by Page Morgan
I lift my hand, run my fingertips along his cheek and jaw, and smile. “I enjoy the touching.”
His eyes close and he breathes in, the muscles in his jaw rippling under my fingers. He kisses me again, knowing how to angle his mouth and sweep his tongue this time. His palm is hot against my plaid shirt, and when he tugs up the bottom and touches the soft skin just below my navel, I gasp into his mouth. Lift myself closer to him.
I know that being here, like this, with Rowan, while my own people are suffering and scared thousands of feet below on the ground, is wrong. It’s selfish to feel happy and warm and attracted to one of the aliens whose goal just a few days ago had been to wipe out the human race. It’s completely disloyal and heartless for me to want Rowan this way when my best friend is dead because of his people. Maybe even by his own transport’s weapons. Even now, while Rowan plans for peace, it’s wrong. They don’t belong here. This is our planet. No matter how nicely they ask us to welcome them, the fact remains that they have the power to kick us aside and take what they want.
Yes, I know all of these things.
I also know I want to hold onto him.
And that I can’t.
“We have to stop,” I hear myself saying, my cheeks hot and my breathing ragged.
Rowan eases back. “Did I do something wrong?”
“No, no, you were…perfect. It’s hard to breathe it was so perfect. Trust me. But we can’t…keep going.”
He skims a hand over my stomach. I close my eyes. I have to listen to my mind. It’s speaking for a reason, but my body…all it can feel is Rowan.
“Volkranians and humans are physically compatible,” he says, moving right back to sounding like a scientist in the middle of a lab experiment.
I know that if Rowan says it, it has to be true. And the fact that he wants me like this, when being physically intimate is unacceptable, makes me kind of dizzy.
“Okay, but…” I stare up at him. My mind is fuzzy, but I feel a twinge of unease. “We’ve known each other for what, two days? This is just…it’s too fast. It’s not right.”
I sit up, and Rowan moves back. I roll off the bed, my head swimming as I smooth out my rumpled shirt with shaking fingers.
“I have to go,” I say.
He stands up. “I apologize if I have upset you. I didn’t intend to.”
“You haven’t. Trust me, Rowan, you haven’t, it’s just…” I can’t even look at him. God, this is so messed up. “I’m not going to see you again, so nothing should happen between us.”
There. Reason wins out over lust.
Reason is such a bitch.
Rowan stands still another few seconds before walking to his desk. Like last time, a drawer slides open, and he pulls out something small. He brings it over and holds it out to me. It’s a smooth, thin, golden disc. Not flat, but arched, like it had been molded around the pad of someone’s thumb.
“What is that?” I ask.
“Something I made. A location device.”
I take the disc. “Like GPS?”
He nods. “Slightly more sophisticated.”
“Of course it is.” I shake my head and smile.
“Keep it with you. On your person,” he says, ignoring my sarcasm and staying as serious as ever.
I close my hand around the golden disc. “So you’ll know where I am?”
He straightens the collar of his suit, even though it’s still perfect and not at all rumpled, the way I must appear. “Among other advantages.”
I don’t ask. It would only keep me in his room, on his ship, longer, and it’s time to leave. I think we both feel it.
I put the disc into my front jeans pocket and shove it down deep, making sure there aren’t any holes in the pocket while I’m at it. I like the idea of Rowan knowing where I am, even if we can’t see each other. I know where he’ll be, that’s for certain. All I’ll have to do is look up.
“I’ll have two of my guards bring you into the city and escort you as you search—” A strong vibration along the floor interrupts Rowan. It rattles through my feet, up my legs, and then, just as quickly, disappears.
“Was that...normal?” I ask.
Rowan glares at the floor as if it’s offended him. “No.”
And that’s when the lights go out.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The lights have flickered back on by the time Rowan reaches the door, but they aren’t the same as before. They cast a greenish-yellow hue, and the change in lighting is accompanied by a muted alarm bell. It sounds more like the chirp of a robotic songbird.
“I wouldn’t have thought you guys had power outages on Volkron Six,” I say, following him to the door, my skin prickling.
The panel slides open, but it’s slower than usual. A lethargic nudge compared to its regular, zippy glide.
“We don’t,” Rowan replies, peering into the corridor. The sickly yellow light is out there as well, and the alarm bell has gone up a few decibels.
A handful of Volkranians rush past, toward the pneumatic module. When they see Rowan, they stop and lower their heads, but it’s clear they’re distracted and anxious to keep moving.
Rowan dismisses them with a curt wave of his hand, and they continue to the module.
I step into into the corridor with him. “Then what’s happening?”
He walks toward the module as well, though unlike the others, he maintains an appearance of calm. “This is not a power outage. It’s pre-propulsion equalization.”
The module packed with the other Volkranians has already left, and a second one plops into place. I enter the new module with him.
“Pre-what what?”
The door groans shut. Rowan meets my eyes. “Volkron Six has entered into flight preparations.”
“Flight?” My voice bounces around, off the curved glass walls.
The module sucks us up, but the strength of the pneumatic system is noticeably weaker than before. I don’t even lose my balance when we start to travel to the side.
“The electrical systems are reduced in power output by sixty-seven percent,” he explains as we’re slurped upward again. “The conserved energy is used to power the cityship’s propulsion turbines.”
Oh God.
“But why? Where is the ship going? And why the hell am I still on it?”
“We are not scheduled to go anywhere,” he answers through gritted teeth.
This is bad. Very, very bad. Especially if the fleet commandant is being thrown for a loop.
“Is it another rebellion?” I whisper, thinking of the warden and his allies, and how just yesterday they’d been planning to kill Rowan and take over the ship for themselves. Maybe they’re still planning it. Maybe it’s happening right now.
The idea churns in Rowan’s mind, too—I can see it as he presses his lips thin and looks up, in the direction the module is slowly rising. We’re going to the control room, I’m sure.
“Perhaps.” His eyes flick to mine. “If that is the case, and we are separated, align yourself with the pilot I spoke to on the transport earlier.”
“The one who kicked your dad’s body?”
Why in the world would I want to align myself with her?
“Yes. She is a friend.”
Rowan has friends? It’s strange to think of him hanging out with a friend. What do friends even do aboard a ship as stiff and stringent as this?
“But—” My reply is cut off by the smooth halt of the module.
The door slides open, and the chaos of the control room is a lion’s roar right in the face. Volkranians scurry everywhere, their voices loud and panicked, the alarm bell a grating blare.
Rowan and I step out of the module and immediately, the warden cuts toward us through the crazed Volkranians. The pilot is on his heels, her long braid swinging as she increases her speed. Rowan grips my arm and shoves me behind him. The warden shouts, spitting out a mouthful of Volkranian words. They sound like nuts and bolts in a blender. Rowan glances over his shoulder a
t me, his face tight with confusion. “It is not a rebellion. The pre-propulsion equalization has been set by remote activation.”
The warden eyes mine with unveiled annoyance. He swipes a finger over the panel on his throat. “The network commands are originating from Volkron One.”
I look up at Rowan. He’s mentioned that ship before. “The Sovereign is doing this?”
The pilot joins us, still watching the warden with sharp eyes, and waves over a handful of Volkranians, some of them recognizable from the building in Manhattan. She ushers us back into the module.
“I spoke to the Sovereign not an hour ago,” Rowan growls. “I was promised things would be taken care of.”
“Our ship is likely being punished as an act of goodwill toward the humans,” the pilot replies. “We have caused much death and destruction, and the humans will demand—”
“Justice,” I say, interrupting as it all comes clear. The Sovereign will come under fire tomorrow, once communications are restored. Punishing this ship will show the Volkranians are ready to discipline their own species if they threaten human safety.
It’s brutal, but it makes political sense.
“Can you override the command?” Rowan asks her.
“We have tried,” she says, blocking two white-suited monitors from entering the module.
“What is the flight trajectory?” Rowan asks as we wait for the doors to close. The warden and pilot exchange a quick glance.
“The Sovereign is sending Volkron Six back out onto the Band,” the warden answers.
The chirping alarm bell pulses in rhythm to my pounding heartbeat. “Wait—like right now?”
The warden continues to look at Rowan, not me. “We have five minutes until the propulsion sequence begins.”
“We need to get Penelope off the cityship,” Rowan says.
Without a doubt, I agree…but what about everyone else?
“The cargo bay doors seal and lock with pre-propulsion equalization,” the pilot says. “There is no leaving the cityship via transports.”
The urge to vomit climbs up my throat and swirls in my gut.
“She can come aboard the core craft with us,” the warden replies.
The module slugs us to the right, and I look up at his scarred, pale face. “What’s the core craft?”
He looks at me briefly, his lips sealed tight. I get it. He doesn’t like it when I talk, but I don’t care—I’m on a ship that’s about to hurdle into outer space, and I want my questions answered. Now.
“An escape craft,” Rowan says, then eyes the pilot he calls a friend. “It can still launch?”
“It’s the only part of the cityship that Volkron One has not taken over,” she answers.
The pneumatic module sighs to a stop in front of a short corridor. There’s only one panel door in this corridor, and it’s open, the entrance filled with Volkranians. There’s a mix of ranks here—black, gray, and white suits, with both clamp-on and interwoven translator devices. The only consistent thing is the expressions of intense fear and worry.
“Is everyone going into the core craft?” I ask. There have to be thousands of Volkranians aboard the cityship, but if we only have a few minutes left, they can’t possibly all file into the escape ship.
Those within the entrance see Rowan and hush, lowering their heads. Past them is a great, domed room with rows and rows of standing bars, like the kind that create labyrinths of waiting lines at Disney World.
“The core craft can only accommodate one hundred Volkranians,” the warden says, extending his arm to indicate that Rowan should step forward and enter.
One hundred? I dig in my heels. “What happens to everyone else? I mean, if they go back out onto this Band, can they come back?”
Rowan stands next to me, his eyes on the open entrance before him. He’s not seeing them though. His attention is elsewhere, his gaze distant.
“The Band moves in one direction. Traveling in reverse is impossible,” the pilot replies when it becomes clear neither Rowan nor the warden are listening.
“The fleet commandant’s place is aboard the core craft,” the warden says, his attention riveted on Rowan.
“The fleet commandant’s place is with his subjects. I will not leave them,” Rowan replies.
There’s a new panic inside my chest now. Not for myself. I’ve already been assured a place on the core craft.
“But Rowan—”
“The next viable planet is five years along the Band,” the warden cuts in, his nostrils flared with barely contained fury. “Volkron Six possesses the resources to support life for approximately two years. And do not forget that a single ship traveling the Band, without protection, will be a target.”
“You would have me abandon my subjects, condemn them to that fate, to save my own life?”
“Your life is of more consequence to the Sovereign’s plan,” the warden replies. “Your presence on Volkron Six will make no difference to its fate. However, it can make a difference here.”
The rest of the Volkranians in the short corridor have broken from protocol and now openly watch the heated argument.
Rowan takes a moment before replying to the warden. Tension vanishes from his expression, and resignation, bordering on sadness, settles into its place.
“I will not abandon them. Their fate is my own.”
I know touching him in public is a dangerous, even suicidal move, but I do it anyway. I grip his arm and squeeze. “Rowan, please.”
I don’t know what else to say. He won’t leave his people, and I can’t ask him to. It would be an insult to his integrity. Don’t captains always go down with their ships?
He covers my hand with his. “Penelope, you must go. The warden will return you to your home. Though I’m sorry; I’m afraid I won’t be able to help you find your mother.”
He’s apologizing for that? I stare into his shifting eyes, the swirls of blue overtaking the green for once. I don’t know what it means, but I’d like to think it reflects sadness. Misery chokes me, and I can hardly speak.
“But you can’t come back,” I whisper.
He takes my hand from where it rests on his arm and surprises me. He must surprise every last Volkranian looking on, too, because Rowan lifts my hand to his lips and kisses the ridge of knuckles.
“I will never forget you,” he says.
A tear streaks down my cheek as he releases my hand and steps toward the module.
“Commandant,” the warden barks.
Rowan eyes him coolly. “Thank you, Warden.”
The chirping alarm shifts, progressing into a shrill, constant ringing. The yellowish-green lights begin to blink. Those who have been watching us in stunned silence start to run through the open entrance and into what I assume is the core craft.
Rowan nods toward the pilot, whose eyes are wide with disbelief, her jaw tensing. The module’s glass door slides shut, and he looks at me. I hold his stare, his lips pressed tight, as if fighting a grimace of pain.
The tube sucks the module up and out of sight.
I feel a hand on my arm, pulling me toward the core craft entrance, and then I’m led to a spot in the maze of bars. My legs nearly crumple when the floor rocks, and a cracking sound ricochets through the huge, domed room. There isn’t a windshield, or controls, or pilots as there have been in the transports, just steel walls and people. A hundred people. Volkranians, I remind myself.
The core craft drops. My feet lift, gravity disappearing, and I have to hang onto the bar in front of me to keep from rising a foot or more off the floor. The weightlessness lasts for only a few seconds though, and then we’re all slammed back onto the floor. I can’t see a thing, but I know we’ve left the cityship. The alarm bells are gone. The yellow green light replaced by bright, ambient lighting.
We’re safe, while the rest of them face a nightmare. Rowan is gone. For good this time, standing with his people as they face their demise.
“Penelope.” A hand touches my shoulder, a
nd I whip around. The pilot is behind me, her expression fierce. And sad. “I will take you home now.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
It’s dark. The middle of the night, I think, though honestly, I have no idea. The cloaked transport hovers at the intersection of Hale and Grove Streets, but I know not to waste any time getting out and away so it can lift off again. It’s half the size of a normal transport, and it had been the only one available on the core craft. The remaining Volkranians will be waiting for the pilot to return, and she should—immediately. People are starting to come out of their homes. The cityship has disappeared, leaving behind one small craft. That has to look like good news to everyone on the ground.
It should be good news to me, too.
The pilot holds up a hand as I step off the podium, my feet having come unstuck. I draw back as she approaches me, removing something from the waist of her suit. It’s a blade—the kind I used against the fleet commandant on the top of the building in Manhattan.
My arms come up, preparing to block the blade. Rowan shouldn’t have trusted her.
But she only swivels the blade around and extends the handle toward me. I stare at it, realizing she isn’t going to run me through. She wants me to take it.
“Why?” I ask.
She’s already programmed to English. “It is dark, and there are a number of violent humans in this city of yours.”
She pushes the handle closer. I take it, and the handle snaps to my palm, the magnetic bond instant.
“Thank you,” I whisper, and then, because I can’t think of anything more to say, go to the door. It slides open, but not because of me. The pilot is directly behind me.
“I hope you are able to locate your mother, Penelope.”
I turn the second my feet hit the pavement to thank her, but the door slides shut, sealing the pilot inside and me, out. I stumble back, the warm, phantom breath of the transport’s engine pushing me aside. My eyes can’t see the craft, but I still hear it as it lifts off and flies away.
The blade hangs limp in my hand. I close my fingers around it and tuck it close to my leg as I orient myself, and then start to walk. Candles burn in the windows of a couple of houses, but the lights are weak and the comfort of knowing that other humans are close by has been dampened by the pilot’s warning.
