Paul had only just stopped staring at the wormhole into which the Nomad had vanished, and was about to say something to Thula about the Varcis, when Derith bloomed again. Paul had momentarily forgotten about the time slip, so that hours on the other side of the wormhole were only minutes on the Cayth side. The ship grew larger, moving steadily on autopilot.
“Hey,” said Thula. “That looks like the Nomad.”
A Cayth scan immediately confirmed that it was. What’s more, there were no signs of life on board. Paul felt ill. Something had gone wrong. Had Steven and the others been captured, or killed? Had the Cayth somehow turned on them after all? Yet Fara and Kal appeared as perturbed as Paul was.
“We’re bringing the ship in,” said Fara.
There was a tense wait while they did so. As soon as the Nomad docked and a final Cayth scan had declared it safe and clear, Paul, Syl, and Thula entered it, with Meia hooked in over the coms link.
“Is that a note on the cockpit window?” asked Thula.
It was, and it was addressed to Paul. He wrenched it from the glass, unfolded it, and read it.
“Well, what does it say?” asked Syl.
Paul grinned.
“It says, ‘We decided to upgrade. Happy travels!’ ”
Meia continued to work on the Varcis, with Thula helping her. Paul and Syl began examining the data that Alis had uploaded to the Nomad, while Kal and Fara busied themselves on the other side of the cockpit, adding the stream to the combined intellect of the Cayth collective, for they too wanted to explore the new information.
“Right,” said Paul as he and Syl dug into the task at hand. It took a while to untangle the web of data, deciding what was of use and what was dispensable, but once they did, it revealed a treasure trove. Aside from including the reports on the progress of the war received by the Gradus—and both Paul and Syl laughed at the irony of seizing a vessel with that name—the cruiser also maintained updated records of all Corps bases, and a registry of planned fleet movements for the months to come. Admittedly, the latter wouldn’t be much use by the time the Nomad and Varcis were ready to go back through the wormhole, but it gave them a pretty good idea of the size and disposition of the Corps fleet, including two Corps ships, the Satia and the Iria, that were apparently in permanent stationary orbit over the earth, along with an unnamed third craft, designated only “SD.”
“A Securitat vessel,” said Paul. At least Steven would have an idea of what he would be facing when he eventually reached their home planet. “But it’s not exactly giving us any info about what might have happened on the earth’s surface.”
Syl, seated beside Paul, nudged him with her elbow.
“Try going backward,” she said.
“Backward?”
“Yes, see how far backward you can get in the records. Since we’ve been here over two days, try two years. See what was heading to Earth two years ago.”
He looked at her, confused, and then started to smile.
“Right!” he said. “Of course.”
Syl gave a superior sniff, then leaned close toward him.
“See,” she whispered into his ear, “I’m not just a pretty face.”
“No,” replied Paul, but her breast was brushing against his arm—not entirely by accident, he thought—and this charged touch robbed him of any other words he wanted to add. He turned to face her, wondering, and in response she snaked her arms around him, warm and strong, pulling him into her embrace. He let himself be held for a moment before he took her golden face in his hands and kissed her, at first chastely and then fully, passionately, on the lips, and then he found that he couldn’t stop—he didn’t want to stop. It was a kiss like he couldn’t remember: desperate, deep, and intense with longing. Her mouth was soft and pliant beneath his, and he could have sworn Syl swooned. Or maybe he did.
He thought he might kiss her forever, but as they pressed closer together the white-noise murmur of the collective Cayth increased to an intrigued hum, and then a loud buzzing, like a hive of honey-drunk bees, until Paul and Syl pulled apart, reluctant but bashful, suddenly aware that they weren’t alone.
“Wow,” murmured Syl, and her eyes were shining. For that moment, she looked happier than Paul had ever seen her, carefree and glowing and so very much alive. He never wanted that joyful abandon to leave her again, and he wished it could be so, and every nerve inside him seemed to be tingling too, thirsting for more.
The figures of Kal and Fara shuffled awkwardly, and then stood up together.
“We will return later,” said Fara, though she lingered for a few seconds, seeming to drink in the reality of Syl before slipping away after Kal. She shut the door firmly behind her.
Left so pointedly unattended, Syl and Paul found themselves oddly shy.
Syl spoke first. “Well, that was a bit awkward,” she said.
“Nice of them, though,” said Paul, and he was immediately annoyed at himself for saying something so bland, so banal. Syl didn’t seem to mind.
“I wondered when we were going to do that again. Or if we were,” she said.
“I wasn’t exactly sure you wanted me to.”
A smile flickered at the corners of Syl’s wonderful mouth.
“Then you’re dumber than you look,” she said, “because . . .”
She went silent for a moment, then seemed to make a decision.
“ . . . because I love you, Paul Kerr.”
As those three words spilled out, concern furrowed the skin between her eyes, and she looked at her lap, fearful she’d gone too far.
“Ah, Syl”—Paul placed his palm on her cheek again, lifting her face, smiling at her—“I love you too. More than I can begin to tell you. And I refuse to let you go again. Ever. I won’t allow it.”
She grinned properly. “That sounds almost like an order, sir.”
“Damn right it is, Syl Hellais. You’re one of my crew now.”
“Damn right I am, Lieutenant,” she replied, “so let’s get to work,” and shoulder to shoulder they returned to the Gradus’s records.
As Syl had suggested, Paul ran a backward check on ship movements to and from Earth, starting from the time they’d fled Erebos, and that was where he found what they’d been looking for: details of the evacuation of mainly Corps personnel, clear from the intense traffic of shuttles to and from the planet’s surface. He scrolled further, searching the records methodically for fear he’d miss something, until Syl, who was clearly scanning faster than him, pointed at a cluster of entries. There had been a flurry of activity on a late Sunday morning, leading into early afternoon. Then the departures slowed to a jagged trickle, before petering out altogether. But the records also showed the simultaneous arrival of several large transporters through the wormhole nearest the planet, again with the designation “SD.” They were the last ships to go in.
So the Cayth were right, and Fenuless had not been lying. They were too late: the home planet had already been sacrificed. Still unwilling to believe it, Paul frantically read what remained of the Earth entries, gnawing at his knuckles as he did so, keeping the despairing wail that ballooned in his throat in check, barely able to breath.
Mum, he thought. Oh, Mum—I’m so sorry.
The only piece of potentially positive news was that ten of these transporters had originally been set on a course for Earth, but two had been ambushed and destroyed by the Military in the early days of the war, and they could find no sign of others being sent to replace them. Perhaps their irradiation of the breeding facilities at Archaeon had not been in vain. There was still hope. Surely there was—he couldn’t countenance any other possibility. After all, if the Illyri had believed that ten tankers of spores were necessary for the destruction of life on Earth, and only eight had managed to get through, then pockets of humanity and other life might well have survived. Such slim hope.
But he had to try to put Earth out of his mind, for now—he knew that, for it was the only way he would be able to function. He had tied his future, and their ultimate salvation, to Syl, his lovely Syl.
“I’m sorry, Paul,” she said quietly beside him. “I’m so sorry.”
He didn’t know how long she’d been holding his hand, but now he turned to her and they clung together, holding on as if they were the last two lovers in the universe.
Finally they kissed again, and this time neither had the strength nor will to pull away as they became lost in each other. The Cayth’s buzzing faded, turning to a background hum and then to silence as the collective turned away, and the Earth-boy and the alien-girl made their silent vows, and they at last gave themselves to each other, completely, in both body and mind.
• • •
Later Paul and Syl would remember that hour as a moment of sweetest light, for they had a greater, darker mission to face: the defeat and annihilation of the Others. They could only do it together, always together.
And while they worried about the universe, Steven Kerr—a man in a child’s body—could worry about Earth.