Okwembu is the last one up the ladder.
It’s made of rope, frayed and salt-stained, and it’s all she can do to persuade her exhausted muscles to hang on. A bitter wind slices through her clothing as she climbs.
There are plenty of faces above her when she reaches the top, but no hands help pull her over. She has to do it herself, crawling over the lip of the opening. It’s only when she’s on all fours, shivering, that rough hands find their way under her elbows. She is yanked upright, and the first thing she sees is a rifle barrel, pointed right into her face.
They’re in a wide cavity in the side of the ship, with ridged metal walls. There are fluorescent bulbs in the low ceiling, just like Outer Earth, and only half of them appear to be working. The space goes deep into the ship–Okwembu can see passages branching off it, sealed with thick doors.
Her captors say nothing. There are around twenty of them, men and women. Most of them appear to be around her age, and they’re all dressed in overalls with the same pattern of grey and blue splotches. Both their clothes and their faces speak of hard use, of long years spent fighting against the wind. Edges are frayed, knees torn, and their shoes are as mismatched as their weapons–rusted rifles that have seen endless repair jobs.
Carver, Prakesh and Clay are all being held at gunpoint, just like she is. Behind them, she can hear Ray grunting as he pulls himself over the top of the ladder.
That’s when she sees the man at the back of the group.
He’s around fifty, she guesses, and completely bald, his head gleaming under the lights. His right eye is gone, the lid sewn shut. The stitch job is clumsy, with dark lines criss-crossing his skin; it reminds Okwembu of a bad tattoo she once saw on Outer Earth. In this case, she’s almost certain that nobody has ever told this man how ridiculous it makes him look. There’s something about the way he carries himself–he’s not tall, or muscular, but there’s a set in his shoulders that speaks of power.
Okwembu waits until he looks at her, and smiles. “Hello, Prophet,” she says.
A murmuring rumbles through the crowd at her words. She can feel Aaron Carver staring at her, his eyes drilling into the side of her head. Not that it matters–he no longer matters. None of them do.
Ray gets to his feet behind them. “We got ’em, Prophet. These’re the only ones who survived the crash. Only ones we could find anyway. If we—”
Prophet starts laughing.
The sound is musical, the laugh genuine and throaty. It transforms his face completely, his mouth opening wide, the skin around his one good eye crinkling.
He strides towards them, still chuckling. “Welcome,” he says. His voice is deep and resonant. He claps a hand on Carver’s shoulder, gripping tight, then looks at each of them in turn. “You’re safe now. Praise the Engine!”
He booms the last sentence to the roof, and every other fatigue-clad figure on the deck echoes him. Most of them pump their fists in the air, but Okwembu sees that a few of them look down at the floor, their words almost inaudible.
Ray clears his throat. “They came down in an escape pod. Right into Eklutna. Reckon we could go back up there, get a diver down to attach a tow rope, but—”
“Ray,” Prophet says, drawing out the syllable. “We will take whatever the Engine sends us, and be grateful.”
He glances at Okwembu when he says it. She stays silent, telling herself to wait.
Carver gives an exasperated sigh. “You know what?”
“Just—” says Prakesh.
“No.” Carver raises his chin, looking right at Prophet. “I don’t give the tiniest shit about your Engine, whatever the hell it is. Your guys brought us here at gunpoint, so don’t give us this line about being safe.”
“But you are.” Prophet hasn’t taken his hand off Carver’s shoulder. “All the Engine asks is that you give of yourself before you can rise into its grace, and all of us here—” he looks around at his group “—have given everything we could.”
Clay makes a break for it.
Okwembu doesn’t see him do it. One moment he’s being held firmly, and the next he’s running, bolting towards the edge of the deck.
Prophet doesn’t blink. He holds out his hand, and Nessa thrusts her rifle into it. In one fluid movement, Prophet seats it in his shoulder, aims down the scope with his good eye, and fires.
The gunshot is a thunderclap in the enclosed space. The bullet takes Clay in the middle of the back. He spins a full three-sixty, arms wheeling, then vanishes off the edge of the platform. A moment later, there’s a heavy splash.
Carver goes crazy. He fights against the men holding him, managing to get his arm around a neck. One of the others steps forward, driving a fist into Carver’s stomach, dropping him to his knees.
Ray brings his rifle around, aiming right for the centre of Carver’s forehead. Okwembu tells herself to stay calm.
“No no no!” Prakesh says. “We’ll do it. We’ll do what you want.”
Okwembu glances at him, surprised that he’d submit so easily. Then again, she doubts that Prakesh would let anyone else be killed–not after he himself was responsible for so much death.
Carver subsides, staring daggers at Prophet.
Prakesh is still talking. “We can help. I can grow you food, and Aaron here can fix anything. Just don’t shoot.”
The smile is back on Prophet’s face–just as radiant, just as genuine. He passes Nessa her rifle, then clasps his hands behind his back.
“A wise decision, brother,” he says.
He gives no signal, no nod or raised eyebrow, but their captors move instantly. They march Prakesh and Carver away, into the ship. One of them hauls open a door further down, spinning the huge valve set into the front. Their captives are hustled inside, and the door slams behind them, almost as loud as the gunshot that killed Clay.
“And what about you?” says Prophet, his calm grey eyes finding Okwembu. “Will you serve the Engine?”
“No,” she says. “I won’t.”
Nessa grunts in annoyance, raising her gun. A sadness comes into Prophet’s eyes.
“Your Engine is broken,” Okwembu says. “And I’m going to help you fix it.”