Defy the Worlds (Defy the Stars #2)(42)

Gillian nods, keying them in. “No point in having you land us far away from the supplies. We’re going to need those.”

“We’ll see.” With that, the Remedy captain shuts down the link.

A second of silence follows, broken by Delphine saying, “Noemi, are you a security expert? You seem very useful.”

Gillian answers for her. “Let’s say that Miss Vidal’s a last-minute addition to the party.”

“Why didn’t we have a security expert?” demands Vinh, who can’t be blamed for feeling angry but seems determined to aim that anger in all the wrong directions. “Humans in charge of protecting us instead of just those damned mechs?”

“The mechs can do the job,” Mansfield says. His face is pale, his voice tremulous. “But Remedy brought more ships than we thought they had.”

“And you shouldn’t trust our new friend too much,” Gillian says, turning to face Noemi. The gas-flame blue of her eyes seems as if it could burn through Noemi’s skin. “She’s a soldier of Genesis. The enemy.”

A flush heats Noemi’s cheeks. From the huddled passengers, she hears someone whisper, “Since when do Genesis soldiers show up on our side of the Gate?”

“Tends to happen when we get kidnapped,” Noemi says. Gillian’s hand moves to her bracelet, and Noemi feels a cold flash of fear, but she lifts her chin and keeps her voice even. “You need someone military right now. I may not be the person you would’ve chosen—but I’m all you’ve got.”

After a long moment, Gillian exhales. “Fine. Make yourself useful.”

How is she supposed to do that? Noemi thinks fast. “Well, first we need to take control of more of the ship than this.” She gestures around at the mech tanks, hoping at least one other person in this room realizes how absurd this is as a home base. “What’s both useful to us and close to this location?”

Gillian thoughtfully taps one long fingernail against the screen. “Passenger luggage hadn’t all been distributed to cabins yet. So there should be clothing and such in the cargo bay seventy meters farther along this corridor. Next to that would be more of the supplies for our celebrations—champagne, chocolate, petits fours, so on and so forth.”

Seriously? Noemi wants to shout. You’re counting party supplies as one of our big advantages? But she bites back her tantrum. At this point, even champagne and petits fours count as food reserves. “Okay. We secure this corridor.”

“How do we do that?” Delphine says, her eyes wide.

“We get out there with blasters and blow away anyone or anything between us and what we want.” Noemi checks the charge on hers. Nearly total.

“You mean shooting people. We have to actually shoot people who will be shooting at us.” Vinh’s fury hasn’t abated; it’s still ricocheting in every direction. He sounds more upset that he has to do real work with real risk than he is at the thought of taking human life.

“The Remedy members won’t be shy about killing us,” Gillian says to Vinh. “I suggest you adopt their attitude.”

“We know what we have to do.” Noemi gestures toward the door. “Are you guys going to do it or not?”

The passengers continue staring glassily at Gillian, who finally gives them a short nod. “Go. Hold the ship.” She turns her head toward the tank in front of her, filled with its pink milky liquid. “I have work to do.”

“Okay, everyone,” Noemi says to the passengers, readying her blaster. “Let’s go.”



At first Noemi doesn’t see so much as a single Remedy fighter; maybe not all the Remedy people involved in the Proteus battle boarded the Osiris. Still, they obviously have enough of a crew to bring the ship firmly under their power. The lifts have been locked down, plus most computer interfaces provide only minimal information and no controls beyond the nearly automatic: lights on, lights off.

“Don’t suppose Mansfield or his daughter could get into the computer system and help us,” Noemi grumbles.

“Well, they can’t do everything,” Delphine says, as though reasoning with a small child.

“They’ve done enough,” Noemi agrees.

“I feel so sorry for them,” Delphine confides as they hurry down the hallway to the next bend. “This must be even worse for them than it is for us.”

“Why? Because being rich and powerful is such a burden?”

Delphine gives Noemi a look. “Because of Dr. Shearer’s son, Mansfield’s grandson. I think his name was Simon? Anyway, he died about four months ago, from Cobweb complications. Only seven years old.”

After a pause, Noemi says, “That’s terrible,” and she means it. She remembers Cobweb’s blistering fevers, the sickly sweet delirium that dizzied her, the utter exhaustion that made it impossible to even walk. She thinks of the suffering she witnessed on Genesis—Mrs. Gatson’s feeble coughing, the groaning patients lying helpless on the ground. Noemi would never wish such misery on an innocent child.

But grief should be, among other things, a call to compassion—a chance to recognize the pain in others’ hearts mirrored in your own. It doesn’t seem to have had that effect on either Mansfield or Gillian Shearer.

The Osiris has few corners; most corridors bend in gradual arcs. As their group takes the curve leading to the baggage stores, Noemi stops short in horror. Her first thought is massacre, but then she sees the wires poking from the severed limbs and torsos.