PERSONAL RECORD: DESIGNATION ZETA4542910-9545E
SHUTTLE TWO
478.2.6.03
I kept my eyes on Nathaniel’s while I explained that our communications had been compromised. Guttural murmurs rose until Michaelson motioned for quiet.
A young woman added, “That doesn’t explain why that thing dragged you here like you’re my two-year-old niece throwing a tantrum.”
“Jackson told the drone to bring me.”
“Since when does any Consortium tech listen to a regular marine?”
“That’s not the real question,” Nate said.
Michaelson frowned. “No, it isn’t. Jackson told it to bring you. Why did he decide to risk your life by having that drone break open the hatch when the shuttle was spooling up?”
My words collapsed in my throat.
If I told them, Nate would be angry. Eight days before, he had risked the Elder’s ire by interfering and grabbing hold of a drone. This morning—how could it have been this morning?—Nate had asserted that Skip could only have me over his dead body. I could not bear it if his hands went as cold and limp as Rose Parker’s had. If Nathaniel were in a black bag with biohazard tape . . .
The idea made me flush with cold.
“Look at me.” When I shook my head, his voice dropped low. “What happened?”
I hesitated, but hearing the story later from someone else would be as bad as hiding the truth. Lifting my gaze to the beige ceiling, I garnered my courage and related the conversation the drone had played.
A general uproar ensued. Nate said nothing but captured my hand in his. Still, I did not allow myself to look at him.
Michaelson raised his arm, and the shuttle fell silent. A pang shot through me. I had insisted on bringing back the station Recorder’s body, and Michaelson had paid for my error with his arm. That insect had bitten him—
But, for once, my tumbling thoughts latched onto something else. The Recorder who was now Daniel Parker and I had acted in concert. Armed with drones and a torch, we had pulled Michaelson free, and Jordan and the marines had come to our aid. A weight lifted, for the loss of his arm was not, truly, my fault, any more than his rescue had been entirely my doing.
“Well.” Michaelson’s sandy brows lowered. “We’re not letting them have you. Period.”
His assertion warmed me. “Thank you,” I began. “When I return to Pallas—”
“Not with those trogs down there,” the young woman announced. “Not if we can help it.”
“Drone,” Michaelson said, and the marines fell silent, each casting glances at the charging station near the hatch.
Fatigue overtook me, and though the drone occupied the alcove, Nate did not let go of my hand while I dozed. My helmetless head drooped against his arm, his armor again cool and reassuring against my cheek, and my eyes drifted shut.
Osmund’s announcement that we could unbuckle jolted me upright. No one else spoke. Two marines, one limping heavily, departed with Alec’s hover gurney. After another fifteen minutes, Michaelson and another marine left, taking Lytwin’s remains.
The blue-eyed marine who had assisted Michaelson stepped in front of us. “Timmons, you and Lars are up next.”
Nate finally released my hand. “They won’t let you off the shuttle without a helmet. I’ll track down a spare before I head to the infirmary.”
“Nathaniel,” I protested, “you must prioritize your own well-being.”
Behind his faceplate, his green eyes softened. “Looking after you is good for my health, so finding that helmet is arguably self-care.”
With that, he left.
Others did as well. Finally, the last two people emerged from the front of the shuttle. I did not recognize the woman carrying a small chest sealed with biohazard tape, but Osmund slunk past me, studiously avoiding my eyes and casting furtive glances at the drone.
The shuttle’s emptiness rang in my ears, and though I tried, I could not relax. I fidgeted in my seat, jumping when my communications link chimed.
“Left a helmet for you in the tent,” Nate’s voice said. “Took me a while to find a replacement. Not sure where they want you to go next, but I suspect Archimedes will want to talk to you.”
“Very well.”
“Edwards is busy at the moment, so if I can sneak off, I’ll join you.”
Concern clenched at my chest. “You should not sneak, Nathaniel Timmons.”
He chuckled. “Try to stop me.”
Once he had signed off, I turned to the drone. Despite the more functional charging station, it had barely reached fifty percent. I tapped the external screen, and it followed me out.
A replacement helmet was indeed waiting for me by the door. It clicked into place, but an unfamiliar, unidentifiable odor was a constant reminder that it was not my own. The drone and I stepped into what Nate had called a tent. Thick, semitransparent sheeting fastened to the ceiling, floors, and walls, while fans and sprayers roared, making the sheets rustle and snap.
Nate was not waiting for me. Neither were Edwards nor Captain Archimedes Genet. Instead, two university students and a cat greeted me when I stepped through the curtains secured to the ceiling and walls.
Grins stretched across Cameron Rodriguez’s and Eric Thompson’s faces, but Bustopher sat, surveying me with what might have been disapproval.
The cat’s glossy black fur had grown even thicker since I had seen him last, and the white splotch on his throat was striking. Despite his aloofness, I smiled. This was how I had expected cats to look, not like hairless mythological monsters. When the low whir of the drone sounded, however, Bustopher jumped to his feet. His back arched, and his ears pressed against his head. His low growl made the hair on my arms rise. Surely the drone would not see Bustopher as a threat, but for his safety, I placed myself between its long tendrils and the cat.
Eric’s expression changed. “We’re here to take you to meet with the captain, Zeta. Maybe you should leave that thing behind?”
“There is nowhere I could leave it. I have no quarters and no way of securing it.”
Cam’s laryngeal prominence bobbed. “You probably need to keep it close at hand in case it goes rogue since you’re the only one who can control it.”
Eric grunted and rubbed his left arm. “True enough.”
The young men accompanied me down the hall, the drone trailing after us and the cat slinking several meters away, his tail low.
“You should not have brought Bustopher,” I said.
Eric almost laughed. “Bustopher does what he wants.”
The cat paused to glare at me, as if he knew I had spoken of him, then disappeared around a corner with a twitch of his tail.
Every familiar scratch in the paneling, every ugly, unframed piece of art seemed to welcome me, though I did not allow even the hint of a smile to cross my face.
Thirty-seven steps later, I asked, “Have you fared well?”
“We’re all right,” Eric said. “It’s been more interesting than classes.”
Nate’s earlier concern for Tia prompted me to ask, “All of you?”
Eric’s jaw ticced. “For the most part. Sorry about Freddie.”
“We all are.” Cam motioned at the green-and-white mourning bands they both wore. “I hope Kye is doing all right.” He paused, but when I did not answer at once, a small sigh snuck out. “I’ll ask her myself, I guess, when she’s back up here. Timmons told you that the ship’s Recorder is down, right? Losing her drone knocked her sideways.”
“Since Miller’s out of the tank, Edwards sedated her and shoved her in. Dr. Clarkson was right upset about it. That old—”
“Eric,” Cam warned.
“She’s as bad as Kavanaugh was, Cam, and you know it.” Eric rubbed his jaw and huffed. “Though I guess Tia would scold me for speaking ill of the dead.”
Cam made an indeterminate noise. “It isn’t entirely unfair, though. Dr. Kavanaugh wasn’t exactly amiable.”
“She was not,” I said. “I have not yet met this Dr. Clarkson in person, though I have spoken with her once. She, too, does not seem amiable.”
A grin creased Eric’s face. “We heard you put her in her place.”
The memory did not grant me the pleasure it evidently granted him. “Tia said you were tempted to speak against her, but you must not.” The drone’s whir reminded me to be cautious, but I risked, “Nathaniel Timmons expressed concern about Tia’s presence on Thalassa.”
Eric’s grin vanished. “He’s right. She should’ve stayed behind.”
“Be reasonable.” Cam’s voice dropped, as if lowering his pitch would keep the drone from recording him. “What else would she do? Stay quarantined with Watkins, Bryce, and Foster?”
“Yes,” Eric snapped.
I halted, and when they did as well, I studied their faces. Eric’s mouth pinched in a tight line, and Cam’s dark brows bunched together.
“What is wrong?” Dread overtook any caution of the drone, and I touched Eric’s arm. “We were all aboard Agamemnon. Has the virus—has she fallen ill?”
“No.”
Eric’s imprecise and terse answer was unhelpful, so I turned to the taller young man. “Cam?”
He puffed out a breath, but before he could answer, Eric did. “Oh, Cam’s known this whole time. And said nothing.”
“Her decision, Eric,” Cam said quietly. “Zeta, the captain is waiting.”
“You have not answered me,” I said more sharply than I should have. “Tia—”
“Isn’t sick. She’ll be off duty in a few hours. Maybe you can talk to her later.” Cam held up a hand when Eric sputtered. “Her tale to tell, Eric.”
“It’s not only that, Cam. She didn’t tell me until I . . . Like I wouldn’t care? Like I’d offer just for—” His attention snared on the drone, and color rushed to his cheeks. His chin jutted up. “I care. And I’ll keep asking.” Eric pivoted on his bootheel and stormed down the hall.
“He’s worried is all, maybe a little hurt that she didn’t talk to him before.” Cam exhaled. “Don’t worry, Zeta. She’ll be fine. Eric’s just afraid Tia will either get shunted from university or . . . or worse.” He waved at the hall. “Shall we?”
We followed Eric, but my mind raced.
One could be removed from university for several reasons, but . . . Nate had seemed concerned for her health. Pregnancy without a contract or support system was the only reason for removal from university that posed any sort of health challenge. Tia had spoken of betrayal by someone she had thought loved her and had mentioned consequences. Her questions from nearly four ten-days ago ran through my mind: Zeta, what was it like, growing up at a Consortium training center? Do you regret being gifted?
A chill swept over me as I envisioned a small Tia, bald and eyebrowless, in Consortium grey, a drone wrapping a delicate tendril around her to reprimand—
I stopped myself. Wild suppositions were akin to gossip, and I would allow myself neither to speculate or to pry. She would tell me when or if she needed to.
Cam shortened his stride to match mine, and the drone resumed its place near my shoulder.
We had not caught up with the other young man when Cam broke the lull in our conversation. “That’s the Elder’s, isn’t it?”
As if on cue, one of the drone’s tendrils encircled my neck. Cam edged away.
“Yes. It was Lorik’s.”
“Who’s Lorik?”
The memory of the Elder tipping his forehead against mine in the darkened hall raised my chin. “It was his chosen name.”
“The Elder?” Cam’s steps faltered. “He had a name?”
“Indeed. He found his name and held it in secret.” I swallowed past a knot in my throat. “Lorik means freedom.”
“An odd choice, given some of the stuff he pulled. Have you—” He glanced back at the drone.
Anxiety gripped me. How had I spoken so when it would be recorded? I fisted my hands. No, Lorik was gone, and there was nothing the Eldest could do to him now.
Cam cleared his throat. “Never mind.”
We sped up. The remainder of our short walk passed in silence, and we reached the conference room in which I had met with Jordan, Nate, Alec, Zhen, and the now-deceased Captain North before our first trip to Pallas. The young men took up positions outside the door, shifting over to avoid the drone.
“We’ll wait for you out here,” Cam said as I reached for the access panel.
The door slid into its pocket, and I entered. Archimedes Genet stood, his eyes steady on mine, then crossed the room and extended his arm. After a moment of indecision, I held out my own, and he clasped my wrist. A hint of a smile crinkled the corners of his eyes.
“Recorder, you had us worried for a while, though barring your repeated trips to the infirmary, you do seem to have remarkable luck in adverse circumstances.” Archimedes Genet’s baritone was as soothing as always. He pulled out a chair for me. “I’ve been informed about your unexpected trip and your news, but I need to hear it from you.”
“I will do my best.”
My drone took a position opposite the painting of an old-Earth ship, its white sails full as wind propelled it inexorably forward. Ceres’ skies were lavender blue, but I would have liked to see that sky as well, to feel true wind on my face.
Archimedes glanced at the drone, but his expression never changed. “I realize the Consortium processes records before citizens have access, but if it’s possible to share them, we could use every advantage we can get in order to protect our people and find a cure.”
I sat, my back to the drone, and avoided the captain’s eyes. “I am more than willing to divulge what I can.”
He rounded the rectangular table and lowered himself into the chair across from mine. “What happened?”
My mind went blank. What had he been told of Freddie? Of the Elder, James, and the talkative former Recorder whose name was . . . was . . . I could not recall, but neither could I afford to err.
The captain rested his elbows on the table and interlaced his fingers. “Start with anything that might help us track the perpetrators down.”
Instead of the whole story, I recounted the events of the past twenty-five hours, avoiding all mention of Freddie, James, or the talkative former Recorder. The captain listened attentively, though his frown deepened when I told of the failed attempt to retrieve the needed equipment, and when I continued with Alec’s injury and the subsequent exchange of weapons’ fire, he straightened in his chair, even though he must have been informed, since Alec was in the infirmary now. I choked out what had happened in the hall before the marines arrived.
Archimedes Genet frowned. “Do you regret your actions?”
“I do not regret stopping them from abducting the medic.”
“And you shouldn’t. Whether or not she knows it, Yrsa Ramos owes you her life,” he said gently. “Sometimes in fulfilling our duty to protect those who cannot protect themselves, unintended consequences occur.”
“She cannot owe me her life, as you say. Her discontent is understandable. I prevented them from taking her, but she has the virus in her veins.”
He tapped steepled forefingers to his chin. “You kept them from using her for experiments, which is no small thing. You gave her as much of a fighting chance as you have yourself.”
“That man . . .” I shuddered. “I should have thought. Should have—”
The door opened, and startled, I sprang to my feet. The drone whirred behind me, appendages spreading over my head like floating tree roots, as a middle-aged woman in an orange biohazard suit, but no headgear, stormed in. She smacked a large, reinforced datapad on the table.
“You’re a hard man to reach, Genet,” she snapped, and I thought I recognized her voice. “Not on the bridge, not answering comms? I’ve been trying to contact you for five whole minutes.”
The captain leaned back in the chair. “What is it, Clarkson?”
This was Dr. Imogene Clarkson? This slight woman with a sharp, thin nose? Her soprano was weedier without the static, and she was within two centimeters of my height. I had thought she would be taller.
“None of you believed me.” She flipped sparse braids behind her shoulder. “Even when I told you it was something here on the ship. And I was right, even if I don’t know what it means yet.”
The drone hovered over my left shoulder, a tendril twisting from my wrist to my neck.
Archimedes Genet responded with greater patience than I felt. “Your assertion of self-confidence doesn’t justify barging in here to interrupt an official interview.”
She huffed. “You’re lucky I convinced Shiro to upload the grunts’ medical records before those trogs hit the ship. And it’s a good job I shut down the computers after we got half of them into memory, or we would’ve lost everything when Thalassa lost her files.”
“As I have already said, Clarkson,” Archimedes observed.
“Yes, yes, but if Shiro hadn’t taken all the time in the system, we’d have more data.” The woman thrust a finger at the large datapad. “I’ve checked Lytwin’s medical records over and over. Read that.”
Archimedes Genet skimmed the data. “This hardly indicates—”
“Of course it does. I told you there was a link.” Dr. Clarkson raised her nose in the air and announced, “Lytwin was allergic to cats.”