Hugh Howey - Molly Fyde and the Blood of Billions

Mortimor’s eyes narrowed.

“Byrne. I told you he was here.”

“You didn’t tell me you talked to him,” Mortimor said.

“Well, I mostly listened.” Cole faced the far end of the roof, allowing the rain to smack the plastic across the back of his head. The men to either side of him did the same, the three of them standing in a line, their heads bent close to confer over the pattering drops.

“And he called you the golden one?”

“Or chosen, I can’t remember. Anyway, he said it was too late. Then a bunch of people came in, dressed in white—you guys, I take it—and everyone started getting hacked up—” Cole stopped.

“Yeah, that was some of our men,” Arthur said.

“I picked up a little of what Byrne was thinking,” Mortimor explained. “It was just coming through too damn slow to decipher easily. What part we got, well, no offense but I thought you were someone else.”

Cole glanced over at Mortimor. “Do what?”

“I picked up another name—” Mortimor looked across him to Arthur. “We thought Molly—”

“Yeah,” Cole said, “it sounded like Byrne was confused about something similar. And look, I’m sorry to disappoint, but I have no idea about any of this stuff. All I care about now is getting back to her. And maybe visiting that camp on the way and kicking some ass.” He held up his new arm, tenting the poncho in front of him. He clenched and unclenched a fist, visible through the clear plastic. “I’m ready to try out this new hand,” he said.

Mortimor shook his head. “Forget about it. We don’t go on raids for revenge. Besides, there’s an endless supply of idiots on both sides, there’s no changing anything by bashing against each other.” He gestured out to the moving, inundated world beyond. “The best we can hope for out here is to stay in one piece and in one place.”

“What kind of ship did you arrive in?” Arthur asked.

“Firehawk,” Cole said. He reached up to adjust his hood and keep the water from dripping in.

Arthur looked across at Mortimor, who shook his head.

“Why’d you guys bring me up here?” Cole asked, feeling like there was something they weren’t telling him.

“To ask you a favor,” Mortimor said. “But first, we need to know everything you know. Are you sure you never heard any news about Lok?”

Cole shook his head. “Like I told you yesterday, we were heading there, but we got picked up by the Navy—”

“That’s where the Firehawk came from?” Arthur asked.

“Yeah.”

“Why’d the Navy pick you up?” Mortimor asked.

“We were leaving Dakura where we— Molly’s mom, the one on the ship—”

He looked to Arthur for help, but got a blank look.

“We were told to unplug her mom—your wife, sir. I—I didn’t want to, but… you should have seen—”

“And did you?”

Cole nodded.

“Good,” Mortimor said. “I’m sorry you had to clean up one of my mistakes, but we wanted that done years ago. We all agreed.”

Cole bobbed his head again, unsure of what to say.

“So, you never made it to Lok, and you don’t know if Molly did.”

Cole shook his head. “Do you think she’s okay?”

“I don’t know,” Mortimor told him. “I’m worried about all of us, to be honest.”

“So what’s the plan?”

“For you? Some rehab with that new hand and some rest. What’s done is done. But first, there’s someone who’s dying to meet you.”

Cole looked out across the rooftop. The sideways rain made it feel like his feet were glued to a wall and the water was falling straight down. “Who would want to meet me ?” he asked.

“I want you to listen and listen carefully, okay? This person’s name isn’t to be spoken where anyone can overhear.”

“Who is it?”

“As far as anyone knows, she works more for the enemy than us, okay?”

Cole swallowed. “Who wants to see me?” he asked.

Arthur squeezed his shoulder and leaned in close.

“Have you ever heard of the Bern Seer?”

Parsona wasn’t the only ship leaving the stables in a hurry, or Bekkie, for that matter. Dozens of craft lifted up from all around town as crewmembers ran across Pete’s dirt lot in panic, trying to get back to their ships. Through the carboglass, Molly could hear improperly warmed thrusters screaming as neighboring starships lifted off cold. In the distance, a Navy cruiser fell through the atmosphere, glowing bright red—a sign of breached reentry panels. It disappeared over the horizon, followed by a flash of light.

“Why’re they in atmo?” Cat asked. She leaned forward from the nav chair while Scottie hovered behind, his hands on the backs of their seats.

“I don’t know,” Molly admitted. “Maybe they were trying to land, or something.”

“A cruiser?” Cat asked incredulously.

“They don’t want debris,” Scottie said. “That explains the shuttles.”

Molly avoided the crush of departing traffic and flew low, skirting the prairie as she headed out of town. There weren’t many more blips falling, but a few big ones were still in orbit.

“No debris?” Cat asked, turning to Scottie.

“For the rift. They’re shooting them down intact.”

“I think you’re right,” Molly said. “They’re somehow disabling them and knocking them out of orbit. And they’re making it look easy.”

“Poor Ryn,” Scottie said.

“I’m sure he’s fine. Probably just as safe wherever he is.”

Scottie didn’t say anything. Behind them, Molly could hear Walter arguing with Urg about which dishes went where.

“Where should we go?” Molly asked. She looked at their current course and realized she had subconsciously begun flying back toward her home village and the rift—the very last place they needed to be.

“Mount Jeffers?” Cat asked Scottie.

“Probably what everyone else is thinking. So, no.”

“We could hide out in the woods beyond Ashron,” Cat said. “There’s tons of clearings big enough to set down in. Maybe we should wait there and see if things calm back down.”

“Which way is that?” Molly asked, turning to the others.

Cat pointed through the carboglass, her face rigid. Molly followed her trembling arm, adjusting course to match the direction she was pointing, mistaking the gesture for an answer to her question.

“What the flank?” Scottie muttered, leaning forward between the two seats.

Ahead of them, descending through the atmosphere nose-down like a dropped dart, was a Navy StarCarrier.

“Holy shit,” Cat whispered.

Molly pulled back into a hover, sinking down toward the grasses.

Cowering.

The almighty bulk of the greatest class of starship ever built was descending from the heavens. Tilted slightly—falling slower than gravity warranted—the thing seemed to be straining against the inevitable, its forward thrusters raging to slow its impact. The great ship’s nose disappeared over the horizon, and then the rest of the monstrosity came to a sudden, sickening halt.

They all waited, breathless, for some cataclysmic noise to accompany the horrific fall. They watched for the ship to crumble, tip over, or maybe even explode.

It did none of those things.

Impossibly, the tail of the great StarCarrier remained in the same position. Askance. Aloft. Thrusters pointing up to the sky from which it had plummeted.

It just stood there, perfectly still. Terrible and lifeless.

Anlyn wrapped her hand in Edison’s and squeezed one of his large fingers. “How confident do you feel about this?” she asked.

“Ninety-two percent,” he said. “Rounding down, of course.”