“Leave us,” says Prophet.
The two guards glance at each other, then obey, quietly slipping out of the door and closing it behind them.
Okwembu doesn’t know where they are in the ship. Every corridor looks the same, every stairway identical. She thinks they’re somewhere high up, possibly near the deck, but there’s no way to tell for sure.
The room they’re in is a hab–or what passes for one here, anyway. There’s a single cot, the creases in its bedding razor-sharp. A folding chair. A table, clear of everything except a battered plastic bottle of water. There are no windows, no decoration of any kind. The only light comes from a bulb in the ceiling, hidden behind a wire grill.
Prophet perches on the edge of the table, arms folded, looking at her expectantly. Okwembu says nothing. She knows that one wrong word will get her sent to wherever Prakesh Kumar and Aaron Carver have gone, so she waits for him to make the first move.
Eventually, Prophet does. “So who are you?” he says.
“My name is Janice Okwembu. I was, until quite recently, head of the council on Outer Earth.”
If he’s surprised, he gives no sign. “And how, exactly, did you come into the service of the Engine?”
“That’s not what you’re really interested in.”
Okwembu looks around her. “This ship,” she says, “was probably built at the same time as my station. They both run off the same type of power source: a fusion reactor, yes? Devices like that were saved for the biggest structures and military units.”
She stops, raises her eyes to find Prophet’s remaining one. “But yours isn’t working.”
Prophet smirks. “Oh?”
Okwembu starts walking, slowly making her way around the room, trailing a hand along the wall. “You’re broadcasting a radio message in an attempt to gather supplies from travellers seeking sanctuary. Your colleague, Ray–one of the first things he asked about was whether any fuel had survived the crash.”
“We have vehicles. Boats. The Humvee. They need fuel.”
Okwembu raises her finger, turning it this way and that. There’s a little dust on the tip, and she rubs it away with her thumb.
“Boats can be propelled without using the motor. And your Humvee is a luxury, not a necessity. You have everything you need right here.” She pauses. “Including, I assume, a steady stream of workers and supplies, thanks to that radio message.”
Prophet gives a good-natured shrug. “The Engine provides for its people. We just try to save as many as we can.”
“You need the fuel to run your ship. You need it to power your lights and your water purification systems. But why? After all, you have a perfectly good fusion reactor sitting right here, don’t you?”
She pulls the chair out from behind the table and sits down on it, crossing her legs. Without asking for permission, she picks up the bottle of water and twists off the cap. It’s tangy with purification chemicals, but it quenches her thirst.
“Your Engine is broken,” she says. “Or, at least, it isn’t functioning as it should do. It doesn’t matter what you believe, or what you worship. Belief doesn’t fix a broken machine. I think your men know that.”
Prophet stiffens. Okwembu stops, wondering if she’s gone too far. Belief can be a dangerous thing–people will question what’s right in front of them, but swear that something invisible exists. What if she—
But then Prophet smiles. And for the first time, Okwembu sees past the mask he wears. What’s underneath it is as cold as the forest wind.
“And you have a spare fusion reactor, do you?” he says. “Hidden somewhere?”
“No,” Okwembu says, putting the bottle back on the table. “But I know how to fix yours.”
With that, she reaches into the neck of her shirt and pulls out the data stick.
She holds it up, letting Prophet get a good look at it. Then she bends forward, removing the lanyard from around her neck, and places it on the table between them.
Prophet says nothing.
Okwembu nods to the stick. “The ship we used to enter Earth’s atmosphere was an asteroid catcher. Back on Outer Earth, the asteroid would have provided us with resources, but in this case we used it as a heat shield. We spent a week in orbit, while some of the crew shaped the rock for re-entry.”
Prophet picks up the data stick, resting it in his palm.
“I spent that week on that ship’s bridge,” Okwembu says, “downloading everything I could from the ship’s computer. The operating system was ancient, but I managed to get it all into a useable form.”
“Data,” says Prophet, not asking a question. It’s as if he’s trying the word out, rolling it around in his mouth. “What kind of data?”
Okwembu shrugs. “Water filtration specs, data on plant growth, maps. Things I thought might conceivably be useful on a planet we knew nothing about.” She takes another sip of water. “As I said, I took as much as I could. I didn’t have time to sort through what I had, and since the stick had more than enough space, I decided I didn’t have to. So there’s information on the ship’s fusion reactor. Specifications, repair protocols, parts listings, emergency procedures. This stick contains everything you need to put a broken reactor back together.”
“And yet,” says Prophet, deadly quiet, “you offer it in place of yourself. Like you’re above serving the Engine. People have died here for much less than what you’ve just done.”
Okwembu has gambled a good deal in these last few minutes. She hates having to do it, hates the uncertainty, but knows that it’s the only choice she has. There is a society here, a stable one, with structure and order and control. There are hierarchies, chains of command. There are workers–she saw one of them, back bent, mopping the floor as they passed what looked like a mess. There is water, and there is power. Everything she needs. She could integrate herself into the Ramona’s society, gather allies, make it her own.
And all she needs to do that is a little time.
“You can’t afford to kill me,” she says.
“No?”
“No.” She folds her arms. “The computers on this ship are over a century old. I’m the only person here–maybe the only person alive–who can get the data off that stick in a useable form. You let me stay, you let me join your… faith, I suppose is the word. I download the data for you, and you get your reactor back. No more depending on fuel.”
“We could torture you,” he says, the grey eye never wavering.
“But you won’t. You’ve done it before, and we both know that it never quite works. Isn’t it simpler just to make the trade I’m proposing?”
She gets to her feet, steps closer to him. “You need me, Prophet. The data is there, and I’ll get it for you. You just have to trust me.”
He looks at her, as if sizing her up. She smiles back at him, serene. He’ll do as she asks, because he’s like her. He knows how to get on top, and stay there. He’s created a society out of nothing–stable, controlled, self-sustaining.
There are only a few people with the will to do that. And they’re very good at recognising each other.
Without another word, Prophet turns and strides to the door, flinging it open. He looks over his shoulder at her, and as she looks back into that lone grey eye, she has another unwelcome flicker of doubt.
“Come with me,” Prophet says. “I want to show you something.”