Molly sniffled and nodded. The Wadi reached out and gripped her shirt with its tiny claws, holding itself close. Twin tongues flicked out, both of them wavering in the air.
“It’s okay,” Molly told the Wadi.
“Everything’s gonna be fine,” she lied.
50
Cole fidgeted in place, his body practically vibrating with anxious nerves. Ahead of him stood two other soldiers in white combat uniforms: a Callite, and a creature whose name and race he’d already forgotten. Behind him stood another human, and four other lines were arranged parallel to theirs—three to one side with four people each, and one to the other side with just three. Various races chattered amongst themselves up and down the lines, the pre-raid jitters reminding Cole of old Academy briefings before big simulator missions.
The only members of the raid groups who seemed calm were the pilots. They sat perfectly still on the hyperdrive platforms, their arms curled around their shins and their heads up to watch the console operators. Cole felt small and lost with the incredible diversity of the races present and how much more experience they seemed to have. He peered past the crouching pilots where five other jump platforms had been arranged, each holding one of the cages Cole had designed.
“You nervous?” the guy behind Cole asked.
Cole turned and nodded. “Anxious, yeah. Mostly that my idea doesn’t get people killed.”
“It’ll work,” the guy said.
“I’m Cole.” He extended his hand.
“I know. We met in orientation.” The man smiled. “Don’t worry, there was a lot going on and I’m pretty forgettable. I’m Larken, the translator.”
“The guy who speaks Bern.”
Larken laughed. “Well enough. I used to hang with the wrong crowd, I guess you could say.”
Cole laughed. “Me too, a long time ago. Hey, at least we’re here now.”
“Yeah. Anyway, good luck in there. I’ll be right behind you, so clear out fast.”
“Don’t worry about that,” Cole said. He considered passing the message up the line.
“Listen up!” Mortimor yelled. He clapped his hands to get everyone’s attention. “We’ve got coordinates coming in now, so get ready! Remember, you’ve got three seconds to get out of the way before the next guy comes through. That’s as much as we can risk with a moving target, but it’ll probably feel like a lifetime as hopped up as you all are. Now, those of you in line, get on the platform fast and get out of the way quick once you arrive. Hit your quadrants and hit them hard. Pilots and navigators, secure the cockpits as swiftly as possible. We’re sending you as close as we can to the forward midline of each ship, so it should give you a short run. If you end up in mechanical spaces, be judicious about what you cut through, we need these puppies operational.”
He shifted his gaze to the back row. “Translators, stay alive. No heroics. Everyone’s redundant except for you.”
The lights over the platforms went from red to amber.
“Good luck!” Mortimor yelled. The tenor in his voice sent a wave of goosebumps down Cole’s arms. Mortimor jumped down from the platform and went to the back of the line next to Cole’s, completing its full complement of four—five, counting the seated pilot.
Larken squeezed Cole’s shoulder, then patted it twice. “Good luck!”
Cole grabbed his buckblade from its holster. He made sure he had it facing the right direction and that the safety was on. He looked over at Mortimor. “I didn’t know you were going.”
“Ran out of people that speak Bern. Now pay attention.” Mortimor nodded toward the platforms.
Cole looked.
The light over the pilots went green. There was a loud beeping sound followed by a pop of displaced air, and the cages in the back of the room vanished.
The pilots sitting on the platforms followed soon after, winking out of existence. The row of navigators jumped into position, taking the place of the pilots and falling to their butts. They wrapped their various species’ version of arms around their legs and fell still.
Penny was the navigator in Mortimor’s line. He watched wisps of red hair spill out of her hood as she settled into place. Their eyes met right before her head went down—then she disappeared from the room.
It was all happening so fast. Cole’s heart fluttered as he took a step forward. He chanced a glance to the side, at the neighboring line. Mortimor was looking straight ahead. He wished he’d known the old man was going; he would’ve switched places with someone to be in his group so he’d be able to keep an eye on him.
The lines surged forward again, and he felt Larken’s hand on his back, pushing.
Another pop of displaced air. Cole stood beside the console operator, right in front of the platform. Marx, the Callite plopping down ahead of him, looked up, and time slowed to a crawl. Cole watched the alien’s arms wrap around his shins, his scaly chin tuck down—and then he was gone.
Cole jumped up to the platform and sat down as quick as he could. He spun around to face what he hoped would be an exit once he popped out of hyperspace. In the back of his mind, he counted:
Three.
He grabbed his shins and tucked his head, squeezing his sword as tight as he dared without crushing it.
Two.
The last thing that flashed through his mind, right before he popped out of the room, was the Bern Seer. He couldn’t help but recall the last conversation they’d had, and a sickening sensation clawed at his stomach as he wondered if this was all one colossal mistake—
One…
51
Parsona settled in the clearing, her struts once again sagging under the weight of a full load of haggard survivors. Molly lifted her visor; she could hear the cargo bay’s loading ramp opening up behind her. She watched as Cat crawled out of the nav seat and over the control console to go and help the others. Molly unbuckled her own flight harness and spoke to her mother:
“Once we get everything unloaded, I’ll be back and we can get out of here.”
“Excellent,” her mom said. “Don’t forget the welding goggles.”
“I won’t,” Molly promised.
Molly jumped out of her seat and hurried back to the cargo bay where an eerily familiar scene greeted her: a weary and traumatized group jostled its way into the clearing, the sounds of their shuffles and cries reverberating through Parsona’s hulls.
The difference this time was that they weren’t alone. Outside, Molly could see Scottie conferring with several of the carrier’s crewmembers; Gloria’s survivors had already begun tending to the drained and exhausted Callites. The food and water meant for one group of survivors went around to all, and the profusion of blankets and seated groups multiplied, combined, grew, and became diverse.
Molly reached down and grabbed a crate of vegetables from Walter, who was helping hoist items up from the deep cargo pods. The boy had worked wonders haggling for supplies throughout Bekkie, while Molly, Cat, and Scottie had tended to the Callites, debating about where to take them.
“Keep one week’s worth of supplies for four people,” Molly instructed him. “The rest will remain here.”
Walter frowned and his face lost some of its luster, but he eventually nodded his assent.
“We’ll lift off as soon as everything is unloaded,” she said. “Make sure we’re clear, okay? No stowaways.”
Walter nodded. “Okay.”
Molly lifted the crate of food and joined the chain of people making their way outside. At the bottom of the ramp, she met Saunders, who took the crate from her and walked toward a blanket already pinned down by staged supplies.