight beam.
I’m hoping the transport can’t fit inside the tunnel, but seconds later the mechanical whir of the craft starts to vibrate along the curved walls and ceiling. It fits, all right.
The crowds of people still coming down the tunnel stop, scream, and reverse. The sounds, trapped in the tunnel, quake up my spine and through my legs and arms. There’s nothing to back up the notion, but I know the transport is here for me. It might be neurotic or self-centered, but I can picture the warden inside the transport, his purple eyes hinged on my bicycle as it swerves through a wave of retreating people. Or maybe it’s the fleet commandant who’s found me, and he’s ticked off that Rowan hadn’t carried out the execution.
My flashlight beam touches on a propped door up ahead, off the narrow, raised walkway. I ditch the bike, keep the flashlight and the bag, and run to the walkway. I grab the metal railing and haul myself up. The transport speeds through the tunnel behind me, shoving several cars and trucks out of its path, sparks arcing into the air.
I slam the propped door open all the way and come to an abrupt halt. It doesn’t go anywhere. It’s just a closet, stuffed with an electrical board of switches and bulbs and a network of multi-colored wires and pipelines. Damn it! I slam the door and pray the transport moves past, deeper into the tunnel. No luck. The sound of its engine holds just outside.
Boot soles scrape along the pavement. The electric hum of one of their weapons fires off twice, and I leap back, into the useless electrical grid. A lever jabs me in the ribs, the ones I hurt the evening before, but I can’t feel the pain. I can’t feel anything except my heart thrashing in my chest.
I am so dead.
The door flies open, and my flashlight beam falls on two Volkranian guards. They have their right arms raised, their weapons aimed at me. They’re each wearing a snap-on translator collar.
“You are to accompany us,” one says in the robotic voice.
The other adds, “If you attempt to escape, we have orders to eliminate you immediately.”
I don’t doubt it for a second.
I drop the black duffle bag and step out of the closet. The air in the tunnel is a few degrees cooler but sweat still plasters my back and chest. There’s a wide circle of empty space around us, the stalled cars having been shoved out of the way by the transport. A handful of brave people linger close, watching, eyes wide and fearful. I know the expression. It’s the same one I wear whenever I pass a car wreck on the interstate.
I grip my flashlight as I climb over the railing and drop onto the pavement. The guards follow. There’s silence from the onlookers as I approach the transport. I pray none of them tries to step in or protect me—they’ll only get themselves electrocuted. No one does, which is also kind of disappointing. But the end of the world is a save yourself kind of situation, isn’t it? I can’t blame them for clamming up while I board the alien craft, nudged along by one of the guard’s hands.
The inside of this transport is identical to the one I’d flown in with Rowan. I expect the warden to greet me in the cockpit, but he isn’t here. I don’t know how they found me or what they want, but arguing with them would be suicide.
These Volkranians aren’t like Rowan. They will kill me.
I’m led to the same foot suction podium where I’ve stood before, and as I step up, one of the guards takes my flashlight from my clenched fingers. As if a flashlight could possibly be used as a weapon. On second thought, I’d been able to hurt the warden with a brick.
The transport lifts off, the armrests holding me upright. We glide out of the tunnel and into the air, back toward the spaceship. This can’t be happening. Not again. Fear numbs my legs, and my stomach churns. I’m positive it isn’t Rowan who has sent these Volkranians to get me. They wouldn’t have threatened to eliminate me if that were the case. So that means the moment I step aboard Volkron Six, I’ll be at someone else’s mercy.
We pass the open cargo bay and keep rising toward the stories of windows jutting out of the ship. Some are sheer walls of glass and metal, and others are smaller, box-like windows, like the one in Rowan’s room. The cityship is taller than the Empire State Building by far, and we’re cruising all the way to the top.
The transport aims for a flat wall of glass. It’s reflective, just like every other window, windshield, and helmet visor so far, so I can’t see in. Still, I think I know where we’re going. Row
an and I had taken the pneumatic module to the top floors where the fleet commandant’s control room had been. As the transport shoulders up against the cityship, and a locking boom brings the whole thing to a solid rest, the empty churn of my stomach is nastier than a mouthful of warm sushi.
The podium lets my feet go. One of the helmeted guards jerks an arm, gesturing for me to move along. I walk straight into the control room, where I’d been the day before. The white-suited Volkranians are still seated at their stations, as images of what’s happening below zing across their screens. Blink, and it’s a different image. Only this time, I don’t stare at them. I can’t let myself. I’m already closing in on a full-blown panic attack as it is.
My head is light, my breathing off-kilter, and as I follow one guard while the second brings up the tail, my legs wobble. We’re heading toward the sunken circle where the fleet commandant had been before. He’s there now, too, seated in one of the gunmetal gray chairs that rim the sunken portion of the floor. His eyes rest on me without an ounce of surprise. He’s the one who brought me here.
“I ordered the commanding sentinel to eliminate you,” he says with unsettling calm. I feel faint, and my skin is clammy all over, but I keep my chin hitched in defiance.
I doubt more than an hour has passed since Rowan left the cemetery. Has he seen his father since coming back onto the ship? I look around at the white-suited monitors as the guards lead me down the steps and into the sunken circle. Had one of them spotted me leaving the cemetery and followed my movements? I should have thought of that before.
“I also ordered him to organize the release of chloromagnate into the water system,” the commandant says, his fingers smoothing down the length of his silver beard. “It has come to my attention that none of the vessels were released, and none of the guards in his detachment have yet to return to the cityship.”
Because they’re dead. The warden had confessed to sending his own guards to kill them. I don’t say anything though. I don’t know what’s happening, and I can’t play any of my cards until I do.
The fleet commandant rises from the chair. He doesn’t look like Rowan. He’s not as tall, either, but he has a powerful presence. And I’m afraid of him. The fear isn’t like anything I’ve ever experienced—not even when Rowan had me at the end of his weaponed arm. When the fleet commandant looks at me, I can clearly see just how little he cares. I’m nothing to him.
“My commanding sentinel’s dissent, and his attempt to thwart the Volkranian settlement here, will not go unpunished,” he continues to say.
Rowan’s dissent? So, he thinks his own son is plotting against him.
The commandant’s eyes land on something behind me, and I swivel around. It’s the warden. He’s in his exosuit, but again, without a helmet. The bridge of his nose has a sick bruise, and there’s a dark black-and-blue ring underneath one eye. He glowers at me, practically rippling with hatred.
Turning my back to the warden would be a stupid move, so I shift my footing to have both the warden and the fleet commandant in view at the same time.
Finally, I find my voice. “He’s not just your commanding sentinel. He’s your son.”
“And should he unseat me, my position becomes his,” the commandant replies.
The warden takes the metal steps into the sunken circle with us. His eyes never leave mine. He’s the one who’s plotting against the commandant, not Rowan. But he’s also the one who wants to stop the attack on New York—or so he claims. According to the warden, the Sovereign wants a peaceful settlement. I want a peaceful settlement too—if there has to be a settlement at all. Pointing my finger at the warden right now could ruin the possibility of peace.
What am I supposed to do? Let Rowan take the fall for something he hasn’t done?
I’m still trying to decide my next move when another Volkranian appears from behind a stretch of holographic monitoring screens, a guard on each side of him. It’s Rowan. His eyes connect with mine, and my lips part under a rush of breath. There’s a bloody gash along his cheekbone, and his lower lip is split wide. The guards each have their weaponed arms aimed at his back.
A muscle along Rowan’s jaw jumps. He touches the collar at his throat. “What is she doing here?”
“You are not happy to see your pet?” the fleet commandant asks, an arm extending to indicate me.
Rowan’s nostrils flare as he descends into the sunken circle. His body moves like a slow, destructive glacier. “What is this about?”
The commandant snaps his fingers. Rowan lunges toward me, but the guards at his back grab him and wrestle him back. Two more guards clap their hands on my arms. I yelp as they haul me up and over the chairs, out of the sunken circle. I thrash, trying to free myself, but it’s pointless. I don’t stand a chance against them. Rowan must realize that too, because he goes still.
“Where are the vessels of chloromagnate?” the commandant asks as soon as the commotion dies down.
Rowan’s attention slaps back onto his father. He doesn’t reply, only stares, his fury palpable. He directs his incensed glare to the warden, who stands like a silent, hulking menace.
I don’t understand; the chloromagnate vial had a tracking device. It’s how Rowan found me. Unless the warden disabled the devices when he collected them.
“You care about the human girl,” the commandant says.
With another snap of his fingers, pain sears my scalp. One of the guards has tangled his fingers into my hair and tugged, wrenching my neck and toppling me to my knees. I gasp at the pain and dig my nails into the guard’s skin, but he only knots his fingers into my hair tighter.
I can’t see anything but the high ceiling; however, from another loud burst of tumult, I know Rowan has reacted.
“Tell me where you are keeping the chloromagnate and where your allies are hiding!” the commandant bellows over the noise.
The guard yanks again on my hair and tears spring to my eyes. He drags me backward, my feet twisting together, my whole body completely and utterly incapacitated. I nearly fall, which only pulls at my scalp, sending another sharp flare of agony through me. The guard finally pulls me upright, and with my elbow locked in one of his hands, he lets go of his caveman grip on my hair. I gasp a breath of relief—but then scream. I’m dangling over the edge of the portal door, where the transport is no longer locked in place. The craft hovers just beyond, leaving a wide gap, and a view of the Hudson River far, far below.
Sharp wind shuttles into my face and whips away the tears on my cheeks. My mind goes utterly blank. Fear claws into my body, so deep and cold I don’t hear anything until someone shouts my name.
“Penelope! Leave her. She isn’t a part of this!”
“She has everything to do with your rebellion!” the commandant screams. “Her and her people. You sympathize with them. You want a peaceful settlement, the same one we offered the Inoori when they came to Volkron. Look where that led the Volkranian species.” He practically spits the words. “What other fleets have you been in contact with?”
The guard leans me out another inch. I scream again, the wind drying my throat and lips. He’s taken another fistful of hair, and this time I don’t care about the pain. I don’t fight it. Anything that tethers me to this ship, agonizing or not, is just fine.
“Several,” I hear Rowan answer, his voice loud and tight. “I’ve been in contact with several fleets.”
It’s not true. I heard him and the warden discussing how all communication between fleets has been handled by the commandant alone. He’s lying…maybe to buy time? I don’t know. My mind is stuck on the churning water below and the image of me hurtling toward it.
“A peaceful settlement was never possible,” the commandant says. “Not on Volkron with the Inoori, and not here with the humans. I knew this from the beginning, even if the Sovereign did not. These humans will not share their planet with another species. They can barely share it amongst themselves.”
“You have betrayed the Sovereign’
s directives,” Rowan says.
“And you have betrayed me,” the commandant replies.
I close my eyes to the sight of the Hudson, the boats along the banks, the buildings that look like a land of miniatures. The commandant is going to snap his fingers again. He’s going to give the order for the guard to let me fall. My knees are putty, but my heartbeat—oddly enough—is starting to slow.
“Bring Penelope to safety, and I will return the chloromagnate,” Rowan says. “I will yield and accept the penalty for my betrayal.”
“The penalty is death,” the commandant replies.
Oh, God. No. What is the warden doing? He still hasn’t said a word. I bet the jerkwad is going to wait for Rowan to die before unseating the commandant himself.
“I understand.” Rowan’s tone is as distant and unsinkable as ever.
I clasp the guard’s hand, curled into my hair, while silence fills the space behind me. A second later, the guard hauls me back inside and tosses me onto the floor. I dig in my heels and shove myself even farther from the open port door. My scalp burns, every last hair follicle screaming, my body rubbery and boneless and shuddering.
At the sunken circle, the warden’s laser gun is raised and aimed. Lambent emulsifier, Rowan called it. The same weapon he’d used to laser through Rowan’s torso. Only now, it’s pointed at the back of his skull. Rowan is already on his knees, his hands behind his head.
“No!” My throat is dry and hoarse, and my scream comes out a scratchy whimper.
“The chloromagnate,” the commandant says.
Rowan keeps his eyes on me, those blue green swirls sparking. “In the room of lockers at the hotel where I found Penelope.”
He’s a good liar. If I didn’t know he was feeding his father a cow pie sandwich, I’d absolutely believe him.
