Unlike Skyhub, doc min’sspacecraft exists inside a pressure bubble, meaning once the pod sweeps me away from Lament, over a hard-to-quantify distance through space and into The Parallax’s docking port, I don’t have to wait for the flight deck to seal before I step out—the area is already oxygenated and depressurized. It’s advanced technology, and it’s fucking expensive. Not even the Legion can justify that kind of cost.
It’s that knowledge, finally, that truly gets me scared.
I don’t know if I’ve really taken time to assess what I’m up against. The past four days have been such a whirlwind, starting with Nina’s abjectly distressing reappearance and ending with a frankly haphazard mission plan that, despite all my reassurances to Lament, is bound to go sideways. My stomach tightens as I step off the transportation pod onto the flight deck, which looks a lot like the Sixth’s flight deck, except it’s ten times the size. I spot an array of spaceships: a Maxton III (energy-shielded, bright blue, shaped like an arrowhead), a Black Eclipse (compact, solar powered, AI-assisted), plus a dozen others that look so new to market, I don’t even know their names. They’re all battleships. All equipped with guns.
“Mr. Hartman,” comes a voice to my left.
I whip around to see Trey Morton striding through the sea of fighter ships, wearing a checkered vest and looking for all the world like a disappointed schoolteacher. His long dress sleeves are rolled back, his loafers clicking on the glossy floor. He adjusts his bowtie as he approaches. “I see you’ve made it.”
“I think the phrase isI’m glad to seeyou’ve made it.”
“Hmm,” is his reply, which strikes me as unnecessarily ominous. He appraises my uniform, the weapon at my hip. “You’ve reclaimed your ray gun.”
I hesitate. Technically, Morton is the one who issued my red card. Given he’s a Director for the Legion and responsible for disciplinary matters, he should report me to Sergeant Forst right here and now—not, I reflect, just for the gun, but for sneaking off Skyhub in the first place.
Morton, however, only peers down his nose and says, “You will need to relinquish your weapon before meeting Ran. Protocol, you understand.”
“What?” I make a face of mock surprise. “Your simulation didn’t predict my good behavior?”
“This is not a joke, Mr. Hartman.”
No, it’s not, and that’s activating every single one of my fight-or-flight instincts. I spread my hands. “I’ll hand the gun over right before our meeting, and you’ll give it back as soon as we’re done. Until then, the weapon stays with me.”
“Mr. Hartman—”
“That’s nonnegotiable.”
Morton must see the resolve in my face, because he purses his lips. “I will allow Nina to make the final call. She is waiting to meet you now. In the meantime”—another pointed perusal of my figure—“are you concealing any other weapons?”
“No.”
“Blades, poisons, anything that might pose a threat?”
“No.”
“Then you’ll have no problem submitting to a bot scan.”
I think of the keening in my pocket. I plaster on my best look of innocence. “Of course not.”
A humanoid bot (which could pass as a man except for the metal face) arrives to conduct the scan. I fight the urge to fidget as it pulls out a sensor rod and slowly runs it around my limbs, my torso.Just a bit of lint, I think as the device moves past my pocket.Undetectable.
The bot straightens and flashes Morton a picture of my ray gun.
“Permissible,” Morton says. “For now. Anything else?”
The bot shakes its head.
“Very well.” Morton inhales a breath that I take to meanLet’s get this over with. “Follow me.”
We cross the flight deck in silence. Morton ignores the trio of guards stationed outside the entry doors, bypassing them to sweep his hand over a digital security pad. The doors spring open, there’s a blast of cool air, and like that, we’re in.
When Vera called this place a fortress, I assumed she meant it was just a really well-organized spacecraft and not, you know, afortress. With military- grade security detail, bands of marching soldiers, and what looks, I kid you not, like a moat carved right into the floor of the entrance chamber. The water is dark, a little choppy from the subtle vibration of the ship. I can’t see the bottom.
“Are there sharks?” I ask Morton as he guides us across the moat’s bridge, past a group of Youspaka (two-headed aliens known for their ability to feel others’ emotions), and down a wide corridor.
“Excuse me?”
“Sharks. In the water.”
