He gave the blank walls a befuddled look. ‘Doesn’t the texture work? Saint’s sake! The Morgan’s refit took three months. They must have checked stuff like this.’
She got up and gave him a hug. ‘Calm down. I was waiting for you, that’s all.’
‘Oh. Thanks. So what have you got?’
She told her databud to switch the environment on. The walls turned to bare metal bulkheads, with thick oblong windows riveted into place. They looked out from a giant space station of spires and discs that hung high above the nightside of a planet whose continents were single cities. Their glittering lights shone as though all the stars in the sky had descended to populate the ground, while above it all, hundreds of planets shared the same orbit around the sun in a stippled ring, each of them shining with the rich sapphires, whites, and jades of an Earthlike world. Weird and wondrous spaceships cruised gracefully around the station, departing and arriving in constant streams.
‘That is quite something,’ Dellian admitted.
‘It could be ours,’ she said wistfully. ‘The way we live, what we build. After FinalStrike.’
His arm tightened around her so his head was pressed into her chest. ‘We’ll get there. You’ll see.’
‘Yeah.’
‘You ready?’
‘Sure.’
He broke away to stare up at her – a gaze that was unnervingly intense. ‘We can still stay here, with the habitats. It’ll be a good life.’
‘For us. What about our descendants if the FinalStrike doesn’t work?’
‘Like Loneve says, they’ll develop new weapons here, something that can defeat the Olyix. Besides, I thought you wanted that: a society that’s broken the exodus cycle.’
‘I certainly do. But I’ve invested too much in this FinalStrike mission now, and you’d hate it here. Don’t pretend you wouldn’t.’
‘I guess we know each other pretty well.’
She bent down and kissed the top of his head. ‘I guess we do.’
*
It was nothing like the time the Morgan had departed from Juloss. Then, they had gathered to celebrate the other Strike ships departing, with everyone making their own way out across the galaxy. It had been a ceremony of hope and anticipation, their commitment to the goal unbreakable. This time there were barely a hundred people in the starship’s main auditorium, out of the thousand who were on board. More than seven hundred were already in suspension chambers to hibernate throughout the twelve-year voyage to the neutron star. Even then, they’d be arriving fifty years after the seedships, which were travelling at an even higher relativistic velocity.
‘Where’s everyone else?’ Dellian asked. He was wearing his squad leader dress uniform for the occasion, which put him in a minority.
‘Busy,’ Yirella replied. ‘There are a lot of new systems to monitor.’
Dellian was sceptical about that; monitoring systems was what gentens were for. He glanced up at the screen at the back of the auditorium’s stage, which showed space directly outside the Morgan. Thirty newly completed FinalStrike warships were holding station in a loosely spherical formation five hundred kilometres in diameter. They were all modelled on the original Morgan design – seven grid spheres stacked in a line, wrapped with thermo-dump spikes. But there had been changes. The rear section now contained the drive developed for the Actaeon project – five ribbed ovoids glowing an eerie aquamarine – while the fifth deck housed nucleonic weapons developed by Wim’s team: long slivers of solidified light that pulsed in the rhythm of a human heartbeat. Beyond the fleet were the three habitats, their shells visible only as shadows against the ridge of stars that cut across the profound darkness of deep space.
‘You okay?’ Yirella asked.
‘Sure.’
People were starting to sit down. He gestured at a row of seats near the stage. ‘We’re so small, aren’t we?’ he said. It felt like a confession.
‘Did you speak to Ainsley before he left with the seedships?’
‘Not much. Why?’
‘We used to talk about how little impact life actually has on the universe.’
‘I don’t think I’m up to that level of philosophy.’
She put her arm through his, then waved at Alexandre, who’d just come in. ‘Don’t be so self-deprecating.’
‘Do you miss him?’
‘Yes. Because we’re a little less safe without him. But it made sense for him to go on ahead with the seedships. He can protect them until they propagate a neutron star civilization that can build its own defences.’
‘Right.’ Again he felt a mild unease. Despite all the advisory council meetings and debates and committees producing strategies for discussion, FinalStrike was still Yirella’s concept. It was logical, smart, and had the best chance of success. And yet . . . Maybe I am paranoid. At some fundamental level, he knew Yirella wouldn’t betray them. So maybe the doubts were a relic of the Olyix neurovirus?
I hope so.
Which was about the craziest thought he’d ever had.
Alexandre joined them, sitting next to Yirella; then the rest of the squad arrived and spread out along the row.
‘You’ve got about a minute left before they shut the portals back to Sisaket,’ Dellian told their old mentor with a grin.
‘Not a chance,’ Alexandre said. ‘Look what happened last time I let you go off by yourselves.’
‘You shouldn’t use us as an excuse to leave the habitats behind,’ Yirella said. ‘We’re going to confront the Olyix directly. The odds of success are unknown.’
Dellian gave her an exasperated frown. ‘Saints! This is all your idea.’
‘I know. But you have to be following the plan for the right reasons.’
‘Hey, you two, stop fighting,’ an amused Janc said. ‘Captain’s here.’
Kenelm strode onto the stage. Dellian was pleased to see sie was wearing hir uniform, too. He found familiarity and tradition reassuring at this point, even though he wasn’t half as confident as he had been when the Morgan had left Juloss. The fight was so much bigger than they’d realized back then. More desperate, too.
Loneve’s face appeared on the screen, blocking out half of the FinalStrike fleet.
‘I would’ve liked to use my old departure speech,’ Kenelm said, ‘but we all know
