Hugh Howey - Molly Fyde and the Blood of Billions

“Yeah, she’s a special ship, what with Ronnie’s drive in there. I figured you knew. I was wondering why you didn’t jump us out of the Carrier this morning. Thought maybe you were scared to show your hand, or something, what with the blackcoats on board.”

Molly shook her head. “No, I would have, had I known. I would have—” She rested her face in her palms as the long-gone potential to avert so many catastrophes swirled together in her mind. “I would have done a lot of things different!” she said, her voice muffled by her hands, her body on the verge of crying.

Scottie put his arm around her; she felt Cat scoot to her other side.

“Don’t do that,” Cat said. “Don’t relive the past.”

“This was Ryke’s ethical thingy,” Scottie told her. “Boy broke down with all he could do. Good and bad. Bombs and what-not.”

Molly looked up into the fire, the full implications of such a drive sinking in. The possibilities seemed endless. She thought about the ability to move bombs wherever you wanted them, a fantasy of so many radical groups. She thought about being able to move people—assassins and thieves—with complete reliability. It finally dawned on her what Scottie and the Callites wanted to use the drive for: interplanetary border crossings, getting a people to safety. She could imagine how many groups would kill for such a device, or trade a planet for one.

The dread of having such a thing in her ship made her stomach sink. More of her selfish horrors hit her again. They could’ve jumped straight out of Glemot, no need for the ruse that ended an entire people. They could’ve jumped straight back to Earth at any time during their journey home! They could’ve jumped anywhere . Maybe Lucin had known about the hyperdrive. Was that possible? Could her mom have not been the thing he was looking for?

“You okay?” Cat asked.

“How did he do it?” Molly asked. “How did this Ryke guy live with such knowledge?”

“Not well, let me tell you.” Scottie shook his head. “He had a breakdown. Then, when he pulled himself together, he started drawing up these schemes to end the war. Galactic peace stuff. Without asking my advice, he started sending stuff to Drenard. Notes and messages. Straight-ticket. Plopped ’em down on the planet, like letters asking them to stop shooting.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Hell, no. Wish I were. He invited all sorts of trouble out here. Now this was a dozen years ago or so, back when the planet was quiet.”

Cat laughed. “It’s still pretty quiet, Scottie.”

He shot her a look. “You know what I mean.”

“What happened next?” Molly asked. Bringing the Drenards into the story had her eager to hear more. She leaned close to the fire, wrapping her arms around her knees. She noticed Walter doing the same on the other side of the fire; the stick he was using to scatter embers had fallen still, and he seemed to have become very interested in the discussion.

“First thing the Drenards did was start tracing the jump signatures back here, and they realized they had a problem. Military dudes must’ve gone ballistic. Can you imagine? I bet they were expecting nukes at any minute. Messages were popping out of hyperspace that said, ‘Stop shooting.’ Hell, I would’ve read the ‘or else,’ too!”

Scottie blew in his hands and rubbed them together. “That’s when they sent their envoy. All the way to cosmopolitan Lok. And that’s how the Drenard Underground formed.”

“Just like that?”

“You want the long version?”

She did, but other things seemed more important. She leaned back and looked at the underside of Parsona’s wing. There was a black smudge of soot above her where the smoke was bouncing off and trailing around the sides. She pictured the fleet in orbit beyond the wing, like a constellation of stars, twinkling.

“I’m impressed your friend could make the decisions he made,” Molly said.

Scottie grunted. “Flankin’ goldmine,” he said.

A hush fell over the campfire. Walter threw his stick into the fire and excused himself; he padded up the ramp and into Parsona to use the bathroom.

After a moment of silence, Scottie began explaining more. He went over the general idea of rifts, how Ryke had wrangled with Drenardian politicians for permission to permanently close all connections with the rest of the universe. He even hinted at the battle that had stranded much of the Underground in hyperspace, which pretty much caught Molly up to the present.

But she was only half listening. Her thoughts kept flickering like an open flame, jumping and popping and sparking with possibilities. She thought about all the schemes she might bounce off Cole if he were there with her. And most of all, she thought about how close she was to going off in search of him, how that void in her chest might soon be filled. She gazed into the fire—that lambent dance of orange and white plasma—and dreamed of his arms around her one more time.

It would be worth anything for that, she decided. She knew it was selfish, but the longing was too great to overcome. And as insane as it sounded, even to herself, she knew it would be worth it to hold him and be held by him, even if it was just one final time. Even if it was the very last thing she would ever do.

To feel whole again, for a brief moment, was all she wanted.

Even if the galaxy was crumbling to pieces around her.

The man in the hyperskimmer brought his arms down in a wide arc, slashing toward Cole with his invisible blade. Inside the cockpit, Cole flinched away from the blow, but as soon as the figure completed the motion, he realized it hadn’t been meant for him. His skimmer lurched to the side as the other craft pulled away, both docking arms neatly parted in one perfect swipe.

Cole cursed and grabbed the control stick. He gave the accelerator a shove and looked to the side. The man with the buckblade grinned through the rain as he slumped back in his seat, the canopy closing around him.

Without thinking it through too clearly, Cole thumbed his own canopy open. He ground his teeth together, consumed with the primal rage any pilot feels after their craft has been dealt a blow. The glass came back, and the horizontal rain pelted him as it invaded the interior of his craft. Cole didn’t care. Pulling his feet up under himself, he steered with the control stick and raced over toward the other skimmer as it tried to peel away.

Cole grimaced through the stinging rain. He watched the bemused smugness fade from the passenger’s face as he approached at ramming speed. The look was transformed into one of shock as the two skimmers collided, sending Cole through the air and onto the deck just forward of their canopy.

Were it not for the nonskid on the deck, Cole probably would’ve bounced and slid right across the craft and off the other side. Instead, he managed to spread himself out and hold on. He waited for the skimmer to begin swerving in an attempt to buck him off, but it never happened. Instead, the canopy started peeling back once more, and the passenger leaned forward, that dangerous cylinder reappearing in his hands.

Cole scrambled toward the front of the skimmer, away from the cockpit. The two saboteurs yelled back and forth inside the craft. The driver jabbed a finger toward Cole, then pointed to himself. The passenger waved him off and crawled out of the cockpit and onto the flat deck. They seemed to be arguing over who got the privilege of killing him.

The wounded skimmer got back up to speed just as Cole began to run out of room at the pointed end of the triangular craft. As they accelerated, solid walls of spray rose up to either side of him from the forward foil. Cole scooted back until he could glance down at the watery land racing by under the nose of the ship. He returned his focus to the man with the buckblade, who was inching ever closer, one hand on the deck to steady himself, the other one probing the air ahead with the invisible sword.