Hugh Howey - Molly Fyde and the Fight for Peace

As the group of men drug her forward, Molly caught a glimpse of Lok far below, its bright film of blue atmosphere wrapped around the prairie brown. It looked like a Drenard’s translucent skin encasing bone. The view was just a flash, the sight gone as quickly as it came, blocked by the wing of a hanging ship. Losing the sight made Molly struggle against her captors for the first time; she pushed back against the guard, itching for one more peek of her old home before it and everything else was gone forever.

The guard shoved her forward, denying her a second look. But Molly felt, in that brief struggle, the strength of muscle and tendon in him and not the iron clutch she’d once felt with Byrne. Unless they were being gentle on purpose, these other men were different. More Human . She filed this away as the guards stopped by one of the airlock doors. It was keyed open, and Byrne stepped inside, his armless form at once powerful and confident, yet totally reliant on his helpers.

Molly and Walter were pushed after him, the guards guiding them through the airlock and into the wide bay of a sleek and smaller craft.

Once inside, the inner hatch was closed and sealed. Byrne said something in a foreign language, then bent forward while one of the guards adjusted a red band around his head. They all stood there for a moment while Byrne’s face contorted in a grimace of concentration, as if communicating with someone. After a while, he said something more to the guard, and they continued forward toward the cockpit.

“Where are you taking us?” Molly asked.

Byrne did not respond.

Jump seats were folded out of the cockpit wall by one of the guards, and Walter and Molly were strapped in. Safety webbing was fed through their restraints and the seat’s flight straps, making it impossible for them to reach the release handles on the buckles. One of the guards helped Byrne into a seat just forward of them, then took up position in the pilot’s chair. The other two guards made their way back through the ship, busying themselves noisily with mechanical checks and other signs of departure in the cargo bay.

“Why are we leaving?” Molly asked, not really expecting an answer.

“We’re not,” Byrne said, startling her with a response. “The fleet is leaving soon. We’re staying in orbit where I belong. There’s trouble down by the rift that I’d like to oversee. And of course, there’s an invasion to conduct.” He turned and smiled at her, then nodded to the pilot.

The ship shuddered, and a loud mechanical clank reverberated through the hull. The grav plates kept Molly’s stomach from traveling up into her throat, but she knew with a pilot’s innate sense that they were away, falling from the great metallic orb above them and toward the much larger and earthy one below.

Ryke glanced at the cargo cam to see how his friends were faring in the cockpit. Parsona was pulling several Gs as she responded to the mayday call from the Underground ship, but neither he, Scottie, nor Ryn had on proper flightsuits to cope with the acceleration.

“Parsona, you can’t do this,” Ryke said, his voice strained as his back sank into the pilot’s seat.

“I’m sorry,” Parsona said.

“We help everyone the most by downing that big ship up there. We need to get to the Carrier.”

“Those equations already had a great deal going against them,” Parsona said. “A few more minutes of thrust like this, and I’ll let up and fall back to one point five Gs. You’ll need to get the console ready, and you might want to lengthen those wires—”

“No,” Ryke said. He tried to shake his head, but the acceleration kept it pinned to his seat. “Closing the rift is not our job. One of the Underground ships will do that. We’re the only ones who can clear the way for that fleet coming back from Darrin—”

“Listen,” Parsona said. The volume on the radio rose, allowing Ryke to listen in to the chatter between the various Underground groups up in the Bern fleet, none of them in agreement on what to do next. As soon as Mortimor’s ship had passed through the rift and crashed into Lok, the leadership of the Underground had fallen apart, everything suddenly in question.

“They’re dithering,” Parsona said, “rather than acting. I’m not being unreasonable, I assure you. I’m heading for the rift, not Mortimor.”

“I don’t believe you,” Ryke said with sadness in his voice. “I don’t blame you, but I don’t believe you.”

“I accept that, but the Underground’s cover was blown the second Mortimor’s ship crashed through. I’ve got targets on SADAR heading down to mop them up and probably garrison the base of the rift. Now that the Bern know it’s threatened from this side, we’ll never get another chance at it. It’s us or it’s nobody. And that paltry fleet above us pales to what will gather if we don’t act now.”

Ryke chewed on that, crunching the odds. He eventually realized she was right. Everything was falling apart all at once, but if they could close the rift, there was at least a chance that future battles could whittle down the Bern ships that had already come through. He wouldn’t be alive to see it, of course, but walling off the galaxy was the top priority, something the Drenards had discovered long ago.

As he thought of them, that old empire he had reached out to so many years ago, Ryke realized how important Admiral Saunders’s mission to Earth had become. Even if the efforts at Darrin and on Lok failed—and it appeared that they would—at least his treaty with Anlyn might provide a long-overdue spark. Maybe Humans and Drenards would stop fighting one another, wasting all those lives and resources, and join forces. And if Ryke and his friends could plug the hole he’d created on Lok, perhaps those future generations, banded together, could eventually win the war.

Ominous black clouds hung low over Washington D.C. They oozed a steady patter of rain, soaking Arlington Cemetery. As Saunders and his two subordinates trudged up the paved walkway, he couldn’t help but be aware of the significance of the national monument around him. He had recently lost enough men and women to account for every tombstone in sight, a truly sobering and depressing thought. But if his mission failed, or if the plan on Lok fell apart, there wouldn’t be enough green grass on Earth to hide the dead. Saunders chewed on that, growing ever more determined to succeed, as they slogged their way up the hill.

When they neared the outer gate, two figures in uniform rushed out of a small guardhouse nestled among the black wrought iron. The soldiers raced down through the rain to meet the trio, nervous hands resting on holstered guns. As they drew closer, Saunders could see the confused expressions on their faces as they struggled to account for the presence of three intruders on the inside of their carefully protected perimeter.

Saunders glanced around and realized for the first time that he and his companions were alone among the sad monuments. Normally there would be one or two family members, even in the rain, their umbrellas domed above their grief. It must’ve been a local Sunday, or perhaps the Drenard invasion had federal properties puckered tight. Whatever the reason, Saunders made sure to reach for his credentials slowly.

“Arms up,” he told Robinson and Sharee, before the guards had a chance to ask them less politely. Sharee reached for her credentials as well, but Saunders assured her his would suffice.

The two guards arrived in a wary trot, their hats encased in clear plastic and popping with large splatters of rain. One of the guards reached for Saunders’s credentials. He waved his scanner over the card, and it beeped cheerily. The soldier’s expression quickly went from perplexed to befuddled as he read the results. He frowned at his machine as if it might be malfunctioning.