Fifty-nine

 

The conference room emptied, faces winking out in groups of two, three, and five. DeRicci still stood, hands clasped. They weren’t shaking any longer, but her stomach was so upset she wondered if she was going to be ill.

She made herself breathe. She couldn’t do much else. She couldn’t do anything else. It was all on them now.

And she hated that.

The last face vanished and she sank into a chair. It creaked slightly, as if no one had bothered it for a very long time.

She sent a message to Flint and Popova, Release the whereabouts information.

Then she put her hands over her face and closed her eyes. She felt absolutely helpless.

Perfection was not a human trait. Humans did not do things one-hundred percent. They usually missed by five to ten percent on everything they did, and usually that was acceptable.

Now she was trusting people whom she knew to be incompetent boobs, like Dmitri Tsepen, to not only rise above themselves but do so at one-hundred percent.

Maybe fear would make them do well. Because she hadn’t doubted the fear she had seen on all of those faces. Some, like Gumiela, had hidden it quickly, but it had been there.

Everyone knew what was at stake. In that, at least, DeRicci had done her job. Whether or not they completely understood the plan was another matter. But they understood the stakes.

DeRicci couldn’t do anything now except monitor.

And give the order for the dome sectioning so that destruction—again—would be on her.

She had fifty minutes before she gave that order.

Fifty minutes in which she had to trust others to do work she wasn’t even sure she could do.

Fifty minutes in which everything in her world could disappear—and very well might.