Molly Fyde and the Blood of Billions
Page 30

“An immigrations shuttle. During election years, they round up Callites with expired work permits and ship them home.”
“But that’s the law, right?”
Scottie frowned. He reached over and rested a hand on Urg’s arm, even though the Callite didn’t seem to be making an effort to rise, or even speak.
“Things aren’t right or wrong because they’re the law. They’re sup-posed to be the law because they’re right or wrong.”
“Look,” Molly said. She pushed her eggs away from her toast, but her meager appetite had dwindled to nothing. “I don’t want to argue politics, or whatever. I’m not trying to be a crusader. I just want to get back to my family. Surely you can understand—”
“I do,” said Urg. “I understand.”
Molly glanced up and locked eyes with the massive Callite; she watched his lids scissor shut in a slow blink.
“I want my family back as well,” he said.
“Can’t you just go home to them?” Molly asked. “That’s all I’m trying to do, get back with my family.”
Urg shook his head.
“They were on yesterday’s shuttle,” Scottie said.
Molly looked back and forth between them. “I’m sorry to hear that,” she whispered. “Maybe it would be best if he just—”
“The shuttle was shot down by that fleet up there,” Scottie continued. “The last four shuttles have all been sent crashing straight back to Lok, no shots fired, nothing. They just go limp and fall back to the prairie. It’s like they get halfway to orbit and just give up.”
Molly looked from Scottie to Urg, disbelieving. “It crashed?”
“All of them have for the last two weeks.”
“With people on them?”
Scottie leaned forward slightly. “My two friends should’ve been on that last one. With their families.”
Molly looked down at her plate where she had idly swirled her food into a miserable mess.
“I didn’t know,” she said.
“They won’t stop,” Scottie said. “They’ll round up more today and more the day after, right up to the elections.”
“But why would they—?” Molly shook her head. Surely they wouldn’t. She dropped her fork and reached for the bandage around the crook of her arm, rubbing it reflexively. Looking down at the red skin spreading out from the puncture wound, she considered that they possibly would.
“It’s the same to them,” said Urg, as he shrugged his massive shoul-ders. “Gone is gone.”
Molly turned to him, saw the deep furrows in his scaly forehead that seemed to convey confusion rather than the sad resignation in his voice.
“Then why come here?” she asked. “I’m sorry. That came out wrong. I don’t mean to blame you, but why risk it?”
“The government on Shurye isn’t much better,” Scottie said, speaking for his friend. “There’s just as much of a chance taken by sitting still.”
“Everything is chance,” said Urg.
Something beeped. Molly looked over, thinking it was an alarm of some sort, then saw Walter had finished eating and had brought out his videogame.
“I feel bad for your loss,” she said, turning back to Urg. “Truly, I do. I lost my family when I was younger, so I hope you can understand what it feels like to have a chance to get them back. Besides, I can’t do anything about that fleet, and the law is probably not on your side—”
“Screw the law,” spat Scottie. “This isn’t about law or legality—”
Molly looked down at her plate and away from the outburst.
Scottie took a deep breath, calming himself.
“Think about what the law is saying,” he said. “People born inside one invisible line are confined there. Even if they wanna pay the taxes, buy some land, obey the local rules, they aren’t allowed to move. They don’t have the basic freedom to choose where to live or where to raise their families. It’s like the days of being born a cobbler’s son and having to become a cobbler.”
“There’s legal immigration,” Molly said, unable to restrain herself from arguing her point.
“And there’s limits to that, which means after a certain number, we get right back to that invisible line a sentient being can’t cross. This isn’t about laws. It’s about xenophobia. It’s about Lokians scared their planet will be overrun, that its future makeup might be different than what it was in the past.”
Molly shook her head. “I don’t think that’s the primary motivation—”
“No?” Scottie pushed his plate across the galley table and leaned back in his seat. “I think you’re wrong. The same government restricting immigration from Shurye does everything it can to get more Terrans to move here. And I don’t think you understand how much good you could do with this ship of yours.”
Molly stood up and stacked her plate with Scottie’s and Walter’s. She scraped her leftovers in the degrader before piling the dishes in the sonic washer.
“You guys can stay here until you find a safe place,” she said. “I’ll pay you double the market value for the fuel, or I’ll ask you to point me in another direction. I’ll even let you use the ship when I get back, but I won’t be delayed. I can’t be.” She looked over Walter’s head to Urg, whose lids flicked together once, removing the wet sheen from his eyes.
“I just can’t,” she said.
Molly topped up her coffee and crossed the cargo bay to open the ramp and let in some fresh air. She leaned against the jamb with her second cup and peered through the steam as the metal decking swung out and into the dusty stable lot.
Outside, several crews from other ships performed their daily chores, making Molly feel like there was something productive she should be doing. They washed down their hulls, performed repairs out on their wings, scrubbed bugs off the carboglass, all reminders of the tasks she’d been neglecting. The weather was great for the work, but she could tell it was going to get hot later in the day. And without a breeze, it wouldn’t be long before those crews went scurrying back inside, hovering around the AC vents and waiting until nighttime to finish the day’s work.
She blew on her coffee and was about to take a sip when she noticed a cluster of men crawl up on a wing a few ships to Parsona’s rear. One of them held something to his head, a portable radio, perhaps. Everyone in the group looked back to the west, shielding their eyes from the sun.
Molly leaned out from the doorway and followed their gazes. She noticed several other captains and crewmembers exiting their ships to look the same direction.
“What’s going on?” she asked a young man in coveralls, who was running between her ship and the neighbor’s.
“A fleet,” the guy yelled over his shoulder. “There’s a massive new fleet on SADAR!”
Molly looked to the sky, her hand shading her eyes. She couldn’t see anything, but she thought she heard a rumble growing, like distant thunder.
Scottie joined her by the ramp. “What’s going on?” he asked.
“Something—” Molly cursed herself and ran back inside. She keyed open the cockpit and apologized to Cat. Leaning over the control console, she fired up the SADAR and waited for it to initialize.
“You okay?” Cat asked.
“I think there’s something going on in orbit,” Molly told her.
The SADAR popped up, and she extended the range. There was the cluster of the Bern fleet overhead, which hadn’t changed much—just grown since she’d last looked. The largest of them dominated the group, the one she liked to think of as Lok’s new potato-shaped moon.
“There!” Cat said, pointing.
“I see it,” Molly said. A cluster of new targets were in motion, and more were streaming in behind—blips that signified ships popping out of hyperspace. And something about the formation triggered a tremor of recognition in Molly.
“Can your mom see this?” Cat asked. “Nevermind, she just said she could now that the SADAR is on.”
“Yeah, that’s how it works. I think I know what—”
Cat raised her hand as red warning lights flashed on SADAR. Molly reached to locate the threat, when Cat grabbed her wrist.
“You need to hear this,” she said, pulling the helmet off.
Molly switched to the external radio and hit the “Center Target” button.
“—yday, mayday,” the voice crackled. “Cruiser Engala has been hit by something. No flight controls. Gravity sensors are haywire. Mayday, mayday, ma—”
The radio fell silent. The SADAR centered on the cluster of new targets that had just jumped in-system, their IDs blinking as Parsona’s computers scanned them. But Molly didn’t need to wait for the computer to do its work. She knew the formation without needing the ships’ IDs:
Navy.
The cavalry had arrived.
“We need to get into flightsuits and scramble,” Molly said.
“We’re no help up there,” Cat said. “We need to hunker down.”
Molly looked at the screen. The Bern ships were moving, responding to the Navy fleet. Only—they seemed to be moving away from them. Her normally tactical brain remained blank, not knowing what the Bern ships were capable of. It felt like the beginning of a surprise simulation, those tense moments when you weren’t sure who you were up against. She reached for the dash and started warming the thrusters and cycling the hyperdrive, just in case.
“Why don’t you grab some food?” she said to Cat. She fought to keep her voice calm as several of the red Navy targets began flashing with mayday beacons. It made no sense. The Bern ships seemed to be retreating, but the Navy fleet was winking with distress.
“I’m not that hungry,” Cat said, “but I get your drift. Tell your mom we ain’t done talking.” She crawled out of the nav seat and handed the helmet to Molly before exiting the cockpit.
Molly put the helmet on its shelf and leaned over the nav seat to tap the top of her own. The Wadi came out with a sleepy look; she scooped it up and followed Cat into the cargo bay. “Walter, take the Wadi and make sure it eats plenty.” She looked down the ramp as Walter pulled the hissing creature from her arms. “Scottie, I need you to come back inside. We’re buttoning up.”
“What about Ryn?” he asked.
“We’ll let him in when he gets here, if we’re still here when he gets back.”
“If we’re still here? We aren’t going anywhere without—”
A loud blast cut him off, and Scottie fell forward as a wave of compressed air rocked the ship. Something exploded nearby. Molly ran to him, helping him up as a wall of dust and debris roared across the stables.
Molly’s hair stirred from the breeze of concussed air. The incredible noise left her ears ringing, but she didn’t see a fireball, didn’t feel heat in the air from a munitions blast. She ran to the door, squinting into the storm of dust that had risen around the neighboring hulls.
Another impact boomed farther away and was followed by the rum-ble of kinetic energy. Molly looked up—Firehawks and larger ships were raining down through the atmosphere, clear across the sky to the horizon. They dropped through the air with the glow of accidental reentry, leaving behind trails of dirty smoke.
“What the flank?” Scottie asked, peering out beside her. “Holy hell,” he said, “it’s like the shuttles—”
“Get inside,” Molly told him. “We need to get out of here.”
31
Cole stared up at the ceiling of his new room. He lay in a narrow bunk, the one beside him empty. He wondered if Mortimor’s people had that much extra space, or if it had belonged to one of the aliens he’d seen die on the Luddite’s moving village. Maybe it had belonged to someone who had perished during that raid, a raid he assumed was meant to rescue him.
He ran bits of that hellish scene over and over in his head; he thought back to the conversation with Byrne and tried his best to remember everything he had spoken of. He puzzled over the strange way time seemed to alter around that mast. He recalled with a shudder the horror of fleeing across the deck, of being chased . . . he stopped himself before he got to what came next.
Cole rubbed his face. So much had happened over the past few days, so much information had passed through his ears, it made him feel like a cadet cramming for an exam even though they knew they didn’t stand a chance. The clock beside his bunk went off for the third time. Cole slapped its top and tried to fight off the depression. He’d lain around recuperating for half a day, and now he was late for his orientation and rehab. Begrudgingly, he tore off his sheet and swung his feet off the cot. He reached for the outfit they’d left folded on the stool: a faded pair of civilian denims and a t-shirt with a logo for some unknown sports team. He was thankful to not be donning Navy Blacks, which most of people he’d seen seemed to be wearing. He also hoped they had burned whatever remained of his flightsuit—he didn’t want to see the stains in them ever again.
Dropping the surgical gown, Cole stepped into the faded pants and pulled them up. For a bit of practice, he used his right hand to work the zipper. He didn’t understand what Mortimor had meant by rehab—the thing worked perfectly well, just like a real hand. The zipper slid up smoothly, the hand firm and steady—and then it kept on coming, the metal tab ripping off with a soft click.
Cole held up the broken piece to inspect it. In the shiny, neatly sheared ends of the snapped metal, he got his first glimpse of what Mortimor had meant.