“My Wadi,” Molly whispered.
Cat looked over her shoulder. She patted Molly’s arm and moved away. Molly grunted and forced herself to one elbow, then struggled to sit up. She glanced back and wiggled toward one of the gurney’s legs, propping herself up to better see what was going on. She concentrated on pushing the blackness into the corners of her vision.
She regretted her efforts immediately when she saw what Cat was doing.
The Callite crouched over the Wadi with the blood-soaked knife. She had one of the creature’s arms splayed out—the blade resting against it, the palm of her hand flat against the dull side, as if about to apply pressure.
Molly managed a weak
“What are you doing?” Molly croaked.
She clutched the sticky bandana to her chest and leaned forward, moving to her knees. She crawled closer to Cat and the Wadi, limping along with one hand.
“What have you done?”
Cat shook her head. When she turned, Molly saw tears dripping out of the alien’s eyes. Her lids scissored shut rapidly, but not quick enough to keep up with the flow of sadness.
“Shoulda seen it all along,” Cat muttered. She continued to hold the Wadi’s wound fast as she turned and surveyed the room. Molly crawled up next to her and looked down at the lifeless Wadi.
“So flanking obvious,” Cat said.
Molly fell to the side, resting on her hip; she turned and looked across the room. Sheriff Browne continued to move deeper through the sea of tables, leather straps swaying beneath the gurneys of those he’d already freed. Several Callites moved about as well, often clutching surfaces as if dizzy or weak. Molly saw more than a few straps hanging limp beneath bodies that did not stir at all.
Molly shook her head. “I don’t understand,” she said.
“Ain’t about votes,” Cat told her. “Weren’t never about votes.”
Molly looked down at the rag in her hands, soaked purple with her blood and Cat’s. She glanced over at Pete’s still form, the sheen of purplish grease coating his skin and splotching his apron in long streams.
“It’s a drug,” Molly said. “They’re making a drug!”
“No. It’s worse than that. And I’m a flanking fool for just now seeing it.” Cat shook her head. “It’s no wonder the stuff reeks of death.”
“What? What is it?” Molly asked.
“This is what you’ve been looking for.” Cat held up the knife, which was coated in their combined blood. “This is Lok’s version of fusion fuel.”
Molly sat in numbed silence, her wound and head throbbing. She heard Callites crying in the background amid the staccato of their desperate footsteps. She heard the mixture of relief and grief, both wailed in sadness, as loved ones took stock of who had made it and who had not. Her mind reeled with what Cat was saying. It didn’t even register when one of the Wadi’s arms twitched.
“Look,” Cat said.
A tail swished feebly, and Molly’s breath caught in her throat. She gasped and reached with both arms, forgetting her own wound. Cat passed the animal to her, saying something about being careful of its leg.
Molly nodded and cradled the animal, holding it against her chest. She felt the tears well up as it nuzzled against her, stirring in a confused awakening. “I thought I lost her,” Molly cried. “Lost her before I even got a chance to name her.”
Cat squeezed her shoulder and stood up. “I need to see to the others,” she said.
Molly sniffled and nodded. The Wadi reached out and gripped her shirt with its tiny claws, holding itself close. Twin tongues flicked out, both of them wavering in the air.
“It’s okay,” Molly told the Wadi.
“Everything’s gonna be fine,” she lied.
50
Cole fidgeted in place, his body practically vibrating with anxious nerves. Ahead of him stood two other soldiers in white combat uniforms: a Callite, and a creature whose name and race he’d already forgotten. Behind him stood another human, and four other lines were arranged parallel to theirs—three to one side with four people each, and one to the other side with just three. Various races chattered amongst themselves up and down the lines, the pre-raid jitters reminding Cole of old Academy briefings before big simulator missions.
The only members of the raid groups who seemed calm were the pilots. They sat perfectly still on the hyperdrive platforms, their arms curled around their shins and their heads up to watch the console operators. Cole felt small and lost with the incredible diversity of the races present and how much more experience they seemed to have. He peered past the crouching pilots where five other jump platforms had been arranged, each holding one of the cages Cole had designed.
“You nervous?” the guy behind Cole asked.
Cole turned and nodded. “Anxious, yeah. Mostly that my idea doesn’t get people killed.”
“It’ll work,” the guy said.
“I’m Cole.” He extended his hand.
“I know. We met in orientation.” The man smiled. “Don’t worry, there was a lot going on and I’m pretty forgettable. I’m Larken, the translator.”
“The guy who speaks Bern.”
Larken laughed. “Well enough. I used to hang with the wrong crowd, I guess you could say.”
Cole laughed. “Me too, a long time ago. Hey, at least we’re here now.”
“Yeah. Anyway, good luck in there. I’ll be right behind you, so clear out fast.”
“Don’t worry about that,” Cole said. He considered passing the message up the line.
“Listen up!” Mortimor yelled. He clapped his hands to get everyone’s attention. “We’ve got coordinates coming in now, so get ready! Remember, you’ve got three seconds to get out of the way before the next guy comes through. That’s as much as we can risk with a moving target, but it’ll probably feel like a lifetime as hopped up as you all are. Now, those of you in line, get on the platform fast and get out of the way quick once you arrive. Hit your quadrants and hit them hard. Pilots and navigators, secure the cockpits as swiftly as possible. We’re sending you as close as we can to the forward midline of each ship, so it should give you a short run. If you end up in mechanical spaces, be judicious about what you cut through, we need these puppies operational.”
He shifted his gaze to the back row. “Translators, stay
The lights over the platforms went from red to amber.
“Good luck!” Mortimor yelled. The tenor in his voice sent a wave of goosebumps down Cole’s arms. Mortimor jumped down from the platform and went to the back of the line next to Cole’s, completing its full complement of four—five, counting the seated pilot.
Larken squeezed Cole’s shoulder, then patted it twice. “Good luck!”
Cole grabbed his buckblade from its holster. He made sure he had it facing the right direction and that the safety was on. He looked over at Mortimor. “I didn’t know you were going.”
“Ran out of people that speak Bern. Now pay attention.” Mortimor nodded toward the platforms.
Cole looked.
The light over the pilots went green. There was a loud beeping sound followed by a pop of displaced air, and the cages in the back of the room vanished.
The pilots sitting on the platforms followed soon after, winking out of existence. The row of navigators jumped into position, taking the place of the pilots and falling to their butts. They wrapped their various species’ version of arms around their legs and fell still.
Penny was the navigator in Mortimor’s line. He watched wisps of red hair spill out of her hood as she settled into place. Their eyes met right before her head went down—then she disappeared from the room.
It was all happening so fast. Cole’s heart fluttered as he took a step forward. He chanced a glance to the
