“No.” The word is barely a whisper, hoarse and strangled. My lips refuse to cooperate, though, and I can’t do anything other than repeat that same syllable. “No … no—”
“You’re making a huge mistake, De Luca,” Jules interrupts, suddenly fierce where he was calm and conciliatory. “Please.Please.We’re not asking for fame, we’re not even asking to be released—we’ll sign whatever you want, anything to say we won’t profit from this in any way. But you have to know, everyone has to know—they’re coming for us. They’re already here.”
De Luca’s face doesn’t even shift.
“The cheek swabs!” I blurt. “Wait until the DNA results come back. You have to—they won’t even have DNA to identify them, they’re not human.”
De Luca’s brow lowers, and suddenly his suave, urbane face flickers for an instant, and I see something far darker, more vicious, beneath it. “That’s enough, Miss Radcliffe. Both of you.” And then he’s his usual, calm self again. His hands slide back out of his pockets, and his long fingers deftly slip the button of his jacket back through the buttonhole. “You know, we actually were beginning to grow concerned about the accumulation of events of seemingly extraterrestrial origin.”
He turns, ready to stride back down the corridor out of sight, but then pauses. “I don’t know how you did it. Perhaps the other two arrested with you were accomplices on the ground to help simulate UFOs and radio signals—I don’t know. I don’t care. What matters is that your arrival, your inventive stories, are all the confirmation we needed. The ship’s arrival in orbit marks the most crucial era for the IA in the last fifty years—the two of you are nothing more than a distraction.” His voice is taut, and the last words he speaks sound anything but cordial: “Good day.”
And he’s gone, leaving us in silence.
NEITHER OF US HAS SPOKEN IN SIX HOURS.
There aren’t any words—not even between the two of us, who’ve been through so much together—to fill the gaping, gutted hole where hope once lived. The sheer relief of that hope, so profound and transformative, after such a long, grueling crucible of fear and sleepless toil and despair … my mind had filled with a million images in just those few moments.
Images of the world coming together to combat the threat in orbit, of the Undying banished from our planet once and for all. Of a world at peace, finally.
But more immediately, my mind summoned images of calling Neal to come bail us out of jail. Of having a hot shower. Of walking to the shops for a pie, or riding on Neal’s souped-up bike, of calling my dad in IA detention. Of seeing my dadreleasedfrom detention, of seeing his reputation restored, of seeing his face crease with an absentminded smile as I put a mug of tea down at his elbow while he worked at his desk.
Of introducing him to Mia. Of showing her my home. Of telling her that I want her with me, no matter what, that if she’s not “Oxford material” then neither am I, and we’ll go wherever the hell she wants to go as long as we go together.
An infinite universe of possibilities—and in a few words, Director De Luca has thrown us both straight back down into a terrible purgatory of helplessness.
I’ve slept fitfully, on and off, and I think Mia has too. She’s been curled in on herself since the director left—the news that these people know about her sister, whose very existence is a contravention of “one child” policies, has hollowed her out.
There’s no way we can ask if they’ve done anything with the information about Evie—mentioning her at all would tell them they’ve found the leverage they need from now on. But I know whatever Mia’s imagining—and her world has been dark enough for her to imagine some pretty horrendous things—must be running through her head on repeat.
I keep thinking of the laughing young girl I saw on Mia’s phone back on Gaia, of their identical smiles. I’m afraid for my father, even more so now that I’ve had a moment of thinking his ordeal was over, but I have no doubt he’s safe. These people might be ruthless in their pursuit of their goals, but they’re not stupid. They won’t harm their leading expert on the Undying. But there’s no such guarantee for a solitary American girl on the other side of the Atlantic. The IA’s reach spans the globe—there’s no one they can’t find if they really want to.
“Mia,” I murmur, looking down at the trays of rice and beans beside us, delivered some time ago by a disinterested guard. My voice is thick and hoarse with disuse. “Will you eat something?”
She’s leaning against my side, and tilts her head up to look at me, eyes shadowed. “I know,” she murmurs. Our two trays hold feasts compared to what we had aboard the Undying ship, but are somehow infinitely less appetizing. I keep thinking longingly of thechicken and porcini mushroom dinner I made Mia our first night together on Gaia. “I know I should. But …”
But she can’t, and I certainly can’t make her. It’s hard to imagine getting anything down, with the sick knot in the bottom of my stomach.
We’re in limbo, back where we started—a couple of kids that no one believes. We’re back to being the only protos, as Atlanta and Dex would say, on the planet to understand how close we all are to utter extinction.
And here we are, with nothing we can do to prove the truth of our words.
It’s not purgatory, I think, watching Mia’s shoulders quake with suppressed emotion and feeling my heart shatter all over again.This is hell.
As if my mind doesn’t want to cope with the enormity of that—and I can’t blame it—it drags me elsewhere. To a smaller issue.I’d walk over hot coals for a shower right now.
I’m still in the same khakis I wore on Gaia, and it’s been weeks. I must smell horrendous. They’re filthy, torn and crusted with dirt and sweat, and I know I need a shave. My face prickles with stubble.
The only change in scenery we’ve been allowed since we were brought to the cell has been two heavily guarded trips to the bathroom each. And last time I went, when I tried to wash my face in the sink, my escort pointed his gun at me.
Mia slides down to settle on the ground and rest her head on my thigh for a pillow, one arm slung over her face, because of course they’ve declined to turn down the lights at any point.
There’s a camera in one corner of the cell, and though there’s no convenient little red light to tell us it’s recording or transmitting, I have no doubt they’re watching our every move. Mia knows too—that she curls up in my lap regardless is a tiny flicker of warmth.
Surely at some point, even if they don’t release us, they’ll move us to better quarters. Perhaps then there’ll be a chance that we candosomethingto get out, or to get away. Maybe they’ll actually check those DNA tests eventually, or we can find some other proof, or supporters who believe us, and turn the tide before the Undying can accomplish whatever they’ve snuck among us to do.
I’m roused from that brief fantasy by the sound of footsteps.
Is it time for another meal already?
