Illuminae (The Illuminae Files #1)(37)

Silence down comms, then. Doherty looking at me the way kids must look at their mothers. Wondering if any of this was real. Sykes spat on the deck, spat down his transmitter.

“Open the f*cking doors before we blow them in, goddammit.”

I had Sykes’s collar in my fist before I knew it. Hand over my mic so Hypatia couldn’t hear. Dragging him close enough to smell the hooch on his breath.

“You secure that bullshit right now, or I’ll kick your teeth so hard you’ll need to unzip for me to lace up.”

Silent rebellion in his eyes. I should have benched him right there. I could see the names written on his face. Parker. Henderson. Gandolfini. Montano. McNulty.

“Ma’am, yes ma’am,” he said.

The airlock doors opened wide. What passed for Hypatia’s Sec Squad was waiting for us on the other side. Their Lieutenant looked former military, but he was about twenty years too old, about eighty pounds too slow.

“Where are the commtechs?” I asked.

“On the bridge,” the LT replied. “They’re still working to get us out of this mess.”

“You ex-UTA, LT?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Then you know what a VK assault rifle does to a human body at close range?”

A swallow. A glance to the weapon in my hand. “Yes, I do.”

“Lead the way.”

Through long gleaming halls, boots squeaking on rubber floors. All of it surgical white once, but just a little faded now. Pale faces peering at us from behind grubby plasteel windows. Unshaven cheeks or pink dye jobs with six months of regrowth at the roots. Frightened eyes. All of us fraying at the edges.

The Hypatia bridge was semi-circular. Humming with static. Chau had cleared most of her personnel out in case things went south of heaven. The remaining crew glanced up as we entered. I could imagine how we looked. All in black. Hollow eyes. Thirty-eight rounds of murder in every clip.

My hands were shaking.

Chau was short. Carved out of wood. Dark hair. Pistol at her belt. Running on no sleep, by the look, standing at her post like some old lighthouse keeper—the only thing between us and the rocks. I identified the commtechs from their shipboard IDs—both still pounding away at their consoles, like nothing was happening. I spoke loud enough to be heard across the whole bridge.

“Byron Zhang, Consuela Nestor, you are hereby ordered to accompany me to the UTA Battlecarrier Alexander.”

“Tell me how you think this ends, Lieutenant.”

It was Chau speaking. Hand on her pistol. She was looking out the huge viewscreen dominating one end of the room. I could see a tiny spark on the long range scanner, out there amid all the black and starlight. Its ID tag and countdown to intercept pulsing red:

BT042-TN. 52 hours: 17 minutes.

Lincoln.

“I don’t get paid to think,” I said. “I follow orders. Stand aside, Captain.”

Chau smiled like I’d said something funny. One of the commtechs stood up, then. Byron Zhang. Supposedly a top-tier console jockey. He sure looked the part. Overweight. Thinning hair. Underarm stains.

“It’s a good thing they don’t pay you to think,” he said. “It doesn’t seem like your thing.”

“Zhang, get your gear, you’re coming with us.”

“No.” He set pudgy hands on his hips. Tried to keep his voice from shaking. “You’ll have to drag us. Kicking and screaming.”

“I’ll give you something to scream about,” Sykes growled.

“ ‘The man dies in all who keep silent in the face of tyranny,’ ” he said.

“Listen, Zhang, I appreciate the rhetoric, but anyone can do math this simple. We need every swinging dick back on Alexander and you two are the best chipheads on Hypatia.”

Zhang’s lips twisted, then. An “I know something you don’t know” kind of smile that turned my mood darker. I wanted this over. I wanted to be back in my rack with a canteen of rocket fuel and a few hours of the forgetting it would bring. Still, I knew what kind of edge Sykes was dancing on. I should have given the order to someone else.

“Corporal Sykes, secure the conscripts for transport back to Alexander.”

His grin went all the way to his eyes. “Ma’am, yes ma’am.”

He slapped Hart and Bedggood on the arms, and the trio loped forward, pulling zip ties from their belts. I could feel my Kerenza rookies beside me, all of them playing at being soldiers, all of them just nerves and gritted teeth. Doherty in particular looked jumpy. What had she done before this? Security guard at a shopping mall? A library maybe? I couldn’t remember …

My eyes were on the Hypatia security team—they all looked a crossed word away from drawing. Sweat in my eyes. Hard to breathe. Chau’s voice rose above the pulse in my ears.

“Lieutenant, do you know your commanders plan to re-activate the artificial intelligence responsible for destroying the Copernicus? Do you know Major Hawking and two other Alexander officers were executed under General Torrence’s direct orders—”

“Shut up. One more minute and this will all be over.”

Sykes and the others reached the commtechs. Zhang had sat himself on the floor and folded his arms—some gesture of peaceful protest that earned him as much latitude as a faceful of spit. Sykes grabbed his arm, and when Zhang resisted, the corporal popped him with the butt of his VK. Zhang’s nose spat blood, the other commtech shouted protest. And that was all it took. Fists and elbows and knees. Pasty flesh slapping the floor. In about five seconds, Zhang and Nestor were trussed up on the floor like abattoir meat.