Molly Fyde and the Blood of Billions

“A fleet,” the guy yelled over his shoulder. “There’s a massive new fleet on SADAR!”

Molly looked to the sky, her hand shading her eyes. She couldn’t see anything, but she thought she heard a rumble growing, like distant thunder.

Scottie joined her by the ramp. “What’s going on?” he asked.

“Something—” Molly cursed herself and ran back inside. She keyed open the cockpit and apologized to Cat. Leaning over the control console, she fired up the SADAR and waited for it to initialize.

“You okay?” Cat asked.

“I think there’s something going on in orbit,” Molly told her.

The SADAR popped up, and she extended the range. There was the cluster of the Bern fleet overhead, which hadn’t changed much—just grown since she’d last looked. The largest of them dominated the group, the one she liked to think of as Lok’s new potato-shaped moon.

“There!” Cat said, pointing.

“I see it,” Molly said. A cluster of new targets were in motion, and more were streaming in behind—blips that signified ships popping out of hyperspace. And something about the formation triggered a tremor of recognition in Molly.

“Can your mom see this?” Cat asked. “Nevermind, she just said she could now that the SADAR is on.”

“Yeah, that’s how it works. I think I know what—”

Cat raised her hand as red warning lights flashed on SADAR. Molly reached to locate the threat, when Cat grabbed her wrist.

“You need to hear this,” she said, pulling the helmet off.

Molly switched to the external radio and hit the “Center Target” button.

“—yday, mayday,” the voice crackled. “Cruiser Engala has been hit by something. No flight controls. Gravity sensors are haywire. Mayday, mayday, ma—”

The radio fell silent. The SADAR centered on the cluster of new targets that had just jumped in-system, their IDs blinking as Parsona’s computers scanned them. But Molly didn’t need to wait for the computer to do its work. She knew the formation without needing the ships’ IDs:

Navy.

The cavalry had arrived.

“We need to get into flightsuits and scramble,” Molly said.

“We’re no help up there,” Cat said. “We need to hunker down.”

Molly looked at the screen. The Bern ships were moving, responding to the Navy fleet. Only—they seemed to be moving away from them. Her normally tactical brain remained blank, not knowing what the Bern ships were capable of. It felt like the beginning of a surprise simulation, those tense moments when you weren’t sure who you were up against. She reached for the dash and started warming the thrusters and cycling the hyperdrive, just in case.

“Why don’t you grab some food?” she said to Cat. She fought to keep her voice calm as several of the red Navy targets began flashing with mayday beacons. It made no sense. The Bern ships seemed to be retreating, but the Navy fleet was winking with distress.

“I’m not that hungry,” Cat said, “but I get your drift. Tell your mom we ain’t done talking.” She crawled out of the nav seat and handed the helmet to Molly before exiting the cockpit.

Molly put the helmet on its shelf and leaned over the nav seat to tap the top of her own. The Wadi came out with a sleepy look; she scooped it up and followed Cat into the cargo bay. “Walter, take the Wadi and make sure it eats plenty.” She looked down the ramp as Walter pulled the hissing creature from her arms. “Scottie, I need you to come back inside. We’re buttoning up.”

“What about Ryn?” he asked.

“We’ll let him in when he gets here, if we’re still here when he gets back.”

“If we’re still here? We aren’t going anywhere without—”

A loud blast cut him off, and Scottie fell forward as a wave of compressed air rocked the ship. Something exploded nearby. Molly ran to him, helping him up as a wall of dust and debris roared across the stables.

Molly’s hair stirred from the breeze of concussed air. The incredible noise left her ears ringing, but she didn’t see a fireball, didn’t feel heat in the air from a munitions blast. She ran to the door, squinting into the storm of dust that had risen around the neighboring hulls.

Another impact boomed farther away and was followed by the rumble of kinetic energy. Molly looked up— Firehawks and larger ships were raining down through the atmosphere, clear across the sky to the horizon. They dropped through the air with the glow of accidental reentry, leaving behind trails of dirty smoke.

“What the flank?” Scottie asked, peering out beside her. “Holy hell,” he said, “it’s like the shuttles—”

“Get inside,” Molly told him. “We need to get out of here.”

31

Cole stared up at the ceiling of his new room. He lay in a narrow bunk, the one beside him empty. He wondered if Mortimor’s people had that much extra space, or if it had belonged to one of the aliens he’d seen die on the Luddite’s moving village. Maybe it had belonged to someone who had perished during that raid, a raid he assumed was meant to rescue him.

He ran bits of that hellish scene over and over in his head; he thought back to the conversation with Byrne and tried his best to remember everything he had spoken of. He puzzled over the strange way time seemed to alter around that mast. He recalled with a shudder the horror of fleeing across the deck, of being chased… he stopped himself before he got to what came next.

Cole rubbed his face. So much had happened over the past few days, so much information had passed through his ears, it made him feel like a cadet cramming for an exam even though they knew they didn’t stand a chance. The clock beside his bunk went off for the third time. Cole slapped its top and tried to fight off the depression. He’d lain around recuperating for half a day, and now he was late for his orientation and rehab. Begrudgingly, he tore off his sheet and swung his feet off the cot. He reached for the outfit they’d left folded on the stool: a faded pair of civilian denims and a t-shirt with a logo for some unknown sports team. He was thankful to not be donning Navy Blacks, which most of people he’d seen seemed to be wearing. He also hoped they had burned whatever remained of his flightsuit—he didn’t want to see the stains in them ever again.

Dropping the surgical gown, Cole stepped into the faded pants and pulled them up. For a bit of practice, he used his right hand to work the zipper. He didn’t understand what Mortimor had meant by rehab—the thing worked perfectly well, just like a real hand. The zipper slid up smoothly, the hand firm and steady—and then it kept on coming, the metal tab ripping off with a soft click.

Cole held up the broken piece to inspect it. In the shiny, neatly sheared ends of the snapped metal, he got his first glimpse of what Mortimor had meant.

“They’re waiting on you.”

Cole snapped his head up just in time to see a flash of red hair swirling through the air, following the speaker out through the door. Her voice rang in his ears, burning his cheeks. He shook his head and cursed at himself, then closed his eyes and pictured Molly.

With red hair.

“Aw, c’mon!” he said, clasping both hands to his face in frustration.

And regretting it immediately.

••••

When Cole left the room, he saw Mortimor and the Stanley conferring at the end of the hall; he hurried down to meet them.

“What did you do to your face?” Mortimor asked, his eyes wide.

Cole touched his bruised cheek, using the only hand he trusted at the moment. “I was practicing what I’m gonna do to the guy who took my arm,” he said.

“Oh, boy,” the Stanley said, smiling. “Another hothead.”

Cole returned the robot’s smirk, then noticed something strange about the Stanley. The skin around the