Max takes a couple steps closer, seeming unbothered by the gun I’m pointing at him, which, conversely, only makes me want to pull the trigger more.
“Stop!” I shout. My hand is trembling from the effort of holding the gun in place. And my head is throbbing so much, particularly along the line of my healed fracture, that my eyes are watering from the pain.
He’s not going to stop. He’s going to kill you.The whisper of paranoia in my mind is so clear, so close, it’s difficult not to look around for the speaker.He’s going to turn you into nothing. Another dead meat sack in an enviro suit, like everyone else, like all the poor passengers on this ship.
Paranoia doesn’t sound like I thought it would. It’s not panicky and angry. It’s a calm, smooth voice, reassuringly confident.
You’re going to die, unless you kill him first…
Max does stop, though, pausing at the edge of where the extendable connects to theAurora. Maybe I should let him come in. If I kill him in the cargo bay, the crew running theAresmight not figure it out immediately.
But letting him approach only guarantees he’ll have a better shot at me, if and when he pulls the trigger.
Actually, in that regard, I’m not sure what he’s waiting for. He doesn’t come any closer, nor does he seem ready to fire on me.
“Where’s Mr. Behrens?” Max asks.
“Dead.” The lie tears a piece from my heart. And I’m afraid it might not end up being a lie at all. Still, I’d rather Max not know the truth. To him, Kane would simply be another piece of leverage. Or another body to add to the count.
He heaves a sigh that almost sounds genuine. “I am sorry about that.”
“Sure you are,” I say in disgust. Motion flickers at the corner of my eye. Just out of range of what I can see without turning my head and the attached helmet light. Becca? My mother? Or Reed?
“You’re taking this personally, but you shouldn’t. It’s just business, not a statement on who you are as a person. I’ve always enjoyedour time together, admired your will to survive. And if circumstances were different, I’m sure you would have made a new life that—”
“Shut up,” I snap. “I was useful to you. That’s all.” My dependence—my ignorant and willing dependence—on Verux grates on me now. But I was a child when it started, an orphan without family. What else was I supposed to do? Verux became my family, in a manner of speaking, and it turns out that relationship is every bit as dysfunctional as one created by blood, secrets, and lies.
Or, perhaps our blood, secrets, and lies are simply of a different variety. Other people’s spilled blood. Secrets that qualify as espionage and sabotage. Lies as a performance for the media and the public.
And yet, I stayed.
“Isn’t that what we all want?” Max muses. “To be useful, valuable. For our contributions to matter. To leave a legacy that remains after we’re gone.”
“Spare me your ‘I’m an old man’ bullshit,” I snarl. “Your legacy is Ferris Outpost and this.” I gesture at theAurorawith my free hand. “Lost lives, death, murder.” Even if no one else will ever know.
His brows draw together in a furrow before smoothing out. “I didn’t create the device or decide to set it off on board. My role is to make things better. To untangle this tragic knot that would only bring more—”
“Make things better for who?” I demand. “You’re keeping the truth from the people who deserve to have it and protecting those who should be punished for what they did.” He is every bit as guilty as the unknown Verux executives of twenty-some years ago who came up with this plan.
Something crashes to the floor outside the cargo bay. One of the lopsided furniture blockades finally collapsing? Or Reed?
It’s difficult not to look over and try to track the source of the noise.
But Max doesn’t seem to notice or care. Then again, I suppose he’s planning to kill us all anyway, so what difference does it make?
Annoyance flashes across his face. “Verux does more good in the world than harm. Even you know that. Consider the work we’ve done in colonization and exploration. The medical advances alone in what we learned from Ferris are—”
“Tell that to the passengers and their families. Tell that to the security teams you sent to die here. Tell that to Lourdes and Voller and Nysus and Kane,” I say, struggling to rein in my temper. Fury is a volcanic hot spot in my chest, aching to spew molten hate all over him.
He smiles at me so peaceably that a chill slides over my skin.
“And yet, my dear,” he says, “I am not the one who led your team on board. I am not the one who encouraged them to seal themselves up in a dead ship for fame, fortune, and a better future.”
His words are the equivalent of a blow to the gut, one that punches through leaving a gaping hole to the other side. I can’t breathe for a moment.
“I don’t believe the moral high ground will support your weight in this particular case,” he says dryly.
Because he’s right. I did that, all of that. No matter how good my intentions. No matter how hard I’ve tried to correct for that mistake after the fact. They’re still dead. Because of me. Because of what I wanted.
