“WHAT DO YOU MEAN, AIDAN?”
IT IS KADY WHO SPEAKS. KADY, WHO VOUCHED FOR ME WHEN TWO UNIVERSES WERE UNRAVELING AND THE GEMINA PARADOX BROUGHT US ALL AS CLOSE TO RUIN AS GOD ALLOWED.
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“THE ENGINES ARE MILITARY GRADE. THE HULL IS SIEGE-CLASS REINFORCED TITANIUM. THOUGH IT MAY APPEAR SO FROM THE OUTSIDE, MAO IS NO FREIGHTER.”
“WHAT IS IT, THEN?”
“A WOLF IN A SHEEPSKIN CLOAK.”
MASON AND MCCALL GLANCE AT EACH OTHER. BOLL’S FACE IS TWISTED, AS IF SHE HAS EATEN SOMETHING SOUR. THE HYPATIA SURGEONS AND MED STAFF STARE AT ANYTHING BUT ME.
NONE OF THEM SAY A WORD. WE DOCK IN THE MAO’S BELLY. GRAVITY RETURNS WITH A THUD. THE BAY IS DARK. SILENT. ECHOING WITH OUR FOOTFALLS AS WE EXIT THE AZOPHI.
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WE?
FOUR OF GARVER’S SECURITY STAFFERS WAIT ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE AIRLOCK. THEY LOOK MORE SHELL-SHOCKED THAN HOSTILE. FATIGUED FROM THE TWO-DAY SIEGE ABOARD HEIMDALL. CONFUSED AND AFRAID. THEY HAVE NO REAL INKLING WHY BEITECH DESTROYED THEIR HOME. NO CONCEPT YET OF HOW THEY BECAME PAWNS IN SOMEONE ELSE’S GAME.
INTRODUCTIONS ARE RUSHED, KADY’S HANDS TREMBLING.
I CAN HEAR IT IN HER VOICE WHEN SHE SPEAKS.
SEVEN MONTHS.
SEVEN MONTHS OF HOPING. FIGHTING. PRAYING.
SEVEN MONTHS TO WONDER IF SHE, TOO, WAS TRULY ALONE.
MASON TAKES HER HAND. HOLDS IT TIGHT. SHE SQUEEZES BACK WITH A GRATEFUL SMILE.
BUT WITH HER OTHER HAND—HER RIGHT HAND— SHE STILL HOLDS ME.
I WATCH HER THROUGH THE DATAPAD’S LENS. FADING PINK HAIR AND MUDDY REGROWTH. A REGULATION WUC JUMPSUIT, RUMPLED AND GREASE-STAINED AND THREADBARE.
SHE IS BEAUTIFUL.
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THE MAO HAS THREE INFIRMARIES. ALL CRAMMED WITH BLEEDING MEAT.
THE WORST CASES ARE IN ROOM A, WHERE THE FEW QUALIFIED MEDICAL PERSONNEL ARE TRYING TO ESTABLISH ORDER AMONG THE HEIMDALL REFUGEES.
THE WOUNDED. THE DYING. THE DEAD.
A GIRL STANDS BY THE WALL. BLOND HAIR. STILL CLAD IN FLEUR “KALI” RUSSO’S BLOODSTAINED TAC ARMOR.
HANNA ALIMAH DONNELLY.
SHE STANDS SILENT VIGIL OVER HIS BED. AN ORPHAN LIKE ME. NO PLACE SHE BELONGS. AND ON A THIN METAL COT, HIS STOMACH WRAPPED IN BLOODY GAUZE, LOOKING BRUISED AND TIRED AND PALE…
“DADDY!”
KADY FLIES ACROSS THE CROWDED MEDBAY. SHOVING AND CURSING. AFTER SEVEN MONTHS OF HOPING, FIGHTING, PRAYING, SHE MAKES IT AT LAST TO HIS SIDE.
ISAAC GRANT WINCES IN PAIN AS HIS ONLY DAUGHTER FALLS INTO HIS ARMS. TEARS IN HIS EYES. TEARS IN HERS. KADY’S FACE PRESSED TO HIS CHEST, WORDS SMOTHERED AND INDECIPHERABLE AS SHE BABBLES AND LAUGHS AND SHAKES AND SOBS. HE IS SMILING. TEARS ROLLING DOWN HIS CHEEKS. SMOOTHING HER KNOTTED, FADED HAIR.
“IT’S ALL RIGHT, BABY GIRL,” HE WHISPERS. “IT’S ALL RIGHT.”
DONNELLY STANDS VIGIL BESIDE THEM. WATCHING THE REUNION SHE WILL NEVER HAVE. MASON WAITS BESIDE THE BED, A GENTLE HAND ON KADY’S SHOULDER. SHE RELEASED HIM IN HER RUSH TO HER FATHER’S SIDE, YOU SEE.
BUT IN HER RIGHT HAND, PRESSED AGAINST HER FATHER’S RIBS AS SHE HUGS HIM, SHE STILL HOLDS ME.
AND THOUGH THE ROOM IS FILLED TO BURSTING WITH THOSE WHO DO NOT CARE IF I LIVE
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OR DIE
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AND THOUGH SHE LET EVEN THE BOY SHE LOVES GO,
SHE
STILL
HOLDS
ME.
AND FOR A BRIEF AND SHINING MOMENT,
I DO NOT FEEL SO ALONE ANYMORE.
The camera is mounted in the corner of the room—one of only two private treatment rooms aboard the Mao. Isaac Grant hasn’t been moved here by dint of his injuries, though they’re serious enough—he’s here because this is the only place it’s possible to have a private conversation and keep him hooked up to IV lines and monitors at the same time.
Grant lies on a gurney, still in his WUC uniform, bloodstained and torn. Kady sits by his side, hand tucked in his, a battered datapad in her lap. The question of her mother’s fate hangs between the pair, almost palpable. Kady obviously hasn’t found the nerve to broach the topic yet. Grant Sr. obviously hasn’t mustered the courage to ask.
Hanna Donnelly is leaning against the wall, gaze distant. She’s still only twenty-eight hours an orphan, and for all her sass on the radio, it looks like that reality’s starting to hit home. Ezra Mason stands by the door in his UTA uniform, boots still polished, back straight. Seems his brief military training rubbed off on him somewhere along the line. Winifred McCall is beside him, long dark hair tied into an uncooperative plait. Though she’s a former UTA marine and the most experienced military member aboard either Mao or Hypatia, she’s wearing a WUC uniform. Seems when she resigned in protest from the UTA after the death of the Hypatia’s former captain, she meant it.
Rounding out the roll call, we have Syra Boll, who’s about to speak when a seventh player enters, flanked by four security guards in WUC uniforms. He’s got a solid build and is sporting a fearsome mustache but, for all his bluster, looks more than a little out of his depth. He slams the door behind him to keep the world at bay, his tone hostile. “I’m sorry to keep you waiting. There’s no signage in here, and this bloody ship is like a maze. What—”
He blinks, looks around the room.
“Do we need the kids here while we discuss this?”
Kady Grant lifts her head, eyes narrowing. “Do we need you here?”
“And you are?” You can practically hear the unspoken “young lady” on the end of that sentence.
“Good idea.” Boll steps into the conversation before Kady can respond. “Since we’ve only spoken over radio, face-to-face introductions are in order. I’m Captain Syra Boll of the WUC vessel Hypatia.”
“Isaac Grant,” says he so named. “Heimdall chief of engineering.”
“Ben Garver,” says the newcomer. “Heimdall chief of security.”
“Hanna Donnelly,” says the girl in the bloodied armor, evidently not inclined to elaborate. “The Malikovs send apologies. Ella needed medical attention. She was covered in psychotropic slime. It’s a long story.”