This time, a voice answers. “We will not destroy the auto-shuttle. ”
“I’m in the escape rocket right now,” I say. “I’m going to disable the biological bomb. If I do that, you let Amy and the rest go. ”
The sound of the man’s laughter over the intercom chills me to the bone. “It’s not just the bomb we fear,” he says. “The FRX is coming, and now the one man who might have been able to call them off is dead. If the FRX arrives, it will be war for all. They’ll decimate this entire planet. ”
“We’ll com them!” I say desperately. “We’ll tell them not to come!” I don’t know if the FRX will listen to my pleas, but I’ll try. I’ll do anything; just let Amy be okay.
“It’s not enough,” the man says. “The only thing that could stop them is if the entire space station is destroyed. The tesseract-based high-speed travel requires the signal from the space station for it to work. If the station is gone, the FRX can’t reach us, not for decades. But I don’t think you have any weapons on that ship of yours, do you?”
There’s a lump in my throat, and I can’t speak for a moment.
Then I say: “What if I can?”
“What if you can what?” the man barks into the intercom.
“What if I can destroy the space station? If I do that—I’ll take out the threat of the FRX being able to reach us, and I’ll eliminate the biological bomb. If I do that, will you agree to leave my people alone?”
“If you do that,” the man says, “I’ll write the peace treaty myself. ”
I don’t reply immediately. I sit in the cockpit of the escape rocket, and I think about what I’ll be sacrificing to make peace between us. I stare at the stars, and I silently say goodbye.
Amy will never forgive me for what I’m about to do, but Godspeed is dead. Just floating here. All it needs is a little nudge. I can use the escape rocket to get behind the ship, then push it to the space station. Inertia will take care of most of it—Godspeed will crash into the space station, then the station—and its weapons—will be destroyed, Sol-Earth’s military won’t be able to come here and frex things up.
“Just give me a little time,” I say into the intercom. “And let me speak to Amy. ”
67: AMY
Chris grabs me by the arm and drags me to the communication bay. I can feel the pressure of each of his individual fingers gripping my skin. Colors swim before my eyes; scents I don’t recognize fill my nose. I stumble and Chris jerks me up as I realize with horror that I’m sniffing the air like an animal on the scent—because that’s what I am now. Not human. Animal.
It feels as if ice is shooting through my muscles, ripping apart my flesh. When I yank away from Chris’s grasp, I’m surprised to realize that I’m strong enough to do it—he has to use all his strength to keep pulling me forward.
We have to step over my father’s body to reach the communication bay, and I nearly break then. My new eyes don’t let me miss any detail: the sweat still clinging to the bridge of his nose, the flatness of his face against the floor, the pinky finger curled on his left hand, as if waiting for me to wrap my own pinky around it and whisper promises that I’ll never be able to keep. Not now that he’s dead.
“Elder?” I say, my voice cracking, unfamiliar even to my ears . . . my ears that are suddenly picking up more sound than they ever have before.
“Amy. ” There’s relief in his voice, something else I can’t recognize.
“What are you going to do?” I ask. An ominous dread flows through my veins, poisoning me.
“I’m going to crash Godspeed into the space station. ”
Chris slides his hand on the touch screen near me. The rogue leader looks over my shoulder as a map of the satellites in orbit around the planet lights up the communication bay. The screen fades in and out, updating every few seconds. The auto-shuttle is right next to Godspeed, their dots so close together that their labels overlap. I imagine the evacuation as people scramble from the ship into the auto-shuttle.
Nearby, only the space of four inches or so on the map, is another dot, labeled Interplanetary Preparation Station.
“You still there?” Elder asks, his voice small and scared.
“I’m here,” I say.
“I have to tell you—” he says, then stops. I inspect the screen under the intercom. There’s nothing wrong with the communication system; Elder’s struggling to find the words he wants to say. Finally, he speaks.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
The line goes dead.
“What happened?” I ask. I want to slam my fists into the controls, make Elder’s voice come back to me, but I don’t know how.
Chris looks at the controls. “Nothing,” he says. “Elder must have disconnected the communication link. He’s not answering my calls now. ”