He remembers the readings he took on his flight in. The toxicity levels in that one sector weren’t compatible with human life. No person exposed to that for more than a brief time would be able to continue functioning. Death would follow within mere days—if not hours.
Swiftly he goes to the nearest console and activates as much of the Osiris’s sensor array as still functions. When he does a sweep, he realizes that the area he flew over wasn’t an aberration. Those toxicity levels stretch out over an enormous area, possibly even planetwide.
That means every human being on this ship is about to die. The Remedy fighters, the passengers—and Noemi.
23
SEVEN HOURS AGO, NOEMI HAD THOUGHT BEING stranded in a crashed, upside-down spaceship with a group of terrorists, their panicked hostages, and a potentially homicidal kid-turned-mech was one of the most dangerous situations she’d ever found herself in. Now she only wishes things could be that easy again.
Because—for the second time within ten days—she stands at the center of a plague.
She picks her way across the shimmering tiles on the ceiling/floor of what had been designed as a dining hall but has become a makeshift hospital. The emergency lighting at ankle level makes the tiles glitter and casts surreal shadows in the murky room. Nearly two dozen Remedy members lie on various cots and pallets, each of them pale, shaking, and feverish. Whatever they’re suffering from isn’t Cobweb, but it’s just as vicious. The sick people’s eyes are bloodshot, and they murmur as they weave in and out of consciousness. Sometimes they make perfect sense, and other times they rant about explosions, or mechs, or even dragons.
Is this what it’s like on Genesis at this moment? Or maybe Ephraim’s already led a Vagabond convoy to her world with lifesaving drugs.
Or maybe Earth’s already invaded, killing what few survivors remained, and is even now claiming Genesis as its own.
Riko’s steadier than most of the Remedy fighters, at least so far. She curls on the floor in a fetal position, arms wrapped around an engraved silver champagne chiller meant for finer things than serving as a vomit bucket. “I’m okay,” she murmurs unconvincingly. “I am. If I can just get some sleep—”
“That’s right.” Noemi strokes Riko’s short, spiky hair and notices how clammy her forehead has become. “You need rest. Close your eyes and try not to worry, all right?”
She’s not the most nurturing person, under most circumstances. Nursing the Gatsons had been awkward at best, her clumsy ministrations welcome only because nothing better could be had. Today—or tonight, whenever it is—she’s drawing on her memories of how Abel tended her when she got so desperately sick with Cobweb. It’s amazing how much more natural it feels, being caring and gentle, when she asks herself what Abel would do.
Maybe all this time she’d only needed someone to give her permission to be… soft. To not have her shields up all the time.
Abel himself is hard at work on the remnants of the bridge, bringing up what few ship functions can be restored, for what little time they can continue to operate. As more and more Remedy fighters fall ill, Captain Fouda grows more anxious. Maintaining control of the Osiris with only a fraction of his force will be difficult—or would be, if the passengers could strike. They must be as desperately ill as the Remedy fighters around Noemi. Fouda wants to automate as many force fields and defense systems as possible, so Abel’s devoting his attention to bringing up what little additional power the ship still has.
Both Noemi and Abel need to play by Remedy’s rules for a while. When they can work out that long-term strategy Abel mentioned, they’ll figure out how to escape from this situation.
As if he’s sensed Noemi thinking about him, Captain Fouda strides through the room, ignoring the patients and medicines lying around, his boots crunching on the fragile peacock-blue tiles underneath. He doesn’t step on anyone who’s sick, though he’s so careless that’s probably just luck. “No one’s up yet?” he demands, apparently to everyone at once. “Not one person has gotten better?” He gets louder with every word. Before long, he’ll be shouting, waking up all the patients and ensuring they remain sick even longer.
So Noemi goes to him, gesturing toward where some of the sicker ones lie. “Whatever this is, it’s serious. Yelling at them isn’t going to help. These people are going to need care for at least a day or two.” Privately she thinks it might be much longer; for a few, fevers have spiked high enough to cause convulsions.
Fouda scowls and steps closer to her. “That’s time we don’t have. We’re down too many operatives as it is.” Then he turns away to stalk through the ad hoc sick bay, as though he could heal these people through his anger alone. Noemi begins to turn away, then catches sight of something on the back of his neck, just above his collar. Straightening, she squints to make it out.
The pale lines on his skin are too random for a tattoo; they match the marks on the side of his face, so maybe that’s more battle scarring. Yet the marks are familiar, too, in a way she didn’t spot before….
They look a lot like the pale white lines on her shoulder, the ones that won’t go away—her scars from Cobweb. He suffered from it, too; he survived, like her.
Probably their shared experience should make her feel more compassionate toward him. Instead she only wonders how anybody could have been that sick, felt that much pain, and not be able to summon any
